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Suddenly, out of nowhere, all hell breaks loose when a man I hadn't noticed before breaks a bar stool over the top of Rip's head, causing him to drop like a sack of potatoes. The next thing I know, his friend's bruising grip on me is gone. Stumbling over my feet, I turn to find a man with a bushy beard holding a gun to the jerk's head. I notice his leather vest with a patch on the chest that reads President. There’s another man behind him with the same vest. Only his patch reads Doc.
"This is what's going to happen. I'm walkin' out of this shit hole with that girl. Any of you motherfuckers get a wild hair and try following us, I won't hesitate puttin' a bullet in your head." The man looks at me, and even though he's holding a gun, the gentleness in his blue eyes tells me I can trust him. "Let's go, darlin'."
Nodding, I stick close to his side and follow his lead out of the bar and to his motorcycle. "Here." He hands me a helmet. "Hurry up and climb on."
"Prez," his friend says. "We ain't got no backup. We need to get the fuck out of here and fast."
Seconds later, we're peeling out of the parking lot.
"You good over there, darlin'?" A deep voice brings me back to the present.
I look over at Jake, who is watching me intently, and I smile. "I'm good."
3
BLAKE
My eyes land on my father's and another club member’s bikes parked in the driveway when I step off the school bus, and my stomach knots up with anxiety. I find my dad sitting on the sofa, leaning over the coffee table, snorting white powder up his nose. He raises his head and glares at me with disdain. "Get me a fuckin' beer," he grunts, tilting his head back and pinching his nose. At nine years old, seeing someone snort cocaine is normal for me. How fucked up is that?
"Where's my mom?"
"None of your goddamn business. Get that damn beer before I snatch a knot in your head," my father sneers.
As I head for the refrigerator, Maddog, the club's enforcer, steps out of my mom's room, zipping up his pants. His cold stare lands on me, and he smirks. I rush past him to find my mom sobbing at the foot of the bed.
"Mom." My voice cracks. She lifts her head, revealing a swollen, busted lip and welts on her cheek, and her eyes fill with fresh tears. I struggle to contain the rage building up in my body, until something inside me snaps. I walk over to the nightstand, where I've seen a handgun before, and open the drawer. I know jack shit about guns, but I wrap my hand around the handle.
"Blake, no!" Mom cries, but I leave the bedroom before she can stop me.
Maddog and my father are in the living room, huddled around the coffee table and counting out stacks of money. Maddog sees me raise the weapon in my hand first and goes for his gun, which grabs my father's attention. I point the gun at my father and pull the trigger.
Laughter fills the room as my father flies off the couch and has the tip of his gun pressed against my forehead. "You should have checked it for bullets first." My heart is pounding out of my chest, but I stand tall, trying not to show fear.
"No, please." My mom enters the room, pleading for my father to put the gun down. "He's your son, for Christ's sake."
I feel the cold of my father's stare as his eyes remain locked on mine. "You're nothin' more to me than a waste of cum." My father presses the end of the barrel a little harder into my forehead, his nostrils flaring and chest heaving. Eventually, he lowers the gun, bringing it up again and cracking me across the face. I stumble to the floor, tears collecting from the pain. My mom rushes over and throws her body around me like a shield. The hate I feel for my father has me lifting my head and locking eyes with him, thinking one day I will put a bullet in his head.
I wake, drenched in sweat and overwhelmed with anger and hate. I feel the same turmoil I felt when I was nine years old.
I stare at the ceiling, focusing on one of the fan blades as it slowly circulates clockwise. My emotions ripple through my body like waves crashing against a shoreline.
Giving up on sleep, I climb out of bed and drag my tired ass into the bathroom. I flip the switch on the wall, and the overhead light flickers a few times before staying lit. My room here at the clubhouse isn't huge, and neither is the bathroom, but it's far better than the concrete room Grey and I used to bunk in together when we were prospecting, so I sure as shit won't complain.
I reach behind the shower curtain and turn on the water. While steam fills the small bathroom, I rid myself of the sweatpants I sleep in and step into the shower stall beneath the stream of near-scalding water. I press my palms against the wall, hanging my head. As the water pelts my skin, it relaxes my muscles, and I release some of the tension my body is still holding. I hate that my past still has so much control over me, when I have fought so damn hard to bury it.
Closing my eyes, I think about the things in my life that ground me: my sobriety, the club, and all the success I'm experiencing with my artwork. Then Ember floods my thoughts, and the image of her standing in front of me in that tiny, cropped shirt and barely-there panties. Reaching down, I fist my cock and imagine everything I'd do to her if she were mine: her tits in my hands, taut nipples in my mouth. I would have her sit on my face as I feasted on her pussy before fucking her until she came on my dick.
A tingling sensation shoots up my spine, and my thigh muscles ripple as my release reaches its peak. A primal growl leaves my body as the orgasm rips through me. I give my cock a few more strokes before loosening the choke hold I have on it. "Fuck." Pulling in a ragged breath, I lean my head back, allowing the water to stream over my face. How pathetic am I? I'm reduced to rubbing one out in the shower, because I won't confess how I feel to Ember.
I shower until the water runs cold before turning it off. With a towel wrapped around my hips, I stand in front of the fogged-up mirror and swipe my hand across the surface a few times until I see a less hazy reflection. I stare at myself for several minutes, hating that I resemble my father. It's like his cold, blank eyes are staring back at me.
Never forget that you are loved, Blake. Don't listen to anyone who tells you otherwise. You, my son, are meant for greatness. You must always believe in yourself. These were the words my mom told me the day my father told me I was nothing more than a waste of cum.
A pounding at my bedroom door, followed by Grey's gruff voice calling my name, pulls me from intrusive thoughts. I stroll from the bathroom toward the door. "Blake," Grey barks again, his urgent tone setting me on high alert. I fling the bedroom door open. "Prez called. Someone broke into the garage."
Rushing, I toss the towel to the floor and dig out jeans and a shirt from the basket of clean clothes sitting on a chair in the corner. "Police on the scene?" I pull on my jeans and slip a black shirt over my head, then snatch a pair of socks from the same basket and begin putting on my boots.
"Yeah. Reid is there now, since he lives the closest, but Prez wants our asses down there until he makes it to town. We’ll start our investigation while Reid handles the authorities. A fallen tree, caused by the storm that blew through here last night, is blocking the road at the end of his property, so he's dealing with that first."
