Devil's Game

by Joanna Wylde

  “I need to get back home,” I told her. “Can I have a ride?”

  She smiled, trying to play coy and innocent.

  “Of course,” she said, tracing little circles in the dirt with the toe of those fuck-me shoes she always wore. They’d seemed a hell of a lot sexier half an hour ago. “But before we go …”

  Shit. I didn’t have time for this.

  “Give me the fuckin’ keys,” I said shortly, out of patience. She opened her mouth to protest and I narrowed my eyes, letting them go flat and dead. I’d perfected the look over the years and it never failed. She sucked in a quick breath and dug out her keys, handing them off to me. At six foot three, I knew I was a scary fucker.

  Terrifying a girl didn’t bother me one bit, either.

  I strode around the building to Natalie’s cute little Mustang—a sixteenth-birthday present from Daddy. I slid in and the engine turned over with a roar I might’ve enjoyed at any other time. Natalie jumped into the passenger seat, obviously worried that I’d leave without her.

  I would’ve, too, but I didn’t want more attention than necessary. Last time I’d pulled Jim off Kelsey, I promised to kill him if it happened again. Christ, she was only thirteen and had already learned to sleep with a knife. I had a bad feeling things were going to get ugly, and the last thing I needed was a police report about a stolen car.

  Five minutes later the Mustang screeched to a halt outside my foster father’s decaying ranch house, which was surrounded by a dying lawn and rusting swing set. His own kids were long gone, and I suspected he’d lose the place without the state payments he got for me and Kels. The social workers hadn’t noticed that his wife, Autumn, had taken off nearly six months ago. Who could blame her? This was only short term for me. But to stay here, rotting for the rest of your life? Fuck no. I’d have run, too.

  Usually I didn’t even mind living in his shithole. I liked having my own space. I had the whole basement, although I let Kelsey sleep down there with me. She wasn’t comfortable in her own room upstairs. Too close to Jim. Smart kid.

  I jumped out of the car and started toward the house.

  “Wait!” Natalie called, following me.

  “Yeah?” I asked, not slowing. I heard Jim yell something inside and froze, trying to think. What was the best plan of attack? A loud, clanging noise from next door broke my concentration. That old guy must be out in the garage, working on his bikes again …

  “You said you’d hook me up?” Nat asked, offering a weak smile. Jesus, is she still here? I reached into my pocket, pulled out a baggie, and threw it at her. Hard.

  “There,” I said. “Now get in your fuckin’ car and go.”

  Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, and I seriously wondered why I’d let her wrap it around my dick. Then Kelsey’s voice tore through the air again, and my vision went red. Making plans was for pussies—that asshole needed to experience pain. I took off toward the back gate, hoping Natalie was happy enough about her freebies to forget anything she’d seen or heard.

  Goddammit.

  It was locked.

  I boosted myself up and over the tall privacy fence, catching a glimpse of Natalie in the process. She wasn’t paying me any attention. Nope, bitch was way too busy scrabbling in the dry grass for her goody bag. Kelsey screamed again. I tore around the house, sliding down through a narrow window into the basement.

  Jim always kept the doors locked and I wasn’t allowed a key. Not that it mattered—I’d yet to find a lock I couldn’t pick—but right then I didn’t have the time. I ran up the stairs and toward Kelsey’s room, freezing in the doorway.

  She cowered back on the bed, shirt ripped almost to her waist, exposing the little flesh-colored bra I’d had to buy for her. Fuckin’ awkwardest shopping trip of my life. A bright red handprint covered her cheek, and blood was seeping from her bottom lip.

  Jim loomed over her, sweaty and reeking of booze, shoulders heaving as he took deep breaths. His pants were already loose, hanging off his flabby, narrow hips, and his skinny dick bobbled like a drunken cobra.

  “Leave her alone,” I said, letting all the hate constantly boiling inside me show. Jim turned toward me and grunted, his red, bloated nose a rotten tomato in the center of his face.

  “Or what?”

  “You’ll die,” said a low voice behind me. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

  We all froze as our next-door neighbor walked slowly into the room. He held his pistol casually, more like a TV remote than a weapon. An older guy—probably in his midfifties—and so far as I could tell, he spent most of his time out in his garage, tinkering with motorcycles he fixed up and sold.

  In fact, I’d been eyeing his latest project, mentally tallying whether I could afford to buy it.

  Burke.

  That was his name. No idea if it was first or last. He was badass, too, with a long, graying beard and faded tattoos all over his arms. I knew he was part of a motorcycle club called the Devil’s Jacks from the patches on the leather vest he always wore. This was the first chance I’d gotten a good look at it. On one shoulder there was a red and white patch with “Burke” over the word “Original.” The other shoulder had a diamond that said “1%” on it. Down below was a long line of smaller patches listing names and dates.

  His heavily tanned hand didn’t waver as he held the gun, his eyes as cold and dead as my own.

  “Kelsey, get your ass out of here,” I ordered, keeping my voice steady. I really didn’t know Burke for shit, and I had no idea what he planned to do … But if I got Kels out safe, I honestly didn’t give a fuck.

  “Do what the kid says.”

  Kelsey nodded, eyes wide, sliding off the bed and scuttling along the wall to get out.

  “Go down to my room and wait,” I told her. “Lock the door and don’t open it for anyone but me.”

  Time hung heavy as she disappeared.

  “So whatcha gonna do, shoot me?” Jim slurred, his voice belligerent. Not the brightest man at the best of times, but when he got drunk, things really fell apart.

  “Depends,” said Burke.

  “On what?”

  “The kid, here,” he replied, jerking his chin toward me. “You want to shoot this asshole, son?”

  I glanced over, startled. His face was cold and serious—Burke wasn’t joking. Shit.

  This was real.

  “Think hard,” Burke said. “You pull the trigger, you can’t go back. But you won’t have to worry about him rapin’ your sister, either. We can make the body disappear.”

  Jim’s eyes darted between us, wild with terror.

  “Don’t listen to him,” he whispered. “You’ll go to jail. Death penalty. He’s talking about murder.”

  “Unlikely,” Burke told him. “Never cared for you, Calloway. In fact, I don’t think one person on earth gives a fuck if you live or die. Your wife is gone, your kids hate you, and according to the papers on your kitchen counter, you got no job. It’ll be like you never existed. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “The social workers,” Jim gasped in desperation. “The social workers have to come check on the kids. They’ll notice.”

  I couldn’t help myself—I started laughing. I hadn’t seen my social worker in over a year. If it weren’t for the state checks Jim drank up every month, I’d assume they’d lost my file. My foster father’s face reddened in rage, and I saw the exact moment his brain turned off and he forgot about the gun.

  “I’ll kill you, you little shit,” he growled. “You think you’re so special but you’re trash. That little slut of yours is trash, too. Two piles of garbage stinking up my house.”

  “Probably should decide soon, kid,” Burke muttered. “You wanna take him out or not?”

  Did I want to kill him? I thought about Kelsey crying, and the time he’d broken my ribs when I refused to hand over a cut of my sales.

  Fuckin’ A.

  I definitely wanted to take him out.

  “Give me
the gun,” I said, the words tasting sweet.

  Jim lunged toward us and the sudden, cracking echo of a gunshot rang through the room. My foster father screamed and fell to the floor, clutching his shoulder. Bright red blood oozed out between his fingers.

  Burke didn’t even blink.

  He just held his weapon firm, still trained on Jim, and reached around his back to pull a second pistol from his pants. Then he handed it to me.

  It fit my hand perfectly.

  “You know how to use it?” he asked.

  I flipped off the safety and cocked it in answer.

  “Finish him off, boy,” Burke said, smiling for the first time. Almost like a proud father. “You’re already in deep, so you might as well make it count.”

  I centered the barrel on Jim’s chest and fired.

  Looking back, the neighborhood had been exactly what we needed that day—nobody in it gave a fuck about each other, because they didn’t give a fuck about themselves. All of us were already dying slowly. When Burke and I sped up the process for my foster father that afternoon, the neighbors didn’t even notice.

  Nobody complained about the shots.

  Nobody bothered calling the cops when I carried a hysterically crying Kelsey next door to Burke’s house.

  They didn’t look outside when a cargo van pulled down the alley to stop behind Jim’s place. Ten minutes later it left again, carrying a human-shaped package wrapped in black plastic garbage bags.

  Jim ceased to exist. So did me and Kelsey.

  The next week, we were living in a different town with new birth certificates, courtesy of Burke’s cousin and his old lady. He gave me a hell of a deal on that motorcycle, too. I paid him with the wad of cash I found in Jim’s wallet. A year later, I celebrated my eighteenth birthday by becoming an official prospect in the Devil’s Jacks MC.

  Burke couldn’t have been more proud if I were his son by blood.

  In a way, I guess I was.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  FIVE MONTHS AGO

  COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO

  HUNTER

  “Who the fuck gets a pedicure in February?” Skid asked. “Won’t her feet freeze?”

  “You don’t know any women at all, do you?” I asked, cracking open a Mountain Dew. We’d driven all night to get here from Portland. What I really wanted was sleep, but Burke’s orders were clear. Scope out Reese “Picnic” Hayes’s daughter and figure out a plan of action. With all the drama that’d happened between our clubs, Burke insisted now was the perfect time to make a move, maybe even rewrite the future for the Devil’s Jacks.

  Leverage with the Reapers would be critical—maybe even make the difference between a successful takeover of our club or a shallow grave if we failed. Leverage this little bitch was supposed to provide us, apparently. I wasn’t entirely sure what the old bastard had planned, but I’d do my part. I always did.

  I glanced down at the picture of her taped to the truck’s console, then looked at the storefront again. Pretty girl. According to her Facebook page, she was meeting a friend here this morning. I’d spotted her car as soon as we pulled in. Now we waited. I wanted to study her, maybe trail her a little. Get a sense of who she was before making my move. There were so many different ways to play a woman—I found it never paid to make assumptions.

  “I know your sister,” Skid announced out of nowhere.

  I gave him a blank look.

  “You asked if I know any women. Does she count? ’Cause her toes are cute as hell, but I don’t see her walkin’ around in flip-flops in the snow.”

  “Why the fuck are you lookin’ at my sister’s toes, cocksucker?”

  “I look at a lot more than her toes.”

  “Don’t make me kill you, bro.”

  He snorted and shrugged. “You could try.”

  I adjusted my sunglasses, deciding to ignore him. The truck windows were tinted, but I’d still taken a few basic precautions to change my appearance. Hipster beanie, which matched the full beard I’d grown for my last job. Long-sleeved shirt that covered my ink. Even if she saw me, all I needed was a quick shave and change to turn into a different man.

  The shop door opened and I sat up as two girls stepped out. There she was.

  Emmy Lou Hayes.

  “That’s our girl,” I said, with a jerk of my chin. She was studying her phone and, sure as shit, she wore flip-flops. Bright pink foam thingies threaded through her toes, separating them, and I wondered how the hell she could even walk. Fuckin’ crazy. At least the sidewalk was mostly clear of snow. Her brown hair sat on top of her head in one of those messy topknot things girls always seem to have, and she wore tight little jeans and a black leather jacket.

  Damn, Em was cute. Way cuter than her sister.

  Something fell out of her pocket, and she turned away, leaning down to grab it.

  “Nice ass,” Skid said. “Very sweet. If you have to fuck her, at least you’ll be able to keep your eyes open, unlike that last bitch you did for the club.”

  I snorted, but he raised a good point. Fucking Em had just jumped up a couple notches on my list of possible ways to manipulate her into helping the Jacks. She glanced down at her phone again, waving good-bye to her friend absently.

  Then she walked right off the curb and almost fell on her ass.

  Her phone flew across the ground and under a car, like something out of a TV show. Em staggered to one side and then the other, somehow managing to stay on her feet, arms flailing. Skid choked back a laugh, but I just watched, mesmerized, as she finally caught herself. That’s when Em looked up and across the parking lot, right into my face. Her expression was startled but fucking gorgeous. She broke into a brilliant smile, offering me a goofy wave.

  My cock stiffened and a burst of adrenaline hit me like a punch to the gut. Sticking my dick inside Emmy Hayes had suddenly become a very high priority. It took everything I had not to throw open the truck door and toss the girl over my shoulder before hauling her back home for a long, hard fuck. Instead I sat back and watched.

  There’s a reason the club calls me Hunter.

  She lifted one leg slightly, pointing at her toes and giving a triumphant thumbs-up in my direction before turning away to search for her phone.

  “Christ, there’s something wrong with that chick,” Skid muttered, but I ignored him. Instead I grabbed my phone and dialed Burke, my mind made up.

  “Burke, I’m lookin’ at her right now.”

  “You got a plan for me?”

  “Gettin’ there,” I told him. “But whatever direction we take, Emmy Hayes stays my target. Nobody fucks with her but me.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Make it work for the club, son, and I could give a fuck. But no matter how much you want the bitch, don’t forget where your loyalties lie. Jacks first. Forever.”

  “Jacks first,” I agreed, watching as she dug her phone out of the snow.

  This was gonna be fun.

  PRESENT DAY

  COEUR D’ALENE, IDAHO

  EM

  “If you don’t make a move on Painter tonight, I will personally charter a plane, fly up there, and kick your ass.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I muttered into the phone at my sister. “But you don’t get a vote. I’m still pissed at you for not coming home this summer.”

  “Riiight,” she drawled. “Let me see—internship in San Francisco or yet another summer of Dad growling at me … Sooo tempting. If you had half a brain, your ass would be down here with me.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “It’s not that easy, Kit.”

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice sharp. “It is that easy. Let me walk you through the conversation. ‘Dad, I’ve decided I want a life. Deal with it.’ Then get in your car and drive south.”

  I sighed.

  “It’s not that easy for me,” I said, looking over at the Reapers clubhouse. The big, isolated former National Guard Armory was fully lit,
a beacon in the summer twilight. The trees surrounding it felt familiar, like old friends. I’d played in them as child—hide-and-seek, pixies … oh, and motorcycle clubs. We’d played MC a lot.

  Pisser about that—now the boys got to play Reapers for real and I still couldn’t land a fucking date.

  “I don’t like that disappointed look in Dad’s eyes,” I said, fully aware my voice held a hint of whine. “You know, how they get cold and icy right before he starts punching walls?”

  “Jesus, it’s like you’re still in high school,” Kit replied. “So what if he gets pissed off? That’s what he does—he gets pissed, he yells, it’s over. Yell back, for Chrissake.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I replied. “You’re the baby. You can get away with anything. He has all these expectations of me.”

  “Enough,” she snapped. “I’m not going to listen to you feeling all sorry for yourself all night. I’m the youngest, but you’re the fucking baby. Either shit or get off the pot.”

  “That’s kind of mean,” I said, frowning.

  “No, that’s reality. You’re twenty-two years old and still bitching about Daddy not letting you out to play. You want to be his little-girl doll the rest of your life? Fine. That’s your choice. But if you do, you don’t get to complain about him. Grow a fucking pair already.”

  Then she hung up on me.

  I sat in the car, stunned. Kit never hung up on me. We talked, we fought, we laughed … but she always had my back.

  Shit.

  A loud knock on the window nearly gave me a heart attack. I looked up to see my friend Marie standing outside, arms crossed, face expectant. Must be almost time. I climbed out of the car and she caught me up in a hug.

  “You excited?” she asked, eyes shining. “Because you don’t look excited. You look like someone stole your last M&M. You know, one of the red ones? I always keep those for the end. They taste best.”

  I stared at her.

  “You’re weird, you realize that, right?”

  She laughed and shrugged.