Riot (Howlers MC #4)

Chapter One

Calvin

“I’m heading out, Mom,” I hollered from the kitchen.

The dishes from lunch were rinsed and sitting in the sink.

I’d deal with them when I got home from work.

The late-morning humidity already had the house feeling sticky.

The kind of heat that crawled under your clothes and stayed there.

Hopefully there was a breeze outside, or I was gonna melt into a puddle by the time I made it to work.

Halfway down the hall I caught my toe on my shoes and stumbled into the wall with a curse.

The sneakers I’d kicked off yesterday still sat right in the middle of the floor like a trap set specifically for me.

I shoved them aside with my foot and kept going, already dreading the ten-minute walk to the laundromat.

Maybe I should’ve grabbed a bottle of water before leaving.

Too late now.

“I’m leaving too.”

My mom stepped out of the hallway tying the belt on her housekeeping uniform, her second job cleaning motel rooms out on Route 9. Her purse hung off one shoulder, her black hair twisted into a tight bun. She wore just enough makeup to make her look less exhausted than she probably felt.

I hated that she worked two jobs.

But she was determined to keep the house. The one she and my dad had bought when I was five with a thirty-year mortgage. My dad had died with ten years still left on it, and my mom acted like losing the place would somehow mean losing him too.

“You figure out how we’re paying for the plumber?” I asked. “Bathroom sink’s getting worse.”

“Working on it,” she said automatically. “Always working on something.”

We walked into the living room together, and I stopped so fast my shoulder bumped hers.

Ramos stood just inside the front door with his arms folded over his chest and a grin stretched across his face. For just a second, I saw the brother he used to be, before everything fell apart, and almost ran to him.

But I stopped myself when I remembered how much he had changed, and not for the better.

“Hey, Mom,” he said like this was some happy family reunion instead of him appearing out of nowhere after being locked up.

She looked as stunned as I felt. Six years in prison had changed Ramos from a skinny idiot with anger problems into a muscular idiot with anger problems. He looked so much older, rougher around the edges, as if prison had aged him beyond his twenty-six years.

“How are you here?” she asked. “You still have two years left.”

Ramos shrugged, his grin never slipping, though I clocked the caution in his eyes. “Released early. Place is overcrowded, so they booted me out.” His gaze moved around the living room. “Glad I still got my room here.”

“You’re staying here?”

Mom sounded shocked. I couldn’t blame her. Life had settled after he went away. No parties. No screaming matches. No cops parked outside with flashing lights turning the neighbors into nosy curtain twitchers because Ramos had made another reckless decision.

“Where else would I stay, Mama?” He uncrossed his arms like this was obvious. Like he’d been gone a week instead of spending those six years in prison for armed robbery.

“Heading to my room,” Ramos announced, brushing past us. “Prison is exhausting.”

Exhausting? It wasn’t as if he’d pulled a few doubles. What did that even mean? I wanted to ask, but I was still too stunned to speak. Then again, did I really want to know?

My mom looked at me, her lips pressed tight. “I have to get to work.”

“He can’t stay here,” I whispered, flapping my hand toward the hallway.

She let out a long breath. “He has nowhere else to go. He’s family, regardless of what he’s done.”

“He held up a convenience store,” I reminded her. “With an actual gun.”

“He didn’t kill anyone.”

She said it fast. Defensively, like she needed to convince herself as much as me.

“Only because the owner survived getting shot three times.”

This could not be happening again.

Just like before, my mother was going to pretend Ramos wasn’t a criminal. Pretend he wasn’t still capable of dragging chaos into this house like he always had.

She ignored me completely and hurried out the front door, muttering about being late.

I followed her outside and paused long enough to lock up behind us.

Then I stood there in the heat staring at the house, feeling like my prison sentence had just started.

* * * *

As soon as I turned onto my street, I knew something was wrong.

I only lived three houses down from the corner. Close enough to spot the unfamiliar car sitting in our driveway before I even reached the house. A black muscle car. Charger, maybe. A decal stretched across the back window, a red-outlined skull that looked like it was glowing.

Music drifted through the open living room windows as I got closer. Rap. Not loud enough for the neighbors to complain but loud enough to carry through the heavy summer air.

Ramos.

Not even twelve hours out of prison and he already had people over.

I should’ve expected it. The silence around our house never lasted when Ramos was involved. Sooner or later he filled every room with noise, strangers, smoke, and trouble.

The question wasn’t whether he’d changed.

It was how much worse he’d gotten.

I didn’t want to know. Before he’d been sent away, Ramos had been wild but a decent brother. Criminal, but caring. A bubble of laughter escaped when that dumb shit went through my mind. Those two words should never exist in the same sentence. Not when referring to Ramos.

Sweat clung to my back and scalp as I climbed the porch steps, then slowed when I noticed the front door was cracked open. My brain shouldn’t have flagged it. Plenty of people left their door ajar without feeling something ominous crawl over their skin.

After blowing out a long, quiet breath, I pushed it wider and stopped just inside.

Ramos was sprawled in Dad’s old recliner, one ankle over a knee, beer in hand. He’d invited two old friends I’d hoped to never see again.

Oscar sat on the couch, broad and quiet, elbows on his thighs, watching TV. Honestly, he wasn’t so bad. The guy barely spoke, unlike the other one.

Miguel.

He was leaning against the wall near the TV with a cigarette hanging between his fingers. I’d met him when I was seventeen, and he’d always felt vaguely wrong in a way I couldn’t explain. Like something under his skin didn’t sit right.

The corner of Ramos’ mouth turned up in a small smile. “Little bro returns. How was work, honey?”

I flipped him off automatically while taking in the disaster spreading across the living room. Beer bottles crowded the coffee table, two tipped onto their sides. The ashtray overflowed onto the table and floor beneath it. Smoke clung to the air thick enough to taste the menthol.

Then I spotted an empty plastic container sitting beside Ramos.

My leftover lasagna.

Fantastic. I’d spent the entire walk home thinking about eating it.

The smell of weed drifted through the room beneath the odor of cigarettes. Ramos must’ve gotten high and inhaled everything in the fridge.

Ramos laughed. “Fuck, I missed you.”

Oscar glanced over at me long enough for a quick once-over before returning his attention to the game. “What’s up?”

“Sup, Oscar.”

“Damn,” Miguel said with a small smile. “Look at you. All grown up now.”

Look at you. Still a predator. Every instinct in my body recoiled. “Happens.”

The tip of Miguel’s cigarette glowed bright before fading again as he took a drag.

“Still working late nights at the laundromat over on Pearl?”

“Something like that.” Not anymore, but I wasn’t volunteering that information. I headed for the kitchen, feeling his eyes follow me the entire way.

Now I wanted a shower. Maybe soak in some industrial-strength bleach too.

The less the creep knew about me, the better. It was already bad enough he knew where I lived. And that question hadn’t been innocent curiosity, no matter how casual he’d made it sound. Miguel asked questions for a reason.

I yanked my phone from my back pocket and texted my friend Niles.

Me: Ramos was released early.

Three dots appeared on my screen.

Niles: Lock everything up! Secure valuables! Don’t panic. Breathe. We survived him once. We’ll survive again. How’s he look? Still gorgeous?

I stared at the screen.

I’m surrounded by idiots. Niles had never met a red flag he didn’t want to climb like a tree.

Me: Keep your lip-gloss and net shirts away from him. He’s a convict. Gross. Gonna throw up in the empty lasagna bowl. Fucker ate my dinner.

Niles: I’ll march right over there and spank him!

Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

Me: Oscar and Miguel are here too.

A pause.

Niles: Never mind. Still creepy?

Had Miguel ever stopped being creepy? Doubtful.

Me: Already asking questions. If I disappear, check his trunk first. Then whatever basement he keeps bodies in.

Niles: I shall search tirelessly until my Pilates class starts. You have my word.

Despite myself, I grinned. He would absolutely abandon me to my fate for an hour with Dale the hot Pilates instructor.

Dale bent over at least six times every class like he knew exactly what he was doing to the gay men in attendance. Not that I’d noticed or anything.

“Wanna beer?”

I nearly dropped my phone at the sound of Miguel’s voice behind me.

Jesus Christ.

The guy always talked like everything was a secret. Low voice. Too close. Like he thought every conversation needed to happen directly against someone’s ear.

My pulse kicked hard as I turned my head. “You scared ten years off my life.”

Thankfully, I hadn’t dropped my phone. I’d just paid to get the screen repaired last week.

Miguel leaned one shoulder against the counter, a beer dangling from his fingers. “My bad.”

“No, thanks.” Thoughtful of him, though. Very hospitable offering me a beer from my fridge, in my house, from the case I’d bought yesterday.

Me: Creep in kitchen with me.

Niles: Offer him a slice of the apple pie your mom made.

I stared at Niles’ text in disbelief.

The fuck was wrong with him?