What’s worse than a rat?
A fucking idiot who trusted him for eight years, that’s what.
I hung out with him almost daily—drank with him, rode with him, vowed to have his back in any situation. Fuck, I would have laid down my life for that motherfucker. And the whole time he was stabbing me in the back.
I was calling him brother, considering him my closest friend, and he was selling out the club to a Colombian cartel.
"Zeus." Chaos's voice interrupts my spiral. He leans against the bar beside me, Rowan tucked under his arm like always. “We’re celebrating, brother. Get your ass in the party mood.”
He waits.
"I'm fucking fine," I growl. He can fuck right off with hisparty mood.
Annoying motherfucker. Why can’t he leave me the fuck alone? I’m here, aren’t I?
Rowan touches Chaos's arm, a gentle pressure that says drop it. He does. They move away, and I'm alone again with my glass, my ghosts, and my sour mood.
The prospect refills it again without being asked—how many is that? I lost count, but I get up off my barstool and move over to lean against the wall. There. I’m participating. Woo-hoo!
The clubhouse door slams open.
A prospect, I think they call him Rambo, stumbles in, out of breath and wide-eyed. He scans the room, spots Chaos, and beelines straight for him.
“Prez. There’s someone at the gate.” The prospect shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable. “Uh…asking for Fiend.”
Chaos straightens.
I shove off the wall. “Who the fuck is asking for Fiend?”
"She says—" The prospect swallows hard. "She's his daughter."
My vision narrows. A hot rush of rage floods my veins.
Daughter. Fiend didn't have a daughter.
We told each other everything. Or I thought we did. Turns out we didn’t.
But I know he didn’t have a fucking daughter.
Whoever the bitch is at the gate, she’s full of shit. I don’t know what she wants. Or what she thinks she’s trying to pull, but I, for one, ain’t stupid enough to fall for?—
"I'll handle it." Chaos is already moving toward the door.
I slam my glass down and follow. My hands ball into fists, and the familiar hum of violence that’s been ever-present these past six months hisses under my skin. This bitch picked the wrong motherfuckers to try to pull one over on.
I won’t hit a bitch. Or maybe I will. Just because I never have before, don’t mean nothin’. First time for everything.
Demon and Fury fall in behind me. Other brothers peel off from the party, sensing tension in the air. The ol' ladies follow too—Sarah, Kayla, Rowan—because why the fuck not have bitches all up in our club business?
It’s grown dark out, and we march up to the gate like a tattooed leather-clad army.
The woman—a girl, really—stands on the other side of the chain-link, under the security lights, looking like a doe caught in headlights. Damn, she can't be more than nineteen or twenty. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She’s wearing a tattered oversized jacket that swallows her frame and she’s clutching a duffel bag to her chest like a shield.
She's fucking terrified.
Her eyes dart from face to face as we approach almost as if she’s trying to figure out which one of us might be the meanest. Which one might hurt her first. Smart survival instinct. Wrong crowd to test it on.
Chaos stops a few feet from the fence. “Heard you’re askin’ for Fiend.