Smitty (Satan’s Fury MC: Little Rock #11)

Prologue

Aprospect is a nobody.

Hell, they are less than a nobody, and so was I.

I’d been on my own for years and was barely getting by.

I figured I had nothing to lose. So, I became one of the guys who hauled in the booze to parties where they never got to drink, cleaned up the messes they didn’t make, and got called at all hours to fix flats, tow trucks, and whatever else came up in the wee hours of the morning.

I did what I was told.

Period.

I wanted that patch on my cut more than I’d ever wanted anything.

I wanted to belong to something bigger than myself, bigger than the dark pit in my stomach, and I found it in Fury.

I wanted it, and that deep-seated want was bigger than the pride I had to swallow every time I had to clean up someone’s puke off the bar floor.

So, I ran the errands, took the hits, and kept my mouth shut.

And after a year of pushing every limit, they handed me what I’d been bleeding for.

I’d done it. I’d gotten through it. I let out a satisfied sigh, the kind that only came after a really good night, and I glanced back up at the ceiling fan.

The damn thing wobbled with a distinct pattern.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

It was like it was trying to work through something it couldn’t quite shake loose, and I understood that way more than I should have at two in the damn morning. I was trying to work out something myself.

Dani shifted, drawing my attention to my side. She was curled up next to me with her dark hair spread across my shoulder. Her head was on my chest with one arm draped across my stomach, and she was breathing soft and shallow, leaving no doubt that she was still fast asleep.

We’d spent the better part of the night celebrating, and we were both spent, especially me. The room was dark except for the light coming from beneath the door, and it gave just enough of a glow for me to see my cut draped over the back of the chair.

The leather was new and stiff, and the embroidery was bright. And even with the bad lighting, I could still see the bottom rocker that read, Satan’s Fury MC- Little Rock. It was still hard to believe it was mine.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

I found myself wondering what Aiden would’ve thought about all this.

The thought hit hard. One second I was staring at my cut like it was proof I’d finally made something of myself, and the next, all I could think was that Aiden should’ve been there to see it.

Especially when he was a big part of the reason why I’d landed here. It was fucked up but true. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably have graduated from some business college and be working at a desk job somewhere. But that wasn’t in the cards for me.

Not after that day.

We were twelve.

That was it. Old enough to think we knew everything, and young enough to believe nothing bad could happen to us. And everything went to hell over a damn coin toss.

I could still feel that cold coin land in the center of my palm.

I looked down, saw George’s face looking back at me, and I actually smiled. I’d won. I got to drive Dad’s four-wheeler. I thought I’d won some grand prize, but I would soon discover that it was the beginning of a nightmare I could never take back.

Aiden didn’t care who won. He was just ready to ride. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I could hear him laugh behind me as he shouted, ‘Let’s go!’

I felt like a damn king as I eased the throttle back and started through the woods. Aiden kept yelling for me to go faster, laughing like he trusted me with his life.

That's the last good five minutes I ever had with him. I threw the rest away for a better view of a river we’d seen a million times.

I remembered the quiet the most. Not the flip or the impact. No. It was the quiet that came after. No engine. No yelling. Just floating for a second, like the world forgot about us. Then, it was his chest under that handlebar, and his breath trying to come out as a gurgled wheeze.

I couldn't lift it. I tried until my arms gave out, but I wasn’t strong enough. I kept saying his name, over and over. Like if I said it enough, he’d answer me, if I begged hard enough, God or the wind or the damn river would save him.

And when they didn’t, I ran.

And there are nights like these that I think the running was worse than the crash. I could still remember the smell of the river on my clothes.

The mud. The gasoline. And the blood.

Every step, I told myself, he'd be fine. I just had to be fast enough. I just had to find someone to help.

I was wrong.

They called it an accident, so I didn’t have to call it what it truly was.

I got up that day without a scratch. Twelve years old and already wearing my brother’s death as a second skin. Most fucked-up part of it all was that I already knew what it’d look like when my life finally came to an end.

I saw it that summer afternoon when they put my twin brother on that stretcher. It was an image that would haunt me until I took my last breath. It would haunt my folks, too. My mother never said it was my fault. She didn’t have to. I saw it in her eyes any time she looked at me.

That’s why I left as soon as I turned eighteen.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

It wasn’t until years later that I first saw a Fury cut.

I was at the shop, working on an oil change and tire rotation, hoping it would earn me enough to pay my electric bill before they cut off the power. I was covered in grease and grime when I glanced over and spotted a guy walking through the front door.

He looked tough, tall and fierce with a beard and a leather vest with Satan’s Fury embroidered on the back. I’d seen cuts before, but never one like this. Never one that made my throat tighten the way this one did.

Once he was gone, I asked my boss about him and Fury, and before I knew it, Cyrus had gotten me an invite to one of the club’s gatherings. And days later, I was prospecting.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

After every test they put in front of me, the vote had gone through unanimous. I’d done it. I’d proven that I was worthy, not only to them but to myself. Now, I was lying there with a girl at my side, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.

That damn fan kept wobbling, and I kept looking over at my cut. And somewhere underneath the pride and relief, there was a gnawing feeling that ate at me in a way that brought bile to the back of my throat.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, tick.

Preacher. Goose. Seven. Skid. Memphis.

They were just a few of the men I would now call brother, and they were all incredible men. They were men I would be proud to stand beside and give my life to protect, but none of them, not a single one, would ever be able to replace him.

Aiden.

He was my twin brother.

My better half, and I let him down in a way no brother ever should.

I knew he would’ve been proud of how far I’d come. I wished I’d been able to find comfort in that, but that knot in my stomach seemed to grow tighter with every whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, tick.

I knew the truth.

I could never make it up to him.

I could never make it right.

But there was no doubt I would spend the rest of my days trying.