Karma

Chapter 1

Fuck, I am so late.

That mouthy little brat is never going to let me hear the end of this.

It won’t matter to her that I was building the new princess bed she wanted.

No, she’ll just point out the fact that I am always late and then call attention to all my other flaws until she makes me feel worse than all the dates I’ve been on combined.

If you think men can cut you to size, try kids.

God, I fucking love that kid.

Her sister says she gets her attitude from me. I mean, it’s probably true. She has grown up around me, so she’s bound to pick up some of my habits, good or bad.

A sleek black Mercedes cuts me off, pulling into my lane, and I have to swerve my lime-green Kawasaki Ninja so I’m not flattened like a pancake.

Anger courses through me, and I ignore my best friend’s voice in my head, which reminds me to try the breathing exercises she taught me, and speed up, cutting around the car and flipping the older man in the driver’s seat off.

He flips me off in return and purposely swerves again before speeding away.

Oh no, he fucking didn’t.

Did that idiot just try to outrun me? I’m on a fucking bike, moron.

Leaning down, I race after him, speeding through the light that changes to red. I ignore honking cars as I weave through traffic. He is trying to get away, and when he stops at the next light, feeling safe, I skid in front of his car so he can’t drive off, and then I swing my leg over my bike.

Leaving my helmet on, I stalk toward his shiny Mercedes, rapping my gloved knuckles on his window. He ignores me, studiously staring straight ahead, and my annoyance flares higher. I slam my fist into his window and urge him to roll it down.

I could walk away and ignore what happened, but why the fuck should I?

I ask myself WWAMWAD—aka what would a man with audacity do—and I channel the audacity that men seem to carry around with them and slam my fist into his window again. If this mouth breather doesn’t open it, I am going to lose my shit.

“I’m already late, and you are making me later. Have you ever faced the wrath of a ten-year-old before?” I snarl as I slam my fist into his window again. “I’m not fucking around, limp dick. Roll it down and talk to me or I’ll make you.”

His grip tightens on the wheel, the only sign he can hear me. I can sense others in the cars around us, watching, but I ignore them.

“Fine, have it your way. I have a lot of rage to get out today anyway, since my sparring partner didn’t turn up. Lucky you, huh?”

Wandering to the front of his car, I point at his face through the front window. “Last chance to open up and apologize.”

His lips purse ever so slightly, his graying hair catching the sunlight as he leans back in his seat. The light behind us has turned green, but I don’t give a flying fuck.

Slamming my hands into his shiny fucking hood, I glare at him through his front window. His eyes narrow, and his car jerks forward. I leap back to avoid being hit.

“Did you just try to ram me?” I shout.

Oh, fuck no.

I bang my hands down his shiny hood once more and kick at his car as he revs the engine again, ready to come at me.

Sirens cut through the air, and the man slumps in relief.

I chuckle. He thinks that will save him.

I step back and drive my steel-toed boots into his front lights on both sides, smashing them as he shouts from the safety of his locked car.

Picking up a rock, I toss it a few times in my hand, testing the weight before hurling it right at his face.

The windshield cracks as he yelps. The sirens grow louder, so I flip him off once more and climb back on my bike, walking it backwards, then I shoot off into traffic.

My speed increases, and the sirens fade as I cross the bridge into downtown.

By the time I pull up at the venue, I am alone and scot-free.

Even if the idiot comes after me, he’ll get a rude surprise.

Pulling off my helmet, I rest it on my handlebar as I look up at the place and check the address again.

“Who the fuck holds a kid’s party in a bar?” I mutter. “Why the fuck is she letting her come to a kid’s party in a bar?” As I talk to myself, I pull off my gloves and unzip my jacket as I head toward the closed doors.

Pushing inside, I take a moment to look around. I’ve been here before—most in my line of work have. It’s a good meeting place, the type that doesn’t ask too many questions. Just who the fuck is this kid who’s celebrating their birthday anyway? I really should read the calendar.

Luckily, it seems to be closed for the event. There are streamers and banners spread around, and there’s even a cake on one of the back booths where, just last week, I fucked someone’s brains out.

Kids are running around and playing, and horror sparks through me at the sheer volume of tiny people. It’s like a small, annoying army.

“You’re late.” The sharp, commanding voice makes me grin as I search through the crowd.

Lauren stands with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows raised as she taps one foot.

It’s the same fucking pose her sister adopts when she knows I’ve been up to bad shit.

Lauren might not have come from me, but I sure as shit love her like she’s my own, which is shocking since I hate every other child on the planet.

I mean, come on, babies? They all look like fucking aliens.

I’ve never met a cute baby, and everyone always insists on shoving them in your face or showing you pictures, and when you point out that it looks like an alien?

Well, they tend to get a little touchy. And kids?

Annoying little fuckers, just like the one currently running around me, screaming, Lauren, though…

Nah, she’s alright when she isn’t stealing my ice cream.

“Am I?” I say as I wind through the tables. I stop when a kid kicks my ankle and starts to laugh. Frowning down at the snotty boy, I trip the same foot as he goes to run away, and he falls and hits the floor.

“Idiot. Didn’t they teach you not to pick on someone bigger?” I ask as I step over him and head to Lauren, who sighs, looking from the crying kid to me.

“Really, Aunt Bexley?”

I wince. “Shit, kid, why are you full naming me? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And you are late, as always. Taylor won’t be happy,” she warns, narrowing her sassy eyes.

I shrug. “Then let’s not tell your sister.”

“It will cost you,” she retorts.

“Doesn’t it always?” I mutter as I lean down and get in her face. “Fine, what do you want this time, you little blackmailer?”

“Three weeks of doing my chores.” Her smile is slow and evil. Fuck, I taught her well.

“Two,” I counter.

“Two and a half,” she negotiates.

“One,” I offer.

“Bex, that is not how this works.” She sighs like I’m the annoying one.

“Fine, two is my final offer.” I hold out my pinkie.

I watch her fight a smile, and she finally drops her arms and hooks her tiny pinkie around mine, our matching flower nails catching the light. Hers are white and yellow, while mine are black and pink. It was my last blackmail gift, a treat day on me. The little minx drained me dry.

“Deal. Let’s go. I need to get back and finish my homework,” she says.

“Fuck, kid, have some fun. Lighten up!”

“Some of us would like a successful future and to not end up riding around all day on our bike, babysitting a twelve-year-old like a fucking moron,” she derides, arching her eyebrow as if to dare me to argue.

“Honestly, who taught you those words? And you have such an attitude,” I grumble.

“You,” she scoffs.

“Touché.” I ruffle her curly hair and glance at the bar. “Did you get your cake or whatever the fuck you do at these parties?”

“Cake is not good for you.” It is something she’s told me a million times, her eyes tightening at me messing up her perfect schedule.

“Cake is always good for you,” I tell her as I walk backwards. “Wait there, I’ll grab you a slice to go.”

“I won’t eat it!” she yells.

“Then I will!” I wave at her as I round the corner of the bar and step into the kitchen, knowing my way pretty well.

There are two more cakes in here, and I grab a knife and carve the biggest slice I can.

We both know she will see me eat some and want to try it, and if her annoying sister, my best friend, Taylor, is home, well, she’ll eat it too.

Honestly, there are some things that should not be shared.

Cake is one of them.

The things I do for these idiots.

Wrapping it in a handy little bag, I suck the icing from my fingers as I walk back out into the bar, only to freeze. The atmosphere changed in the two minutes I was in the kitchen.

Kids are cowering and hiding, and there are three men in designer suits standing next to Lauren and a little boy who’s about her age. They appear to be protecting her, which is the only reason they are still breathing. Following all the other eyes, I see the problem.

Working their way through the bar are five tatted-up assholes. I scan them, noting the pyramid and spider design on most of their necks, which tells me exactly who they are.

Sucking my fingers clean, I head toward Lauren in the silence and stop next to her, ignoring everyone else. “Are you okay?”

She nods, her wide, scared eyes darting behind me, but she’s holding one arm in the other. Kneeling, I turn to the little boy next to her. “Can you hold this?” I hand him the cake, and he takes it, holding it protectively as I turn back to Lauren and carefully pull her arm away from the other.

She whimpers, and fury fills me, demanding to be let out. Breathing slowly so I don’t scare her, I turn her arm over to see a handprint there that will bruise.

“We will handle this. We apologize for them touching her. We did not see them in time.” The dark, seductive voice comes from one of the suits next to me.