Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha #1)

by J. A. Huss

  Contents

  Anarchy Found

  DESCRIPTION

  Chapter One - Molly

  Chapter Two Molly

  Chapter Three - Molly

  Chapter Four - Lincoln

  First Kiss

  Chapter Five - Lincoln

  Chapter Six - Molly

  Chapter Seven - Molly

  Chapter Eight - Molly

  Chapter Nine - Lincoln

  The Secret Peek

  Chapter Ten - Molly

  Chapter Eleven - Lincoln

  Chapter Twelve - Molly

  Chapter Thirteen - Molly

  Chapter Fourteen - Lincoln

  Chapter Fifteen - Molly

  Chapter Sixteen - Lincoln

  Chapter Seventeen - Molly

  No Turning Back Now

  Chapter Eighteen - Lincoln

  Chapter Nineteen - Molly

  Chapter Twenty - Lincoln

  Chapter Twenty-One - Molly

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Lincoln

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Molly

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Molly

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Lincoln

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Molly

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Lincoln

  Because I love You

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Molly

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Lincoln

  Chapter Thirty - Molly

  Chapter Thirty-One - Lincoln

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Molly

  Get On Your Knees

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Lincoln

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Molly

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Lincoln

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Molly

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - Lincoln

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Molly

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Lincoln

  Chapter Forty - Lincoln

  Chapter Forty-One - Molly

  Chapter Forty-Two - Lincoln

  You Were the Light

  Chapter Forty-Three - Molly

  Chapter Forty-Four - Lincoln

  Chapter Forty- Five - Molly

  Chapter Forty-Six - Lincoln

  Chapter Forty-Seven - Molly

  Chapter Forty-Eight - Lincoln

  Chapter Forty-Nine - Molly

  Chapter Fifty - Lincoln

  Chapter Fifty-One - Lincoln

  Epilogue - Molly

  END OF BOOK SHIT

  About the Author

  ALPHA LINCOLN

  SuperAlpha Series

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Hand Drawn by: Ambro Jordi

  Cover Design by J. A. Huss

  Copyright © 2015 by J. A. Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-936413-97-3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  DESCRIPTION

  That’s what Detective Molly Masters tells me. “What we need,” she says, “what the whole world needs,” she pleads, “is a champion.”

  The only thing I want to talk about with Molly Masters is how I’d like to make her scream my name when I push her up against a wall, slide my hand up her thigh, and live out my wildest fantasies.

  “Someone who will fight against injustice,” she says.

  I’ll fight against anything you want, honey. Just come a little closer.

  “Someone who will stand tall in the face of adversity,” she says.

  I’ll do it standing, sitting, or lying down. See how easy I am?

  “Someone who believes in the value of a good deed,” she says.

  I believe in the value of me, sweetheart. Because I’m Lincoln Wade. Jaded genius, obscenely wealthy, capable of violence, and looking for revenge.

  Molly Masters might have delusions of grandeur. She might see me as some superman capable of cleaning up the scum, filth, and corruption in Cathedral City.

  But I’m not the hero she’s looking for.

  I’m the dark alley where all her good intentions hide.

  So be careful what you wish for, Molly Masters.

  Because you’re about to get it.

  Chapter One - Molly

  Today is like any other day.

  If every other day was filled with hopeless abandonment

  And it is. Has been. Will continue to be. For as long as we both shall live.

  The wannabe writer in me thinks like this. All poetic. Stringing words together just because they sound like music when you say them out loud.

  “You’re crazy, Molls,” I whisper to the fogged-up windshield of my brother’s truck. That’s what he would say. And why not channel him? Today of all days? Why not?

  I’m not a writer, not in the traditional sense. I don’t write sentences or paragraphs. Just lists. And today I have a long one brewing inside my head. When I get home, I’m going to write it down in my journal and then, no matter what happens after this day, I can look back and remember how it feels to save your soul by selling your past.

  Hate. That’s the name of the list. Or if you want the full title, Things I Hate While Driving on a Mountain Road Pulling My Dead Brother’s Bike Trailer Home from the Racetrack After Successfully Ignoring Said Bikes for Six Months.

  But Hate, for short.

  Mountain roads.

  Rain.

  Foggy windows.

  …

  A pair of motorcycles whip past on either side of me, their engines roaring, the riders’ helmeted faces buried deep against the gas tanks. I slam on my brakes, my heart beating so fast it might jump out of my chest. Their red taillights disappear around a curve and I let out a long breath.

  “What the fuck, you assholes?”

  I scream it. And that makes me mad because there’s no one to hear it. So I get out of the truck and stand in the rain and scream it again. Only this time I scream it to God.

  “What the fuck? You asshole!” I think I’m crying. Not for those jerks who will probably crash on the slick roads, but for me. Because I’m angry. I’m so, so, so fucking angry.

  A horn honks behind me and snaps me out of my fit.

  “Sorry,” I yell, a smile on my face. The good-public-servant smile I’ve practiced for the past six years. “Problem with my headlights. But it’s OK now,” I add quickly, as the older man makes to get out and help me. I wave at him. “I’m fine, all fixed.” I motion for him to pass and he goes around, shaking his head at me. Feeling sorry for me.

  That’s what people tend to do. Generally. If they know me well enough, they feel sorry for me. That’s part of the reason I moved to Cathedral City.

  Which is where I really need to be right now. Home, making my hate list, feeling sorry for myself so people don’t have to.

  I jump back in the truck, soaking wet, and put it in gear. I move forward with the same lethargy I had before the bikers pissed me off and morph back into my normal self as I take the corner around the mountain.

  The car that just passed me brakes and then swerves like it’s avoiding something on the side of the road. This road is narrow, so everyone drives right down the middle unless there’s another car coming. I strain my eyes through the blurry fogged-up window to see what the issue is, but before I can get a handle on it, the two bikers from before peel out from the side of the road, their red taillights flashing at me again.

  “Assholes,” I whisper to myself, speeding up. “You’re a couple of assholes.”

  The trailer I’m dragging fishtails as I pass over a deep puddle, and I force myself to slow down. But I keep my eyes trained on the twin taillights ahead. The road meets the mo
untain and splits at a fork, and one light goes right, another left.

  When I get to the fork, I go left, away from Cathedral City and towards the bike shop that wants my brother’s last creations. It’s the only reason I came out here to pick them up.

  It’s a way forward.

  A way past the anger.

  And sadness.

  And pity.

  I call that list A New Start.

  I’m desperately in need of one. And the new job just doesn’t quite cut it.

  I round another corner and the biker is only a few hundred yards ahead. I brake again out of habit. He’s looking down at his foot or something near his gear shift. He surges forward for a few seconds, looks up, then a sputter of smoke comes from the exhaust and he surges forward again. Only this time, the bike swerves, fishtails like my trailer did in the deep puddle, and then he’s on his side, scraping along the blacktop pavement.

  It all happens in slow motion. Metal grinds sparks against the asphalt, his body swings sideways, his arms fly up in the air as he lets go of the handlebars, and then the bike slides away from him and comes to a stop in a ditch.

  “I told you, asshole! I told you!” I pound on the steering wheel and slow the truck down as I get closer to the rider. He lies absolutely still and that pain in my heart is back. Something like a fist grips it, twists it, and all I see is the bloody mess that used to be my brother. “No, Molly,” I say, shaking my head, forcing the image from my mind. My stomach gets all queasy as I roll to a stop a few yards away.

  He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  Wrecked a bike.

  Lying in the middle of the road.

  Unmoving.

  Dead.

  But then the rider raises his head a little, cranes his neck, and points his black-faced helmet right at me.

  I step out of the truck and walk towards him as he sits up and begins unfastening his helmet. “Are you… are you OK?” I ask, shaking uncontrollably. He’s not dead, so that’s good, but my heart is beating so fast I have to put my hand over it.

  He whips his helmet off, throws it on the ground, and gets to his feet. “Motherfucker,” he says, eyes blazing with anger. His dark hair is cropped short and he has a two-day beard that casts the perfect shadow across his hard-edged jawline. He looks down at his black leather jacket, ignoring my question, and studies the rips in the elbows. Then he holds out his black-gloved hands and studies his palms before moving on to the rips in his racing jeans. There’s a gash along the thigh that took the brunt of the slide on the asphalt and I catch a glimpse of tanned skin stained with blood beneath the thick cloth.

  “Do you need help?”

  He looks over at the bike, the back wheel still spinning as it lies there in the ditch. “Sheila?” he calls out. “Talk to me, baby.”

  For a moment I think he had a passenger I didn’t notice. But when I follow him over to the bike, there’s no one else there.

  “Sheila,” he says again. “Come on, don’t do this to me.”

  “Who’s Sheila?”

  His gaze darts over to me, and I catch a muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath. He leans a little to the side, trying to see my truck around me. “I’m not sure if this is luck or not,” he says, walking right past me, without a word or even a glance in my direction. “You got bikes in there,” he calls over his shoulder after he passes. “I guess I’m gonna need a ride.”

  Chapter Two Molly

  “Hey!” I yell as he walks around to the back of my trailer. “What are you doing?”

  He’s already got the back doors open by the time I catch up with him, and he’s just about to step inside when I pull my gun.

  “Step away from the trailer, dirtbag.” I growl it out and he stops mid-stride, chances a look over his shoulder, and grins. “I’m not going to tell you again. Step away—”

  “Are you Wild Will?”

  “Do I look like Wild Will?” Jesus. Just saying my brother’s name out loud makes my heart ache with emptiness.

  “No, but you’re pulling a trailer with his name painted on it in bright orange.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I stopped, OK? I can see you’re fine. So number one, you’re gonna back away. Number two, I’m gonna get in my truck, and number three, we’re gonna forget that you made an ass of yourself—”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he says, holding his gloved hands up in the air as he slowly turns around. “Easy, gun girl.”

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m not your girl.”

  “I’m just trying to keep you calm, that’s all. You’re waving a gun in my face.”

  “I’m not waving! I’m carefully aiming—” I take a deep breath. Because he’s pressing my buttons on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of me for some reason.

  He shoots me a pathetic look, complete with pouty lips and droopy eyes. “I just need a ride, OK? Help a guy out. You’ve got Wild Will’s trailer and I’ve got a downed bike. If you don’t help me I’ll be out here for hours waiting for a friend to come save me.” He smiles, releasing some hidden dimples. “Save me, gun girl. Please.”

  I have just enough time to blink twice before he doubles over laughing, grabbing his stomach. “What’s so funny?” Jerk. He’s making fun of me!

  He stands up straight, still chuckling. “That look on your face. Hahaha. It was priceless.”

  That’s it for me. I’m outta here. I put my gun away, push him aside, and close the trailer back up.

  “Hey, wait,” he says, grabbing my arm.

  I whirl around, grab the collar of his jacket, swing my legs up, twirl my body around his neck, and drop him in a puddle on the road. “Don’t,” I seethe, “touch me. And don’t call me gun girl. I don’t need that gun, asshole. And if you think I do, then you’re gonna be sorry when I beat your ass with my bare hands. The gun isn’t the weapon, bike boy. I am.”

  I push myself up with a hand on his back, stand up, and wait for a response. He looks over his shoulder again, grinning. I’m fighting the urge to kick him in the teeth when his hand sweeps out, grabs my ankle, and pulls. I tip back, instinctively reaching to break my fall, and feel the sting when my palms crash against the asphalt. “You fucker.”

  And then he’s on top of me. He pulls my gun out of my pants, throws it so it goes skidding under the trailer, and sits all his weight down on my stomach as he pins my hands to the road. “I said easy, girl,” he growls. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Right.” I laugh. “We’ll just forget I took you down in two seconds and pretend that I’m not the one who’ll hurt you.”

  He cocks his head to the side, doubling over and grimacing from the crash, or maybe considering me for a second. Then he takes a deep breath and stands up, offering me a hand. “Let’s start over. Hey, gun girl.” He smirks. “I’m bike boy. I crashed my bike over there and need a ride home. And since you’ve got this pretty trailer built for hauling bikes, I was wondering if you’d help me out?”

  I eye him for a minute. He leans down and whispers, “This is when you take my hand.”

  I reluctantly take it since he’s towering over me and I’m pretty sure if I attack him again, things will get serious. His black gloves are soft against my skin, and his palms are so warm, the heat radiates up into my chilled body. He grips my hand tightly as he pulls me to my feet and looks me up and down real fast. “OK, we’re good? I’ll pay you for your time. Make up for the fact that I ruined your afternoon. Just drop me off a couple miles down the road and we’ll call it quits. Deal?”

  I sigh heavily as the rain picks up and starts rolling down my face. I pull out my phone, check the time, realize I’m late and I have no signal up here in the mountains, and give in. “Fine. Just hurry, please. I have business today.”

  He’s walking off towards his bike before I even finish the sentence. Asshole.

  But damn if he isn’t one sexy asshole in that leather jacket, the tight jeans that show the muscles in his legs, that black t-shirt clinging to his chest like it’s painted on
, and a face I might be thinking about when I’m alone tonight.

  Jesus, what is wrong with me? No, Molly. Asshole. He’s an asshole. For too many reasons to list.

  “Hey, help me out here?” he calls from the ditch.

  I roll my eyes like a teenager as I walk over to him. He’s got the bike upright again and he’s pointing to the rear fender. “Just lift it up a little bit while I push it up the embankment.”

  I slip on my way down, slide on my ass, and then sit there at the bottom of the ditch wondering if my day could possibly get any worse.

  “Need another hand?” he asks, looking down at me.

  “I got it, thanks.” I get up, slip in the mud one more time, and then lift up on the back end when he counts down from three. He heaves hard, trying to force the machine up, but it rocks back and the rear tire settles in the mud near my feet.

  “OK, this is pissing me off,” he says. “This is really pissing me off.” He takes off his leather jacket and throws it down on the road. His biceps are popping out of the short sleeves of his shirt like cannons, and the rain is plastering the thin fabric against his back where my eyes rest on the corded muscles.

  I almost don’t look away in time.

  “Ready?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

  “I’m ready,” I say, looking down at the tire.

  “On one.” He counts down again. I push harder this time, giving it all my effort. I just want to get out of this ditch and be done with this day. So I lean into it, my boots slipping in the mud. His boots slip in the mud above me, and just when I think we’ll have to give up and call someone else to help, he grits his teeth, strains his muscles, and yells as the bike finally gets past some threshold and eases back up onto the road. He pushes it forward a few paces and then drops the stand and comes back to help me out of the ditch.

  “Thanks,” he says, pulling me up from the ditch in one smooth tug. His eyes meet mine and hold there. I squirm under his intense inspection. “I really do appreciate it.”

  His eyes are a striking amber brown. And he’s so close I can see little flecks of gold in them. We are stuck like that for several seconds. He squints at me, like he’s thinking about something. But then he shakes his head and turns away.