Toxic Edge: Rolling Asylum Motorcycle Series, #2

PROLOGUE

BAYPORT, MS - 11 YEARS AGO…

I can’t believe it.

My sister.

Sophie.

Dead.

I stare at her still form as she lay in the casket. I swallow. Tears won’t come. My fists clench so hard my nails bite into my palms. I want to shake her. Scream at her. How could she leave me alone? Didn’t she know I needed her? It was us against them. Them, meaning our mother and our awful stepfather, Franklin. How could she?

It’s a shame. She won’t go to heaven.

My head snaps around to look at the woman behind me. My equally awful step-grandmother, of course. Maybe she didn’t want to go to your stupid heaven. I say it loud enough everyone can hear. But I don’t care. I’m not meek, mild, or obedient. The exact opposite of Sophie in every way. She is the favorite…or was.

A gasp of outrage echoes through the crowd. Franklin immediately grips my arm and ushers me to an empty room. Yanking my arm free from his beefy grasp, I glare at him.

Mind your tongue.

No. I won’t.

A stinging slap across my face drops me to my knees. With one hand, he squeezes my face and forces me to look at him. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. I claw his wrist, trying to escape, but it’s useless. I’m eleven, and he’s a grown man.

He leans down close. So close I can see the tiny red spidery veins in his eyes. Listen well, little girl, I will have your obedience.

The way his lurid gaze rakes over me makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Everyone reveres him, but he is a monster in disguise.

6 YEARS LATER…

I stare at Sophie’s headstone. I still hadn’t cried for her, but the sky is doing it for me. I know now why she did it. My lips twist with rage. I kneel, not caring how the ground mushes up around my knees. My fingertips gently trace the letters carved into the stone.

I will get you justice, I whisper. I tilt my head back, close my eyes and scream to the heavens as lightning cracks. Wind and rain whip my hair around my head, causing the mark around my neck to sting. I open my eyes, my body wincing with every breath. I will kill them. Still looking up to the sky. You hear me? Every…Fucking…One.

Gasping for air at the fury coursing through me, I claw the earth and try futilely to get my breathing under control. The cold rain washes away remnants of blood on my hands and face.

One, breath. Two, breath. Three, breathe.

With bruises littering my body, getting to my feet takes some effort, but I sling my backpack over my shoulder anyway and glance at the headstone.

Bye, sis. I’ll see you when I get our revenge.

ONE

JJ

5 YEARS LATER…

Mellow…Indifferent…some say bored. Others say easygoing. These are words people use to describe me.

Incorrect.

That’s only what I want others to see. Few have seen the real me. Even my brothers, my club, haven’t. Only my enemies. That’s when I can release the raging inferno a little. It’s nice to pop off sometimes.

I lay my cut on the kitchen island, open a bottle of leather conditioner and, with meticulous care, rub over the material with a rag. I inspect every seam. Every stitch. Around every patch. Every rocker. I polish the black leather till it gleams.

Then I turn it over and repeat the process.

Why, you ask? Because it represents my family, and I’m in charge of taking care of my family. Everything I do is because of them.

I slip my cut on, walk downstairs, through the office and into the VIP area. The familiar pulse of Nine Inch Nails, Closer, vibrates through the speakers. I stop at the bar, sit on a stool beside Pope, our Vice Prez and look towards the stage.

I watch a girl step out from the curtains and swing from the middle stripper pole of three. She wears an oversized black Soundgarden t-shirt that has seen better days and high heeled black boots. For a stripper audition, it is generic and plain. She spins a few times, then flings off her shirt. Now, she’s only left with a tiny black thong and pasties covering her nipples. Her strawberry blonde wavy hair is waist length, and she has a badass tattoo across her back and on her arm. An abstract watercolor of roses and paint splatter.

L.A., the bartender, hands me a whiskey. I sip it and let the flavor of toffee, honey and spice settle on my tongue before I swallow it. It’s smooth, but it has a burn in the end. I relish the burn.

She rolls her body against the pole and whips her head around. With one hand on the pole, she whirls her body a few times and then lands on her knees. Putting her hands flat on the floor, she flips upside-down, gripping the pole with her legs and spins. Her long hair trails the floor.

She’s not bad, I say, relaxing as I study her and swirl my ice in my glass.

Maybe, Pope says and crosses his arms over his chest. It takes a lot to win his approval. Even if you did, he always looks pissed off. I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile.

I glance around the mostly empty club. Just a few workers are here this early in Hysteria. The front half of the building is a regular dance club, but the back half is the VIP section, the stripper part. It’s reserved for special guests and has a separate entrance. It’s classy and high end. Purple lights flash with the beat of the music. The leather furnishings and the floor are in the same colors as the night sky. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling.

What’s her name? I ask.

Jynx, L.A. says, leaning one arm on the bar.

I eye him, and he shrugs. With his shoulder length white, blond hair and sculptured face, the man belongs on the cover of a magazine, not bartending at a biker strip club in Oklahoma.

Did she give her real name?

No, and I didn’t ask.

Maybe that is her real name, but I would bet money it isn’t. I shift my attention back to her and step away from the bar to get a closer look. She’s lean but has all the right curves and definitely has all the right moves. She rolls her body, straddles the pole and stands. With one hand, she holds the pole and grinds her hips into it. She takes her free hand, rubs her crotch, drags her finger up her flat stomach, between her breasts, and inserts her middle finger into her mouth and moves it in and out to the beat of the music and in time with her hips.

All while staring at me.

She has those heavy-lidded bedroom eyes that just scream sex.

She turns her back against the pole, and she blows out an exaggerated breath with each thump of the music. Her lips. I’d never seen such perfect lips. Full upper, with a plump, ripe lower. With her hands behind her on the pole, she slides slowly down to the floor, spreading her knees wide. She’s looking at me like I’m her favorite snack, and she’s going to make damn sure she savors every delicious bite.

Fuck, I mutter in my head. It wasn’t my norm to fuck the girls that work for me. It tends to get messy. Remember what I said about how people see me? I don’t like messy. But my dick says it wants her kind of messy.

She crawls toward me on her hands and knees, then flips, so she is looking at me upside-down and bites her lip. All the while doing that heavy breathing and gripping her hair like she is having a fucking orgasm on stage.

I hold my glass loose in my hand and drink the remaining liquid. Still on her knees, she lays flat on the floor still staring at me. She mouths part of the lyrics and licks her lips. I smirk. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and she does it well.

Smiling, she flips back over, faces me and crooks her finger, beckoning me to come closer. Curious, I set my glass on the table and step up to the edge of the stage. L.A. and Pope set up the audition. Maybe she thought I was an early customer? Who knew what she thought, but she’d never guess I own forty percent of Hysteria.

She crawls to me, runs her fingers through her hair and shoves it to one side. She sits up on her knees, places her hands on my shoulders, gives me a ‘come get me’ grin, and hops on her feet so her scrap of a thong is in my face. Knocking my cap off, she rakes her nails along my scalp.

I’m used to naked women…it’s literally in my job description. I’ve become immune to it. It takes a lot to get my blood pumping, so I’m surprised when I have to hold back the impulse to grab her ass and see if those lips tastes as good as they look.

The rules are, the girls can touch you, but you can’t touch them. Hardly fair, but rules are rules, and it keeps our girls safe. She rolls my head in time with her hips, then lets me go, spins around, bends over and shakes her ass inches from my face. Then the song is over. She looks over her shoulder, gives me a wink, picks up her shirt and puts it on.

Damn. I turn, grab my hat, put it on backwards and join Pope, who is standing a few feet away.

She’s hired, Pope says in his gruff voice.

I nod. I don’t care what she wears on stage. She doesn’t need props.

Agreed.

She walks up to us, her ass swaying, and all her attention is on Pope. I require cash payment. If you can’t do that, I’ll find another club. Her eyes flick over at me, then back at Pope.

I narrow my eyes on her. A bit arrogant, don’t you think? Just assuming you’re gonna be hired.

I know how good I am. She returns my narrowed gaze. You’re not hiring me, so what do you care, JJ?

She read my cut, and I didn’t miss the challenge in her demeanor. She obviously doesn’t know what the Sgt. at Arms patch means, judging how she talks to me. Just then, my phone vibrates, and I slide it out of my front jean pocket.

Sprocket:

999

My interest in Jynx instantly fades, and I look at Pope. Emergency. I’ll fill you in when I can.

His face turns stony. Got it, brother.

I rush out the door while calling Sprocket.

Ten minutes later, I’m on my bike. I can say with all honesty, it’s my second love. When life throws you off, there’s always peace on a ride. You don’t get it in a cage. No matter how many try to argue about it. It’s called a cage for a reason. It cages you. Strangles you. Unless you’ve ever been behind a set of handlebars, shut the fuck up. Your opinion is null and void.

My phone is strapped to my bars, and my GPS is leading me to what seems to be no-where's-ville. Apparently, an altercation went down in-between Jags and his parents. Sprocket says Jags smashed his dad’s head in with his fists. Literally. I still know little about Jags, even though I’d known him for four years. The man says nothing…to anybody, but he doesn’t have to. He’d silence you with a stare, and if that didn’t work, he would make sure you weren’t able to physically talk. Which is why our club had recently elected him as our enforcer.

Sprocket says Tony, Jags’ best friend, is at the trailer too. They are more like brothers than friends, but I don’t know why Tony hasn’t joined our club. He is always at the clubhouse, more so than Jags.

I message Mad Hazard, our very own clean-up crew, just in case. They specialize in biohazard cleanup. AKA…they clean up the messes we make. We got friends in high places, but we would like to stay off the radar completely.

I park next to Sprocket’s blue Yamaha R1. He’s the only member who has a sport bike, and it’s pathetic. Since Beezy, our Prez, took him under his wing when he was a teen, he’s really turned a corner. But he still insists on riding that blue piece of shit. I stop. Dammit. Our prospect, Tug, just bought a sport bike. I’m going to have to listen to two whiny little engines now.

Getting off my bike, I grab Prickler from out of its holster and rest the bat on my shoulder. It looks like a regular baseball bat when it’s in its custom leather holster attached to my bike. But I welded barbed wire and metal spikes around it to give it an extra special touch. It’s my preferred weapon of choice.

Dusk is setting around the picturesque dump of a trailer. One cracked window has duct tape on it, another one is plywood covered, the small staircase that leads to the house is rotted and piles of junk and trash litter the ground. It’s like they just stepped outside, flung bags of trash and just left it to rot. To top it off, the stench of the place surpasses a boys’ middle school gym locker room.

We have a live one, Sprocket says, as he pokes a head out the broken front door, a goofy grin on his face. Jags broke the door, if you’re wondering.

Shaking my head, I follow him in. I swear he could be taking his last breath and still find something funny about it. But there isn’t anything funny about the foul odor that’s in here. I cover my nose. It’s worse than outside, if that’s even possible.

Sprocket nudges me, a smile on his face. It’s bad, isn’t it?

I’ve been in some shit holes, but this is extreme. Broken furniture, piles of trash, holes in the walls, mildew and mold on the ceiling…it’s uninhabitable.

I hear a whimper and look down. A woman is trussed up like a pig. Arms duct taped behind her back, ankles taped together, and then ankles and wrists together. Finishing it off, tape over her mouth. Her badly bleached blonde hair is hanging in her timeworn face. She’s wearing a mini dress that’s not doing her any favors at the moment, because in her struggles, it’s ridden to her waist. Her flat ass is showing.

I jam Prickler hard on the floor right by her head and kneel to eye level. She flails her body like a fish, cries behind the tape and stares up at me with wide eyes. I’m excited, but my face remains in the calm, serene state. I just might get to pop off a little tonight.

Who are you?

Jags’ mom, Tony says, from behind me.

Still kneeling, I swivel. Tony’s demeanor is peculiar. He’s normally the loudest one in the room and Mr. Funny Man. At least, that’s what I call him. His expression is flat, except for his ice-blue eyes. He’s furious.

Sprocket, keep an eye on her. JJ, follow me.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just assumes I’ll follow. I don’t tolerate disrespect. It raises my hackles a bit, but I know Tony is an honorably discharged SEAL. As a former Marine, respect goes both ways, and besides, I don’t know the whole story yet.

I stand, and we walk a few steps down the hallway, the floor so mushy I feel like my foot would go clean through. He steps into a room off to the left, me right behind him, and he turns on a flashlight.

Oh, fuck, I mutter.

Blood is everywhere. It’s flung on the walls like spray-paint. You can tell there used to be a man there, but the head is just crushed. Brain matter mixed in blood. Like his head has been in a vise. I can believe Jags killed him with only his fists because his punch is like a sledgehammer. I’d made the mistake of sparring with him once, but this is next level.

Scenes flickered like a newsreel in my head. Of a different time. Blood. Sand. Screams.

I blink and shake my head to get back to the present, and notice the dingy mattress on the floor, the pile of trash in the corner and the broken closet door.

They kidnapped Bec.

My head turns to look at Tony. Those motherfuckers. No wonder Jags had gone ape shit. If I know anything, I know he loves that girl.

He picks up a broken syringe. He got here right before he was gonna drug her. I found more of these and other things.

He turns on his heel and leads me farther into what was obviously Jags’ parents’ bedroom. The bed has a frame but no headboard. But the covers are stained, and the stench is overpowering.

I went through everything and found ten other syringes, a bag of weed, some pills—I suspect cocaine and meth—and three cell phones. And a wad of cash. Tony clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly and stares at the items. There’s something going on here.

Maybe he’s a drug dealer, I suggest. But I can see the gears turning in his head. He thinks it’s something more. Tony is a smart motherfucker, although some people don’t see it thanks to his jokester attitude. I could give the cell phones to Haze, our tech guy. He’ll collect all the info.

He looks me straight in the eye. Don’t share anything personal about Jake if you uncover it. Because you might find something.

Jags is Jake’s road name, and Tony had known him since they were teenagers. What do you mean, exactly?

He clenches his jaw, closes his eyes for a second and looks at me. As though he doesn’t want to say anything, and it pains him. Stepping closer, he says in a low voice, His parents abused him.

I listen to what he’s saying, and it makes my stomach churn.

I nod once.

He nods once.

The heaviness of what is not said is more than enough. It all adds up. The abuse. Kidnapping Bec. The way Jags kills his old man. I don’t need to know specifics. I bet money Jags grew up in a house just like this hell hole. It paints a complete picture.

Hey guys, I didn’t know it was gonna be a party. I would’ve stopped to get beer. Sprocket’s voice carries down the hall.

Mad Hazard guys, I tell Tony, and he nods. Get everything of importance out of here.

This is it. I already scoured the entire house. Even the mounds of trash. He finds an empty sack and fills it with the things on the bed and hands it to me. I feel like I need a shower in bleach, he mutters under his breath.

Damn straight.

We walk back into the living room as I tuck the bag inside my cut, Prickler still balanced on my shoulder, and I see Skinner squatting down on the floor, eyeing the woman. He yanks her head back by her hair, and the duct tape muffles her scream. Her eyes widen when she sees him, terror written on her face as she wriggles uselessly. I grin. He always garners that reaction.

Every inch of skin on him is tattooed, from what I hear. From his bald head that has the intricate lines of a brain, to the detailed skull face. He takes the creep factor up a notch by wearing white contacts all the time.

What do you want to do with his mom? Then I nod to Jolly and Chilli, the rest of the Mad Hazard crew. I don’t normally defer leadership to anybody. If Jags was here, there’s no question who’d be running the show. It’s only right to let his best friend do the honor.

I vote pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, Sprockets says, clapping his hands together.

Me and four other pair of eyes stare at him.

What? You haven’t heard of it? I adjusted the game a li’l with darts⁠—

No. I stop him before he starts, because once you get him started, nothing will shut him up except pussy, food, or sleep.

Jolly chuckles, and when he does, his whole body does, and the entire trailer shakes because he’s built like a brick shithouse. It’s surprising he hasn’t fallen through the floor. Here, kid. He hands Sprocket the flavor of the day. He’s always sucking Jolly Ranchers and keeps a stash in his cut.

Sweet! Thanks, man. Sprocket unwraps it and pops it in his mouth. I love lime. My fave.

The other day you said your favorite was cherry, Jolly says.

That was the other day. Today is a different day. He widens his eyes and grins.

I shake my head. Sometimes I wonder about that boy. Scratch that. I always wonder.

Meanwhile, Tony kneels eye level with Jags’ mom. Pulls out a blade from under his pants leg and twirls it expertly as she shakes her head. Skinner smiles while he’s on his hands and knees inches from her face. By the looks of it, she doesn’t know who the bigger threat is.

Tony or Skinner.

Tony holds up a hunk of her hair and slices through it like butter. She retches behind her duct tape.

Could we get any information out of her? I ask.

Tony stands. No. She’s an idiot. If they were involved with anything, Jake’s dad would have been the brains behind it.

Suddenly, Tony slices through the tape that holds her hog-tied, drags her by her hair down the hall and to the room where Jags’ dad's body lay. I know the moment he turns on the flashlight by the muffled screeches and thumps.

See, bitch. Your son did that with his bare fists. I wanted you to see it before you went straight to hell. Because that’s where you belong.

I look up as she goes flying into the hallway and slaps the paneling with a thud.

Most people would cringe about harming the fairer sex. I have no such issue. An enemy is an enemy.

Skinner looks at me with a hopeful expression, and I know what he wants without even asking. If Tony doesn’t have any use for her, you can play with her.

Play, to him, is a very different term than most people define it. He breaks out in a wide smile, grabs her taped together ankles and drags her back into the living room. Her too-small dress rolls up to just under her tits, revealing a pierced, wrinkled belly button and flabby skin. Snot is smeared on her face. Her eyes bulge. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had pissed herself.

Jolly raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. You sure she deserves that?

Tony comes into the living room and stares at the woman sobbing at his feet. He looks at Jolly, Chilli, me and finally Skinner. Make her suffer as long as possible, he says. Then walks out of the house.

Chilli lets out a low whistle, Jolly mutters damn, and Skinner looks giddy.

I stare at Jags’ mom. What the fuck did they do to him?

Later, with the help of Tony and the others, I set the house on fire. No one would think twice about it this far out unless it spread. But I’m an expert on fire.

Setting it. Controlling it.

The burn. The sizzle. The reds, yellows and oranges dance in the night sky. I follow the colors as they lick each other. Like an erotic salsa dance. I get too close to the blaze, but I don’t care. I’ve always been fascinated by fire. The heat is almost unbearable, and I shiver from the pleasure. It’s titillating even. I reach out my hand until it stings with pain, then lower my arm. Logically, I know if I step into the fire, it can possibly kill me, but it doesn’t stop me from the fantasy of being consumed by it.

I fucking love it.

I back up to stand next to Tony as the Mad Hazard crew load Jags’ parents in the black van. One dead, and one probably wishing she was.

Chilli joins us. I’ll stay here until the fire dies down a li’l bit. Jolly and Skinner need to get rid of the cargo. You guys can split. The less people here, the better.

I look up at Chilli. Because the only way you can see his face is up. The Indian has to duck when he walks inside anywhere. Thanks, brother.

He nods at us both and walks off.

Are you gonna be at the bonfire? I ask Tony.

He is leaning against his truck, staring at the flames. Maybe.

Why haven’t you joined? I thought sure you would when Jags did. I relax my posture and put my left hand on my right forearm. Every movement I make is with thought. You can disarm someone more easily if they don’t feel threatened.

He smirks. I don’t want to steal all your ladies. He turns, gets in his truck and drives off.

That answer is inconsequential, and he knows it. I slide my hand in my jean pocket and ponder the why of it. There must be a reason he’s holding off joining our club.

AN HOUR LATER…

I stand in Beezy’s office with Haze, our tech guy, and I dump the contents of the bag on the desk. Tony found these. He seemed to think there was something sketchy going on. The place was a dump, and that’s a lot of cash.

Haze scoops up the phones. I’ll get all the info off the cells and add the cash to the slush fund. He turns to walk out the door, but I stop him.

Tony said if you find anything personal about Jags, keep it private. I look at both of them. I trust my brothers, and especially Beezy and Haze. They are true to their word and don’t feed the gossip rumor mill. I can’t say that about all our members or especially the ol’ ladies.

Got it, Haze says. Not missing a beat and walks out the door. He’s known for getting shit done right the first time and doing it quickly.

Beezy stands behind his desk, arms crossed. Jags called. He said he killed his old man, but he didn’t say how.

He pounded his skull in. Fucking glad he’s on our side. Tony let Skinner take his mom and said to make her suffer as much as possible. I don’t know what they did to Jags, but to give Skinner free license to do whatever he wanted? Must have been bad.

Skinner is supposed to work with the enforcer, helping to interrogate people. But he has a bad habit of getting carried away with his play toys, as he calls them, and skinning them alive. So, we had to set some rules. Since we brought Jags on board as the enforcer, they work together and became a great team. Makes sense, because they’re both quiet and scare the piss out of everyone.

Skinner couldn’t stand the previous enforcer, Kraken, because he likes to run his fucking mouth. When Jags took him down six months ago, Kracken split without a word. I have no idea where he is, and everyone knows to keep a lookout for him. You just don’t cut and run from our club.

Beezy, not looking the least bit surprised, comes around to the front of the desk, leans on it, and crosses his ankles. Just know, they deserved it.

As I study him, his black hair and beard with gray sprinkled in both, he knows exactly what type of abuse they doled out to Jags. I don’t ask, and even if I did, he wouldn’t tell me. I tip my head down and close my eyes for a few seconds. That means his dad got what he deserved. His mother is going to get her just reward at the hands of Skinner.

The perfect snapshot in my head of my living room when I was sixteen was crystal clear…The million little pieces of glass from the coffee table being shattered. The broken picture frames lying on the floor. The torn sacks with groceries strewn about. Raw eggs mashed on the tile. Dining room chairs overturned. The blood spatter…

Bile chokes me.

Cease!

I can’t…won’t…spiral down any farther. I won’t go there. Thinking about him rotting away in prison—was it justice? Was it enough? Clenching both my fists so hard I feel the veins pop on my forearms, I stand stock still.

No. It is in no way compensation for what he took.

Exhaling, I turn and look out the one-way window from Beezy’s office and try to rein in my fury. It’s nigh impossible. From here, you could see most of the clubhouse, including the entrance. There are two pool tables, a jukebox, tables and chairs. A poker game is going on, and I can’t see it from here, but an L-shaped bar is in the corner. Cigarette, weed, and cigar smoke permeate the air, but it is a hell of a lot better than the stench of Jags' parents’ place. Beezy’s office is insulated from the noise, but the smell still seeps in around the door.

That trailer reminded me of a few foster homes I lived in. How they became foster homes, I have no idea, because they weren’t fit for an animal, much less a kid. I was old enough and smart enough, I reported them. I researched and typed it in legal jargon by code number violations and handed it to CPS. The state didn’t like that I was smarter than their social workers. Then the last six months I was in a group home but basically lived on the streets and fended for myself.

With each breath, I loosen my stance. Beezy is one of the few who knows my true self, but he never comments on it. We don’t need to discuss it.

He has a way of seeing through someone’s façade without effort. That’s what makes him a damn good leader. I never see him lose his temper. Cool, calm and collected. That is our Prez.

By the way, we hired another dancer for Hysteria. Jynx is what she goes by. I turn to glance at him. She didn’t give her real name, and she wants cash. That tells me she’s probably rolling through. I’ll keep an eye on her.

He nods. I’ll let you know what Haze finds on those cell phones. Tony’s smart, and even though he’s not a member, I trust his instinct. He’s right, something’s off about it. I’ll have Screwy test the drugs and see what kind they are.

I’m gonna head back to Hysteria if you need me. We bump fists, and I step into the noisy clubhouse.

The jukebox is playing Revelation Man by Saliva, and a thick haze of smoke is over the occupants. A member mutters a curse and fold as he flings his cards down on a table. It’s only Wednesday, not busy at all, but there are always some members here.

Sweet butts in skimpy clothes cling to members just vying for a spot to become ol’ ladies, but they rarely ever make it to that status. No one wanted a used-up SB who spread their legs for every member. It’s all about respect. They are more or less free pussy for the guys.

I clap a couple of members on the shoulders, smile and watch them like hawks. I’m responsible for their safety. I will protect them against themselves if need be.

They are my family.

My only family.

Once you are patched in and get a top rocker, in my eyes, you gain a last name.

I stride to the bar and watch Tug, our prospect, handing out drinks. He’s a hard worker and does any job with no complaint. Handles the shit other members dole out to him with stone face honor. I have also seen him fight when it goes too far. He’s earned my respect, and it has been about a year. What is more amazing, I never see him trashed. A prospect isn’t supposed to get drunk, but almost all have broken that rule a time or two.

Prospect.

He wipes his hands on a towel and looks up. Yes, sir?

Keep it up, I nod.

His lips twitch. Absolutely.

Hysteria VIP is a twenty-five-minute bike ride away from the clubhouse. I push a remote inside my cut for the overhead door, and I pull inside. I hear the sexy sounds of Ginuwine get louder as I enter the hallway, then the office, and step into my club. It gives me a sense of pride to say it is mine. Well, partially mine. I invested the money to do the upgrades in furnishings. Pope wasn’t sure it would pay off, but it had. Now we have high dollar clientele, despite being biker run.

We have the best of everything. Liquor, dancers, and, for the exclusive, select few, pussy and drugs. It gives us connections that we could’ve only dreamt about. It makes the club profitable and safer. Haze has this place wired to the hilt, but it’s hidden in the walls. No one knows except for me and Pope because we helped him install it. The information we collect can bring our town of Cruxton and nearby arrogant Fallbank Hills crashing down. It could be a war zone. The secrets we can expose, if we want to, give us leverage.

Lawyers, mayors, senators, governors…they all come here. To relax. For meetings. For blow. For blow jobs. But we run a tight ship. We don’t offer everyone everything. I step up to Dax, our head security on the floor. His twin, Ion, is working the front door with Raven, our hostess.

Everything going well here? I glance at a few patrons, and Lux, who’s on stage, is working her magic.

Dax’s hands are clasped in front of him, and he has an earpiece. Yes, sir. No, problems.

That’s what I like to hear. I walk around the club, nodding to some customers I know.

I personally redesigned parts of the VIP with the help of Grind, the manager of the front half of Hysteria. Curved benches are built into the walls with the black and purple curtains framing it, so it feels secluded and private. Even though it’s not closed off. Individual round tables are set up in front of each bench, complete with a pole.

Get your hands off me!

I stop. It’s coming from an alcove just a few benches down.

Honey, I paid a lot of money to get a private dance. The other girls have no issues.

Get your mother fucking hands off me before I break them off.

I step past the curtain, and Jynx runs headlong into me. I grab her arm to steady her, and she yanks out of my grasp. Hands off. Before I have a chance to say anything, she stalks off. But not before I notice how her body fits against me in that brief moment. On stage, one can’t tell.

Dax is right behind me, and I eye the customer with a scowl. Dax, make sure he understands the rules before you throw him out.

The man stands and scoffs. You can’t throw me out. Do you know who I am? He sits down and lounges back. He dusts his suit jacket like there was a speck on it.

Do you know who I am, would be the better question? Fucking prick. I know who he is. Fallbank Hills high society. I’m surprised he is alone, though.

He laughs. A low life biker trash⁠—

He doesn’t even finish his statement before I reach across the table, grab him by his collar and get in his face. I twist his shirt, so it chokes him, and his face turns red. I drag him across the floor by his toes. Biker trash, huh? This biker owns this club. What do you think about that?

I bring his face closer to mine. What’s that? Did you understand him, Dax?

He never smiles, but his mouth twitches. No, sir.

I didn’t either. Tell L.A.to cut the music.

Dax relays the information through his earpiece and the music stops. I drag the P.O.S. to the middle of the club and by now, every eye is on us. When I stop, you could have heard a pin drop except for two guys who sit straight up in their chairs. I knew he couldn’t have come alone.

Just to reiterate the rules in case anyone forgot. I nonchalantly punch the guy in the stomach, and his knees buckle, but I still have a hold of his shirt. The girls can touch you if they so choose, but it’s their choice. I slam my knee into the guy’s face and let him crumple to the floor. He rolls around groaning. But you can’t touch them. Under no circumstances. Understood?

Most of the crowd is nodding, but I stare at the two pinheads to see if they have anything to say. L.A., fire it up. Dax, take out the trash. As I step over the guy, the music comes back on, and I stride to the bar.

Hey, one of the trio gets my attention. Our families are gonna hear about this, and they’re gonna shut these doors. He puffs out his chest in his pale pink cardigan sweater and blond feathered hair.

The other one chimes in, Yeah!

I give them a mocking smile and lean against the polished wood. These twats really think they’re big shots. I’m tempted to shove their big heads up their asses. If I thought it would be remotely challenging, sure. But one punch and they’d be crying for their mommas.

Really? I tap my finger on the bar and glance to L.A. What do you think? Are you worried?

I’m not worried. He laughs. At. All.

I look at pink twat. I know dipshit’s father. He has an account with us. In two steps, I shoot off the bar to stand inches away from the kids. They almost fall backwards trying to get away from me. Get the fuck out of here. I suggest you don’t come back. They both scramble away and out the door. Dax follows them out to make sure they stay out.

My plan was to follow Jynx, and let Dax handle it, but the dipshit had to say, biker trash. Not much pushes my buttons, but I couldn’t let that slide. My adrenaline is flowing just enough to need a release. There are plenty of choices. It’s endless. It’s an unsatisfactory state of being.

I watch the people, my customers, laugh, drink, the touch of a hand, the gyrate of a hip, the clink of ice in glass, the smell of the perfume of the club and cigars, the sparkle of the chandeliers and jewels on the women perched on barstools, the thump of the music, the glow of the lights…and I drift. My extremities start to tingle. Prickles cover my scalp.

I head to my office without a word to anyone and close the door. The welcoming embrace of stillness. I still hear the thump from VIP, but it’s subdued. I tilt my head and widen my jaw. It pops loud. Hurts too. It’s done that since I was sixteen, when the world as I knew it flipped on its head. I don’t know why, but I do know trauma has no rules. It goes by no set patterns. No flow. It’s like scribbles. One overlapping, another.

I stride over to my minibar and pour a generous portion of whiskey, sit in my desk chair and look at the monitors. Or more accurately, I watch Jynx.

TWO

JYNX

I watch JJ from the back. Maybe he works here after all. I thought he was a customer. Doesn’t matter in the slightest. But he looks familiar, and it bothers me. I don’t like surprises. At all. I need to figure out where I know him from sooner rather than later. My life depends on it.

Done for the day, I enter the dressing room, and unlock my locker to get dressed. I yank on my holey jeans, black and red flannel shirt, knock-off black chucks, pull my hair up in a pony and shove my other crap in a duffle bag. Not that there is much, but hey…it’s mine. Everything I own is in one duffle bag and one backpack. That’s it.

My cell phone is charging at the bar, so I heft my backpack over my shoulder and pick up my duffle to leave, when I hear a snigger behind me. I could walk off, act like I don’t hear it, but that isn’t me. I turn right around.

I stare into the dressing mirror at Lux. What’s your problem?

She tries to act innocent but turns around to face me. Nothing. I didn’t say anything. She glances at Stella and back at me.

I know her type. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, fake tan, fake lips, fake tits and fake ass. But she rakes it in. I would bet Lux is the one who let the customers put their hands on her, for a price, of course.

I am wondering, though, why in the world you would carry all that stuff around with you? Lux asks.

Hmm. I adjust the strap of my backpack. I’m wondering how much lip filler it would take for your lips to explode. Because by the looks of it, it's pretty close. I give her a sarcastic smile, turn around, leave the dressing room, and head to the bar for my phone. Stupid cunt.

Yeah. I went there. Sue me.

I set my duffle on the bar and my backpack on the barstool, and as soon as L.A. sees me, he grabs my phone and hands it to me.

Thanks.

Do you need a drink? It's free if it’s non-alcoholic.

Water be fine. I need a bottle of Fireball, but I’m short on funds, then I glance at him. And again. It’s very hard not to stare. He’s, in a word, gorgeous. His hair is almost silver, but he isn’t old. It matches the color of his eyes. He has a well-defined jawline, and one dimple appears when he smiles. It explains why so many women are at the bar. Well-dressed women, dripping with diamonds on their hands and around their necks.

Is Pope around?

Nope. At the clubhouse. He tosses a towel over his shoulder and places his hand flat on the bar. What do you need?

I don’t know why I notice his long, thick fingers, but I do. I look up at his face and see his grin.

Shut up.

He chuckles.

Don’t you have a customer to wait on or something? I huff.

Nope. It’s closing time, and I asked you a question. What do you need from Pope?

I glance at my phone. It’s almost two A.M. That explains why I’m so beat. I was hoping he could pay me for today so I could get a room somewhere.

You could stay at my place.

I turn around to face JJ. He stands lazily with his weight shifted to one leg, his left hand hooked into his front jeans pocket, right hanging loose and cap on backwards. In fact, he looks bored. His skin is the rich color of toffee, and his eyes are light amber, which gives him a feral quality. His sleeves are rolled up and tattoos cover both forearms. I’m sure they continue up his arms and possibly onto his chest.

My place is upstairs. He points up.

L.A. chuckles and walks off to the back.

My mouth gapes a little, and I snap it shut. You own this place. Great. I’m surprised he hired me after I was so shitty with him.

He smirks. Part owner. Pope owns the other part.

Okay. Can you pay me then? I hold back a yawn, and my eyes feel like they have five pounds of grit in them.

Do you have a car?

What? What did that have anything to do with it?

The nearest hotel is a twenty-minute drive. I didn’t see any vehicles I didn’t know in the lot. And you’re tired.

I have a bike. It’s on the highway. At least I hoped it was still there.

A bicycle? he asks, his brows shooting high on his forehead.

I roll my eyes and cock my hip. Of course, he would think that. A motorcycle. You dipshit. I barely keep from saying that.

Where’s it at? It’s not here. He cocks his head.

No. It broke down on the highway. Tomorrow, I hope to have it towed somewhere so it can be fixed. Not that I’ll have the money for that either, but one problem at a time. That’s how I’d made it this far.

He eyes me for a moment, then plucks my backpack off the barstool, flings it over his shoulder and walks off. Follow me.

Hey, give me that! I huff, again. He’s still walking away, and when he opens a door, and that’s when I realize he isn’t coming back. Motherfucker. I grab my duffle, mutter, and stomp after him.

When I stride through the door, I realize it’s an office. A beautiful high-tech office. One wall has six monitors which show different parts of the club. One corner has a wide leather bench with purple pillows