CAGED: GODS OF CHAOS (BOOK TEN) (Gods of Chaos MC 10)

by Honey Palomino

  CAGED

  GODS OF CHAOS MOTORCYCLE CLUB

  BOOK TEN

  HONEY PALOMINO

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 HONEY PALOMINO

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WORLDWIDE

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for entertainment purposes only. This book contains mature content and is intended for adults only.

  CAGED

  GODS OF CHAOS MC, BOOK TEN

  BY HONEY PALOMINO

  “Insanity is relative. It all depends on who has who locked in what cage.”

  ~Ray Bradbury

  PROLOGUE

  “Tell us about your name,” the reporter suggested, pushing his spectacles back up his pointy nose. “Why did you choose ‘Mona Superhero’? That’s quite a moniker.”

  “Because I am a superhero.”

  “I see,” he nodded, a smug smile spreading across his face. “What’s your superpower?”

  Sitting quietly, Mona gazed back at him intensely, the directness of her gaze slicing right through him. He shifted in his seat, knowing he couldn’t hide his nervousness but he tried anyway.

  She leaned forward — slowly, seductively, her elbows lightly resting on her bare knees, flashing him a quiet, charming smile. He swallowed hard, a small bead of sweat popping up on his brow. Her lips were like plump pink pillows and he struggled to avert his eyes.

  “Persuasion,” she drawled, the word sliding across those pillowy lips like silk.

  “Excuse me?” he muttered, his foot twitching, his fingers trembling.

  “Nobody can say no to me,” she whispered.

  “Is that right?” he asked, nodding slowly. His eyes raked over her thin frame, her limbs lanky and seemingly endless. Shiny black hair shorn close to her face framed her beauty in a boyish, youthful line that showcased the sharpness of her high cheekbones.

  But it was her eyes that held her true power.

  A rich shade of dark hazel, they sparkled with life. They told a story.

  Behind that brilliant color, there was so much there.

  Mona was so much more than a pretty face.

  She drew you in. With one look, one sly smile, one feminine flick of her wrist, and you were hypnotized.

  Hooked.

  You wanted more.

  As soon as she turned her attention on you, you were done for.

  And yet, the silly man tried to resist. They always do at first.

  They feel that pull and they pull back. It’s instinctive. Like a ritualistic, ancient dance of the sexes. They couldn’t help but try to fight her charms. The fact that she spoke of it so bluntly, owned it, accepted it and turned it into her greatest strength — using it against them so boldly — only intensified their need to prove that they were immune to her spell.

  The reporter squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest, willing himself to reject her magnetism. Of course, he’d already been struck. As soon as they’d sat down to talk, he’d melted into her. Pulling himself back out would require a Herculean effort.

  And he was no Hercules.

  It felt like he imagined quick sand might feel, he decided eventually. He wrestled away from his emotions, imagining himself pulling out of it until the depths overpowered him.

  His efforts proved useless and Mona watched, predictively bored with the same old game that played out in front of her over and over. She longed for someone to prove her wrong. She longed for someone to challenge her, to make a ripple in the ocean of all the easy prey she’d left for dead at her feet, their bones picked clean and discarded with unenthusiastic disdain.

  She was certain there was more to life than this.

  Her life was filled with wonder and art, but the unending submission to her every need by each person she came into contact with was becoming monotonous.

  She needed more.

  She needed more action.

  A little resistance, just to spice things up.

  She needed chaos.

  And she knew she’d never find what she was looking for in a simple man. What she craved was much more epic than what one mere man could offer.

  Looking over at the reporter with a smile, she could see the recognition of his powerlessness wash over him. His shoulders slumped, his eyes softened in acceptance, and he nodded slowly.

  “I see,” he said.

  She almost laughed. But it wasn’t funny — it was slightly pathetic. Hell, she’d not even given him anything to rebel against and he’d tried anyway. All she had to do was put it out there and they fell at her feet before she could even get another word out.

  Who could blame her for being bored?

  The man did his best to recover, though, and she had to admire him for that.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years, Ms. Superhero?”

  With a serene smile, she beamed over at him, her eyes full of hope for her future. She was excited. She had plans. She crossed her hands in her lap, a tattoo on each knuckle, spelling out ‘MISS MONA’ when she placed them together.

  “I own an old ghost town near Mt. Hood. A tiny little strip of buildings, really, but it’s all mine.” Her eyes beamed with pride as she continued. “In five years, I will have handpicked each person in the town to surround myself with. In five years, all of this will be gone,” she gestured to the gallery they were sitting in, the walls adorned with her art, waiting like patient soldiers to be unveiled later that evening in the most anticipated art show of the year in Portland.

  “That sounds quaint,” the man replied, “the town I mean. What makes you think all of this will be gone, though?”

  “The end is coming,” she said, her eyes clouding over. She didn’t like it more than anyone else did, but she knew it was true. She knew it deep in her bones, the same way she knew the strength of her power. “When it comes, I’ll be prepared. I’ll have everything and everyone I need.”

  “I see,” the man said, reaching up to loosen his collar. Heat rushed to his face as he realized he’d been staring at her lips this entire time.

  “And what do you need, Ms. Superhero?”

  “Love, family, safety,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s what we all need, don’t you agree?”

  “I do,” he nodded. “And have you found those things?”

  “Not yet,” she smiled serenely, a feeling of sweet anticipation washing over her. “But I will soon.”

  “The New York Times has crowned you the most innovative artist of your generation. You’ve been an artist for nearly twenty years now. Do you feel this is your most daring work yet?”

  “No. I’m just getting started, honestly.”

  He raised an eyebrow, impressed with the confidence that oozed from her every pore.

  “I look forward to seeing what you do next, Ms. Superhero.”

  She leaned back in her chair, a smirk wrinkling her lip as she scoffed.

  “You won’t know what hit you,” she winked.

  Hours later, she stood watching the crowd mill around, hundreds of thoughtful eyes studying the pieces she’d spent the last six months pouring over, attempting to decipher the meanings behind her abstract work.

  They’d never succeed, of course.

  She kept her true thoughts to herself, her muses and inspiration coming from a depth of pain and love and life and loss that sometimes even she didn’t under
stand.

  Time was fleeting, and she knew she must act fast.

  The world was crumbling around her, society dismantling any sense of morality or kindness that might have once saved life as she knew it. She’d spent years preparing for this inevitable chapter of her life.

  It wasn’t the end.

  It was the beginning, she'd convinced herself.

  The beginning of something new, something fresh, something all hers.

  Something all love.

  All the pieces were in place. There was just one final, essential detail to attend to and then everything would begin to fall into place after that.

  She needed a young woman to fully carry out her plan. And the kind of woman she needed was hard to find. Mona was choosy.

  She needed to be perfect.

  A beautiful, wholesome, fertile, intelligent woman.

  A woman all her own.

  A woman to create love.

  A woman to create life.

  Mona’s eyes landed on a young woman standing in the corner, her bright eyes turned up to the biggest and most intricate of the show’s pieces — Medusa, a wild-eyed woman with snakes erupting from her head, made entirely from tiny pieces of pink and red and blue and black duct tape that exploded off the canvas in one cohesive, breath-taking experience.

  The girl was petite and fit, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one and her smile was the most angelic thing Mona had ever seen.

  She’d been looking for so long.

  Could it really be her — the perfect one?

  Mona smiled serenely, drinking in her beauty, breathless as she gestured to Zane, her private security guard and best friend, standing by her side.

  “That one, that’s the one,” she whispered, excitedly.

  He nodded solemnly, following her gaze.

  “Yes, Miss Mona, I agree,” he growled, his eyes raking over the girl appreciatively. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thank you, Zane,” she replied, running her hand along his arm. He was loyal and strong and handsome. And completely in love with his boss.

  He’d take a bullet for her and she knew it.

  Kidnapping was hardly out of the question.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SLADE

  “See you back at the clubhouse?” Riot asked, as he slid his helmet over his head.

  “Think I’m going to take the scenic route, actually. Diana’s working and I’m meeting her and Jeremiah for dinner later tonight. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  “Cool,” Riot nodded, slinging a leg over his Harley and starting up his engine. The deafening roar did what it always did — gave me a raging boner.

  Other than my wife’s killer ass, nothing else gets my motor running like the vibrations created by a big, beautiful roaring motor. I couldn’t wait to get on the road myself, to feel as close to that power that I possibly could.

  The last few days have been a little difficult. We’re coming off a hard job, but in the end, we rescued over a dozen sex-trafficking victims from a dirty rail car on its way to Canada. Grace and Lacey had to go undercover while we kept a close watch, but the worrying and waiting are always so fucking exhausting. Not to mention the fighting.

  Not that I’m complaining about spilling a little blood. Hell, you know me by now, you know I get off on that shit — almost as much as Diana’s ass and the roar of my bike. The hard part is seeing the victims in the end. It’s fucking great to rescue them, but I know it’s not over then. All the recovery they have ahead of them slays me. All the pain I know they’ll carry around for the rest of their lives is such a heavy burden to bear. The haunted look in their eyes…

  Yeah, a ride will do me good.

  Fresh air. Open countryside. Not another soul for miles.

  “Can I join you?” I suppress a groan and turn to the eager voice at my side. It’s Bullet, one of the new guys. Supposedly, he got shot a while back and the bullet is still inside him, just chilling out near his heart. Ziggy told me that it could fucking explode or something at any minute, so that’s why they call him Bullet, but he’s so fucking quiet and thoughtful and he moves a little too slow for me to imagine him exploding in any way.

  But whatever. He’s young. Early twenties, maybe. And eager as a damned Oregon beaver in a swamp full of downed trees. Us old guys are supposed to be mentoring the new ones, or so Ryder says. He wants us to teach them how to be ‘Upstanding Members of the Gods of Chaos Motorcycle Club’, or some shit like that. So, when I open my mouth to tell Bullet I’d rather be alone, I see Ryder’s disapproving glare in my head, and I slam it shut.

  “I guess it won’t hurt,” I growl.

  “Cool,” he says, his smile as wide as the Columbia River Gorge. “Where we going?”

  “The long way home,” I said. “Just keep up.”

  I don’t really know where I’m going, to tell you the truth. But he doesn’t need to know that. So, I hop on the Five to the Eighty-four and head east. The wind is cold as fuck, cutting right through my leather vest. I ignore all the stares from passing drivers, knowing we probably look sketchy as hell. I haven’t really slept in days and Bullet always looks like he’s been through hell and back. If I was smart, as my lovely woman would say, I’d go home and get some sleep. I know better, though. I need to unwind, let off a little steam before I can even think about anything resembling rest.

  Let the people stare, I don’t fuckin’ care. To be honest, I’ve come a long way since the days when I cared what anyone thought of me. Sometimes, I’m not sure I ever did. When you come from trash, like I did, like Riot did, other people’s opinions take a back seat to survival.

  Here’s the deal, though.

  Sometimes, I get nostalgic. I hate it, but it creeps up on me on days like today, when I’m just a hop, skip and jump away from the very piece of land where it all started.

  Fuck it.

  I swerve into the right lane and take the next exit and head southeast toward Estacada, not even looking behind to make sure Bullet’s keeping up. I consider this a learning opportunity. It’ll keep him on his toes.

  Within minutes, the landscape turns to rolling hills that make you feel like you're going to be dropped down into heaven itself. But those hills are deceiving. Because just beyond them, in the forested valley, lies nothing but a sprawling trainwreck of a town that falls halfway between something out of The Hills Have Eyes and Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  Estacada, Oregon. The shithole that Riot and I grew up in.

  Poverty’s the cause of all of this, of course.

  Add in mental illness, alcoholism and addiction and you’ve got a whole hell of a lot of broken people all trapped in small town hell together.

  It isn’t pretty.

  It’s never pretty, despite the trees, despite the beauty that could have been. Instead it’s littered with tweakers and old broken down cars and trash that nobody can afford to have hauled away. Decrepit houses make way to even more decrepit trailer homes, like the one that Riot and I grew up in.

  Sprawled next to a stretch of abandoned train tracks, the two of us were born into a life there that neither of us would have asked for. We bonded amongst the insipid dysfunction residing in the Tall Pines Trailer Park. The only park named after trees in a forest that actually had no goddamned trees within its boundaries.

  Shithole is a nice word for it. In fact, shithole probably doesn’t really do it justice.

  I slowed when we reached town, knowing we were just a mile or so from the trailer park. All the memories began flooding back and I had to remind myself that they were just old ghosts.

  My old man couldn’t hurt me now.

  Hell, look at me.

  Nobody can hurt me.

  I’ve done what I always dreamt I would do — I became invincible.

  An indestructible superhero who came from dirt, doing good in the world and eliminating the bad guys.

  It was real Hollywood kind of shit, you
know?

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m humble. I’ll stay that way, too. Even if someone decided to do a movie about my life. They’d have to let me play myself, though. There’s nobody else who could even come close to resembling the handsome masterpiece I’ve become.

  In my humble opinion, of course.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BULLET

  Keeping up with Slade isn’t easy. He rides his bike like he’s escaping from a fucking murderer or something. He weaves in and out of traffic, ignoring the drivers glaring at him and flipping him off as he roars past.

  I do my best to stay close and not lose him, without laying my own bike down or getting clipped by a car in the process, but my heart is beating like a fucking drum in my chest because this shit is way out of my comfort zone.

  Half an hour after asking if I could join him, I’m kicking myself for it.

  The truth is, I’m feeling a little left out of all the camaraderie that surrounds these guys and I thought some one-on-one time with Slade might help. I’m not good at crowds. I slink into the background, because my usual quietness doesn’t shine in those situations. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel included.

  It’s all my fault, of course. It’s just the way I am, and I fully accept the consequences of my ‘introvertedness’, if that’s even a word. Most of the time, I’m happy to linger on the sidelines, but in the time since my club was absorbed by the Gods of Chaos, many of the others seem to have easily settled into place amongst them. I’ve watched, as one by one, they’ve shown the Gods their value, their individual skills meshing perfectly with our new club and our new lifestyle.

  I just can’t seem to gain any traction.

  I’ve tried being friendly. I’ve tried being more extroverted. I tried drinking more. I even tried smoking weed with the others, even though it’s not really my thing because it just makes me even quieter, but no matter what, I still feel like I’m just not one of them.

  They don’t treat me that way, don’t get me wrong.