by J. C. Emery
Aware of how unsteady I am, I keep my back straight and bring my chin up just enough to show the men around me that I can handle the shit they’re dishing out. Even if I’m not entirely convinced they aren’t going to beat the shit out of me, I don’t want my fear to show. Ryan stands just as Grady pulls me backward, deeper into the room. With more distance between us, I’m able to see who else is in here with us. Sure enough, Diesel and Wyatt are standing with their arms crossed over their chests. I don’t know either well enough to judge the expressions on their faces. We’re in the center of the room right next to the pool table when Grady releases me. I take a deep breath and try to blow it out inconspicuously.
“You fucked up, kid,” Wyatt says. I say nothing as he looks me up and down. His left nostril lifts in disgust.
“Butch would be very displeased,” Diesel says with the shake of his head. I’m pretty fucking well aware that my dad wouldn’t approve of me scratching Duke’s bike. It doesn’t matter if it was an accident or if I did it on purpose. All that matters is that I fucked with something that belongs to Forsaken. Leaning against Duke’s bike was stupid. Right now I can’t even remember why I did it. Sometimes it feels like I can’t get anything right no matter how hard I try.
“What punishment do you think you should get?” Wyatt asks. Punishment? Fuck if I know. I’d like to say that this intimidation bullshit is enough, but I know better.
“We’re going to have fun, kid.” Ryan is smiling as the words come out of his mouth. I’ve never seen him smile this much before. It’s starting to freak me the fuck out.
Grady clears his throat, and I turn just slightly to wait for his admonishment but am surprised to find that he’s shaking his head. He says, “Down boy,” and his eyes slide over to Ryan.
Thanks to my sister and her big-mouth friend Chel, I know all about the trouble between Grady and Ryan. Apparently Ryan’s looking to get himself hooked up with some bitch they call Princess who ratted on her pops. If there is one thing I know about Grady, it’s that he is one by-the-book motherfucker. There’s a way you do things and there’s a way you don’t do things, and in Grady’s world, there’s little room open for interpretation of the “code of silence.” I wish I was smart enough to find a way to redirect Grady’s attention to Ryan and the beef they got going, but I can’t think of anything that won’t get my ass beat.
“You got any idea how bad you fucked up?” Ryan asks. Judging by the fact that I have four members of Forsaken staring me down like I’m dog shit, I think I have some clue. “Fucking answer me.”
I try to respond, but it’s more than a little difficult to get my vocal cords to cooperate. All I can think about is my dad and how he’d flip out whenever I fucked up. He would ask me all these questions he never intended for me to answer. It’s what you call a rectal question, or whatever you call it. Even when he’d demand an answer, he didn’t really want one and never gave me time to give him one. He just likes to yell—something he still does when he manages to stay out of the Hole long enough to get a phone call in, and unfortunately, my sister pretty much always rats me out.
“Yeah, I got it,” I mumble after some serious thought on the subject.
“Don’t think he gets it,” Diesel says. His voice booms in the ever-shrinking room.
“Nah, he don’t get it,” Wyatt grumbles.
“Give the boy a chance to prove it,” Grady says. His attention is still focused on Ryan. I thought these two weren’t getting along, but maybe I was wrong. “He’s been comin’ around for some time now, saying he’s man enough to wear the cut.”
“He’s just a kid,” Wyatt says in a huff.
“You were all just kids once.” The words come from a deep voice that’s familiar but I don’t quite place until I see Chief’s long black hair and broad shoulders. He moves into the room, and everybody grows silent. Grady, who is one scary motherfucker, seems to take a step back as he acknowledges Chief’s presence. If I didn’t already know Chief’s longstanding history in the club, I would be well aware of it now. According to my dad, Wyatt is vice president because he wanted the job. Chief could have had it, but it wasn’t his end game. Great power, great responsibility and all that shit.
“Fucked up, didn’t you?” he asks. His brow and jaw are relaxed. I remain silent, expecting this to be another one of those questions I’m not supposed to answer.
“Answer me,” he barks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, Chief,” Ryan whines. I’m not talking about a manly whine—if there is such a thing—I’m talking about this full-on, high-pitched fucking whine. His brows furrow and he stomps his foot. Diesel snorts, but Wyatt and Grady both look annoyed at his antics. Only Chief doesn’t react.
“Fine,” he says. A small smirks appears in the corner of his mouth. My attention shifts to Ryan, who is smiling full of teeth that look as though they’re growing sharper by the moment. He lunges forward with his right foot but stops suddenly. I make the mistake of jumping back quickly. Like a wild animal, the action spurs him on. Before I know it, he’s stepped forward with his left foot. It’s happening so fast that I’m not really thinking—just reacting—and I take several steps back.
“Let’s play a game—I catch you, you get to suck my dick,” Ryan says as he reaches out to grab ahold of me. Before I know it, I’m running away and he’s rushing after me. Chief, Grady, Diesel, and Wyatt move off to the side, watching me about to get the “privilege” of being mouth-raped. It’s likely a few minutes, but it feels like hours as we run in circles around the room. I make a pass by Diesel, who is smiling like a madman. I’m so focused on his face that I don’t see his foot sticking out in front of me. My palms slam against the concrete only a second before my knees do. I don’t have time to focus on the horrific pain traveling up from my knees to my hips, because Ryan hunches over me, wraps one hand around my throat and the other on my hip. I thought he was kidding about making me suck his dick, but now I’ve got my asshole clenched as tight as I can, fucking terrified that he’s more interested in my ass.
Ryan leans in close with his mouth to my ear when he whispers, “Call me Trigger,” and he shoves me to the pavement. As he walks away, the sound of his footsteps are drowned out by the echoes of the other men laughing heartily. I give myself a solid minute to regroup before I push up from the concrete. The chuckles subside, and in their place, hushed murmurs fall over the room.
“Hey, Chey,” Grady says. “What are you doing here?”
Brushing myself off and straightening my back, I turn toward Grady. Now is not the time for Cheyenne Grady to see me. Especially in the clubhouse. Her short, thin legs are covered in worn jeans and she’s wearing a pink-and-black flannel button-up on top. She’s cute, like really fucking cute. She’s the kind of cute that’s been giving me blue balls ever since I discovered that shit was good for more than just tugging on the damn things because I was bored. She runs a hand through her dark brown hair and lifts her chin in my direction.
“Tracie and I want to go to the movies,” she says.
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“I need my allowance for the week.”
“I gave it to you already,” Grady says.
“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asks. Her bottom lip pops out, and she blinks up at him with her big green eyes. “I don’t have any cash left.”
“I don’t know. Sneak in or stay home. Either way, it’s not really my problem, is it? Told you before—I’m not a fucking bank.”
“But, Daddy,” she whispers. She bats her eyes at him. She’s goddamn dangerous. She bats her eyes like that at me and I’d probably just hand her my fucking wallet. But Grady doesn’t react.
“Oh, come on, Grady,” Chief says. He smiles down at his goddaughter and waves her over. She moves immediately into his arms. Once there, he wraps one large arm around her and uses the other to dig into his pocket where he pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and goes to hand it to her.
She s
hakes her head and sighs. “No, Uncle Chief. I can’t take the money from you. It’s okay. I can stay home.” Her voice sounds so small, and she looks so defeated.
I redirect my attention to Grady, who is glaring at Chief. The two men exchange a look, with Chief nodding toward Cheyenne and Grady shaking his head. It goes on until Diesel and Wyatt—who I almost forgot are in the room—are casually urging Grady to give Cheyenne money for the movies. Soon enough, Grady loses his patience and pulls out two twenties. He shoves them at her with narrowed eyes.
“Con artist,” Grady gripes. “You two are a couple of fucking con artists.”
Cheyenne gives Chief a squeeze before practically skipping toward her dad. She grabs the money and wraps her arms around Grady’s midsection. He pats her back reluctantly and then shoos her away.
With Grady’s attention diverted, Chief takes the opportunity to shake his head at me as he mouths, “Grady will kill you.”
I stare at him in confusion and shrug my shoulders, trying to pull off this whole I-don’t-have-a-crush-on-Cheyenne-Grady thing. He doesn’t buy it. He just chuckles and smirks, then says, “Pussy.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” Cheyenne says and rushes out of the room excitedly. Now that she’s gone, I’m reminded that I’m still in a good amount of trouble with the guys around me.
CHAPTER 1
November
17 months to Mancuso’s downfall
THE SOGGY GRASS squishes beneath my heavy black boots as I stomp my way across the football field. I’ve been out here standing in the shadows of the bleachers for the last hour, and only now am I able to show myself to Cheyenne and that douche bag she’s flirting with.
I have orders. I’m to keep an eye on her but not to interfere unless the situation warrants it. I’ve always respected Grady as the sergeant at arms, but I’m starting to like the guy on a personal level now. His instructions were clear: watch Cheyenne and make sure there’s no inappropriate touching or anybody suspicious in her vicinity. As far as I’m concerned, Clinton Bruce, quarterback for the Wolverines, having his hands on Cheyenne anywhere is inappropriate, and the uptight, pretty-boy asshole is definitely suspicious. Grady would sanction this.
“Hey!” I shout and shove an index finger in Clinton’s direction. Clinton. Who the fuck names their kid that, anyway? My mom’s one fucked up bitch, and even she had the decency of giving me a legit name. I shake my head. Clinton.
Good old Clint jumps in place as his hands still on Cheyenne’s hips. His eyes narrow as he slowly realizes I got a bone to pick with him. He’s fucking slow, but Cheyenne isn’t. She steps back, swatting Clint’s hands away, and shakes her head at me. Her eyes are focused on the black leather that rests on my shoulders.
This is the first time she’s seen me in my cut.
“You got a problem?” Clint asks loudly. His gray-and-purple practice uniform is spotted with mud here and there, but he doesn’t look like he’s been really sacked yet. Maybe I should change that.
“Hands off Miss Priss.”
“Miss Priss?” he questions. Yeah, slow.
Cheyenne folds her arms over her chest and gives Clint a quick look that reeks of an apology. She ain’t got shit to apologize for, but that she thinks she has to pisses me off even further. She’s always trying to fit in with other people. For as long as I can remember, she’s gone for the jocks. Occasionally she’ll pay attention to a band geek, but not often. She’s always stayed away from the loser druggies and anybody who never really fit into a particular crowd—like me.
“My dad and his friends call me that,” she says to him barely loud enough for me to hear.
“Is Whelan one of your dad’s friends?” Clint asks.
Cheyenne levels him with a frustrated gaze. “You don’t see the cut?”
“I mean, yeah,” he mutters only half-coherently. Then his voice rises in irritation. “Don’t get bitchy with me.”
I stride up into his personal space and bump my chest against his gear. “Do we have a problem here?”
I’ve been working on keeping my expression flat when I need it to be, so I hope I’m able to pull it off. Duke is kind of a hard-ass, but I’m thankful for it. Without having him breathing down my neck every other minute, I wouldn’t be wearing this cut. And, God, do I love this cut. I wouldn’t exactly give up my dick for it, but I’d consider hacking off a few toes if I had to.
“I don’t know, do we?” Clint the Dick says.
“Step off, or all the body armor in the world isn’t going to save you.” My chest constricts with the desire to hit something. Anything. My skin heats at the thought of making this asshole bleed. My lungs strain for air my body doesn’t want to accept. If he pushes me much further, I’m going to snap. It’s always been like this, my temper. I get so pissed off over the littlest shit that I have to break something before I feel better. His jaw looks like a decent enough target.
“You got in my face, asshole.”
My heart beats frantically in my chest as I tighten my fists at my sides to keep from swinging at him too early. If I get busted for hitting this prick, I want to make sure it’s a good shot. But I don’t have the chance, because just as the tension in my body gets too much to bear, I hear Cheyenne’s voice.
“Jeremy, please stop,” she says quietly. “Please.” She’s pretty much begging at this point. It’s like she’s been silently asking me to back off, and when it came out loud enough for me to hear, it’s nearly a cry.
I open my fists and take in deep breath after deep breath until I can see clearly. He was touching her in a way I don’t like—at all—but he wasn’t hurting her. Grady didn’t task me with this so I could control every little thing she does. I’m not supposed to interfere. I’m only supposed to keep her safe. And she’s safe.
I take one step back slowly and then another. When I look to my side, I find that Cheyenne’s face is beet red and her green eyes are large. She doesn’t look embarrassed. She looks fucking mortified. Shit. That is so not a way to get a girl to suck your dick. I would know because that is one of Duke’s most important tips about women—don’t upset them, or they won’t blow you. They probably won’t do any other nice stuff for you either.
I probably should have learned not to piss off women from being raised by my batshit-crazy sister, but I’m what Duke calls a slow learner. He’s such a fucking asshole sometimes, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t want to make him proud that he vouched for me.
“You wanna tell Daddy’s lapdog to get lost now, Chey?” Clint says. My attention snaps to his face so fast that I’m practically dizzy when I catch the smirk forming in the corner of his mouth. “Run along, bitch boy. I’m busy with my girl.”
I open my mouth to cuss the guy out, but two things distract me. The first is the football coach trotting over, and the second is the bony elbow digging into my side as Cheyenne passes me and strides up to Clint. For a brief second, I think she’s going to wrap her arms around him and tell me to fuck off. But she doesn’t.
“You talk big out here on the field, but you damn sure wouldn’t be saying that in front of my daddy,” she says in the same mocking tone he used a moment prior. “Go ahead and talk shit about Jeremy, but leave his cut out of it.”
And I’m in love. This chick is Forsaken through and through, even if she wants to pretend like she’s some preppy bitch. She’s got the club written all over her, from the way she keeps her chin up to the bite in her tone. I see so much of her father in her right now that it’s going to make my shower jerk-off session a little awkward.
“Know what? I’m done with your fucking tantrums, Cheyenne.”
“And I’m done with you being such an asshole!” she yells. The calm angry girl from a moment ago has been replaced by a crazy little screamer.
“Oh—oh no—” he says with his mouth turned down in a faux pout. Jesus Christ, she’s into some assholes. It’s a wonder she never hooked up with me. “Bitch.”
I take a deep breath to keep from shoving Cheyenne
to the side in an effort to reach this guy and break every bone in his body. On the first deep breath, Cheyenne calls him an asshole. On the second deep breath, she kicks him in the shin. Neither effort has any effect on him. He just looks down at her with a bored expression.
“Bruce, back on the field,” the coach shouts from several feet away. He’s an older guy in his fifties with gray hair and a pot belly. I should probably know the guy’s name since he taught my history class last year, but I don’t. I failed that fucking class.
“We’re not done here, Coach,” I shout without taking my eyes off Clint. I know I’m on the verge of getting expelled, but I don’t really give a shit. Holly, Grady’s girlfriend, is trying to keep me in school for as long as she can. But word on the street is she’s got a temper on her, too. I don’t think she’d be too mad at me if she found out I got expelled because this little pussy thinks he can run his mouth whenever he wants.
“Son, what is that you’re wearing?” the coach asks. Grady gave me the rundown—no wearing the cut during school hours or on school property. But it’s after school, and Coach Whoeverthefuck can suck my right ball. Of course he would want to know what I’m wearing. Some pigs think this cut is a gang symbol. They have no idea.
“Jeremy,” Cheyenne says. Her voice is much stronger now. She seems frustrated and a little guilty all at the same time. “Let’s just go.”
I nod my head to keep from saying or doing anything that’s going to cause a scene. We turn away and walk side by side toward the parking lot. Diesel is bound to be waiting for her there, like he does every day. I don’t know the lowdown on everything that went down, but someone showed up on campus and scared the crap out of her, so Grady asked me to make sure she’s safe during school hours. Maybe I’ll earn some bonus points by keeping an eye on her after school.