Chapter 1 Mercy

MY CELL PHONE mocked me from my desktop, daring me to make the call.

No, he’s fine. I’m overreacting.

The series of worst-case scenarios playing out in my head claimed otherwise until I picked up the phone and opened my contacts. With one last steadying breath, I hit call and listened. God, I hated conflict, and dialing this number went against every ounce of common sense I had.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Each ring felt like a test I was failing.

Someone knocked on my office door.

The call clicked over to voicemail, and I panicked, hanging up and lowering the phone in my hand.

Projecting my voice, I called out, “Come in.”

The door opened, and my receptionist, Adina, slipped inside my office and eyed me warily. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course.” With anxiety churning in my gut, I forced a smile. “Why do you ask?”

“Your door was closed. It’s… never closed.”

“I needed to make a personal call.”

Her gaze shot to the cell clasped in my hand, hovering inches above my desk.

I quickly opened my top desk drawer and dropped it in.

Concern pinched her expression. “Your ten o’clock is here, but if you need a minute….”

“I’m good. Thank you. Send them in.”

“About that.” She eased the door closed and lowered her voice. “Did you know he’s a biker?”

I blinked at her. We lived in Seattle, where rental bikes could be found on nearly every block, so I didn’t see the big deal. “And?”

She shook her head. “Not a bicycle biker. We’re talking motorcycle gang biker. With the leather and the patches and that whole piss-me-off-and-I’ll-stomp-your-face-into-the-cement vibe.”

Unexpected, but still not a deal-breaker. “Probably shouldn’t leave them waiting then.”

She made no move to leave as she eyeballed me.

Like me, Adina had grown up in this neighborhood and knew exactly how shitty the locals could be. It had made her a smidge judgmental.

“The Wilsons want to donate to our preschool,” I said, straightening my desk. “How dangerous can they be?”

“The wife is wearing Jimmy Choos.”

“Rich doesn’t mean evil, young padawan. Money is necessary for books and supplies for the kids.”

“As long as it’s not drug money,” she grumbled as she opened the door and slid out into the hall.

Moments later, a leather-clad black man filled my doorway, effectively blocking my exit. Built like a bodybuilder, his mere size was intimidating, as if the leather vest sporting some kind of gang insignia wasn’t enough. I fixed a smile on my face, hoping I came off as friendly and welcoming as his narrowed gaze swept my office before giving me a once-over that wasn’t remotely sexual. No, this frightening son of a bitch was checking for threats. I would have bet my life on it.

My heart skipped several beats before I summoned the courage to stand and round my desk, intent on making introductions. I opened my mouth, but he grunted and stepped aside, gesturing for his redheaded companion to enter.

She was absolutely stunning in a black designer maternity dress and heels that likely cost more than my entire wardrobe. She slid past the biker, giving him a look that made all sorts of indecent promises.

Must be newlyweds.

I extended my hand. “Hello. Mrs. and Mr. Wilson, I presume?”

“Julia, please.” She shook my hand and beamed another smile back at her husband. “And this is Havoc.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I said, also greeting him. “Mercedes Foster, the director of Bold Beginnings Preschool. And please call me Mercy.”

Inviting them to sit in the mismatched chairs in front of my desk, I retook my seat. Like most things around the school, my office furniture was second-hand but comfortable.

Havoc sat, but Julia did a lap around my office first, taking in my certification plaques before turning her attention to the colorful student pictures and projects.

When I first started as the preschool director, my walls had been tastefully decorated with framed motivational posters. I never asked the children for their artwork. In fact, I’d rather they took it home and displayed it for their families, reminding themselves and their loved ones of their capacity to create beauty. But not all our students had a home they felt comfortable displaying themselves—much less their work—in, so corkboard displays had replaced my motivational posters.

The colorful chaos that only a group of three- to five-year-olds could create was an upgrade, really. This was the most beautiful space I’d ever occupied.

Julia smiled at the work before turning her attention to the decorations. “It’s very festive in here.”

My childhood hadn’t exactly been a place of twinkling lights and Christmas trees. Mom did what she could, but growing up, we’d been dirt poor, giving me a complicated relationship with the holiday. Christmas had been all about her obvious stress and my bottled disappointment.

Now I had a preschool of low-income children to educate, several of whom were growing up in the same subsidized housing where I’d been raised.

“These kids can use a little magic in their lives, so I regularly raid post-holiday clearance sales.”

The result was a colorful mishmash of holiday themes. A stormtrooper wearing a Santa hat and draped in a string of M&M lights stood in one corner, across from a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, its only decoration a Grinch ornament. An oversized Abominable Snowman snow globe held court on my desk, and a string of Nightmare Before Christmas lights circled my exterior window. The rest of the school looked much the same.

“It’s absolute chaos, but they love it,” I said.

They say pregnant women glow. That probably didn’t hold true for all of them, but Julia’s smile was radiant. “So do I. And I’m glad we found your preschool. Are you familiar with the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club?”

A trickle of nervous dread pooled in my gut, but I held my calm and friendly expression. In this neighborhood, you judge first, ask questions later, but I couldn’t afford to do that right now. “No. Should I be?” I asked.

Before she could answer, there was a rap on my office door frame, and a silver-haired, petite woman poked her head in. “Excuse me, Mercy, I heard you had guests, and I just pulled cookies out of the oven.”

The smell of chocolaty goodness wafted in as she entered, extending a plate to our guests.

Elizabeth Welch was a widow whose only child had enlisted in the military shortly after her husband’s death. She’d been lonely, bored, and looking for someone to nurture when I met her. Her phenomenal kitchen skills, paired with her kind demeanor and warm smile, made her the perfect fit for the school. She lived in the neighborhood, and though she was old enough to be my mom, we’d become close friends over the past few years.

“Thank you, Beth.” Addressing the Wilsons, I added, “Beth is our cook, and everything she makes is incredible.”

She flashed me a sweet, motherly smile before eyeing the patch on Havoc’s vest and surprising me. “You’re with the Dead Presidents. I’m familiar with the club.”

“You are?” I asked, surprised.

“Yep. Those bikers do the Lord’s work.”

Havoc bit into his cookie with a groan of appreciation. “These are delicious. Thank you.”

Julia agreed, reaching for another.

Beth smiled. “My pleasure. My son’s in the Army. He’s a combat medic.”

The pride in her tone was tempered with heartache. I knew little more than Landon’s name, since she changed the subject whenever he came up, but there was clearly a story there.

To me, Beth added, “The club helps vets. And the community. They’ve been featured in the paper several times, and it’s all been positive. Well, all except Havoc’s attempted murder charge, but that was justified.”

Wondering how attempted murder could be justified, I looked to Havoc as my eyebrows tried to climb their way up into my hairline, but he popped the rest of his cookie into his mouth.

“He caught a rapist in the act and put him in the hospital,” Julia said.

Havoc tugged his wallet from his pocket, retrieved a business card, and handed it to Beth. “When your son comes home, have him reach out to us.”

“Thank you. I will.” She accepted the card and slid the plate onto my desk. “It was wonderful meeting you, but I need to go start lunch.”

I thanked her as she left, then turned to address my guests. “So, the club has a reputation?”

Julia nodded. “You should Google them and see what they’re about.”

I flipped open a pad of paper, grabbed a pen, and jotted myself a note to do just that. Somewhat relieved not to be hosting psycho killer drug pushers, I got back to the business at hand. “In your voicemail, you said you’d like to make a donation.”

“Yes.” She reached over and squeezed Havoc’s hand. “My husband and I would like to sponsor the club to throw a Christmas party for the students.”

“You want to sponsor bikers to throw a party for preschoolers?”

My face must have been doing something crazy, because amusement danced across her perfectly lined lips.

“Yes. And my bookstore will donate children’s books.”

That piqued my interest. “You have a bookstore?”

“Yes. One More Chapter. Downtown. We’re small, but we’ve been ramping up our children’s section.” She patted her belly. “This is baby number two, and by the time he and his sister can read, I plan to have a vast selection.”

Now that was a plan I could appreciate. Judging by the adoration bordering on worship in her husband’s eyes, he felt the same.

Envy stabbed me in the chest, but I ignored it. Jealousy had no place here. I would be nothing but overjoyed for them and the rare, passionate love they shared. They were clearly amazing people who deserved every ounce of happiness they’d found.

Pen hovering over my notebook, I asked, “What exactly would this party entail?”

“We’d like to have it here at the school. Preferably on your last day before the holiday break.”

“Most of our families work, so we don’t get much of a break. We’re open half a day on Christmas Eve.”

Julia looked to her husband, who nodded.

“We can do the morning of Christmas Eve,” she said. “The club has collected tons of new toys already, but if you’d like to send us a list of any wants or needs, we can cover those, too. Clothes, supplies, whatever we can do to make this holiday magical for the children.”

I blinked, mentally questioning my hearing. “That’s very generous of you.”

“We’ll set up game stations. Things like snowball toss, antler rings, and pin the nose on the snowman. A small group—Santa and his biker elves—has volunteered to help. We’ll have the party catered, and will provide you with a full menu ahead of time for your approval, of course. We’ll also supply the names and info for all biker volunteers, and we’ll cover the cost of their background checks. This won’t cost you—or the school—anything.”

I jotted down the details, my hasty scribbling betraying the cautious excitement injected into my nervous system. Were they for real? “Very generous, indeed. And detailed. You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“We recognize that our proposal is unusual, and you don’t know us, so we ironed out any potential complications ahead of time. It helps that my best friend is a lawyer. Emily Lincoln.” Julia’s expression turned thoughtful. “She’s married to the club president, but she still practices under Emily Stafford. You should Google her, too.”

Adding the name to my list, I sat back and eyed the unconventional couple for a moment. “Why are you guys doing this? I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but we’ve never had bikers offer to donate their time and resources before.”

“The club conducted a toy drive for the kids of another preschool and got… well, carried away would be a massive understatement.” She looked pointedly at her husband. “And….”

“I want to be Santa.”

“Oh?” I asked, taken aback.

He’d barely spoken since entering my office, and for the life of me, I couldn’t visualize him asking a bunch of rowdy preschoolers what they wanted for Christmas.

He blew out a breath and straightened in his seat. “As Julia explained, we sponsor another preschool. Helping Hands.”

Familiar with the school, I nodded. “That’s downtown, right?”

“Yeah. We’re having a Christmas party for them, and my brothers held an arm-wrestling contest for the Santa spot. While I was absent.”

That was so not what I expected him to say. In downtown Seattle, a group of bikers arm-wrestled to dress up as Santa. And they’d cheated this guy out of his spot.

His expression could be a meme for indignant badass.

With my fingernail, I discreetly stabbed myself in the palm to keep from laughing. “That seems unfair.”

He grunted in agreement.

“Havoc missed church.” Julia shrugged. “There are consequences.”

“Church?” I have so many questions.

“That’s what they call their mandatory weekly meetings,” she clarified.

“Ah. So, to make sure I have this right, you’re offering to sponsor a second Christmas party so…,” my gaze swung to Havoc, “you can play Santa?”

“He’ll have to arm wrestle for the position, but yes,” Julia replied.

Havoc raised an eyebrow at her as if she were questioning the size of his muscles.

She rolled her eyes at him and then smiled. “Basically, yes. Look at him. It’s in the bag.”

The heated look they shared raised the temperature of my office by several degrees, making me squirm in my seat. When was the last time a man had looked at me like that?

Oh yeah, never.

Ugh. It would be difficult not to be jealous of these two.

“I… uh. I’ll have to run this by the board.”

“Of course.” Julia reached into her purse, plucked out a business card, and passed it to me. According to the card, she worked for a business called Ladies First. “Here’s my contact information. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have questions. I’ll also email you the details as soon as I get back to the office, so you have it in writing.”

Havoc handed me a second card, this one with a skull wearing a top hat with a bullet hole.

“Don’t forget to Google the club,” Julia said. “I promise you they’re not like any bikers you’ve ever heard of before.”

Clearly. “I’ll do that.”

“We’ll get out of your hair then.” She stood, and Havoc joined her, dropping his hand to the small of her back possessively.

I rose to show them out, but the sound of hurried footsteps approaching snapped my attention to the doorway. I really hoped we weren’t in the middle of an emergency, but with kids, it was always something.

Beth burst back into the room, cell phone in hand. “Someone’s breaking into my house!”

Preorder Doc the Halls now: https://geni.us/DoctheHalls