by Amo Jones
He was my foster brother.
He swore to protect me.
He failed.
They all failed.
I’m an open box of passé photographs, snapped in chaste daylight, but filtered in sepia. I’m the past that he tried to forget; he was the future I needed. When he left four years ago, I screamed for him every night. But then it all stopped. My screams were suddenly muffled by cruelty, and further coaxed by pain.
But he has come back. He’s not the cute big brother I had a furtive crush on, or the bad boy, rich brat that I hated to love.
He’s the ruthless vice president of Wolf Pack MC, and he doesn’t answer to Royce Kane anymore.
He answers to Sicko.
Sicko
Copyright © 2020 by Amo Jones
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblance to actual person’s, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Editing: My Brothers Editor
Proofreading: Rosa Sharon
Betas: Sarah Grim Sentz, Tijuana Turner.
Book Cover: Graphics from the Modern Belle
Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Title Page
Copyright
Author Note
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Epilogue
Other Books
As most of you know, I don’t usually have trigger warnings in my books. My main genre is dark romance, so I’ve come to expect my readers to just know that they’re getting something dark and twisted once they flip the first page of an Amo Jones book.
This book is different. This is “my level” of Dark Romance. It is dark. It will have you squirm in some places, but not in the way you’re probably used to or expect.
There are scenes within these pages that will be uncomfortable for you to read. I didn’t water anything down. I wrote these characters as authentically as possible, because you, the reader, deserve that. I didn’t sugar coat something to make it easier to digest, I drowned every scene in tequila, and just like a shot of Patron, it needs to be swallowed before you feel its affects.
Please don’t take this warning lightly. These characters are like nothing I have written before, and this story is not one I’ve ever experienced.
This book is DARK, but every single word and scene that is in here is there for a reason. I’m not here for shock value. This is just a story that needed to be told in the art it has been displayed in.
If you’re still here, I guess you’re still wanting to read… so by all means…
To my darkness.
Because the bitch really came out to play with this one.
So I usually go ham on this section. Anyone would think I’d just won an Oscar, but girl, I’m tired.
This book sucked the soul out of me.
So, I just want to say thank you. To you, who is reading this book. Thank you for taking a chance on my world and allowing me to meddle with your mind for eight hours.
I’ll buy you a drink when I meet you.
—A
There was a woman.
She stood maybe a whole foot shorter than my six-three. I wanted to study her at close range to understand why she fascinated me so much, but the rustling of leaves that were falling around my feet distracted me enough to forget to ask questions. I was too busy thinking about the circumstances that led me to this point in my life.
Rock fucking bottom with no foundation to rebuild on.
I squeezed the gas hose tight. Who the fuck was this woman? An oversized hoodie hung off her fragile figure carelessly, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders in tasteful waves. I couldn’t get a good look at her face. She clearly did everything she could to hide it. Figured she wanted something since she hasn’t moved from where she’s staring, her body perceptibly turned toward me.
I nodded my head at her politely when I figured she wasn’t going to stop gawking. I was fucking paranoid too. After what just happened and what we endured, I needed to get the fuck out of here fast.
I watched as her face peeked up behind the rim of her hoodie and her big green eyes zoned in on me. She glanced into the back of my car before coming back to me. “You on the run, handsome?” Her voice was husky, as if she had smoked cigarettes her whole life. There was nothing suspicious about her at all, aside from the hoodie.
I chuckled. “Somethin’ like that.”
For a second, and I mean a very brief fucking second, darkness momentarily flashed over her eyes. Almost like a cloud that shaded over the sun on a clear summer day. As quick as it was there, it was gone.
The corners of her mouth tilted up in a smile. “Well, there’s a place on the outskirts of downtown LA. The bar is called Patches.” She assessed me. “No promises that they’d let a pretty boy like you stay, but you could always try.”
I stood there with the gas pump beeping in the background, my mouth slightly open. I went into the store to pay for my gas and before I could thank her, she was already gone.
I wish I could remember the day I was welcomed into the Kane family, but I was barely old enough to create vivid visions inside of my head. I was days old, dumped and left on the front doorstep of the local orphanage in a seedy area of San Francisco. I don’t know much about what happened, not because the Kanes didn’t want me to know, but because I’ve never wanted to ask. Being discarded as a baby by my parents is all I need to know. I was lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Kane were there the next day, wanting to find their brat of a son, a little brother that he could play with.
He got a sister instead.
Royce was three when I came home, and boy… was he not impressed about getting a sister instead of a brother.
Apparently, it took him forty-five minutes to talk to me, but then after that, we never stopped. Now I’m fifteen years old. You could say things have changed.
“Royce!” I yell at my frustrating brother as he circles the basketball court in our back yard, holding my phone up in the air. “Give it back to me right fucking now!”
He laughs so loud I want to shove my foot in his mouth. Royce has become increasingly annoying o
ver the years, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I need anything, it would be my big brother who I would ask first.
He must have stopped mid-run because I slam into him, my face squished against his back before falling to the ground. The blue sky swims above me amidst the yellow rapture of the sun.
An arm hooks around my mid-back, bringing me safely back to my feet. “Nah uh, you don’t get to die on me yet, Duchess. You still owe me that twenty dollars.”
I push off his chest, ignoring how hard his muscles are beneath his shirt.
“Give me my phone!” I place my hand out to him with the other on my hip.
“I heard that one of these little freshmen at school wanna take my sister out on a date…” he teases, and it’s then that I hear another voice behind me.
Orson’s whistle pierces through my eardrums. “Damn, someone new to the rules? Didn’t know that you can’t take little Miss Jade Kane out on a date without going through her big brothers?” Naturally, my annoying brother also has annoying friends who also annoyingly have claimed my—so-called—annoying ass. I’m untouchable at school. It’s not helpful when you wouldn’t mind being touched.
“He’s new. I will let him down nicely,” I plead with Royce, watching as his thumb hovers over my phone. He wouldn’t actually go through my phone, but if a text happened to come through while he was holding it, then I’m almost certain he would—Ding.
Fuck.
He tilts his head. I watch in sheer horror as his eyes fly over whatever words have popped up.
He glares at me. “Who is this little fuck?”
“What’d he say?” Orson asks, running his fingers through his dark, curly hair. Orson is a six-foot-six half-Mediterranean French, half-American basketball god, and one of Royce’s best friends. I’m not actually sure how they became so close, since Orson is talented and managed to graduate from high school top of his class. Royce isn’t dumb, but he can be an idiot. Yes, there’s a difference. Orson also just got drafted into the NBA, which only adds to his ever-growing list of reasons why so many girls want him. I had a serious crush on him for the better part of my life, until I watched the girls he’d go for. All so beautiful. Way out of my league. His smooth brown skin and dark green eyes were killer, but when he flashed his pretty smile, all the girls dropped dead. He and Royce had that in common for sure, but that’s about as far as the similarities go.
“He fucking said that he wants her to sneak out,” Royce snaps, his fingers flying over my keyboard.
“Royce.” I shake my head, scolding him. “I’m fucking fifteen. It’s a lot less than what you were doing at my age and you damn well know it.”
“Beside the point.” He glares at me, his thumb hovering over the send button. “I lived through all of my shit so you didn’t have to.” He winks at me. “I’m a good brother like that.”
“Royce,” I whine, stomping the sole of my Vans against the concrete.
Orson bounces the basketball between his legs and aims up at the hoop, shooting from the three-point line.
“You guys will never stop picking on her.” Another familiar voice comes from behind me again, and I turn to face the third boy to make up the triple threat—Storm Mitchell. Royce, Orson, and Storm have all been best friends since elementary school—which means yes, I’ve known them practically all of my life. Storm Mitchell was nothing like Orson or Royce. Storm was the smartest kid in our school and had an IQ to back it. He has never had a girlfriend—though plenty wanted him—and he always, always, had his laptop near. See, Stormy was going to cure the world of all their problems one day, he just had to create the right app to do so. Storm has blond hair, gray eyes—that match angry skies—and his skin is as white as snow. His eyelashes are thick, his teeth straight. He is perfection in a strangely odd package. I loved Stormy, even if he never smiled. You get used to it after a while.
“Yes,” I say to Storm as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. “Royce is trying to scare a boy that I already said I would turn down.”
“Because said boy is trying to get you to sneak out after dark,” Royce sneers at me. The way his mouth curls has my mind drifting to how badly I want to punch him right in the face. “I’ll give you your phone back later.”
He turns to walk away from me.
“Royce!” I snap, but he doesn’t stop. “I mean it! I’m following you everywhere today until you give me my damn phone!”
Royce spins around and licks his lips. His lips have always been distracting. Bet they’re real fucking soft. I remember last year, Jessica Rueben slept with Royce, and then she went around the whole school talking about his—ahem—skills. She cried for months when he didn’t call her back after one night.
“Oh yeah?” He’s walking backward with an annoying smirk on his mouth. The fact that my brother is painfully attractive is beside the point and not at all helpful when it comes to him and I fighting. “Then I guess you’re coming on the boat.”
“Fuck.”
He disappears into the house and I turn to watch as Orson shoots yet another three-pointer. I didn’t want to go out on the boat with them today because I did actually want to sneak out tonight and meet up with Colson.
“You know, you gotta stop playing with the boy…” Orson teases, bouncing the ball with skill between his legs. His arms come up as he flicks his wrist, shooting the ball through the chain basket. “You’re dancing with the Devil.”
“The Devil doesn’t dance.” I stick my tongue out at him before storming back toward the house. Boat parties are something that all the rich kids throw and always end in a disaster. I hate going to them. I don’t drink. I don’t sleep around with boys—I’ll blame Royce for that—and for the most part, I’d consider myself a pretty good kid.
Especially when you compare me to my best friend, Sloane.
Jogging up the marble staircase and up to the second floor, I pause outside my bedroom door. There’s my room, and then Royce’s room right beside it. Two polar opposites, but neither could truly live without the other. His door is slightly ajar, and my anger has somewhat fizzled. Fighting with Royce does that to me—a lot.
Squeezing the handle, I push on it slightly until it swings open. Royce’s room is dark, moody, and trashy. The walls are the color of freshly spilled blood with silk white trimmings and his furniture is all tarnished aged wood. His bed looks straight out of an old Victorian porno, and speaking of porno, he has a good amount on his walls.
My cheeks heat as my palms itch. “Can I please have my phone back?”
He’s leaning against the headboard of his bed, shirtless, with one foot hanging over the bed and the other pulled up to his chest, his elbow resting on it. His eyes are on mine, hooded and glazed. This is who Royce is. Cocky, brash, and oh-so-fucking aware of every single thing he brings to the table, all to just eat you. He knew exactly what he did to the opposite sex, which is exactly why he did it. I just don’t know who he thinks he is trying it with me.
“Roy?” I mumble, pleading with myself to not allow my attention to fall down his chest. It’s no big deal, I’ve seen him naked a few times—for a few reasons. One being he hardly ever wears clothes, and two, we share a bathroom. “Blueberry Yum Yum” is playing low in the background from a boom box in the corner of his room, which is typical. He has a deep love for Luda’s old music.
He tilts his head. “Do you want to sneak out with him?” His tone is menacing but laced with fascination. He moves his hand over his hard muscles, right down to the button of his jeans. He flicks open the button before standing, tossing my phone down onto his bed.
I push off the doorframe an inch, ready to pounce.
“Well go on then, Duchess.” His eyes come to mine, the soft swell of his lips curving over his freakishly straight teeth. He nudges his head, one hand sneaking into his pants. “Come get it.”
My brain short circuits. I try to reason with myself why that shouldn’t sound so dirty. Brother.
Taking two steps, I dive onto his
bed until I land on my tummy, phone in hand and a smug smile of triumph on my mouth. That smile falters when suddenly his fist is in my hair as he tugs my head backward. I gulp, swallowing past the sudden tightness in my throat. He guides my head back by my hair, and I really, really hope no one walks in right now, because it would look like fifty shades of incest.
I’m peering up at Royce as he looks down at me from behind, his head still cocked. “Hmmm, now, see, I don’t want to be thinking that some little fuck has this exact view right here.” His eyes crawl down my back, landing on my ass. He stills. “That’d make me pretty mad.” He comes back to my face, his tongue slipping out to swipe over his bottom lip. “And you know how I get when I’m mad, Duchess.” His brows wriggle.
I slap his arm away and his head falls backward, a loud barking laugh spilling through the room. He clutches his tummy. “Sorry, Dutch. Won’t do that again.”
I roll off his bed. “You’re a prick, and to answer your question.” I glare at him once I’m back in the safe zone, i.e., near the door. “I wouldn’t mind him looking at me like that.” His laughter stops and the temperature in the room falls to levels that could match an igloo.
He takes one step. “Take that back.”
Now it’s my turn to wriggle my brows. “Never!”
He launches at me, but I’m too fast, spinning on my heels and screaming as I take the two steps to my bedroom door. I slip into my room, but when I try to slam the door closed, his arm snakes in, stopping it.
I yelp again. “Royce!” My heart is jumping around in my chest, heat flushing through my body. “I’m sorry!”
He flies forward, his arm hooking around my back and his heavy body falling onto mine. I land on my bed with a thud, the puffy yellow comforter serving as a landing zone.
“Royce!” I shove at his chest, a laugh vibrating through me.
He brings his hands to my wrists and pins my arms above my head. “Tell me you won’t fuck him.”
