1. Myla
CHAPTER ONE
Ipound on the door to the security room, confident and determined. Folding my arms over my chest, I narrow my brows and wait. Seconds later, the doorknob turns, and I stand face to face with Lucky, the Sergeant at Arms for the Sons of Erebus MC and my twin sister’s boyfriend.
“What’s up, short stuff?” he asks, a grin spreading across his handsome face.
“I need a job.”
His smile falls as he grips my arm and pulls me inside. He pushes me into a chair before shutting the door behind him. I gaze up at the computer screens that monitor every inch of the Honey Pot. I’ve never been on this side of the security feed, and it feels strange. Weeks ago, I was the one dressed in a glittery tank top that dipped low between my breasts and a micro-mini skirt that showed off the rounded swells of my ass, giving my clients a taste before I rocked their world and laughed my way to the bank. Now, it’s the woman who replaced me walking down the hall with a client in tow.
I lose sight of them once they’re past the threshold to the experience rooms since there are no cameras down that way, but I know exactly what will happen. Prostitution was the best job I’ve ever had, and if the thought of being naked in front of a man anytime soon didn’t throw me into a panic attack, I’d still be doing it.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lucky says.
I spin to face him. “Why not?”
“After everything that happened. . .”
I roll my eyes in frustration, ignoring his mention of “everything that happened,” even though the memories of that day consume my thoughts, making it difficult to sleep without being plagued by nightmares. If I told him that the rage inside only grows stronger with each passing day, he would throw me over his shoulder and take me back to the clubhouse where he could keep an eye on me. That’s the last thing I want; it’s bad enough that they’ve enlisted Judge to do a daily welfare check.
“I don’t want my old job back. I want a new one,” I say.
“Like what? Housekeeping or bartending?”
“No.” I turn back to the monitors, my eyes jumping from screen to screen. “I was thinking security, like you.”
His answering cackle boils my blood. “No offense, Squirt, but you’re five feet tall and a hundred pounds. You’re not scaring anyone.”
“No shit, Sherlock, but there’s no reason why I can’t run background checks and watch for problems.”
“You want my job? Take it. It’ll give me more time to dick down your sister.” He grins salaciously.
“Gross.” My lip curls. “Can we please not talk about what you do to my sister? I’m having a hard enough time keeping food down these days.”
Worry takes over his expression, and he sinks into the chair next to me. “I thought you looked thinner. Have you called Danielle yet?”
“I don’t need a fuckin’ shrink,” I sneer. “I need a job. Something to keep me busy.”
“Let’s call Tinleigh. She should be in on this conversation.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, but I tear it from his hand before he can dial.
“Fuck you. I don’t need my sister involved in every decision I make.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He turns sheepish. “If I convince Rigger to give you a job here without telling her, she’ll have my balls in a vice.”
“Pussy.” I hand him his phone back, secretly happy that he’s afraid of my sister. After spending so much of her life in fear of men, she deserves to wear the pants in her relationship.
Lucky stares at the device for a long minute before turning his stormy eyes on me. “I’ll talk to Rigger about giving you some work. In the meantime, you have to promise to tell Tinleigh what you’re up to.”
“Fine.” I stand.
“Can I ask why? I mean, it’s not like you need the money. You should be taking this time to figure out what you want to do with your life, not taking some dumb job.”
He’s right. I don’t need the money. Between what I saved from working at the Honey Pot and the pity money the club kicked me, my expenses are covered for at least the next year. Longer, if I’m careful, but that has nothing to do with this, and since I can’t think of an answer that will appease him, I give him a small amount of honesty. “Being alone with my thoughts isn’t good for me.”
He purses his lips, nodding. “I get that.”
“Besides, after working here for as long as I did, I can recognize things you guys might miss. My spidey senses can spot an asshole from a mile away.” I give him a wink before walking out, shutting the door behind me.
The faint sound of music coming from the bar fills the otherwise-silent hallway. Muscle memory takes me in that direction, but then realization stops me dead in my tracks. There’s nothing there for me anymore. I could go say hi to my old co-workers and friends, but I don’t have the mental or emotional capacity for their pitying looks and concerned questions. They mean well, but I’m sick of being treated like a victim. I just want to have a normal conversation with someone for once. But not even my own sister can give me that these days.
I turn away from the music, away from the people, and straight toward the exit. Wanting to be alone is new for me. Growing up, Tinleigh was the outcast. She was unable to hide her feelings about the church and therefore ostracized. Conflict made me uncomfortable, so I played the role of a dutiful daughter. I was a people pleaser and thrived on the attention that gave me. Now Tinleigh is the one living at the clubhouse, surrounded by people who care about her, and I’m on the outside.
My head is swimming as I walk through the parking lot and slip behind the wheel of the car that I used to be proud to drive. After leaving home at eighteen with nothing, it felt good to walk into a dealership only three years later and pay outright for my black convertible Mini Cooper. How many women can say that?
Now, I feel nothing but fury no matter where I am or what I’m doing, and if I’m not careful to keep my mind busy, I slip into memories and the madness takes over. That’s why I came up with this plan. It gave me something to focus on with a high-value reward, and it’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive. Without it, I don’t know what I’d do.
Step one is to get a job in security, and though it’s not a sure thing, I’m confident the Sons will give me anything I ask for right now. The old me wouldn’t use their sympathy against them, but the new me is taking every advantage I have to accomplish my ultimate goal: vengeance.
Since I can’t work on step two until I’m in that security room, the rest of my day is open, making me anxious as I drive the thirty minutes to my apartment complex. That is until I see a familiar man leaning against his motorcycle parked in the spot next to my designated one. His arms are folded across his chest, his head is tipped down, and his eyes are closed as though he’s taking a nap.
What the hell?
It’s not that I don’t like Judge. Of all the Sons, he’s been the least annoying. However, that might be because he’s quiet and doesn’t offer unwanted opinions. I still don’t want him popping by unannounced, though. Which is why I lay on my horn as I pull into my spot, startling him for a second before a soft smile crosses his lips, making little wrinkles appear in the corners of his eyes.
For an older man, I can’t deny he’s handsome. When I first met him, he kept his light brown hair shorter and slicked back, and his beard was trimmed and tidy. The neatness of his appearance and the clerical collar were comically contradictory to his leather cut. I don’t know what changed, but his hair hasn’t seen a pair of clippers in what appears to be weeks, and his beard is hiding his sharp jawline.
I actually prefer this version of him—it suits him. Not that my opinion means jack-shit to the guy, and I don’t want it to either. I’m twenty-one, almost twenty-two, and I’ve yet to meet a man who hasn’t used and abused me. It’s time I got smart and stayed the hell away from the lot of them.
Judge has my door open before I can even shift into park. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks,” I reply weakly, reaching for my purse. “Your turn to babysit or something?”
“Or something.”
Swinging my legs out of the car, I realize just how short my skirt is and glance up to see Judge’s gaze locked on my bare thighs. Along with my car, my time working at the ranch afforded me the freedom to explore fashion, something I didn’t have growing up in the ultra-conservative household I was born into. So naturally, my wardrobe now consists of everything my parents would hate: short skirts, low-cut tops, and heels so high, my daddy would have a coronary.
I used to love how powerful my new clothes made me feel, as if gaining and keeping a man’s attention was something worth having. Now, I just want to throw them all away and wear things that allow me to blend into the background. Maybe that’s what I’ll do next. I’ll donate my closet and invest in sweats.
I clear my throat and adjust my skirt as I stand. “Well, you can report to your superiors that I’m home and plan to stay that way for the rest of the night.”
“That’s good, but I was hoping for a chat.” He follows me to my building and up three flights of stairs to my front door.
“Chat about what?” I ask, not bothering to block his view as I punch in the lock code. All of the Sons have access to my place, thanks to my sister, who still isn’t convinced I should be living alone so soon after being kidnapped, beaten, and splooged on by a group of dickheads. Oh, and I can’t forget getting thrown out of a moving vehicle.
“Nothin’ in particular. Just had some time and wanted to spend it with you.” He peers down at me through his lashes, looking vulnerable and kind. I’d roll my eyes if I didn’t know this isn’t an act. Judge doesn’t have the ability to lie or manipulate. He’s honest and selfless to a fault, and it fucking infuriates me for reasons I don’t understand.
I sigh as I motion for him to enter. “Come on in then.”
His smile widens, and it’s so pure, my hand itches to smack him. “Thanks.”
I set my keys and purse down on the half-wall that separates the living area from the kitchen. My apartment is nothing special, but it’s clean and in a good neighborhood, two things that were important to me after living in a shit-hole with Tinleigh when we first moved to Reno.
“Whatcha been up to?” Judge asks, making himself comfortable on my sofa.
Walking into the kitchen, I open the fridge and reach for two bottles of water. “I’m just getting back from the ranch.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I had to talk to Lucky about something.” I hand him the water and sit next to him.
“Anything I might be able to help with?”
“I was asking him for a job.”
His brow quirks. “You want your job back at the ranch?”
“No. Something else.”
“You’re really making me work for it, huh?”
I shrug. “Sorry. I just know how the club will react when they find out, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“Thought you knew me well enough to know I form my own opinions.” He unscrews the water bottle and takes a couple of big gulps that have his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. What even is an Adam’s apple anyway, and why is his sexy?
“If I tell you, you have to keep it to yourself. I haven’t even told Tinleigh yet.”
He traces an X over his chest. “Cross my heart.”
“I want to work in security. Not physical security, for obvious reasons. I want to be the one who runs the background checks and watches for problems.”
He studies me in a way that makes me squirm uncomfortably. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he could read my mind. I work hard to convince everyone around me that I’m fine, and I think I pull it off. . . except when I’m with Judge, and I hate him for it.
“Seems like a fun job.”
“I guess. It’s more that I need something to keep me busy. I’m not good at the whole life of leisure thing.” I gaze out the front window that has a view of the parking lot; it’s better than looking into his crystal blue eyes.
He rests his ankle on his opposite knee, sighing. “As a man of leisure, I suggest giving it another shot. Sometimes, the best way to heal your soul is by giving yourself time to breathe.”
From what little information Tinleigh has given me about Judge, he doesn’t have a job. His position with the club is more need-based, something of a spiritual leader. While I doubt it’s easy helping someone struggling with the lifestyle the club leads, I don’t think he’s called on daily or maybe even weekly, which means he also has a lot of time on his hands.
“Is that what you’re doing? Healing your soul?”
“Something like that.”
“You’re really making me work for it, huh?” I repeat his earlier words back to him.
He chuckles, and it’s throaty and deep, the kind of sound that used to make me melt. “My soul is plenty healed, but if I want to keep it that way, I need time to recharge. That way, when shit hits the fan, I’m ready. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I guess. But that’s not me. I don’t do well when I’m not busy.”
“Fair enough. So you get this job, then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to spend your life running social security numbers and staring at a computer screen?”
I shrug. “It’s good enough for Lucky and Rigger.”
“You don’t really think working security is what feeds their souls, do you?”
“What do you mean?” I rub at my temples, feeling a headache coming on.
“Owning the Honey Pot, the Garage, and Dope is important but only because it gives them what they’re really after—freedom, a life where they don’t have to answer to anyone. The businesses are just a means to an end.”
“I don’t know. Bones seems to really love his weed shop.”
He laughs. “I guess you got me there.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what I want. I just need to move forward, and I can’t do that standing still.” I blink, the headache intensifying by the minute.
“You okay?”
“Just a headache.”
“You get those often?” he asks, taking my water from me and setting it on the coffee table.
“No.” It’s a lie. I’ve had one nearly every day since the incident. Bones, who is also a doctor, warned me this might happen given the extent of my concussion. The light streaming in from the windows feels like it’s burning my eyes, so I get up to close them before staggering back to the sofa, resting my head in my hands and massaging my temples.
“Where do you keep your washcloths?”
“What?” The question is so random, and the pain is so severe that I can’t quite think straight.
“Never mind.”
My stomach turns sour as the pain spreads down my neck, making my shoulders tense. Fuck, this one came on fast. Usually I have time to take one of the pain pills Bones prescribed, but the orange bottle is in my room, and I don’t think I can walk that far.
“Sit up and open your mouth, sweetheart,” Judge whispers, and I feel the sofa dip down next to me.
I don’t have the wherewithal to question him, so I do as he says. The bitter taste of a pill hits my tastebuds before I feel a plastic bottle rest on my lower lip. He tips it back, dribbling a small amount of water into my mouth, and I swallow, not caring what he gave me. He could feed me arsenic right now and I’d gladly accept it in the hopes of dying, because surely that would be better than this.
Warm hands rest on my shoulders and guide me backward until I’m lying down, and my hands are gently pulled away from my head, replaced by something cold and damp. God, the cool relief feels good. It feels even better when Judge snakes his fingers into my hair and gently massages my scalp, simultaneously threading my hair between his fingers. I groan at the reprieve. How did he know?
After fifteen minutes, I realize he must’ve given me one of Bones’ pills because the pain begins to subside and drowsiness kicks in, a side effect I’m familiar with. I should tell Judge he can leave before I doze off, but that would mean stopping this massage. That seems like a terrible idea, so I don’t.
I’ll kick him out when I wake up.