He Cheated With My Cousin, So I Totaled a Biker President's Harley novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: The Surprise
Betsy drives a Camaro with a bow on the hood home for her husband's birthday and films him in bed with her cousin, then takes the car and crashes into a line of bikes. The last rider pulls off his helmet and says her name.
The whole street watched me pull into my driveway in a red Camaro with a white bow on the hood.
The woman across the road turned off her hose to stare.
The boys next door stopped their basketball game.
I leaned out the window and waved.
It had taken me eleven months of extra shifts and my dad's savings bonds, and today was my husband's thirty-second birthday.
He had wanted one since he was sixteen.
I parked behind his county cruiser and sat there grinning.
Then my phone buzzed on the seat.
It was my husband. "Stuck on a traffic stop, babe. Eat something without me. Miss you."
I read it twice.
His cruiser was in our driveway, and so was my cousin's little car.
My cousin had moved onto our couch four months ago after her breakup. That morning she had handed me coffee and said, "Go get him, birthday girl. I've got class till late."
I told myself that he had come home for lunch, and that she had skipped class with a headache.
I took the keys, opened the camera on my phone, and went up the porch steps. I wanted his face on video when he saw the car.
The front door was unlocked.
My green robe lay across the bottom stair.
Upstairs, somebody laughed, low and easy, and I knew the laugh. It was Candace's.
I climbed the stairs with the phone held out in front of me, still recording.
Our bedroom door stood half open.
My husband was in our bed with my cousin.
Neither of them saw me at first.
Then Candace looked up, and she did not scream. She pulled the sheet to her chin and said, "Betsy, don't make this bigger than it is."
Clint sat up. "Bets. Turn that off."
I did not turn it off.
"Happy birthday," I said.
My voice came out so calm that it scared me.
"Baby, let me explain." He was already reaching for his jeans. "She's been going through a hard time, and it just happened."
"It just happened four months ago?" I asked. "Or did it just happen this morning, while you were stuck on a traffic stop?"
Candace opened her mouth, and I lifted the phone.
"Say it again," I told her. "Say it slowly for the camera."
She said nothing.
I stopped recording and sent the file to my own email, and then to my father's old address that nobody checked.
Clint followed me down the stairs in his jeans with no shirt on, saying my name over and over.
I walked out onto the lawn.
The woman across the road still had her hose in her hand, and the boys next door were standing on the curb.
Clint came out behind me. "Betsy, get back in here. You're making a scene."
"There's a scene," I said, and pointed at the window upstairs, where Candace was holding my robe in front of her.
Nobody on the street looked away.
Clint's face went white. Then he saw the car, and for one second he forgot to be ashamed.
"Is that a Camaro?"
"It was your present." I held up the keys. "I paid for it. It's in my name, and it goes where I go."
"Betsy."
"So I'm taking it back."
I got in and I drove away with the bow still on the hood.
It slid off at the corner of Maple Street. I didn't stop for it.
I drove with my hands shaking on the wheel and the tears finally coming. I wanted my brother.
Alec was in Dayton fixing diesel engines, and he hadn't been to the house in a year.
Clint asked about him every Sunday, where he was staying and who he worked for. I had always thought that was Clint being kind.
My phone lit up in the cup holder.
It was Clint. "Come home. We can fix this. Please."
Then Candace. "Don't tell my mother. She'll never forgive me."
I looked down to read the second one.
When I looked up, the stop sign at Route 9 was right in front of me and a line of motorcycles was crossing.
I stood on the brake.
The Camaro's nose caught the back wheel of the bike leading the line, and the whole bike spun out sideways.
The rider went down and slid across the asphalt on his shoulder.
Then everything was loud and then it was very quiet.
Thirteen engines idled on Route 9.
I got out of the car with blood running into my eye from where my forehead had hit the wheel.
The rider got to his feet slowly. He was tall and broad, in a black leather vest, with a cut on his forearm and gravel in his sleeve.
The back of his vest said BLACK ANCHOR MC, and under it, PRESIDENT.
He looked at his Harley lying on its side in the road, and then at the red Camaro with its crumpled bumper.
"You ran the stop sign," he said.
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll pay for it. I have insurance, I'll get it."
I dug the papers out of the glove box with shaking hands and held them out.
He took the registration and read the name.
"Holzer," he said.
Behind him, every man on every bike went still.
One of them spat on the road.
Then the rider at the very back pulled off his helmet.
His hair was shorter, and he had a beard I had never seen.
He wore the same black vest as the rest.
"Betsy?" my brother said.
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