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CHAPTER ONE
Johnston
Istepped down the stairs, trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake Wendy up—if she wasn’t up already. She and I had been sleeping in separate rooms for the last year. I’d married her at eighteen when I’d been young and dumb as fuck. Thought I loved her andthoughtshe loved me. But the deeper I got into the life of an outlaw, the more tension threaded between us.
We argued all the time. Fought all the time. I’d tried filing divorce papers, but she refused to sign them, which I didn’t fucking understand until we’d had a fight a year ago, in which she told me she wasn’t leaving because she deserved the access to my money after all the hell Isupposedlyput her through over the years.
I’d shoved her and all her shit out of what was once our room. And then, I hauled our fucking bed down the stairs and lit the whole goddamn thing on fire in the middle of the front yard, not giving two shits if the neighbors saw and called the fire department. She had yelled and screamed, beat on my chest and back, but I’d stood silent and still, only watching the flames eat at the wood of our bed and the cloth of our mattress until all that was left on the ground was a smoking, hot pile of springs, nails, screws, and the bed frame.
Then, I dug a hole and buried all of it.
Wendy was a fucking nightmare, and one I wanted to get rid of. But getting rid of her was the equivalent of getting rid of a bed bug infestation. It was nearly goddamn impossible without putting a bullet through her skull. And with how well-known she was in this little town, doing that wasn’t as easy as I’d like it to be.
Because trust me, if it was, I would have done it a long damn time ago.
I spent most of my days at the clubhouse now, but for some fucking reason, I’d decided to come home and sleep in my own bed last night. Hell, I didn’t even have clothes here, so I was sneaking out of my own fucking house in the clothes I wore the day before.
The classic walk of shame without even getting any pussy.
I had no idea why I’d even come home. I should have just went to the clubhouse like I always did.
The club had no idea I had problems with her—well, expect my VP and best friend, Blayke. I was pretty sure most of them suspected, but they kept their mouths shut about it. They knew better than to question me about my own life. As long as it didn’t interfere with club shit, they had no reason to know.
I heaved a tired, heavy sigh when I saw Wendy sitting at the breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen, a mug of coffee in front of her. She’d been up for a while, judging by the curls in her hair and the flawless makeup on her face.
What the fuck did I ever see in her? She was fake as fuck. I wasn’t one for a woman wearing makeup, though I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell a woman what she could and couldn’t do with her own body. The government did enough of that shit for them. I kept my opinions to my damn self.
“Nice of you to come home for once,” Wendy bit out.
I just ignored her and strode to the coffee pot, pouring myself a cup. I probably should have just walked out of the house while I had a chance, but I needed coffee. I’d barely slept the night before, and I needed to wake the fuck up before I got on my bike and tried to ride any kind of distance. Not being fully awake put not just myself, but also other motorists, at risk. And while I was a grade-A asshole, I wasn’t reckless. I wouldn’t potentially harm or kill innocent civilians. They were off-limits.
I may be an outlaw. I may put bullets in skulls without a single fucking thought or feeling of remorse. But I didn’t put innocent lives in danger. That was my number one rule—maybe my only rule, to be honest.
“Are you going to just fucking ignore me in my own house, Johnston?”
I turned to face her, narrowing my eyes at her. “Better check yourself, Wendy. Your name is not anywhere on this fucking house since I bought itbeforewe got married.” And I had. At eighteen, I busted my ass to finally get a bank to allow me to purchase. Took a lot of document plagiarizing on my end and some fake numbers for my “job”, but I eventually got it in the end.
Red crept up her neck, anger flashing in her hazel eyes. “Are you threatening me now?”
Jesus Christ.
She truly was a damn work of art—and not the good kind.
“I’m merely warning you that you don’t have shit without me, Wendy. I may not have bothered dragging your ass to court yet, but if you keep pushing your fucking luck with me, I will. And I’ll make sure you’re broke and fucking homeless, too.”
“You can’t do that!” she screeched, slamming her hand on the table.
I arched a brow at her. “I can’t?” I asked, my voice still calm. She hated that I always seemed unaffected by shit. But I didn’t get this far and become a fucking king in this world by being hot-headed. I always had a level head on my shoulders, and I didn’t feel shit unless Iwantedto feel it. I was a goddamn master at shutting shit off.
She jerked up from the table and grabbed her coffee. I stepped aside when she threw it at me, letting it crash against the wall. My fingers itched to curl around her neck, but I knew she’d go screeching to the fucking cops like the snitch she truly was.
What I ever fucking saw in her, I’d never know. I wondered about that shit multiple times a day.
“Clean that shit up,” I told her, pouring the rest of the coffee down the drain before sticking the mug in the dishwasher.
“I hate you, Johnston Trim!” she screamed at my back, stomping her foot like a petulant child.
“Feeling is a hundred percent mutual,” I assured her, not bothering to turn around. Then, I smirked and walked out of the house, pulling my bike keys from my pocket.
