Butch (Black Shamrocks MC: First Generation Book 3)

by Kylie Hillman

  This monologue is delivered in a monotone; however the seriousness of the situation is clear. I can feel the pressure on me. It’s weighing me down, coating my skin, painting every thought that enters my head with worry. I am weird. I don’t make friends easily. I can count on one finger the number of people in this world whom I would classify as a confidant.

  Serge is setting me up for failure.

  “I understand,” I murmur. Putting my spoon down next to my bowl, I move my chair so I can see him better. Here goes nothing. “But I don’t think I’m the right person for this. I don’t do friends.”

  “You’ll learn. You have to.” Serge shrugs then pushes to his feet. He beckons me to follow him which I quickly do, leaving the rest of my muesli and grabbing my bag as I walk past. Carly trails behind us as well. “I’ll take you to school on the way to the club.”

  “No!”

  He stops. Anger flickers in his eyes before it disappears. My emphatic objection is the height of disrespect to someone in Serge’s position, and coming from me, in front of Carly, doesn’t bode well for me.

  “Excuse me?” The question is punctuated by an arched eyebrow.

  I draw in a deep breath and blink back the fear that tries to grip me. “What I mean is that this isn’t a good idea. Someone might see you and they might work out who I am.”

  “Impossible,” my brother scoffs at my explanation. “Nobody outside the oldest members of the club knows who you are. Dad’s never claimed you as his and no one knows that the leadership has changed hands. You’re worried about nothing.”

  He never seems to realise that he’s rubbing salt into the largest wound in my psyche when he callously mentions my father’s continued denial that I’m his child. My colouring—eyes, hair, and skin—is the same as my brother and father, and my mother was his whore exclusively, so I don’t doubt my parentage. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting that my father says I’m not his.

  “Maybe Carly could take me?” The question is out of my mouth before the absurdity hits me. Carly rarely leaves the house, and when she does it’s in the dead of night and only with Sergio by her side. I try to recover lost ground with my next suggestion. “Or I could take the bus? That’s what I’d planned to do.”

  “Nope.” Serge’s answer is final. He shrugs his Ugly Bastards cut from his shoulders, grabs his leather jacket from the coat rack, then pulls his cut back over his jacket once he has it on. My brother is officially in work mode and I know that the time to argue with him is over. “Come on. I have things to do.”

  Once I’m in place behind him on his Harley, I take hold of his waist and try to swallow down the mortification of the morning. He stopped taking me to school when I complained about it early last year. I’ve caught the bus ever since and I thought that would continue even with this new school.

  Apparently not. Seems like this plot to have me integrate myself into the Black Shamrocks world is too important to let me keep the small amount of freedom I’d gained.

  We ride to the new high school through heavy morning traffic. It’s a fair distance from our house on the outskirts of Brisbane and it’s in the opposite direction to my old school out in the countryside. Brisbane State High is in the inner city and it is smack bang in the middle of Black Shamrocks MC territory.

  As we join the line up of cars waiting to drop off students, I try—for the hundredth time—to work out what the Ugly Bastards have to gain from spying on the Black Shamrocks. Nothing sticks out to me; not all that surprising when I’m never told about the inner workings of the club. Serge’s club has always been happy with the southern border of the state and the rural areas that made up their turf. They’ve left the jostling about boundaries to the Black Shamrocks MC and the Mavericks of Mayhem MC.

  The only thing I can pinpoint is the growing threat from the Mavericks that I’d heard them whispering about at parties at the clubhouse. Maybe it has grown to a level where the Ugly Bastards have decided to take offensive action?

  “You ready?” Serge cuts the engine of his bike and pats my hands where they’re linked around his waist.

  Even though he can’t see me, I nod. Sliding from the pillion seat behind him, I smooth down my school dress and readjust my bag on my shoulders. My brother offers me a small smile, and I spy sympathy in his eyes.

  “You’ll be fine,” he says. The drop off zone for the school is much busier than the one at my old school and it’s hard to hear him. I step forward, lurching like a zombie when some other student hits me with their shoulder. Serge pins them with a hard stare when they berate me for being in their way, and they scuttle off with their tail between their legs. “Just remember that you’re a DiAmore and nobody will get in your way.”

  My feet have a mind of their own. They lose the distance between us and I wrap my arms around my brother’s shoulders and hug him before I really know what I’m doing. It takes him a second, but Serge returns my embrace with strong arms that say so much more than his words ever will. For this moment, I forget that I am Anita Carlucci, unclaimed daughter of Mario DiAmore and his whore, Sophia Carlucci, and embrace who I truly am. Never wanted and always denied.

  Anita DiAmore. Daughter of the inaugural President of the Ugly Bastards MC and devoted sister to the current President. Loved by the MC that surrounds her and ready to do whatever they ask.

  “I won’t let you down,” I vow. With a reverence that I rarely show him, I kiss my brother’s smooth cheeks, the right then the left, before stepping away from him.

  He takes hold of my upper arms and holds me in place. Regarding me with seriousness, he inclines his head a tad then offers me something he never does… his gratitude.

  “Thank you, munchkin. I know you won’t.”

  My eyes burn when his words register in my brain. I give him a weak smile and walk into the school with my head held high, my shoulders straight, and a prayer for success on my lips. I’m vaguely aware of his motorcycle starting up again and the squeal of his tyres as he peels away from the front of the school because, by sheer chance, standing directly in front of me is the answer to my pleas.

  Unsuspecting. Undaunted. And smiling at me with real interest, Grace O’Brien moves out of a group of female students and introduces herself to me.

  “You’re new here,” she states, her green eyes shining bright and her pretty face flushed with excitement. I nod, sharply. “I’m Grace, and this is my best friend, Alanah.”

  FIVE

  Brian

  One month later

  It’s a war zone.

  The seemingly routine action of opening the double doors that lead into the main bar of the Black Shamrocks clubhouse sends us straight into the guts of chaos and destruction. Me and Cole are only here at this time of the morning to answer a call to duty from the hierarchy—Paddy’s father, the President; my dad, the VP; Cole’s dad, the Sergeant at Arms and the surrogate father to the first generation sons; and maybe Vic’s sperm donor, if he can be bothered to show up.

  I was hoping the meeting was to give us our new duties as a full patch.

  Now, I’m wishing I’d stayed in bed.

  “Holy fuck,” I let out the curse from between gritted teeth.

  Ducking down when a bar stool comes flying at my head, I crab crawl along the wall with Cole up my arse. We come to a stop behind an upended pool table. The green carpet is scratchy beneath my denim covered knees and the dark panelled walls of the bar feel like they’re trying to close in on me. Our clubhouse isn’t flash, but it’s tidy and comfortable, and the damage being wrought is going to cost a shitload to fix.

  “What’s this shit?” Initially, I think that Cole’s question is directed at me until a voice answers from behind me.

  “Paddy took exception to somethin’ Lenny said,” my dad replies. “Now it’s kicked off into this shit.”

  A quick look behind me reveals that the men who called us to this meeting are bunkered down behind the pool table with us. Confusion reigns supreme. These men aren’t cowa
rds. They are the leaders of this club. They could stop this with one direct order.

  Why the Hell would they be letting the O’Brien boys destroy the main bar?

  I meet my dad’s rage-filled gaze. He squints at me, a dangerous glimmer that telegraphs his thoughts about the events that are unfolding. He’s pissed off, and he doesn’t agree with what’s going down.

  Which raises my previous question… why?

  “They need to learn to co-exist,” my President adds his two cents to the silent conversation between me and Dad. “The sooner Lenny accepts the inevitable and let’s Paddy take the role he was born to fill, the better it will be for everyone.”

  And there we have it. The inkling I had over a month ago at our patch-in ceremony has borne fruit. The choice has been made and it’s not one I agree with.

  Paddy is the next President of the Black Shamrocks MC.

  My best friend is mercurial and dangerous. He has never demonstrated the qualities needed to become a leader, while Lenny was born with the soul of a forty-year-old man and philosopher rolled into one. I would happily serve under Lenny.

  Paddy not so much.

  While I’ve been contemplating the changes this will bring to the club—hopefully a long while down the track since our Prez is fit as fuck and unlikely to kick the bucket anytime soon—the ruckus around us has died down a little. We all wait, seemingly holding our breath in unison, to see if it’s over.

  All that can be heard is the sound of Paddy struggling. Nothing is being thrown and it doesn’t appear that punches are being exchanged any longer. I glance at my dad, who checks with Prez before he gives me the nod to pull the handbrake on the fight.

  “Come on,” I command Cole, then look for Vic to join us because he’s always been the best out of us at bringing Paddy back down to earth.

  He’s not here. Why is he not here? We’ve also been a foursome—sons of the leaders, the same age, and all determined to patch in to follow in our father’s footsteps. I can’t remember a time when we weren’t addressed by the club as a group.

  Either Vic’s running seriously late or he wasn’t included in the summons we received.

  “Let’s do this,” Cole declares. He’s followed my inspection of the group and his own confusion with Vic’s absence is crinkling his brow. “If Paddy keeps struggling, Lenny’s liable to put him to sleep.”

  Part of me wishes he would. Paddy’s going to be a gigantic pain in our arse until Vic arrives and makes him see sense.

  I’m halfway to the mess of black hair and struggling limbs that is Lenny and Paddy when I remember the weird as fuck declaration of war that Paddy made toward Vic a few weeks ago. There’s no help to be had from Vic anyway, not while those two are at loggerheads over nothing.

  Crouching down next to the O’Brien boys, I discover exactly what I expected. Lenny is doing the bare minimum required to subdue his little brother while Paddy is still fired up. A quick pat on Lenny’s upper arm is all he needs to wipe his hands of his wayward sibling, and he steps away without a word or a look in our direction, leaving us to take care of the irate lump laying on the floor.

  “Paddy,” I say his name with as much affection as I can muster at the moment. “Come on, man. Get up. We’ve got shit to do.”

  Our friend rolls onto his side then stumbles back to his feet. I brace for a smartassed quip or a dirty jab sent my way and end up caught with my pants down. Paddy pushes past me, knocking me backward into Cole when he does. We fall onto our arses, left to watch with open mouthed horror as Paddy pulls a small switchblade from his boot, flicks it open with one smooth motion and drives it into his retreating brother’s shoulder.

  From behind.

  It’s a coward’s move.

  A clear sign that the leadership of the Black Shamrocks MC has chosen wrong.

  Lenny drops to his knees. Paddy pulls the knife from his shoulder and lifts his arm high in the air. Me and Cole move like a well-oiled machine, jumping back to our feet and flying at Paddy before he can stab his big brother again. I go to the right, Cole goes to the left, and we bulldog Paddy from waist height and pile drive him into the floor.

  He grunts and curses, trying his hardest to get back to his feet. Cole’s face is red and his eyes narrow when he glares down at Paddy with malicious intent in his gaze. I beat him to it, though; lifting my elbow and belting Paddy in the face until he falls unconscious.

  Looking around at the carnage wrought, I scowl at the judgement on my Prez’s face. He drops my eyes straightaway and goes to his bleeding son. Not the one with the knife wound, but the shithead who caused it.

  Thankfully, the rest of our leadership group have finally found their balls. They’re on their feet. Tending to Lenny, having rolled the pool table back on its feet and hoisted Lenny on top of it. They pull his cut off and tear open his shirt, ripping it into strips to bind his wound.

  I leave the Prez with Paddy and walk with Cole over to Lenny. My mammoth friend seems shell-shocked at what’s unfolded, so I give him a quick pat on the back and nudge him with my shoulder to get him to look at me.

  “There’s nothing you could have done.”

  “I could have kept my feet,” Cole replies. “I could’ve knocked Paddy on his arse myself. I could’ve taken that fucking knife off him weeks ago when he first showed it to me. I should’ve known he’d do something like this.”

  Cole’s dad raises his head when his son’s voice gets louder as he speaks. He comes over to us, stopping when he’s standing on the other side of his son.

  “This is on one head,” Quinn tells us in a voice that lets us know quick smart that he’s not open to counter arguments. Pointing at Paddy, he drives his point home. “His. He’s solely responsible and it’s best you both remember that.”

  I snort. Cole drops his chin to his chest and shakes his head.

  “I know.” Quinn’s eyes dart in the direction of our President. “We’ve tried to make him see sense. Hopefully, this epic cock up will be the catalyst he needs to understand where we’re coming from.”

  Our trio watches a now-conscious Paddy being supported by his father while he’s led to the exit, and we don’t have to say the words for all of us to know that this changes nothing. In Leo O’Brien’s mind, he only has one son worthy of his name… and that isn’t his name sake, Lenny.

  When Prez returns, his foul mood is clear to see. He stomps back into the bar, his rigid shoulders telegraphing his upcoming explosion. Quinn leaves us to it, heading back to check on Lenny before he makes himself scarce by hiding in the Chapel.

  “Get Doc to stitch him up,” Prez bellows at my father. Turning on his heel, he comes for me and Cole. “Clean this fucking mess up. When Viking arrives, I want you all in front of us. Shit needs sorting.”

  He doesn’t stop to check on his son. Instead he strides behind the bar, pulls himself a beer, and heads to the sleeping quarters. The door is slammed shut behind him. We all stare at it, and when he doesn’t come back out, it feels like every man present takes a deep breath.

  After surveying the damage in the bar, I screw up my face at Cole. His expression matches mine. Annoyance. Confusion. Reluctance. One of the other pool tables is still on its edge. Blood has streaked up the wall and over the floor. Bar stools are bent out of shape. The door that Leo just slammed has a chunk missing. All in all it’s an unholy mess and I don’t know where to start with the clean up.

  To be honest, I don’t know how to process what’s happened.

  What does this mean for the future?

  How will the O’Brien’s move past this?

  What the hell is happening to my Club?

  SIX

  Anita

  Serge’s bike pulls away from the front curb of my school. I half-heartedly wave at him, then direct my attention toward the group of girls who are waiting for me. They wave me forward, genuine smiles and excitement to see me on their faces.

  “Hey,” I greet them softly. En masse we head deeper into the school grounds in
the direction of the building that houses our home group.

  Four weeks in, and I’m surprised at how quick I’ve found my feet. For some reason, Grace and Alanah took me under their wings as the new girl and they’ve gone out of their way to lubricate my easy acceptance into their social circle.

  “Your brother is so hot,” Grace exclaims, walking backward so she can look at me while she speaks. I swear she says this every time she lays eyes on him. “You should introduce us.”

  A jolt of fear grips me at her request. I shuffle from foot to foot, my stride slowing until I’m almost stopped, and try to think of something to say that will change the subject. After my first day at school, I’d pleaded with my brother to leave his Ugly Bastards MC cut off if he was going to insist on riding me to and from school each day. He hadn’t wanted to, but Carly had made him see sense. The girls don’t know who my brother is, but they do know that he rides a Harley and is over-protective of his little sister.

  Put on the spot on the first day, my cover story had ended up being the bare truth. I am Anita Carlucci. The man on the motorbike is my much older brother, who’s raised me since I was one-year-old. I changed schools because he wanted me to have more opportunities. Keeping as close to reality as possible turned out to be the best plan, until times like this when Grace pushes to know more.

  “Oh, hush, Gracie Lou,” Alanah cuts of her best friend before she can hassle me any further. “Leave Anita alone. The last thing she needs is you drooling all over her brother. As long as it’s male and halfway attractive, you’re interested.”

  While Grace O’Brien is fun and flirty, Alanah Kelly is quiet and thoughtful. Every time I see them together, I try to work out if it’s simply their family circumstances that have pushed them together or if they really like each other. Jury’s still out because I’m not entirely sure that Grace is capable of connecting with anyone on a level deeper than superficial and Alanah has proven a tough nut to crack—despite her outward friendliness.