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

by Penny Dee

  “Has one of those faces you’d never grow tired of punching,” Ares, my sergeant-at-arms, growls passing it to Munster.

  “Give me five minutes with him, and I’ll wipe that smirk off his face. Britney Traeger was the same age as my Edwina.” Munster hands me the picture.

  “We’re going to keep our eyes on this guy,” I say. “He may be inside, but I want to know everything there is to know about him. He was riding with Ghost up until last week, so he knows what the asshole has been doing and where he’s been doing it.” I look at my brothers around the table. “And if for some fucked up reason he gets out of prison, I want us to be waiting to give him a welcome-home party.”

  When all eighteen Kings agree with me, I end church with a slam of my gavel.

  As the chapel clears out, I look at Paw, our resident Sherlock Holmes. “You got a minute?”

  “Sure, Prez, what do you need?”

  An ex-FBI agent, Paw’s career in law enforcement ended after he was mauled by a mountain lion. The attack left the right side of his face heavily scarred from claw marks, deep gutters from his temple down to his jaw. He’s proud of those scars, and they certainly don’t affect his sex life. Women go crazy for the jagged lines on his face. Seems they love how indestructible and rugged they make him look.

  Not long after the attack, he quit the Bureau and came knocking on our door. Nine years later, he’s an integral part of the club because of his contacts and exceptional skillset. He’s an internet bloodhound and can hack into some of the most secure federal databases if need be.

  “Cooper’s best friend just arrived back in town.”

  “Bronte?”

  “Yeah, and I think something’s got her spooked.”

  “You want me to look into what she’s been up to?”

  “Don’t dig too deep. Whatever it is, it’s recent.”

  I don’t want to go prying into her life more than I have to.

  “Got it.”

  I slip him a piece of paper filled in with a few of her details.

  “Stays between you and me,” I add.

  He nods. “You know it always does.”

  I can trust Paw and believe in his expertise. He’ll notice something long before any of us will.

  BRONTE

  After hanging up from Officer Johnson, I take a shower.

  The guy gives me the creeps.

  And after five hours of driving and a ton of nervous sweat later, this girl needs a shower.

  Bad.

  Dumping my bags in my bedroom, I strip off and head to the bathroom. In the shower, I begin to wash the spontaneous road trip out of my hair while the warm water soaks into my aching muscles. Feeling relaxed, I start murdering Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” but stop when I hear an unfamiliar noise. I pause to listen and instantly know it’s come from inside the house.

  Once upon a time, my instinct would’ve been to react fearlessly. To charge horns first into the fight. Now, my instinct is to freeze.

  Goosebumps crawl along my skin as I stand as still as a statue, afraid to breathe, while dread creeps up my spine and worms its way into the base of my brain.

  Another startling thump ripples through the sound of the shower as something moves inside the house.

  Oh Lord, he’s here.

  My heart palpitates in my chest.

  He’s followed me.

  Hands shaking, I turn off the faucet and grab the towel hanging on the wall then quickly wrap it around myself. I know grandma keeps a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet. Unfortunately, the mirrored cabinet door creaks when I open it, and the sound bites into the silence, probably alerting whoever it is inside the house as to my location.

  I hiss in a sharp breath and pause, waiting and listening, my pulse pounding like a drum in my neck. The scissors are sitting in a cup along with some tweezers and a nail file. They are old sewing shears, heavy and chunky, with big handles. I draw them out of the cup like it is the sheath of a sword and grip them tightly between both hands, knowing I might have to use them at any minute.

  Fear clogs my throat as I approach the door, terrified of what is on the other side. Feeling the last ebb of strength in me, I pull open the door and creep into the hallway. The house is still, the air thick with summer heat. I let out a shivery breath before slowly dragging a fresh breath into my lungs where I hold it, petrified he’ll hear me breathing.

  Taking light footsteps, I make my way along the hallway and down the little steps leading into the kitchen, my pulse roaring in my ears, my lungs burning for a new breath.

  I want to call out.

  To confront whoever is inside the house, but months of torment have me worn down.

  A sound sends fear up my spine.

  A creak of a floorboard behind me.

  A disquieting knock.

  I spin around and in that moment of cataclysmic fear, I see the shutter outside the open window bang against the wall, and that’s when I jump, almost dropping the scissors.

  It’s only the shutter.

  Nothing but a goddamn shutter.

  Tears rush to the surface.

  I can’t take much more of this.

  Rushing to the window, I pull the shutter closed, then sink to the floor in a shivering, tormented mess, and let my tears fall.

  JACK

  She’s on my porch when I pull into the driveway. Sitting on one of the steps with her arms wrapped around her knees and a crown of flowers in her golden hair, she looks like she’s stepped out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  I walk up the path to greet her. “Well, now… I do believe there is an angel sitting on my porch,” I say. “You’re looking a little happier than when I last saw you.”

  She smiles, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the little tug in my heart before I quickly shove it away.

  “Amazing what a shower and a few hours’ sleep can do. I think I slept like the dead.” Her smile suddenly fades, and I see that haunted look creep back into her eyes. But then she wraps her arms tighter around her knees and smiles again. “Thanks for your help this morning. I thought I could fix you dinner or something to say thank you.”

  I cock an eyebrow. Bronte isn’t what you’d call a domesticated goddess. Both Rosanna and her grandma had tried teaching her how to cook before she left for college, and both attempts had been disastrous. “You learn how to cook while you were away?”

  “No, but how hard can it be?”

  “If memory serves, you burn water.”

  She smiles, and a small dusting of pink lifts in her cheeks. “You’re right. Let’s get takeout. My treat.”

  It’s a hot summer’s night. The sky is clear, the moon full. We sit out on the patio and eat takeout from Craig’s Crawdad Cookout in town.

  “So, are you going to bring it up or me?” I ask, taking a swig from my beer bottle.

  I watch Bronte’s throat work as she swallows. She’s wondering if she should run from the question or run toward it.

  She decides to go with the former and run from it while picking up a beer bottle. “What are you talking about?”

  “Gigantor, the white elephant in the room.”

  She smiles awkwardly. “Oh, you mean the kiss.”

  I hate how my body reacts when she says it.

  “Yeah, the kiss.”

  “I already apologized.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She shrugs. “We were drunk.”

  “Yes, we were. Fall-down drunk if memory serves.”

  “And I wanted to feel something other than grief. You were my first crush.” She smiles, embarrassed. “And you were there.”

  “I remember.”

  Boy, do I remember.

  The way she pressed her body against me and kissed me. The way her luscious tongue swept into my mouth, and then the sweetness of her lips as they moved so sensually over mine.

  Taken by surprise, I’d hesitated, but then lust and alcohol collided in my brain, and I’d taken that k
iss from hot to blazing, pushing my hands through her hair and kissing her hard. I’d groaned into her hungry little mouth, wanting to take it further before I had the good sense to stop myself.

  Behind my zipper, my dick stirs in appreciation of the memory.

  But nope.

  Not fucking going there.

  I’m not entertaining that idea for one second longer, just like I haven’t since that night.

  “You disappeared before we had a chance to talk,” I remind her.

  When I’d broken off the kiss with a determined “no,” and she’d run out of the room.

  The next day she was gone.

  “I was embarrassed,” she says.

  “You had no reason to be. We were both hurting. Sometimes people do things out of character when they’re hurting.” I give her a reassuring smile. “You have no reason to be embarrassed around me, wildflower. One little kiss between friends in a moment of insanity shouldn’t be enough to destroy a friendship.”

  Our eyes linger.

  It wasn’t one little kiss between friends, and we both know it. We both felt something more that night, but taking it further is not an option.

  Her smile is slow as she processes what I’ve said. “You’re right. Thank you.”

  We both relax.

  “Now that’s out of the way, how about I grab us another couple of beers and you can tell me all about your current guy.”

  “That’s going to be a short story tragedy… Bronte doesn’t have a current guy, she is a dating disaster. The end.”

  I can’t help my chuckle. “No boyfriend? A beauty like you?”

  “No. And stop with the flattery. You don’t need to try and make me feel better about the whole kiss thing. I’m good now.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Yes. And you know, for a tough motorcycle club president, you need to work on your poker face a bit more.” She drains her beer. “What about you? Tell me about Jack’s lucky lady.”

  I scoff. Well, there’s an oxymoron.

  “There isn’t one.”

  She looks surprised. “Really… oh, I see.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You like to keep your options open. I totally get it. No doubt the clubhouse is full of opportunities for a guy like you when temptation strikes.”

  “A guy like me?’

  “The president. Don’t forget, I grew up in that club. I’ve seen the club girls. They’re fucking hot patooties.”

  “Hot patooties?” Jesus, she’s cute. I shake my head. “I think you’ve got it all wrong, wildflower. The clubhouse is business, and I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  It’s true—I don’t touch club pussy.

  Whether she believes me or not, I don’t know because she changes the subject.

  “What about Bam and Loki? Either of them settled down?”

  I have to laugh. My twin boys are twenty-four years old and are showing no signs of settling down any time soon.

  “I’ll take that as a no.” She smiles, and I have to stop myself from thinking it’s the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.

  As the night wears on, we talk some more over beers, mostly about her travels, but despite really talking for the first time in years, she’s skimming the surface.

  Holding back.

  Painting a façade.

  Even so, I decide not to press her. She’s the type to dig in her heels if you attempt to push her into anything.

  Inevitably, the conversation drifts to Cooper.

  “You know, Rosana and I thought you two would end up together someday. We thought we’d walk in and bust you guys mid-kiss or something.”

  “We both knew early on that nothing like that was ever going to happen.”

  “Did he ever get his first kiss?” I ask cautiously. I have a million questions about him that will never be answered. So when the opportunity arises to find out just one of them, I jump at it.

  Her smile fades and she hesitates. “Jack…” Before she says anything, I can tell by the look on her face what she is going to say. “You know he was—”

  I cut her off. “I know who my brother was. He was just learning it for himself.”

  Her lashes drop. “He knew, Jack,” she says gently. “He got his first kiss, just not from me. Not from any girl in Flintlock.”

  I nod. I didn’t think so.

  She hesitates. “Are you okay with that?”

  “Are you asking me if I was okay with my brother being gay?”

  “Are you?”

  “Honey, the only sex life I give a rat’s ass about is my own. Gay, straight, or whatever, if Coop had lived, I would’ve loved him just as I had always loved him, more and more every fucking day. Lord knows, there’s enough fucked-up shit in this world. No point anyone getting their goddamn panties in a twist over that shit.”

  Never did understand why anyone would worry about who someone chose to love.

  Love is love and all that.

  I put my beer to my lips and drain it, feeling an all-too-familiar ache in my chest.

  What I would give to see my kid brother again.

  What I would give to see him bring someone home to meet his family. And if that someone was another guy, then who gives a fuck?

  When I think how cautious he was telling me about his choices, the regret plumes in my blood like poison. I get it. The MC world he grew up in is one of bravado and testosterone, and as far as towns in the US go, Flintlock is a little behind the times when it comes to open-mindedness, although she is more progressive than some.

  But to think he struggled to tell me.

  It’s like a knife going right into my heart.

  If I had the time over, I wouldn’t have hesitated to bring it up and let him know that whatever his choices were in life, I had his back.

  “Did he tell you?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” It’s great he had Bronte to talk to. I only wished he’d felt that way about me too.

  “Was there anyone special?”

  “There was a guy he was getting close to. Brett, I think his name was. He came to the funeral.”

  I can’t remember much of the funeral. It’s all a big blur. Elvis could’ve shown up, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  My chest aches.

  After dinner, we take our beers and takeout containers inside. Bronte doesn’t seem interested in leaving, so I suggest watching a movie and downing a few more beers. Despite the fatigue of the day, I’m not ready for the night to end either.

  “Got any popcorn?” she asks.

  Rummaging in my kitchen cupboard, I find an old box of corn kernels.

  “How strong is your stomach? These are probably two years out of date.”

  She grins and lifts her tank top to reveal a golden stomach that is as flat as a pancake with a diamond ring winking in her belly button.

  Sweet baby Jesus.

  “I can stomach anything,” she says, laying down on the couch. “Salmonella come at me.”

  After popping the corn in the microwave and covering it with enough butter and salt to harden every artery, I join her on the couch.

  “Ever seen Braveheart?” I ask, bringing up Netflix.

  “Brave who?”

  “Braveheart. It’s a Mel Gibson movie.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s set in Scotland. Based on William Wallace.”

  “It’s a true story? Because I’m not big on historical shows.”

  “You’ll like this. They’re Highlanders. It’s about their fight to free Scotland from the iron hold of the British.”

  “Oooh, men in kilts. Bring it on.”

  Of course, that’s what she takes away from it.

  I hit play and get settled.

  From the first frame, she’s engrossed, and by the time I stop thinking about how goddamn good she smells and focus on the screen, I’m engrossed too.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a female on my
couch watching television with me. Hell, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a female in my house, full stop. Because we’re both engrossed in the movie, our conversation is limited, but I am more aware of her presence than ever before.

  “Yesss!” she cheers as William Wallace uses a ball and chain to end the life of one of his betrayers. “Take that, you traitor.”

  Eyes glued to the television, she digs her hand into the popcorn and brings a handful to her mouth while I relax further into my couch. Being around her is easy. And I’m pleased we’ve spoken about the kiss because I like being with her, and I don’t want any awkwardness between us when we hang out.

  “Oh my God!” She gasps when Longshanks throws someone out the castle window. “I did not see that coming. He’s such a bad dude. I don’t like him.” She glances at me. “Good choice in movies. I can’t believe I’ve never watched this before.”

  She gets more comfortable, laying on her side with one foot pressed against my thigh and the other on my knee.

  “I love William. He’s not afraid to stand up for what he’s afraid of.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that he kills people because of it?”

  “Not at all.” Her eyes stay glued to the screen as she puts more popcorn into her mouth. “Sometimes you have to behave bad to do good.”

  “Even if it’s revenge?”

  “Revenge isn’t a good concept, but it’s an extremely powerful motivator. You have to remember… revenge is like crack to the brokenhearted.”

  Like you wouldn’t believe, darling.

  “Law says it’s wrong.”

  My voice is rough because she could be talking about me. Only she doesn’t know that side of me. Doesn’t know how I live in the dark shadows of revenge and bloodletting.

  “Law doesn’t always get it right.” She glances at me. “And let’s face it, he isn’t killing good people.”

  Warmth fills me, and the minutes seem to fly by.

  The next thing I know, she’s crying.

  “The look on his face. He feels so betrayed by his friend.” Bronte looks at me, tears rolling down her cheeks. She’s so damn cute. “Why did Robert betray him like that?”

  “Because he was weak.”

  She stops crying, and her face tightens. “I hope William’s ball and chain catches him in the head, too.”