GRIZ: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (Chained Angels MC)

by Nicole Fox

  I faithfully pulled out another plate from the fridge, running it under warm water before toweling it off and putting the eggs on it. I started up another batch of eggs for myself while Dean dug into his plate, tapping his little feet on the kitchen floor in time with some imagined music. Perhaps he isn’t such a bad kid after all, I thought, looking the poor creature over. He watched me with solemn chocolate eyes, memorizing the motions I made. Considering he’s mostly raised himself, he’s not as bad as some of the kinds I’ve met in the system with “parents.”

  Finally, after a long moment of silence, he finally asked, “Can I help?”

  “But your eggs will get cold.” I smiled down at him. “How about you eat a little more, and I’ll tell you what I’m doing. Then, we’ll do another one together that you can take home and eat whenever you please.”

  “Do you mean it?” Dean’s eyes lit up, his eyes glittering like rain in a sun shower.

  I chuckled at his expression. “Of course! I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it. How do you like them?”

  Dean’s mouth was full, but he answered anyway. “They really good!”

  Or at least I think that’s what he said. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, young man.”

  “Yes, Marion,” he said, his mouth still loaded up with eggs.

  It was hard not laugh with him around; Dean was one of those kids who was clever and funny, observant and curious. A shame his father kept him in a cage next door; he most-likely craved attention and things to learn and do. At least, I had at his age.

  As soon as he was done eating, I broke down the steps to make the perfect eggs into slow, simple steps, walking him through each. It was the way my father had showed me in that ugly 1970s kitchen I’d grown up in. Passing the knowledge onto Dean warmed the empty places where my heart must have resided at one time.

  “Like this?” Dean asked, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as he tried to work the spatula under the eggs.

  I nodded. “Just like that; wiggle it a little. Good work!” I patted him on the shoulder as he successfully turned over the eggs.

  He was beaming with his triumph, and the joy in Dean’s face was worth all of the loud TV noise and the poor manners. It would even be worth how angry his dad would be if he ever found out.

  Hopefully.

  Chapter Six

  Reed

  I hate the Boss. I can’t help but think it. Even after all this time, I still hate him. And this reckless, stupid deal he’s just made has made that hatred of him even worse.

  The Boss, named Lyman Rock, was one of the toughest assholes I’d ever known. He stood before the group, his hands spread wide, his eyes unfocused like a madman’s. He looked a little like a preacher who could feel whatever god he worshiped in the words he spoke. There was a zealousness in him that sent shivers down everyone’s spines as they watched him, standing in front of the Heaven’s Horns like the clubhouse was a stage.

  The boys all stood around in a circle. A few of them had stars in their eyes as the Boss mentioned being number one, the amount of money we would be pulling in, and some of the other benefits of this new arrangement.

  But the rest of us looked tired or wary. If something sounds too good to be true, it is. And getting into any kind of agreement with a drug cartel is going to be messy.

  “The cartel will be sending us three times the product we’ve ever been able to sell in this region. Our enemies, our rivals, will no longer be able to stand up to us,” the Boss said with a crazy smile on his rugged face. Lyman hovered on the edge of being old enough to be my father; he’d spent a great deal of effort trying to be a father figure to me.

  Even after he’d murdered my father in front of me.

  This is no place for anger at the past, I chided myself, forcing myself to focus instead on Lyman’s insane pro-cartel speech. He was holding out his arms again, looking as though he was trying to embrace all of the two hundred or so souls under his throne.

  The Boss continued, “There will be more to go around, more for everyone. We will expand. We will take this territory for our own. No longer will we have to share space with the likes of the Shadow Cave overlapping our borders. No one will question our hold!”

  The men cheered, but it sounded spiritless and empty. The Boss didn’t seem to notice. But the man standing close to Lyman’s right arm, Peter, noticed. His clean-shaven face ran over the length of the hall, obviously taking note of those who were excited, and those who seemed leery of the Boss’s idea of a good deal.

  I locked eyes with Peter; while there was no direct route to argue with Lyman in the Heaven’s Horns; there was no voting, no second guessing the Boss, but there were backdoor ways around those rules. And most of those ways involved the second-in-command. Peter, who stood in that tenuous position, had held it for as long as I could remember. Decades. Since before I was old enough to officially even join the ranks.

  Peter held my eyes for a moment before giving me a slow, deliberate nod. He knew; he knew and he was doing his best to change Lyman’s mind. But the Boss was obsessed, and there was little we could do.

  Sighing, I turned away first, glancing down at the floor before returning my eyes to our fearless leader. Beside him is a woman I’d seen around before. She was smiling in a way that made me uncomfortable. It was the smile of something venomous and brightly colored, drawing you in so it can murder you.

  She was beautiful, to be sure. Long legs that went on for miles were wrapped in skin-tight, designer, white leather. A decorative white jacket sat on her shoulders, showing coy little hints of the glittering tank top underneath. The woman looked as sweet as candy, but her brilliant green eyes were as hard as stones. Sweeping blonde hair hung in pretty waves down to her hips, caught partly in delicate braid tipped with gold and silver beads. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this woman; I’m also sure that one kiss on those blood red lips would kill a man even stronger than me.

  The Boss gestured to her, his grin spreading. “And this is Cara. She is our representative for the cartel. She will be overseeing the business arrangements. Anything Cara wants, ladies and gents, will be hers, so play nice.”

  My lips rose in a growl, exposing my teeth like an animal. Anything she wants, huh? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Just what was going to be the result of these business deals with the cartel, exactly? The whole situation rubbed me wrong, and I needed to get out of here before I said something that would ruin me.

  I have to stay on the Boss’s good side, I reminded myself, over and over again. Can’t have Dean growing up like I did. Growing up without a dad. Knowing nothing but the Heaven’s Horns.

  This is all for Dean.

  As soon as the Boss was finished with his speech, I hightailed it out of the Heaven’s Horns, needing to be away from the building. I nodded at a few of my brothers as I left, trying to look like I was off on business. The last thing I needed was one of them following me home. It was bad enough that the club knew about Dean in the first place. I couldn’t let them know how much of a weakness he was to me.

  Revving my bike up, I sped out of the hidden base of operations for the Heaven’s Horns Motorcycle Club. Up front, it looked like any other seedy abandoned warehouse in a sea of abandoned warehouses. But keeping the club associations from becoming public knowledge was bloody work. I’d sewn many mouths shut to keep this place as secure for my brothers as possible. No matter what Lyman did to our people, they were the only family I still had, aside from Dean. Keeping them safe was my number one priority, even before money or murder or anything else.

  This, however, was no longer a concern for Lyman Rock. His zealous desire to be number one, to drive his humble rooted MC into nationwide recognition was becoming a dangerous pastime for everyone involved. We were dropping like flies with every new initiative, and this cartel business would only make it worse.

  But what can I do? Our options are to try and talk him out of it as quietly and nonchalantly as possibl
e or to mutiny. And neither are exactly good options. Even if we reject the deal, we’ll still be in heavy with the cartel. They won’t take kindly to us taking our offer back all of a sudden.

  After circling the block a few times to ensure I wasn’t being followed, I pointed my bike towards home. All of this shitty cartel idiocy was bringing up all sorts of memories I just wanted to forget.

  Lyman stood over my father, lying on the ground. He was bloody, broken, his breath wheezing between broken teeth out of a punctured lung. Blood spilled from his mouth, his ears, his nose. The slowly growing puddle of red was too big. There would be no coming back from it. I watched with wide eyes. I was barely tall enough to see over the half-wall of the stairs from where I watched.

  My father wheezed again, his face so swollen I couldn’t recognize him. He tried to speak, but instead of words, blood spilled out.

  “There now, Judd. Still want to leave the Heaven’s Horns, you lying sack of shit?” Lyman asked, pulling my father’s head back by his bloodied blonde hair. “I didn’t think so.” With a sickening, wet crunch of bones shattering, Lyman slammed my father’s face against the pavement one final time.

  Pressure built in my chest as the memory played in my mind again. Time hadn’t softened the edges of this particular memory; it was branded into my mind. The only thing that had changed about the memory was my feelings about it. From shock to indifference to anger, I’d felt everything on the spectrum towards watching my father die. But now, it just made me feel old and tired.

  I wanted out of the Heaven’s Horns more than anything in the world. I wanted to take Dean and run away and keep running until we found a place outside of Lyman’s reach.

  But I couldn’t do it.

  I pulled up to the motel, sending a pack of teenagers loitering on the stairs scattering. I chuckled humorlessly; at least I still scared everyone around me. It was best. It would keep people like that too-pretty Marion lady from jumping into the pit with me. The pit that was bottomless. Once in, there was no getting back out again.

  Trudging up the stairs, I glanced around at my traps as I reached my door. The door had been opened, and there were clear footprints in the dirt of the knocked over planter of little, Dean-sized feet.

  And they were pointed at Marion’s door.

  I cursed under my breath, stepping forward as silently as possible. I checked over my room quickly, making sure there were no strangers inside my house before heading over to Marion’s.

  Fury set fire to my blood as I knocked on the door. The knock seemed to shake the whole building, and my knock was met with silence. After a second, a female voice answered. “Who is it?”

  Marion. I nearly growled. “It’s Colton. I know my son is in there, Marion. You better open this fucking door before I tear it down.”

  Silence again, then the sound of locks being disengaged. Marion opened the door, her brown eyes so wide, I could see whites all the way around her irises. She stepped back from the door, her arms wrapped close around her fluffy, teal robe. A shot of fire that had nothing to do with anger filled me for a moment, and I wondered if she was naked under that robe.

  “Your son wouldn’t have come over if you had fed him properly,” Marion snapped, her too-wide eyes staring right into his. It was more of a spine than I would have ever credited her with, but that didn’t mean a thing. Marion was still too soft to be involved with Dean, to be involved with me. Our life was the dark underbelly to this part of town. You were either toughened by it or torn to shreds.

  And Marion wouldn’t last a day.

  Chapter Seven

  Marion

  Colton’s very angry gray eyes finally left mine, and I stumbled backward. I was having a hard time catching my breath as he stepped into my room, his rage radiating off of him like heat. He seemed to fill the whole space with his anger, forcing me harder against the wall. Those crazy eyes turned from me to his son’s, not softening a bit as they found him standing in the little kitchenette.

  “Dad, look what I made!” Dean said, not wincing away from his father’s anger. Angry Dad must have been a way of life for Dean, making me feel incredibly sorry for him. I wished I had his nerve.

  I was waiting for Colton to continue his rant, to yell and scream about putting his son’s life in danger some more, but to my surprise, the man’s face softened. Colton. His said his name was Colton. I stayed against the wall, watching the two of them carefully as Colton knelt down by his kid. “Eggs. That’s great, kiddo. I didn't know you knew how to make eggs.”

  “Marion taught me!” Dean answered, sloppily scooping the eggs onto a plate and shoving at his father. “Eat it!”

  Chuckling, Colton grabbed the plate. “Marion just seems to be full of surprises, doesn’t she, Dean? Alright, kiddo. I’ll try them. Let’s eat, okay?”

  I stared at the both of them, trying to decide if it was safe or if Colton was going to trash my motel room. But the two sat down at the tiny kitchenette table, Colton taking the bench and Dean taking the wobbly chair that was barely sturdy enough to hold his weight. It painted a quaint, domestic picture. The two of them sat at my table to eat, poking at the eggs with mismatched forks and pouring ketchup and salt over their food. They chewed like savages, with mouths open and shoulders hunched.

  I didn’t quite know what to feel. Unhappy that a criminal and his child had taken over my living space. Burning with the knowledge that such a beautiful man was inside my home, eating the food I had cooked. He was stunning, and his son was shining like the sun rising after a week of rain. A mix of emotions filled my chest to near bursting as I slowly walked back into the kitchenette, grabbed my plate, and sat down at the other end of the bench, as far from Colton as I could manage. We ate in relative silence, the only sounds the smacking of their impolite, open-mouthed chewing.

  Dean grinned at me, little bits of egg and ketchup dribbling down his chin. “I did good, didn’t I?” he asked his dad, those little chocolate eyes glowing.

  Colton softened enough to actually smile at his kid. “You did good, Dean.”

  After they left, there was finally quiet. I cleaned up the mess from cooking and eating as quickly as I could, barely able to keep my eyes open. I only had about seven hours left to clean up, sleep, and then shower, dress, and get to work. But to leave food about would bring tiny, unwelcome, six-legged visitors to my house, and I couldn’t bear the thought of them skittering around here while I slept.

  I did manage to finally fall asleep, even after replaying breakfast with the neighbors over and over again in my head. It was nice, if a little nerve-wracking, to have visitors over for food. It almost made life feel normal again. Almost.

  I wasn’t ready to wake when my alarm went off, blaring like a siren inside my room. I opened sticky eyes to the peachy-orange of the evening sky. Just another hour or two more and I would be set. Groaning, I forced myself to my feet. I did ten pushups, ten sit-ups, and ten jumping jacks, forcing my heart rate up to help wake my exhausted body. I drank the half of a leftover can of coffee from the fridge, but not even the kick of sugar and caffeine was helping.

  Cursing under my breath, I slid into my still-dirty uniform, added a touch of perfume to help cover up the lingering scent of fried food, and went to work. The bus managed to get me there on time, despite heavy traffic. I slumped into work at 5:59 PM, mostly ready for my shift to start at six.

  No one said anything to me as I stepped in the back, clocked in, and immediately slipped into work. Luckily for me, working at this dump of a diner every day for the last two months had been enough for me to pick up the intricacies of waiting. I could do most of my job on auto-pilot, which was good considering how very tired I was. I managed not to spill anything or mess up any orders too bad. The day was actually looking alright.

  After an hour and a whole pot of free, watered-down coffee later, I was starting to feel like myself again. One of my first customers rejected a sandwich for having the wrong cheese, so I wolfed it down before anyone noticed. The
food and the caffeine started to pick me up off of the floor, and I was feeling better.

  The diner I worked in got really busy around the dinner hours; it filled to the brim with the poor looking for a sit-down place that didn’t cost more than a few bucks a person, just for a little bit of fun out after a long week of working two or more jobs. Most of the clients were kind; they knew how hard it was to get by on the nothing we all made. There was a kind of community here, a camaraderie as we all battled against the same beast: the poverty that loomed over every minute of our lives. Most couldn’t afford to leave big tips, but they gave what they could. And they shared in the wealth when they made a little extra than what they expected. I even received one tip of homemade jellies once, under the condition that I returned the jar when I was done.