by Cat Mason
Demolition
Twisted Mayhem, Book Three
Cat Mason
All Rights Reserved. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photographic) in part or whole without expressed written consent from Amy Cox a.k.a. Cat Mason.
This is a work of Fiction. It is meant to entertain and is not meant to be an accurate account of any Motorcycle Club whatsoever. All characters, organizations, brands, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or deceased is completely coincidental.
Copyright © Cat Mason Books 2018
First Publication: March 2018
Cover Image and Design By: Mel Pahl of IndieVention Designs.
Editing By: Asli Fratarcangeli
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgments
Demolition Playlst
About the Author
One
Colt
“You boys better not let Kirby catch you out here smokin’. You’re still on his shit list, Schrader.”
Following the sound of her voice, I spot Henley walking down the sidewalk toward us. The way that woman’s hips sway when she walks should be a fucking crime. Her curly blonde hair is pulled up in a ball on top of her head, giving me a full view of her face. Even clearly exhausted from a shift, and in hospital scrubs, she looks sexy as hell.
She smiles playfully while giving Schrader hell about changing diapers. Her smoky gray eyes meet mine, heat filling them. Though I know this stubborn ass woman would deny it with her dying breath. “Beefcake.”
Unable to help myself, I slowly take in every curve of her body, wishing like hell I could use my hands. Or my mouth. “Hotness,” I reply, winking at her.
Her eyes widen, the deep blue gray looking like clouds in a raging storm. There is beauty in their intensity. They pull me in by my cock every time she looks at me. “Hotness?” she asks, the word thick with sarcasm. “After four double shifts this week, I’m lookin’ more like a hot mess.” Quickly ending her conversation with Schrader, she meets my eyes one last time before passing me. “Night, Beefcake.”
“Later.” I jerk my chin in her direction, taking a minute to appreciate the view I have of her ass while she walks through the lot toward her car.
“Beefcake, huh?” Schrader asks, giving me shit. “Was she talkin’ to you or just your dick?”
“Fuck you,” I bite out, watching Henley dig through her bag as she walks. Fucking woman. This late at night, she should have her goddamn keys and shit ready before she stepped outside. I start to chase her ass down to tell her that when I spot the black car whip around the corner and lay on the gas. The car plows into her, her body bouncing off the hood and onto the pavement without them so much as tapping the brakes.
“What the fuck?” Schrader shouts, taking the words right out of my mouth.
“Henley!” I yell, hauling ass toward her. Schrader is shouting behind me, but my focus is on her. She isn’t moving. I panic. “Hen?” I ask, dropping down beside her, brushing the hair from her face. “Say somethin’.”
She wheezes, blood spilling out of her mouth and running down her bottom lip and chin. Fuck. Dread punches me hard in the gut. The upper hand I demand in every situation has been yanked away, leaving me ready to snap like a rubber band. I can’t do nothing while Henley lies here bleeding. I refuse to let those bastards get away. My hands fist tightly, rage roaring through my veins, demanding to be unleashed. I look to Stone and Schrader, both of them nodding in silent understanding. Standing, I fish my keys from my pocket. “Call Torch.”
“They headed east,” Stone says, running alongside me as I move for my bike.
“Yeah.” Throwing my leg over the seat, I start the engine. “Not for long.”
Not waiting another second, I lay on the throttle and peel out of the lot. Hauling ass through town, I blow through a red light when I spot the car hanging a left onto the highway. Adrenaline surges through my blood, my heart hammering in my chest. I am determined, focused on the justice I am about to hand out.
The car is all over the road. Swerving from lane to lane, the bastard driving cuts off a rig and a minivan. The truck slams on its brakes to miss the van, nearly jackknifing when forced onto the shoulder. Horns blare and tires squeal all around me as drivers attempt to avoid a multi-car pileup.
I don’t hesitate. Laying on the throttle, I duck around a pickup truck, working to close in on the car and shut this shit down before these assholes can hurt anyone else.
Hanging out the window, the passenger opens fire on me. “Motherfucker!” I roar, trying like hell not to take a bullet to the head. Sirens blare in the distance, only amping up my frustration.
“Shit!” I growl when the bastard manages to blow out my front tire. Shaking violently, my bike jerks hard to the right. Reacting quickly, I shift my body before hitting the ditch.
My face slams into the windshield. I land partially on top of my bike as it skids to a stop. “Goddammit!” I bite out, rolling off into the grass and getting to my feet. Ignoring the pain, I haul myself up the bank to the road.
Like I knew it would be, the black car is long gone. Along with my chance to bash their skulls in for hurting Henley. Flashing lights and sirens surround me as two squad cars skid off the road onto the shoulder in front of me.
Fuckin’ great.
The last thing I need is the law sticking their goddamn noses where they don’t belong. I’ll be damned if I’ll rely on some badge to jump through his hoops of red tape and paperwork to only come up empty handed. Besides, the motherfuckers in that car made this shit personal.
They fucked up both my girls tonight.
But Henley’s not yours. Is she, Colt?
“Knox County Sheriff Department,” a male voice shouts, climbing out of one of the cars. This shithead doesn’t look old enough to drive, let alone carry a badge and gun. Drawing his side piece, he turns it on me. “Get on the ground!”
“Second time tonight someone’s aimed a fuckin’ gun at me,” I shout, holding up my hands. “You gonna shoot at me too?”
“On the ground, asshole,” he says, stepping closer. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“Heard you the first time,” I bite out, dropping to one knee.
Rushing me, he and another officer, shove me to the ground. “Fuck,” I hiss in pain. Landing on my side, I struggle against them as they yank my arms behind my back. “Take it easy. I’m hurt, shithead.”
“Stop resisting!” the other guy shouts, pressing something hard between my shoulder blades. “You add more charges if I have to tase you.”
“Charges?” I ask, forcing myself to stop fighting back against them. Me ending up in a cell over this power-hungry motherfucker doesn’t help anything. “What the hell for?”
“Other than running a red light,” he says, the cocky bite in his voice making me want to kick his teeth down his throat. “How about reckless driving, public nuisance and endangerment, and discharge of an unlicensed firearm?”
“Public what?”
“That doesn’t count any added evading or resisting charges,” he continues, ignoring me completely.
“Trust me, Pig,” I fire back, angry as hell at the bullshit list of charges he is quoting off the top of his head. “You’d know if I was resisting.”
“Keep talkin’, asshole.” Yanking me upright, they push me around to the back of the car. “You’re just diggin’ yourself a deeper hole.”
Shoving me into the side of the car, one of them kicks my feet apart. “Any illegal substances?” he asks, checking the front pockets of my jeans. “Where is it?” Dumping my wallet and phone onto the ground he starts the pat down process over again. “Check the ditch,” he says to the other officer. “He’s dumped a firearm.”
“I didn’t toss shit,” I argue, struggling to face him. “Don’t usually carry a piece when spending time in a damn hospital O.B. ward.”
To be honest, guns aren’t my weapon of choice. I don’t like the way people instantly associate power with gun powder and lead. If you ask me, giving an object any sort of power over an actual human being is a goddamn joke. Instead of demanding respect, too many idiots get wrapped up on inflating their egos by instilling fear.
Not me.
Fear is fleeting. I shoot for more of a lasting impression.
“Right,” he taunts, elbowing me in the back.
Sheriff Shithead shoves me into the back of his car and closes the door before I can say anything else. My knees are bunched up into my chest, with my hands still cuffed behind me. The angle he has me in leaves my face nearly smashed into the damn plexiglass divider.
Swiping my wallet from the ground, he digs out my license. “Go for dispatch,” he barks into his radio. “Need a 10-29 on a Trent Morrison. D.O.B. is six-ten-nineteen-eighty.” A scratchy voice that I can’t make out comes over the radio. His stare lands on me, hardening. Mirroring his expression, I make sure he knows I’m not intimidated. He breaks first. Clearing his throat, he tugs at his collar and looks away. Like I knew he would. Pussy. “10-4. No warrants.”
Without the adrenaline pumping through my veins, my body decides now is the perfect time to remind me how banged the fuck up I am. My shoulder hurts like a bitch. The damn thing hasn’t been the same since I was shot last year. My hip aches and I am willing to bet I earned some decent burns from landing on the engine and tail pipes.
Not that it matters to this fucking prick.
Taking point on the investigation of the scene, Sheriff Shithead interviews a few witnesses who stopped, while his pal checks out my bike and the area around it. Combing through the grass with a flashlight, he comes up empty handed.
Big fucking surprise there.
Staring out the front windshield, I attempt to focus on the headlights of the oncoming cars. My mind wanders back to Henley. Fuck. I don’t even know how she is.
The whole fucking scene replays over in my head. Taunting me, like I could somehow change the outcome. We were right there. I was less than five hundred feet from her and couldn’t stop it. If only I had done something differently.
What if I had talked to her longer?
What if I had walked her to her car?
What if I had yelled at her about paying attention?
What ifs are a bitch.
The feeling of helplessness is something that I can’t fucking deal with. It makes me stir crazy. It pisses me off. The urge to fix shit, to make things right, churns in my gut.
Flashing lights catch my attention from the opposite side of the highway. The Knox County Sheriff SUV barrels through the grassy median, his wheels spinning through the mud before surging up onto the road. Pulling in next to us on the shoulder, it stops. Flinging open the door, Sheriff Jerry Dobbs climbs out. Instead of his usual uniform, Dobbs has on a pair of University of Kentucky sweats that are probably older than I am. Out of breath, he waddles his ass our way, his eyes narrowing on Sheriff Shithead. “Fowler!” he bites out angrily.
“Sir,” Shithead replies, making his way over to him and standing at attention like a total dumbass.
Turning their backs to me, they begin to talk. It’s frustrating as hell not to be able to hear a damn thing they’re saying. Dobbs points to my bike, then to where I sit in the car. The vein in the side of his neck throbs so fast, I start to wonder if it will rip out of his skin. Deflating, Sargent Shithead turns and faces me, his expression sour as hell. Shaking his head, he stalks down the ditch line to where the other officer is still searching through the grass.
Dobbs heads my way, taking a moment to say something into his radio before opening the door. “Evenin’, Trent. How’s your Momma?”
“She’s good, Jerry. Livin’ in Phoenix with my aunt,” I murmur, mocking his tone. “How’s your wife? Still tryin’ to kill you for the life insurance money?”
“Saw your bike,” he mutters, ignoring my comment. “You need patched up?”
“Why?” I grunt, shifting in the seat. Grabbing my elbow, he helps me to my feet. “You get some nurses down at County that can give head without takin’ out their teeth?”
“Smart-ass,” Dobbs grumbles under his breath, scooping up my wallet and phone. Slamming the door, he steers me toward his vehicle. Fumbling with his belt, he produces a set of keys. “Let’s get rid of these,” he says, removing my cuffs.
“Thanks,” I grunt, thankful for the ability to roll my shoulders and work my arm.
“Phone’s busted,” he says, handing me my things. “Get in.” Putting away the keys, he opens the back door. “Fowler and Jackson will get your bike towed in while we get you looked at. I’d love to hear why I had to leave the Side Pocket Grill in the middle of a game I bet two hundred dollars on to come see why my guys were runnin’ your name through dispatch for a high-speed pursuit involving gunfire.”
“Gunfire wasn’t me,” I correct him.
“Never thought it was,” he replies without hesitation. “Though I’m hopin’ you’ll give me more than that. Call on your ass came in right after a car ran down a woman in the hospital parking lot.” My teeth grind at the mention of Henley. “Somethin’ tells me you know a little somethin’ about that.”
“Not in the mood for coffee and chitchat,” I inform him, climbing into the back. “If you’re not haulin’ my ass to jail, you can drop me back at the clubhouse.”
“Thought I was takin’ you to get patched up,” he sounds surprised.
“Nah,” I mutter, shaking my head. “No time. I’ve got shit to do.”
Chuckling, he slams the door. Climbing into the front, he shifts the car into gear. “I bet,” he says, slamming on the gas. “It’s a lot of work being a one-man demolition crew. Isn’t it, Trent?”
“Not sure what you mean, Jerry.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “You’ve always been straight with me, kid. Don’t start bullshittin’ me now.”
“Fair enough,” I deadpan. “I’ll just tell you to go to hell.”
“Saw that comin’,” he mutters, focusing on the road.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, he takes the exit on the highway for Legion Falls. Avoiding town, he heads down into Lotus Ridge, taking the back way into the clubhouse. Pulling into the lot, he parks, but doesn’t shut off the engine. Climbing out, he opens the door letting me out of the back. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he blows out a harsh breath. “Fowler and Jackson are gonna be up my ass for answers.”
“Squash it,” I tell him, not giving a shit about what his grunt force has to say. “Some prick made me lay down my bike. End of story.”
“And the girl?” he asks, referring to Henley. “Can’t exactly sweep that shit under the rug.”
“Didn’t ask you to,” I fire back. “Handle your business. We’ll do the same.”
“You expect me to look the other way,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Meeting him toe to toe, I mock his stance. “I don’t give a damn where you look.”
He looks shocked and pissed off by my ans
wer. Not that I give a damn. He started this conversation. It isn’t my fault he can’t handle the truth that comes out of it.
“I can’t pretend the club doesn’t exist, Trent. Don’t care about past agreements or what kind of bullshit deal you have with Ashmead and the locals. I won’t turn a blind eye to illegal activity anymore. Period. My part in this shit died with McKelvy.”
“Just know, if you go diggin’ up truths, Sheriff, you get them all.” Stone’s voice booms from across the lot. Looking over, I see him leaning back against the side of the garage looking smug as hell. “Especially ones you expected to stay buried with the Chief.”
Two
Colt
“You look like shit,” Stone says, following me into the clubhouse.
“Thanks,” I grunt, heading for the bar. I need a fucking drink before we sit down and dig into this shit. “Shot of Jack,” I call out to the brunette piece workin’ behind the bar.
“Make it a double, Lauren!” Huck shouts, tipping the mason jar he’s drinking from my way. “Shithead looks like he could use it.”
“Laura,” she corrects him, grabbing the whiskey and a glass. Turning to face me, she puffs out her chest and starts my way. “You need anything, you let me know. Okay, sweetheart?” she asks, sliding the shot glass my way.
I down the shot quickly. “Thanks.” Swiping the bottle from her hand, I wink. “You any good in the kitchen?”
Flashing me a smile, she runs her fingers up the inside of my arm. “I’m good anywhere you want me, baby.”
“Great.” Pulling back, I take a pull straight from the bottle. “I’d kill for a sandwich.”