by Addison Jane
“A businessman?” Shake asked with a raised brow. “Or Jester playing dress-up?”
Shotgun shrugged. “Shit don’t sound right.”
It didn’t.
Something was wrong.
“Fuck!”
Screams from inside the clubhouse had every single one of us leaping to our feet, my body feeling like it had been shocked to life as the adrenaline began to pump forcibly through my bloodstream. I snatched the handgun I had holstered to the bottom of the table, my brothers doing the same. This was probably the room in the clubhouse where we were most prepared for an attack given it was one of the places where we were all together in one place. And the most vulnerable.
Shotgun kicked the door open and rushed out into the clubhouse.
My finger hovered over the trigger of my gun as we moved behind him, not sure what the fuck to expect as my eyes scanned every damn corner of the clubhouse. But everything seemed still.
“The fuck is going on?” Shotgun demanded as we stepped out through the bar and into the more open part of the main room.
Avery, one of the club girls, looking like she was going to be sick, was sitting at the base of the stairs with her hand over her mouth.
Her eyes on the floor.
On the package.
That had been dropped and had split open.
“Fuck,” I cursed under my breath
Laken had her arms wrapped around a frozen Brooklyn, whose face looked the color of a fucking sheet.
“Brook…” Repo said softly as he approached the girls. “Kid, what happened?”
“I opened the box,” she whispered, her eyes shifting to Repo and instantly filling with tears.
He was her safe space.
He’d become that person.
“There’s blood on my hands.”
“I just need you to tell me it’s not yours,” Repo murmured, taking another step closer to the shaking teenager. Laken held her tightly, but the second her eyes caught mine, I could see they were slightly wider, and each breath she pulled in caused her entire body to shudder. She was trying to hold herself together, though, for Brook’s sake, at least.
“It’s not mine,” Brooklyn responded, her brow pulled in.
Repo waved her forward. “Good. Come here,” he ordered gently. She quickly pulled away from Laken and dove toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking her head into his chest.
Instinctually, I moved forward. “Uh, Brook—”
“She’s fine,” he growled, waving me off and allowing her to bury herself into him, her body jerking as she tried to catch her breath.
Repo hated to be touched at the best of times, and I could tell by the way his muscles were twitching he wasn’t exactly fucking comfortable about the situation, but he also wasn’t about to brush Brook off when she needed him.
Brook’s blood-covered hands grabbed hold of Repo’s club cut as he maneuvered her body around and walked her toward the exit and into the parking lot. Everyone else stayed still, eyes on the mess scattered across the clubhouse floor, probably soaking into the fucking wood panels.
“Dammit,” I cursed under my breath, looking to each of my brothers to check I wasn’t the only one realizing what the fuck I was looking at.
“Is that real hair?” Laken asked, her hand pressed to her stomach.
Shotgun and I moved at the same time, his focus on Avery and getting her the hell out of there, mine on Laken. I stepped around the mess on the floor, tucking my gun away before hooking my finger through the belt loop of Laken’s jeans and slowly pulling her back toward the exit. “Outside.”
Her breathing was shaky and uneven as I forcefully guided her out. This wasn’t something she needed to see or any fucking woman in this place needed to see. Call me fucking misogynistic, but I was a firm believer in protecting the women in my life. That was my job, and a purpose I held strong to who I was.
My mom.
My sister.
My brothers’ old ladies.
Club girls.
Laken—a girl I hadn’t figured out how to categorize yet.
She shook her head but allowed me to steer her toward the patio area over to the side. “I’m fine,” she argued, taking a seat at the picnic table when I pushed on her shoulders. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but your hands are shaking, and your skin feels like fucking ice,” I disagreed, her body suddenly shuddering like it was reinforcing my point.
Laken crinkled her nose, fighting the tears I could see sitting on her lower lashes. “Okay, so I’m trying not to look at the blood I know is on my shirt,” she whispered softly between gritted teeth, the movement causing one rouge tear to drip down onto her cheek. She was right, there was some splatter across the baby blue tank top she was wearing. Her red-rimmed cocoa eyes deliberately stared directly into mine, holding my gaze so she wouldn’t look down.
The blood, it did something to her.
Another piece of her puzzle.
“Take it off.”
“I. Can’t.”
I paused for a moment hearing a different tone to her voice.
Fear maybe?
So instead, I stripped off my cut, followed by the club hoodie I had on underneath. “Put your arms up.”
“I don—”
“Argue with me,” I growled, raising a brow, waiting for her to question me again, fully prepared to dress her stubborn ass myself if need be. “Go on. I dare you.”
Her eyes held mine, that defiant soul inside her biting at her tongue just screaming to be heard. And part of me wanted to see it come to life, eager to witness that fire inside her explode, simply so I could throw her over my shoulder like a damn caveman and carry her to my room.
For now, though, that little fantasy would need to be put to the side.
Instead of biting my face off, she put her arms up into the air, pushing them through the arms of my hoodie and pulling it tightly around her. Her skin was pale, her lips pressed tightly together as she sucked in a couple of deep breaths through her nose. It was hard to see this girl who, only a few minutes ago, was laughing about reading some little bastard the riot act, turn to this. The hard shell had a crack, and I was getting a glimpse at the girl hiding beneath.
A girl who had very real fears.
Ones I had no doubt only came from very real memories.
I reached out, hooking my finger under her chin and forcing her to look up at me again. “Good?”
Laken’s eyes warmed, and she inhaled deeply before giving me a gentle nod. “Good.”
I wanted to ask questions, but at that moment, I had to be satisfied with seeing her wrapped in my hoodie, the closest thing right at that moment I’d ever had to a woman wearing my colors. And I couldn’t say the idea scared me.
Seeing how it dwarfed her, watching her sink into it and allow it to give her whatever kind of comfort she needed at that moment, felt fucking good.
Felt strangely fucking right.
I dragged myself away and rushed back inside, my brothers still standing around waiting, some of them looking a little paler than they had been a few moments ago.
The box was still upside down, but there was a generous sized amount of dark red blood pooling around it with some long, brunette strands of hair flowing out of the sides. A deep growl rumbled in my throat as I stepped forward, picking up the box and allowing its contents to be exposed.
This shit, though, it didn’t make me feel sick. It made me fucking furious that some asshole had the balls to try and torment my family with their screwed-up mental games.
But this was my problem.
This shit was here because of me.
“Scalped,” Auron announced, stepping forward, the only one brave enough to get down on his knee next to our little present.
Auron was quiet, he kept to himself a lot of the time, but you’d be surprised at what he knew, what he saw, and his fucking aim was better than anyone I’d ever met—Huntsman included—and his name and t
he gun crosshairs tattooed on his hand were a dead giveaway to his skills. He tugged at the hair, pulling it back to get a better look. “Eyebrows are still attached.”
Crush shook his head, his nose turned up, and his eyes narrowed in disgust. “Scalped him from the damn eyebrows back.”
We never classed ourselves as fucking angels. I won’t deny the shit I’ve done for my club or my fucking family, and I won’t pretend like any normal person out there might think I’m fucking crazy, or sick, or psychotic. But I was not fucking scalping innocent people and using them as some fucked-up tool to get my way.
It was like Jester was fucking mental but also had the brain of a damn small child who still believes tantrums are the key to getting what he wanted.
The combination together—fucking scary.
Auron got to his feet, holding the newspaper article I’d been somewhat expecting.
The last piece to the package.
CARLOS ‘THE DAMNAGE’ LUTHER FOUND DEAD IN APARTMENT
Second UFC Related Death in Five Days
My muscles were beginning to twitch, my body burning, and my ears thumping as the blood rushed faster, building and building. He wasn’t simply playing some stupid game now, this was about to level-up, and the thought of Jester getting a hold of one of my brothers or one of the girls, it just wasn’t a possibility. It was not something I could allow to happen.
I looked up to see Shotgun walking down the stairs, no doubt having stashed Avery away just like I’d done with Laken. He looked like he was ready to hunt this asshole down and murder him—fuck the damn fight.
Shotgun, being the president of the club, he felt a lot of this shit weigh heavily on his shoulders because he felt like it was his job to protect the club and the people in it.
“I’ll make the call,” I told him, my voice a low growl.
He nodded, his eyes blazing, I’m sure seeing the same reflected in mine as I felt this storm of heat swirl around me.
This needed to be done.
And done fucking fast.
Or the blood next time could be one of our own.
LAKEN
My feet were burning a hole in the floorboards.
I couldn’t stop pacing.
I couldn’t tell you what it was about having Myth’s hoodie on that calmed me, the only way I could explain it was like putting on a suit of armor. He slipped it over my head, and it wrapped around me, his smell, his warmth, it was exactly what I needed to slow the chill that had been working its way through my body.
It’d been a good distraction, unfortunately, the imaginary suit of armor couldn’t protect me from myself, and my brain wouldn’t fucking forget about the blood hidden beneath.
“Shit,” I cursed, clenching my teeth as I whipped his hoodie off over my head and tossed it onto the bed. My clothes came next. The blood-splattered shirt hitting the trash can in the corner of my room followed by jeans, bra, panties—all tossed unceremoniously.
I flicked the shower on and climbed inside the stall before the temperature of the water had the chance to adjust. It was scalding for a few seconds, and without a second thought, I stepped right underneath it, sucking in a sharp, painful breath as it scorched my skin.
Then it was numb.
There was nothing left to feel, and that was what I basked in.
Bracing my hands against the wall, I let the water wash over me, the temperature eventually dropping down to subtle burn instead of a total scald. I could have stayed in there for hours letting the water rush over me, washing away the bright red stains I could still imagine on my skin even close to seven years later.
You’d think it would get easier, that the pain and the guilt would eventually ease, but it didn’t. If anything, it grew more intense. The more I tried to fight them, the deeper they pulled me under, suffocating me.
Remember that time you got your friends killed?
Remember that time you got to live instead of them?
My stomach tightened, and I pressed my lips tightly closed as the vomit threatened to spill out all over the shower floor.
My memories, they were toxic.
Some days I could control them, other days they controlled me.
Either way, there was no escaping the way they sucked my life from me.
“Goddammit,” I cursed, slamming my palm down on the shower controls and shutting off the stream of water. It had been so fucking brief that the bathroom hadn’t even steamed up yet, so when I climbed out and reached for my towel, even I was surprised by the haunted image staring back at me in the mirror.
The small layer of makeup I’d been wearing had been washed and wiped away, leaving this barely recognizable image of a girl I used to know.
Her eyes were dark.
Her cheeks were pale.
The scars that littered her stomach, the ones she’d spent a long time learning how to hide, stood out stark white against her red-hot skin.
Fucking hell.
I turned away, quickly wrapping the towel around me and tucking in the corner so it would stay up, hiding them away again. The pain had eased for a brief second, but they were already starting to throb, stealing my breath all over again.
“Hey.” The deep growl of his voice started at the base of my spine, traveling upward, forcing a shudder to course through my body. I took in a long, shaky breath forcing myself to turn, clutching tightly to the towel wrapped around me.
Myth was standing a few feet behind me, his arms gripping the top of the doorframe, stretching his body out, lifting his shirt and flashing me that perfect set of fucking abs he worked so hard to tone. The tingle they sent through me was a welcomed sensation. The attraction between the two of us was growing, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore.
His eyes were dipped low, his brow prominent and thick as he looked at me from beneath it. My stomach felt like when you were on a rollercoaster surging up and down, not really knowing what was about to happen next, but knowing at any point, you might be flipped on your damn head.
“So, you don’t like blood.” He pushed off the doorframe. His gaze stern and dark.
I cringed, a cold chill running up my spine at just the thought of it. “Does anyone like blood?”
“You’d be surprised,” he answered, shrugging casually, but the steely look in his gaze told me this wasn’t just a casual line of questioning. “A lot of fighters get into it because blood is an addiction. I’ve even heard guys call it an aphrodisiac.”
My stomach churned, and I shook my head feeling a haze start to build at the edge of my vision and the cold crawling up my neck. “That’s not normal,” I muttered, leaning back against the sink.
“Neither is freaking out about a couple of drops of blood on your shirt.”
Fuck.
“I’m fine.”
Lies.
“Bullshit,” he whispered, the sharpness of his tone like the edge of a knife pressed to my throat. “You’re not fine.”
My head shook back and forth, and I held my breath as I pushed off the sink and tried to slip past him, but he reached out, his fingers curling around my arm before I could make it through the doorway. Myth turned my body, pressing my back against the frame and stepping in so close I was forced to move my hands up over his chest as he curled his around the curve of my hips.
I should have pushed him away, but my hands had a mind of their own, tracing the seam of his colors as they moved up. My fingertips brushed over the stubble on his neck. Everything almost melting away around us as it tickled against my skin. The heat of his body pressed against mine kept the chill from soaking through my skin. If I was warm, I was alive, and the warmth was everywhere as if Myth was fire, and his flames were enveloping me, holding me close, protecting me.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his shoulders slumping slightly, but he kept his hold on me, letting me simply breathe.
In and out.
As though he knew exactly what I needed.
I licked my lips, trying to keep my he
ad straight. “It’s not the blood. It’s the blood on me that I don’t like.”
“Why?”
Because of that one time I died.
I laughed, the dull throb of my scars increasing with my heart rate starting to make it hard to breathe. The question was so fucking simple, but the answer, not so damn much. “It doesn’t matte—”
“What’s your past holding over you?”
I just stared at him for a second.
And for a part of that second, with tears flooding my eyes, I wondered whether it was even worth arguing and denying and trying to convince him he didn’t know what he was talking about.
That my past wasn’t holding my mind ransom.
What did it have over me?
A father with power and an appetite for destroying people, including his daughter.
The reminder that I was once a horrible fucking human being.
That I was a spoiled fucking brat.
That I threw a party where people were murdered.
That I didn’t have to be whoring myself out to bastard bikers, but I still used Kennedy’s situation to selfishly numb my own pain.
Bile tickled the back of my throat, but I swallowed it back.
Myth lifted one hand, hooking his finger under my chin and lifting my eyes to meet his. He looked at me differently than anyone else. Like he saw me. And that both scared the fucking shit out of me and made me want to lay down and give in to this gravitational pull that swirled around him and let it pull me under.
It’d be so much easier just to let him in.
I’d been fighting for myself for so fucking long now, I’d forgotten how good it felt to have another person step in, to let them take control—for him to take control.
There’d be no more hiding.
No more lies.
No more pretending.
Which sounded great but unfortunately came with consequences.
If I told Myth, he’d have to tell the club. And once the club found out the truth, there was no way in fucking hell they were going to want to deal with the shitstorm which would follow because they’d be caught up in it too. And I knew my father, I knew he would leap at the opportunity to drag a bunch of criminals through the fucking mud to make himself look good.