“You’re a good kid, darlin’. A good, sweet kid,” he whispered in my ear.
He pulled away and looked me in the eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay that way, yeah? You and me, kid, we were fuckin’ born in the life, reared by the road and the wheel. It’s what we know and where we belong, but that don’t mean it won’t take its toll. So you promise me, no matter what you see, no matter what sort of fucked-up shit happens to you, don’t let this life turn you bitter.”
I stared into his icy blue eyes, entranced by the safety and comfort blanketing me, warming me. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to tuck this feeling in my back pocket, take it home with me, and keep it safe under my pillow to have when I needed it most.
Eventually, when I remembered what he’d said, I nodded.
He brushed his knuckles down my cheek and stood. I slid my hand back into his, and we resumed walking. Deuce resumed smoking, and I began pointing out unusually large pumpkins.
“You ever watch It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown?” Deuce asked. “Stupid fucker makes me laugh.”
I decided I, too, really liked that stupid fucker Charlie Brown and made a mental note to watch everything featuring Charlie Brown as soon as I got home.
“You gonna dress up for Halloween, darlin’?”
“I haven’t decided,” I told him. “Halloween is very tricky. Once a year you get to dress up and pretend you’re something or someone entirely different than you are. There’s nothing else quite like it. You don’t want to mess that up, you know? It’s important to pick carefully—that way you have no regrets, only fabulous memories.”
Deuce stopped walking and stared down at me.
“What are you thinkin’ you might wanna be?”
“Maya Angelou,” I replied immediately. “Or Eleanor Roosevelt.”
He started choking.
“But,” I hurriedly continued, “in order to dress up as Maya Angelou, I somehow have to make my skin black without insulting the African-American community. I’ll probably end up as Eleanor Roosevelt. Not that I mind. She was an amazing woman.”
“How old are you?” he asked roughly, pounding on his chest with his fist.
“Twelve.”
“Twelve?” Looking bewildered, he shook his head. “Thought you were a pretty smart kid when I first met you. Now I know you are.”
I blushed. Deuce—president, according to his cut, of the Hell’s Horsemen—thought I was smart. How cool was that?
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty, darlin’.” He looked down at me and wrinkled his nose. “Old, yeah?”
I shrugged. “My dad’s thirty-seven, and he’s still pretty cool.”
His eyes bugged out of his head. “Lemme get this straight. You’re twelve years old. You’re probably gonna dress up as Eleanor Roosevelt for Halloween. And you think your old man is cool?”
I nodded.
He shook his head again, smirking. “Damn.”
My stomach dropped. He was making fun of me.
I ripped my hand out of his and crossed my arms over my chest. “I know I’m weird. Everyone at school always tells me that. Everyone except my best friend, Kami. They hate my music because it’s old. They hate my clothes ’cause they’re boy clothes. They think I’m a freak! So go ahead and say it! You think I’m a freak, don’t you?”
Deuce knelt down in front of me. “Darlin’, you ain’t weird. You’re twelve. And those kids don’t hate you, not even close. The girls are jealous ’cause you’re so damn pretty, and the boys are just bein’ boys, tryin’ to flirt but not havin’ the first clue how to go about it.”
You’re so damn pretty.
“I’m pretty?”
His lips twitched. “Only twelve and already fishin’. Yeah, darlin’, you’re pretty. Gonna be beautiful someday. Gonna make some boy happier than a pig in shit.”
I grinned. Who would have thought the words “pig” and “shit” used in the same sentence could make a girl blissfully happy?
“There it is,” he said quietly. “That’s what I like to see. Nothin’ better than a pretty girl smilin’.”
I stared up at him; he stared down at me. His hard eyes gentled, and I felt my body go butter soft. Something was happening to me—something important, monumental even.
The shift from child to teenager. Although I wouldn’t understand this until I was much older, what had happened and why it had happened, standing there in the middle of a pumpkin field, I’d known I was irrevocably changed. And that I’d changed because of and for this man.
“EVA! WHAT THE FUCK!”
I swiveled around. Frankie was storming toward us, kicking poor, innocent pumpkins out of his way.
“Great,” I groaned. “Frankie found me.”
“Your man?” Deuce asked, watching Frankie’s temper tantrum with marked interest.
My eyes bugged out of my head. “Ew! He’s my fake brother!”
Frankie’s long brown hair was flying all over the place, and his dark brown eyes had darkened further with burgeoning anger. Only fifteen and he was already six feet tall with the body of a quarterback. He wasn’t as big as Deuce was, but he would be someday.
“I know you?” Frankie hissed, stopping only inches from Deuce.
Deuce’s eyebrows popped up, and he smirked. “No, kid. ’Fraid we haven’t had the pleasure.”
Frankie hated being called a kid, especially in front of me. I watched as his hands clenched into fists.
Deuce wasn’t smiling anymore. “You’re gonna wanna reel that in. I don’t take shit from grown men, and I’m sure as shit not gonna take shit from an asshole who’s pretendin’ he’s grown ’cause he wants down a girl’s pants.”
I closed my eyes. Deuce didn’t know Frankie, therefore he didn’t know that Frankie wasn’t trying to impress me. This was just the way he was all the time. Before he could throw a punch and get his butt kicked by Deuce, I pushed in between them and wrapped my arms around Frankie’s middle.
“I missed you,” I said hurriedly. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you and couldn’t find you anywhere. I asked Deuce to help me look for you.”
Frankie’s arms wrapped around me, and his hard body sagged against mine. One of his hands fisted in my hair, and the other held tight to my waist.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I just thought…I don’t know…you gotta stay close to me. I can’t fuckin’ protect you if I don’t know where you are. If somethin’ happened to you, baby, I would kill myself. Can’t be in this world without you. Fuck, I can’t even think ’bout you bein’ gone. Makes me fuckin’ crazy.”
“Oh, Frankie,” I whispered. “You gotta stop worrying. Nothing’s gonna happen to me, and I’m never going to leave you.”
• • •
Deuce hesitated leaving Eva alone with that crazy little shit, but it looked as if she was the only person who had any sort of control over him, so he left her to it. He knew kids like Frankie growing up—jacked in the head, no control, caught crazy at the drop of a hat, and usually ended up dead before they turned thirty. Preacher giving him a cut had been a big mistake. He didn’t give a shit how much love Preacher had for the boy. When shit got intense—and it always did—you needed level-headed men on your crew.
“Dare you to touch her tits.”
Deuce paused beside a run-down barn at the edge of the farm.
“Dare you to fuck her.”
“Preacher finds out, he’ll kill you.”
He stiffened. Little shits were talking about Eva.
“I’m not scared of Preacher. ’Sides, she’s the only bitch here old enough to fuck.”
“She’s fuckin’ ugly. Except for her tits; bitch has nice tits. I’d fuck her just to see those tits.”
Deuce saw red. Eva was twelve years old. Yeah, she had tits, twelve-year-old tits. And these fuckers were around sixteen and seventeen. He cracked his knuckles and stalked inside the barn.
Five little shits were leaning back against a row of empty horse
stalls, smoking cigarettes, acting like they were grown.
“Deuce,” one of the little shits said. “What’s up, man?”
He didn’t answer. Just walked up to the first little shit, kicked him in his face, and then moved on to the next. Yanking little shit number two up by his collar, he spit in his face, gave him a fist to the gut, and tossed him to the side.
The remaining three had scrambled behind stacked bales of hay.
“Get your fuckin’ asses back here,” he said, pulling his piece from the back of his jeans. “And take your fuckin’ punishment like the men you ain’t. If not, I got some bullets with your fuckin’ names on ’em.”
“What the fuck did we do?” a pimply-faced, gangly little shit screeched.
Using his gun, he gestured to where they had been sitting just moments ago. “Get. The. Fuck. Over. Here.”
They got.
“I hear you talkin’ ’bout Eva again. I see you lookin’ at Eva. I see you within a hundred feet of Eva. You are all dead. You feel me?”
Wide-eyed, they nodded.
“Gonna go find your fathers next and tell them what kinda bastards they’re raisin’. And I ’spect they’ll be beatin’ the shit outta you next, but first you’re dealin’ with me.”
He took the third little shit by his greasy hair and brought the kid’s head down on his knee. Out cold, he shoved him to the side.
The fourth little shit pissed himself the moment Deuce stepped to him. Laughing, he moved on to the last little shit. The one who had called Eva ugly. Grabbing his neck, he shoved the barrel of his gun in the boy’s mouth.
“Know for a fact you got a couple of sisters. Know for a fact one of ’em is just a year older than Eva. How ’bout I go find your little sister and fuck her? How ’bout I get some of my boys to fuck her, too? Maybe we can all fuck her at the same time? Fuck her in her mouth, and her pussy, and her fuckin’ asshole. Sound good?”
Crying, the kid shook his head.
“You respect women, you little fuckin’ shit. It was a fuckin’ woman who carried you around in her fuckin’ body, fuckin’ birthed you, and fuckin’ loved you. It’s gonna be a woman who keeps you warm at night, who lets you inside her body, and it’s gonna be a woman who carries around your fuckin’ children. You fuckin’ respect that, you feel me? You fuckin’ respect women—all of ’em—or I will end you.”
He released him, and the kid fell to his knees retching.
“Fuckin’ little shits,” he muttered. Tucking his gun back in his jeans, he walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
I was sixteen.
It was summer in Manhattan.
And it was the first Sunday of the month.
Smack dab between Morrissey’s Bar and a Middle Eastern grocery store, up on the roof of the Demons’ five-story Portland brownstone, the MC’s monthly family barbeque was in full swing. Old ladies and girlfriends, children, cousins, friends of families, and business associates were talking and laughing, dancing and drinking, while dogs and burgers were being flipped on the grills as fast as the kegs were emptying.
On top of a picnic table, Frankie and I sat side by side sharing a pair of earbuds. My Discman was wedged between us, and our heads were pressed together while we rocked out to Led Zeppelin’s “Dazed and Confused.” I had my arm slung over Frankie’s broad shoulders, and his hand slid up and down my thigh with his fingers tapping out the beat of the song.
“Heads up, brothers, the Horsemen are here!”
My head swiveled right.
Another yell. “Hide your women!”
This was followed by loud guffaws and a lot of feminine giggling.
I watched as a large group of leather-clad men joined the crowd on the roof. On the backs of their cuts was the Hell’s Horsemen insignia.
Just like the insignia on my medallion.
My heart started pounding. Was Deuce here? I scanned the crowd, but the Horsemen had already dispersed throughout the sea of people.
Frankie squeezed my thigh to get my attention. I pulled out my earbud and slanted my eyes at him.
“Want me to hide some booze for later? Some smoke?”
Demon barbeques were infamous for becoming wild and reckless, and more often than not, every last biker would be passed out drunk before midnight. This was when their offspring partied with their leftover booze and green.
“Yeah,” I said and smiled at him.
Frankie stood, ran his fingers through my long, dark hair, and pulled my head flush against his hard abdomen. “Be right back,” he whispered.
“And Eva?”
I looked up.
“Don’t fuckin’ go anywhere until I get back.”
Rolling my eyes, I put my earbuds in and resumed my head bobbing, foot tapping, and overly loud singing, happily ignoring the openmouthed stares my singing always caused.
Middle school had been rough for me, but I’d since grown into my awkwardness. I embraced my weirdness, and I was cool with my oddities. I was who I was, and I didn’t care anymore about what anyone else thought. High school so far had been good to me. I was pretty, I was popular, and I had a ton of friends. I suspected most of my girlfriends used me to get near Frankie, trying to bag him. Frankie was a good-looking guy, big and broad, with finely chiseled features. He was a pureblood Italian with brown eyes, the color of dark chocolate, and thick brown hair he’d grown long.
The girls flocked, and bag them he did. In droves. Never did the same girl twice. So other than having to listen to all the girls at school whine and pine over Frankie, life was good. It was fun and uncomplicated, and I was happy.
My eyes trained on the blacktop beneath me as a shadow fell over me, and a pair of leather boots walked into my line of sight. I stared down at them. Full-grain black leather with a rubber sole. Detailed at the ankles with metal buckles, they looked edgy, sexy.
I looked up.
“Still wearin’ Chucks and singin’ out of tune I see.”
Yep. Edgy and sexy. Just like the man wearing them.
Deuce was all dimples and smiles and icy blue eyes that matched perfectly with his long blond hair that he’d pulled back in a stubby ponytail. He was just as large as I remembered, broad and well-built; he towered over me and was at least half a body wider. He looked hot as hell in a tight white tee, his leather cut, and ratty, low-slung jeans. This time when I grinned at him, it wasn’t with little-girl awe; it was with sixteen-year-old sexual fascination.
“Eva fuckin’ Fox,” he drawled. “You’ve grown.”
“Deuce,” I said, smiling impishly. “You’ve aged.”
He threw his head back and laughed a deep, rumbling laugh that had my belly clenching and my nipples tightening. I wasn’t the only female affected; several women on the roof were openly fawning over him.
Reaching inside his cut, Deuce pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He kept his eyes on me as he lit it. “How old are ya now, darlin’? Eighteen, nineteen?”
“Sixteen,” Frankie hissed, appearing beside me. “Six-fuckin’-teen.”
Deuce’s eyes cut to Frankie, and I watched as recognition dawned. It wasn’t happy recognition.
“Crazy fuckin’ Frankie,” Deuce said, smirking. “Got a pretty impressive rep for a brother so young.”
Frankie had been nicknamed “Crazy Frankie” a few years ago because…well, he was crazy.
Hands clenched into fists, Frankie glared at Deuce. “You’re gonna wanna back the fuck off Eva, Horseman.”
I tugged on his cut. “Calm down. He’s friends with Daddy.”
Frankie turned his glare on me. “No, baby, he’s not. He’s in business with him. It’s fuckin’ different. You shouldn’t be around him; he’s fuckin’ dangerous. If Preacher could, he’d take him to ground.”
I gaped at Frankie.
He shrugged. “Way it is, babe.”
Unaffected by Frankie’s casual talk of his death, Deuce took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew a long stream of smoke right into Frankie’s face. Franki
e turned red with anger.
“Killed two of Bannon’s boys last week in Pittsburg, yeah, Frankie? Whole circuit knows. Word is he’s gunnin’ for ya. You got Eva cuffed to your side all the time. Think that might be kinda fuckin’ dangerous for her?”
My mouth fell open. “You killed someone?” I whispered, floored that Frankie was capable of killing. I knew it happened when MC business went bad, but no one ever talked to me directly about it, and I certainly hadn’t thought my nineteen-year-old brother had been doing his fair share.
Frankie’s nostrils flared; his dark eyes trained on Deuce. “You fuck,” he hissed.
Deuce shrugged. “Way it is, brother,” he said, throwing Frankie’s words back at him.
“Frankie,” I whispered. “Bannon’s gonna kill you.”
Mickey Bannon was a bad guy—Irish mafia kind of bad. He ran most of his business out of Pittsburgh, but he had ties all over the place, even overseas. I knew my father was having problems with him reneging on deals, but I didn’t think it had gone so far as to result in murder.
With his eyes still on Deuce, Frankie gripped my shoulder. “No, babe. I already took care of it. Me and Trey. Nobody’s fuckin’ comin’.”
Trey was my cousin, Uncle Joe’s oldest son, and not a nice guy. Well…he was nice to me and his mother, but that was about it. Trey committing murder wasn’t a surprise to me.
Deuce snorted. “Gonna need a new bedpost to keep countin’ your notches. You’re rackin’ up bodies faster than the Germans took out the Jews.”
Reflexively, I jerked away from Frankie. “What!”
His head whipped in my direction. “Ev—”
“No!” I snapped. “I need you to go away right now!”
“Be fuckin’ pissed, Eva. I don’t give a shit! But no way I’m leavin’ you alone with this fuck!”
“How long you been followin’ her around now, Frankie? Protectin’ her from fuckin’ nothin’?”
“Ten years,” I helpfully supplied. Frankie glared down at me.
“You gonna follow her down the aisle, too? Move in with her and her man? Be their fuckin’ nanny?”
Instead of looking at his face, Deuce was watching Frankie’s hands, waiting for Frankie to make his move, so he could take him down. If he knew Frankie’s rep, then he knew Frankie’s fuse was nonexistent, and he was purposely baiting him.
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