Fiend. Renegade Kings.
My biological father. Supposedly. He’s also a man I've never met who might not even know I exist.
Mom mentioned him a few times over the years, always when she was drunk or high or both, but the story changed with her mood. Some nights he was a monster who tried to force her to terminate the pregnancy. Other nights he was a coward who ran the moment he found out. And others she never told him about me at all. The consistent thread was his nickname—Fiend—and the club he belonged to. Renegade Kings, the outlaw motorcycle club. Dangerous men.
“Your daddy's a piece of shit," she'd slur, pointing her cigarette at me. "A deadbeat biker who didn't want you. Be glad he's gone, baby. Trust me."
But my mother’s a liar. She lies about everything—about how much she's using, about where the rent money went, about the bruises Greg leaves on both of us. She lies when it will get her something, she lies when it's easier than telling the truth, and she lies when there's no reason to lie at all.
Which means she might have lied about my father.
I trace the letters with my fingertip. Fiend. What kind of man chooses that name? A villain? Or someone who wants people to believe he's one?
The old man in the plastic chair snores, the newspaper fluttering with each exhale. The dryers hum beside me, warm against my back.
I have no money for another apartment deposit. No couch to crash on. No shelter I trust. And Greg knows how to hunt.
But he doesn't know about this. He doesn't know I have a father out there. A man with a different name, in a different world, who might—might—open a door for me.
It's a long shot. My father could be exactly what my mother says—a dangerous man who never wanted me. He could turn me away.
Or he could be someone who didn't know. Someone who would've wanted to know me if he'd been given the chance.
Or…
He could take me in, then turn out to be worse than Greg.
I fold the paper and tuck it back into my pocket. My cheek has stopped bleeding. The blood has dried in a stiff line from my cheekbone to my jaw.
The Renegade Kings. I've seen their logo around Detroit—the skull and wings—painted on buildings, stitched into leather. People talk about them in whispers. They run this part of the city. Everyone knows it.
I don't know exactly where their headquarters is, but I have a general idea of where it might be. Marcy at work always talksabout biker clubs. She says her cousin used to prospect for one before he got jumped out. She mentioned a location once—something about a compound in the industrial district, south of the rail yard, behind chain-link and razor wire.
I pull out my phone. The screen is cracked from when Greg grabbed it out of my hands last month and threw it at the wall, but it still works. I type "Renegade Kings MC Detroit" into the search bar and get nothing useful. No address. No website. Just news articles about arrests from years ago.
Fine. I'll find it the old-fashioned way. I'll walk every street in the industrial district if I have to.
I'll start searching in a few hours. I figure that by then, Greg will have either passed out drunk or given up looking for me for a while. I'll find the compound, ask for Fiend, and tell him who I am.
Then, I’ll pray he doesn't slam the door in my face.
Chapter 2
Zeus
The whiskey burns going down, but not enough.
I signal the prospect behind the bar for another. He pours without meeting my eyes. Smart kid. Everyone's learned to give me space these days—walk wide circles, keep conversations short, and don't piss me off.
The party rages around me. Music pounds from speakers someone dragged outside, the smell of grilled meat hangs thick in the summer air, and a couple of allied clubs are visiting for the festivities. Everyone’s celebrating Demon taking an ol’ lady and his ol’ lady graduating nursing school.
Me? I don’t give a fuck.
About anything.
I down the second shot and set the glass on the bar harder than necessary. The crack of glass on wood splits the noise. A few heads turn. I stare at the empty glass.
It’s been six months since I put a bullet between Fiend's eyes. Six months since I saved Rowan's life—and killed my best friend. Or the fucker I thought was my best friend. Turns out he was nothin’ but a goddamn rat.