Capturing Winter

Chapter One

Winter

When my eyes finally open, I feel as though I haven’t slept a wink. My head throbs from the onslaught of memories that came pouring into my brain throughout the night, but now that it’s daytime, I can’t quite seem to grasp onto any memory for certain. But I do remember who I am. I’m Winter Romero, daughter of Jack Romero and sister to Grayson Romero. My mom’s been dead for years now, from suicide that had been hushed up as an accident. 

Gabriel hasn’t said as much, but I know my dad and brother must be dead because no one’s come looking for me. If I had anyone else in the world on my side, they would have cut Gabriel down for keeping me the way he has. Which means I’m on my own. Unless I want to consider the lowlife biker who’s been fucking me and not telling me who I am, someone on my side. And right now, I’m not so sure I do.

When I crack my eyes open, I don’t see Gabriel in the room, and I release a sigh of relief. I’m kind of grateful he’s gone already because I’m not ready to deal with him at the moment. Not now that my memories are finally coming back. I have bigger things to think about than our borderline-consensual sex last night or the reason behind it. And frankly, I’m still a little pissed that he’s been keeping so many things from me for this long. He’s kept me in the dark for weeks now, and I’m not just some meek little girl who’s willing to lie in bed all day, waiting to give him pleasure. I’m Winter fucking Romero, and I’m the one who runs the show. I was supposed to be the one to run this town.

But no more it seems, and yet, I can’t recall why. I sit up in bed and stretch, taking into account all my sore muscles and the bruises starting to rise on my skin from the way Gabe manhandled me last night. While I have to admit it was some of the hottest rough sex we’ve had, I still don’t feel like we’ve fully resolved our little spat. I’m sure we’ll be talking about it later, once I get my brain organized and fully understand what is going on. 

After a quick shower to freshen up, I pull on one of the dresses from the pile of clothes Gabriel brought me. Suddenly, I realize they’re my own fucking clothes. The asshole went to my house and took some of my wardrobe so I would have enough things to wear, but he didn’t bother to take me to my house or tell me that these are actually my things. I pull on a baby-pink dress, one of my favorites, that clings to my curves and makes me look like a Barbie doll. The slight sheen to the fabric is so pretty. I used to have a tube of lipstick that matched it exactly.

Dressed for the day, I slip into the only pair of shoes available to me, the biker boots lent to Gabe for me to wear, and I step out into the hallway, heading toward the clubhouse. 

The hall’s quiet, as usual, and the living area deserted. Still, I can hear the slight bustle of bikers coming into the clubhouse for breakfast before I reach the double doors separating the living space from the bar and pool room where all the Devil’s Sons convene. I’m not entirely sure what my plan is as I enter the clubhouse and scan the room. After throwing the doors wide and receiving a few surprised and somewhat put-out looks from the bikers at the bar, I realize I’ve entered like my former self might, not the Winter everyone here has come to know over the past few weeks. 

I need to rein myself in enough that I can get someone to help me because I know Gabe won’t. In fact, I just hope he’s not still here because if he is, there’s no way I’m getting into town, where I’m sure I’ll be able to jog my memory some more and fully wrap my mind around all the events that have transpired. 

Closing the doors in a more demure manner, I scan the room, and my shoulders relax when I see no sign of Gabe. Now, who to coerce into bringing me into town? I feel like that’s going to be a tall order considering everyone knows and respects Gabriel and probably understands that I’m not to leave the clubhouse without him. No one looks overly helpful or even willing to interact with me. 

“Winter! There you are,” a friendly voice calls, and I spin toward the bar to see who’s talking to me. 

“I was just coming to collect you and Debbie for the Thanksgiving food drive. Are you ready to go? Still up for today?” Starla, a thin, beautiful brunette with deep blue eyes and a kind smile, steps out of the kitchen, her arms full of last-minute provisions. When she glances back into the back room, the light catches the long red scar running from her temple down to her chin. 

Then she turns and flashes me a wide grin as Debbie follows her through the door. Debbie, the woman who usually handles the club bar, is far more the classic biker chick, with a bandana holding her hair back from her face and a black leather jacket with the Devil’s Sons insignia blazing across the back. Her eyes grow flat when they spot me, as they usually do, and I wonder now if that’s because she knows who I really am, that I don’t belong here. 

I’m inclined to blow them both off. Charity work isn’t really on my list of priorities today, but the way Starla smiles with such open affection has me hesitating. Maybe my memories can wait a few hours longer. 

“That’s today? It can’t be Thanksgiving already, but I suppose I can clear my calendar to make some room for such an important event.” The words are teasing, but I’m vaguely aware of how I sound more like my old self, like I’m speaking to the help. I’m also really shocked that it could already be Thanksgiving. It feels as though I’ve lost days somewhere along the way, perhaps while recovering from my head injury or maybe from gaining my memories back. 

Starla chuckles. “Well, not today, silly. It’s Tuesday. We still have a few days before actual Thanksgiving, but we’re delivering the food today. We have to get all this out in time for families and shelters to prepare for the holiday.” She plops a few heavy bags into my arms, and I stagger under the weight. 

“Please tell me we’re not walking this wherever it needs to go,” I beg.

Debbie rolls her eyes, but Starla giggles and shakes her head.

“No, I’m driving. Come on. Let’s go.” Starla hooks my elbow with her arm and drags me through the door of the clubhouse to a run-down little sky-blue Honda parked right out front. It’s the definition of a beater, and I wonder whether it might actually start.

It’s nothing like the sleek white BMW I’m used to driving. In my mind’s eye, I recall the silky exterior, the new-car smell, and the soft leather. The power of that engine purred to life when I turned the key, and whipping down the road to school or home or the country club gave me intense exhilaration, unlike what I imagine this beater is going to do. But Starla seems quite confident in the car as she pops the trunk, and we all unload our bags into the back. Inside is a massive collection of cans and totes that we already prepared the other day. Through the rear window, I can see the majority of the back seat is occupied by food as well.

I debate taking the passenger seat and making Debbie sit in the back because she’s been such a frigid bitch over the last few weeks, but I decide against it because I’m not ready to get in a fistfight with the old girl. She looks like someone who wouldn’t mind knocking out a few of my teeth.

Instead, I slide into the cramped back seat, and we head into town. My heart kicks up a notch as we enter the small historic downtown of Blackmoor. I’m incredibly relieved to know I recognize it—the coffee shop I used to stop at on my way to Blackmoor Academy, the local high school; La Dolce Bella, one of my favorite high-end Italian restaurants; the top-notch gym where my dad used to pay for my premium membership so I could do yoga and pilates with my personal trainer at any time of day or night; even the name of the cleaners where my maid used to drop off my dry cleaning rings a bell. 

Coffee was always one of my guilty pleasures, the area of my life I refused to cut out the sweet flavors—albeit I only ever added the sugar-free, low-fat kinds. That and the tiramisu from La Dolce Bella. That restaurant holds one of the few good memories of my entire family. That’s where we took my mom for one of her last birthdays. I recall how we ordered exorbitant amounts of dessert that day because La Dolce Bella makes the best tiramisu in town. Even Grayson and my father lightened up and laughed that night, setting aside their cold, manly personas to appreciate my mom smiling for once. 

But what I miss most is the sense of balance I achieved when practicing yoga with my personal trainer. What I wouldn’t give to step through those doors for a good hard session of stretching and balance. Inside that gym, I felt a kind of equilibrium that I rarely experienced in the rest of my life. I could refocus and let all the stress and pressure of living in a high-born family just melt away. I suppose, in a sense, my new lot in life has removed all the stress and anxiety that goes along with upholding the family name. But I also really enjoyed playing the game, and yoga put me in the best mindset to achieve my goals. Now that my name has been torn away, I don’t know what my sense of purpose is supposed to be.

Still, it’s not enough to put together all the loose puzzle pieces rattling around in my head. I’ll need to go explore the university campus or step inside my old haunts to really bring it all together. Maybe I can convince Starla to take me there after the food drive, or I can slip out while no one’s paying attention.

“To be honest, I’m a little shocked the Devil’s Sons are charitable enough to put together a food drive like this,” I say absently from the back seat as I continue to watch the buildings flash by. 

From the corner of my eye, I see Starla and Debbie exchange a glance. 

“We’re a pretty integral part of the community, and I think it’s important that we show support and kindness to some of the less fortunate members of society,” Starla explains. Still, I can hear the unspoken truth behind those words now that I’m beginning to remember what the truth is—my truth.

This is what the Devil’s Sons and, more importantly, their women do to make amends for all the violence and brutality they exact on the community. The majority of it might be in the name of the Blackmoor families, but it’s not like the gang’s all unicorns and roses when they’re not being told to rip some family to shreds. 

When Starla pulls up right in front of the Blackmoor Homeless Shelter that sits on a corner a few blocks from the town center, we all get out quietly. 

“Each of the girls with a car has a drop-off location, so we’ll take these supplies inside and help them set up for the big day. This shelter is one of the main spots in town where people come for a Thanksgiving meal if they don’t have a house or family to cook and celebrate with.” Starla pops the trunk once more and reaches in to collect as many bags as she can carry. 

I do the same, and Debbie brings up the rear as we head into the shabby shelter. The dank space reeks of body odor and bodily fluids, and I clear my throat before doing my best to not breathe in the rank smell. When we reach the kitchen, a portly woman, probably in her mid to late sixties, greets us with a broad smile. She wipes her hands on her apron and draws Starla in for a hug.

“Hey, Betty,” Starla says. “You remember Debbie, of course. And this is Winter.”

The woman’s eyes linger on me, a hint of confusion behind them, but then she offers me a smile. “Thank you for your help today. Your hard work will make countless people’s Thanksgiving day something to remember.”

“Happy to help,” I say casually and plop the bags down on the counter. Especially if it means I can sneak into town after this.

Carting the bags into the shelter takes considerably longer than I realized it would. By the time everything is unloaded into the kitchen, my arms are aching and weak with the workout. I really need to get back into yoga. I can tell I’ve already lost some of the strength and tone I used to have, though thankfully, my dedication to it in the past has minimized my loss so far. 

After all the heavy lifting, we take a short break for lunch. Betty whips up a less-than-mediocre deli ham sandwich on Wonder Bread with too much mayonnaise and Kraft American cheese. Now that I remember the cucumber sandwiches and artisan finger foods made by the staff at my father’s house for lunch every day, I can barely manage to choke down the greasy, bland creation. 

It makes me think back to the way Gabriel fed me ramen and leftover hot dogs during my first few days at the clubhouse. I’m somewhat horrified at how much I enjoyed the cheap processed food at that time. I wonder if I would still like it now or if I was simply too hungry to realize I should be disgusted by it. My old self would be mortified at the things I’ve ingested lately. But I can’t help recognizing how easily I could learn to like most of the food Gabriel has introduced me to. This sandwich, though, not so much.

After eating, we move on to sorting the items into the pantries and onto the counters, organizing everything so Betty and her staff of volunteers will be all set for the production on the day of. I’m more than thankful when no one mentions the possibility of me donating my time on Thanksgiving to serve the homeless. 

And all the time we work, Betty chatters cheerily, engaging Starla and Debbie in the conversation for hours and doing her best to bring me in as well. However, my head’s still muddled from my painful night of sleep, and I can’t keep my mind focused on the conversation. 

Memories continue to flash before my eyes, distracting me as I recall random details from my past—like my conversation with my brother, Grayson, about targeting Cayde St. Vincent’s knee during a rugby match, or an afternoon lunch at the country club, one where Dean Blackmoor, the high-born heir to the town of Blackmoor, who my father said I would marry one day, sat at a table with me along with Dean’s father, my father, and several of the other high society folks. I can’t figure out the order of it all, which makes the underlying emotions connected to each memory a jumble. It’s exhausting to keep up with on top of the incessant chatting of the older women in the other room.

I’m more than a little short-tempered, and really, it’s taking all of my energy to not snap for someone to give me a moment’s peace and quiet. 

“Everything okay?” Starla asks gently, tapping me with her elbow as I stand in front of the pantry shelf, glaring at the cans of pumpkin filling I’m stacking in neat rows. 

“Hmm?” I glance toward her, and the look of concern on her face eases my frustration. 

“You’ve been pretty quiet all day, and you look kind of upset. Are you alright?” 

If it were anyone but Starla, I might have told them to fuck off, but Starla’s been the one person I could call a friend in this whole shitty situation, and until I figure out what my next step is, I don’t want to do anything to alienate her. 

I smile weakly. “Yeah, fine. Just a headache is all.” 

Starla’s eyes dart to the cut on my forehead that’s well on its way to being healed by now. Suddenly, Dean Blackmoor’s face flashes before my eyes. His cold gaze is ruthless as he grips me roughly and launches me across a cold stone room. In an instant, I remember that moment when he cast me aside—quite literally discarding me, his intended bride. Then I press my palm to my forehead, feeling for all the world like I just crushed it against a concrete wall. 

“Let’s get you home,” she says kindly, wrapping her arms around me to guide me from the pantry. “I’m sure Betty wouldn’t mind finishing up, right, Betty?” she asks as we enter the larger kitchen. 

“Not at all. You do look a bit pale, dear. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I grit, realizing my excuse has backfired on me. Now that we’re leaving early, I won’t have a chance to slip out, and I’m sure Starla won’t want to drive me into town when I’ve told her my head is hurting. She’ll want to take me back to the clubhouse. 

“Well, thank you for all the help. You feel better now, okay?” Betty says as she waves us off. 

Debbie follows without a word, her eyes studying me in a less than friendly way. As soon as we step outside, I realize it’s probably for the best. The sun is already starting to set, and I’m sure Gabe’s back at the clubhouse by now. I wonder if he’ll go into a rage at my absence again or if someone’s told him where I’ve gone. A slight curl comes to my lips at the thought of pissing him off. It would feel good to get under his skin right now, and I could use a little stress relief. 

I get my answer as soon as we pull up in front of the clubhouse, and I spot Gabriel’s scowling face. “You took her into town?” he asks Starla as soon as we step from the car.

“Well, yeah. She was helping me transport the food for the food drive.” Starla plants her fists on her hips like a scolding mother would. “Don’t you give me that attitude, Gabriel Martinez. You never said anything against Winter helping me with the food drive, so you can just wipe that look off your face right now.”

I fight to keep the smile from my face at his perplexed expression. It’s not often I see anyone put him in his place like Starla just did. And I love it. Then his face slowly sinks back into a scowl. 

“Fine, but you didn’t have to keep her out so late.” He grips my elbow firmly and guides me back toward the clubhouse.

Starla sticks her tongue out at the back of his head after he passes, and I flash her an appreciative smile. 

“Thanks for getting me out of the house!” I call back to her.

She waves as she slips into her car and drives off. Perhaps I didn’t get my main goal done for the day, but that just pretty much made it worth all the trouble.