Hell of a Ride (Steel Saints MC #2)

Prologue

I stumbled up the stairs blindly, my stomach in my throat and my heart pounding against my rib cage like a wild animal trying to break free.

Swallowing the rising bile, I paused at the top, swaying like I couldn’t feel the ground under me.

My ears were ringing, I couldn’t breathe.

I heard my mother yelling for me, but her voice was distant, like it was traveling through water.

“Holly, baby, wait! Please! Oh, David…what are we going to do now?”

That last bit was directed at my dad, who had remained frozen in front of the TV at the verdict. Not guilty. The words echoed around the room like a curse. How had they found him not guilty?

Almost on autopilot, I made my way down the hall to the trophy room. My mom loved this room. I had too, once upon a time. Now, standing in the doorway, all I felt was horror. Rage. Disgust. I shuddered at the feel of ghost hands on me, taking what wasn’t theirs. Greedy, vile, wrong.

His hands.

Scott Lauren.

I was a child, and I hadn’t been the only one.

A sob broke through, my eyes taking in the endless photos and awards. Pictures of me throughout the years, owning the stage like I’d been born to it. Pretty dresses. Big smiles. Bright hazel eyes. I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know they weren’t so bright anymore.

The last stage I stood on wasn’t for a crown—it was for a courtroom. One hand on a Bible, the other clinging to what little strength I had left. I had felt so embarrassed, so ashamed, despite everyone telling me it wasn’t my fault.

It was never the victim’s fault.

I hated that word. Victim. But I sat there and told the truth anyway.

Not guilty? After what he did?

“This is our home, David!”

“It was our home. How can you sit here and say you want to stay after what that bastard did?”

I tuned them out, and my eyes landed on the Miss Jr High School USA trophy, my last and biggest. Tears blurred my vision, and I was moving towards it before I could even process what I was doing.

I screamed as I threw it at the nearest trophy case with all the strength my sixteen-year-old body possessed.

The glass shattered—sharp and violent, like the pieces of me I couldn’t put back together.

As the whole thing came crashing down, my parents went quiet.

But the silence just made everything worse.

I screamed again as I grabbed another trophy, throwing it at another case.

Glass shredded my bare feet, but I barely noticed.

It was nothing compared to the pain inside.

My father made it up the stairs and to me within minutes, but it felt like years.

By the time he burst into the room, glass carpeted the floor and blood slicked my palms, threaded through my hair, and welled between my toes where I’d stepped without feeling it.

He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me.

I kicked and screamed until my voice was hoarse.

“It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, I’m here. Daddy’s here. It’s ok.”

He didn’t let go, no matter how I thrashed, until finally, I went slack, completely spent.

As I turned and buried my face in his chest, sobs wracking my body, I caught sight of my mother in the doorway, hand over her mouth as she took in the destruction.

Her eyes, just like my own, were wide, and tears left tracks through her carefully applied makeup.

My father ran soothing hands up and down my back, not the least bit bothered by the blood.

I felt him look over at her. “We’re leaving, Ruth.

That’s final. This town has nothing left for us. ”

His tone left no room for argument.