Tormented (Fallen Aces MC #3) Read online

  She’s just lucky I’ve been preoccupied with the meeting. I did as King asked and addressed my brothers. Understandably, they weren’t too happy to hear that my old man plans to use the Fallen Aces as the fall guy for his drug operation. He wants these people wheeling and dealing like puppets on a string.

  If King gets his way, it’ll never happen.

  Stranger things have . . . .

  The Aces haven’t dealt in drugs for the fifty or so years they’ve been in operation, and my pick is King ain’t the kind of guy to see that changed long-term. He may need what the old man’s got to offer to drag this club’s finances out of the shit, but he hates my father enough that he’d never enter into a long-term deal with him—call it remnants of his time fucking Dad’s wife in an affair that went south.

  Sly old dog . . . .

  But hey, if it leads to us ultimately walking into my father’s property with the sole purpose of taking him out, I’m in. Fuck knows I couldn’t do it on my own—tried, failed, repeated history.

  I hesitate just past the bar as the memory of the scuffle on the old man’s lawn plays fresh in my mind. The devil camped out upstairs runs his bony fingers over the image, frustrated also that it didn’t turn out like we’d always dreamed. He sits back with a sigh as I spin around and march over to the abandoned bar, swipe a half-empty bottle of Jack, and seat my ass on the only free sofa.

  “You were a mistake at the start, and it seems you’ll be a mistake at the end.”

  “I’m not a mistake, old man. I’m just not you.”

  My father wanted a prince to ascend to his throne when he passes. He wanted a clone, a kid he could shape and mold to his own image. And all he got was a psychotic son so messed up by witnessing his mother’s murder that he became obsessed with taking control of what he had none over at the time: death.

  But you enjoy it so . . . .

  The power, the control over the very thing everybody on this earth has in common: the desire to stay alive. Sure. Who wouldn’t? Primal instinct doesn’t care what neighborhood you grew up in. It doesn’t care who you know, or your reasons for being where you are. It just wants you to take that next breath, whether you deserve it or not.

  Do you . . . ?

  I throw my head back, bottle to my lips, and let the searing liquid burn a path down my throat.

  Part of me feels better for taking that first step to letting Ramona go. Another loose end from my past tied up—as best I can, when my son will always keep us together to some degree. But the victory over my abusive past is bittersweet when I think of the woman who sparked the change in me: Dana.

  I swore she’d be mine, and that I’d drag her from hell and make her my queen. But the more the days pass by, the more life goes on same as it always has, the more I find myself thinking she was only ever meant to be that: a spark to ignite the fire.

  A sacrificial lamb . . . .

  However you want to put it. What we had couldn’t have been more than lust. Shit, we only had a couple of days together. Is that long enough to know love?

  The answer to that is upstairs . . . .

  Fuck. He’s right, for a change.

  As if I’m ever wrong . . . .

  She looked at me yesterday like she needed me. The hope in Abbey’s eyes said she thought that I could help her, not that she wanted to fix me like so many others do. I’d say I don’t care, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it, when it’s all my thoughts have come around to over and over all goddamn day.

  What makes you think you could be saved, anyway . . .?

  I don’t know that I can. All I know is that when I find the one, the woman who feels the same distress in her soul as I do, that somehow her shattered heart will melt into mine and make me whole again. That her missing pieces will match what I have left, and between the two of us we can pretend to be something we’ll never be: normal.

  Then hunt her . . . .

  I don’t want to.

  Why not . . .?

  Because if I screw up—which I always do—a soul as fragile as hers would shatter in my hands. I’d ruin her. I’d fucking well kill her. She’s not strong enough to handle me and all the complications that come with that kind of familiarity.

  So . . .?

  So, I’d rather leave her to her own hell. Let her destroy herself instead of accelerating the process. Sure, I’ve fucked up in the past and used people for my own gain, but why should my shortcomings be the measure of who I am? Perhaps the glass is half-full rather than half-empty? It’s all a case of perspective. To mend the damaged parts of me, I’m going to need a strong woman. And Abbey? Yeah, well we all know how strong she isn’t.

  Going after someone as impaired as her to feel the hero isn’t anything but selfishness on my part.

  And when have you ever been selfless . . .?

  Never too late to start something new, good buddy.

  But where does this leave me . . .?

  I shrug, physically answering the voice in my head as I take another pull of the hard stuff. Will he stay? Or by killing off the bad habits I’ve accumulated over the years, will I kill him too? Who would know?

  Would you even miss me . . .?

  A month ago, I would have said no. But now?

  Now, what . . .?

  You’re a part of me, as much as I don’t want you to know I realize that. Killing you would be like . . . I don’t know. I can’t say killing family, because isn’t that what I’m gearing up to do?

  My devil claps excitedly, anticipating the best . . . or worst, depending on who you are in the situation.

  “Hey, Sawyer!” a young prospect hollers from the door to the yard.

  “What’s with the noise, kid?” I ask, slowly extracting myself from the comfy cushions.

  “You better get your ass outside, man.”

  “What the fuck for?” It’s late. I’m tired. And unless my goddamn father is standing out there with a bull’s-eye on his chest, I couldn’t care less.

  “Ramona. She’s fucking stumbled in the gate with your kid in her arms, man. She looks pretty shook up.”

  Or maybe I could.

  And all the hens come home to roost . . . .

  The leftover Jack spills out over the bar, the bottle tipping in my haste to set it down. I shove the kid out of the way, jogging out to the dirt yard to find King a couple of yards ahead of me, coming from the garage. Mighty, and that asshole Ramona’s fucking, Ty, crowd around her. She’s silent, in nothing but her damn sleepwear, and my boy is shivering in her arms . . . at close to midnight.

  “Everything was fine when I left this morning,” the cocksucker Ty says.

  “You were there this morning?” I holler. Here I am giving myself shit for being too hard on her for thinking of dating another guy before we’ve wrapped shit up between us, and he’s already making house with her.

  “Daddy!” Mack wriggles to get free of his momma.

  “Mack, buddy. Are you okay?” I shoulder the Harvard asshole out of the way and bend down to pull Mack to my side.

  He shivers in my hold as Ramona states the fucking obvious.

  “He’s too cold.”

  Bundling him in my jacket, I pull him close to my legs for warmth as I look her over. She’s got a few cuts and scrapes, but nothing too serious. Whatever happened though, it shook her up pretty fucking bad, and that’s saying something for a woman who’s put up with my shit over the years.

  “What happened, sugar?”

  A blanket is passed in, and her pussy boyfriend wraps it over her shoulders.

  “He was just a . . . message,” she barely manages to whisper.

  Ty bundles her up as she succumbs to exhaustion, and carries her inside while I try to figure out who “he” is.

  I reach down and place my hand on the back of Mack’s neck, finding comfort in the warmth that builds now he’s wrapped up and protected from the cold night air. King steps beside me and frowns as the door to the clubhouse closes after Ramona.

  “I ain
’t got a fuckin’ clue what she’s on about, brother, but I’ll find out and let you know.” He glances down at Mack, and rests a hand on his shoulder. “You just take care of this one.”

  He heads toward the clubhouse, leaving me with Mack, who now peers up from where his head rests on my hip.

  “Mommy was brave, Dad.”

  I crouch down and wrap my arms under his, hoisting him up, jacket and all. “I bet she was.” He nestles into my shoulder, watching our path as I walk us toward warmth and security. “Now, son, how about you tell me what happened.”

  ***

  “Step away!” Callum hollers as I shove Dog to the floor and make a beeline for my bike. “Now isn’t the time to go off half-cocked, man.”

  “Who’s going off half-cocked?” I yell, my neck straining with the force. “I’m completely ready to take that fucker down.”

  As am I . . . .

  Callum didn’t have to fucking hold his son while the kid cried. He didn’t have to reassure a goddamn child that he wasn’t responsible, and nothing he could have done would have changed the outcome. And he didn’t have to look at the confusion and heartbreak in his kid’s eyes while the boy tried to work out what he did wrong to make his grandfather send men with guns to shoot the shit out of their house.

  My old man, my fucking father, put the frights up the wrong fucking family tonight.

  He overstepped one boundary too many in his crusade to hit me where it hurts.

  And now he’ll be the one crying, begging for respite . . . .

  “Open the fuckin’ door.” I straddle the bike and move to kick the stand up, but Mighty drags me off over the tail. I swing wildly with my left hand at the big bastard, but he takes what hits I manage to land with a grunt, struggling to keep hold. I break free, shoving him backward into a couple of bikes before trying again to get mine going.

  I manage as far as turning the engine over before a two-pronged attack from Callum and Mighty has me under the biggest son of a bitch’s weight while Callum kicks my stand back out.

  “Just let me go,” I holler at the two of them. “He’s fuckin’ dead. That air-wastin’ motherfucker is dead!”

  “Not tonight,” Callum grinds out, setting my bike’s weight on the stand and switching it off.

  Mighty shifts position on top of me, doing everything he can to weigh me down with his forearm while he readies himself to stand. I bide my time, anger causing my limbs to twitch with unspent energy, and wait until he’s at his weakest, when his weight shifts between kneeling and standing.

  He goes down like a ton of bricks, Callum leaping backward to avoid being knocked over in the aftermath.

  “Dog,” I shout to the kid as he stands near the door to the common room, clearly unsure what to do. “Open the roller.”

  His eyes flick to the control by the internal door, and he swallows.

  Don’t say it, little boy . . . don’t invite trouble . . . .

  “No.” He juts his chin out defiantly. The other two idiots alternate between watching me and checking what Dog’s going to do. “I’m goin’ to get King.”

  “Like fuck you are.”

  Callum’s hands shoot up, Mighty uttering a quiet “Easy now” as I point my piece at the kid.

  “Open the door, Dog.”

  He frowns and hits the switch with a sigh. The roller starts its ascent.

  “Anybody moves and I swear to fuckin’ God I’ll take him out.” It’s low, it’s filthy, and it’s totally unfair for the kid who’s just doing his job, but needs must.

  I keep my gun trained on Dog as I inch toward my bike. With a great deal of effort, I manage to remount, kick the stand up, and start the engine, all while keeping the barrel firmly pointed in his direction.

  Go, before they stop you again . . . .

  “Nobody fuckin’ try anythin’ stupid,” I say, waving my gun between the three of them.

  “You’re the only one making stupid decisions right now, brother,” Callum mutters.

  “Why would that be?” I ask, tucking my gun back in my waistband.

  He frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. “How you planning on gettin’ into your old man’s place, huh? You barely made it out past his security. Don’t you think he might have a few more men nowadays?”

  “A risk I’ll take.” I gun the engine to drown out his reply, and pull out of rank toward the exit.

  The three of them stand stock-still in my mirrors as I cross onto the dirt. Positive I’ve got my exit sorted, I wind open the throttle and aim for the open gate.

  They never leave the gate open . . . especially on a night like tonight . . . .

  The devil’s words ring true too late. My front wheel tangles on the chain they’ve hastily strung low between the posts at the exact same moment that King steps out of the shadows and swings a crude makeshift bat into my chest, knocking me off the falling bike and taking the wind from me.

  “Sorry, buddy, but you ain’t goin’ anywhere tonight.” He leans over and offers his hand. My bike still revs where it’s ended up, dented, scratched, and useless on the driveway.

  Do it . . . .

  I meet his gaze, my friend, my brother-in-arms, my president, and reach for his hand. Our fingers lock, and he pulls hard to try and haul me up, yet I pull back twice as rough and yank him off balance. King hits the dirt shoulder first, cursing loudly as Mighty and Callum run across from the garage. Dog trails behind, probably still nervous that I’ll shoot his sorry ass.

  We may yet . . . .

  I push to my feet, hands fisted at my sides as I shake my head at the cowards.

  “None of you fuckers goin’ to admit you’d do the same?” I yell. “He came after my fuckin’ family, my son.”

  “We get that,” Callum says, hands raised to try and placate me.

  It infuriates me further.

  “But we’re also thinkin’ of you, brother. Mack needs both his parents breathin’, not you going off on a fuckin’ solo crusade that’s bound to get you killed.” King jerks his head, his expression pained. “Fuck, man, just think about what you’re doin’.”

  “I am,” I growl. “And right fuckin’ now I’m goin’ inside to get the truck keys. You might have fucked my bike, assholes, but you ain’t stoppin’ me that easy.”

  I lunge forward, striding for the clubhouse, and almost miss the small nod Callum gives Mighty. The big son of a bitch brings his right arm around as I pass him by, producing a steel bar from behind his leg that he slams into the back of my knees.

  I hit the ground, cursing him out as my legs tingle, weak and next to useless.

  And you call them your friends . . . .

  Still better than my enemies, though, aren’t they?

  “Give it up, Sawyer.”

  One foot up, bend at the knee, and push. I can do this.

  Whack.

  “Jesus Christ, give a man a break,” I half laugh, half say.

  Knuckles pushed into the dirt, brace that leg, and go.

  Whack.

  I draw in a deep breath, having managed to stay on my feet this time, and slowly turn to look at Mighty standing there with the goddamn bar over his shoulder. He raises both eyebrows and shrugs as though saying, “What do you expect?”

  A bit more respect . . . and a healthy dose of fear.

  But they don’t fear me anymore, these bastards. I’m no scarier than a misbehaving toddler, which is exactly what they’re treating me like.

  “Get inside, Sawyer,” King instructs.

  “Get fucked,” I grit between my teeth.

  Shoulders back and head held high, I turn and opt for plan C—walking out of here. One of the assholes moves, the scuff of his boots on the dirt giving it away. I break into a run, laughing maniacally as I’m crash-tackled to the ground yet again by that unrelenting fucker, Mighty.

  “You ever thought about tryin’ out for a sports team, man?”

  He grins down at me, and wrestles my hand to my side. I buck, thrash, and bite so hard that I d
raw blood, but he’s not put off easy.

  Level up, son . . . end this ridiculous show . . . .

  I give in, submit to my devil’s whim, and let go of the ropes tethering me to the shore of sanity. The flash of concern in Mighty’s eyes as I flip the switch fuels me. As does the worry in Callum’s voice as he hollers something to Dog. But I pay no mind.

  Fists fly, I make ten yards, and then I’m brought to ground again.

  The process repeats over and over, Mighty growing tired the longer I keep up the fight.

  I’m close, so fucking close to making it off this compound and walking, hitching, or goddamn running to my old man’s house if I have to, when a sharp prick in my leg has me frowning with confusion.

  “What did you . . .?”

  Fuzzy. Those fuckers go fuzzy as hell, blending into one, spreading out to four, and settling on the clearly defined outline of two. Mighty and . . . be easier if the fucker wasn’t so blurry . . . there it is . . . Dog.

  With a motherfuckin’ syringe jammed in my thigh.

  “Nighty-night, big boy.”

  EIGHT

  Abbey

  He’s a damn angel when he sleeps. So at peace, so untroubled, so . . . normal looking.

  “What did you do to him?”

  King scrubs a hand over his face as he looks down at Sawyer passed out on the sofa. “Gave him a heavy dose of ketamine.”

  “You fucking tranquilized him?” I exclaim.

  He looks at me with nothing short of guilt. “What else could we do? Let him go start a fuckin’ war we’re not ready for? Or get his ass killed? You think Ramona and Mack need that as well after what happened tonight?”

  “Fuck Ramona,” I mutter under my breath, kneeling down beside Sawyer. “You been checking his vitals?” Too much and they run the risk of sending him into a heart attack.

  “When he got brought in,” King says. “You think you could be a doll and watch him for a while though?”

  Hooch picks the perfect time to join the spectacle, coming to a stop beside King and turning his mouth down in the corners as he raises his eyebrows. “Ho-lee hell. You really took him down, huh?”