Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC TENNESSEE series, book 1)

by Penny Dee

  She cries, so I put my arms around her, telling her that when she’s alone in the darkness and the nightmares come to get her, that she needs to remember those men are gone now, and they can never hurt her again.

  She cries even harder then and clings to my T-shirt until her sobs slowly die, and we are in complete silence again.

  When I hear the wail of the approaching patrol cars, I look into her young face and dust my thumb across her chin before leaving her on the bed and slipping into the darkness like a phantom.

  A mile down the road, I climb on my bike and disappear into the night.

  Six down.

  One to go.

  BRONTE

  Four Months Ago

  There are exactly thirty-three plastic stars on the ceiling. I’ve counted them three times now. They’re old and faded, yellowed by time and unloved, but in the dark, they still have a little glow left in them. For a moment, I wonder who stuck them there. If it was the girl who lived here before me, the one who dropped out of college to pursue a career as a fetish model in Paris? Or the one before her, who’d been busted having an affair with one of the professors, then dropped out of school to have twins.

  Had either of them ever laid here like me and stared up at them wishing like hell they could fucking come already?

  Closing my eyes, I press my head deeper into the pillows and try to focus.

  The man giving me head is hot—blond, good-looking with a body to die for. Strong tongue—a decent technique—but he isn’t doing it for me. Despite his efforts, I’m no closer to coming than I had been before I’d picked him up after my shift at the bar.

  It isn’t his fault.

  I haven’t been able to come for months now.

  One day I was enjoying all the orgasms a twenty-five-year-old should be enjoying, then the next day…

  Nothing.

  Zip.

  Zero orgasms.

  No matter how hard I try.

  And boy, have I tried, believe me, with and without the help of someone else.

  But it’s no use.

  Time after time, I feel nothing.

  Just like now.

  Unaware of the chaos taking place inside my head, tonight’s house guest—whose name is Brad— presses his face deeper into my clit and penetrates me with slow licks of his tongue. I wait for the spark. Wait for the bliss to slowly unfurl in my lower belly, but it’s not happening.

  Goddammit.

  This is a mistake.

  Placing my hands on either side of his face, I pull him toward me.

  “You don’t like it?” he asks, his lips slick and glistening.

  “Yes,” I lie. “But I want you to fuck me.”

  His cock is decent. More thick than lengthy, and it feels nice inside.

  But that’s part of the problem.

  It’s nice. Not hot. Not erotic. Not mind-shattering. Nice.

  I feign enjoyment while he grunts and pants, tells me my pussy is so fucking tight, then finally, after a few more minutes of pumping and thrusting, he stiffens and jerks, and the vein on his neck floods with blood as he groans and spills into the condom.

  Collapsing against me, he mumbles something inaudible, his breath hot on my naked boobs.

  I lie motionless, my arms at my sides.

  I want to crawl out of my skin.

  I hate this part the most. The cuddling. The closeness. It’s why I prefer to go to their place so I can make a hasty escape the moment our panting stops and the sweat on our skin cools. On the odd occasion, I bring them to my apartment because it’s closer, like tonight. But it’s a rarity because there’s always the chance my guest will want to stick around afterward.

  Sometimes, I strike gold, and the guy isn’t interested in hanging out.

  He’ll fuck me and leave.

  Exactly how I want it.

  My best friend, Riley, says I fuck like a college boy. I tell her I fuck like a girl who doesn’t want the responsibility of a relationship while she focuses on her studies.

  Brad pushes up on big arms. “You’re fucking hot, you know that?”

  I smile up at him sweetly. “And you’ve got a great cock.”

  It’s average, but I’m about to kick him out of my apartment and easing into it with compliments seems like the nicer thing to do.

  He grins. “Glad to be of service. I’ll give you my number and maybe we can do this again sometime.” He pulls out of me and the drag of the condom against my skin makes me want to dry retch. I watch as he pulls it off his sticky cock and ties it at the end before depositing it in the wastepaper basket by the desk.

  “How about a nightcap?” he asks, coming back to the bed and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.

  “Not tonight. I have an early class in the morning.” I stretch and feign a yawn. It’s time for him to go. “I should probably get some sleep.”

  “What about tomorrow night?”

  “I’m working.”

  “What about breakfast on Sunday?”

  “How about I call you?”

  The smile on his face fades as he stands. “Okay, I see what’s happening here.”

  I brace myself because of his tone. “Excuse me?”

  He shoves on his briefs followed by his jeans. “I know about you. I’ve seen what you do.”

  I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Different night, different guy.” He pulls his T-shirt over his head and yanks it down. “No repeat performances.”

  Taken back, I frown.

  Is he calling me a slut?

  “I’ve seen you go home with different guys.”

  Wait. What? Has he been watching me?

  “You’re one of those girls who can’t stand to be alone.”

  He’s wrong. Being alone is the only way to be.

  It hurts less.

  I sit up and tighten the bedsheet around my ample chest. “Since when has enjoying a healthy sex life become a crime?”

  Damn, this went downhill fast.

  “Healthy,” he scoffs. “What a joke. Fucking a different guy every night isn’t healthy.”

  Every night is a bit of an overstretch.

  “Something must be really broken in you.”

  He has no idea.

  “Get out,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.” He grabs his keys off the table by the front door. “Fucking slut.”

  With a slam of the door, he’s gone, but the lingering scent of his disgust remains.

  Jumping off the bed, I run to the door and lock it, then slide the chain in place. I peer through the peephole and watch Brad disappear down the flight of stairs into the night.

  Asshole.

  A cool breeze drifts in from the window and brushes across my skin as I sink to the floor and start to cry.

  The problem is—he isn’t wrong.

  Something inside of me is broken.

  And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put it back together again.

  JACK

  Three Months Ago

  There is no feeling in the world like riding on the back of a Harley Davidson and enjoying the slap of crisp mountain air across your face.

  It is exhilarating.

  Intoxicating.

  Like religious enlightenment.

  There is no other place on Earth where I am more at home, gunning through the sweeping curves of a mountain road and letting the wind carry all my problems away.

  But out of all the rides you can take, the ride home is the best.

  I miss home.

  It’s been a long run.

  We’ve been away from Flintlock for almost two weeks this time, visiting towns throughout Appalachia, handing out moonshine to those loyal to the club and checking on the weed crops we grow amongst the Christmas tree farms throughout the mountain range.

  This run hasn’t just been about club business. Doc came along this time, riding in the old ambulance we’d picked up at an auction in Williamsburg, so h
e could stop in to see some patients along the way.

  It’s something the Kings of Mayhem had started with the arrival of Layne “Doc” McCoy around about the time I became president. As a young doctor, Doc had been struck off the board after one of his patients died under his care. It was a crazy charge, one surrounded by controversy because it wasn’t his fault. However, thanks to some ridiculous protocols and some crazy bad luck, he lost his license to practice medicine.

  Which is unfortunate because not only is the fucker an incredible doctor, he’s also one of the smartest sonofabitches I know. His mind works in ways I can’t fathom, and it just doesn’t seem right that he has no place to use it.

  After being struck off the register, he fell into a slump. Worked construction by day and beat up a boxing bag at night to release his frustrations. By the time he walked into the tattoo shop the Kings of Mayhem owned, he was a six-foot-two tank of pure muscle covered neck to toe in tattoos.

  He doesn’t drink or do drugs.

  His addiction is his body art. It’s what soothes the ache he feels over the loss of his career.

  Once, I asked him why he never drank, and he told me, “I’ve seen the insides of men who’ve died from drink. You dissect a liver hardened by cirrhosis, and you’d never touch a drop of liquor again.”

  Ironic, really, he belongs to a club of bootleggers and weed dealers.

  But with him it’s a tradeoff because even though we’re moonshiners and cannabis growers, when he became a King, it opened the door for him to practice medicine again. Illegally, of course, but then, we’re used to operating on the wrong side of the law. It’s also where the people who fall through the cracks exist too, and a lot of those forgotten people are in desperate need of medical assistance.

  During this ride, Doc has treated everything from sprains and skin infections to tooth pain, influenza, hypertension, diabetes, and one drunk, ninety-two-year-old moonshiner with a week-old break in his wrist.

  Sometimes we all accompany Doc to see his patients, but usually, it’s only Dakota Joe who goes with him. While we visited the farmers who grew our crops, they disappeared onto the next off-the-map town to see the next off-the-grid patient.

  Although for the time being, it’s behind us.

  Finally, we’re headed for home.

  To Flintlock, Tennessee.

  The forgotten town.

  Home.

  Nestled in the base of the Appalachian Mountains, it’s as breathtaking as it is filled with hopelessness and poverty.

  Once upon a time, it had been a thriving mini-metropolis of prosperity and good fortune thanks to the abundance of coal beneath the ground. Now, it’s a town trying to claw its way out of a collapsed industry that’s left us broke, rundown, and struggling to make ends meet.

  Rosanna used to say Flintlock is where dreams came to die, but it’s all I’ve ever known. I was born here. Grew up here. Got married here, and by the time I was sixteen, became a father here.

  Flintlock is still a three-hour ride away, and my Kings of Mayhem brothers are tired and in need of some good food and good fucking. It’s time to stop for the night.

  Up ahead, the sky boils with dark rain clouds. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to The House of Sin before it starts to rain. In the deepening gloom, the welcoming lights of the little brothel glow in the windows, beckoning to us like a lighthouse in a storm. We always stop here when we’re in this part of Appalachia. It’s a welcomed break from two weeks of living rough and riding hard.

  With a flick of my wrist, I push my Harley faster, keen to arrive dry. As soon as we pull up and climb the stairs of the Victorian mansion, the red door opens, and a beautiful redhead greets us with a dazzling smile. Antoinette. The most beautiful damn madam that ever there was. Red hair, the color of rubies. Tiny waist. Wicked smile. Eyes like sunlight on water filling with sparkle the moment they settle on me.

  The boys let out a holler of appreciation as they enter the old home where they’re quickly greeted by good-looking girls with loving arms and a body only too pleased to pleasure and nurture them for the night. My brothers deserve it.

  Antoinette always keeps the brothel exclusively for us when we ride into town.

  She gives me a wink. “You boys look like you could do with some good ol’ mountain hospitality.”

  She isn’t wrong.

  While my club brothers, Venom, Paw, Wyatt, and Gambit disappear upstairs with one or two of Antoinette’s girls each, I hang back with Antoinette as she locks up for the evening.

  Doc and Dakota Joe continued on ahead in the ambulance. Doc isn’t one for the type of mountain hospitality Antoinette is talking about, and that same hospitality would get Dakota Joe’s balls cut off by his wife of twenty-nine years if he stayed.

  But for me, a night with Antoinette is exactly what I need.

  My body aches for the release and my mind even more so.

  I watch as she locks the front door and switches off the porch light before turning back to me. “Are you ready?” she asks seductively.

  I’m more than ready. “For you, always.”

  Taking me by the hand, she leads me up the stairs to her bedroom. Once inside, she peels my cut from my shoulders and lifts my sweatshirt over my head, her soft hands sweeping over my body. Her touch is more nurturing than sexual, more comforting than seductive, and is exactly what I crave.

  Comfort.

  Peace.

  A respite from a trying couple of weeks and an exhausted mind.

  “I’m going to take good care of you tonight, Jack.” Her voice is as smooth as Tennessee whiskey as she undoes my belt and lowers the zipper of my jeans. “Give you whatever you need.” Her hands drift upward, her fingers whispering across my abs as she takes off my T-shirt. Every touch is purposeful, every caress of her fingers meant to relax and calm the anxiety in my taut body. We’ve done this dance enough times for her to know exactly what I need.

  Her lips brush my ear. “You have a shower while I pour us a drink.”

  In the bathroom attached to her bedroom, I strip out of my clothes, and under a spray of warm water, my body finally starts to relax as two weeks of sleeping rough slowly washes away.

  Relaxed, I step out of the shower to stand naked and wet in front of the mirror over the basin. Feeling a wave of fatigue wash over me, I grip the edge of the basin and lean down, closing my eyes while waiting for it to pass. It isn’t the fatigue of two weeks on the road, it’s the deep fatigue of five years chasing down a ghost and feeling the failure to find him bleed deep into the marrow of my bones.

  To look at my reflection, I raise my head. I haven’t shaved in weeks, and my hair falls past my shoulders and down my back, and the scruff on my jaw is dark and thick. I study my face. At almost forty, I’ve seen a lot of living. Most of it hard-knuckled and soul-destroying, and my face has the lines to prove it.

  When I leave the bathroom, Antoinette is waiting for me at the small table by the large bay window overlooking the valley. A lamp of colored leadlight glass casts a beam of light over the chessboard in front of her.

  I smile at the familiarity. We play every time I visit. It’s our thing. Antoinette is as smart as she is beautiful, her mind sharply strategic and calculated, and in the game of chess, often lethal. She’s kicked my ass more times than I care to admit, but it’s what keeps the thrill alive.

  “Feel better?” she asks, her husky voice smooth. As she crosses her long legs, her skirt falls on either side of her firm, milky thighs.

  “Insanely, better.” I sit opposite her—the chessboard between us.

  “I’ve been thinking about you lately, wondering when I was going to see you next.” She hands me a glass of cognac. “Wondering if you were any closer to finding what you’re looking for.”

  She knows all about Ghost.

  Knows about my vendetta.

  I take a mouthful of the cognac. It’s rich and warm and goes down easy. “Not yet. But I’m close.”

  “And when it finally
happens, do you think you’ll rest better?”

  “I think when it finally happens, I’ll sleep for a fucking year.”

  A small smile plays on her lips as she moves her first pawn. “Will you be happy?”

  “I don’t know about happy, but the job will be done.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.” Antoinette is like a vault. I can tell her anything, and that fact makes her the perfect confidant.

  “Will it have been worth it?”

  “Knowing he’s no longer breathing, yes.”

  I move my pawn.

  Which Antoinette immediately captures.

  “You never mention your wife.”

  “My ex-wife.”

  “How do you feel about her?”

  Did I mention that Antoinette was a psychologist before she was a madam? When she lost her job, she saw the potential in the profession and used her nest egg to open The House of Sin.

  “I’m happy that she’s happy.”

  “Do you have a good relationship with her?”

  “Very good. She’s remarried to a great guy who treats her well. She’s happy. It’s all I wanted for her.”

  I move another pawn, which Antoinette also claims.

  “Do you see her often?”

  “Her husband runs our club, Candy Town.” I move my bishop to take out her pawn. “They’re a good match.”

  “Do you think there are still some residual feelings there?”

  “Me or her?”

  “Both.”

  “Her, no. She’s well and truly moved on, and I can’t blame her. I broke us.”

  In a move I’m relying on, Antoinette moves her knight to capture my bishop.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “I moved on long ago.”

  “But you’ve never had a girlfriend or a permanent lover.”

  The sultry way she says lover hits me in the dick. I haven’t been laid in months.

  “No.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Why?”

  “Because my heart is too damn broken.” I move my queen. “Check.”

  Antoinette’s only response is to move her pawn, which I capture.

  She arches her eyebrow and looks at me, questioning my move. She knows there’s a strategy behind it, but she’s still surprised I’m sacrificing my queen, which, of course, she captures.