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. ButKronos 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 anglesand 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?”
