Enemy (Vulture Hollow MC #1)

Chapter 1

Road

If God appeared before me and asked if I had one wish, I would have the answer at the tip of my tongue. There’s nothing I want more than for all the members of the Hell’s Butchers MC to fall into the abyss and burn for all eternity while demons stab them with hot pokers. It wouldn’t make up for all the shit they’ve pulled over the years, but it would be a start.

I’ve never wanted it as much as when a bullet swishes right by my ear.

The top of my shit list, now that his cunt of a brother is dead—Clyde fucking Turner. It’s his head I imagine aiming at when I stand up and rain bullets from the assault rifle. I lose balance when something collides with the side of my chest, knocking me back, but those fuckers can’t stop me. And neither can my prez when he grabs my belt and attempts to tug me back behind the barricade of cement bags.

I only let him once my magazine runs empty.

“The fuck did I say about throwing yourself into the fire, huh?” Prophet shouts, glaring at me from under his thick brows. Eye twitching, his gaze focuses on my T-shirt, and he tugs on his dark beard in a gesture I know painfully well. He’s nervous. What about?

Creep, our spy/sniper peeks past the tarp covering the bags, but the moment his greasy dark hair looms above it, bullets hit the steel wall of our warehouse. With a scowl twisting his sharp features, he rolls onto the concrete and reaches to the box of ammo. My blood runs cold when I see he’s grabbing the last magazine.

Fucking hell.

“You’re hit,” Prophet says loud enough I can hear him over the roar of shooting. My gaze follows his, all the way to a red splat spreading over the torn white top and staining the name of our club, Vulture Hollow MC.

Well, shit.

“I’m fine,” I say despite my limbs suddenly feeling numb. Won’t be the first scar on my body. I lift the top to get a better look. “Didn’t even fuck up my ink.”

Prophet shakes his head with a level glare. “Just try not to die, hm?”

But when another bullet strikes our barricade, I can’t wait around. We’ve got more ammo in the building, and when I’m back with it, who knows, maybe I’ll get to kill another Butcher.

“You wish you could get rid of me this easily. I’m fucking immortal,” I say and leave the rifle as I gravitate toward the door leading into the warehouse.

When I reach the edge of our wall of cement bags, I get on all fours and hope for the best. My undignified dash for the building doesn’t take long, and while someone shoots, I’m fast and roll inside. There’s thirteen of us here, and only Katze is out of commission, so I hope they can stand their ground before I’m back with supplies.

The walls dull some of the noise coming from outside, but as I stretch to dash between the pallets of supplies, the world swings, and I have to lean against a support beam as my vision blurs. I don’t think I’m bleeding out yet, but I need to be more cautious about my movements until this fuckery is over.

Only two lamps illuminate the entire building, but they provide enough light for me to cross the maze of cargo— The sight before me knocks air out of my chest more effectively than the bullet had.

Clyde Turner scoots by one of the beams supporting the roof above our heads. He might be facing away, but I would have recognized the pale braid hanging down his back, and that round ass, anywhere. There’s no one in the world I hate more.

The shootout outside muffles the noise I make dashing toward him with an action movie soundtrack pumping in my skull. I could slit his throat from behind, or stab him, but what would be the fun in that ?

His hair feels silky in my hand when I twist it around my wrist and drag him away from—

“Is that a fucking bomb?” I utter, staring at the device attached to the pillar with reinforced tape.

Clyde yelps at the tug on his hair (one reason I have a buzz cut). “The fuck?”

I’ve not seen him from this close in a while, but his ice blue eyes are like I remembered—cold, condescending, and filled with hate. For me, for my club, and most likely, for the whole world. I’m not surprised he has a scar over one of those baby blues, from forehead to cheek, because I’d gladly pluck them out for staring at me like I’m dirt under his boot.

I’m so taken by his proximity, that I don’t block the elbow coming my way fast enough, and it strikes me in the fresh wound.

I’ve been able to ignore the pain so far, but the vicious blow feels like a kick in the nuts, and I’m on the verge of puking. A part of me wonders why the fucker isn’t launching an attack on me yet, but then a beep cuts through the noise, followed by the soft ticking of a clock.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

I look up in time to see him pull a gun on me. Clyde is fast and agile like a wild cat, but I am faster . And stronger. Anything he can do, I can do better.

I grab a hammer resting on the floor and toss it at him. Clyde blinks, trying to protect himself from the flying object with his arm, and he hisses when the tool smashes into his hand, knocking out the gun.

I’m on the move before he can gather his wits.

Just as I’m about to reach for the gun, he crashes into me from the side. He might be a little shorter than me, but with the added speed, he’s like a bulldozer. We hit the floor and I don’t waste any time before punching him like he’s my new training bag.

I can take this fucker, all right, but the ticking in the background is messing with my head. How much time do we have? Thirty seconds? Sixty? Five minutes? Who the fuck knows?

I kick at his legs and grin when he stiffens in my grasp, offering me the opportunity to slam my fist into the side of his head again. He loses balance, and when his braid falls across my face, I’m sensing smoke, and whiskey, and all that nice, masculine shit. I got a whiff of him when we got in a fight last year, and it’s been on my mind in all types of unwanted ways. But the scent of his hair won’t stop me from covering him in a layer of bruises.

At the next punch I try to land, he grabs my arm and rolls us around with strength I wasn’t expecting. All of a sudden, Clyde’s on top of me, ass squarely on my hips, and I only get one glance at his scowl before he slams me in the face.

“Which one of you fuckers killed my brother?” he yells, leaning down.

That would be me. But why would I let him in on all my secrets before I buy him dinner?

The ticking in the background pulls me right back to reality, and I spit out blood gathering under my sore lips. “If I die, so do you, you fucking idiot!” I say gesturing in the vague direction of the bomb.

Clyde grabs the front of my bloodstained T-shirt and leans down so close I can almost feel his stubble against my skin. He doesn’t even blink as he stares into my eyes with a promise of painful death. “My club will avenge me, and at least you’ll be fucking dead.”

Wow. What did I ever do to him personally? Well, besides shoving a hook under his brother’s ribs and hauling him up with a building crane, but he doesn’t know that was me.

There might also be the fights we’ve had over the years, broken fingers, bikes set on fire…

“You’re fucked in the head,” I say, but when he shifts over me and tightens his thick fingers on my throat, cutting off my air, the storm raging in his gaze sends an unwanted shiver down my back. Clyde Turner might be a maniac, but he is a hot maniac, I can give him that .

When the edges of my vision start to fade, I reach for the knife attached to my hip and stab it into his side.

He cries out and falls over, eyes filled with so much vulnerability, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Motherfucker!” Clyde screams and kicks me, but then it all ends.

The explosion is deafening, my vision goes white, and time stops.

All I know is the ache in my head, in my back, my face. Even opening my eyes feels like too much effort, so I lie prone, engulfed in heat and a dull ringing I can’t seem to shake off. A grunt is what finally makes me open my eyes, and the view above leaves me confused. The ceiling of the warehouse has caved in, most of the pillar that supported its weight missing. I cannot see fire, but smoke is rising above me, and the pale steel making up the building is lit up with the warm glow of flames.

That’s when memories flood back.

The shootout. Fighting Clyde Turner. The bo—the fucking bomb must have gone off.

I attempt to sit up, but it’s like trying to crawl out from under a fallen motorcycle when near-blackout drunk, and I fall back, staring at the slab of metal resting on top of me. That explains why I feel so damn wasted.

The side of my face aches so bad I don’t dare touch it, but something’s dripping down my ear. Once more, I try to push up the slab of metal, but the effort only aggravates the wound in my side, making me dizzy with pain.

I have to catch my breath or I might puke.

I lay there for a while with a sinking feeling in my gut.

I’m gonna die here. I can’t feel my leg, fire is eating away at the building, and fuck knows what other wounds I’ve got, because I’m half-numb. Maybe it’s brain damage? A broken spine?

A cough to my side makes me turn my head. First, I spot the gun covered with dust, then fingers inching toward it, but no matter how much Clyde extends them, he can’t reach the weapon. Stupid fuck. Like I’m not dead already. At this point, shooting me would be mercy.

His face is covered with a layer of dust so dense that I only spot him under all the rubble when a flash of red blood comes out of his mouth with another cough.

And yet, somehow, he still manages to look hot. Damn him. Waste of a handsome man.

“Can you move?” I ask, surprised by the strained note in my own voice.

His blue eyes are bloodshot when he turns them to me with the fury I would have deserved if I had been the one to set up the bomb. “What’s it… fucking look like?” he utters, then tries to spit at me, but his red saliva doesn’t go far.

Clyde’s breathing is ragged, and I can just about imagine his lungs filling with blood. It’s not as satisfying as I imagined his death would be. Actually, the whole thing is a giant disappointment. I imagined myself bleeding out after someone stabbed me to death, or after getting half my face shot off, not in a burning building, trapped like a bug under someone’s thumb.

Life always had a way of surprising me in the worst ways imaginable .

“How long till you die?” I ask, because neither of us can move, and quietly waiting for death would be damn awkward. Maybe at least I can agitate him for a while longer.

“Will you… shut… up?” he rasps.

He’s trying to push a chunk of the ceiling off himself, but just like with the slab of metal on top of me, it’s no use. Not only is it too heavy, but we’re both also bleeding out and weak like two rabbits caught in the same snare.

Eventually, he huffs and lets his head fall back to the floor. We’re dying here. He knows it too.

“Help! Here!” Clyde tries when we hear some noise far away, but no one’s coming. And, of course no one would. The guys have no equipment, and this damn place can collapse at any moment. I don’t know if even I would have stormed into a place like this for one of my brothers.

No, I would. Of course I would. There’s a reason they all consider me reckless. But, hey, why not let them know we’re still breathing in here? If Clyde Turner can still scream after the battering he got during the explosion, I can’t do any worse, so I fill my lungs with air and sing, folding my hands into a tube around my mouth.

I remember a sea shanty from my childhood. Its hero isn’t afraid to die in the waves, and if I tune into it hard enough, maybe the anxiety burning at the pit of my stomach will disperse. Predictably, Clyde doesn’t join me.

Time passes, bleeding out of us, and despite wanting to be a nuisance, I give Clyde the peace he asked for. I don’t stop watching him though, not when he’s the only pretty thing in this warehouse full of fire and smoke. The light from the fire raging somewhere nearby gives his eyes an otherworldly glow, and he looks more sad than angry.

Eventually, he turns his head to me with a sigh. “Anything you wish you did before dying?” Clyde asks. This must be him giving in to fate. Welcome to the club.

I glare down my body, at the fragment of the pillar, which keeps me squashed in place and my breathing shallow. Only a miracle can save us at this point, and I’ve never believed in those.

I glance his way, wondering what the purpose of that question is. Neither of us ever cared for the other, and I split his pretty lips on the very night his club accepted him as a prospect. I even caught a glimpse of his dick at the urinals before the mayhem started, and it’s a memory I still return to at times, ten years later.

I meet his gaze, still hungry for his acknowledgement. Too bad he’s such a bastard .

“I—” I start, stalling when true interest passes over his face like the shadow of a fox, and my heart skips a beat. It’s so embarrassing that his attention is all I ever wanted. I’m almost thirty, for fuck’s sake. A part of me wants to make him uncomfortable, to make him regret his club came here to harass us, but halfway through the first syllable, my voice turns sincere, because I’ve lived a lie, and he won’t get to out me anyway. We’re both dying here, so why the hell would I take my secret to the grave?

“I wish I’d fucked you.”

Ah, just saying that gives me a thrill.

His club is even more homophobic than mine, so I expect a barrage of insults. Maybe he'll even manage to spit on me this time. But if I’m dying, I might as well go out with a bang. Who knows when the rest of the ceiling will collapse?

Clyde doesn’t speak. His eyes widen, his ragged breath gets louder, and he stares at me for a while.

“I would have let you,” he whispers, but even with the metal creaking in the wind and the fire making another piece of wood nearby crumble, I hear him loud and clear.

It’s hard to believe I’m not imagining things.

“You—” I trail off, breathless, and all of a sudden I want to feel the warmth of his skin, the smell of his hair against my face. I reach out, straining my aching body, until I inevitably reach the point where the weight on my lower body keeps me away from him. He extends his hand too. Almost shyly. Not for the gun anymore, but for my fingers.

Before we can touch, a high-pitched screech above makes us both look up in time to see falling debris.

And then I’m gone.