17. Games
GAMES
CUTTER
Swiping my thumb across my chin, I lick my lips, clearing the blood, and take measured steps back until I’m just outside the threshold of her room. Leaning forward, I grip the doorframe.
“Tell me you hate me,” I demand. The plan wasn’t to come to her room and start shit.
But I received her text last night and found myself at the store, buying the fucking lead, curious as hell what she wanted it for.
As soon as I’m in her orbit, her gravity draws me in.
My mind turns blank and all I see is her, consequences be fucking damned.
“Say it, Kit.” I need to hear it. It’s been too long.
“No.” She clasps the door, smoothing out her features.
“But I will tell you this—leave Tim alone. If you fucking touch him, I’ll touch Claire, and we can see how you like playing that game.
” With that, she slams the door in my face, stunning the shit out of me.
But out of everything that just transpired, I’m stuck on one thing: Tim.
I know I have no right. Not when I’m the one who’s married.
And hell, even before that, I never allowed anything more than fucking in secret for fear of Callan finding out and telling me what I already know: I’m not good for her—have nothing to offer her.
It would have ruined my friendship with Callan and my place in the Kings.
I would have been fucked. And now, we have the added complication of my marriage.
But I can’t quit her.
I’ve tried.
She’s soul-deep, woven into the fabric of who I am, burrowed down to my marrow.
She’s fucking mine.
Pushing off the doorframe, I exhale a breath and take off down the corridor. The smell of gasoline mixed with sweat and beer lingers down these halls, no matter how often Diamond cleans them.
I like it.
It’s familiar.
It’s home.
Making my way back toward the bar, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Callan: It’s time.
Fucking great.
Detouring, I head for the garage, finding Callan, Monster, Grease, Green, and Tim already there. My eyes cut to Tim, finding him watching me, his hands clenched at his side.
“Where the fuck did you go?” Callan questions, already mounting his bike parked beside mine.
“To take a piss. That okay with you, Mom?”
“Your mom didn’t look like that when I was fucking her last night,” Green calls out.
“Eat shit, asshole.” I flip him the bird.
“I ate her asshole,” he quips back.
“You want me to come over there and rip your balls off?”
“No, they’re still sore from your mom gurgling them.”
“Grease, do your job and slap that asshole.”
“Enough. They’re waiting for us,” Callan snaps, pulling rank.
“Let’s do this then.” I grab my helmet and slip it on, sweeping my leg over my steel horse and bringing her to life with a gluttonous roar.
Callan pulls out first with me behind. As we pass the others, I kick my leg out and knock Green and his bike over.
Amusement fills my chest as his curses fade behind me.
The roads glisten from the light rain showering down from the sky, the cool breeze feeling much colder once the dampness sets into my clothes.
We drive for a few miles before Callan pulls off down a country road.
Darkness stretches for miles across the open fields, the rumbling of our bikes carrying like thunder through the endless night.
When he slows and pulls off to the side, we all ease behind him, checking our surroundings. Nothing but trees and silence.
Once everyone dismounts, Callan leads us through an opening in the trees to a sliver of a dirt path.
“If a bear attacks, it’s every man for himself,” Monster announces, holding a gun in one hand and a knife in the other.
“Is that what the arsenal is for—a bear?” I ask, entertained. I’d pay to watch Monster take on a bear.
“No. My legs are for the bear.”
I snort. “Grease is fucked then. The chubby asshole nearly fainted the last time he had to run.”
“Fuck you. It was uphill. I’m not built for running.”
“What you built for?” Green inquires.
“Breaking things.”
“Are those in case there’s a serial killer in these woods?
” Tim quirks a brow at Monster. The moon slivers through the trees, highlighting Tim’s features.
He looks fresh-faced, too young, not yet carrying scars from this life.
What lies beneath his shirt tells a different story, though.
We almost have matching knife wounds. Mine wasn’t from a fucking bitch, but an enemy of the club is an enemy of the club, bitch or not.
“You sound as brain damaged as your brother,” Grease scoffs. “It’s extremely unlikely there’s a killer in these woods.” A stick breaks under his foot, making Green jump.
“We’re in here, aren’t we?” Callan quips. That’s multiple killers.
“Grease is right. The odds of there being more than one serial killer in the same location is next to none,” Monster says, his face almost hidden by his beard and the condensed blackness.
“Well, that sounded creepy,” Tim pipes up from beside him. I could shove Monster into him, and that blade would cut through him like butter. Accidents happen all the time.
“I don’t think you count as a serial killer,” Callan informs Monster.
“You’re a hedonistic killer,” I say, my eyes darting to movement in my peripheral. A bird takes flight from a branch.
“If I Google that, am I going to kill you?” Monster stops walking and turns to look at me.
Holding up my hands, a chuckle carries through the trees. “Means you kill for the pleasure of killing.”
“Does anyone get pleasure from killing?” Tim asks, taking a couple steps away from Monster. I grin.
“Yes,” Callan, Monster, and I say in unison.
“How much farther?” Grease puffs out, kicking his boot against a tree to dislodge a clump of mud.
“We’re almost there.” Callan juts his hand out, pointing in a direction that looks like nothingness.
The squelching of damp leaves under our boots joins the chirping of insects filling the silence between conversations.
Dodger’s silhouette comes into view next to a wooden fence.
Getting closer, the sound of a shovel hitting the dirt and sniffling fills my ears.
We reach a black metal gate adorned with a sign reading Pet Cemetery.
“I take it back. That’s the shit that’s creepy.” Tim blows into his palms and rubs them together for warmth. “You ever seen that movie about one of these places?”
“Pussy.” Monster snorts.
“Trust me, what’s buried here stays buried,” Callan informs him.
“Took your time.” Dodger lights a cigarette, the orange tip glowing against the dark backdrop.
Blowing out a cloud of smoke, he waves a hand toward a hole in the ground.
Jennings is waist-deep in a six-by-three grave, a shovel in his hand.
“Keep fucking going. We don’t want animals digging you up,” Dodger orders.
“Please…I’ll pay. You don’t have to kill me,” Jennings begs. Why the hell wait until it gets this far before offering to pay? Just clear your debts, prick. Now it’s too late.
Grease grunts. “Remember when we didn’t dig a hole deep enough for that bent cop in Red Switch Park then got that crazy flooding, and a few days later, reports came in about a body being dug up by wild dogs?”
“Yes.” Dodger shakes his head. “They ate most of him and had to be put down to recover the parts from their stomachs.”
A choked sob rattles Jennings frame. “Don’t kill me. Let me pay.”
“Why didn’t you pay in the first place, you cunt?
” Dodger kicks at the pile of dirt that’s been dug up, sending a mound of mud hurtling toward Jennings eliciting an instinctual flinch when a wet clump hits his cheek and slides down to his chest. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and blood stains down the front, no doubt from the open wound across the bridge of his nose.
“If you kill me, my men will come after your club.” My body tenses at the threat, even knowing how pathetic it is. Jennings is a wannabe gangster. Watched too many movies and had an ego bigger than Monster’s dick.
An amused bark of laughter rings through the air, smashing into Jennings.
Callan moves closer to him. “What fucking men? You have workers, and if you’re not paying us, I doubt you’ve been paying them.
” Dropping to his haunches, Callan leans in and pushes a palm to Jennings face, roughly making him sway backward.
“You have no one. Are no one. We gave you importance by allowing you to buy from us, and now look where you are.”
Standing, Callan turns toward Tim and crooks his finger, summoning him to come to where he is.
“When you’re a Kings of Sin brother, the club comes before all else. The club is life, it’s family, it’s your brotherhood. We protect that at all costs,” he tells him, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I sense Green’s rigid posture without seeing it.
This shit is tense, exciting, and life changing for them both.
Once he becomes one of us, it’s forever.
I’ve never felt such disdain for a brother about to patch in, but I’m a territorial bastard, and this fucker is trying to put his scent on my property.
No one knowing she’s mine is irrelevant. I know. And she fucking knows.
“A brother is willing to bleed for his club. And make others bleed when necessary. Loyalty above all.” Taking a pistol from the back of his jeans, Callan hands it to Tim. “It’s time to show your loyalty.”
Memories of my first kill play out in my head with perfect clarity. A rival club member who came into our territory. I took my time with him, forgoing the gun for a blade instead, earning my road name the same night.
“Wait, wait…” Jennings plea falls on deaf ears.
Bang.
The sharp crack slices through the sky followed by a soft thud as Jennings body falls to the bottom of the grave.
My pulse rings in my ears. For some reason, I didn’t think Tim had it in him. But there wasn’t even hesitation. I don’t have to like him, but he earned my respect tonight.
Slapping him on the back, Callan flashes Green a broad grin then darts his eyes between the rest of us. “You just became a King, brother.”
Music fills every corner of the club. Bodies grind in tune with the beat, moving as one. Pres raises his drink to toast Tim. Fuck, I suppose I can’t call him that anymore. He’s now wearing a leather cut with a brother patch and the road name Wheels. More like a fucking chauffeur.
The proud grin on his face is one I can relate to. Getting that patch feels fucking amazing. It means being part of something bigger than yourself: a brotherhood, a family made of loyalty, friendship, respect. You spill blood to earn that patch. You give your soul to be a fucking King.
I knock back another shot of colorful liquid one of the triplets brought to the table.
It still feels fucking weird thinking of them as that after losing one the night the Devils came for us.
Scanning the crowd of brothers, ol’ ladies, and club sluts for Kitty, I come up empty.
She’s not here. My phone begins bouncing along the table, vibrating.
Snatching it up, a groan passes my lips.
Claire: Where are you?
Me: At the club. Why?
Claire: So am I.
Fuck my life .
Getting to my feet, I shove past Green, who has his tongue down the throat of a redhead, and stumble into the hall.
I’m about to type out a reply when she comes around the corner, her blonde hair pulled up from her neck, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose even though it’s fucking dark out, and wearing skin-tight leather pants and a white blouse with one too many buttons undone.
There’s no denying how fuckable she is—and she knows it—but all I see when I look at her is the burden I’ve been carrying the last four years.
“What the fuck are you doing here…?” The words die on my lips when Rocco appears from behind her legs, his eyes going wide when he sees me.
“Daddy!” he screeches, running at me.
Scooping him up, I kiss his cheek. “Hey, buddy. It’s good to see you.”
Slipping off her sunglasses, Claire blows out an exasperated breath. “Mom has food poisoning.”
“And?”
“She was supposed to have Rocco for a few days. Did you forget I’m going in for surgery tomorrow?” Rocco’s fingers curl in my hair, his head resting on my shoulder.
“No, I remembered. It’s on my calendar.”
“Don’t be a wiseass. You could at least pretend to care. Most husbands give a shit when their wife is getting surgery.”
“You’re going in to have a correction for a scar from your boob job not a kidney transplant.”
Rocco tugs on my hair, a small gasp slipping past his lips. “Look, Daddy.” Turning to see what has his attention, my chest squeezes. Kitty’s feet falter, her eyes expanding, dancing between Claire and me before homing in on Rocco in my arms.
“Are you walking a cat?” Claire asks incredulously. My gaze drops to the lead in her hand.
“I don’t want him getting lost. He’s an indoor cat.”
“That you’re taking for a walk?” Claire’s tone is condescending and mocking.
“You got a problem with that?” Kitty bites back.
“You always have been an odd one, Kitty cat.”
“It’s just fucking Kitty—no cat. You know that yet always add it,” Kitty grinds through clenched teeth, taking a step toward her.
“Can you watch your language in front of our son?” Claire snaps, looking to me for backup.
“Are you kidding? You brought him to a clubhouse.” Kitty scoffs in disbelief. She has a good point. Claire knows I don’t like him here. It’s no place for a kid.
“Cover your ears, Rocco,” Claire instructs, and Rocco holds both hands over his ears.
“You don’t have to be a bitch, Kitty. What have I ever done to you?”
Bending down, Kitty scoops up her cat and takes three calm steps until she’s boot-to-stiletto with Claire. “You know what, Claire?”
Claire folds her arms and cocks a hip out, glaring down at Kitty, and all I can do is watch. Something has gotten into Kit. The energy coming off her crackles against my skin.
“What?” Claire asks confidently.
“Fuck you, that’s what.”