Laken (The Phoenix Club Girl Diaries Book 2)

by Addison Jane

  Mase’s breathing was heavy, his eyes alight like a venomous snake waiting to strike, and yet surprisingly, he kept his mouth shut.

  He listened.

  Step one—complete.

  “I’m not gonna hand you shit. If you ain’t willing to work your ass off for something, then you don’t fucking deserve it.”

  Maybe he’d hate me.

  Maybe he’d walk the hell out of here when I was done.

  That was totally his choice to make.

  It would sure as hell tell me exactly what I was dealing with, though.

  “You respect me. I’ll respect you. I’ll have your back. But if you don’t wanna work for it, I’ll find someone who will.”

  I stepped back, holding my arms out wide.

  I wasn’t there to babysit.

  I wasn’t there to pat him on the back and tell him things will be okay.

  But if he wanted to work for it, I’d give him the chance, and I’d have his back.

  Mase’s jaw was clenched tight, his eyes red, almost bloodshot. He took a deep breath, standing taller. “Where do you keep the gloves?”

  Here we go.

  LAKEN

  Shotgun and Repo stared across the table at me as I practically hoovered a burger.

  Not just one.

  This was my third.

  Funny thing was, even though I was avoiding the food inside the ward like it contained the plague, I’d still managed to put on a healthy fifteen pounds. It fell in the right places, and I looked better, more alive than a few months ago. I put it down to a combination of things—I was consuming only bread and the medication they’d been forcing me to take every day.

  They told me it was an antidepressant.

  And if I had any chance of getting out of that hellhole, I had to take it. There was no choice, even though I wasn’t really sure what it was.

  “I’m gonna go call the club, let them know what time we’ll be back,” Shotgun announced, pulling his cell from inside his club cut they’d both put on the second we’d stepped outside those swinging double doors of hell.

  Shotgun slipped out of the booth as I started work on my second chocolate milkshake.

  “You’re gonna make yourself sick eating like that, you know,” Repo advised, his hands wrapped around a large cup of coffee. It was two o’clock in the morning, and we still had almost a six-hour drive ahead of us. Thankfully, they’d come in a car instead of bringing their bikes.

  I leaned back against the soft cushioned seat, stretching out my body and my stomach, hoping the food I’d stuffed inside would somehow fall perfectly together like those old computer games with the falling shapes. “Why Phoenix?”

  Repo’s eyebrow shot up. “Because that’s where the club is?”

  “Why did they decide to put the club there?” I asked a lot of questions and tended to talk more than average. It wasn’t usually because I’m a nosey bitch, although that could also be true sometimes, it simply kept my brain moving by thinking about other things, focusing on something else.

  All so I couldn’t be left alone with my own thoughts.

  Which I had been for three fucking months.

  “I don’t know,” he huffed, sipping at his coffee, a sight which made me laugh. “Because it’s hot?”

  My nose crinkled. “I’m not a fan.”

  “Sucks to be you then, doesn’t it,” he noted, completely unfazed and maybe even slightly amused at my hatred of hot weather. “You’ll adjust.”

  Maybe.

  “Why didn’t you guys ride?”

  Repo paused for a second, scratching at his bristled jaw before he answered, “We weren’t sure what state you’d be in, or if you’d even be willing to come with us,” he answered honestly. “For all we knew, they could have been keeping you sedated, or you could have been so fucking nuts we would have had to tie you up and lock you in the trunk.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “And you would have done that instead of just walking away and leaving me there?”

  The icy glare on his face that hadn’t changed at all since the moment he walked into my room suddenly seemed to be melting. Well, just slightly. “Kennedy loves you. Brook, too. They wanted you back, and I promised them that’s what they’d get.”

  I pulled in a long, deep breath through my nose, processing his words and then processing them again to make sure I understood. Clearing my throat, I tried not to smile, but I did feel like a weight was being removed from my chest. “You love her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Brook?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, and I knew this was real. Anyone who had spent time with Brooklyn either wanted to fiercely fight for her or wanted to choke her. Sometimes simultaneously. She was a kid who’d had to deal with more shit in her life than most adults, and it had made her this unique mix of emotions I liked to call sensitively foul-mouthed.

  “It took time.”

  I could only imagine.

  Repo was a hard man. He had a lot of darkness swirling around him. I could feel it because I knew it so well. This also meant I understood how Kennedy would be his perfect match, the one who complemented his hard with her soft.

  I smiled, hanging my head down and letting my body slump.

  There was this warmth around me like a blanket settling over my shoulders. I knew he had this, and they were okay—they were cared for and well-loved. It wasn’t exactly the situation I thought she would find the right guy, but neither was the situation we’d found each other in. It didn’t matter, though, we survived. She and Brook had found something special in Repo, and they would be able to move on together. And the moment I saw them both and knew they were okay, I could move on too.

  In whatever way that may be.

  I looked up, finding Repo’s eyes on me. They were dark, hidden under a heavy set, intimidating brow. It took a lot to make me squirm, but in that moment, I felt like he was shining a flashlight in my eyes, trying to make me confess to a crime. It was hard to pretend like I had nothing to hide when I knew if I could see the part of him which had thrived in the shadows, then it was almost a given he could see that part of me, too. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” Repo challenged.

  “Like you’re trying to understand,” I snapped, pulling my body up and sitting straighter. The scars on my stomach were starting to ache, even though I knew for a fact no one could see them. But I still felt them throbbing, a reminder of that dark hole, followed by the guilt and the shame.

  Shotgun slipped back into the booth, his eyes looking between the Repo and me as we stared at each other in some weird kind of standoff.

  “Maybe I am trying to fucking understand,” Repo threw back, placing his fists on the table and leaning in. “We’ve all hit rock-fucking-bottom, but honestly, I look at you, and I don’t see a person who would let that shit get the better of them. Which means, either you’re a fucking good actress, or there’s something else you’re conveniently leaving out.”

  Both.

  Ding, ding. We have a winner.

  I wasn’t just a good actress.

  I was the best.

  I’d spent the better part of my life faking smiles, faking stories, faking tears, and then recently faking fucking orgasms.

  “We met Crow and his band of merry men,” Shotgun interrupted, when I remained silent—not really sure what the hell to say. “We know the shit you’ve had to put up with courtesy of those fuckwits, and we also know Kennedy was there because she was forced to be. So what about you? What were they holding over you?” Shotgun questioned, searching for some kind of answer or reaction. He was looking for some reason for me to be the way I am, for a reason for me to have stayed in that shithole for so long, and I had one.

  More than one.

  But the one he got wasn’t the one he was expecting.

  “Nothing.”

  Shotgun’s eyes widened, while Repo’s narrowed. “You were there because you wanted to be?”

  Shaki
ng my head, I pulled the long sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands and tucked my arms around my body in a protective maneuver. My tongue swept out, licking my dry lips, a sure sign the air conditioning in this place was up too damn high, and then I laughed. “No one wanted to be there. Who the hell gets joy out of being raped and beaten a couple of times a week?” My throat was burning, but like fuck I would let the tears get the best of me in this moment. “I was dumped there, and I stayed because Kennedy and Brook were the family I’d never had, and I would have done anything to protect them. So that’s what I did.”

  It was the truth.

  Some of it, at least.

  I put myself through weekly beatings, a rat-infested apartment, and a couple of STDs because it was almost a relief to allow the people I hated to destroy me, than to have let those who were meant to love me do it.

  Plus, between loving and protecting Kennedy and Brooklyn, and living life in the pits of hell, it pulled me away from myself.

  I got to be someone else.

  Someone with a purpose to do something good.

  To balance out the universe and the pain my family had caused.

  That I had caused.

  Shotgun leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “We have to protect what is ours, so we have a no bullshit policy.” He laid it out there, and I had a feeling he wasn’t about to sugarcoat it, especially for me. “I need to know if your brand of crazy is gonna result in me having to put you down like a rabid dog in a few months.”

  You could have taken it as a joke or an exaggeration maybe, but it wasn’t.

  I knew these guys weren’t just bikers. They weren’t like Crow and his men—ignorant cowards who had no balls to fight back and everything they did was slimy and underhanded.

  No, these men were intelligent.

  They were composed.

  They loved hard, they fought harder.

  “My battle is with me,” I told him straight, my voice sharp and cold like the edge of a knife. “If you decide you need to ‘put me down,’ you’d probably be doing me a favor. I’ve tried to die twice already, and yet, I’m still fucking here.”

  I guess those words weren’t exactly the best way to convince him I was levelheaded enough to have around. But it only took Repo a couple of seconds to soak up what I’d said before he let out a snort and shook his head. “You’re exactly like she fucking described you.”

  The corner of my mouth twitched. “And how’s that?”

  “A walking, talking ‘fuck you.’” Shotgun scoffed, his eyes rolling so far back into his head I thought he might be about to have a seizure. “Of course.”

  I couldn’t help but grin.

  “I guess you could say I spent too many years being told to sit down and shut up.”

  MYTH

  “I’ve had negative fucking twenty-four hours sleep,” Repo huffed. “And I’m still quicker on my feet than you this morning.”

  I scoffed, continuing to bounce back and forth on my toes, trying to keep my focus on him because he knew the weaknesses I had, and the bastard was not ashamed of using them against me. “And how the fuck do you have negative hours sleep exactly?”

  “You’ll know how when you meet Kennedy’s BFF. Whatever we were expecting… she’s something else completely,” he snorted, before throwing a quick jab.

  I pulled back, his glove barely brushing past. Out of frustration, I launched a wayward punch back, knowing immediately I was a fucking idiot for letting my focus be thrown. Repo ducked, my fist flying over his head and instantly coming back at me on the attack with a low blow to my ribs.

  The pain stole my breath for a moment, and I backed away giving myself a couple of seconds to recoup before I came back with a vengeance and beat his fucking ass to a pulp.

  “You wanna hurt me now, huh?” Repo taunted, looking pretty fucking proud of himself. “Come on, what you got?”

  I shook my head, fighting an amused smirk. “When I’m done rearranging your face, maybe it will make you look a little prettier.” I pulled up my gloves, holding them in front of my face, protecting it from those killer blows that would send your head spinning if you were caught out being too lazy. If your opponent was any good, he would use those against you in a second, and if you gave him the opening to do so, then you might as well just call the hospital and tell them to expect your dumb fucking ass.

  “You’re getting slow in your old age.” Repo laughed, mirroring my pose. He may not have been a professional fighter, but he was fucking good. I liked to take credit for it, given we sparred a couple of times a week and had done so since we were prospects in the club, but the truth was, there was such a thing as a natural.

  And it was him.

  I rolled my shoulders a little, keeping them warm as I prepared to take this smart-ass down.

  “You assholes got a minute?”

  Neither Repo nor I took our eyes off each other as our club president called to us from the open doorway.

  “You’re going to need to be more specific,” Repo called back, dropping his body low as if he was waiting for me to take the distraction and then punish my dumbass for it.

  “A package just arrived, and I think you’re gonna want to see it.” This time his tone was lower, sharper, he was letting me know he wasn’t joking around. I forced my body to stand a little taller. I noticed the way Repo raised his eyebrow at me questioningly as if I might have a fucking clue about what was going on. “Now.”

  We both lowered our gloves at the same time, and I tugged at the Velcro strap with my teeth, ripping it off so I could slip one hand out before working on the other. I tossed them to the ground of our makeshift ring before ducking under the rope and jogging through the three bays of cars to the door which connected to the clubhouse.

  The main area of the clubhouse looked much like your local bar. There were places to sit, a couple sofas off to the side, tables, chairs, and a pool table along with a long bar that stretched half the wall.

  Shotgun, Auron, and Shake were all standing around one of the tables that took up the large space. They all looked at me as Repo and I approached the table, each of them with varying expressions on their faces. There was a weird feeling starting at the base of my spine and working its way up my back—something was telling me I already knew what it was.

  Because I’d been waiting for it to start for months.

  I placed my palms on the table, leaning over the package. “Halloween started early this year, huh,” I murmured, screwing up my nose. The box was square and white, but not completely. There were red fingerprints all over it.

  Some were from where someone had opened it, closed it, and carried it.

  And right at the bottom in the corner, it was fucking signed.

  In blood.

  With a goddamn heart next to his name.

  Jester.

  He obviously wasn’t the kind to give a shit about this thing police called evidence. I guess because he knew I wouldn’t go to the police. He knew I would always face my shit head-on, hiding behind someone else wasn’t part of my fucking makeup.

  “If that’s what it’s like on the outside, can you imagine what the hell he’s put in there?” Shake growled, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head.

  We all knew.

  There was no confusion at all.

  We’d all been at one of his underground fights a few months ago in Vegas.

  Blood fights.

  That’s what they were.

  Two people go in together and two come out separate.

  One in a body bag.

  Auron screwed up his nose and slipped a knife from his back pocket using it to cut the small piece of tape on the front and flicking the lid open.

  Hardass bikers or not, every single man standing around that table fucking flinched back when the lid flung open, with none of us really sure what form Jester’s special kind of crazy was going to come in today.

  When nothing sprung out and attacked us immediately, I shu
ffled closer. “I hate being on my back foot, man,” I grumbled, shaking my head.

  It was true. We didn’t do this shit. We didn’t let little fuckers like Jester get inside our heads. I didn’t like being on the defensive. It left room for error, more space for them to worm their way in and force you to screw up.

  Slowly, I leaned over the package. “You have got to be fucking joking me.”

  I’d seen a lot of shit in my time.

  Whether fights were legal or illegal, there was always some fucked-up asshole whose mental problems should have kept them on the sidelines. But that’s the thing about this business, it’s ruthless, its dark, and the people who own and run the show know just how much money they can make.

  The crazier the bastard in the ring, the more people want to pay to see him bite his opponent’s face off.

  Pursing my lips tightly, I pinched the corner of a newspaper folded neatly inside the box and pulled it out, dropping it on the table for the boys to see.

  There was a piece of cloth underneath. It was almost entirely red, soaking up the remnants of whatever the fuck was below it.

  POPULAR EX-FIGHTER, COBRA KING,

  FOUND BEATEN TO DEATH

  There was blood smeared across the article but the picture on the page was clear. It was an image of the guy posing, his muscles bursting, his body probably in its best shape ever. He was tattooed from head to toe, including a King Cobra that covered his entire chest and pecks.

  “He stopped fighting around the same time as I did,” I explained, remembering the guy vividly. “We were in different weight classes, but he was good. Up there.”

  Shake leaned in closer, his eyes scanning over the bits of the story which were visible. “They’re trying to say he was found dead and beaten in his apartment. No signs of a struggle.”

  “Yeah, because he died in a ring, not his fucking penthouse,” Repo growled, his lip curling in disgust. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You gonna pick that up, or am I?”

  I gritted my teeth.

  It took a lot to bother men like us. We’d all done our fair share of dark, disturbing shit. We all had that shit we pushed to the back of our minds, things we would do a million times over but we didn’t take any damn glory in. I’d taken fingers, hands, tongues and lives. But I didn’t use them as fucking trophies. I did what I had to do for the people I called my family.