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

by Penny Dee

  “Wow, remind me not to get on the wrong side of you. That’s dark, princess.”

  One minute, I’m watching Mel Gibson scream “freeeeeedom” and trying not to notice how fucking great Bronte’s legs look in her Daisy Dukes. The next, I’m waking up with her asleep on my lap, her golden arms curled around my thighs. and her thick lashes fanning across her cheek.

  Swallowing back a lump in my throat, I tear my eyes away from her full pink lips, telling myself to ignore how plush they are, how glossy and sweet, and how sexy they look when they part with every soft breath passing in and out of them. I squeeze my eyes shut and force back the inking of desire rising in me—the tension coils like a tight spring in my pelvis.

  Fuck.

  Not wanting to wake her, I slip a cushion under her head and make my escape by dragging my ass down the hallway to my bedroom, my head already pounding with the beginnings of a hangover.

  Frowning, I fall into bed and groan.

  Bronte Vale is all grown up with curves that can bring any man to his knees.

  Oh yeah, I noticed.

  Apparently, so has my dick.

  She had those curves last time I saw her, but this time, something in me doesn’t want to look away from them.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I scrub my hands down my face.

  I’m not ready to dwell on just how fucked up that shit is.

  And I’m definitely not going to act on it.

  BRONTE

  Something startled me awake.

  Dazed, I sat up and felt the all too familiar buzz of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. What woke me? I searched the shadows in my room, the lamp from the living room giving me enough light to see. I stayed still, listening for unfamiliar noises, looking for out-of-place shadows down the hall. But there was nothing. Everything was still and quiet, and just as it should be.

  Seconds ticked by. A minute. Finally, I shook my head with relief and let out the deep breath I’d been holding. But then my cell phone on the bedside table lit up with a message notification, and my anxiety roared back to life. I glanced at the clock, then back at the phone. It was two minutes after three.

  It was him.

  With a shaky hand, I reached for my cell, my heart pounding, my pulse racing through my ears. Struggling to swallow, I hit open, and fear tore up my spine.

  The message was a photo.

  Of me.

  Asleep in my bed.

  Wearing the Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt I’d put on fresh tonight.

  He’d been in my room.

  Ripping back the covers, I ran for the living room, terrified he was still in my apartment, lurking in the shadows and ready to make good on the threats he’d been tormenting me with for months. But at the front door, I came to an abrupt stop when I saw the door chain was undone. I had secured it in place right after I had locked the deadbolt and the door lock. I was certain of it. Because when you’re being stalked by some psycho who liked to torment you with messages and pictures of you going about your daily life, accompanied by crazy-assed poems of his obsession for you, you locked your damn door with as many goddamn locks as possible.

  I reach for the door handle, already knowing that it was unlocked. Because the goddamn freak I knew as The Poet, had already unlocked them.

  Still, when the door opened, a small sob escaped my throat. Because that was the moment, I realized I was never going to keep him out.

  I had no choice.

  I had to disappear.

  I sit up in a rush, and it takes me a moment to realize I’m on Jack’s couch.

  My heart’s racing as I rake my fingers down my face and fall back onto the pillows and close my eyes.

  It was just a dream.

  Somehow, the memory of that night has wormed its way into my brain, so it can replay in my dreams like some blockbuster reminder of why I am here.

  Relax, he doesn’t know where you are.

  Easing out the breath I’m holding, I feel the calmness spread through me like warm water, and I start to relax. But then last night comes back to me in little fractured snippets.

  Hanging out on Jack’s porch.

  Watching Braveheart.

  The warmth of his big body next to mine.

  Wanting to feel those big arms around me…

  My eyes fly open.

  I snap upright again.

  Nope.

  I’m not going to make this visit to Flintlock like my last one when I kissed him. Like he said last night, we were both hurting back then and it meant nothing. A second attempt at getting under him is only going to make me look pathetic.

  Even if getting under him is exactly what I want to do.

  Oh, yeah. I know that now.

  If last night is anything to go by.

  Lying next to him as we stared at the television, feeling his warmth and his breath as I used his lap as a pillow and losing myself in the closeness to him, it felt like I was home.

  Excitement buzzes in my blood at the memory.

  But nope.

  No point in even thinking about it.

  I tuck the thought away and stand.

  The house is still. Jack’s gone, but he’s left a note on the coffee table.

  You looked too peaceful to wake up.

  Help yourself to the fresh coffee.

  The note says nothing.

  It’s simple.

  Straight to the point.

  But how I’m beginning to feel about my neighbor isn’t.

  JACK

  “Goddammit!” Caligula says, throwing his hand of cards onto the table. “These goddamn cards are goddamn rigged.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. Shooter has just made the first bet. A ten-dollar chip, and Caligula obviously doesn’t have a hand worth a damn.

  “You’re not very good at the whole poker face thing, are you?” I question.

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m just saying is all. You’re an easy man to read.”

  “Yeah? Read this.” He salutes me with his middle finger.

  Caligula doesn’t get the whole, you’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em philosophy. Unless he’s dealt a straight, full house, or flush, it’s game over for him.

  Which makes him suck at poker.

  Which is why we like playing with him.

  “Sore loser,” I say with a wink.

  “Suck my goddam dick,” he replies, ripping off a bottle cap and flicking it across the table.

  One thing about Caligula, he’s always talking about his dick. He isn’t named Caligula for nothing. His tastes linger in controversy. Nothing illegal—we don’t tolerate anyone fucking with illegal perversities in our club—but let’s just say Caligula isn’t into vanilla. He likes the whole goddamn ice cream cart and likes to talk about it too.

  Paw looks at us over his cards. “I’ll pass on the dick-sucking and see the bet.” He throws a chip down next to mine on the table.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing out on, brother,” Caligula replies casually, leaning back as he takes a swig from his bottle.

  “I’ve walked in on you enough times over the years to know exactly what I’m missing, and it ain’t nothing to write home about, brother,” Paw adds.

  “Fuck you! Any bigger and the government would classify it as a weapon of mass destruction,” Caligula retorts, which earns him a shower of pretzels sent his way by the other Kings of Mayhem sitting around the table.

  “Are you boys playing poker or playing with your dicks?” asks my father, Earl Dillinger, chewing on his fat cigar. Despite his sixty-something years on this Earth, Earl is still a wall of muscle and has a growl you listened to because, if you don’t, he’ll find a way to make you. And you don’t want that.

  He used to be president, but a cancer scare a few years back saw him step down. I was VP back then, and the club voted me in as president.

  Next to him is Ares, our sergeant-at-arms. At almost seven-foot, he’s a beast of a man with long flowing hair and arms
as big as tree trunks. One night, Paw was dumb enough to challenge him in an arm wrestle when he was drunk, and Ares almost pulled his goddamn limb off. He’s a quiet one, and they say the quiet ones are the ones you need to watch. I don’t doubt it. Even though I trust him with my life, I have a feeling none of us really know the silent giant.

  He throws down a chip. “I’ll see your ten.”

  Beside Ares, is Wyatt. He’s more my father’s age. A crusty old biker with dyed black hair and a handlebar mustache to match. He used to ride with my father and Hutch Calley back in the ‘70s as a prospect.

  “I’m out,” he says calmly.

  Not a lot fazes Wyatt.

  Ghoul sits beside him, his high chiseled cheekbones casting a shadow across his strong face as he studies his cards. Dolly says he looks like a Skarsgård, either Alexander or Bill, whoever the fuck they are. We call him Ghoul because the dude is obsessed with horror movies, serial killers, and true crime. And surprise, surprise, Halloween is like a holy day to the morbid fuck.

  With a shake of his head, he de-fans his cards and throws them on the table. “I’m out.”

  Across from me, Banks, our treasurer, eyes his cards with a steady poker face. He’s a math genius and a financial whiz. When he invested some of the club’s money in cryptocurrency a few years back, we made a ton of cash. Like a fucking ton of it.

  Pushing up his thick-rimmed glasses, he throws a ten-dollar chip into the mix. “I’m in.”

  Beside him, Gabe, our baby-faced rockabilly, rubs his chin before closing his cards and throwing them down on the table. Gabe looks like Elvis but can’t sing for shit. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop him trying.

  Next to Gabe is Venom, our resident tattoo artist. Covered head to toe in ink, he runs our tattoo shop, The Devil’s Hand. He gnaws on his lip ring for a moment before throwing his cards onto the pile.

  That leaves me.

  The man with a royal flush.

  I eye Paw. “I’ll see your ten and raise you twenty.”

  Upping the bet earns me some graphic language. Everyone, except Ares, throws their cards down in disgust.

  Ares accepts my raise and throws down two ten-dollar chips.

  It’s just me and my SAA.

  I meet his steely gaze across the table. He narrows his eyes, so I narrow mine, then he lets out a throaty growl, so I give him a smug smile.

  “Well, big boy, it’s just you and me,” I say.

  One dark eyebrow goes up. “Are you waiting for a kiss or what?” He nods toward my hand. “Show me.”

  “Only if you show me yours.” I wink at him. I like winding him up in poker. He takes this shit way too seriously. Ignoring his curling lip, I fan my cards on the table. “Royal flush. Read ‘em and weep, big fella.”

  Ares growls as he spreads his cards before him.

  He has a full house, so he has to be fuming inside.

  “You got yourself some crazy luck there, son,” my father says.

  “You know I don’t believe in luck, old man.”

  “Poker is one-half luck and—”

  “One-half control of your ego. I know, I know. You taught me how to play poker before you taught me how to read.” I drag the chips over to my side of the table. I’m almost one hundred bucks up.

  Ares’ big fist hits the table and because I’m a competitive jerk, I wink at him again.

  Pulling on my beer, I look over the poker table and see Bronte walk through the clubhouse doors. and without warning, my chest tightens.

  She looks stunning.

  I tell myself not to look.

  But it’s hard not to notice her in those tiny shorts and off-the-shoulder blouse that does nothing to hide her polished shoulders and flat, sun-kissed stomach. She wears a black choker around her slender throat and lets her hair tumble wild and loose down her back.

  Inwardly, I groan when I see her because you have to be blind not to notice how beautiful and sexy she is, and I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m also not the only one to notice her.

  As she moves through the clubhouse, all eyes zero in on her, and an unexpected protectiveness knots in my stomach. I have the sudden urge to punch any fucker in the throat if they lay a single finger on her. Without thinking, I put down my beer and stand, and she smiles when she sees me.

  Something kicks in my chest.

  I hate that kick.

  Hate how it’s happening more and more.

  “Everything okay?” I ask, walking over to her.

  “Yeah, of course. Thought I’d come by and say hi to every—”

  Before she can finish, Loki, the youngest of my twin boys, sneaks up on her and lifts her in his arms, then twirls her around. “Well, lookee what we have here! Miss Vale has finally come home!”

  The sound of her laughter is music to my ears as I watch my son twirling her around. They’re like brother and sister, and her smile is a direct contrast to the haunted look she’s been wearing these past two days.

  “Put me down, Loki!” she cries out with laughter.

  Loki does as she asks but not before he presses a kiss to her cheek.

  “You got big!” she says, feeling the size of his bicep as he lets her go.

  He winks. “That’s what all the girls say, darlin’.”

  She screws her nose up. “Ewww… TMI, Loki. T.M.I.”

  He hits her with his trademark big grin. “You look like sunshine on a daisy! What brings you back to this part of the woods?”

  “Thought I should come check on you and Bam, make sure you boys ain’t misbehaving.”

  He gives her an innocent look. “Now, do I look like the type to misbehave?”

  “Honey, you and your brother are the very definition of misbehave. Speaking of which, where is he?”

  Bam walks up behind her. “If you mean the good-looking twin, he’s right here.”

  She swings around, and with a squeal of delight, leaps into Bam’s arms.

  “Hell, girl, you got tiny,” he says, putting her down and taking a sweeping look at her. “They not feeding you down there in Nashville?”

  “Don’t pay my brother any mind,” Loki says. “Especially the part about being the good-looking twin. You know, we think we might have to get him tested to make sure he ain’t legally blind.”

  “Don’t listen to him, bee.” While I call her wildflower, everyone else calls her, bee. “He’s just jealous because I’m two minutes older and got all the good bits when our mama was busy baking us. Boy, it’s good to see you. Come on, let’s sit down, and you can fill us in on life in the big city.”

  Standing with Dolly at the other end of the bar, I watch Bronte walk away with my sons.

  “Girl’s lookin’ good,” Dolly says.

  Yeah, she’s looking good. I just wish I could quit noticing.

  “She’s all grown up,” I say.

  “Oh, she’s definitely grown up, all right. Though, I can’t help feel there’s a story there.”

  “I think it’s more than a story, Dolly. I think she’s hiding something.”

  “You do?”

  “Could be that I’m just old and jaded.”

  “Or maybe you’re onto something.”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t want to go chasing shadows when there ain’t no shadows.”

  Dolly leans down, so her cleavage blooms in her low-cut blouse. “One thing about you, honey, you got some of the sharpest instinct I’ve ever seen. You should listen to whatever it has to say, because it hasn’t let you down yet.”

  Throughout the night, I watch Bronte. Study her. Enjoy her smiles and the way her blonde hair shakes and shimmers as she throws her head back and laughs at something Bam or Loki says. I watch as she relaxes. Watch as that haunted look slowly disappears from her beautiful eyes with every new passing minute.

  Then I watch as she and my twins go to the bar and indulge in tequila slammers. I watch her pink tongue slide out from between those glossy lips to lick the salt from her hand, and I feel the move all the wa
y to my dick. I watch her bring the shot to her mouth and her slender throat work as she swallows down the liquid.

  Watch her suck on the lime.

  Fuck.

  I need to get laid.

  As if they can read my mind, the Fenway cousins pounce and give me a tempting offer. But the Fenway cousins are club girls, and I’m not about to indulge. No matter how hard I’m punching against my zipper right now.

  Thankfully, Paw says he needs to talk, so we visit the chapel for some privacy.

  “I’ve just got word from one of my contacts in the Bureau. Human remains were found just outside of Harristown.”

  Harristown is a small town about fifty miles north of Flintlock.

  “And?”

  “They think they might be the remains of Frankie Jones.”

  Aka Ghost.

  Aka the sonofabitch, I was going to kill with my bare goddamn hands.

  I push back the disappointment looming in my guts because if he’s dead, I don’t get to kill him.

  But this isn’t the first time his remains have been found. Two years ago, they thought they’d found him—a burned body was found in a house fire. It had been wearing his signature skull ring, with the word Frankie engraved into the band.

  Turned out it wasn’t him, but the skull ring was his. The authorities think he staged the whole thing to get them, and me, off his trail. So this could be the same thing.

  “What makes them think it’s Ghost?” I ask.

  “Clothes. Jewelry. Wallet with his ID in it.”

  “Tattoos?”

  “The remains were dust and bone in a shallow grave. They’re waiting on dental records.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “A bullet wound to the skull.”

  A quick death.

  Not something he was worthy of.

  “It’s not him,” I say.

  “No?”

  No. This is another one of Ghost’s attempts to shake us off.

  I don’t know who’s in that grave, but it isn’t him.

  “We’ll keep looking. In the meantime, we keep our focus on the harvest,” I say, walking toward the door.

  Looking at my watch, I’m surprised half an hour has passed.