Conquering Circumstances: Black Shamrocks MC Novella Read online

  CONQUERING CIRCUMSTANCES (BLACK SHAMROCKS MC #3.5)

  Copyright © 2016 Kylie Hillman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: DyMi Ink Pty Ltd

  Cover Design: Judi Perkins at Concierge Designs

  Images in Manuscript: Shutterstock

  Cover Images: Judi Perkins at Concierge Designs

  Proofreading by: Philena Heaney-Allen

  Editing by: Rose Vaden

  CONTENTS

  Playlist

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Newsletter Signup

  Playlist

  Tempting Fate Sneak Peek

  Brawl, MMA Standalone Sneak Peek

  Amnesia Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Contact Kylie

  Also by Kylie

  PLEASE NOTE

  This novella is book 3.5 in a series of 5 books. It can be read as a stand-alone short story, however, to fully appreciate the story it is best read between Seeking Redemption, Black Shamrocks MC #3 and Tempting Fate, Black Shamrocks MC #4.

  Also, note that as this story is set in Australia, it is written in UK English.

  DEDICATION

  This story came to fruition as part of an effort to raise money for Elaine Holcomb while she battles breast cancer.

  This story is for every person who’s currently fighting cancer, in its many and various forms.

  Keep fighting the good fight xx

  PLAYLIST

  Music is my main source of inspiration. When I write my stories, I have a specific Spotify playlist that I listen to which fits the emotions of my characters.

  Feel free to follow Conquering Circumstances playlist:

  SPOTIFY

  “It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.” ~Buddha~

  “The biopsy showed Invasive Lobular Carcinoma Breast Cancer. I’m sorry, but it appears that it’s already spread to a degree.”

  I cross myself as the official diagnosis is delivered in measured tones that are meant to be reassuring. It’s possibly futile—this effort to keep my rapidly failing faith alive—but I say a prayer to my Lord for good measure. To be honest, in my heart of hearts, I already knew the truth which is why I didn’t tell anyone about my suspicions. Or that I had an appointment today.

  With Mikhail’s release from prison this morning, my children were needed elsewhere. If they knew what I had planned for today, after the urgent phone call from my specialist’s receptionist yesterday afternoon, all five of them would be here trying their hardest to be supportive. As much as the thought of my daughter cross-examining the doctor and the boys cracking jokes to lighten the mood makes me smile, I’d much rather that they attend a happy event.

  Shaking away thoughts of the children, a wry smile crosses my face at the reaction I’d receive from them if they knew I still called them children. The twins, Madeleine, and Benjamin, are twenty-three while Joel is almost twenty-two. Rounding out the siblings is Matthew at seventeen, and the baby, Lachlan, who recently turned fifteen. Hardly children anymore, although they always will be in my heart.

  “Ms. Markham,” the sympathetic voice of my specialist cuts into my musing. Crossing his hands and resting them on his desk, he regards me with a serious expression. “The options are not pretty, but I’m confident that you are facing good odds. Due to this being your second occurrence, I must stress the need for a double mastectomy and a full hysterectomy, in addition to the chemotherapy. You’re only forty-six. Life-saving and preventative measures are needed.”

  He doesn’t have the sentence completed before I’m shaking my head. It might be a life-ending decision, but I can’t face losing my breasts and my most feminine of female body parts. Every woman has a limit to what they can handle. I know mine with absolute certainty. The decision I made twenty years ago stills stands—strong and true, and I’m as resolute today as I was back then. Life may have dealt me cruel blows with the loss of my only biological child, followed quickly by my first brush with cancer, yet even with the subsequent loss of my ability to have other children because of the treatment options available back then, I will not be persuaded otherwise.

  Dr. Jenkins presses his lips together at my vehement, albeit silent denial. “Wendy, if you want to live then you’re left with no other options. With a second occurrence, one that’s already spread to the lymph nodes, chemotherapy followed by surgery is your best chance for survival.”

  Internally, I’m screaming with frustration at his stern, disapproving words, although I’m sure on the outside I appear to be listening with appropriate gravity. I’ve always been a master at hiding my true emotions. It’s held me in good stead, and I hope it continues to do so because after the last few months, this is the last thing I need to deal with. Patrick is slowly driving me crazy with worry, and the children all have varying issues for which they require my ongoing support.

  I don’t have the energy to fight cancer on top of it all.

  “I’ll think about it,” I reply in a non-committal tone, reaching into my handbag where it rests on the floor next to my seat to pull out my beeping mobile. “I need information about the effects of the chemotherapy. Recovery times, if it’s needed weekly or fortnightly, potential side effects, the long-term effects on my health...those type of figures.”

  While Dr. Jenkins busies himself with gathering the documents that answer my questions, I quickly check my phone.

  MADELAINE: He’s FREEEEE!!! Come to the club and say hello xx

  MADELAINE: Oh, and Dad’s in town. He was hiding in the prison carpark, but rode off before anyone could say anything to him

  At the mention of Patrick, the butterflies that only he can set off take flight in my lower belly. Lust. Unadulterated, pure, orgasm inducing lust flows through my suddenly taut body. I place my palms together and slide them between my thighs until they rest against my throbbing core. Then I press my legs together in an attempt to calm myself. Now is not the time to remember that it’s been over five months since he touched me last.

  Summoning every ounce of willpower I possess, I relax my tensed body and reply to Madelaine’s text message.

  ME: Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll try to get there.

  As I bend down to slip my mobile back into my handbag, it beeps again. Seeing that the doctor is still occupied with sliding leaflets out of folders, I pull it back out to see what Madelaine has to say to my evasive answer. She’s likely to be unhappy, as determined as she is t
o pull me out of the funk she feels I’ve fallen into since my split with her father.

  PATRICK: I’m in Brisbane for the day. I need to see you. Please answer me, little lady.

  My stupid heart—the one that still beats only for him, even after all he’s done—skips a beat. Warmth spreads through me at the effort he’s put into contacting me after I’ve continued to ignore his phone calls. It wouldn’t seem like much coming from anyone else, but I know how much he hates texting. His fingers are three times the size of a normal man’s, making it hard for him to hit the right letter. Patience not being one of his few virtues; continued mistakes usually results in his phone flying into the closest wall.

  Running my eyes over his message, savouring each word as if it’s the last I’ll ever read, tears well in my eyes when I read his endearment. “Little lady” were the first words he ever said to me. We literally ran into each other in the only bakery to grace the one-horse town I called home; the town that he had moved to that very day. With loaves of bread and fresh rolls to feed his five children piled high in his huge arms, Patrick hadn’t seen me when I’d walked in front of him, engrossed in my paperback. Walking while reading is one of my quirks; one that’s resulted in more than a few accidents. Although, none have ever been as life-changing as walking into Patrick that day.

  ME: Leave me alone. Please. I beg you.

  I type the words, delete them, then type them again and press send before I can talk myself out of it. It kills me to be so blunt with him, although it’s unavoidable. My diagnosis is the final nail in our always doomed relationship. There is zero chance of Patrick coping with what’s to come. Not after watching his first wife perish from the same disease.

  “Wendy,” Dr. Jenkin’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “This should answer any questions you have.”

  Looking up from my phone with sightless eyes, I blink in rapid succession. My vision clears after a moment, and the tears that were welling retreat ... for now.

  “Thank you,” I reach across the table to grab the leaflets. Shuffling them in my hands, the sheer volume makes my mouth run dry. There’s so much information to take in. Waving them at him, I laugh as I try to brazen my way through the solemn silence that’s gripping the room. “A little light reading to get—”

  “I’m going to give you the same advice I’d give my wife. Please get the surgery,” I purse my lips as he says this solemnly, cutting me off to make an obvious play on my emotions. “A lumpectomy is not going to stop the spread. It’s already in your lymph nodes and the surrounding tissue. Your breasts can be reconstructed, and hormone therapy will help you through menopause.”

  Standing, I stuff the leaflets into my handbag. I need to get out of here. It feels as if the walls are closing in on me. His words are sucking all of the oxygen out of the room as I flee without another word, two thoughts circling my mind while I run for the car.

  I don’t want fake breasts. I want the originals.

  The breasts that fed my child for the glorious two hours that I had her in my life.

  The breasts that cradled the head of Patrick’s five children when they cried.

  The breasts that Patrick worshipped for almost thirteen agonizingly trying, yet blissfully happy years.

  “She’s never going to forgive your fool ass,” I mutter to myself after checking my phone for a response from Wendy for what feels like the twenty-fifth time this hour. She hasn’t responded to my dozens of daily texts; not since the final message she sent me a week ago begging me to leave her alone. Sculling my beer, I ditch the empty bottle at the wall. It shatters, glass spraying everywhere.

  Just like the broken pieces of my heart.

  “Why should she, ya daft prick,” the tetchy voice of one of my life-long best friends fills the front room of my sprawling farmhouse. I should say former best friend after the shit I’ve pulled, but I can’t bring myself to admit defeat just yet. Even if his glowering gaze promises me a painful death as he eyeballs me while he assists our other best friend over the threshold and into the room. Our dying best friend whose son is, at this moment, taking over my position with the Black Shamrocks MC. The bitter taste that thought leaves in my mouth makes me want to smash my fists into something.

  “What the fuck are you two doing here?”

  “We asked ourselves the same question on the way over here,” Conan smart mouths me, matching my lack of welcome with his own cold tone. Nodding at Viking, he helps him into an armchair. “Several times.”

  Watching him fuss over Viking and his oxygen tank, I curl my top lip, readying myself to tell them to get the fuck out of my house. Instead, I’m left swallowing my words when my dying friend lifts his head and stares at me. His bald head and frail body are like a dagger through my chest. The reminder of how my Alanah looked before she died is too potent. He’s on his last leg and he knows it—it’s written all over his face.

  “Wanna ... have ... a ... word ... with ... you ... Beast,” Viking wheezes, each word punctuated by a definitive pause as he tries to catch his breath. Fucking lung cancer has stripped him of his broad frame, his hair, and now his ability to communicate.

  “Have at it. Highly fucking doubt you have anything of interest to tell me.”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I take a seat and wait. Unable to meet his hurt eyes, I scan the room, taking in the mess that covers every inch of the family room we’re sitting in. Dirty clothes, food wrappers, and empty beer bottles are strewn everywhere, hiding the numerous memento’s that I know decorate what was once a family home. Nowadays it’s just a constant fucking reminder of the family I lost through my own actions.

  “We’ve come to see what your intentions are with the Shamrocks,” Conan takes over the conversation since Viking appears to have used all of his energy on his one sentence. “Want your word you’re going to leave our boys alone. Mad Dog has enough on his plate without worrying about you coming for him.” He nods at Viking when he mentions his son. “And my grandson needs his father’s full attention.”

  At Conan’s remark about his grandson, my heart lightens. The fourth generation has started, filling me with pride and dreams of where the Club can head. Before I can stop myself, I’ve held my hand out, ready to congratulate him.

  As usual, Conan can’t leave well enough alone. He sneers at my extended arm before spitting out their final demand. “Also want you to leave Princess and Wendy the fuck alone. They’re over your constant calls at all hours and your bloody texts.”

  Retracting my traitorous arm, I let my embarrassment at forgetting the current status of our friendship consume me. Glaring at the two cockheads in front of me, I shake my head. “You two take the cake. Fucking barging into my house, making demands. If I want to speak to my daughter, I will. If I want to text Wendy two hundred fucking times a day, I will.”

  I narrow my eyes at Viking, pointing my finger straight at him. “That’s my fucking Club. Not Mad Dog’s and don’t you damn well forget it.”

  Pushing to my feet, I reach over and grab Conan by the front of his cut. Hauling him toward me so he’s half-bent over the coffee table, I lower my face until our gazes meet. “I don’t give a fuck if Timber’s bitch just gave birth to a fucking litter. If, and when, I decide I want my Club back, I’m coming to get it.”

  Throwing him away from me and smiling when he stumbles, I gesture at the door they let themselves through. “Now get the fuck out of my house. I’m done with your shit.”

  My pulse pounds in my ears. My limbs fill with adrenaline, and I brace myself on my toes, fists curled. I’m ready for what’s coming. I want it. Fuck, I need it.

  Conan doesn’t disappoint. He launches himself over the coffee table, directly at me. Arms wrapping around my waist, he picks me up until my feet leave the ground before he pile-drives me into the floor. The fluffy rug absorbs some of the impact, although it’s not enough to keep the air in my lungs or to stop dark spots blurring my vision when the back of my head makes contact with a sickening thud.


  I lay there, arms by my side, as Conan straddles my waist and smashes fist after fist into my face. My nose splits. I feel blood flow down over my lips, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth after its journey. A particularly good blow bounces off my cheekbone and pain explodes through my head.

  This is what I wanted. This is what I deserve.

  Pain. Agony. Hurt.

  Everything I inflicted on my family and my Club in my one-eyed desire to cover my own mistakes.

  “Co ... nan,” I’m vaguely aware of Viking trying to find his feet as he yells in a cruel mockery of his previously strong baritone.

  With one last punch, Conan lifts himself off me. Bending at the waist, gasping for breath, he glares down at me.

  “Son of a bitch. You did that on fucking purpose.” He kicks me in the stomach as he berates me, relieving me of the breath I’ve managed to regain, making me grunt with pain.

  Opening his cut, he grabs a letter out of the inside pocket. Throwing it at me, he makes his way to Viking, who’s managed to stand during the chaos. With the oxygen tank in one hand and the other wrapped around the top of Viking’s arm, Conan walks them with painstaking slowness in the direction of the front door.

  “What’s this?” I ask, thrusting the folded letter his way. “More legal shit?”

  My jab about the custody bullshit the Club tried to pull with my youngest boys isn’t subtle, and I guess that deep down, it’s because I’m still looking for a fight. My throbbing face and bleeding nose might disagree, but the guilt and loneliness that are trying to sink me are in complete accord. Physical pain is preferable to the gaping hole residing in my chest—the cavity left by the absence of my loved ones.

  They don’t slow the pace of their departure, or pay me another ounce of attention, even when I voice my question again. Within minutes, I’m left by myself again. Alone once more. The silence left behind is deafening. It overwhelms me, pulling me down into a vortex of hopelessness that I’m afraid will devour me.