Irrevocable (The Exiled Eight MC Book 1)

by Addison Jane

  And every time it came, it ended right there.

  Like a dramatic fucking cliffhanger. One that my brain had created in order to protect me from what happened next. Unfortunately, while my dreams hadn’t made me relive that moment for years, it didn’t mean that I’d forgotten.

  Frustrated, I threw the blankets back and climbed out of bed, grabbing a hoodie from my closet and a pair of workout shorts that had been tossed on the floor after my run yesterday morning. My club cut slipped on like a glove over the top—a perfect fit. The heavy leather instantly settled a sort of calm over my body. It was more than just a show of colors.

  My cut was a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

  Grabbing a pack of cigarettes off my bedside table, I made my way out of the bedroom and down the hall in search of coffee. I was going to need it if I was going to make it through the day without killing someone.

  No joke.

  The sun shone in through the open doorways as men lingered around, eating breakfast and feasting on at least three cups of black coffee before they headed out to work at the construction site.

  I rolled my neck, the tension left over from my sleep—if you could even call it that—still lingered in my muscles. That same dream played almost every night, at least once but often more. I guess you could say my body had become accustomed to living on little to no sleep. Maybe it was due to the fact I was constantly waking up with my adrenaline pumping and my heart racing.

  At least this morning I’d made it until sunrise.

  There were times I’d be up at two or three in the morning, and head out to my shed where I would just start hacking away at wood pieces. It wasn’t the most ideal thing to be doing at that hour, but I found it was one of the only things that helped. Spend an hour out there, carving, working hard, burning my muscles, then I’d head back to bed feeling exhausted.

  “You chat with Meyah last night?” Dad asked as he walked past me, heading for his office.

  I looked down longingly at the pack of cigarettes in my hand and groaned in annoyance before I followed him into the room, shutting the door behind me.

  He dropped down into his leather chair and picked up his glasses, placing them on his nose. I tried not to crack a smile, but the look of my father in specs still seemed very unreal. They appeared a couple of years ago, and not many people knew he wore them because he hated them. He said they made him look old, which I guess was a little true. He did look different. Not necessarily old, but maybe, less like a man who’d spent many years of his life literally hunting people, and more like someone’s very athletic grandfather.

  “Briefly,” I snorted, shaking my head. I was the one who kept in touch with Meyah the most, calling her at least a couple times a week, if not more. Dad called her at least once a week to check in, and Drake and her seemed to have this weird text conversation where they spoke mostly in emojis and funny memes. “Dakota got to the phone first. That fucking woman, I swear to fucking God…” I couldn’t find the words to describe what it was about her that drove me so goddamn crazy. Maybe it was the sass that came out of those fucking perfect plump, soft lips—the ones I desperately wanted to see smiling in delight as I pounded away inside her. Or maybe spread open wide and wrapped around my cock.

  My dad started to chuckle as he turned back to the piece of paper he was holding in front of him.

  I frowned. “What?”

  “You and Dakota.”

  Instantly, I was on the defensive, and I stood a little taller, folding my arms across my chest. “I forbid you to ever say that fucking sentence ever again.”

  He took his glasses off and placed them on the table. “She’s the only woman who’s ever been able to stir anything inside you other than just the need to get your dick wet.”

  I opened my mouth to argue with him about how she definitely stirred the need to get my dick wet, but that was about it. But he hit me with a look that told me to shut the fuck up and listen before I ran my mouth. A look that I’d learned a long time ago not to fucking argue with.

  “Dakota pushes your buttons, and you fucking love pushing them right back.”

  I fucking did.

  Seeing her get all riled up did something to me. It made the air crackle around us like it was electric, and the more sparks that flew, the more I could only imagine what it would be like if I actually got my hands on her. I couldn’t help but wonder whether we could actually destroy each other with the energy pulsing around us.

  Either way though, it couldn’t happen.

  Dakota wasn’t a fuck them and walk away kind of girl.

  No, she was far more than a club girl or a booty call.

  She deserved more too.

  And she wasn’t going to find it here.

  Which meant I had to stay the fuck away rather than deal with how much it would hurt Meyah if I broke her best friend.

  “I’m not having this conversation with you.” I pressed my finger into my temple and squeezed my eyes shut. It was too fresh, the dream was still hanging out in my brain, and if we got into this right now, I really wasn’t sure what kind of damage I might do.

  “Then get the fuck out of my office,” he dismissed me, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “Go and keep pretending like you’re some cold, heartless bastard who never intends on taking an Old Lady.”

  I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to tell my father where to go shove his opinion. I knew what he was getting at. He was trying to prove something and honestly, I didn’t really know if I wanted to hear it. “Who said anything about pretending?”

  He snorted and shook his head. “Says the kid who told me once that he’d never let a woman get close enough for him to care about.”

  “What’s your point, old man?”

  He pointed to a photo that took pride of place on his desk. A frame that used to have a picture of Drake and me in it, but had recently been exchanged for a new one. One with an extra person. “Exhibit A… your sister.”

  I tightened my fists, hating that the old man was fucking right, but determined not to let him win. “Meyah’s different.”

  She was.

  None of us even knew she existed until about twelve months ago when she waltzed on in with my dad’s eyes and the DNA to prove it. I’d been reluctant to get close to her, but the more time I spent with her, the more I realized she was just there looking for a part of herself she’d always felt was missing.

  I understood that.

  Because I felt like part of me had been missing since I was six years old.

  I fucking cherished my mom even when she would look at me with hate in her eyes, or when she would talk to me in disgust like I was the one ruining her life.

  When she died, she stole a part of me and took it with her to the grave.

  It was the part of me that wanted an Old Lady by my side.

  All she left me with were the pieces of me which were too scared to let anyone get fucking close enough, just in case they destroyed what was left. Because honestly, how could you expect anyone to really give a flying fuck about you at all, when the person who was meant to love you unconditionally chose death instead?

  Like I was an option she simply couldn’t fucking live with.

  If I let someone else do the same, I don’t know if I’d survive.

  My hands started to tighten around my packet of smokes, and my fingers began to twitch.

  “It’s too early in the morning for this bullshit. Jesus Christ,” I groaned, brushing my long hair back from my face. It was about time I had it cut, it was starting to get as long as Drake’s and if it reached that length, I was going to lose my ability to taunt him about how he was starting to look like a woman.

  I turned to head for the door.

  “Fucking princess,” my father muttered behind me, and I steeled my spine but didn’t turn around.

  “Gonna pretend I didn’t fucking hear that.”

  “Sorry, do you need me to say it a little louder, your majesty
?” he called just before I slammed the door behind me. I learned a long time ago that my father was a bastard—one who cared a huge fucking lot about his family and his club—and that he was not afraid one bit to say what he wanted to say. He didn’t believe in not talking things out, no matter how fucking painful they might be. The older I grew, the more I understood why.

  My mom may have been broken, but my dad loved her anyway—as much as a man could love a woman he was forced to marry. He tried to help her, but there was nothing he could do back then. He didn’t have the rank. He didn’t have the power to change things.

  He had to watch her grow every single day more resentful and more self-destructive.

  He had to watch her imploding.

  The woman he loved, destroying herself.

  Her voice wasn’t heard, and the more and more it got smothered by others, the more she pulled into herself, the more pain she felt but the less she would talk about it.

  He wasn’t about to give anyone else that opportunity. And while it often annoyed me that he would try and get me to talk about my shit, or even at times get me angry and goad me into it, I had to respect the fact he wasn’t about to let another person feel like they didn’t have a voice.

  “Fucking father,” I mumbled as I headed for the door, pulling a smoke from inside the packet and sticking it between my lips. “Always fucking right about shit.”

  Goddamn him and his weird all-knowing biker tendencies.

  DAKOTA

  “I need two cosmos, a cock-sucking cowboy and a red-headed slut,” Meyah demanded loudly as she climbed up onto a bar stool.

  The corner of my mouth curled upward as I automatically reached for a bottle of Jager. “I didn’t know you swung that way.”

  She raised her middle finger and flipped me off. “I have a whole bachelor party over there, and I have a feeling they’re only starting to warm up with the drink names.”

  That was just one of the joys of working in one of the city’s biggest and busiest nightclubs—there was always some drunk asshole who thought he was funny as fuck ordering a blow job.

  I made quick work of the drinks she’d ordered. My fingers danced across the computer screen, adding each of the drinks to the group’s tab. The amount was quickly climbing, and I could see over Meyah’s shoulder that some of the guys were already feeling the effects of the amount of booze they were drowning their bodies with. The night was still early, but they were beginning to stumble and slur.

  We’d opened the doors to the club early, especially for these guys—their pockets were deep and money spoke volumes around here—but it looked like we’d possibly be kicking them out just as quickly as they arrived.

  There was only twenty or so of them, and while the rest of the club was setting up downstairs for a busy Saturday night, Meyah, another waitress called Khloe, and I were busy accommodating these drunkards in the VIP area on our own.

  “Let me know if you want to trade,” I told her as I placed the drinks on her tray.

  Her sweet smile sparkled back at me. “It’s okay, I can handle them,” she assured me. Then she pointed at a booth over in the corner. “And if they get too rowdy, Hamlet put a couple of the boys on babysitting duty.”

  I looked over to see two young but very serious looking guys occupying the small booth in a darkened corner, their leather and patches only making them look less approachable and more frightening. And they were eying the outspoken and drunk frat boys like they were just waiting for a reason to beat the shit out of them.

  I rolled my eyes and looked back to Meyah. “Someone’s leaving here tonight in an ambulance, aren’t they?”

  She flashed me a perfect pageant queen smile as she turned away with her tray of drinks.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I stalled for a second, turning around to see that one of the pretty boys had wandered off from his flock, and was now leaning against the bar. His eyes were sparkling and his face was flushed, both signs he was well past trashed and was probably seeing two of me. “You’re sexy as hell, you know.”

  I turned away, took a deep breath before forcing a smile on my face and turning back to face him. “Hey… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” I decided to play nice.

  Another hour or two and most of these guys wouldn’t be able to stand, then they would leave, and hopefully not be cheap with the tips.

  “Caleb,” he slurred, the word followed by a rumbling burp. “I’m the groom to be.”

  I cringed but managed to keep the forced smile on my face. “Well, your fiancée is a fortunate woman, I bet she feels like she won the lottery with you.”

  He rolled his shoulders back and ran his fingers through his ashy blond hair, preening at my comment. The drunken way he was swaying made it feel as though any moment he might end up on the floor.

  Maybe she didn’t win the lottery, maybe just a game of bingo.

  “It’s my last night as a single man, you know…” He leaned forward, bracing himself on the top of the bar. There was at least four or five feet between us, and I could still smell the overused, expensive cologne he had drenched himself in.

  I held my breath and leaned back. “I’m not sure if that’s how this works. This is your last night as an unmarried man… not a single man.”

  “Same thing,” he crowed, a sickening smile growing on his lips.

  I suddenly started to feel really horrible for his wife to be. Did she realize what she was getting herself into? Wasn’t there some kind of girl code I needed to follow to try and let her know that the guy she was marrying was a complete and utter twat sucker?

  Holy shit is he trying to climb over the bar?

  “Sir!” I called out, instantly taking a step back and looking around for some kind of assistance, but neither of the bikers were in the corner booth any longer, and I could partially see a mass of commotion happening over boozy’s shoulder as he tried to scale the ledge. It was a struggle, but he was slowly making his way over the mahogany bartop, his eyes glued to me, while licking his lips.

  “You’re not allowed back here.” My voice was strong and determined as my hand reached around behind me, sliding along the underside of the counter at my back.

  I wasn’t usually a girl who backed down to anyone. I was short in stature, but I made up for it with sass and a fair dose of stubbornness.

  “I told you,” Caleb mumbled, his eyes continuing to stay glued to me. “I’m a single man for one more night, and I bet it wouldn’t be the first time you’d had some fun behind this bar.”

  “You’re not my type,” I threw back as my hand found the gun holster which was taped to the underside of the counter.

  I flicked it open and took the cold metal handgun into my hand.

  It would have to do.

  Caleb’s laughter boomed so loudly it actually hurt my ears, and he swiveled his body so he was sitting on the edge of the bar on my side, swaying back and forth. “I’m young, hot, rich… I’m everyone’s fucking type.” He rubbed his hand over the less-than-impressive bulge in the front of his jeans and wiggled his eyebrows. “Now come over here and blow me like a good little bar bitch.”

  I pulled the gun out and aimed it straight at his crotch where he was still stroking himself gently over the top of his whitewash—most likely five-hundred-dollar, Mommy bought them for me—jeans. “Oh, I’ll blow you all right. Blow your pathetic micro penis right off if you don’t get the hell off my bar and go back to your little buddies over there.” I nodded toward the group of men who seemed to have calmed down significantly, all their eyes focused on me. Some in awe, some in shock, some looking like they might come in their pants right at that moment.

  My heart skipped when I saw a dark flash wash over him, and suddenly I had to wonder if he was just as drunk as I thought he was. Or if this was some kind of act he was playing to try and cover the fact he was a fucking psychopath.

  “You don’t want to do this, you little bitch,” he growled under his breath so only I could hear. It wasn�
��t exactly tense, though. It was agitated but calm. “You make a fool of me, I’ll make an example out of you.”

  I reached up and cocked the gun, placing my finger on the trigger. “I’m already an example. It’s called, the kind of bitch that pretty boys like you shouldn’t fuck with.”

  I knew that look in his eyes.

  I also knew the rules about holding a gun—don’t place your finger on the trigger unless you intend on firing it. The thing was, I fully intended on doing just that if this asshole came at me. I wasn’t a victim, he wasn’t going to make me one.

  We stood in some kind of Mexican standoff, neither of us moving or looking away. I knew the second I gave him a moment, he would take it, and I would probably regret it. He suddenly seemed extremely sober.

  Things had escalated fucking quickly.

  A symphony of heavy boots thumped against the staircase that leads up to the VIP area where we were, joined by the click-clack of stiletto heels. I refused to look away, though, until Hamlet rounded the bar and pressed his body in between the two of us, his back to me.

  My heart began to slow, and I lowered the gun down by my side just as the President of the Brothers by Blood, Shotgun, stepped in and took it from my hand. “Go,” he ordered sternly. “We’ll deal with this.” He pointed to Meyah who stood at the other end of the bar holding her hand out to me. Shotgun pressed his hand to my back ushering me forward and forcing my legs to move. They’d been frozen on the spot.

  I guess I underestimated just how fucking scary that situation had been.

  “Take your friends and get the fuck out of here,” Hamlet ordered behind me, and I fought the urge to stop and watch the situation unfold. “Eyes on me, motherfucker, not on her. I’m the one you need to worry about now.”

  When I got close enough, Meyah reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me into her body. A couple more men from the MC stepped in front of us, and when I finally stopped and took in the room, I noticed how quiet it was—the music completely dead—and just how full it was with MC members. They outnumbered the bachelor party by more than double.