Tempting Fate

by Kylie Hillman

  I let out a deep sigh, and Benji laughs. It’s my turn to arch an eyebrow. “What?”

  “It was your big idea to come here, now you don’t wanna get out the fucking car.”

  “That’s only because I’m worried that I might pull my gun on him.” I sigh once, this one full of annoyance and one tiny fragment of hope that I’m barking up the wrong tree. “If he’s responsible for what happened to Mik, he’s going to have a line-up of brothers after him.”

  Rolling my shoulders, I open my door with speed. Dad steps out of the way, then folds his arms across his barrel chest and smirks. “The prodigal twins have returned. Hell must be getting a nice icy blast of arctic air right about now, seeing as you two vowed never to fucking return here.”

  “Just shut up,” I snap at him. Since I’ve never spoken to him like that before in my life, he takes a step back in surprise. “I’m here for Mik, not you. Do you want to answer my questions here or inside?”

  The passenger side door of my car opens, and Benji unfolds himself. He stands tall, resting his arms on the car roof and regarding us with a sardonic curl to his lips. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief when he speaks. “Father dearest. Fancy seeing each other twice in two days. Good times. Good times.”

  Something wordlessly goes down between my twin and our father, Dad giving him a slight nod before tilting his head on the side and peering down to me. “Here’ll do. It’ll be interesting to find out what the fucker told you that was big enough to make you to track me down all the way out here.”

  Annoyance fills me. He thinks this is a joke. Standing as tall as I can, I spit my next sentence at him with venom lacing every syllable. “Do the words ‘Dead Angel’ mean anything to you?”

  A shiver runs through me. The image of the words carved into Mik’s back is unbearable—its message crystal clear. Keep coming after us and you’ll have a dead angel on your hands. Me; Mik’s Angel. And, my dad is the only person who could’ve been behind it since those words would have little meaning to anyone else.

  My father—No! He’s no longer my father—the beast standing in front of me gives me my answer without even opening his mouth. Every molecule of colour drains from his face. He unconsciously curls his hands into fists and then looks between me and Benji. I step forward. He steps back, then rethinks his retreat and heads in my direction. Benji rounds the car with the speed of light, practically flying over the bonnet; seizing him by the front of his shirt and stopping him from coming at me. Held still by his stronger son, Dad—Beast—smiles at me. “He told you, huh?”

  Closing my eyes, I try to wish away the hurt that his nonchalant words heap on my already bowed shoulders. This man, animal, what-have-you, honestly doesn’t care. All he’s worried about is plotting the next move in his vindictive pursuit. And, he’s happy to use his kids to further his end-game.

  “He didn’t tell me, I found out myself. I doubt he knows that I know, yet.” In my mind, I say a prayer that Mik’s still sleeping off his hangover in our bed, blissfully unaware that I’m letting the cat out the bag. “I came here to find out if you were behind it. Now I know you are, I want to know why? Why would you do that? To hurt me? Mik? Get the Club back? It doesn’t make sense. You’re his godfather. I know you loved him.”

  Throwing his head back, he shakes off Benji’s grip and snarls. “He took fucking everything from me. My Club. My patch. My daughter. My revenge. Did you all think I’d just let him waltz in and take over my life’s work? It’s the O’Brien legacy to lead the Shamrocks, and that’s how it would’ve stayed if you,” he twists in Benji’s direction, then punches him in the face. Standing over my twin when his knees weaken and he bends in half, he points down at him. “If you’d done what you were told, none of this would’ve fucking happened. I could’ve died in peace, knowing the Club was in our hands for generations to come.”

  Dad’s lost it. He whirls, kicking up dust in the dirt driveway, and comes at me. “Now, you’re gonna marry a fucking Kennedy, and pollute my bloodline with their filth.” He grabs me by my shoulders and shakes. My teeth snap together, my neck hyperextending from the violence of his actions. Instinct kicks in, I rake my nails down the left side of his face. I feel his skin curling under my fingernails, blood pooling in my wake, then I knee him in the balls. Dropping like a sack of potatoes, a gut-curdling roar leaves him, just as Benji pounces.

  My brother lifts his leg to kick him, but I make him stop. My voices cracks when I question him again. “D-ie? What do you mean?”

  From his crumpled position on the ground, I can hardly hear him. “I’ve got fucking early-onset dementia. Ain’t waiting around for that shit to take me down. I’ll be taking matters into my own hands before long.”

  My heart was already racing from his attack; now it skips a beat, lurching to a complete stop before it finds something that resembles a rhythm. He wants to die. This is his way to go out in a blaze of glory. Instead of suicide by cop; he’s committing suicide via Mik—apparently in the hopes that I won’t “pollute his bloodline with their filth” because of it. Exchanging glances with Benji, our matching gazes confirm that everything’s starting to make sense to both of us—except for one glaring detail. “What’s your issue with the Kennedy’s. Viking’s your best friend.”

  My dad snorts, rolling onto his side, and pushing to his feet. “What do you think? A woman.”

  No way. Nuh uh. It’s not possible. “Mum?”

  There’s a feral glint to his eyes, and the curve of his lips is made from pure malice. He touches his cheek, pulls away his hand and grins when he sees the blood. Placing his fingers in his mouth, he licks them clean. “You’re a hellcat; just like my Alanah.”

  As much as I want to leave, to get back to Mik and tell him that we know what’s going on, I need this insight into my parent’s relationship. Their love story has always been the standard that I’ve held mine against. “What happened?”

  He shuffles away from me and Benji, leaning heavily on my car. “The normal shit. Two best friends wanting the same woman. We both played hard. He played fair and I didn’t. I won.”

  “Honestly, getting details out of you is like pulling bloody teeth. What fucking happened?” Benji looks like he’s at the end of his rope. He’s holding his eye, but when I go to check it out, he waves me away with an impatient flick of his hand. “Come the fuck on, we don’t have all day.”

  Rubbing a hand on the back of his neck, our father uncharacteristically looks at the ground. “I got her pregnant. She married me. End of story.”

  Seeing Benji’s annoyed expression when he looks at me, I roll my eyes at him, then dismiss our dad. “Waffle around the truth all you want. It doesn’t change anything. What you’ve done; to me, to Mik, to all of us—there’s no coming back from it. Mik has my blessing to end you. I understand that’s what you want because you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself. Just know, it’s not going to tear us apart. It’ll strengthen us. Mik gets his revenge, and I get to live with peace of mind, safe in the knowledge that my man will do anything to protect me. There’s not going to be a ‘Dead Angel’. Instead, the beast is going to meet his maker.”

  I yank my door open, forcing the hateful, spite-filled man to step out of the way. Benji starts for his side of the car, only to come to a stop when the answers we wanted are spat at us with hatred. “Joel’s not mine. He’s Viking’s. He fucked your mother when I was away on runs and knocked her up.”

  My twin snaps. Honest-to-God, I can sense the moment his temper breaks. It feels like a lightning bolt and a thunder clap all rolled into one rocks me. Our twintuition has always been strong—much to Benji’s disgust—but never this substantial. It takes my breath away; stunning me. With three big strides, he’s in Dad’s face. “Take it back, you fucking liar. Joel’s our brother.”

  He grabs the front of our father’s shirt and yanks him so close that their noses are touching. Shaking Dad like a ragdoll, he spits in his face. “That’s all you’re worth. You’re scum.”
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  Benji punches him in the mouth then throws our dad to the ground, turning on his heel and getting in the car. I look down at the man I worshipped for my entire childhood—right up until the day I found out he’d exchanged me for a blood alliance with the Mavericks of Mayhem. He’s a crumpled heap, lying in the dirt. “Benji’s right. You really are trash. You’re a sad, broken excuse for a man.”

  Dad spits a mouthful of blood next to him. “Yeah. That might be fucking true. Just remember, even a broken clock’s right twice a day. Have a good look at your brother, then picture what Viking looked like when you were a kid.”

  Benji yells at me to “Get a fucking move on. He’s full of shit.” from inside the car. Sniffing, I let my disdain for the fool in front of me be known. “He’s got the same eyes as us. Your eyes.”

  Howling with laughter, he slaps the ground next to him. Wiping the trail of blood that’s running down his chin away, he spits out a tooth, and grins at me. “Look closer. Maybe that’s just the story we spun to cover my Alanah’s mistake.”

  Shaking my head, I can’t resist one final question. “I don’t get you. How’s she ‘your Alanah’ if she cheated on you?”

  “Wasn’t her fault. She was missing me and he took advantage of it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just know that I loved her—from the minute I set eyes on her until the minute she passed. Nah, fuck that. I still love her now. Just like I love you kids, even though you hate my fucking guts.”

  “Even Joel, your supposed non-son?’

  “Especially him. Somehow, he managed to turn out the most like me. How? I don’t know? I’m not lying, baby girl, he’s not fucking mine.” Turning my back to him, I have one leg in my car before he speaks again. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Benji. Don’t turn out like me. You’re already hardening, I can see it. Let go of the hatred; move the fuck on from everything that’s happened. I’m leaving my boys in your capable hands. It’s your job to stop them from becoming me.”

  Choking back a sob, I realize that this is the last time I’m going to see my father. He’s given me so much on one hand, then taken it away without apology with the other. Now he’s laying the responsibility for my brothers on my shoulders. Why the hell does everyone think I’m strong enough to give them what they need? I’m broken. Damaged. Almost completely ruined. A bloody barely-functioning mess. How am I supposed to take care of those four when I’m only just holding on myself? With a million questions circling my head, I start the car and drive away from the man I thought I knew. Regret stains every breath I take; it pulses from every pore in my body. I thought I’d be making things better by confronting my father. On the contrary, all I’ve done is stir up more questions and create a bigger problem.

  Explaining this to Mik is going to be fun.

  Not.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MIK

  Five Months Earlier

  The lights in the infirmary flicker then go out. Darkness falls in my hospital room followed by the eeriest fucking quiet. One thing that anyone who’s ever been to prison will tell you is that it’s never fucking silent in here. My gut has that heavy feeling it gets when it’s trying to tell me something. I had it the night Lainey drove off with Brendan fucking Taylor at her birthday party. I had it the night she dropped us at the airport to fly to Melbourne so Benji could meet with footy scouts. And, I had it the night before I was arrested.

  I’ve learnt the hard way that too much hurt comes from ignoring my instincts. Reaching under my mattress, I pull out the shank one of our boys paid a screw to slip to me. Holding it in my hand, point first, I concentrate on listening to my surroundings. I can’t hear a fucking thing, until all of a sudden it all becomes apparent. At least two pairs of feet, trying their fucking hardest not to make any noise on the linoleum floor of the hallway are approaching my room. It takes effort, but I force myself into a sitting position. If this is about to go down like I think it is, they’ve picked a good fucking night to do it. I was cornered in the shower block two days ago and stabbed twice in the stomach. Not to mention the beating I took trying to defend myself against four fuckers. There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t throb or ache with pain. If there’s more than one or two of them; I’m gonna be leaving this hell-hole in a fucking body-bag.

  I’m sliding myself forward so my feet can touch the floor when my door bursts open and the fluorescent lights are switched on. The sudden brightness sends me momentarily blind, giving them enough time to grab an arm each and throw me face down on the floor before I can get rid of the black spots clouding my vision. The shank goes flying, sliding under the bed and out of my reach. My jaw hits the floor, rattling my teeth in my head. Someone sits on my left arm, then another fucker pins my right. Just when I think it can’t get any fucking worse, another cunt straddles my hips.

  Clad in only a hospital gown, I’m naked as the day I was born underneath it. There’s no such thing as modesty in prison. A hard, cold, metal object touches my ass. No fucking way; they’ll have to fucking kill me before they try to get their rocks off with me. There might be some in here that are down for that shit. I. Am. Not. One. Of. Them.

  The coldness moves up my back. It goes away, then I feel one of the ties that keeps the fucking gown on being sliced through. Fuck, it’s a knife. One with a motherfucking huge blade on it. Straining as hard as I can against the weight that’s pinning me down, I hiss through my teeth when the stitches in my gut rip open. The material under me grows wet against my skin. The warm thickness of the liquid telling me that it’s my blood. Doesn’t stop me, though. I keep fighting with everything I have until my head’s jerked back and the blade is held to my jugular.

  “We have a message to pass on to you.”

  Swallowing to moisten my dry mouth, I pretend that I don’t have a knife at my throat and let out a laugh. It’s a little rusty, not quite as sarcastic as I wanted, but it does the trick. The serrated edge moves away from my skin enough for me to breathe without getting cut. “Really? All this trouble for a message. I’m a reasonable bloke. If you wanted to talk, all you had to do was leave a card with my secretary. I would’ve got back to you within two business days.”

  The idiot holding my left arm actually sniggers at my comment. Fucking dumbass. If I get free, I’ll leave him to last just because he has a sense of humour. The cunt on top of me chuckles. It’s different to the other pricks. This one’s filled with contempt and sadistic pleasure at what’s about to come. He removes the blade from my throat, deliberately pulling it across my Adam’s apple so that it nicks my skin as it slides past. Warmth runs down my neck, followed by stinging where he cut me. Motherfucker. He’s gonna be my first victim when I get free.

  “This message is of the permanent variety.” Shit. Shit. Shit. Goose bumps break out over my skin as his words sink in. The asshole laughs again. “I’m being paid pretty fucking good to slice you up.”

  Leaning down, he runs the knife back across my throat, drawing more blood, then speaks straight into my ear. “The money’s nice, but I would’ve done it for free. I owe you a couple for the other night. You couldn’t just take it like a good boy. You had to fight. One of my best guards has probably lost an eye because of you.”

  Shrugging as much as I can with about half a tonne sitting on me, I drop my forehead against the cold concrete when the movement makes my gut bleed more. The pain from the open wound is enough to incapacitate a normal man. However, I never claimed to be normal. Since I was a kid, I’ve found that the harder someone hit me—the more they hurt me—the stronger I became. I’m a fighter. Got it from my dad. I’m a Kennedy, and a Kennedy fights to the fucking death.

  “You know?” I ask in a deceptively innocent tone. “If you let me up and take me on one-on-one, I might be nice enough to give you an eyepatch that matches your lover’s.”

  Idiot on my left arm laughs louder this time. He cops a smack to the back of the head from the cockhead sitting on my ass. Their movements t
ake some of their weight off me. Asshole on my right has been quiet since they pinned me, but he can’t help himself this time. His body shifts off my arm enough for me to regain some control.

  Arching my back, I ignore the flames of burning pain in my stomach and buck the fucker with the knife off me. My surprise move knocks the cockhead on my left off balance. He falls off me; leaving only the dickhead on my right to deal with. He grabs hold of me as I leap to my feet, trying to wrap his arms around me in a bear hug. One savage chop to the throat takes him down. A kick to the head when he hits the floor finishes him. The dumbass on my left is still on his knees—he looks fat and slow—so I dismiss him and concentrate on the cunt with the blade. Twisting, I find him about to lunge at me with the knife. I knock it out of his hand then follow with a short, sharp right to the temple. He staggers but doesn’t fall. Bent as he is, he’s almost knee-height. I take advantage of this by grabbing him with two hands on the back of his head and slamming his face into my right knee. I feel his nose burst on impact. He slackens in my hold; the blow must have knocked him out, so I let him slither to the floor.

  Holding my hand over the deepest wound in my gut, I attempt to stem some of the pain—and the blood that’s running down my leg to the floor. Swinging around clumsily, I throw a lopping punch at the fat fuck who’s finally found his feet. The prick’s faster than he looks—or I’m slowing down because of blood loss. Either way, he ducks, then takes two steps toward me and rams his head into my stomach. With a howl that bounces off the walls, my knees give out and I hit the floor. The asshole sits on me, pinning me face down on the fucking floor again. I flop around like a fish out of water, trying my hardest to dislodge him. Nothing happens. I’m fucking stuck—figuratively and literally.

  My gut’s burning. Blood’s rising in my throat. And my head’s pounding like I’ve got the worst motherfucking hangover in the history of hangovers. When I hear the fat prick radioing for assistance, I fall still. Resting against the cold concrete, I try to catch my breath. It’s impossible. The stabbing pain in my abdomen is making it difficult to pull in a complete breath, let alone regain any strength.