Rock's Redemption(Insurgents MC Romance Book 8)(5)

By: Chiah Wilder

His mother rushed over to him. “Roche, go on to school. You’ll be late. I can handle this. Your father and I were just having a disagreement, that’s all.”

His older brother, Henri, walked in before he could reply. “Roche, leave it alone. Pa’s right anyway. We should sell the land so we can get out of this shithole house. It’d be nice to have some money.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Roche glared at Henri.

“Roche, your language,” his mother said, her face tight.

“When you get home, boy, you’re getting a beating you won’t forget too easily,” his father growled. “Now both of you get out of here.”

Roche glanced at his mother who nodded to him. “Go on,” she said softly. “I’ll be all right. You don’t want to be late for school.”

Henri walked out and Roche followed slowly, his eyes pleading with his mother’s to let him stay so he could keep her safe. A knot twisted in his stomach when he shut the door behind him.

Images of what might be happening at home tortured his mind the whole way to school. Deep in thought, he jumped when someone lightly punched his arm. “What the hell?” He whirled around, laughing when he saw his buddy.

Andre laughed. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear me call out to you. What were you thinking about?”

A storm passed through his dark eyes and he looked down at the pavement. “Nothing really. Are you going with your pa this weekend to the swamp?”

“Yeah. You wanna come? My pa said it’s okay.”

Remembering the beating his dad was going to give him after school—his dad never forgot a promised punishment—he didn’t know what kind of shape he’d be in. “Not sure. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“Okay. I hope you can. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

Roche nodded and looked away, and that’s when he saw Clotille waving at a black limo that had just pulled away from the curb. She wore a pale blue sweater that molded over her soft breasts and made him feel funny inside. As a matter of fact, for the past year he’d been thinking too much about her breasts, wondering if they were soft and spongy or just soft, like one of the down pillows his mother made. Sometimes it took all his strength not to touch them or accidentally brush against them. And the softness of her hips drove him crazy in ways he wasn’t used to before last year. He often used the image of her in her shorts and bikini top when he was doing something in the bathroom he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t help it—it felt so good.

He waved at her and she waved back. Their classes were in different buildings since she was in the eighth grade and he was in ninth. After school they’d meet up, maybe get a soda if he could borrow some money from Andre. He couldn’t wait for it to be three o’clock.

* * *

They met on the sidewalk near the tall chain-linked fence. She had two of her friends and he had three of his, but all he could see was how pretty she was. They decided to grab a pop at Soda Jerk’s, agreeing to take the shortcut through the cemetery. Andre had come through for Roche and loaned him the money so he could buy Clotille her soda. He’d have to work extra hours the following week at the hardware store, mopping the floors and taking out the trash, to earn enough so he could pay Andre back, but Clotille was worth it.

As they cut through the cemetery, they crossed paths with Armand and two of his friends. Being sixteen, on the football team, and rich, Armand and his buddies held themselves above the poor kids who they felt disgraced the walls of their high school.

“Why’re you hanging out with freshman white trash?” Armand asked his sister as he stared at Roche and his friends.

“Stop it, Armand. Leave us alone.” Clotille turned to Roche and smiled. “Come on,” she said softly.

Armand’s friends blocked their way, then shoved Roche and his friends backward. The jocks laughed when Roche fell on his butt. Red stained his cheeks as he jumped up, brushing off the dust from his pants.

A surge of fire rushed up Roche’s spine when he saw the way Peter, one of Armand’s friends, ran his gaze up Clotille’s body, stopping at her breasts. Peter smiled. “You need to stick with your own kind, Clotille. Hanging out with losers never does anyone any good.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. She pulled back, unsuccessful in breaking free of his grip.

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