Knuckles (The Carnage MC #3)

1. Prologue

Prologue

Knuckles – Eighteen Years Old

I lock my jaw as I glare at Striker, a brother who always reminded me that I was a mistake. He is ramming into my mother from behind, she is bent over the pool table with her face pressed against it by his hand. He grips her badly dyed, bright blonde hair not giving a shit that I’m in the room.

Fuckers.

I turn away as my uncontrollable anger forces its way to the surface, as it always does. I lean against the club bar and grab my glass, ignoring everyone around me, who are cheering and talking and celebrating this farce of a shit day.

Today is my patching-in party, today I’m supposed to become a brother, taking after my father, Splinter.

I don’t even want to be a brother. I just want to ride until my legs are numb and I’m forced to stop.

I hear my mother scream out in pleasure along with several moans, and I squeeze my glass of water in my fist and grit my teeth so hard, I’m surprised they don’t crack.

Brothers are celebrating me, Cage, Trick, Crusher, Crash, and Bones, all patching in as soon to be officer brothers after completing our year of prospecting. Blaze was already patched in and isn’t here today, though he’s barely here so that isn’t a fucking surprise.

Blaze is Crusher’s biological brother, but we never knew. He never grew up with the club,he lived in a trailer with his mom, who preferred drugs to her son, but we all went to school together, became fast friends, and never put two and two together where he and Crusher were concerned.

We just saw him as a really good friend who we wanted to convince to become a brother, until their dad, Killer, came to a school event to support the club brats, and even though Killer has brown hair and brown eyes, Blaze was his double with his jawline and facial expression, and he instantly recognized him.

It took a while, but with Crusher's determination, he didn’t let Blaze distance himself from us and convinced him to become a brother.

Killer was hoping to gain a relationship with his son, but unfortunately, Blaze wants fuck all to do with his dad and has made it perfectly clear that he is only in the club for his blood brother. Fuck, when everything came to light, when Killer claimed him as his kid, it was a shit show.

His wife refused to speak to him for months, Crusher was angry, and Blaze was a no-show at school for fucking weeks after finding out Killer was told about the pregnancy.

Turns out, Killer told Candice, Blaze’s mom, to get an abortion when she claimed she was pregnant, not believing he was the dad.

At that time, he honestly thought she was lying because of how drugged up she was and to make things worse, his wife, Alice, didn’t know he fucked someone else as a last hurrah before they got married.

He cheated on her and when he had to admit he knocked someone up, that the woman had his kid, she nearly left him.

The only reason she’s still here is because of her kids, and yeah, I said kids because she sees Blaze as hers and wants nothing more than to become a mother figure to him, but he doesn’t want fuck all to do with her either.

Crusher won’t get involved, proving his loyalty to his half-brother, and neither will we brothers.

Blaze had a rough upbringing, like me and Killer and Alice need to move at his pace.

“Fuck yes, Barbie, I love your tight ass,” Striker moans, and I lock my jaw knowing he’s being loud on purpose because I’m obligated to stay in this room and my mom won’t say no to whatever brother wants to fuck her.

She’s a patch-chasing bitch.

She started off at the club as a club bunny, hired to do the dishes, sweep the floors, clean the rooms, and cook, but loves to fuck the brothers on the side. Wearing skimpy clothes and changing her name to ‘Barbie’, she had her eyes on the prize – a brother's property patch.

A patch chaser's dream is to become an old lady, an easy life.

She poked holes in my father’s condoms—my father, who never wanted kids, never wanted an old lady.

When the DNA came back that I was his, instead of claiming her like she wanted and giving her that easy life she had hoped for when she trapped him, he bought her a two-bedroom apartment off club property.

Planned out a custody plan and everything, ruining all her plans.

Weekdays, I was to stay with my mom, weekends, I was at Dad's.

“Yes, yes, yes!” I hear mom scream, and I shake my head as I shove myself away from the bar and storm towards the hallway where the patched brother’s bedrooms are situated, where I’ve just moved into from upstairs, where the prospects and club bunnies stay.

All my life, I have been reminded of what a disappointment I am, that I failed, that I don’t belong at the club, so why in the fuck did they vote me in?

Why in the fuck would they agree for me to sit and hear this shit?

Why not just let me leave?

“Knuckles, you’ve still got an hour!” I hear Striker shout with a laugh, and I try, I really fucking do try to ignore him, but the fucker, he’s the loudest about my existence being unwanted. My father sits back and allows the older generation to put me down, make me feel like an outsider.

His laugh goes through me and fuck, I growl, spin on my heels, and storm toward the pool table. He’s ramming into my unsuspecting mother and smirks, loving that he got to me. His smirk disappears when I grab him by the throat and yank him off my mother.

Every time he’s said shit, I’ve gotten in his face but been pulled back, this time, he’s gotten too fucking cocky.

I hear her gasp as I slam the fucker onto the floor before I grab his shirt, pull my fist back, and punch him in the face.

He grunts, but instead of shoving him back and walking away, I let my anger take control and start ramming my fists into his face again and again, allowing my anger to take over.

The fucker should have remembered why they call me Knuckles. I fucking lost track of how many times my father was called into school because I hit someone or something.

I’m always angry and I can’t control it.

“Fuck,” I hear just as someone tries to pull me back, but I shove them away and continue to rain my fists on the fucker beneath me, who's barely moving.

“Knuckles!” I hear my mom screech as several hands grab my arms and shoulders, yanking me back, holding me firmly when I try to shove them away.

“What the fuck was that?” my father demands, and I scoff, “How about the fucker goading me while fucking my mother!”

“You could lose your patch, son!” he snaps, and I chuckle darkly.

Ah, so the worry wasn’t for me, he doesn’t give a shit that I’ve been traumatized my whole fucking life watching my mother get fucked, from the early age of fucking two by men she brought to the apartment he bought, he’s worried his legacy will fail.

What a shocker.

I get in his face, and I sneer, “Then fucking take it, Splinter!”

He freezes while the room is dead silent as Chain states, “You’ve just got your patch, we’re not taking it. Striker knows just like everyone in this room not to fuck Barbie while you’re present, the fucker had it coming. Barbie, you’re on probation for that shit.”

I hold in my snort while half the brotherhood looks down, knowing they’ve all fucked my mom in front of me. They all see me as the unwanted child that could have been theirs, and want to punish me for it, just like my mother punished me every single fucking day of my life.

“Knuckles?” my mom says quietly, and I glare at her, causing her to take a step back and cover her tits with her arms before I eye everyone looking at me, some with shock, some with disgust. I curl my lip as I look back at my father, whose brows are furrowed.

The image of the small cabinet at the end of the corridor in the apartment comes back to me—a small bucket inside it and I lock my jaw as Striker groans. I spit, “Fuck this shit!” then shove my father aside before shoulder-checking Cage on my way to the door.

“Knuckles!” Cage calls, but I shake my head and continue my trek.

I’d rather sleep on a park bench than stay here.

Kodi – Sixteen Years old

I pull up behind my mom’s white Mercedes that Daddy surprised her with last week, my music blaring from my speakers.

I grin, looking at the paint still staining my hands.

I bob my head to the music, then side-eye the picture I painted in art class last week of the Paris skyline.

That painting just won me four thousand dollars—four freaking thousand dollars—and my grin broadens.

I thought that when I managed to save up for my bright red jeep, which I bought last week after cleaning the local motel every night, it would make me happy, but this… gah…

And to think Dad claimed painting and drawing won’t get me far.

Ha!

I switch off the ignition and go to grab my things, including the check I received, but pause when my phone rings, and I grin even wider knowing exactly who it is.

“Hey, Daddy,” I answer as I sit back in my seat with a smirk.

“You called, sweetheart?” he sighs, and I giggle, I can’t help it.

My dad is a big ass mean police chief, he’s made of stone and likes things his way, and now I get to give him a big fat ‘I told you so’.

“I did,” I confirm, “I wanted to tell you that I came first in that art competition you told me was a waste of time last month.”

He groans, “Kodi, please don’t tell me you called when you know I’m busy with that waste of time competition?”

I can’t even be upset, I mean, when I first told him about it, and that is how he explained it, I was hurt. I didn’t feel like I had his backing as I do with Mom.

“Waste of time, Daddy?” I ask innocently.

“Kodi!” he snaps, and I chuckle.

“So winning four thousand dollars is a waste of time?” I confirm, and he goes quiet for a moment.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” he asks after a few minutes of silence, and I smirk.

“I’m talking about my painting of the Paris skyline with the Eiffel Tower winning me four thousand dollars,” I state, “I even have the check.”

“Holy shit,” he gasps, and I grin wider.