Instigation: A Twisted Mayhem MC Novel

by Cat Mason

  “What the hell do you mean you’re ready?” she snaps, hot on my heels. “Jason Schrader, I swear to God, I don’t have the time or the energy for any of your bullshit this morning. Take it somewhere else.”

  “No bullshit.” Sliding the bins onto the roof of the car, I open the backdoor. “You drivin’, or me?”

  “You suddenly deaf now?” she grits out, grabbing my forearm. “I already told you. I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

  “Never said you did,” I smirk, yanking my arm free. Grabbing the plastic bins, I settle them in the backseat. After making sure they won’t go anywhere once the car starts moving, I shut the door. Straightening my body, I turn to face her. “Doesn’t change things. Until Stone says otherwise, I’m your newly appointed shadow, babe.” Flashing her a smile, I reach out and tap the end of her nose with my finger. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

  “I’m secretly thinking of all the ways I could kill you,” she mutters, slapping my hand away. Looking down at her watch, she blows out an exasperated breath. “None of which I have time for because I’m fucking late,” she adds, shoving passed me. Rounding the car, I fling open the passenger side door. Dropping into the seat, I immediately start adjusting the damn thing so my knees aren’t in the dashboard. “You ‘bout done?” Shy asks, watching me.

  “I don’t like cars,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably. “They’re too goddamn confining. Like a fuckin’ cage.”

  “Aren’t shadows supposed to be quiet?” she asks, facing forward and starting the engine.

  “You wanna argue about this shit, woman?” I fire back, enjoying the hell out of her attempt at pissing me off. “Or you gonna drive the damn car?”

  “Looks like I’m gonna have to do both.” Slamming the car into gear, she peels out of the lot.

  “You’re grouchy.” I study her out of the corner of my eye. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  “That would mean that I actually fell asleep at some point,” she sighs. “I didn’t.”

  “Were you up all night baking?” Shifting in my seat, I study her as she drives. Cheyenne is gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I worry it may snap. Though, not before she does.

  “No. Nita and Ro helped out. We finished them just before two.” She glances my way quickly before returning her eyes to the road. “My mind wouldn’t shut off.”

  Straightening in my seat, I nod my head in understanding, not needing any more of an explanation than that. Which is good, because I guarantee she sure as shit isn’t giving me anything else. I can see the worry and uncertainty written all over her face, along with a level of exhaustion that no amount of sleep will help. I fucking hate it. I don’t see the Cheyenne I know. Someone else has taken her place, washed her out, leaving behind a goddamn miserable shell. She didn’t deserve any of this shit.

  Out of all the damage he left behind, what I hate D.A. for most is what he did to her.

  He promised to make her happy; instead, that worthless bastard stole her smile.

  It pisses me off and I am determined to do whatever it takes to get it back.

  Even if that means riding into hell and taking it back from the bastard myself.

  At the elementary school, cars and minivans are lined up single file, dropping off kids. “It’s the breeding mare merry-go-round,” I chuckle, nudging Shy with my elbow. “Scariest fuckin’ ride I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Kids are scary?” she asks, looking at me questioningly.

  “Fuck no.” I shake my head. “Kids are great. It’s the domestication. Kids don’t do that shit to you, that’s all on the adult losin’ their fuckin’ minds. I’d never be that kind of dad.” Pointing in front of us, I shake my head as the guy helps his two kids out of the van. “That’s Jake Voss. That asshole got arrested senior year for painting pot leaves on all the squad cars. Now, the miserable bastard’s wearing khakis and probably spends his Saturday afternoons napping in his recliner after one beer.”

  “He doesn’t look miserable to me,” she argues.

  “Trust me, he’s cryin’ on the inside.”

  Making it to the front of the line, Shy pulls up against the sidewalk. Flinging open the door, I climb out, helping her by grabbing the tubs of baked goods from the back. Principal Jordan spots us and immediately heads our way. The man is older than dirt. Fucker was here when Vic went here. “Thank you so much, Cheyenne,” he says, extending his hand for her to shake. “You’re helping us save our summer program.”

  “Stone also asked that I let you know the club will personally match whatever is raised,” Shy adds as a horn starts to blast from behind us. “The summer program was always very important to Vic.”

  “Please pass along my thanks,” Jordan says, his smile widening.

  “Of course. We’re all happy to help.” Shy gives him a small smile, her cheeks filling with color.

  “Absolutely,” I nod in agreement.

  “Would you hurry the hell up?” a woman shrieks, followed by more horn blowing.

  Turning, I spot a blonde in a red sweat suit, standing beside a blue station wagon. “Sorry,” I blurt, waving her off. “Makin’ a delivery. Go ahead and pull around us.”

  The woman narrows her eyes. “If you need to get out of your car, you park in the lot and walk over here. Seriously, how about thinking about someone other than yourself?”

  The smile falls right of Shy’s face. Her head turns so slowly that I immediately take a step back. “Excuse me?”

  “Want me to slow it down for you so you can understand?” Reaching inside the opened window, she lays on the horn with each word. “Move. Your. Damn. Car. Bitch.”

  “Oh,” Shy nods. Heading toward the cars, Shy’s fists ball at her sides. “I got your message loud and clear, Sweetheart.”

  “Fair warning. This isn’t gonna end well.” Handing off the tubs to Principal Jordan, I move to catch up with Shy. I’m too late. Slamming the woman back against the car, Shy nails her with a right hook to the jaw.

  “Was is that hard to drive around my goddamn car?” Shy growls, nailing the chick in the nose.

  The woman screams, trying to block punches while attempting to shove Shy away. “You’re insane!”

  “Okay. Okay.” Wrapping my arms tightly around Shy’s middle, I yank her back against my chest. “That’s enough.” Looking up at the shocked, staring faces, I smile. “Nothing to see here. Everyone have yourselves a great fuckin’ day and be sure to hit up that bake sale and support the summer program.”

  “Dammit! Let me go, Schrader!” she screams, pounding my arms with her fists. “I don’t need protection from this bitch!”

  “Not her I’m savin’ you from,” I grunt, pulling her back toward her car. Dragging her around to the passenger side, I yank open the door. Boxing her in, I jerk my chin toward the bakery across the street where Chief McKelvy and Agent Hilster’s cars are parked. “Doc will have my balls if you get booked for assault on my watch. Now, get your ass in the car.”

  Staring up at me, her nostrils flare. I'd easily bet my Harley she wants to claw my damn eyes out right now for stopping her beat down mid-punch like I did. But it had to be done. If Cheyenne were locked up on an assault charge, that would give Hilster all the uninterrupted time to grill her about D.A. and the club that he could ever want. Right now, that isn't happening.

  Though, I gotta admit, watching her let loose on that chick was pretty fucking awesome.

  And hot.

  Girl fights are awesome.

  Her chest heaves as she drags air into her lungs. "Fine," she huffs, dropping into the seat.

  Shutting the door, I jerk my chin at the other woman. "You're welcome."

  Swiping at the blood on her face, her jaw drops. Her shock is almost as funny as the fact that no one around us stepped in to help her while Shy was kicking her ass. "You're expecting me to thank that psycho for hitting me?"

  "Nope." I flash her a smile. "I expect you to thank me for not letting her finish."

/>   Climbing into the driver seat, I quickly put the car into gear and pull out before Cheyenne decides to jump out for round two. Figuring that the compound is the last place she needs to be right now, I head in the opposite direction. Taking the back roads, I roll down the window and haul ass out of town.

  "Where are we going?" Shy asks, when I take the turn off for Airport Road.

  "Nowhere important."

  "Think she will press charges?" she asks, shifting her body to stare out the window. "There were plenty of witnesses."

  "I doubt it. Guarantee it's not the first time someone clocked her for being an asshole."

  "Probably not," she admits, her lips twitching up in a small smile.

  "Felt good though, didn't it?" I ask, making a left onto a gravel road that leads to the back field of the small private airport.

  "Hitting her?" she asks, wincing a little as she flexes her fingers.

  I shake my head. "Unloading some of that shit you've got bottled up." Hissing through my teeth, I chuckle. "I'm damn surprised you didn't take a swing at me too."

  Looking my way, she arches a brow. "Who says I still won't?"

  Chapter Seven

  Shy

  Schrader pulls the car over onto the side of the road. "Come on, feisty ass," he teases, killing the engine. Looking my way, he rubs his hands together, a devilish grin playing on his lips. "You ready to work off some of that frustration?"

  “Umm.” Instantly, x-rated thoughts of how I could work off my frustrations with Schrader pop into my head. My face heats. Shit. Flinging open the door, I climb out of the car, hoping he doesn’t notice where my mind has gone. “Exactly how do you plan to do that?”

  Looking around, I try to figure out what Schrader is up to. The air field doesn’t get used much, so I know not to expect a crowd or anything. Bill, the caretaker, tends to the place himself, but is mostly known for downing bottles of tequila until he passes out in random places.

  Searching that guy out is like a game of Where's Waldo, except with a raging alcoholic old man playing the part of the weird looking guy in red and white stripes.

  Although I’m willing to bet Waldo is on the sauce too. Anyone who goes missing that damn much has to be spending a lot of time getting hammered.

  The driver side door opens. Standing, he meets my eyes, his lips twitching in amusement. “Guess you’ll have to come with me and find out.”

  "Ah," I nod thoughtfully. "So you didn’t bring me out here to kill me?"

  “Nah.” Schrader laughs, the rich sound causing goosebumps to rise all over my skin. “You keep shit interesting.”

  “Nice to know that someone appreciates the level of crazy I seem to be reaching lately,” I deadpan. “It’s a miracle Pop and Jinks don’t have me locked up in a psych ward.”

  “If they haven’t locked my ass up yet, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about.” Walking over to me, he slips his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  Schrader leads me out to the far end of the field to an empty plane hangar. The old building has more holes in it than a piece of swiss cheese. Inside are several wooden shipping crates stacked up randomly along the wall. Drop cloths are scattered on the ground, with more piled in the far corner. Releasing his hold on me, Schrader heads for the pile. Tossing some aside, he reveals a stack of cinder blocks. Reaching down inside them, he pulls out a large rifle.

  “AR-15,” he says with a wide smile. “Accurate for up to six hundred yards. It’s fuckin’ amazing. Ever shoot one?”

  “You brought me out here for target practice?” I ask in disbelief.

  “One of the best ways to ease tension is firing high powered weapons,” he says confidently. Grabbing a magazine, he attaches it to the end. “When I need a fix, I come out here and blow through a couple mags worth of ammo.”

  “I’ve fired guns before, Schrader,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

  “Not like this one,” he challenges, waggling his brows. “This beast is different.”

  Exhaling roughly, I nod. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Do you now?” he asks, skeptically.

  “Mhm,” I inform him, rolling my eyes. “Shooting a gun isn’t the cure-all to every problem, Schrader. It’s sweet that you’re trying. I just don’t think squeezing a trigger is going to make all the bullshit go away, you know?”

  “Never said it would.” His expression turns serious. “But I do know that, just because some bad shit happens, it doesn’t mean you get to close yourself off from all the good stuff in life. Let loose and shoot some shit with me, woman. I promise your face won’t crack if you smile.”

  “This is that important to you?”

  He nods. “Fuckin’ right.”

  “Whatever, you shithead,” I mutter, stubbornly resisting the urge to give him even a little smile. Closing the distance between us, I tilt my head to the side, studying him. He tilts his head right back, letting me know he isn’t backing down. Asshole. “Fine,” I huff, holding out my hands. “Give me the damn gun.”

  Taking the rifle from his hands, I face the empty crates. Readying the gun and myself, I look through the sight and line up my shot. Squeezing the trigger, I quickly fire off four rounds into one of the crates. “Holy shit!” I stumble backward, adrenaline coursing through my veins, the power of the gun racing through my entire body.

  “Good, right?” Schrader asks, stepping up behind me and steadying my legs. Putting a hand on my hip, he shifts my body. “Here. Widen your stance a little. Look straight ahead and line up your next shot. Aim dead center on that corner crate.” When I do as he says, he presses into my back, his hands running down my arms, helping to steady the gun. The calloused tips of his fingers moving along my skin make me shiver. “Breathe and let that adrenaline rush you’ve got buildin’ in your belly burn nice and slow,” he says, his lips dangerously close to my ear on the opposite side of the gun. “You feel it?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, barely biting back the moan that is on the tip of my tongue. Jesus, I have got to get a grip.

  “Then let ‘er rip.”

  The heat of his body burns into my back, distracting the shit out of me. Biting my lip, I force my eyes to stay open. Thankfully, Schrader releases me and takes a few steps back when I begin to adjust my footing. Taking a deep breath, I blow it out nice and slow and squeeze the trigger. My heart leaps into my chest as bullets pepper into the crate, snapping the planks of wood into scraps for kindling as the casings bounce off the ground around me.

  When I am out of ammo, I move to the crates. Placing the gun down on top of one that is still intact, I feel the smile spreading across my face. “Wow. Did you see that?”

  Whipping around, I slam into Schrader’s chest. “Yeah,” he breathes. Tipping up my face with both hands, he crushes his lips to mine.

  My hands fly up to his chest, feeling the hardness of his body beneath my fingers. Schrader plunges his tongue into my mouth, the satisfied growl that rips from his chest vibrates throughout my entire body. As if lost in a dream, I kiss him back. His kiss tastes like overly sweet coffee. Sliding a hand down to my hip, Schrader tugs me into his body, forcing me up onto my toes as every rock hard inch of him presses into me. His touch is rough and commanding, yet I can feel a hesitation that leaves me wanting more.

  Of him.

  Of this.

  “Fuck,” he murmurs, kissing a path to my ear. “All that sweet mixed with all that fire, Babe. Fuckin’ beautiful. I want all of it. Fuck, I wanna taste every inch of you.”

  “Schrader,” I breathe, but my plea comes out more like a moan.

  “Damn,” he groans, sliding his hand around to my ass, gripping it tightly. “My name’s never sounded so sexy. Need to hear you scream it.”

  “Oh God,” I groan, shoving at his chest. “What the hell are we doing?”

  “I’m kissing you,” he purrs, his hot breath rushing over my already heated skin. “Why the fuck have I never kissed you?”

  “Because we’re friends.” Sna
pping out of my haze, I shove at his chest again, harder this time. “Schrader, stop.”

  Pulling back, he stares down at me in surprise. “Stop?” he asks, sounding confused. “Woman, you kissed me back.” His hand skims over my hip, my body instinctively moving to seek more of his touch. “Your body doesn’t want me to stop, Shy.”

  “I know. I know.” Pushing away from him, I turn my back to him and bury my face in my hands. “I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mumbles. Dropping his hands to my shoulders, he gives them a squeeze. “Cheyenne, this feels right. Admit it. You were into it. You are into it.”

  “I can’t.” Dropping my hands, I step out of his touch again, and head for the entrance to the hangar. “Please take me back to the clubhouse.”

  “Dammit.” Catching up to me, he grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Don’t leave shit like this,” he pleads, spinning me around to face him. “Talk to me.”

  I shake my head. “There’s nothing to talk about. Drop it, okay?”

  His brow furrows. “You honestly expect me to believe that you don’t want me?” he asks, searching my eyes. “That you didn’t like my mouth on you as much as I did?”

  Squaring my shoulders, I shake my head. “I don’t expect anything. Nothing happened.”

  “Like fuckin’ hell nothin’ happened,” he roars, hauling me into him. “Now that I’ve got a taste of what I’ve been missin’ out on.” Leaning in close, he slowly licks his lips. “I’m comin’ at you with everything I’ve got.”

  Chapter Eight

  Schrader

  Shy hasn’t said one word to me since we got back to the clubhouse. Not that I expected her to. That doesn’t mean I don’t catch her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. Because, I do.

  Every single time.

  I have always thought Cheyenne was beautiful. Hell, she is fucking gorgeous. However, it was never my intention to want her this way. My goal has always been to protect her from assholes like me, instead of becoming one hell bent on taking her for myself.