Life Or Death

Prologue

JESS

Counting has always been a quirk of mine.

It started when I was young as a defense mechanism.

I’d lock myself in the closet and put my hands over my ears to muffle out the vulgar noises coming from my parents’ bedroom, but it didn’t block out the sounds of my mother’s theatrical moans or the grunts of the men who were railing her into the mattress as the headboard knocked relentlessly against the paper-thin wall connecting their room to mine.

She moaned ten times. The mattress squealed five times.

The headboard knocked fifteen times.

Six minutes and thirty-four seconds later, our trailer grew silent.

The door creaked open once. It was another man’s turn to pay my dad for a round with my mom.

And just like that, the count reset.

Man after man.

Night after night.

These days, I count money, drinks, the number of seconds until my shift ends, and tonight, much to my irritation, I find myself counting the number of empty chairs surrounding the Fallen Demons’ table.

My gaze zeroes in on the seat at the head of the table, the one usually claimed by the president of the club.

I hate that I know it’s his seat, but the thing I hate most is that he’s not occupying it.

Scratch that—I think the thing I hate most is that I am hyperaware that he’s not occupying it.

I keep staring between that God-forsaken chair and the front door, waiting for him to make an appearance.

For those wicked and mysterious eyes of his to track my every move as I move around the bar.

I miss the heat of his stare, which is crazy because since I started working here, I can count on one hand how many interactions we’ve had.

He never lets me serve him. Hell, the man rarely even speaks to me.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve personally offended him simply by existing, and yet he continues to watch me, and I eat it up like the attention-starved woman I am.

Maybe I’m more like my mother than I care to admit.

We can run from our demons, but we never truly hide from them, and only the strongest of the strong break the generational curses set before us.

“Earth to Jess.” Amelia waves her hand in front of my face. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that wall for like five minutes.”

Fuck.

Snapping out of it, I force a smile. “Sorry, I’m just tired.”

“I hear you on that,” she says, dragging her fingers through her long brown hair as she eyes the crowd.

Since her boyfriend, Maddox, the hot rancher-slash-owner of Meadows Ranch, fixed the mechanical bull one of his ranch hands broke, this place has been nonstop.

Even now, with less than half an hour before last call, there is a line to ride the bull, and there is still a good amount of people milling around the dance floor, two-stepping to Jason Aldean’s latest hit that blares from the jukebox.

“Think we’ll be alright with one register for the rest of the night?” Amelia asks.

My eyes do another quick sweep of the bar before I bring my gaze back to her. “Mostly everyone’s glasses are full. I think we’ll be fine.”

She nods in agreement. “Okay, then I’m going to go into the office and close out the back register. Holler if you need me.”

I nod, and she takes the drawer from the register before heading toward the office and disappearing down the hallway.

My gaze flits to Lucifer’s empty chair again.

I don’t know why his absence bothers me so much tonight.

There’s been plenty of nights I’ve worked where he hasn’t shown his face, and never once did I wonder if it was duty or a woman that kept him away from the bar, but tonight I can’t stop myself, and I’m guessing that’s because the last time he was here, there was a group of women hanging all over him and his brothers.

The sight enraged me something fierce, and I refuse to let myself go there again. The man screams sex and sin. He probably has a rotation of women at his beck and call. I’ve got no business letting him invade my thoughts, and I sure as hell shouldn’t be wondering where his dick is.

I make my way out from behind the bar and head for the mechanical bull, deciding it’s time to break up the party. The sooner we clear this place, the sooner I get to go home where there are no empty chairs reserved for bikers.

“Alright, guys, the bull needs a rest,” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth so my voice travels over the sound of the music.

My gaze locks on the girl standing at the front of the line with the bedazzled cowboy hat that sits crooked on top of her head.

She’s three sheets to the wind and can barely stand upright.

There’s no way she’s balancing that bull for more than five seconds. “You’re the last one for the night.”

Her friend falls onto the padded mats unceremoniously, and blinged-out Barbie, tries to help her up, but the friend takes her down, and they bust out into a fit of giggles.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes at them.

Instead, I just stare as they roll around on the mats.

When it’s clear neither one of them can stand on their own, I make my way toward them and try to help them to their feet.

I crouch down beside the bull and hold out my hand for blinged-out Barbie when the sound of glass shattering stops me dead in my tracks. I turn my head in the direction of the sound, and my eyes go wide when I realize it’s the front window that’s shattered.

For a moment, I think someone’s thrown a rock. Then I see the flaming bottle arcing through the air, trailing fire like a comet. It lands in the middle of the dance floor, and rolls across the wood, trailing fire in its wake.

The fire erupts instantly, spreading across the wooden floor with terrifying speed.

The flames lick at the walls, climbing toward the ceiling like hungry demons.

I stand frozen, counting the seconds as the blaze consumes everything in its path.

One. Two. Three. The heat hits me in waves, making my skin prickle with fear.

“Fire!” someone screams, but the word barely registers through the fog of panic clouding my mind.

The drunk girls beside me scramble to their feet, their earlier giggles replaced by terrified shrieks. They grab onto the base of the mechanical bull, using it to pull themselves up. Their weight shifts the heavy machine.

“No—don’t—” I try to warn them, but it’s too late.

The bull tilts, then topples with a metallic groan. I try to leap away, but my foot catches on the edge of the padded mat. The full weight of the mechanical beast crashes down on my legs, pinning me to the floor. Pain explodes through my body, sharp and immediate.

“Help,” I scream, but my voice is lost in the chaos of panicked patrons stampeding toward the exits.

The fire crawls closer, hungry tongues of orange and red consuming the wooden floor.

Smoke billows overhead, thick and black.

I can feel the heat intensifying as the flames reach the edge of the mat.

The synthetic material begins to melt, releasing toxic fumes that burn my lungs with each desperate breath.

The mechanical bull grows hot beneath my hands, the metal burning my palms as I try in vain to push it off.

The flames reach my jeans. I feel the heat first, then the fabric begins to blacken and curl. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—a searing agony that makes me scream until my voice breaks.

Bottles of alcohol explode in the heat, sending new jets of flame shooting across the room.

The smoke grows thicker, filling my lungs.

I try to count again, but the numbers blur together in my oxygen-starved brain.

One. . . two . . thr— I don’t get to finish because in an instant, everything fades to black.