Page 21 of Depraved

I threw a few punches, tried to get into it so I could tire myself out and get some rest. But it didn’t work. There was too much adrenaline in my veins, too many fucking demons fighting to get out. The more I thought about how the Pythons killed our father with two of our other guys, the angrier I got. They massacred our loved ones without blinking, and then had the balls to go after our business. Well, not while I was fucking president.

These streets belonged to us long before they decided to cruise in on their cheap wheels, pretending they could own everything they touched. They were so fucking desperate and knew the only way to get in our turf was to take out the big guns of our MC. That was the only way for them to have a shot at getting our business—a business we had been running for years.

Unfortunately, in our world, there was no such thing as a loyal client. If the Sixes could get their ammo cheaper from another distributor, they’d take it. No matter if we had been doing business with them for the last twenty fucking years. That alone cost us a lot of fucking money because we had to keep on lowering the price just to keep the Sixes’ money rolling in.

Even though it had been years since they massacred three of our men, we weren’t ready to retaliate until now. We were too hurt, the pain too strong. Pain and grief made men do stupid things, and to take out a club like the Pythons, we couldn’t afford to make stupid mistakes. But we were ready now. Our grief had turned into strength, and we were about to take down the filthy fuckers who owed us blood.

Just like the Pythons, we weren’t saints either. We ran our own little corner in hell, doing what we had to in order to survive. But who didn’t? It was an eat-or-get-eaten world out there, and we fucking devoured whoever got in our way.

Take Manic—the man had anger issues. It took a special kind of stupid not to notice. But that scar on his face told the story of a man who had endured the flames of hell repeatedly. We didn’t know much of his past, but we did know he’d been passed from one foster home to another ever since they found him on the streets when he was fifteen. What happened to him before then was a secret he carried alone. But it was here, with the Kings, that he finally found a place he could call home—a place where he fit in.

Then there was Ink—a walking fucking hard-on. I’d be the first to admit we didn’t see eye-to-eye in the beginning. But my dad kept saying there was something special about the prospect with his skin inked all the way down from his neck. Naked, those tattoos looked like a fucking suit. It was after a patch over in Pennsylvania that Ink and I started to get along. We got hammered so bad that night, I forgot my goddamn name. Drunk out of our minds, we decided to trash some random rich-bitch’s house and made good use of the backyard pool. That was the night I saw what lay beneath the layers and layers of ink. Scars. Too many to count. After that, Ink had all my respect. Fucker deserved it.

I threw one final punch before grabbing the swinging bag. I caught sight of the big, bold, blue letters on the wall. Stone’s Gym. No mercy. Never surrender.

Stone was the name on my father’s patch, hence the reason my brother and I got the names we had. We were all cold, hard sons of bitches. But we were a fucking family, and in this gym, we took care of those who needed it the most.

It always amazed me how the world stereotyped us as being criminals pretending to be backyard grease junkies. We didn’t run a mechanic shop or deal with motorbike parts in order to hide what we really did.

My dad and fellow founders weren’t angels. They didn’t make this club what it was today with love and charity. Sometimes, when you wanted to do some good, you needed to get your hands dirty with the bad. And our sins ran deep. No one knew that better than me. Trading in illegal firearms and selling weed to our own special circle of customers wasn’t exactly a tax-paying, nine-to-five job. I always wondered if that was the reason behind my father’s decision to work with the police commissioner. Maybe it was his way of atoning for all the wrong we did—that, and to keep the PC turning a blind eye to our business affairs.

When the old man died and I became president, I continued his legacy by doing the work we did. Now, with this new threat over our heads as the Pythons kept closing in on our territory, we had no choice but to rethink all our shit and come up with a plan to ensure the wellbeing of the club. But with this plan came a huge risk. If anything went wrong, we would risk losing our most important ally. Yet if this all played out the way we planned, the reward would be far sweeter. For the club…and me.

Yeah. I was one selfish son of a bitch, and it was my own personal greed for something money couldn’t buy that gave birth to this plan of ours. And I knew any plan that entailed taking down the Pythons, my men would be on board with. It was a double-whammy.

The gym started to fill with people, and I took that as my cue to bounce. Crowds weren’t exactly my thing—especially troubled teenagers who’d rather come here in the morning than be at school where their asses should be.

Dutch came walking in, fists already wrapped, ready to fight. “Yo, Granite. You good?”

“Yup.” I wiped the sweat from my face.

“Wanna stick around and check out some of the talent we got here?”

“Nope.”

Dutch scowled at me. “The students know you run this place, Granite. They know you’re in charge, and they want to meet you.”

“Well, I don’t want to meet them.”

“Don’t be such a hard-ass.”

I snorted. “You can thank fuck I like you, or I’d have to kick your ass for dissing me like that.”

“I’m serious. You can’t always run from shit.”

My nostrils flared. “I’m not running.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I brushed past him when he called out, “And the girl?”

Exhaling, I stopped but didn’t turn. “What about her?”

“You sure she’s just part of the plan, nothing more?”

“What the fuck do you mean?” I turned to face him.