Chapter 3
Chapter Three
MALICE
“You’re up early,” Wrath says as he takes a seat next to me in the Adirondack chair with a steamy mug of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
I pull out my own, lighting it up and taking a deep inhale, the smoke mingling with the woodsy scent of summer—pine needles, Sitka spruce trees, and wild lupines.
“Only slept a few hours, been up since three.”
“Nightmare?”
I nod. “What do we got going on today?”
“There’s some issue at the build site of the new club, gotta go down there and get shit sorted.”
Last fall, our nightclub, Hell’s Asylum, was burned to the ground because of some shit that went down with Sin and Bristol. She was engaged to one of the men directly involved with the human trafficking ring we took down, and he wanted to send a message that he didn’t like Sin getting near Bristol.
The club had been a prominent business for Hell’s Heathens long before my ass came in, and hurt a lot of the old timers here. Hell, it hurt me. We’ve all got an attachment to that place.
Seeing it reduced to brick and ash broke something inside Chaos and Sin that day, and they’ve both been hell-bent on getting it rebuilt ever since.
“What’s the issue?”
Wrath shrugs, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Dunno, Rolo’s taking care of it.”
“I’ll go with him.”
“Nope, Prez needs you here today. Some shit with the prospects. He wants ranked members in church in an hour.”
I nod. “You think he’s pushing a vote?”
“Nah, I think he wants to postpone it. Do you think any of them are ready? I sure as hell don’t, and that’s not a reflection on you. They’re all running from something, but that doesn’t mean they’ll have our backs when the fight comes knocking again.”
He’s not wrong. One of the biggest foundations Chaos has put in place since he became president when Queenie died was trust. He doesn’t rule as our leader; he’s one of us.
He doesn’t force anyone to be here or to become a member.
There’s no coercion or blackmail, just loyalty and family.
We have to know that the men who become patched members will have our backs without thinking.
You can’t buy a man’s loyalty with force or fear, and Chaos knows that.
So, I’m with Wrath on this one. I don’t think these men are ready yet.
“You’re not wrong. It hasn’t even been that long since all that shit went down with the Widowmakers, we’ve got time. There’s no rush. We’ve gotta play this right.”
“Agreed. I’m heading to shower. See you in there.”
I nod, standing and deciding to do the same.
Wrath steps into the building and moves off to the side just as Rolo steps out, two prospects in tow: Garrett and Luca.
Luca has been with us about a year and is the only current prospect who would get my backing if it went for a vote today.
He’s got a good head on his shoulders and is focused. Jury is still out on Garrett.
“You heading out already? Prez wants us in church.”
“Yeah, better to get shit done this morning. Chaos is letting me skip since the stuff at the club is pressing. We’ll head up to the shop when I get back.
Cool?” Hell’s Heathens has several businesses we own and run in Amberwood, and I split my time between working at the auto shop and working at the clubhouse with Chaos.
Rolo brought me there and taught me everything I know.
“Yeah, works for me. See you when you get back,” I reply, giving him a salute just to be a jackass.
Then I evil eye the fuck out of the prospects standing at his back.
Luca is calm and collected. He’s wearing a pair of denim jeans with boots, a plain white T-shirt, and his cut that says PROSPECT.
His dark brown hair hangs around his shoulders, a deep, healed scar running from just under his right eye to the corner of his lip.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets while he rocks on the soles of his boots.
He’s about twenty-five, if I remember correctly, and has answered the call without hesitation over the last year and a half he’s been with us.
Then I look at the ugly fucker next to him.
Garrett looks like he was scraped from the bottom of a dumpster.
And I can judge because I’ve been in just as rough shape.
He’s got a shaved head that’s covered in tattoos, thick biceps that are crossed over his chest like he’s bracing for a fight, and isn’t intimidated by me in the slightest. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a tight white tank with his cut.
His eyes are too far apart, and his teeth are black as soot.
Rolo nods at me before walking down the porch steps, Luca following him. I snarl as Garrett passes me, my eyes catching a faded snake tattoo on the side of his skull. There’s a familiarity there, but I can’t place it.
I catch the grind of his molars, the squint of his eyes, and the way his back stiffens further.
He must think I’m stupid, or he just doesn’t give a shit if I notice his reaction to me.
I may be aloof and come off a little empty-headed sometimes, but that’s just because I’m eternally caged in my own goddamn mind.
I’m always thinking. Constantly. Even when I sleep.
Nothing shuts the shit off. I may be physically out of my cage, but the one in my head holds me hostage.
Wrath is right, some of these motherfuckers aren’t ready. I need to step it up with them. Especially this dumb fucker.
I watch them leave before heading inside, taking my shower, and dressing in a pair of jeans, boots, and my cut. Fuck the T-shirt. The only reason I’m wearing pants is that Chaos has a pants-on rule now.
Church is sacred to us. The room sits at the back of the clubhouse off our main living space, and the two heavy wooden doors keep it closed at all times.
All of our important club meetings, votes, and conversations happen behind these closed doors.
Doors I never thought I’d see behind when I first got here and was learning the ropes from Rolo.
We all take our seats—Chaos at the head of the table, me to his side, Sin on his other, Wrath, and Noose filling in, with Rolo and Rogue’s left empty. I get comfortable in my seat, ripping open my bag of Famous Amos, and popping a crisp cookie into my mouth.
The crunch is loud, and everyone pauses to look at me with expressions that irritate me. My eyes dart around to each of them. “Problem you want to share?”
“No,” Chaos snaps. “Otto wants in.”
Every single one of us has the same reaction, our mouths dropping open like assholes too stupid to speak up. Crumbs fall from my mouth and onto my lap. He’s not fucking serious.
“Fuck no,” Sin demands. “Are you outta your mind? He’s a kid! It’s bad enough that you brought him on all that shit with the finances.”
Last fall, we needed help to unscramble a trove of bullshit financial accounts that ultimately helped us find who was the head asshole running the human trafficking ring.
Otto is Mrs. Odette’s grandson. Chaos has been helping keep him on the straight and narrow for a while now.
His being a hang-around is one thing, but a prospect?
Fuck being banned from Daily Rise, Mrs. Odette will kill us.
“His parents are dead. All he has left is his grandmother. He needs us.”
“No offense, he needs anything but us, Prez.”
“I disagree,” Chaos says firmly, his eyes tracing the carved pattern of the Hell’s Heathens symbol in the center of our table.
“If you’re sticking us in here for a fucking vote, mine is no. That kid needs mentorship, I’ll give you that, but not club life.” Sin speaks the words viciously, no sign of the man behind his alter ego to be found.
We spend the next thirty minutes arguing back and forth. Otto is barely nineteen and has his whole life ahead of him. A good life. We’ve all seen him grow up outside of the club, and to take him now just feels wrong. Like we’d be doing a disservice to him. Failing him.
“We’re not voting without Rolo and Rogue here. Not on this,” I add, tapping my middle finger against my leg, mentally counting the scratches in the tabletop. “Wrath?”
“Sorry, Prez, it’s a no. We aren’t voting without them. It’s against the laws of the club.” Everyone but Chaos relaxes in their seats, relieved our club secretary has a pair of balls, because no one tells our president no. He’s a ruthless sonofabitch, and no one wants to be on his bad side.
My phone buzzes in my pocket a split second later. I pull it out, not recognizing the number, and click accept. All eyes are on me in the room, and it makes my fucking skin crawl.
I don’t say anything, waiting for whoever is on the other line to speak first.
“It’s Luca! It was a trap! We’re shot! We need backup!” the voice yells and stutters into the phone, and I stand quickly, pure rage flowing through my veins.
“Where’s Rolo?” I demand, my vision clouding over. “Where are you?”
“The-ah-the Asylum . . . he’s hit. I-I don’t know. I’m hit. I can’t get to him.”
“We’re coming.” I hang up the phone without another word.
There’s a moment of shock, of pure terror, and then Chaos yells his demand, and we all spring into action, moving on autopilot.
“Round ’em up! On bikes in two! Malice, give it to us.”
I relay the short details, jogging to our armory and pulling out guns and ammo, unsure what the fuck we’re about to head into, but needing to be prepared regardless.
Wrath gets all the girls in the house to a safe room, leaving Saige, Noose, and some other trusted members behind to keep them safe.
The majority of us are outside, revving up our bikes in a minute.
We ride in a staggered formation the moment we hit the pavement, pushing our bikes to the limit but staying together.