Caged Hunger (Bikers of Mayhem #5)

Prologue

BASHER

Blood exploded from the boy’s nose as Basher’s fist connected with its intended target.

The sound of cartilage collapsing under his knuckles settled something in him—quiet, brutal, and utterly merciless.

There was something wrong with him—and Basher knew it. A kid his age shouldn’t get so much pleasure out of brutally beating one of his classmates.

But why should he feel guilty? Fuck this douchebag and all his friends.

Basher couldn’t help but smile, watching the boy stumble back as he clutched his nose and cried out in pain.

Wimp.

“Ow! My fucking nose! I think you broke it!” Chad Michleson cried, glaring at him through wet eyes and a shattered ego.

The asshole thought he was funny, mocking him for stumbling over the chapter their teacher had asked him to read aloud.

Perhaps now, Chad would think twice before opening his fat mouth and causing all the other students to laugh and make fun of him, calling him stupid and a hillbilly moron.

He might act all tough and mean, but deep down, Basher was the same as any other red-blooded child—scared… insecure… and looking for validation.

Kids could be so mean.

At fifteen, being cool in high school was all that mattered to kids.

If you didn’t support and worship the school bullies, you became one of their targets.

That was why so many kids laughed. Not because they thought Chad was funny, but because they were all afraid that if they didn’t, Chad might turn his attention to them.

But Basher didn’t care.

He’d spent his whole life being told that he was worthless and an idiot, and that no one in their right mind would ever want him as a son.

That was one of the reasons he kept getting thrown from foster home to foster home. Every new family welcomed him in with promises of a better life, only to turn their backs on him the moment they realized he was dumb and aggressive—a pit bull trapped inside a fifteen-year-old’s body.

But Basher didn’t care.

He didn’t need any of them.

Pretty soon, he would be old enough to move out on his own and not have to listen to all the bullshit and lies.

Adults were the worst.

They spent their lives spoon-feeding kids false hope and empty lies—telling them they were “special” and they could achieve anything in life… as long as they worked hard enough.

Lies.

All lies.

Life was a series of torturous events meant to beat people down until there was nothing left of their souls or minds.

It was only after the person was beaten into submission that they finally understood their place in life.

The one truth Basher had learned early—far earlier than any child ever should—was that everyone is alone. No one gives a damn about anyone but themselves. In this cruel, unforgiving world, survival belongs to those willing to seize control and force the world to bend to their will.

Like this very moment.

Basher was in the process of teaching Chad a valuable lesson—if you make fun of someone, don’t be surprised if they break your fuckin’ nose.

“Maybe now you’ll think twice before opening that stupid mouth of yours,” Basher growled, bending down and snatching up his backpack. He threw it over his shoulder, then turned and left the school yard.

All the kids quickly moved aside, making way as he stomped past.

He ignored the whispers and hushed comments.

Some called him an animal, while others called him a psychopath—proof that even his own parents couldn’t love him. After all, they were the ones who gave him away.

Well, the joke was on them. His parents hadn’t given him away. His father had been MIA since the moment his mama told him she was pregnant, and the police were the ones who took Basher from his mother after finding her passed out with a needle in her arm… one too many times.

A court would only allow a person so many second chances before deeming them unfit to be a parent.

So fuck all his classmates and their snide little comments.

He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone.

Later that night, there was a knock on his foster parents’ door. Basher opened it, then lowered his gaze as he let in the one person he hoped he would never see again.

Mrs. Kendle.

If she was here, that only meant one thing.

Basher headed back to his bedroom and began packing his things. He didn’t have much, so he put it all into one large duffel bag.

“We just can’t. He’s too aggressive and hard to handle. He got into another fight at school today, and we can’t have that kind of violence in our home any longer,” his foster mom said.

The truth was that she had already checked out three months earlier. This was just the excuse she needed. Something to point the finger at and claim it wasn’t their fault.

He had been living with the Millers for the past six months, but by the second month, he already knew it wasn’t going to work out.

It never did.

Nobody wanted someone like him living under their roof.

He was angry and aggressive and enjoyed solving problems with his fists—or a bat. That was how he got the name “Basher.” Over time, the nickname kind of stuck.

“I totally understand,” Mrs. Kendle responded, reaching out to Basher as he walked past his foster parents without saying goodbye.

What was the point? They weren’t going to miss him or even remember his name.

That was the story of his life.

A few months in a foster home. A few months in another new school.

And people wondered why he wasn’t able to learn anything.