Chapter One
CAMDEN
The hum of the engine still rings in my ears as I park my bike in the garage. Today was a long one, checking in with my men, making sure everything’s running smoothly at all of our businesses, dealing with the constant bullshit that always comes up.
Even if things have calmed down over the last year, the work never stops.
But that’s the way I like it. It keeps me sharp, keeps me focused, keeps me from thinking too much and getting lost in my head.
As the President of Hell’s Heathens Motorcycle Club, there’s too much at stake to allow my demons to control my thoughts and decisions, so the work is needed.
Music comes in a steady thrum from inside our clubhouse—a large barndominium-style building that houses bedrooms for patched members, a huge, open concept living area with a built-in bar, a kitchen, and, in the center of it all?
Church. The most sacred place here. It’s where all our important meetings, votes, and private discussions happen.
You can only get in with an invitation from me, a heady responsibility I was hand-chosen to have much too young.
If you’d asked me twenty years ago if I thought I’d be the president of a motorcycle club at twenty-five, you’d be staring at my middle finger.
Now that I’m thirty-six? It’s all I know and can’t imagine doing anything different.
I live and breathe for this club, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Old, weathered floorboards creak under my boots as I walk up the steps that lead to our front door, members nodding my way, either in greeting or respect.
Twelve months ago, we took a hit in our ranks and are still recovering.
We’ve accepted more prospects than ever before—something I don’t like doing often.
The men are usually young, either running from something or looking for something they’re hoping to find here.
They usually all have the same thing in common, though, and that’s a cocky attitude.
I can weed out who will be here for the long haul pretty early on, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to become patched members.
I head straight to the bar, taking in the low-key party already in full swing.
Patched members are scattered everywhere, their leather cuts setting them apart from everyone else.
The smell of weed mingles with cigarettes, sex, and alcohol as I make my way toward the bar, my fingers itching for a cold beer to settle the beast inside me.
“Prez, what can I get ya?” a young prospect asks as he wipes the bar top down with a wet cloth.
“Just a beer. Appreciate it.”
He grabs me one from the cooler under the bar, popping off the top and setting it in front of me.
I nod my appreciation, turning back to face the party.
At first glance, everyone is carefree, living their best lives, but I know just as well as they do, we’re all just trying to stay sane, coping in whatever way we can with the demons that try to claw their way forward.
I work hard, consistently, to make sure I keep them all safe, checking in with everyone as often as I can, making sure we’re on top of anything that arises.
I never join in their parties, preferring to give them their space to let loose without their president looming over them.
But I’m never far, just in case shit goes down.
You never know with these fuckers, or the constant threats that seem to be waiting just outside our gates lately.
I bring the cool beer to my lips, watching with impassive feelings as Wrath pumps into a patch bunny from behind, his jeans down his thighs, her skirt flipped up over her ass. She’s bent over the pool table, and the poor thing has taken so much over the years, I’m surprised she’s still standing.
The pool table.
Probably the patch bunny, too.
I’ve become desensitized to seeing my patch brothers fuck out in the open.
Especially Wrath. We’ve all seen his dick more than any of us would like to admit.
The first time I saw someone getting it on wasn’t on a porn site; it was right here at the Hell’s Heathens compound.
Obviously, as an older teenager, I thought that shit was awesome, couldn’t wait to be a patched member and be able to take turns with the women here, but as I got older, it was never my scene.
I’m way too territorial. Possessive. The patch bunnies too willing and too eager.
I need the hunt, the chase. If she doesn’t make me work for it, then I don’t want it.
The girls are here of their own free will, and I’m happy to house them for everything they do for the club.
But they know not to try to get some from me.
My eyes flick from the primal, dirty image of Wrath and the patch bunny to Rogue and his old lady, Kinsey.
The two images are night and day, polar opposites in every way.
They’ve been together a year, and Rogue just made her his old lady.
Everyone loves Kinsey, and I love that she’s brought my brother back home to us.
Over a decade ago, Rogue and I lost people close to us, and after they were taken, I lost Rogue, too.
His depression was a thick, inky darkness that surrounded him.
He moved out of the clubhouse shortly after, and we only saw him when duty called.
Kinsey brought him back into the light. I’ve never seen him happier, and because of that, I owe her everything.
Voting on whether or not she’d be his old lady was easy for all of us.
Each of us would die for her, if need be, but that’s how it is when you give out a property patch.
She’ll always have the protection of the club, even if Rogue is six feet under.
Rogue shut down after the night we lost everything, became an empty shell just to keep taking each step forward. Me? I let the images of Lucas’ burned and mangled body that haunt my nightmares fuel me. His death stays with me in the pit of my belly just as raw today as it was over ten years ago.
My heart is cold stone. I don’t trust anyone, and my family comes above all else.
No darkness shrouds me, no emptiness or holes.
The opposite, actually. It’s madness. Anger.
Chaos. I used to balance on the tightrope, trying to hold onto some semblance of Camden while not giving in completely to Chaos.
When I lost my brother, the man I used to be died with him, leaving nothing but Chaos in his wake.
“What’s got you lookin’ like someone just pissed in your beer?”
“Nothin’,” I grunt to Sin, my vice president, a huge, burly fucker with red hair and an iron fist. I look his way as he takes a seat across from me at the bar and roll my eyes. He’s massive, well over six feet and two hundred pounds, and holding a fucking bunny in the crook of his arm.
“Liar,” he says as he strokes the small animal he calls a pet. He looks behind him at where my eyes are focused. Reid spins Kinsey around as her head falls back in a laugh before he yanks her back into his arms, holding her closely and dancing to the beat of the music. “They’re cute, huh?”
“Cute?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s totally normal he just used the word cute to describe a literal gigantic killer while he slow dances with his woman.
But then I see him scratch behind the bunny’s ears, and it all makes sense.
Sin is a big teddy bear. If a teddy bear played with sharp knives and had as much blood on its hands as I do.
“I don’t use the word cute. But I’m glad our brother is happy.”
“Then why is your face all pinched like you smelled shit?”
“Do I not look happy, Sin? Is that the problem?”
“I mean, do you remember how to smile?”
“I smile.”
Sin laughs, startling the little creature in his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, Mr. Bun-Buns. Daddy’s got you.”
“Jesus Christ. Do you hear yourself?”
“What? It’s called giving comfort. Do you remember how to do that?”
I drain the last of my beer. “Guess not,” I say, standing and adjusting my leather cut. “I’m callin’ it a night.”
“Hold up, I didn’t sit down just to bust your balls. Two more club members from Rebel Sons were just found dead. Murdered the same way as all the others. Throats slit from ear to ear with a branch branded onto their chests.”
Fuck. It’s not uncommon for motorcycle club members to show up dead from time to time, especially if their clubs are involved in wars or conflicts with rival clubs.
But the last six months, there’s been an uptick—all murdered and left behind with a calling card, the killer taunting us, leaving their mark on each of their kills.
Sin taps on his phone, flipping it around for me to view.
I don’t grimace at the photo, having seen my fair share of dead bodies, but I do zoom in on the most important part—the fresh, red brand that was pressed deep into his bare torso, over the left side of his chest.
His heart. This is personal.
“These aren’t random killings.”
“No. Someone’s picking off club members.”
Jesus Christ. If someone is out there taking out club members, it’s all our problem, not just the club that the members belonged to.
“How many does this make?”
“Hard to tell ’cause not everyone wants to share their club business and doesn’t want to come off as weak, but four from Rebel Sons, three from Phoenix Syndicate, five from Hellfire Sentinels, and about five more I’ve gathered from the news that no one’s being open about claiming.
Who knows how many more, or how many are unaccounted for, because no one caught the brand.
The number could be staggering, for all we know. ”
“We need to get to the bottom of it before it comes to our door. Get the word out, no one goes out alone, no outsiders allowed in, double patrols, and set up a meeting between the presidents of surrounding clubs—all of ’em.
We need to find out if there’s more in common than just wearing a cut.
Have them meet in neutral territory, don’t need anyone trying anything stupid while we’re all looking away. ”
“You got it. You think this could be a play for territory?”
“I don’t trust outsiders; I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”
“No one’s getting Amberwood.”
“No one.”
I reach over the bar, snag a fresh beer, and leave my brothers to party.
My bedroom sits at the back of the building on the second floor, the smallest room at the clubhouse.
It was given to me as a teenager, and even though I could take the biggest now that I’m the club’s president, it’s not something I ever wanted.
I don’t need much to be comfortable, just a bed to crash in at night, my bike, and the club.
I never had much as a kid and learned real quick to be grateful for every little crumb.
I push open the door to my room, the lock turning with a soft click as I close it behind me. It’s quieter in here, but not by much; the walls just barely muffling the bass of the music thumping beneath the floorboards and rattling the windows.
Exhaustion slips over me as I carefully hang my cut on the hook next to my bed, the leather slapping against the wood with a slight thud. My fingers trace over the thick skull of our colors, the Hell’s Heathens insignia that matches the one tattooed on my chest.
My boots are caked with dust from the road, and I take a seat in the single chair, unlacing them and setting them facing outward next to my bed. Always prepared, always ready to go when needed.
The cap pops off with a hiss, the cold beer flowing down my throat in a welcome caress.
The curtains blow forward, the wind rustling through the open window.
It’s late August, and fall is quickly approaching.
The days are long, and the early morning chill bleeds into scorching afternoons, only for it to cool off again in the evening.
I stand by the window, staring out at the night sky.
All’s quiet, but I know that right outside our gates, there’s a world moving faster than I want to keep up with.
Our little piece of Washington State is remote, the small town of Amberwood sitting west of the Olympic National Forest, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of Seattle and Tacoma, nestled against the mountains with the coast just a few hours’ ride from us.
I live for these open back roads, the small town feel of Amberwood and the surrounding area.
I’ve done city life and knew it wasn’t for me.
I need space to stretch, to feel the wind and peace it brings.
Laughter and the low rumble of bikes echo into my room as I polish off my beer, dropping the bottle into my trash can before stripping out of my clothes and getting into bed. Tomorrow brings a whole new day, as long as I can survive the demons that come out at night.