Wraith: A Second Chance Dark Romance (Masters of Mayhem Book 1)

by Renee Rocco

  Jester snorts. “You’re leaving out a whole bunch of shit, but it’s all good. We’ll get it out of you eventually. We’re three against one, and we’re bullies.”

  “Damn right we are.” I kiss her throat, and her pulse quickens against my lips. “And I’m the worst of the bullies, Runt.” I punctuate the statement with another kiss. She scrunches up her shoulder and tries to squirm away, but I keep her right where I want her. “You can’t get away that easy.”

  We all settle into a comfortable quiet, and with the front windows open, the breeze flows into the van’s cargo area. The wind billows the fine hairs framing Jamie’s face. She turns her face toward it, and a ghost of a smile lifts those full pink lips, reminding me I’m not the only one who escaped captivity. She may not have been locked in the dungeon, but she was as much a prisoner in Gomorrah as me. Her bruised face is a testament to that fact and is the final nail in Crane’s coffin.

  My bars were iron.Hers were forged in fear, and just as indestructible.

  I catch Jester watching her again. He gives me a crooked grin. “Sorry, man.”

  “No worries.” I don’t not like it, but I understand his affliction because I suffer the same malady.

  On the rare moments when Jamie drops her guard, she’s breathtaking in her abandon.

  She snaps out of her daydream and the moment passes. “Pardon?”

  “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, James.”

  “I think I missed an entire conversation.”

  “Jester apologized to Wraith for wanting to fuck you,” Malice announces.

  “You have such a way with words, Mal.” Jester rolls his eyes. “You’d think savages raised him.”

  “You’re a dick,” Malice snaps.

  “Long and proud, and the ladies adore me.”

  “He can try. He won’t succeed,” Jamie insists.

  “Is it a medical disorder, dear?” Jester asks, deadass.

  “An allergy to male whores,” she retorts with equal gravity.

  “Aw, shit.” Jester pulls a sympathetic face. “Then you’ll never have the pleasure of an Unholy between your legs. We’re the manliest male whores this side of the—”

  “Jester,” I snarl.

  Jester wisely shuts the fuck up for once.

  Jamie’s watching me with that damn unreadable expression, and if Jester wasn’t my best friend, I’d rip out his goddamn vocal cords. Hell, I might do it anyway. I’d probably get a standing ovation from half of Mayhem if I did, because he always gets someone in trouble when he runs his mouth.

  Not that it’s any of her business who, or how many women, I fucked over the years. It’s like Malice said. She cut and ran. Jamie can lie to herself and use her arrest as an excuse, but the truth is, she ran by staying away.

  And she didn’t just stay away from Mayhem.

  She stayed away from me, and that shit hurt.

  Yeah, I said I wouldn’t force Jamie to stay with me, but that’s bullshit. I’m not letting her go because I won’t lose her twice.

  The dungeon tore me apart and put me back together wrong, but I’ve always been a little bit off in the head. Slightly deranged. Normal men don’t aspire to become Unholy. And you sure as hell don’t rise to my rank and reputation without doing a whole lot of sick shit to a whole lot of bad people. Truth is, to love Jamie would ruin her. To let her go would be merciful.

  I’m not a merciful man.

  If she gets ruined, that’s on her.

  Because Jamie made her choice when she walked into Elite. If she wanted to be gone, she should have stayed gone and let her husband kill me.

  11

  Jamie

  I never thought I’d be relieved to see Mayhem, but here I am, comforted at the sight of the welcome sign.

  Rather, the unwelcome sign.

  After all the years I’ve been away, the un is still spray-painted in front of welcome on the sign marking the edge of town on Route 191. Seems about right. Mayhem may thrive on the tourism its brothels and strip clubs generate, but the Unholy are notoriously inhospitable to strangers. They’re as loyal to their territory as they are to the members of their gang. If Malice’s hostility is anything to go on, I doubt they’ll be a red carpet rolled out for me.

  For a tiny town nestled in a valley of the Appalachian Mountains, Mayhem is as intimidating as Gomorrah. But where David constructed his kingdom with an eye for luxury, Mayhem is the decayed remains of a once-cozy hamlet thirty miles northeast of Scranton. When the Unholy took over, they demolished the abandoned Walmart and erected an imposing, single-story, black Gothic clubhouse in its footprint and christened it Sanctum.

  And like the Coliseum, Sanctum is this town’s beating heart.

  More than the Unholy’s hangout, it’s their haven.

  Growing up, I’d avoided it like the plague. Sanctum straight up scared me. There were always these colossal men coming and going. Men who looked like they ate the hearts of little kids for dinner. But my fear of me lessened once Wraith and I got close and he set me straight on what was rumor and what was fact about the Unholy. Not that what I learned about them was any less terrifying than fiction, but the more comfortable I was around Wraith, the less intimidating the Unholy became.

  But then everything went wrong, and well, here I am. Back home peeking out the window as we drive down Main Street. Past the red-light district, where neon signs ignite the north end of town. Pinks. Blues. Greens. Yellows. They flare off brick buildings painted equally bright colors. All except one—Devil’s Den. It’s a red-and-black standout among a vibrant, hedonistic paradise. It’s also the Unholy’s second home and dominates this area of Mayhem the way Sanctum commands the Southside.

  “Things look the same as when you left?”

  It’s early by Mayhem’s standards, with the sidewalks teeming with life. I keep my gaze fixed out the rectangular window, watching the activity when I answer Wraith. “Yes, everything is exactly as I remember.”

  A bit farther down and Main Street thins, with more breathing room between the buildings. We pass mom-and-pop shops, a Powersports showroom, and Blanche’s Diner—a staple since forever. When we reach the town square, I see a new white gazebo where the old, dilapidated one once stood. The supermarket and gas station seem newish, too. Nothing else has changed, though. It’s as if the world marched forward everywhere but here.

  With Jester at the wheel, Malice palms his cell. “Hey. We’re five minutes out.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Uneventful.” Pause. “Strung out and tired. Could use food.” Brief pause. “Yeah. Okay.” He hangs up and stuffs his phone in his jacket pocket.

  “What’d Crow say?” Jester asks.

  “He’s got pizza waiting for us.”

  “Thank fucking God,” Jester groans. “I’m starving.”

  “Come here.” Wraith is holding his arms out.

  I crawl over to him, having moved across the van to get a better view of Mayhem. “What?”

  He folds me into his embrace. “This is the calm before the storm.”

  “I know.” I trace my finger over his lower lip before I lean in for a quick kiss.

  “That was unexpected,” he says as I pull away.

  “Don’t get used to it. I’m not spontaneous.”

  “I am.”

  That’s all the warning he gives me.

  Wraith grabs the back of my neck and lowers his head. His kiss is nothing like the one I gave him. It sends a delicious burn through me that scorches every nerve. The heat settles between my legs and an almost painful pressure builds there, demanding Wraith’s touch.

  But he ends the kiss as quickly as it began. A wonderfully wicked grin plays on his mouth. “Don’t stoke the fire if you don’t want to get burned.”

  Good Lord.

  “That wasn’t nice,” I scold, breathless.

  “I’m never nice.”

  “I’ll consider myself warned.”

  Any playfulness dies a quick death when we reach Fourth Street. An old
panic crashes over me. But Jester turns right, thankfully. If he’d gone left, he would have taken us to the upper part of town. Buried in the interwoven network of roads is Vine Street. I haven’t seen the two-bedroom, one-bathroom shithole since I left my father dead on the kitchen floor. Being this near the house brings a torrent of memories back to me. Of my father soaked in liquor. His sloth of a body deepening the dent in the cushion of the hideous green couch. Him stumbling in through the front door, angry at the world. Taking out his frustrations on me. Leaving me broken on the dirty floor of our crappy little house, to clean up his mess only for him to make a bigger one during his next temper tantrum.

  I swore no matter where life took me, I would make sure it was in the opposite direction of Mayhem. Away from these memories. Away from the ghost of Billy Ellis. But here I am, right smack where I never wanted to be.

  “You good?”

  Wraith’s question pulls me out of my mind.

  “Yes.” I’m full of shit because I’m pretty much MacGyvering it, holding myself together with the equivalent of bubble gum and dental floss.

  If okay is here, I’m way over there. I can’t even see okay. I’ve never been okay and will likely never will be okay. Not entirely, anyway. What I suffered broke a piece of my brain and no amount of therapy has been able to fix the damage. But it is what it is, and I thought I made peace with it years ago. Seems I was wrong, because I’m holding Wraith as if he’s my lifeline.

  But hasn’t he always been my safe harbor whenever the wind blew too strong? And right now, the storm is raging.

  “Liar.”

  “Shut up,” I scold, but I do it with a smile.

  As we pass Sanctum, Wraith sits up taller to stare out the window, and his unguarded expression tells me how much he’s missed this town. Missed Sanctum, and his Unholy family.

  I can see only the top of the building rising from behind the high black wall. Unlike David’s kingdom, Sanctum’s gate protects its occupants. It doesn’t keep them prisoner.

  Security lights flood the yard, and as we drive by, the whine of dirt bike engines sound in the distance. Some gangs ride motorcycles. The Unholy favors dirt bikes, ATVs, snowmobiles… Anything with enough power to tear up Wayne County’s mountainous terrain.

  We go a little farther up the road, cross the Lackawaxen River by way of Pickers Bridge, and pull into a long, gravel driveway. Soon as the van rolls to a stop, Jester hops out and flings open the back doors. I’m stunned by the two-story white house perched on Tyler Cliff. It’s picturesque, reclusive, and the last place I expect Wraith to call home.

  Lit by the half-moon, Jester sweeps his arms toward the house. “Welcome home, kids.”

  The first rush of crisp mountain air is divine after being in the van for eighteen-ish hours. As I suck in the initial breath of Mayhem, I hide my apprehension when I notice a formidable figure marching toward us.

  Good Lord, the man is tremendous. His arrogance walks ten steps ahead of him. So does an air of violence. He’s a physical assault to the senses, and the closer he gets, the more I want to retreat deeper into the van. Not that there’s much farther I can go—nor am I the retreating sort.

  I can only assume this is Crow. By his appearance, I can see why he’s earned his rank. He is absolutely terrifying.

  “He’s not as scary as he looks,” Wraith says as he climbs out of the van.

  No? Then why do I feel the need to cross myself to ward off the hostility emanating from him?

  I take Wraith’s hand so he can help me out after him. “I’m not scared.”

  I’m sure I can be forgiven for this tiny lie.

  Jester comes up behind me and rubs my shoulders. “You’ve got to be stiff as hell after sitting back there all day.”

  We decided it was best if Wraith and I avoided the front seat and spent the entire ride hiding in the back. Not an unpleasant arrangement since it allowed us to stay lost in our private world for a little while. But reality is barreling toward us is the form of six-plus feet of intimidating Unholy.

  Wraith knocks Jester away from me. “Enough with the fucking hands on her.”

  Didn’t mind the massage, actually. Every muscle in my body is screaming and my back is on fire, but I’d sooner rip out my tongue than complain. Nor do I think it’s fair that Wraith and I resemble day-old roadkill, whereas Jester and Malice look fresh as daisies. True, we’ve been through it, but still. There should be some cosmic law that states no human can look that good after spending an entire day in a car.

  I grab my bag but underestimate my level of exhaustion. I stagger to the side from the weight. Instead of hitting the floor, I land in someone’s arms. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray Wraith caught me.

  Or Jester.

  I’ll even take Malice.

  I’m not that lucky.

  Because why not. I’m strewn across Crow’s arms, my dignity in shreds.

  I twist around and stare up at Crow. My first impression now that I’m up close and personal with the Unholy’s president? He’s astonishingly young for someone so powerful. Surely not more than mid-thirties at most. My second thought is that he’s remarkably handsome. All defined bone structure and dark goatee. The bald head and tattoos make him all the more menacing. Or is it the lethal edge in his gray eyes? Whatever it is, one thing is abundantly clear—this man looks like he’d have no problem slitting the throat of anyone stupid enough to get on his bad side.

  I summon what’s left of my pride and smile in the face of his glare. “You must be Crow.”

  “And you must be Jamie.”

  I suck in my lips and nod. “I am.”

  Crow sets me on my feet. I back up a step, but he comes forward and politely arranges my shirt so that’s it settled back in place. Hadn’t realized it rode up when I tumbled over. “It’s good to meet you, Jamie.”

  He gives me a long, hard stare, and just like that, I’m forgotten when his concern for Wraith takes precedence over everything else.

  His demeanor undergoes an instant change. He grabs Wraith. It’s not one of those masculine one-handed clap-on-the-back embraces. No, this is a full-on two-armed hug. And it lasts for a long while. Crow even buries his face in Wraith’s shoulder, like he’s fighting to hold back tears.

  When the moment passes, he sets Wraith at arm’s length. He gives him a once-over before leading him toward the house. “Christ, you don’t even have fucking shoes.”

  “We would have stopped to buy me a pair, but I wanted to get home.”

  They walk ahead, with Crow giving Wraith the quick and dirty version of six months’ worth of search efforts, and how no one wanted to believe he was dead.

  Malice snatches my backpack and shoves me forward. Then he snarls when I scowl at him for manhandling me. “What? You want to stay out here all night, or do you want a shower and food?”

  I release a long, drawn-out sigh. “But do you always have to be nasty?”

  “Yes.”

  I roll my eyes. “Good to know.” I nod at my bag slung over his shoulder. “Thank you for carrying it.”

  He grunts, and I take it as his way of saying, You’re welcome.

  Jester is the last one in, and as we file through the lower level toward the stairs, I see the interior is a masculine contrast to the charming exterior. Inside is stark, with a black leather sofa, two gaming chairs, and a giant flatscreen television. There are a few motocross magazines scattered on the dark-wood coffee table and not much else. But what did I expect? Throw pillows? Knickknacks? Candles? I doubt Wraith shops at Target for cute home decor.

  After a climb up the stairs, we make the short walk down the hallway to the master bedroom. The room is small and clean, and lit by a single floor lamp. I find a quiet corner and make myself one with it, doing what I do best—blend into the background. It’s hard not feel overwhelmed by four behemoth men taking up most of the space.

  A glance around the room gives me zero insight into the adult version of the boy I’ve loved all of my life. It�
��s as dark and masculine as the downstairs, and devoid of a personal touch. It is, however, dominated by a king-sized bed I’m sure has seen more action than a porno prop. It’s like Jester said, Wraith is an Unholy, and they’re not only infamous for their violence, they’re also brazen man-whores.

  I shift my gaze to Wraith as he tugs off the hoodie and drops it on the floor. I hide my cringe at the sight of his torso. His body is a roadmap of suffering. He’s covered in scars. His Unholy tattoo will need to be fixed where it looks like David tried to gouge the lettering clean out of the skin.

  To me, though, Wraith is the same beautiful boy I remember from when we were sixteen. Only now he’s perfectly imperfect. The marks add to his beauty, confirming an unequaled strength and fortitude that is absolutely breathtaking.

  He is, in the truest sense of the word, remarkable.

  Wraith heaves out a heavy sigh and scrubs a hand over his stubbled face. “I stink.”

  Jester’s laughter breaks the tension. “Fuck yeah, you do. Had to suffer that stank for eighteen goddamn hours.”

  Wraith peers around the room. “Where’s Jamie?”

  “I’m here,” I say from my unassuming spot in the corner.

  His gaze finds me, but he says nothing. Simply stares at me for a silent eternity then turns to Crow. “Thanks for keeping everyone away.”

  “Not a problem.” Crow nods at Wraith’s chest. “Figured you wanted privacy.”

  Wraith shuffles over to the black dresser and pulls out clothes. I watch how his friends track him. Crow’s jaw is locked, his eyes hard and angry. Malice looks downright hostile. His gaze flicks over me, and I want to become one with the drywall.

  Only once Wraith is in the bathroom does Crow drag a hand over his smoothly shaven head and hiss out a string of curses.

  Malice drops a hand on his shoulder. “No shit.”

  Jester jerks his chin at me. “From what her friend told us, the worst of it was right before she got him out of there.”