Jilted Bride: Marrying The Biker King

Kendal POV:

"Jayson's little thing," one of my fiancé Jason's friends slurred, raising a beer in my direction.

I forced a smile, the muscles in my cheeks tight. The annual Serpents of Redemption MC rally was a roaring beast of heavy metal, sweat, and cheap beer.

As the fiancée of a member of a different club, the Iron Lizards, I was an outsider. A piece of property on foreign land.

My phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans, a persistent buzz against my thigh. I ignored it. Probably just another text from the diner, reminding me of a shift change.

Every hour I worked was a coin in the jar, a step closer to leaving my adoptive parents' house for good.

I needed a breath of air, away from the suffocating press of leather-clad bodies. I pushed my way to the makeshift bar.

The phone buzzed again.

With a sigh of irritation, I pulled it out. An unknown number. A picture message.

My finger swiped across the screen.

The world went quiet. The deafening music, the laughter, the clinking of bottles — all of it melted into a low, muffled hum.

My chest tightened with a sudden ache, like something had shattered inside, leaving me breathless.

Jason was right there. My Jason. The man who swore I was the only one.

He had a blonde pinned against the back stockroom wall, one hand shoved deep down the front of her leather pants, her hips grinding back against him in a slow, filthy rhythm, like she was riding something invisible.

In the corner of the photo, a digital clock glowed: 9:13 PM.

My cheap watch read 9:15.

The second photo loaded. A close-up of her face. Brandi Hicks. That club-hopping "Sweetbutt" who always wore the least and laughed the loudest — a woman I'd even said hello to once.

There she was, lips parted, head thrown back, his fingers curling inside her while her own hand gripped his belt buckle, knuckles white, like she was afraid he'd pull out.

I stared. Then I laughed. A short, hollow sound.

No tears. No rage. Just — this? This is what he traded me for? A storage room and a woman who probably couldn't even spell his last name?

It wasn't pain I felt. It was cheapness. Cheapness at myself — for ever thinking he was worth keeping.

Nausea churned in my stomach, hot and acidic.

"Honey, I was looking all over for you."

Jayson's voice sliced through the fog. He was walking toward me, two beers in hand, a perfect smile on his face. The same smile he'd given me this morning.

The heat of pure, unadulterated rage shot up from the soles of my feet.

"What's wrong, Kendal?" he asked when I stepped back, avoiding his touch. His smile faltered.

I didn't answer. I turned and walked toward the small stage in the center of the field.

"Kendal!" he called out, confused.

I ignored him, feeling hundreds of eyes on my back.

I walked up the rickety steps and took the microphone from a drunk guitarist. The feedback shrieked, silencing the entire rally.

Every single biker, including the men at the front wearing cuts that read 'Serpents of Redemption,' was staring at me.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said. My voice was steady, clear. It surprised even me. "I have a little announcement to make."

Jayson's face went pale as he started pushing through the crowd.

"Jayson Trujillo," I said, my eyes locked on his face as it went pale in an instant. "You might be looking for me, but I suggest you go find Brandi Hicks instead."

A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd, punctuated by barely suppressed snickers.

"After all," I paused, letting the words hang in the air, "you were getting so hot and heavy with her in that stockroom — you probably need a beer to cool down right about now."

Whistles and hoots erupted, sweeping through the entire place. Jayson's face flushed from white to red to purple, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping on dry land, not a single coherent word squeezing out.

I lifted my left hand, slow and deliberate, and slid off the engagement ring he'd spent three months' salary on.

"So, I hereby announce—" My voice wasn't loud, but every syllable landed like a hammer. "Our engagement is over."

I looked down at his face, twisted with humiliation and fury, and smiled.

"As for this ring," I tossed it casually toward the corner of the stage.

It hit the floor with a tiny, insignificant clink. "Keep it. Give it to the next woman who doesn't mind sharing your dirty little thing."

I handed the microphone back to the guitarist, who was still standing there with his mouth hanging open.

I turned and walked off the stage. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, clearing a path in front of me. One step. Two. Three. I didn't look back.

All I wanted was to leave. Late loyalty is cheaper than dirt — I wasn't about to waste another second on it.

I pushed through the exit, and the cold night air hit me square in the face.

It wasn't until then that I realized I was shaking all over. I pulled out my phone to call a ride — no cars available.

I pulled my jacket tighter and started walking down the pitch-black road. No idea where I was going. No ride. But standing there would've made me look like even more of an idiot.

The gravel on the shoulder of the road bit into my bare feet. I'd kicked off my heels miles ago, and now every step felt like walking on broken glass.

The music from the gathering had long faded, replaced by the sound of my own ragged breathing cutting through the night.

Headlights swept over me from behind. A car screeched to a halt at my side.