Her Shelter (Angels Halo MC Next Gen Book 6)

  Her Shelter

  Terri Anne Browning

  Copyright © Terri Anne Browning/Anna Henson 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Terri Anne Browning, except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976.

  Her Shelter

  Angel’s Halo MC Next Gen Book 6

  Written by Terri Anne Browning

  All Rights Reserved ©Terri Anne Browning 2021

  Cover Design Sara Eirew Photography

  Edited by Lisa Hollett of Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Her Shelter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means, including storage or retrieval systems, without express permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Delaney

  2. Max

  3. Delaney

  4. Max

  5. Delaney

  6. Max

  7. Delaney

  8. Max

  9. Delaney

  10. Max

  11. Delaney

  12. Max

  13. Delaney

  14. Delaney

  15. Max

  16. Delaney

  17. Max

  18. Max

  19. Delaney

  20. Max

  21. Delaney

  22. Max

  23. Delaney

  24. Delaney

  Epilogue

  Family Tree: Rockers

  Family Tree: MC

  Family Tree: Mafia

  MC/Mafioso Kids Birth Order

  Timeline Reading Order for The Rocker…Universe

  Playlist

  Prologue

  Delaney

  Hunger twisted in my stomach, gnawing on my insides, making it hard to focus on anything but the empty feeling. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a full meal, just a vague memory of a small serving from the soup kitchen in Oakland.

  I hadn’t gotten to finish it because I’d thought I’d seen one of Uncle Tony’s men outside the shelter, and I knew I couldn’t chance being found.

  My uncle wasn’t a good person. There was a reason my parents had never talked about my dad’s sister and her husband. But when they died, I had no choice but to go live with them. When the social worker dropped me off, sticking around to make sure I settled in, Aunt June and Uncle Tony had been so nice and welcoming.

  The moment she left, however, things had changed drastically.

  I shuddered, not just from the chilly spring night air on my bare arms, but from the memories of having spent the last eight years under the same roof with those two evil monsters. I was ten when my parents died. We’d been on vacation in Belize when a gas line had exploded.

  Our hotel was right on the water, only a quarter of a mile from the gas line. Dad and Mom were standing on the balcony of our hotel room enjoying cups of coffee when the line blew up. I’d just walked out onto the balcony, already begging them to take me down to the beach.

  Dad saw what happened and jumped up, scaring me more than the sudden loud noise. There wasn’t time to react, but he’d tried so hard. He pushed Mom and me into the hotel room, using his own body to protect us from the blast.

  I was knocked unconscious from the force of the explosion and didn’t wake up for nearly a week. When I opened my eyes, it was to discover I was not only an orphan, but also completely deaf.

  By the time Aunt June was tracked down and I arrived at her house, I knew some sign language to help me communicate, but I mostly got by with reading lips. My aunt and uncle treated me like I was an idiot, and I was placed in a school for the disabled. Most of the kids in my classes were just as deaf as I was, but the majority of them had been born not being able to hear.

  The silence I was suddenly enveloped in every moment of the day made me feel alone in the world, even when I was surrounded by people. Aunt June and her husband didn’t even attempt to learn sign language to try to communicate with me. When I wasn’t at school, they kept me in my room. Their housekeeper brought me meals and washed my clothes, but other than that, I had no human contact with anyone if I wasn’t at school.

  Then, the day before my eighteenth birthday, Marta, the housekeeper, appeared in my room with a bag in one hand and fear in her eyes. She grabbed my face and spoke slowly, knowing I could read lips.

  “You have to run, mija,” she’d mouthed. “It’s not safe for you here.”

  “Why?” I’d asked, confused.

  “They are bad people.” The urgency I’d felt vibrating off her only made me anxious. “Please, Delaney. You must go. You’re not safe.”

  “But…” I’d started to argue, but she’d pushed the bag into my arms.

  “I gave you some money and food. There are clothes and things you will need. Run, mija. Run, run, run. Please.” She wrapped her arms around me, and I felt her tears on my neck. When she pulled back, her eyes were already swollen. “Run and don’t ever let them catch you.”

  I didn’t understand why she was making me run, but I knew she was right. Aunt June and Uncle Tony were evil people. From my bedroom window that overlooked the driveway, I’d seen some of the men who came and went. I’d also seen the women they brought with them.

  I ran, and I kept running. From one town to the next, keeping my head down, living in shelters and eating at soup kitchens when my money ran out. Something that happened all too quickly because Marta hadn’t given me much cash. In my heart, I knew she’d given me what she could, but it hadn’t been enough to last even a week.

  From Oakland, I’d hitchhiked north. The trucker who’d dropped me off the day before had stopped in some little town called Creswell Springs, and while he’d been in the gas station just off the interstate, I’d made a run for it. The guy had given me a bad feeling, and after having been on the streets for the past two months, I’d learned quickly to pay attention to that particular feeling.

  That was two days ago, and I’d been sleeping in the woods during the day and exploring the small, quaint little town at night. There wasn’t much to it, but it seemed safe enough.

  My stomach clenched painfully as I walked past a building with a sign that read Ink Shoppe on the window. The lights were off, but a motorcycle and a small white car were in the back parking lot. I’d noticed there were a lot of motorcycles in Creswell Springs. Every man who rode one had a vest that said Angel’s Halo MC on the back, but for some reason, they didn’t scare me. Not like the men in suits who came to Uncle Tony’s house did.

  As I rounded the corner of the Ink Shoppe, the back door opened, and I quickly stepped into the shadows. A tall guy with short dark-brown hair stepped outside and opened one of the trash cans. After depositing the bag in his hands, he placed the lid back on it and walked back inside.

  I’d seen the outline of a pizza box in that trash bag, and tears filled my eyes as my stomach cramped yet again.

  No, I told myself as I turned to walk away. That was gross. Eating food that had been put in the trash was disgusting. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  I walked farther down the road, sticking to the shadows so no one could see me. But no matter how
hard I tried to think about anything else, all I could see was the trash bag and the possible pizza box inside. Was there any left? Could there be a piece still, or even some crust? Were there other things in that bag I might be able to eat?

  I just needed a little food. Something, anything, to make the pain in my stomach go away.

  Pressing a fist to my mouth, I bit down on my knuckle, hoping the pain in my flesh would distract me from the crazy thoughts in my head—and the pain inside me.

  An hour passed, and suddenly I was running back to the Ink Shoppe. The discomfort was just too much to take anymore. I was starting to feel dizzy, and I knew if I didn’t eat something soon, I was going to be too weak and sick.

  When I reached the shop, the motorcycle and the car were still in the parking lot, but all the lights were off inside. The smell of the trash from the other can was rancid, but that didn’t stop me from tearing the lid off the one I’d seen the guy open earlier.

  In my rush to get to what was inside, the trash can tipped over, crashing to the ground at my feet. Scared, I looked around frantically, unsure how loud the noise had been, but I’d felt a small vibration in my feet, so I knew there had to have been enough ruckus to alert someone to my presence.

  Shaking from hunger and fear of being discovered, I quickly tore open the trash bag and pulled out the pizza box. There was also a foil container that smelled like it might have held pasta, and I grabbed that as well. Holding on to them like a lifeline, I took off at a dead run back into the woods.

  When I was a good distance away, making sure the shop was out of sight, I stopped and fell to my knees, unable to go another inch because I no longer had the energy.

  My sobs made my chest vibrate as I opened the pizza box in the dark and felt around inside for something to eat.

  When my fingers touched a small piece of crust, I closed my eyes and stuffed it into my mouth, trying not to think about the fact that I was eating trash. As I chewed, I felt for more, hoping there would be something else. There was half a piece, and from the feel of it, most of the toppings were missing. It was basically just bread and a little sauce, but it tasted so good, it brought tears to my eyes.

  Dropping onto my bottom, I pulled the box into my lap, but it was empty now. Placing it on the ground beside me, I reached for the foil container. With the trees blocking out all light, I couldn’t see what, if anything, was inside, so I just stuck my hand into it. The spaghetti felt slimy, but when I lifted a handful to my mouth, it tasted good.

  As with the pizza box, there wasn’t much inside, but it was enough to make the pain in my stomach ease a little. But as I swallowed the last bite, I felt sick.

  I’d just eaten trash.

  Disgusted with myself, I pulled my knees up to my chest and pressed my forehead to my thighs as I willed the contents in my stomach to remain there. After a few minutes, the sick feeling eased, but I stayed where I was.

  The loneliness I’d felt since waking up to complete silence all those years ago pressed down on me, making my heart ache. I missed my mom and dad. I even missed Marta. She didn’t have a lot of contact with me, but she’d been the only one to care for me over the past eight years.

  Now, I was homeless and starving. There was no one to care if I was hungry or warm or safe.

  There was only me, and I was doing a craptastic job of taking care of myself.

  I sat there and cried until there were no tears left, but that could have just as easily been because I was dehydrated.

  Forcing myself to stand, I brushed the dirt off my clothes and walked farther into the woods to find somewhere to sleep for the night.

  1

  Delaney

  The fog felt eerie, but I wasn’t scared of the dark any longer. Over the past two weeks, I’d gotten used to it, even welcomed it at times. Thankfully, it wasn’t cold and the rain had stopped, so I didn’t have to worry about finding somewhere to keep dry.

  The first time it rained, I’d been able to find shelter in the Ink Shoppe after discovering one of the windows was left unlocked. I’d snapped my fingernail back getting the window open, but it had been worth it when I found the blanket in the storage room and was able to cover up after being so cold for so long.

  After that, I’d gone back once the tattoo parlor closed each night. At least until they had discovered what I was doing. I suspected it was the girl who worked there, because she’d left me the blanket along with some bottles of water and snacks. I’d been thankful for all that she’d given me, including the few nights of restful sleep within the safe walls of the shop, without calling the cops on me.

  But the blanket didn’t fare well under the rain that came over those next few nights, and I’d attempted to find other places to bunk down. But those places didn’t feel as safe as the Ink Shoppe had. Not to mention, the business owners had called the cops. When I would chance going back to those places, a cop car would be out front, watching the place.

  I’d had no choice but to move deeper into the woods or risk being discovered. Now that I was eighteen, I didn’t know if the cops would arrest me or send me back to my aunt and uncle. Being arrested didn’t sound so bad, but I couldn’t chance that they would send me back to Uncle Tony.

  My stomach growled angrily as I crept through the shadows toward Aggie’s, the restaurant I’d discovered after eating what was left in a takeout bag the girl from the Ink Shoppe had tossed in the trash one night. After reading the name on the bag, I’d walked around Creswell Springs one night in search of the establishment that had amazing hamburgers, even when they were ice-cold.

  Their trash always had something salvageable for me to eat, but I only went every other night because I didn’t want to risk getting caught. The last time I’d gone, I’d even gotten a tiny slice of chocolate cake, and I was hoping for something sweet to go with my dinner again.

  The fog was thicker in places, making it almost impossible to see unless I was directly under one of the streetlights, so I didn’t see the headlight of the motorcycle until it was almost too late. Jumping out of the way, I watched as the man driving the powerful bike veered sharply to avoid hitting me. It turned over, landing on his leg as he and the bike slid several yards before coming to a stop with the help of a tree.

  Heart pounding, I just stood there, frozen with terror that I’d just caused someone’s death.

  After what felt like an eternity, the guy slowly lifted up onto his elbows. Shaking his helmet-covered head as if to clear it, he stood. As he got to his feet, my eyes widened at how tall he was and how easy it was for him to lift the heavy piece of machinery off himself in the process. As he did, the fog began to clear, making it easier to see him with the streetlights shining only a few feet away.

  He was wearing dark-washed jeans, a white T-shirt, and one of those Angel’s Halo MC leather vests the majority of motorcycle riders in this town always wore. As he took off his helmet, I noticed that his jet-black hair was cut short and his facial features were…masculine, yet so beautiful, I couldn’t look away from him. When he glared in my direction, there was no mistaking his eyes were my favorite color of metallic blue.

  The color entranced me, hypnotizing me into taking a step in his direction.

  Before my eyes, his glare changed into a frown, and then he lifted a hand to rub at his chest. When he took a step toward me, he stumbled. Realizing he was hurt, and that I was the cause, I felt my heart constrict while tears stung my eyes.

  But then he righted himself. His lips moved, but I was too far away to read the words. His steps increased, and I could tell he was getting angry with me again. Scared that he was going to call the cops and have me arrested, I turned and fled.

  Even in the dark, with the fog still lingering in spots, I ran easily through the woods. This had become my home, and I knew it well. There were probably places only I knew where to hide.

  But his legs were longer and much faster than my own. I’d barely run a few yards before his strong arms grabbed me from behind. He jerked me
around to face him, his lips moving too quickly for me to read what he was saying.

  “…hurt…” was the only word I got, and my tears spilled over my lashes.

  He was hurt, and it was all my fault.

  I lifted my hands, signing that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to make him wreck, that I would find him help.

  His brows pulled together, and he gazed down at me for a long moment with an odd look on his face before he caught my hands. Lifting my left one, he examined my finger with the missing fingernail.

  After I’d snapped it trying to get into the Ink Shoppe that first night, it had started to get infected. It had swollen and turned red until the rest of the nail had been pushed from the roots. It had hurt so badly, and I’d tried to keep it clean, but it was still painful and warm to the touch.

  I balled my hand into a fist so he couldn’t see the wound. It was ugly and dirty, just like the rest of me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a shower, and I knew I probably smelled just as rancid as the garbage I picked through at night, but I’d grown nose-blind to my own stench weeks ago.

  His hands were so much larger than my own, one of his easily enveloping both of mine like it was nothing. Lifting his other hand, he surprised me when he signed, “I’m Max,” while speaking the words.

  My heart stopped when I realized he could sign. No one outside of school had ever signed with me in the eight years I’d been deaf. My tears fell faster, and I held my breath as he released my hands so he could use both of his own to sign again. “I won’t hurt you, little one. Don’t be scared.”