Biker's Claim The Broken Angel is Mine (Cora and Jake) novel Chapter 52

Meanwhile, in a motel just out of town?

“What do we do now? Cora will never believe us again,” I said, still shocked that we had been caught, we had been so discreet, it’s been over a year now, since we came together.

“Bruce is going to be mad.” Bruce, being Cora’s dad, her stepmother, and even worse, Danica, was born a girl’s worst nightmare, high maintenance, always wanting expensive things, and I don’t think Bruce knows she’s sleeping around, or if he does, he doesn’t care anymore; he gets his share between her thighs.

“Bruce is always mad when it comes to Cora,” Paul replies. Well, he should know; he has lived in the house for years now and can see what’s going on better than we can.

“Why does he hate her so much?” Jake asked. None of us understood why Bruce was angry when he was

around Cora. No wonder she willingly moved out, but according to Paul, she was more or less pushed out.

“Wish I knew the answer to that one, some say, because she lived and his wife died. But he had lost his love for his wife years ago, and had been with Danica for a good six months before Dianne was murdered.

“Cora has a bike gang protecting her. No way am I going back there. Don’t care what Bruce offers me, I want to keep alive, and in one piece, those guys won’t think twice about roughing us up. We have been warned to stay away, or else, I am more afraid of them than Bruce.” Jake was always the coward, which might be why he likes to take it from Paul. Paul’s much better in bed than Jake; even in a threesome, Jake was always too passive for my liking. If I did have to choose between them, and I hope I never have to, like the threesome, but I would choose Paul.

“I miss her in my own way. She was a great friend. We have been together since kindergarten, through thick and thin, losing her friendship and trust is the worst part of being caught.” I say, thinking of all those good times, when it was just the two of us, finding different ways to have fun. Her mum was the best, like a second mother to me. It hurt both of us when she died. Cora, more so, because she was there, but still it

hurt.

“We all do, she was fun, always happy, never hurt a fly. That’s what’s eating me up the most, the loss of a good, trusting friend who would do anything for rne. Us. She was never one to complain. Life of the party, but you saw her face, the hurt in her eyes, that almost undid me, seeing that pain. In a way, I am glad she has support, even if it is from the most unlikely source. Wonder how she ended up with them?” Paul looked lost as we all did. What happened gutted us all.

“You enjoyed the thrill of the risk, but now that we have been caught, was that thrill worth it?” Jake asked, always the one to find a negative side of things.

“No,” Paul answered too quickly. Does he regret what we have together, or the secrecy of it?

“Do we go home now, with our tails between our legs, and face the wrath of Bruce? We can’t stay hidden in this motel forever,” I asked softly. It was a great night, the three of us, trying to screw the hurt out of ourselves, trying to make ourselves feel something other than the pain from losing Cora, but I felt

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something between the three of us was dying. Seeing Cora like that shattered us all and has changed us.

“What choice do we have?” I had sent a text message to Bruce, informing him about Cora, and the escort we had out of town, by the men on bikes. The response was not good.

I climbed into the shower. After breakfast, we will return home. We stayed there longer than intended while we waited for Bruce to give us new instructions, but none of his suggestions was viable, and some were anatomically impossible. Even as a trio, we couldn’t even try some of the suggestions.

Paul joined me in the shower, turning me around, so I am facing the shower wall, his back sheltering me

from the water, as his hand snakes down my body and into my groin. I don’t shave down there, never have,

and Paul loves it that I don’t; he likes to run his fingers through my pubes. He played with my folds, pushed two fingers inside of me, and brought me almost to my knees at my wanton self, heated up. When I was close, he lined up his shaft, and in one hard, rough thrust, entered me, causing me to shout out.

“Yes.” I didn’t care that Jake could hear us, or even the motel guests who could hear, because these walls are so thin. Paul pistons in and out of me, the sound of water sloshing between us, then hitting the shower floor. I started to reach my peak, Paul holding my hips, keeping me steady, to his rhythm, before we both screamed out our release. Glad he was still holding my hips, as my legs turned to jelly, and threatened to

fold under me.

Jake gave us a dirty look. I guess he was jealous, but he could have joined us. That’s the problem with Jake: no guts to take what he wants. He has slowly changed; he used to be more outgoing. I don’t know

what caused him to change.

“Pack, we are going home, we’ve been in this flea–infested hole long enough,” Paul called out, making the

decision for all of us.

We packed our bags, not caring to fold the clothes neatly, as we had when packing for the trip. All rush and get out. A quick meal in the café that’s attached to the motel, paid the bill, and hit the road. Paul was driving, Jake was calling shotgun, sat in the front, commandeering control of the music, and I was happy to sprawl out on the back seat, my head on the window, watching the countryside whip past us, my snacks and drinks on the seat beside me, a good book to read, and my phone. I was set for the long drive home.

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My mind is swimming with scenarios of what Bruce will say or do, now that we failed to accomplish what he wanted. I have known this man a long time, and he doesn’t give in easily; he will cook something up,

sooner or later.

It didn’t feel like we had been on the road for that long before it happened. I was leaning forward, arguing with Jake over which radio station to play. I am positive he chose the one channel neither Paul nor I liked, and was determined to piss me off. Opera, I am not a big fan of it, and definitely not on a long trip home. Paul was holding the steering wheel with one hand, while trying to fight over a CD he wanted Jake to put in. I was watching, unable to do much other than add my voice to the argument.

It happened in the blink of an eye, a truck coming the other way, on its own side of the road, when its driver’s front tyre exploded. You could literally see pieces of the tread flying in the air. The truck driver struggled to no avail, as the large heavy haulier veered into our lane. Paul had no time to do much, but

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tried to turn away from the oncoming truck, but there was no time.

The truck hit the driver’s front, the sound of metal on metal, scraping, bending, the driver’s side window shattered, followed by the windscreen shattering, Jake screamed, Paul raised his hands to cover his head, and me? I was not wearing my seat belt and was thrown out of the now broken windscreen, over the bonnet of the vehicle, and onto the road, luckily away from the truck’s wheels, as the truck’s momentum pushed the vehicle further down the road Screams from Jake faded as the vehicle moved away.

My head hurt, I think I broke some bones, I couldn’t think clearly, everything was quiet, I could hear the

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