Prologue 2
SAXON
Why I agreed to come out tonight is beyond me.
I’m fucking tired and my head is pounding from the constant bass thumping against my skull.
The club is busy, as it is every night, but the sea of drunken college students fumbling around looking for their next fuck is annoying me more than usual.
While I didn’t want to come out tonight, I also didn’t want my sister and the rest of the girls to be alone without anyone to keep an eye on them.
Yes, my sister is an adult, but she’s also my responsibility.
Even before my father was murdered, I’ve always kept a close watch on her.
Call it the big brother effect, but throw in the fact that she’s involved in one of the biggest motorcycle clubs in the entire state, a.k.a.
my club, that just puts an even bigger target on her head.
It’s exhausting at times. My brain often feels like someone’s taken an egg beater and scrambled it for so long you could crack open my skull like an egg.
Brain matter and sludge would pool out, leaving me empty.
My shoulders are heavy. Heavy with so much responsibility, I silently wish someone would just take me out, let my mind and body finally rest. Then again, how selfish of me to think that way.
So many people need me—my sister, Saint, the boys, the girls, the club.
This whole fucking town sits in the palm of my hand where I have to make sure everything I do is for the benefit of others.
I’ll do this job until the day I die, and no one will ever see the pressure that’s been building since my father died.
No, I’m not a weak man. Weak men aren’t the president of the Kings’ Aces.
Weak men don’t falter or whine about how much shit they have to deal with.
They do their job, protect those that need protecting, and move the fuck on.
I’m no different. My grandfather started this club, and while my father was taken too soon, he left his legacy to me.
I will never disappoint him. I will never do anything to jeopardize this club, but some days I’m just… tired.
Like right now, I’m fucking exhausted. The dim lights of the club make it hard to notice the dark circles beneath my eyes. I bet I could close my eyes right now and pass the fuck out in this booth. Even with the music blaring at max volume, I think I’d sleep peacefully.
I take a long sip of my beer as I watch the dance floor where my sister moves to the beat with her friends without a care in the fucking world.
I’m glad. Seeing my little sister happy is one of the reasons I carry on.
She needs me at my best and deserves the fucking world.
She doesn’t need to see me drown in the chaos that is my head. I’m all she has. She’s all I have.
Finn, Brooks, and Owen are bickering beside the bar about who would win a quarter-mile race with their bike, while Saint lounges beside me doing what he does best—watching.
He’s a guard dog when it comes to protecting our crew, especially the girls, and for that I’m grateful.
If it weren’t for him, I for sure would have crumbled by now.
“Fuck man, I’m ready to call it a night whenever you are,” Saint groans, his tone indicating he’s as annoyed with this place as I am. I’ve been nursing my beer long enough and have no desire to be in a crowd tonight, so I nod in agreement.
“Right, let’s round up the girls. If they give you shit, just tell them they can all come back to the house, and I’ll order them food. That always works.”
He chuckles, standing up and making his way over to Sage and the girls.
I down the rest of my beer, slamming the bottle down on the table and standing up to stretch my arms above my head.
As I maneuver out of the booth, I’m suddenly nudged forward.
Before I can grab the sorry fucker who bumped into me, a familiar voice apologizes.
“I’m so sorry, Sax, excuse me. This floor is a mad house.” I turn to see Van, the owner of the club. Raising my hand, I wave him off.
“No worries, man, I get it.” I rest my hand on his shoulder, but my eyes get caught on a wave of dark chocolaty hair being flipped by a woman I’ve never seen here before.
She’s small, in height and size. She’s thin, maybe even too thin, but she has definition in her shoulders.
Muscles a lot of women don’t have or are too afraid to work out and build in fear of “being bulky.” My eyes roam over her body.
Her demeanor is timid but fierce at the same time.
Her eyes scan the room as if looking for someone, but she stands tall with her shoulders back, feigning confidence.
Her dark jeans and tight tank top that displays the absolute best set of tits I’ve ever seen, has my eyes lingering on her chest like a preteen boy.
This woman is beautiful, and not the stereotypical version of beauty society paints.
Her eyes are a piercing milk-chocolate brown, hypnotizing when the lights shine off them.
And when she looks at me, I’m momentarily lost for words.
“Oh, excuse my rudeness, Saxon. This is Skylar. She’s my new bartender. I’m giving her a quick orientation before she starts next week.” A small delicate hand shoots out towards me, while a bright white smile splays across her face.
“It’s nice to meet you, Saxon.” I shake her hand, peering into her eyes that have me fucking mesmerized.
“Nice to meet you as well,” I say back, loud enough over the music for her to hear.
The air around us shifts in a way that leaves my stomach uneasy.
Like when you walk into a haunted house and feel a cold breeze, the feeling of an evil presence inevitable by the sudden climate change.
As she starts to pull away, I give her hand a tighter squeeze, watching her expression as her smile falls, her eyes hardening as she holds my gaze. A challenge.
“Right, well, we best be off. We have a lot more to see before the night is over. Good to see you, Saxon.” Van breaks the tension of the awkward interaction, so I finally drop her hand.
Van leads her to the side bar. I watch her as she leaves, taking in the sight of her plump ass swaying with every step.
She must feel my eyes because she looks over her should at me.
That’s when I see it. The mark, the brand, the unmistakable H marking that all Hellstorms receive.
Just below her ear, the mark is prominent, burned deep into her skin, leaving a scar with sharp edges.
She’s a Hellstorm. A member of my most rival club.
The nemesis, the enemy. What in the fuck is she doing here?
In my territory, in my town. This won’t do.
She can’t be here, nor will I allow her to walk freely without some type of retaliation.
This is my town, and no fucking Hellstorm is going to bring harm to my family and my club. Not while I’m Saxon fucking Wilder.