My Next Chapter: Savage Saints M.C

Dawn's POV FORTY! I'm forty freaking years old. And I just packed up my entire life, loaded my two children and our German Shepherd into a vehicle, and moved across the country to South Carolina. Why? Because after twenty years of marriage, I finally divorced my husband. Twenty years. Two whole decades of unbelievable stupidity. And before anyone gets offended, I'm referring to my own stupidity. I was stupid when I let my brother set me up with the man who would eventually become my husband. I was stupid when I stayed after discovering he'd cheated on me. I was stupid when I forgave him. Then I was stupid enough to believe having another child together might somehow make things better. Don't misunderstand me. I wouldn't trade either of my children for anything in this world. They're the two best things that ever came out of that marriage. But the husband? Yeah. I probably should've returned him to the manufacturer about nineteen years ago. Unfortunately, I lost the receipt. And apparently, there's a strict no-return policy on defective husbands. Who knew? For years, I worked my ass off while that man sat at home coming up with every excuse imaginable for why he couldn't get a job. "The job market is terrible." "I'm sensitive to heat." "The kids need someone home." "The schedules don't work." Blah. Blah. Freaking blah. You know what else doesn't work? One person paying every damn bill. While another perfectly capable adult sits around doing absolutely nothing to contribute financially. Apparently, my ex missed the historical development where two parents could actually work and raise children simultaneously. Fascinating concept, I know. Meanwhile, I was managing a storage facility. Dealing with customers, meeting sales goals, balancing accounts. And trying to keep up with company policies that changed more often than I changed my underwear. And believe me, I change my underwear daily. Eventually, I reached my breaking point. I quit. Yep. Walked away from a job I'd spent years pouring my energy into. Was it terrifying? Absolutely. Did I have everything figured out? Not even remotely. But something had to give. And for once, that something wasn't going to be me. My husband finally got himself a job. Imagine that. Apparently, employment opportunities magically appear when your wife stops carrying the entire financial burden. A modern-day miracle. But while all that nonsense was happening, something else had been quietly growing in the background. Something that would eventually change my entire life. My books. I've always loved stories. Reading them, imagining them, getting completely lost in fictional worlds. Where I could control what happened next. And somewhere along the way, I started writing my own. Nothing fancy. No elaborate office. No expensive equipment. Just me, my laptop, a pair of headphones, and whatever music happened to match my mood. Country, rock, pop, heavy metal, oldies. You name it, I probably have it somewhere on my playlist. Except jazz. I cannot stand jazz. Don't ask me why. I just can't. Some people find it relaxing. I find myself wanting to throw the nearest available object through a window. Anyway. After the kids went to bed, I'd put on my headphones, turn up the music, and write. Sometimes I'd write about love. Sometimes betrayal. Sometimes a woman getting revenge on the man who destroyed her life. Those particular scenes tended to be very therapeutic. Especially after an argument with my husband. Instead of screaming at him. I'd sit down and write some poor fictional bastard into an extremely unfortunate situation. Healthy coping mechanism? Debatable. Cheaper than therapy? Absolutely. For years, those stories sat on my computer. Then, after quitting my job, I decided to do something with them. Partly because I needed another way to make money. Partly because I wanted to prove to my husband that I wasn't going to sit around doing nothing. And partly because I was curious. Would anyone actually want to read the nonsense floating around inside my head? So I started publishing my novels on online reading apps. At first, I was excited when ten people read a chapter. Ten! Actual human beings willingly reading something I'd written. I probably checked my phone fifty times that first day. Then ten readers became a hundred. A hundred became a thousand. Comments started appearing. Readers wanted more chapters. People were discussing my characters, arguing about their decisions. And threatening to hunt me down if I killed off their favorites. Which, frankly, was hilarious. Then the money started coming in. Actual money. From writing books. I stared at my first earnings statement for so long that I thought there had to be a mistake. There wasn't. And somehow, the books just kept growing. Before I knew it, I was making enough to support myself and my children. Not private-jet-and-a-butler money. But enough that I could breathe. Enough that I didn't have to panic every time a bill arrived. Enough that when I finally decided my marriage was over, I knew I could stand on my own two feet. For the first time in twenty years, I wasn't trapped by finances. I had options. And I chose myself. Well, myself and my children. We're a package deal. Unfortunately, success also introduced me to an entirely new species of asshole. Book thieves. Yes. Apparently, stealing someone's entire novel and uploading it onto another reading platform is an actual business strategy. Who knew? One day, I discovered one of my books on an app I'd never even heard of. My cover. My characters. My story. Except my name had mysteriously disappeared. On another platform, someone had gone the extra mile and changed the title. How thoughtful. I spent months creating those characters, developing their stories, and writing thousands upon thousands of words. And some jackass decided to help themselves. I swear, after twenty years of dealing with a man who took advantage of me, I was starting to wonder whether I had a sign permanently attached to my forehead. PLEASE HELP YOURSELF TO MY HARD WORK. Needless to say, I sent emails. Lots of emails. Professional ones, too. Well... Professional enough. My first drafts generally contained several words that probably would've gotten me banned from polite society. Thank God for the delete button. And just when I thought I'd finally escaped people taking advantage of me. Complete strangers had apparently decided to give it a try. Wonderful. Forty years old, divorced, and already considering whether murder was an acceptable plot twist. For my books, obviously. What kind of person do you take me for? Of course, not every reader loves everything I write. And my absolute favorite complaint? "You use too many curse words." Oh, sweetheart. If you only knew. Before I became a mother, I could swear like a sailor who'd just stubbed his toe, dropped his beer. Then discovered someone had stolen his paycheck. I didn't give a damn who heard me, either. Then I had children. Two beautiful children who happen to be on the autism spectrum. And suddenly, I had to start watching what came flying out of my mouth. Because the last thing I need is Ana learning a new word and proudly announcing it in the middle of a grocery store. Can you imagine? After spending years celebrating every new word she learns. I certainly don't want her next big milestone to be dropping an F-bomb in front of her teacher. Or Evan deciding that one of my more colorful expressions is the perfect response to a difficult homework assignment. No, thank you. So, where does all that pent-up profanity go? Into my books. Every damn bit of it. My fictional characters get to say all the things I bite my tongue to keep from saying. And let me tell you, after twenty years of marriage, dealing with customers. While raising children, and navigating life's endless supply of stupidity, I've accumulated quite the vocabulary. Writing is my outlet. My escape. My little corner of the universe where nobody gets to tell me what I can and cannot say. So, to the readers who think my characters swear too much? I appreciate you reading my books. I really do. But here's the thing. I spent twenty years accommodating everyone else's expectations. I'm not doing that anymore. I write what I want, when I want. And if my fictional biker wants to say f**k? Well, f**k it. He's going to say f**k.