CAGED: GODS OF CHAOS (BOOK TEN) (Gods of Chaos MC 10)

by Honey Palomino

  It’s all me. It’s all internal.

  So, I’m trying to snap out of it.

  Apparently, I’m going to snap right into the afterlife with this latest attempt, because as I watch Slade take an unexpected, sharp right turn ahead of me and I mindlessly follow him, the roar of the horn of the poor guy driving the van behind us startles me so violently that I over correct and almost hit the pavement. How I kept my bike upright, I have no idea.

  I slow down and take a deep breath.

  Wanting to feel like one of the guys isn’t worth dying over, I remind myself.

  If I lose Slade, so be it. I can find my own way home.

  What I can’t do is fix things if this bullet in my chest moves in the wrong direction.

  I hate being so fucking fragile.

  I think that’s why I stay with the club. Because fuck all that. My doctors want me to live a ‘gentle’ lifestyle. They absolutely hate that I ride my bike at all, let alone the fact that I’m a member of a club. And if they knew the dangerous shit we’re exposed to, they’d probably lock me up in a padded room and put me on suicide watch.

  They’d tell me it was just a matter of time if I keep living like this.

  As if I don’t know that.

  What they don’t take into account is that it’s all just a matter of time, bullet or no bullet. We’re all gonna die. Why should I let this damned piece of metal in my body determine how I live my life?

  So, yeah, I ride.

  I follow reckless assholes like Slade around and try to be like them, because to be like them means being fearless, being bold, being courageous, even in the face of extreme and unpredictable danger.

  Being like them means being alive.

  And the one thing I know for sure is that I want to feel as alive as I can, as long as I can, before I’m finally dead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SLADE

  The thing is, I got used to the pain.

  The pain of my old man, drunk and violent. The pain of watching my Mom, submissive and abused. Teenaged me, doing anything and everything I could to avoid the situation altogether.

  At first, I tried to deny it.

  Pretended I was normal, just like everyone else my age…

  I went to school and tried to pay attention, which became more and more difficult as time wore on — as my old man became more violent, more unpredictable, more of an absolute dickhead.

  He was selfish, and fuck if I can’t relate to that.

  But he was mean, and that’s one thing that I’ve kept at bay. That underlying rage that flows just beneath the surface of so many men. I’ve found my outlets. Like punching people. Like projecting that pain onto the people who deserve it, and keeping the people I love protected from it.

  The pricks I come in contact with at work, those assholes are exempt from my protection. Solid Ground doesn’t exactly bring around the most upstanding citizens, if you know what I mean. Those fuckers who can abuse women without blinking a fucking eye? They’re the ones who deserve my wrath, that rage that we all carry. I let it out on them, because I can’t let it out on my old man, or Diana, or my kid.

  It only seems fair.

  Everyone else gets my respect.

  At least until they prove they aren’t worthy of it.

  “So, this is where you grew up?” Bullet asks, standing next to me as I stare down my past.

  “Yeah, ain’t it grand?” I reply warily. Nothing much has changed at the Tall Pines Trailer Park since I was here last. All the same trailers, the same paint chipping away with age, a few year’s more accumulation of dirt and grime ground into the carpet. The landscape was littered with several more rusty, broken down cars and the same type of people who lived here when Riot and I were kids trailed around like zombies tweaked out of their minds.

  A sense of dread washed over me as I watched a young boy bound out of one of the trailers, followed by a little girl clothed only in a diaper and struggling to keep up with him, her dirty blonde pigtails bouncing around her head, a naked babydoll hanging from her hand. He stopped halfway across his tiny yard to let her catch up and glanced over at us.

  His eyes widened in alarm, and I bristled, remembering that by all appearances, we were a couple of scary guys, totally out of place and staring at him.

  I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t want to make his life any worse than it was, so I turned away and motioned for Bullet to follow me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, the boy’s gaze burning into my back. I turned back and waved at him, flashing him a reassuring smile before I threw on my helmet and started up my bike, roaring out of there without waiting for Bullet.

  I drove out of Estacada as fast as I could, weaving through the winding forested roads that took me as far away from that town as possible.

  I shouldn’t have fucking come. I knew better. I always say that when I visit, but for some reason, I’m always drawn back, like I think it’s going to be better or somehow different this time, as if even if it was miraculously different that it could somehow erase the pain of the past.

  But nothing ever changes. Not in a place like that.

  And the past that haunts me? That shit will never go away either.

  I glance in my mirror to make sure Bullet’s keeping up and turn off the main road, taking the back roads through the forest towards the mountain, yearning for seclusion. If I wasn’t concerned about hurting his feelings, I’d tell Bullet to get lost, too. But he’s there, and he’s staying quiet and he’s not bothering me, so whatever.

  I keep riding, because it’s the only thing that feels right to me. The thing is, I can’t go home like this, haunted by the past, with my eyes and head clouded with shit that Diana doesn’t need to be exposed to.

  We’ve got this rule, for when we’re home together, which isn’t as often as I’d like it to be, because we are both so damned busy, but we’re making it work. The rule is that our home is a no bullshit zone. We don’t lie to each other, and we don’t pretend that everything is all right when it isn’t. With her job reporting the news every night, we both have heavy jobs, and we’re exposed to crazy shit. It’s impossible to leave that at the door, so we acknowledge it, we accept it. And that’s amazing. It’s fucking healthy, right?

  But if I allowed the shit from my past, the memories and feelings that linger just below the surface, into our warm bubble of protection, then that would just be devastating. It’s great to deal with shit, but some stuff needs to stay in the dark. Some things need to die in the dark.

  So, these flashes of memories that won’t quit running through my head like a fucking horror flick? Yeah, those just need time to play out and disappear — until next time.

  So, that’s why I keep driving. Maybe I’ll be late for dinner, but at least I won’t be imagining my Dad shoving my Mom’s head into a pot of boiling soup when I get there.

  I fucking hit the play button in my head and let ‘em rip. One by one, they hit me like a shotgun blast, and I take the blows like a man. After a few miles, the bulk of them have done their damnedest to take me down, but I’m still rolling down the fucking road like a boss.

  Therapy. That’s how it works, right?

  Who says you need a fucking couch and a shrink with glasses and a notebook and a judgmental gaze? Fuck that. I’ll take the asphalt, the trees and my own fucking armor.

  Even if I’m the one who got the assault started.

  I do this shit to myself, don’t think I don’t know that.

  I speed up, my bike hugging the curves of the road, my tires performing a symphony of perfect balance and my heart begins to pound like a drum in my chest. My eyes dilate, the thread of danger weaving through me, thrilling me to the bone. Squeezing the throttle again, I scream out loud, throwing my head back, my voice bellowing out and echoing through the trees.

  I inhale, a deep cleansing breath, the scent of the pines and Doug firs blanketing me in their calm embrace.

  Fuck the past, I think, shaking away the
last remnants of memories.

  I turn my attention to my present, my beautiful life filled with love and brotherhood and purpose.

  I fucking survived that shit.

  I’m a goddamned warrior and nothing can take me down, not even those fucking memories that try so hard to prove that they still hold water. I slay them every single time, every day that I continue to keep living.

  I’m Slade, for fuck’s sake.

  A slow grin spreads across my face as I slow my bike and wait for Bullet to catch up, the strength of that survival coursing through me like a fucking drug.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BULLET

  Some of us ride for the adrenaline rush. Some for the peace it brings.

  It’s obvious what end of the spectrum Slade is on when he speeds up and starts screaming like a damned banshee. Half expecting him to hurl headfirst into a tree, I back off, even more determined not to follow him into an early grave.

  All I can do is shake my head and watch him get smaller ahead of me and hope he hasn’t gone completely nuts. I don’t want to be the one to have to deliver the news to the rest of the Gods. Jesus, they fucking worship him, they’d lose their shit completely if he died.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, realizing that maybe I’m actually supposed to be responsible for him.

  I mean, that’s what this fucking brotherhood stuff is all about, isn’t it? Being willing to take a bullet for your brother.

  I did that once and it didn’t really work out the way I planned. But I’d be stupid if I don’t realize how much hell I’ll catch if I don’t do whatever I can to make sure Slade doesn’t die. I squeeze the throttle and try to keep my heart from bursting from my chest as I attempt to catch up to him.

  Being responsible for others isn’t my strong suit. I’m a loner. I can barely take care of myself. But there I am, straining my eyes for any sign of Slade up ahead, hoping like hell I don’t find him wrapped around a tree.

  I will my heart to slow down as I round a curve and spot him standing next to his bike on the side of the road, a small group of buildings just behind him that looks almost like a deserted little town.

  After pulling up next to him and sliding off my helmet, his smile is almost enough to make my heart soar with relief.

  “Sorry, man, had a little shit to work out,” he grinned.

  “That’s cool,” I shrug, like his little therapy session wasn’t enough to make me have a mini heart attack. “What’s this place?”

  “Used to be an abandoned little town that Riot and I used to hang out in when we were teens. Back then, it was owned by some rich art dealer that lived in New York, but we never saw him. Now, I have no idea what’s going on here.”

  “I see signs of life,” I said, gesturing towards a building with an open sign.

  Tucked near the side of one of many small hills that make up the foothills of Mt. Hood, the road curved around, hugging the hill, with a dozen structures scattered along one side of the road.

  They were all vintage buildings, obviously a hundred or more years old, most with small stairs leading up from the dirt road onto their original wooden porches. I half expected to see women adorned in Victorian dresses stroll out of one of them and board a waiting horse carriage.

  But all was quiet, except for that flashing ‘Open’ sign in the window of the building at the end.

  “Wanna check it out?” Slade said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “Sure,” I shrugged. Anything was better than flying recklessly around a bunch of curvy roads behind him.

  “Cool,” he nodded, leaving his helmet on his bike seat and shuffling down the road, his boots kicking up dust. I followed him, taking a deep breath and scanning my surroundings.

  The quietness of the place creeped me out, and as I looked up at the boarded up windows of a few of the other buildings, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  Our footsteps must have announced our arrival before we opened the door, because as soon as we walked in, all eyes in the place were already turned our way.

  “Fuck yeah, it’s a bar,” Slade said, his eyes lighting up. He waved and sauntered up to the bar, immediately at ease. “How’s it going, man?”

  The bartender seemed friendly enough, a young man in his mid-thirties who nodded and smiled briefly as the other patrons slowly turned away.

  “What can I get you fellas?” He asked.

  “Beers and two shots of tequila,” Slade said, sitting on a bench at the end of the bar.

  “Sure thing,” he replied. I sat next to Slade, doing my best to blend in, knowing in the back of my mind just how impossible that was. Guys like us don’t blend in.

  “Haven’t been up here in awhile,” Slade said, as the bartender set our drinks in front of us. “When did y’all open? This little group of buildings has been abandoned as long as I can remember.”

  “Just opened a few months ago.”

  “I see,” Slade said, throwing his shot back and asking for another. “Still owned by the art dealer from New York?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “Miss Mona owns the whole town now.”

  “Town?” Slade laughed. “Hardly a town.”

  “It will be. Real soon.”

  “That so?” Slade asked, raising a brow.

  “Yep,” he nodded.

  “Well, that’s cool,” Slade smiled. “About time someone did something with these buildings. Used to break in and party in them when we were kids.”

  The guy nodded silently and Slade squinted his eyes, his wheels spinning.

  “Who’s Miss Mona?”

  “Mona Superhero,” the guy said, as if we should know who that was.

  “Yeah, no idea who that is,” Slade said, shaking his head.

  “She’s a famous artist.”

  “Oh, okay,” Slade said. “I’m not big into the art scene.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” The guy replied wearily.

  Slade burst out laughing and all eyes turned our way again. He waved to them all, ordered another beer, slapped me on the back and downed another shot, all within a few seconds, any indication that he was as uncomfortable as I was in this place went completely concealed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MONA

  Zane stood behind me as I peered into the monitors. The two men who had walked into my bar were unlike any I’d seen in a while. They oozed testosterone. They were handsome, masculine, rugged.

  They looked dangerous.

  They looked strong.

  They were exactly the kind of men I’d been looking for.

  “You see those two?” I asked Zane, my voice full of excitement.

  “How could I not?” he asked.

  “That’s what I’m looking for,” I said. “Men like that.”

  I’d gone through so many already. None of them were good enough. Not yet.

  But maybe, just maybe, my luck was changing.

  “I want them,” I said. “Those two.”

  “I’ll make it happen. Where do you want them?”

  “Put them in with Eve.”

  “Consider it done, Miss Mona,” he said. I ignored the twinge of sadness in Zane’s voice. He wanted to serve me. He wanted me to choose him. But he wasn’t good enough, either, and he knew it.

  After he wandered off, a slow smile spread across my face as I watched the two men on the monitors. They were as different as could be, that much I could tell right away. One of them was loud and boisterous, the other quiet and reserved. But each of them were perfect specimens of masculinity.

  As long as they performed as well as they looked, then they’d be perfect.

  A surge of excitement rushed through me, thrilling me with the sweetest anticipation.

  Everything was working out, just as I’d planned it. My vision was coming alive, right before my eyes.

  I was used to that when it came to my work, but I knew all the success I’d had was because of my meticulous planning. I didn’t just throw tape on the canvas and hope it
worked out. No — I drew it all out first, I created custom stencils, and then when it was completely outlined, I set out to make it into a masterpiece, step by step.

  Nothing happened over night.

  But slowly, surely, it all began to take shape.

  My vision for this town — my town — was no different.

  Before long, it would be populated with only the people I chose, adorned with only the art that I’ve curated, and the world I’ve imagined will finally come to life.

  That escape I’d been longing for, the place I’d always looked for but could never find, the home I’d never had — it would be all mine, because I’ll have created it myself.

  That’s how my entire life had been. This wouldn’t be any different.

  Moments later, I watched with glee as Zane walked into the bar on the screens in front of me, stepping behind the counter and whispering in Hank’s ear. Hank nodded and Zane walked back out, nodding at the two men sitting at the end of the bar on his way out with a friendly smile.

  My eyes lit up as Hank set new drinks in front of them and as they lifted them to their mouths, I fluttered with joy to know they would soon be mine.

  Moments later, they fell writhing to the ground and my laughter bubbled up from deep inside, sweet ecstasy washing over me.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GRACE

  “It’s positive, Grace.”

  Bones stared back at me, his eyes gentle and serious. He sat behind his desk in his office at the hospital, his white coat a stark contrast to the black leather cut I was used to seeing him in.

  I sighed, nodding in resignation.

  “When are you going to tell him?” He asked. He meant Ryder. Ryder, the man who should be sitting next to me right now, holding my hand, but instead was completely oblivious that I was here.

  I just couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I was sure.

  Bones looked pretty sure.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. “Soon, I guess.”