Gin's Longing

by Joy Blood

  Gin's Longing

  Hell’s Riders book two

  Joy Blood

  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.

  Copyediting: Word Nerd Editing

  www.wordnerdediting.com

  Copyright © 2017 Joy Blood

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Warning

  Prologue

  1. Grace

  2. Gin

  3. Grace

  4. Gin

  5. Grace

  6. Gin

  7. Grace

  8. Gin

  9. Grace

  10. Gin

  11. Grace

  12. Gin

  13. Gin

  14. Grace

  15. Gin

  16. Grace

  17. Gin

  18. Gin

  19. Grace

  20. Gin

  21. Grace

  22. Gin

  23. Grace

  24. Gin

  25. Grace

  26. Gin

  27. Grace

  28. Gin

  29. Grace

  30. Gin

  31. Grace

  32. Gin

  33. Gin

  34. Grace

  35. Grace

  36. Gin

  37. Gin

  38. Grace

  39. Gin

  40. Grace

  41. Gin

  42. Grace

  Epilogue

  Keep in touch

  Warning

  Some parts of this story may cause triggers. Reader discretion is advised.

  Prologue

  Gin

  “Gin, baby, please come back to bed.” Brit’s lust ridden voice halts my walk to the door. The woman always has a way of changing my mind. Grabbing my cut, I fling it over my shoulders and pull it down into place. Patches of all varieties adorn both sides, but the one that means the most is the rectangular white one with the word “president” stamped out in bold black letters. The patch that demands respect. And I got that respect—from everyone.

  “Babe, I need to run out and talk to Hammer. He’s supposed to be hearing back from Sage and Jake soon, and I need to know how things went on the run. You just sit your fine ass right there and wait until I come back,” I order in a no-bullshit voice, then shoot her a smile and walk back toward her. Placing my hand over her rounded belly, I give it a few strokes before sealing my lips over hers. “I’ll be right back,” I promise against her lips, then move back before she can respond, closing the door behind me as I exit.

  The party down in the bar is in full swing. One of the club whores in on the bar, laid out as a couple men take shots off her naked body. The long, blonde hair draped across the surface can only be Lisa’s—Sage’s favorite, though they aren't exclusive. None of them are. I was one of them—until I met Britney. My Brit. The woman upstairs warming my bed. The woman with a belly full of my baby.

  She walked into this club only two years ago. Fucking perfect. Long, bright-red hair and big blue eyes. Fat, juicy lips. I was a goner. She smiled my way, and that was it—no more club whores. Brit was all I could see.

  The day Brit told me she was having my baby, my first instinct wasn't to run—it was to marry her. And that’s exactly what I plan on doing, just as soon as our son is born and she can fit into the dress of her dreams. I know it’s important to her, the damn dress. If it weren't, she would have taken my last name months ago when she told me she was knocked up.

  “Look who it is. Climb out of that pussy long enough to have a drink, Pres?” Spark shouts from the other side of the bar.

  “Fuck you. If your ass had a pussy like hers, you would understand,” I shout back, accepting the glass of whiskey he slides my way. With the name Gin, one would think it would be my drink of choice. It isn't. Not even a little bit. “You hear from Sage?” I ask Hammer as I set my glass down for a refill.

  “Not since he said they were on their way to the meet spot. Should be good, though.” I nod and pick up the refilled glass. Before I can toss the amber liquid back, a loud bang followed by pop, pop, pop! drowns out the noise of the party. On instinct, I reach back for my gun, but come up empty. Fuck. I don’t think any of us are armed. We’re fucking partying.

  Bullets fly, whizzing through the air as Lisa’s body slumps halfway off the bar, her exposed flesh riddled in bullets. The brothers enjoying her only seconds before drop to the floor, blood pooling around them. The pungent smell of copper fills my nostrils as my breathing picks up. I need a fucking gun.

  Spark, still behind the bar, pulls out his shotgun and fires at the intruders. The spray of the pellets scatter around the room before his body is flung backward into the wall, clattering against the shelves holding glasses and liquor bottles. Two more shots hit him in the chest, red pluming across the white t-shirt under his cut as he slides to the floor. Fuck.

  Hammer’s on my heels as we attempt to make our way from the bar to the door leading to the stairs, his hand on my shoulder, protecting his Pres through the gunfire. When we reach the door, I wrench it open and cross the threshold as Hammer’s hand clenches down, then falls away, his body crumpling to the floor behind me. I can’t stop, can’t fucking help any one of them. I need to get to the gun back in my room.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I burst into the room I share with my woman and pause, lifting my arms in surrender as she holds my gun, pointing it right at me, ready to pull the trigger.

  “It’s me, babe,” I say before taking the gun from her.

  “What the hell is going on, Gin?” she asks, her voice shaking from panic.

  “Get into the bathroom and lock yourself in, babe. We’re under attack.” Before either of us can move, the door is flung open and gunfire runs rampant. Pain slices into my stomach and I hit my knees, desperately trying to get a shot off before the fuckers can kill us both.

  As my finger depresses the trigger, a heavily booted foot connects with my cheek, and I fall to the side, hitting my head on the dresser along the wall. Landing on the floor with a thud, a scream pierces the air and my lungs nearly collapse at the sound of my woman shouting for help.

  I try to force my limbs to move, to reach out, to stand up, to do anything, but I swim in and out of consciousness, only able to call out her name. My head pounds with each sound I force from my lungs. As her screams become muffled, I force my eyes open, the world spinning, but through the blur, I can still make out a figure hovering over Brit on the bed. A Hell’s Riders MC cut forces its way through the fog. Chicago.

  Black dots lull me forward before the brightness of the room shines through once more. Her screams mimic the slowing of my pulse, until everything goes quiet—just stops, right along with my fucking heart.

  Right then would have been the best time to die. I willed myself to die—for my life to cease. But for some fucked reason, it doesn’t. The fucking traitors weren't done with me. Not even close. In and out of consciousness, hands dig into my shoulders, my head bobbing with each jerk of my body as they drag me to the front of the club and toss me into the dirt. One of them makes a phone call, but I can only make out one name: Cantrell. That motherfucking cockroach. He’s supposed to be dead.

  “Light it up,” someone instructs, and through the haze of my probable concussion, heat spreads along my face, getting hotter and hotter before I’m lifted away and tossed to the side, my face landing in the dirt. The singe is smothered, but the harsh sting grows until I succumb to the pain and pass out.

  That should have been it, right? Should have been the time I booked that one-way ticket
to the underground? Nope, sure as fuck wasn't.

  When I wake again, all I can smell is burning flesh. My burning flesh. Rolling to my side, I see a pile of what looks to be burned cuts. Those fucking assholes took every one of my brothers’ cuts from their backs and burned them. Fucking burned them.

  Groaning, I start my crawl—the longest crawl of my fucking life. Up the steps and through the clubhouse full of my dead brothers—my dead family. The stench of blood and piss fills my nostrils as I breathe heavily through clenched teeth, stopping every few inches to wretch.

  Hours, days—hell, maybe even weeks—it feels like it takes me to get to my woman. My woman who I already know is gone—even before I get through the door of our bedroom, even before I see her laying there, throat slit and cold on the bed. I can’t even bring myself to look at the rest of her as I fall back to the floor and wait to die.

  But still, life wouldn't fucking let me.

  One

  Grace

  “Gracie Berniece Turner, you get your hind end back here right this instant!” my mom yells from inside the kitchen as I try my hardest to run out the door before she can catch me.

  “I'm in a hurry,” I complain as I stomp back into the house.

  “You know darn well you aren't supposed to be going anywhere tonight. Not even to the game.”

  “But I'm the head cheerleader! I can’t miss this game, and you know that!”

  “I don’t care. You are grounded, or do you not remember this discussion? You cut class yesterday and got detention. This is your punishment, like it or not,” she demands, her tone stern.

  “But, Mom, please,” I beg, knowing if I continue to push she’ll give in. “It’s the last game of the season. If I don’t go tonight, I might not be able to cheer anymore,” I whine, my hands on my hips. It’s only a slight lie. The team is good and will be going on to tournaments after tonight, but Mom doesn't know this. She never follows sports and has only been to a handful of games to watch me cheer. She claims it’s too loud for her, and being a doctor, she’s usually working regardless.

  “Please, Mom? Please?” I bat my eyelashes, going in for the kill. Being her only daughter, and adopted at that, I might be spoiled, but she loves me, and it’s why she gives in.

  “What is it you want, princess?” Dad asks as he enters the kitchen.

  “She wants to go to the game, but she’s grounded.”

  “But it’s the last game. I’ll come home right after, I promise. Please...” Dad looks over at Mom, and by the look on his face, I know Mom is about to be overruled.

  “I suppose since it is the last one. You’ll come home right after?” he asks, raising a brow, to which I vigorously nod.

  “Yes. Yes, I will. I promise,” I say, jumping up and down with a big, satisfying smile on my face. Honking interrupts our little debate, and I look toward the front of the house. “That would be Tarrance,” I say, turning back to my parents. With a smile, I bound up to give my dad a big kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Daddy,” I tell him, then do the same to my mom, the smile still planted firmly on my face as they tell me to be home at exactly ten o’clock or risk being stuck in the house until I’m thirty.

  “You tell that boy to drive slow. I know every cop in Clearance, and I won’t hesitate to get him flagged on their watch list,” Dad yells out as I slam the door and run to where Tarrance is waiting on the curb.

  “Hey, sweet cheeks, took you long enough,” he says as I shut the door behind me and go in for a quick kiss.

  “I had to convince my parents to let me go. If you hadn't talked me into skipping class yesterday, I wouldn't have had to.” I settle back into the seat and pull the seatbelt over my shoulder.

  “Always such a good girl, aren't you, princess?” he teases, and I just ignore it. Terrance and I have been dating since freshman year, and even now, with college close on the horizon, he’s still on me about things I do that seem prissy—our biggest issue being I haven't had sex with him. We’ve done other things, but I just can’t bring myself to go all the way.

  “You drive too fast,” I complain, and roll down the window to feel the wind blow through my hair.

  “Roll that shit up. It’s fucking cold out,” he barks out. I roll my eyes, but do as he says without letting it bother me. He’s always on edge right before a game. We pull into the parking lot of the high school and get out, locking our hands together and walking inside as the perfect couple. And I guess that’s what we are. The popular kids in school. The busty cheerleader and muscled jock. Yeah, that’s about right.

  “Grace!” Denise, my best friend, yells down the hall from the locker rooms. “Let's go! We’re warming up!”

  “I'm coming,” I yell back, then turn to Tarrance to give him a quick kiss, but he’s already heading toward the guys’ locker room, a couple of the players flanking his sides. Whatever. I jog over to where Denise disappeared into the girls’ locker room, happy to get this night started.

  Cheering is probably the most fun I have had in high school and being the captain is even better. Standing on the sidelines clapping, doing small lifts, and yelling out cheers to get the crowd pumped brings on a rush you can only get from something you love. Especially when the game is as close as it is tonight. With three seconds left, the teams are still tied. The boys run up and down the court, pounding the basketball, fighting for two points at a time, when our team causes a foul. Grass Point, the opposing team, takes the free-throw line, and the team and all the cheerleaders take a knee to wait.

  The first shot is no good, but he makes the second. A collective gasp echoes through the gym as Tarrance gets the ball and dribbles down to the half court line, taking the last shot of the game. The air becomes stagnant as everyone seems to hold their breath in anticipation. My hands clench the handles of my pom-poms as my heart beats erratically. Tarrance releases the ball and it flies through the air, smacking off the backboard right through the hoop. All at once, we jump into the air, celebrating the win.

  After the game, Tarrance is on top of the world, but who could blame him? He just won the last game he will ever play in this gym. “Fuck, that was amazing, wasn't it?” he asks as he runs toward me through the parking lot.

  “Get in the car. I’ll drive you home.” His lips press firmly against mine, then, just as quick, he backs away and rounds to the driver’s side.

  Strapping myself in, I rummage through my bag, pull out my phone, and text my mom to tell her about the game and let her known I'm on my way home. Placing it back into my bag, I flip through the radio stations until I find something to listen to. The car comes to a stop, and I look around, taking in the black of night. No street lights. No neighborhood. No headlights to tell me where we are.

  “Um, wh-what are we doing out here?” I stutter, turning to face Tarrance as a chill runs up my spine. Something is off.

  “Come here,” he murmurs, reaching out toward me. “I think we need to celebrate. I did make the game-winning shot tonight,” he boasts, giving me his crooked, cocky smile. Leaning in, he grips my hips, trying to pull me closer, and I immediately tense and lurch back. He is being more forceful than normal, bringing me to panic. I catch sight of him, his cold features illuminated from the light of the radio. He is switched off, far from his normal self. That face I thought I once knew transforms from his cocky smirk to a narrowed glare.

  “Not tonight, Tare. Please. Just take me home,” I try to reason, hearing the desperation in my voice. Scooting as close to the door as I can, I reach behind me, not wanting to turn my back on him. I smack along the frame for the handle, frantic as his body moves lightning fast over mine. His hands grope and kneed, and my fear spikes. The only thing stopping him from reaching my most intimate parts are my panties and spandex shorts, which don't stop his wandering hands one bit. My hand finally finds purchase on the handle as I try to push him away, and I pull, but it’s locked.

  “Hold still, princess. You owe me this. Four fucking years and you’ve only given me shit blow job
s. Tonight, I'm getting what’s mine,” he growls into my ear, and tears spring to my eyes. His fingers find their way under my shorts, and a broken sob escapes. Pain slices through me as he shoves his fingers inside me, and I scream. His hand slaps over my mouth as I buck under him, trying to get him off, but he just presses into me harder, the thrust of his fingers becoming more brutal. Tears streak down my cheeks as wetness spreads between my thighs.

  Dark, wild eyes hold me captive as he violates me, freezing me in place. I scream into his hand, but it comes out muffled and garbled. “Quiet. I'm just trying to get you ready for me,” he hisses, then licks the shell of my ear, making my breaths come even faster as a new wave of fear lances through me.

  His fingers retreat, then both of his hands move to the waistband of my shorts, trying to pull them down. “No, please! Don’t do this, Tarrance, please!” I yell on deaf ears. My shorts are tossed away, and I can feel him fumbling with his jeans when the smash of shattering of the window rings out from above followed by small bits of glass raining down on both of us. The car door is ripped open and Tarrance is hauled off me and thrown onto the grassy ground. “The fuck!” he yells as I slide myself out of the car and onto the cold ground, curling up into a ball. I can vaguely make out a shadowed figure looming over Tarrance’s cowering form, his hands over his head in an attempt to protect himself, but it doesn't help. The dark figure slams his booted foot into Tarrance’s stomach, making him heave.