by Addison Jane
I learned my lesson last time.
He didn’t like to wait.
Especially not on me.
Club whores didn’t make patched members wait. We ran on their time.
If their time says 3:00 p.m. and yours says 2:55 p.m., you’re wrong. And you better make sure you’re there five minutes fucking early.
I was wheezing when I finally reached the bar. My head felt like it was spinning, and I thought for a moment I might actually pass out if I couldn’t get some more air into my lungs quickly. Dazed, I stepped off the curb and a car shot by barely missing me with its wing mirror and blaring hard on its horn.
I took a moment—one I couldn’t really afford, but that I desperately needed—before I checked the street again and decided to cross. My stomach was twisting more and more with every step, it was actually becoming painful.
Unconsciously, my feet carried me to the front door of the run-down, but reasonably popular, establishment. I caught sight of Laken who was working behind the bar and serving just the two customers—old guys who looked like they could barely hold their drinks, let alone lift them to their mouths and swallow.
She turned toward me when she heard the door swing shut, and her hand went to her chest as she inhaled what seemed like a relieved breath.
I walked forward, one forced step after another.
“He’s gonna kill me,” I murmured, stopping beside my friend.
To anyone else, they would have probably laughed it off as being dramatic or just trying to emphasize how much shit I was in. But Laken and I both knew that those words, they were no fucking joke.
“He’s not here yet,” she said quietly, her eyes shifting around. My heart leaped into my throat, and I followed her scrutinizing gaze. “There’s no members on the floor, and no one saw you come in, so as far as you or I are concerned, you’ve been here since three.”
Thank fuck.
I think I’m gonna be sick.
Laken and I had each other’s backs for a long time. She started working at the clubhouse not long after I did, leaving the stripper life behind. I still wasn’t sure why she was here, what it was that Crow was dangling over her head like a noose, but it didn’t matter. She watched out for me, I watched out for her. We fought through this nonexistence together because when you sold yourself to the club, you were no longer classed as a human being.
Nope.
You gave up your freedom, your right to have a say, your right to be acknowledged as a person.
“Thanks,” I murmured in relief. I rushed around to the other side of the bar and grabbed my apron and order book trying to remind myself that everything was going to be okay.
In my head, though, I could see the glee on Crow’s face, how it would light up knowing he’d caught me out, and how he’d be ready to delight in punishing me for it.
That was the way our relationship worked—if you could call it that.
I fought hard to follow the rules, to hold up my end of the bargain, and to not hate myself everytime I let one of these heartless, cowardly bastards touch me. And in return, Crow tried every way possible to break me down, smothering the spark that kept me fighting and keeping his foot pressed right against my pulse—sometimes literally.
It was a couple of hours later at the bar when it really started to pick up. Friday nights were one of our craziest, and at the end of the night, I’d usually been touched by so many men that I wanted to scrub my skin off.
Crow had come in, not saying a word to anyone but looking pretty fucking annoyed, and disappeared out the back to his office. I’d already heard him yell at two of his men about incompetence and making their lives hell, so I took that as a clue he was in a bad mood and decided that now was a pretty good time not to rock the boat and keep my head as far down as possible.
This wasn’t the only legal business the club owned, but the ones they did definitely weren’t the ones making them money. I’m sure Crow only had them so he looked more fucking important than he actually was.
If there was one thing I’d learned about Crow over these past almost five years, it was that he talked a big fucking game, and he was good at it. But when it came down to the details, things began to fall apart, his word became the shit stain on your shoe, and if he felt threatened or exposed, he would do whatever possible to make sure that never came to light.
Whatever possible.
REPO
I sat on my bike outside the church. Music played inside. The voices of the many people who had come to this morning’s service were so strong the walls of this huge stone building couldn’t contain them.
The place almost reminded me of a castle, built magnificent and strong as if it was some kind of fortress. I guess if you asked the people inside, they might tell you it was. It was a fortress where they went to fight their sins and protect themselves from the devil. For a lot of people, church was their salvation. It’s the place they go for guidance, or maybe a place they go to feel safe and gain some kind of acceptance. And at one stage of my life, I probably would have told you the exact same thing.
It was the same church I’d spent every Sunday from the day I was born until I turned sixteen.
It was a big part of who I was, a significant piece of my life and history.
But not in the way you might think.
Because this church hadn’t been my escape from the devil—it was where he and I first got acquainted.
My heavy boots tapped on the concrete, and I rolled my shoulders, fighting to ease some of the tension which was building in my muscles. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
Twenty-eight years old, six foot three and two hundred something odd pounds, and this place still made me feel sick to my stomach whenever I got to within a mile of it.
I couldn’t leave, though, since my brother had called and told me it was urgent. And when my family called, I dropped everything to get to them.
He was still very much involved in the church.
I walked away from this life over ten years ago, but I didn’t walk away from him. And despite the choices I made and the destruction that followed, he didn’t walk away from me either. We simply had a mutual respect for each other’s choices. Because that was what family did, they accepted you, they loved you, and they backed you despite your flaws.
The two sets of double doors flew open, a couple of young guys hooking them back, and the congregation stepped out into the hot Dallas sun. They were all dressed in their Sunday best, women and girls in long flowing bright dresses, and the men and boys in dress pants and button-up shirts, their hair slicked back and their demeanor reserved and respectful.
One by one they looked up and caught sight of me sitting on my motorcycle at the end of the path. One by one they grabbed their children and hurried to get by me, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
“Wow,” one little boy exclaimed, ducking around several people and jogging straight up to me with his mouth hanging open. He must have been around eight or nine. His scraggy blond hair whipped back and forth across his face. He swiped at it with his hand, but it never distracted him from the intense focus in his eyes. He stumbled to a sudden stop, his mouth turning up into an excited grin as he took in my custom-designed Harley Davidson. Silently, he took another slow and cautious step forward and stuck his nose up close to the chrome, twisting his head from side to side admiring his reflection. “This is so cool.”
I chuckled, pushing off the seat of my bike where I was resting and getting to my feet. “Thanks, little man. Careful you don’t burn your nose, that chrome gets hot.”
He didn’t even look up, his eyes too glued to my motorcycle. “It would so be worth it.”
“I dunno. If your mom—”
“Liam! Get away from there,” a voice screeched, the sound followed closely by the rapid clip-clop of heels.
“—would feel the same,” I finished with an eye roll.
Her eyes watched me cautiously as she stomped forward and grabbed hold of her so
n’s hand, squeezing it so tightly that his entire body tensed in pain. “You know better than to run off like that,” she scolded as she dragged him back.
He struggled against her hold, tears welling in the kid's eyes. “But, Mom, look at this motorbike! It’s so cool. Don’t you think it’s cool! I want one when I grow up.”
The expression on her face was purely comical, and I covered my smile with my hand, fighting the urge in my gut to say something and stir the judgmental pot. Her eyes practically bulged out of their sockets like a cartoon character, and her jaw almost hit the concrete. “You will do no such thing.”
She looked over at me again, and when I caught her eye, I grinned widely and winked. Because I was that kind of bastard. She gasped and practically lifted her son off the ground and took off running.
I wanted to laugh, but it was the look of complete and utter devastation on that little boy’s face that was like a punch in the gut. That kid knew what he wanted, the passion and excitement in his eyes was pure and obvious, and honestly, when we find something which excites us as much as that, we should pursue it. Those things, they give us life and they give us purpose, and it’s through the things we love that we discover who we are. But only if we are given the opportunities.
He was never going to be given that opportunity, and for a moment, I had to wonder whether it was partially my fault. It wasn’t the motorcycle that stood behind me which scared that lady. Motorcycles are beautiful, they’re sleek and powerful.
They represent strength.
She saw none of that.
All she saw was me.
If I’d been some kind of lawyer or accountant or doctor, things would have been different.
But I wasn’t. I was a thug, I was a menace, and I was pretty sure every single member of this church knew I was a criminal. And not just any criminal—I was the kid who murdered the pastor.
“Uncle Micah!” The excited squeal of my twin niece and nephew had every single head turning toward the church doors. They shoved their way through, ducking and diving between the legs of people who’d stopped to chat and others who had seen me at the end of the path and weren’t really sure what to make of me.
The twins ignored them all and ran at full force down the path. I stepped forward, away from my bike and crouched down, bracing myself for the impact. Every time I saw them, it was like a battle—whether they could knock me over and force me onto my back. At first, it had been amusing, but they were getting close to six years old now, and they weren’t the shrimps I used to carry around on each shoulder anymore.
The two little bodies plowed into me, and for a moment I thought I might actually tumble over, but before I did, I quickly scrambled to my feet hoisting the two giggling children with me.
“That’s cheating,” Clover protested through her laughter.
Camden was far more aggressive in his approach, beating his hands against my back. “Put me down, gigantor!”
I chuckled loudly but bent over and placed them on the ground.
“One day soon, they’re gonna win.”
I looked up to see my brother walking down the path with a grin, shaking his head. Josiah was four years younger than me, but we’d always been really close. “You’re dreaming,” I scoffed, but I knew he was right. They were. And it was probably going to be sooner than I thought.
“Hey, Micah,” Josiah’s wife, Sarah, called, jogging down the path after her husband while waving. She smiled widely as she ducked around my brother and reached up to me. With her hands on either side of my face, I ducked my head down allowing her to press her lips to my forehead before she pulled back with a wide grin.
Sarah had been around since we were kids. She knew me, and was very aware of the one thing I couldn’t stand—having someone’s hands on my body. There were different situations, different levels to it, but at the highest level, the idea of someone touching me without me first preparing myself or giving permission was a great way to fast track me losing my shit. The raging storm of anxiety was constantly swirling in my stomach ready to explode at any moment, especially in situations where there were a lot of people around.
The twins, themselves, they’d always been different too. I’d held them since they were babies. I couldn’t have them in my arms for long before the anxiousness started, but it didn’t set me off like other situations did.
“You look well,” Sarah commented with a gentle smile, taking two steps back and slipping in under Josiah’s arm.
I snorted, scratching at my unkempt face and the stubble I’d allowed to grow. “Yeah, all right.”
“She’s just trying to be nice,” Josiah teased with a smirk. “You look like a dirty biker.”
“Well, fucking fancy that,” I deadpanned, narrowing my eyes at him. “Where’s your usual gaggle of church women?”
Josiah never missed church. Which meant he was a dedicated young man who attracted the attention of most of the older women. They appreciated his dedication, and these women in particular, they didn’t look at me sideways when they passed by.
They were godly women who believed in supporting and caring for your community. They were fierce and intimidating southern moms and grandmas who took no shit and spoke their mind. And despite the stereotypes, they didn’t judge and they didn’t assume, and the one thing they demanded was respect no matter who you were. They didn’t give a damn whether you were a businessman or a fucking biker, black, white, or green, they would treat you just the same.
“They’re helping the pastor with some stuff to do with next month’s fair,” Josiah explained quickly. “If it’s good with you, can we head to my office and have a chat before several of them come out and demand our presence at lunch.”
I raised my brow at my little brother.
He was nervous.
His eyes were moving, and his hand was gripped tightly to Sarah’s waist.
“What’s going on? What was so urgent that you needed me down here?” I growled, the emotions swirling around him making me suddenly more alert and on edge. “You in trouble?”
“Come on, kids,” Sarah cut in, quickly pulling away and rounding up the two six-year-olds who were still dancing around our feet playing tag. She grabbed their hands before looking over her shoulder at Josiah and forcing a tight smile. “Be safe, we’ll meet you at home when you’re done.”
Before I could question what the hell Sarah was talking about, she was gone, rushing the twins down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.
“Jo…”
He swallowed tightly, his Adam's apple bobbing.
My brother was confident.
He’d been through more shit as a kid than any fucking child should be put through, and come out the other side with a positive attitude and an outlook on life that screamed nothing can break me.
Yet, right at that moment, I could tell he was scared, and the protective instincts I had were starting to swirl inside my body, ready to do whatever the fuck I needed to in order to keep him safe.
“Come on. I’ll grab the car, you can follow.”
And I would.
Because it didn’t matter what he was about to ask me.
If he was in trouble, there was a high possibility someone was going to die today.
KENNEDY
“Kenz, can you take the table over in the corner?”
I looked up from the till to see three drunk guys in disheveled business suits collapse into the corner booth. You didn’t see many men in suits around these parts.
This was a biker bar.
A biker bar in the shittiest part of St. George, Utah. And the bikers here didn’t take too kindly to men who weren’t their kind.
“This looks like a disaster waiting to happen.” I sighed, screwing up my nose as I reached for my notepad.
Laken reached out as she passed by, balancing an entire tray of drinks on one hand. Our eyes met. “Be careful, it looks like they’re already a little rowdy, and if they piss off the wrong person, shit’s gonna hit t
he fan.”
She was right. It looked like they’d already had a few drinks too many, throwing their bodies around, talking loudly and being far too fucking obnoxious for my liking. But I was used to a clubhouse full of obnoxious, so this was just another fucking day in hell.
“It’s fine,” I told Laken with a confident smile. “I’ll handle the Three Stooges.”
She didn’t look so convinced but hurried off anyway, her eyes looking back at me a couple of times as I made my way over to the suits.
“Hey, blondie,” one of the assholes in question called out when I was a mere couple of feet from the table. “Bring us some fucking ale!”
I pursed my lips together and forced a smile, acknowledging them with a wave. “Sure, three beers?”
The guy closest to me, he looked like he was the youngest. The other two had a slight shadow covering their jawlines, while this kid was clean shaven and looked like he should be in fucking high school and not drinking in a bar. “What’s your name?” he crooned, licking his lips and winking at me like we had some kind of special connection.
“My name’s Kennedy,” I answered with a forced smile I knew looked real as fucking hell because I’d spent years and fucking years perfecting my acting skills. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” I was at the point now where I fucking deserved some kind of Emmy or Oscar.
Within a couple minutes, I was back with a tray of drinks placing it on the table and handing out each beer. They were all laughing and joking, playing some ridiculous fucking game with a small pocket knife where they spread out their fingers and tried to stab the knife into the table between each finger space. Each time they did it, they got faster and faster and honestly, I should have run while they were occupied, but I was so mesmerized by their stupidity, I stood for a few seconds longer and watched the blond kid become so fucking close to losing a digit.
He threw his hands up in victory as he made the last pass over his hand without a single drop of blood being spilled.
