Chapter Four #2
Stupid enough to think that love was something other than a weapon men used to control you.
A leash disguised as affection. A cage painted to look like home.
Each time he tightened his grip, I rationalized it, telling myself it was for my own good, that he just loved me too much.
I even found myself defending him to myself, a frantic internal battle to justify his actions, to prove to myself that I wasn’t making a mistake.
The guilt of wanting more, of needing freedom, warred with the desire to be the woman he wanted me to be, the woman he claimed to love.
By the time I realized what Michael really was, an abusive son of a bitch who saw women as property to be trained and molded for his sexual perversions, I was already trapped.
Dancing at the club six nights a week under a stage name he had chosen for me, a name that felt like a costume I could never take off.
Living in a cramped apartment he paid for, where he had a key and I didn’t have any privacy, the walls closing in on me with every passing day.
Wearing bruises he had put there with his fists and his words and his relentless need to own every part of me, to remake me into something that existed solely for his pleasure.
Each new mark, each new humiliation, chipped away at something inside me, leaving me with a hollow ache and a growing, simmering rage that I was terrified to unleash.
I hated myself for letting it get this far, for not fighting back sooner, for being so easily broken.
So I had done what any smart woman would do.
I stole everything from him.
Seventy-five million dollars he had hidden in offshore accounts and laundered through shell corporations, and I took it all.
Every. Fucking. Dollar.
And then I disappeared.
The backpack sitting between my shoulder blades felt heavier than it should. Inside, wrapped in a waterproof bag, was a single USB drive. On that drive was the account information for every dollar I had stolen. Passwords. Routing numbers. Access codes. My insurance policy. My ticket to a new life.
If I could survive long enough to use it.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew eventually Michael and whoever the money really belonged to would come looking for me, but I made damn sure to leave enough of a trail that they would find him first and buy me time to run.
But eventually, they would figure out it wasn’t Michael who had taken the money.
Eventually, they would come looking for the girl who had been working at the Pussycat.
The girl who called herself Medusa.
A girl who no longer existed.
I needed to disappear. Completely. New identity, new life, new everything. But that took time and planning and resources I didn’t have yet. So I came back to the one place I swore I would never return to.
Home.
The word still tasted like ash.
I twisted the throttle, my Ducati’s engine growling in response, and started down the gravel drive.
Rocks crunched under my tires. The sun caught the chrome of the bikes in the parking area, throwing light in a thousand directions.
As I got closer, I could see figures on the porch.
Men in cuts, their patches identifying them as Gods.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
What the fuck was I doing here?
I pulled into the parking area, finding a spot near the edge, away from the cluster of Harleys that dominated the space. My Ducati looked out of place among the American iron, sleek and foreign and wrong. Story of my life.
I killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.
On the porch, the men had stopped talking.
The conversation that had been flowing just moments before, probably about bikes, territory, or club business, had died mid-sentence.
They were watching me now, their attention laser-focused on the unexpected arrival.
I could feel their eyes boring into me, assessing, calculating, trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted.
A woman on a Ducati pulling up to the clubhouse unannounced, alone, no escort, no explanation.
That was either very brave or very stupid.
Maybe both.
I pulled off my helmet slowly, deliberately, shaking out my hair.
It had grown longer in the years I had been gone, dark black waves that fell well past my ass now instead of the shorter cut I usually wore because Michael preferred my hair long.
I had dyed it black in Rapid City, after he told me how beautiful I would look with darker hair.
It was starting to fade now, though, the cheap box dye giving way to reality, showing my natural blonde color at the roots.
The urge to touch it up rode me hard, but I tamped it down.
One of the men on the porch stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden planks.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that commanded attention without trying, without saying a word.
The kind of man who walked into a room and everyone instinctively knew he was in charge.
Even from this distance, even after all these years, I recognized him immediately.
Kane Cooper. Zeus. President of the Gods of Mayhem.
He’d been VP when I left, second-in-command but always seeming like he should have been first. His father, Kronos, had been president long before I was even a twinkle in my father’s eyes.
One of the founding members of the club back when it was just a group of like-minded men looking for brotherhood.
But Kronos had recently died in the biker war back in Nebraska last week, caught in the crossfire during a battle between the Silver Shadows and the Death Dogs.
Oscar had told me about it in one of the rare phone calls I actually answered, his voice heavy with grief and anger.
Zeus descended the porch steps, his boots heavy on the wood, each footfall deliberate and measured.
He moved with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the most dangerous man in any room.
Hell, probably the most dangerous man in the entire county.
His cut hung perfectly on his shoulders, worn leather molded to his frame like a second skin, the president’s patch gleaming in the fading sunlight.
The fabric was weathered and cracked in places, evidence of years on the road and countless miles logged.
Behind him, other men emerged from the clubhouse, drawn by the sound of my bike or maybe just Zeus’ presence on the porch.
The door kept swinging open, spitting out more leather-clad figures.
Brock Davis—Hades, the VP. He was lean and wiry, with sharp features and eyes that missed nothing.
Malachi Stevens—Atlas, the sergeant at arms. A mountain of a man with dark hair shaved close on both sides and knuckles that looked like they had been broken and healed more times than I could count.
And there, coming through the door with a beer in his hand and a scowl on his face that could curdle milk, was my brother.
Oscar Jones. Poseidon.
He was bigger than I remembered, and I thought he was huge four years ago.
Six-foot-four, built like a brick shithouse, with arms covered in tattoos that told stories I would probably never hear.
Sleeves of ink crawled up from his wrists to disappear under the edges of his cut, only to peek out again as they climbed up his neck.
His face looked as if it had been carved from granite by someone who specialized in hard angles and harsh lines.
His dark hair was longer now, pulled back in a knot at the base of his skull in a style I never would have imagined on him when we were kids.
His beard was thick and dark, shot through with streaks of gray that hadn’t been there four years ago, making him look older, harder, more weathered by whatever life he’d been living.
His eyes locked on mine, and I watched the recognition hit him like a physical blow.
“Alex?” His voice carried across the parking area, rough and disbelieving.
I swung my leg over my Ducati and stood on shaky legs. My leather jacket suddenly felt too tight, too hot. I wanted to run. I wanted to climb back on my bike and disappear into the Texas sunset and never look back.
But I had nowhere else to go.
“Hey, Oscar.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Miss me?”
He moved before I finished speaking, crossing the distance between us in long, ground-eating strides.
For a moment, I thought he was going to yell at me.
Demand to know where I had been, why I hadn’t called, why I stayed away so long.
Instead, he grabbed me and pulled me into a hug that knocked the breath out of my lungs.
“Jesus Christ, Alex.” His voice was muffled against my hair. “Four fucking years. About fucking time you came home.”
I stood there, frozen, my arms pinned to my sides by his grip. The backpack pressed against my spine, and the USB drive inside suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and I wasn’t sure if I was apologizing for leaving or for coming back.
Oscar pulled back, his hands gripping my shoulders, as his eyes searched my face. “You look like shit.”
“And you look old.”
He barked out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Around.” I tried to keep my voice light, casual. “Seeing the world. Living the dream.”
“Bullshit.” His grip tightened. “What happened?”
Behind him, Zeus and the others had gathered, forming a loose semicircle around us.
I could feel their eyes on me, assessing, judging.
The prodigal daughter returned. The little girl who had grown up in the clubhouse, who had left without a word, who had come back looking like she had been through hell.
They weren’t wrong.
“I need a place to crash for a few days,” I admitted, meeting Oscar’s eyes. “Just until I figure some things out.”
“What things?”
“Oscar.”
“What. Things.” His voice had gone hard, that enforcer tone that meant he wasn’t going to let this go.
I glanced at Zeus, at the other men watching us. “Can we talk about this inside? Please?”
Oscar’s jaw clenched. I could see the war happening behind his eyes, the brother who had missed me fighting with the enforcer who smelled trouble. Finally, he nodded once, sharp and decisive.
“Inside. Now.” He looked at Zeus. “Prez?”
Zeus studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “Church. Ten minutes.”
My stomach dropped. Church. That meant the full officer table would weigh in on whether I was welcome here or not. That meant questions I couldn’t answer without putting everyone in danger.
“Zeus, I’m not asking for club business,” I blurted. “I just need a place to stay. A few days, that’s all.”
“You’re Poseidon’s sister,” Zeus said, his voice calm and measured. “That makes you club business. Church. Ten minutes.” He turned and walked back toward the clubhouse, the other officers falling in behind him. Oscar’s hand was still on my shoulder, his grip tight enough to bruise.
“What did you do now, Alex?” he asked quietly.
I looked up at my brother, at the man who raised me, who tried to protect me from a world that didn’t give a shit about protection. I thought about the money in my backpack. I thought about the trail I left and the lies I was going to have to tell to keep everyone safe.
“I followed my heart instead of my head,” I said. “And it turned out to be a really fucking bad idea.”
Oscar’s expression softened, just for a moment. Then the enforcer was back, hard and unyielding. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
He steered me toward the clubhouse, his hand never leaving my shoulder. As we climbed the porch steps. I caught sight of my reflection in one of the windows. I looked exactly like what I was. A woman on the run, desperate and dangerous and one wrong move away from getting everyone she loved killed.
Welcome home, Alex.