Blood & Rust (Lock & Key #4)

by Cat Porter

  Copyright © 2016 by Cat Porter

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.catporter.eu

  Cover Designer: Najla Qamber, Najla Qamber Designs, www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Content Editor: Christina Trevaskis, www.facebook.com/BookMatchmaker

  Proofreader: Sue Banner

  Silver Hummingbird Necklace: Blue Bayer Design NYC, http://www.etsy.com/shop/billyblue22

  Cover Model: Thomas Gunter, Period Images

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names of motorcycle clubs, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For my mother...

  You should be here.

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Books by Cat Porter

  Acknowledgments

  Find Me Online

  ROMEO HAD SNAPPED.

  Not body’s death, but body’s banishment, was the Prince’s decree for the kid’s crime, and Romeo freaked.

  Exile. Abolishment. Banishment.

  Much more than death, Romeo thought.

  Banishment was purgatory, torture, doom, hell itself.

  Yeah, that is what it’s like, Romeo. You sure didn’t live it as long as I did. Then again, you got yourself killed.

  I’d first noticed the word banishment when we read Romeo and Juliet in high school.

  Romeo had been banished from Verona as punishment for killing the man who’d killed his best friend. He kept repeating the word banishment, torturing himself with it, crying over his fate that was worse than any death he could imagine. He would have to leave his hometown and could never be with Juliet again.

  Romeo went hysterical at the word, but none of us in that classroom had understood what the hell the big deal was. Instead of having to eat the death penalty, he was getting a pardon. We’d all shrugged because, hell, we all wanted out of our seedy little has-been town in northern Cali. Forced exile sounded like a good deal to us. Romeo was a lucky guy.

  But, for him, it was a black word, a word the damned used in hell.

  Our teacher had explained that, back then, banishment was a severe punishment, not just a move to the next town over. She’d made us say that word out loud over and over, just like Romeo did in the play. The sounds it made alone had a hushed power, an eeriness. An echo of loneliness.

  Banishment meant you were alienated from everything and everyone you knew and loved. Romeo would be alone in the wilderness. Pushed out, shoved forth into the unknown. Naked, no property, no family. Everywhere he went, he would be a foreigner, a stranger, not to be trusted.

  Oh, we’d all eventually nodded our heads, kind of, sort of getting it but not really. We had never comprehended the depths of what banishment really meant.

  Me and Romeo—we had a lot in common.

  But Romeo needed to buck up and get real. He had to own it.

  No, he didn’t have a cocaine addiction twisting him into the basest form of himself—an ass who made tilted decisions. He hadn’t conspired with his enemies behind his family’s back. Romeo hadn’t tossed the match and had himself a good ole time while his house was on fire, the smoke singeing his lungs.

  But I had.

  I’d had a couple of Juliets along the way—my wife, then the Grace of my past, and the Grace of my present. I’d wrung myself over Grace, then and now, and still, each time, I hadn’t been on my best behavior. No, I’d been no stalwart Romeo there. I’d been unable to step up to the plate, to be honest. I’d squandered my chances. Chances, really, I shouldn’t have taken in the first place, but what the hell? I’d always jumped first and thought about it later. When I’d surfed as a kid, I’d always wanted to be in the pocket straight off.

  Live and learn.

  Somehow, I’d been lucky enough to meet my wife. We got it together and had it good, but then I lost her in a pool of blood, chrome, and regrets.

  And that was where Romeo and I met again—on that road to Padua.

  That pain, that monster on my back, that guilt drove me to do anything to forget.

  And up it went.

  Whomp went the fire.

  Up in smoke, up my nose, in my mouth, across my tongue, on my cock, in my veins.

  My shield and my weapon…against myself.

  Money flowed in and out of my pockets, and the women—ah, the women—were an endless blur of, Yes, yes, yes, and, What the fuck?

  Death was the end of all, but with banishment, redemption was still possible. There was yet a trace of hope. Even the Friar and the Nurse yelled at Romeo to cut his crying and stand up and be a man about it, to take his opportunities.

  Hell yes.

  Unlike Romeo, I wasn’t going to steal back home in the shadows of the night, armed with a dagger or poison. I kept my nose to the ground. I got clean. I banged my head against the walls. I scraped my nails over the splintered wood. I ground my jaw to the bone.

  Through it all, I rode my Harley and tended to her like she was my forever Juliet. And she was. She was my constant. Her roar over the road, our cutting through the wind, drowning the voices, the goddamn noise—that is my greatest satisfaction, my supreme indulgence now.

  No, no more banishment.

  I listened to my rough heartbeat through the black of the night. I worked hard, thought ahead. I was patient.

  I would end this exile.

  And, now, I had caught the prize, the token of war, and would deliver him to my club and lay him at my president’s feet.


  Creeper, former brother, cohort, traitor had been off the grid since things had exploded between the Jacks and a rival club, the Demon Seeds. I’d found him, and now he was my prisoner until the time was right. My carrot, my guarantee. Jump would need convincing that it was worth letting me back in, that I was worthy. Our National President had approved, but Jump was another story.

  Finding Creeper was a deed I had vowed I’d carry out from the moment he’d shot me and taken off last year.

  Catching Creeper was a pledge.

  Killing Creeper meant the end.

  Rather, the beginning of the end. Killing him would be a new beginning.

  For all of us.

  I used to wish I could go back in time.

  Before I’d overstepped boundaries I never should’ve dared cross. Before I’d destroyed my brother, killed my wife. Before I’d held her as she bled out in my arms. Before I had drunk myself to sleep every night, the sound of her laughter a sting lingering in my ear.

  Before I’d allowed my responsibilities to rust.

  Alliances to splinter.

  Friendships to crack.

  To a time when the whiskey still burned down my throat. And I was still surprised by both good and evil.

  But that was a long time ago.

  All through my battle with my addictions—reliving the specters of my foul weaknesses, pathetic failures, and hollow ambitions—I had focused on one thing only.

  Redemption?

  Maybe.

  Salvation?

  Not really.

  Revenge?

  Useless.

  I’d wanted to rectify. Put it all to rights. Repair the damage. Rebuild. Scrape off the rust. Fortify the bones.

  That was what I’d wanted from the beginning, and I had vowed to myself I would make that happen. That was why I’d been working so hard for over a year now, taking risks other nomads wouldn’t. And, now, the final cycle had begun.

  There comes a time in every man’s life when he must pay—pay for the wrongs he’s done, the sins he’s committed, the lies he’s told, the misery he’s wrought.

  This was Creeper’s time.

  This was mine.

  A new time.

  I NEEDED MY BIKE.

  I’d gotten used to getting on my hog and letting it lead me, leaving the question marks and shadows behind. Without the drugs or the booze to pull me up and do the tap-dancing for me, my bike was my lifeline.

  Like going running every morning, if I didn’t get a long ride in on my own, I would feel out of sync with myself, off my full capabilities, clarity diminished, all systems down. I couldn’t fill that hole any other way. Well, of course, I could, but I didn’t want to think about that now. That was what had gotten me into this mess to begin with, for fuck’s sake.

  I left Ohio behind, and opened the throttle. My bike surged underneath me, and a rush of sex and potency took over my body from the base of my skull, down my spine, to right between my legs.

  I was going to stretch out the twelve-hour ride to Meager. I was excited to get home, but I wanted to savor these moments of freedom now that all my deals had been made and were ready to be put in play. My national president had told me I could go home. I’d earned it. The rush of adrenaline in my veins as I sped over the empty freeway made my lips curl.

  The country here was bland to me, and I ignored it. Instead, I thought of home. What I truly considered my home. Meager, South Dakota. I couldn’t wait to see it again, to breathe it in again. So many other brothers whom I’d hung with this past year had shaken their heads at me, knowing I came from the Dakotas. To them, it was only a wilderness where riding your bike was limited for a good chunk of the year. But I loved that hard, sometimes brutal country. Unforgiving, perhaps, but that land had taught me much and made me the man I was today.

  I rode on.

  Ohio.

  Indiana.

  Illinois.

  Iowa.

  I finally spotted the huge sign up ahead. South Dakota. Great Faces, Great Places along with a sketch of the presidents on Mount Rushmore. The sign flashed by me, and a grin split my face. I’d really been looking forward to this part of my trip. This was like fucking vitamins flooding my bloodstream. The Badlands were up ahead, the Grasslands, and then finally, rising above Meager was the glory that was the Black Hills.

  The rolling hills of granite and spruce. Weathered ancient earth and stone and towering evergreens. The lakes and the reservoirs.

  That beautiful, horrible stretch of road where I haven’t been since Caitlyn died.

  I adjusted myself in my saddle as I tore over the smooth asphalt, the wind whipping over me. Like today, it had been a gorgeous day then. Just the two of us swimming, being lazy, picnicking. We’d made the time for a whole day together; it had been a long while since we’d done it. And, on the way home, a car had bumped into us, and the driver, spooked by my rage, had taken off, leaving us alone.

  Stranded.

  We’d only been bumped into—a jarring nudge, really—yet that was all it’d taken.

  She’d seized up against me and screamed.

  A scream that stretched across the sky, echoed against the spires of eroded stone, shredding my soul.

  Her body had slumped against mine. I’d stopped the bike, cursing a blue streak, and almost lost my guts right there at the sight of her mangled leg.

  I’d held her.

  Nothing else to do.

  I’d shouted.

  No one was on the road.

  No one came.

  I’d called 911.

  She was in shock.

  Cold.

  Dazed.

  Muttering. Trembling.

  So pale.

  The blood.

  The sirens.

  The blood. An ocean.

  Too late. So fucking late.

  I’d shaken her, calling her name, but she’d slipped away from me, her head knocking back over my straining arm.

  I tensed at the memory, hitting the throttle and bracing as the bike flew harder over the highway.

  Road, road, road.

  She’d been laughing one minute, her body pressed up against me as we flew down that road. My old lady had been holding me tight for dear life.

  My ma used to say that about the first time she’d ridden with my dad on his bike. “I held on for dear life!”

  Made no difference—Caitlyn holding on to me.

  My sore heart thudded dully in my chest; my gloved hands flexed around my handlebars.

  Cait.

  There was no ghost to speak to me or touch right through me and make me shiver. No graze of warmth over my thin soul. That was okay though; I expected none.

  Would the same tree-filled mountains whisper back to me as they had then? Would the same sun lay its shimmering sparkle over the surface of the blue water of that lake just as it had five years ago?

  I was on a different bike now. I had destroyed that one. Ripped it apart. Scrapped it to bits. Stomped on it, mangled it, hammered it. I’d removed most of my piercings after I’d quit using, piercings I’d gotten for her.

  I wasn’t high or drunk now. And my heart beat differently. Death was in my sight line, wasn’t it? I’d finally admitted my vulnerability to mortality, my humility in its sneering face; that was finally real. I hadn’t felt it then and certainly not all the years since. Then, all I’d felt was screaming shock, raw anger.

  Pissing rage.

  A mad thirst.

  And I’d let that darkness suck me into its black pit of nothing. An aching cesspool of nothing.

  There were no more illusions. No more grand gestures to make. I was going back to Meager to start a new life.

  To show them that I could be an important part of the brotherhood once again.

  To prove to my brothers that they could trust me, that I was worthy of that sacred trust.

  To bring something of worth to our table.

  Jump, my president, would know—they would all know—that I was serious, that I
wasn’t a has-been fuck-up.

  I had one shot at this, and nothing and no one would stand in my way.

  Not painful memories, not smoldering guilt.

  I took in a deep breath at the road sign for Sioux Falls.

  Yes, the air was sweeter, crisper here in South Dakota.

  I COULDN’T IGNORE IT any longer.

  I took out the thin gray envelope with the embossed return address for the Alden Merrick Art Gallery in Chicago from my messenger bag. Carefully. Quietly. I didn’t want him to hear. The letter had arrived yesterday, but I’d shoved it in my bag and let it simmer there.

  If I got this job, it would be a game changer.

  My husband, Kyle, had just heard that he’d gotten his dream job in Chicago, and last night, we’d gone out to dinner with his friends to celebrate. He was thrilled, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to move to Chicago. I wasn’t so sure I wanted this fresh start. A fresh start with him.

  Last night, as usual, I’d learned new things about Kyle by listening to him talk to his friends, telling them all about his series of interviews for this new company. Once again, he hadn’t shared details with me. Once again, I’d learned new information about him through hearing him enthusiastically tell other people. And there, at the table, with a full glass of Argentinian cabernet in my hand and eggplant rollatini on my fork, it had struck me. No, not like a bolt of lightning. More like a shallow flood of dirty cold water from old pipes bursting suddenly in your house. The flooding water had a sulfur-like, mildewy smell to it as it swelled up over my ankles, past my knees, rising up my belly to my chest.

  He keeps things from me.

  Not lies or secrets per se, but he simply didn’t share with me, didn’t feel the need to do so. Simple daily things, little occurrences, that, if he did share, maybe we’d be more connected. In sync. In my opinion, at least. Instead, we treaded the waters of indifference and disinterest and pleasantness for years now.

  I’d brought it up later when we were alone in the car.

  He’d shrugged and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you.”

  But that didn’t fly with me. Not anymore. I was so tired of it, beyond saddened by it. Numb.

  He’d been waiting to hear if I’d gotten this job in Chicago because that would make our fresh start complete.

  Applying for the director position at the gallery had been a fluke. I’d had my own freelance art dealer business going for years now, but even though I had made plenty of contacts with artists and collectors, a steady flow of income had proven elusive and required an enormous amount of legwork. Things were either going along nicely or dipping way down.