“Don’t leave. The club will help you out. We’re your family,” she says, reaching out to wrap her hand around my forearm for comfort.
I know that she’s been really sweet, helpful, and kind, but she doesn’t know shit. I let out a humorless laugh and shake my head.
“I don’t need the clubs help,” I snort.
“Don’t leave like this,” she whispers.
“I envy you. A man like you’ve got, who obviously loves the hell out of you and would do anything to keep from hurting you, it’s more than I’ve ever had. I want to hate you, but you’re too damn sweet,” I laugh softly. “I’m glad you have MadDog, but please, don’t put Soar in the same category.”
I open my car door and slide inside, start the engine, and drive to my parent’s house. I leave everything in Shasta, not wanting one single memory to come with me.
Sloane’s fancy ass muscle car is in the garage of our house, as is everything else of ours. He can throw my stuff away, or give it to one of his whores. I don’t give a shit anymore.
Sloane McKinley Huntington, III, is nothing but the past.
SOAR
“I’m sorry, man,” MadDog says as he sits across from me.
It’s visiting day. I’m stuck in fucking prison for a minimum of the next three years on a drug charge. It’s my own fault. I knew how much was too much to have on me, but I did it anyway. I was high and cocky. Now that I’m in forced sobriety, I can see a bit clearer.
I fucked up.
Big time.
“Why? Because I’m in here? Brother, I did this shit to myself,” I laugh humorously as I lean back in my chair.
“No, Genny,” he says. I sit up a bit straighter.
“She okay?” I ask as my heartrate speeds up and panic begins to consume me.
I haven’t heard from her, but that doesn’t surprise me. My woman, my wife, she’s a bit temperamental, high strung, and high fucking maintenance, among other things.
I’ve known her since she was a pretty little fifteen-year-old, and I snatched her up quick. I saw the way the other thoroughbreds in school were eyeing her. No way would she be with them. My blonde-haired sunshine needed wild freedom.
I just didn’t know that we’d eventually be semi-miserable together. Love her, but the woman grates on my goddamn nerves sometimes. I hide out until she’s over whatever snit she gets into, then I sweet-talk her down, and it’s all good again for a while.
It’s a cycle.
“Don’t know. The day Torch came back and said you’d been hauled away, she said she was getting shot of you and she left. We’ve been keeping eyes on your place, but she hasn’t come back, not even for her shit. We’ve had to up our security on the Old Ladies, shit is in limbo. Brother, we got no clue where she is.”
I close my eyes for a beat. She wouldn’t need her shit. She has enough money to buy herself a new outfit every day for the rest of her life and never repeat it. I know where she’s gone. She’s gone back to Frisco, back to her parents, back to society.
Fuck.
“Don’t worry about her,” I say with a shrug, trying not to look as affected as I feel.
“Soar...”
Clearing my throat, I mutter, “Seriously, Pres. She’s got so much fuckin’ security where she’s at, she’s safer than the fucking president.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, Pres. I’m sure.”
MadDog leaves a few minutes later, leaving a photograph on the table. I snatch it up before I’m taken back to my cell. I look at the photo. It’s a picture of Genny. Imogen. She’s about twenty-one in it. She’s smiling, but the expression doesn’t reach her eyes.
That’s my fault.
She hasn’t been happy since the day she walked in on me fucking a whore while I was high off my ass. It’s not that I want to hurt her, but fuck, nothing I ever do has made her happy.
I bought her a house. It’s about a quarter of the size house she grew up in. It’s not fancy and perfect, but honest to fuck, I don’t give a shit about that material stuff, so I didn’t think she would either. She started complaining about it almost immediately. She wanted to build something bigger and fancier, but I told her no.
Then she wanted me to come home every night. I have shit to do at the club, I couldn’t come home every night. I was young, and I wanted to party—she didn’t, so I left her ass at home.
She’d accuse me of cheating constantly, and started holding out on me as a form of punishment. I hadn’t actually done anything with another woman, until she kept accusing me of it. We’d been married for two years when she started that shit.
That was when I actually started fucking clubwhores.
I hadn’t been with another woman in over five years. I stooped, I fucked the bitch out of spite and anger. I didn’t get caught, so I kept doing it.
It was just another high for me to chase. When she caught me, she threatened to leave. I charmed her back to me, and she stayed.
It became a game; it was a high. I played her, and played with her. I pushed her as far as I could, manipulated her anyway that I could.
The fucker of it all was that I liked it. She didn’t show emotion, she was cold as ice sometimes, so I’d push, and push until she was at her breaking point. Then I’d reel her ass back in, with a fucking victorious smile.
Now that I’m sober, I realize that it wasn’t rational or even fucking nice, but I did it nonetheless. I was high, and the drugs, the women, and fucking with her were all highs I chased.
Fuck, I’m always chasing the next head change.
Always.
The realization that I’m so much like my own father, it slaps me in the face and makes me sick. He does the same shit, just in a different way. The fucking apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I hate myself for it.
Now, Genny’s gone and I’m stuck here. No charming her, or sweet-talking her back home anytime soon— at least not for the next three years.
Fuck.
Chapter One
THREE YEARS LATER
SOAR
“How’s it feel?” MadDog asks as I step into the sunshine.
“Fuckin’ good, brother,” I murmur as the heat of the sun pounds down on me.
It’s not as if I haven’t been outside in the sun these past three years. It’s more like I haven’t been outside of the prison’s gates. Now I’m free.
Free.
Fuck.
I didn’t think the day would come. Thirty-eight years old and I just wasted three years of my life behind bars because I had too much dope on me. Intent to sell.
Luckily, the guys have been keeping me posted on the goings on in the club. The Aryan’s are pretty much taken care of, and one of the guys from the Russian mafia cut off the head of the El Patron, the head of The Cartel.
Our club has been busy; but for the past year, they’ve been breathing easy, making money working with the Russians, and enjoying life, all while my fuck up has kept me locked up.
“Ready to get back to the club,” I grunt.
He lifts his chin and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I wonder what he’s concerned with. I look around for our bikes but I’m surprised when he heads toward his truck. My brows snap together and I climb inside after he unlocks the doors.
“No bikes?” I ask after he gets inside and starts the engine.
“Thought we’d talk a little,” he shrugs. I nod, looking straight out of the windshield.
“Hit me, brother.”
“What’s your life look like now that you’re out?” he asks simply.
I shrug, “I have to stay clean for the next three years. I’m on probation.”
“Your personal life?” he asks after he nods.
“You mean Genny?”
He grunts, “Still your Old Lady until you say otherwise.”
“She’s gone—doesn’t want me back. Don’t see any sense in fighting that shit. She’s too hard, anyway,” I murmur.
The words come out easy enough, but
I feel as though I’m being ripped in two just by saying them. Truth is, I miss her. I’ve missed her for years, and I was the reason she changed. It was all me. I fucked her up and fucked her over, which fucked us up.
I don’t deserve her.
I’ve been sober for three years, and I’ve had time to think about all the shit I did to her, all the games I played and the way I continued hurting her over and over. I’m a piece of shit. If I stay away from her maybe, just maybe, she can find a little happiness after the years of misery I dished out to her.
“If it were easy it wouldn’t be worth the payout in the end,” MadDog states.
“Not the same people we were when we met.”
I think about her anger and hesitancy the first time I charmed myself back into her bed. I’d been high and she caught me screwing a clubwhore.
She was devastated, broken. I didn’t want to see her hurting anymore, because of me, because of what I did. I was numb, but seeing her hurting twisted me up inside.
I had to make it better, I had to make her smile again. When she did, when she accepted my apology and let me back inside, I felt like a goddamn king. It started a cycle, a cycle that I couldn’t fucking break for the next decade, no matter how many times I tried.
I fucking tried too, more than once; but goddamn self-sabotage is no fucking joke.
“Not the same man I was when I met Mary-Anne either, and that was only a few years ago,” he announces, breaking me out of my thoughts. I turn to face him and he continues to talk. “I still don’t deserve Mary, never have and never will. For whatever asinine reason, she loves my old ass. She loves me enough to marry me, have my babies, and put up with my shit. Think maybe Genny put up with a lot of shit from you over the years to prove she loves you, too.”
“I hate how much fucking sense you make when you get all philosophical,” I grumble.
“Just telling you the truth, kid,” he laughs.
I turn back to the windshield before I speak again, “It’s been three years. She never tried to contact me, and I never reached out to her, either. I fucked her up, man.”
“She serve you those divorce papers?” he asks as we pull into the clubhouse parking lot.
“No,” I admit.
Closing my eyes, I think about MadDog’s words. Can I change enough for Genny to be able to forgive me? Can that urge to find a high, be tamped down enough to be a good enough man for her, to make her happy?
“Maybe all ain’t lost then?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Pretty sure it is, but who the fuck knows.”
“Enjoy your welcome home party, Soar. We’re glad as fuck to have you back—but think about this conversation, yeah?” he rumbles.
I turn to face my president—the man I’ve looked up to since I was an eighteen-year-old kid, a kid who thought he was tough shit. MadDog proved I wasn’t as badass as I thought I was. While it pissed me off when he did it, I grew up a little more each and every time.
Twenty years later, I still feel like a punk-assed kid. He’s not really knocking me on my ass anymore; but his conversation on the way here, about Genny, about how she obviously loved me all those years I put her through hell, that has definitely thrown me for a loop.
“Thanks for the ride, Pres,” I mumble.
His words continue to dance around in my head, even as I walk through the clubhouse doors. I can’t shake them. I walk over to the bar and am greeted by my brothers with slaps on my back and tequila shots. I smile and do the shots, one right after the other. It feels hollow. I feel hollow.
Fuck.
Nothing’s the same.
Genny’s gone. Some of my brothers have started settling down and having kids. I’m surprised to see Torch with his arm wrapped tightly around his woman, Cleo, her belly heavy with pregnancy. Teeny is standing next to Mammoth, pregnant as well. Mary-Anne walks up to me and wraps me in a hug.
“Welcome home,” she says sweetly.
“You look good, babe,” I say.
“Oh, I look fat,” she says waving me off. “I’m pregnant again, if Max didn’t tell you,” she grins and my eyes widen.
“Number three?” I ask in surprise. They’ve only been married about four years.
“Number three. The final one,” she laughs. “Riley and Finley keep me on my toes enough. I can’t do anymore after this,” she says shaking her head.
“Do you know what it is yet?” I ask.
Tears shine in her eyes before she whispers, “Just found out. A boy.” Riley and Finley are baby girls, so I can tell she’s excited for a boy.
“Happy for you,” I murmur, wrapping her in my arms.
She looks up at me, biting the corner of her lip before she whispers. “Are you bringing Genny home, Soar?”
I shake my head. “Don’t know, Mary,” I murmur. She grabs my forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze as her kind eyes roam over my face. “Bring her home, Soar.”
My chest aches at her plea. Bring her home. She wouldn’t have me if I tried. I need to forget her, save her from me and my brand of fucked up.
“Ready for a show?” Camo asks, interrupting our exchange and my thoughts. I’m pleased as fuck. Mary’s pleading eyes are too fucking much.
“What?”
“Serina and Grease,” he grins.
I cringe as I see them. Serina is Grease’s Old Lady now, but he shares her—liberally. Not a dynamic I could get down on, but they are certainly putting on a show and not giving a flying fuck. I sway as I stand up from my seated position.
It’s getting later and later. The room is starting to thin out as I continue to talk to my brothers and drink. Fuck. There’s so much tequila being thrown at me. I’ll probably still be drunk for the next three days.
Then the girls start to show off, and I smile as a new girl makes her way toward me. She’s a cute young thing. Looking at her, an image of Genny fills my mind.
I try to ignore it.
She’s not here, she’s not waiting for me, and this time I’m doing nothing wrong. This time it’s not a head change, I’m chasing, it’s not me being fucked up and falling down the rabbit hole, this is just a good time, nothing else.
“My name’s Destini,” she whispers as she straddles my lap before she takes her top off.
My eyes widen when she bares her tits for me. Then she gives me a coy smile before everything goes black.
IMOGEN
“He got out today,” Kip says. His voice is deeper sounding through the phone.
Kipling Huntington is Sloane’s little brother, eighteen years old, and already accepted into Harvard University. He’s the exact opposite of his big brother, and yet he loves Sloane with everything he is. He looks up to him. I’m not sure why. Kip is going places. Sloane is probably only going back to prison sometime in the future.
“Are you going to see him?” I ask.
“You know I can’t,” he mutters. “They have trackers on my car and monitor my every fucking move,” he murmurs, sounding more like his brother than he should.
“Your graduation party is next weekend,” I point out.
“He won’t come.”
“I’ll be there, though,” I whisper.
Kip is like my own little brother. I’ve known him since he was a baby. I’m an only child, and he’s the closest I’ll probably have to a sibling in my life.
I’m so damn proud of him for graduating high school with honors, and being accepted to Harvard. He’s going to become a wonderful man, and he’s going to take over their father’s company. I know, with his drive, he’s going to be so incredibly successful.
“Yeah, with Graham,” he grumbles.
“What’s wrong with Graham?” I ask, arching an eyebrow that he can’t see.
“I like you with Sloane,” he states. I swear, I can see his shoulder shrug and his furrowed brow in my head.
“Sorry, Kippy,” I whisper.
“Me too. Anyway, I thought you should know he’s out or whatever,” he mutters.
; “Thanks.”
I end the call and then walk over to the door that leads to my upper balcony. I bought a house in San Francisco a few months after I left Shasta. It was built in 1928, but it’s been newly renovated, with panoramic views and a contemporary and modern inside.
It’s gorgeous, but four thousand square feet and seven bedrooms of empty. I don’t know why I decided I needed all of the space. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman separated from her husband and childless, living completely alone.
Kipling was right when he said I had Graham, but he was also wrong at the same time. I don’t really have Graham. Not because he wouldn’t want it, he would—but I don’t feel anything for him. I’m seeing him because he’s in business with my father, he’s my age, he’s handsome, and he’s ready to settle down.
When Graham touches me, I feel absolutely nothing. When Sloane even looked at me, I felt absolutely everything. Maybe that was my problem. Maybe I just felt too much for Sloane, it made me stupid.
Being with him was exhilarating, and the highs were off the charts; but the lows, they were the lowest I have ever felt before. There was no middle of the road with him, always extremes. With Graham, it’s all middle of the road. No high and no lows. It’s all easy and, well—boring.
I pick up my phone and call the dress shop. I have a fitting today for the dress I’ll be wearing to Kip’s graduation party. No matter what my status with Sloane, I will attend the party, as will my parents and the rest of society.
The first party I attended without Sloane at my side, there were whispers, pointing, and staring. Even though Sloane hated society, he always went to his parents’ yearly New Year’s Eve parties, or any event they had for Kip.
Then we always attended my parents’ summer event, something he probably only did for me, so that I wouldn’t bitch and scream and act totally crazy—something I had been known to do on occasion throughout our marriage.
Sitting down on the patio furniture, I lean back and close my eyes. That disappointment washes over me for the millionth time. It doesn’t go away. It always comes to me, and I always feel a wave of guilt and sadness.
The Notorious Devils MC: Complete Collection BoxSet Page 144