CHAPTER ONE

“Either you answer that fuckin’ thing or I’m throwin’ it out the window, Tegen.”

Blinking sleepily, I focused on the angry face mere inches from mine, wondering what the fuck he was talking about.

“Piss off,” I muttered, turning my face into my pillow. “It’s not morning yet.”

This time when my phone started both ringing and vibrating from its place on my nightstand, I heard it loud and clear.

“Tegen! That’s the fourth call in a fuckin’ row!”

“Shit!” I yelled into my pillow. “Stop bitching and just answer it!”

“I can’t!” he yelled back. “It’s your fuckin’ mom!”

The phone stopped ringing and I heard him let out an angry sigh.

Almost instantly, it started ringing again.

“TEGEN, ANS—”

Cursing, I jumped up, grabbed my pillow and swung it up in the air, then slapped it down over his face.

“Shut. Up,” I hissed, already reaching for my phone.

Pressing Answer, I lifted the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I snapped.

“Tegen?”

“Mom.” I sighed, instantly feeling bad. “Is everything okay? It’s not even light out.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s just…I wanted to catch you before you made plans for the long weekend. I thought maybe you could come home for a few days.”

Reaching up, I rubbed the heel of my palm over my eyes and sighed.

“Hawk’s coming home, isn’t he?”

James “Hawk” Young, lifer in the Hell’s Horsemen Motorcycle Club, was the father of my half brother, Christopher Kelley. Christopher was four years old and nearly two decades younger than me. Despite his dark red hair, green eyes, and freckles—traits our very Irish mother had given us both—he looked just like his extremely good-looking dad. Right down to his brooding eyes and the hard line of his mouth.

“He is,” she said softly. “And I’m just not ready. I just…I have enough to deal with, with Jase. Please come home, Tegen.”

Herein lay the problem. Despite how good-looking Hawk was, my mother wanted nothing to do with him. She couldn’t bear even the brief encounter to hand over Christopher for a few days. One might think that my traveling all the way from San Francisco, California, to Miles City, Montana, just to hand my half brother over to his father and comfort my mother in his absence, was a little extreme…it actually wasn’t. Not after what my mother had gone through.

When she was nearly nine months pregnant with Christopher, my mother had been shot in the head by her boyfriend’s wife. Not Hawk’s wife; Hawk wasn’t married. But Jason “Jase” Brady, also a member of the Hell’s Horsemen, was.

Actually, my mother had still been married to my father when she’d met Jase.

My mom, Dorothy Kelley, had gotten pregnant at fifteen, given birth at sixteen, and was forced by my grandparents to marry my father. My father, a truck driver, was rarely home and when he was, was more interested in television and beer than my mother and me. When I was four, my mother met Jase.

She fell in love with Jase almost instantly, unconcerned at first that he was married with three small children, because she thought he’d eventually leave his wife.

It didn’t happen. But my mother stuck it out. She worked at the Hell’s Horsemen clubhouse, cleaning up after the boys, cooking for them and doing their laundry, enabling her to carry on her affair with Jase as discreetly as possible.

Eventually my mother left my father, who’d subsequently hopped in his truck, left Miles City, and never returned. She cut ties with my grandparents and Jase moved both my mother and me into an apartment in town, a nice four-unit condo where we had a front door, a driveway, and a backyard, and everything continued much the same as before.

I hated it. I hated watching her throw her entire life away for a man who would never truly be hers, a man who would always go home at night to his wife and children and leave my mother alone, usually crying for him. Knowing that no matter how much she loved Jase, if he never left his wife she would always be considered a club whore, nothing more, and yet she still stayed.

That’s how I grew up.

The fatherless kid of a club whore, I watched my mother cater to a man who, in my opinion, didn’t really love her, watched her work her ass off for a club full of criminal bikers who lied, cheated, and more than likely killed their way through life.

And that was it. I had no one else, no other family to turn to.

I left Miles City, desperate to get away from the club life and all it entailed, the day after my high school graduation. With a full scholarship to San Francisco University and an internship already in place at a small newspaper, I had no plans to ever return.

After leaving, I’d been more than ready to get rid of “the look” that had defined me all my life, that look consisting of braces, glasses, secondhand clothing two sizes too big for me, and wiry red curls that took a day and a half just to tame in any sort of way.

One of my first friends in college, Grace, a true hippie raised on a commune in Northern California, had taken me under her wing and “crazied me up a bit,” as she liked to call it. So now I was free of both glasses and braces, my crazy hair had no choice but to remain in dreadlocks, and my body was a work of fucking art. Every single one of my tattoos I loved—colorful, large, and intricate, taking up both my arms, my back, chest, stomach, and both thighs. And my piercings…eh, I was fickle. Aside from getting my ear holes stretched a little more every so often, I’d alternate which ones I wore because I liked to change it up a bit every now and then.

In San Francisco, nobody gave me a second glance. And I loved it. There was no reason to ever return to Montana.

Except, that wasn’t in the cards for me. No matter how hard I tried to cut all ties with Miles City and its merry band of chrome and leather criminals, they just wouldn’t let me go.

After my mother was shot, Jase’s wife was tried, convicted, and shipped off to prison. My mother survived, obviously, but the damage had been devastating. Her memory had suffered, and at first she didn’t remember anyone or anything. Then, slowly, her memory began to return.

She remembered her childhood, her parents, and old friends; she even remembered my father and eventually me.

Then the progression came to a screeching halt. Her last memory of me was as a toddler.

My entire childhood, my teenage years, her meeting Jase and leaving my father, the many years of service she’d devoted to the Hell’s Horsemen Motorcycle Club…all of it was gone. Forever, it seemed.

Where did Hawk fit into any of this?

Well, as it turned out, my mother, in the midst of her already fucked-up love triangle, turned to Hawk for the comfort she couldn’t find with Jase.

No one had known.

After my mother had been shot, Hawk appeared at the hospital in a fury. He beat the crap out of Jase, during which he spilled the beans about him and my mother, crudely bringing to light Christopher’s true paternity.

And now…

My mother still didn’t remember either of them. To her, Jase was just some pathetic, broken man who refused to leave her alone, and the husband of the crazy woman who’d shot her. And Hawk was the father of the child she didn’t remember conceiving or carrying.

As for me, it was hard. There was a lot of explaining on my part, rehashing year after year in hopes she’d remember something past my toddler years. A lot of tears were shed, but eventually she came to accept the fact that she forgot two decades of her life, and that I wasn’t her baby anymore but a full-grown woman.

As for Christopher, she loved him instantly. Because she didn’t remember him, he was presented to her as a newborn. The familiar red hair, green eyes, and pale skin hadn’t hurt much either.

Which was great, super. Wonderful, even. But she didn’t remember me and I couldn’t accept it.

I felt alone. Orphaned in a way.

So I blamed Jase and Hawk, as well as the entirety of the Hell’s Horsemen Motorcycle Club and their affinity for drama, for all of it.

My mother, as confused as she was, tried to break all ties as well, but Hawk being Christopher’s father made it hard for her. Several women associated with the club, women my mother had been close to, also refused to let her go. They continued to show up for visits and call her periodically despite her protests.

They also pressured her into spending time with Jase, or Hawk, in hopes that it would help trigger a memory.

So yeah, I timed my visits alongside Hawk’s trips home. He stayed on the road mostly, but when he would return, he wanted to see his son ASAP and it was my job to ensure that happened without him intruding on my mother.

“I’ll call the airlines today,” I told her. “I should be able to take a few days off work.”

“Thank you, baby,” she whispered tearfully and I felt my eyes prick in response.

“See you soon,” I said hurriedly, needing to get off the phone before we both ended up in tears. As much progress as she’d made, it was still hard for her to think of me as an adult and seeing her cry, hearing her cry…well, it was hard for me.

She was my mother. The only parent I had, the only person in my life that had ever loved me. I would do anything for her, including make myself miserable.

Hanging up, I halfheartedly threw my cell phone across the room and it landed pathetically in a basket of dirty laundry.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Fuck.”

“Speaking of fuck,” the man beside me said. “And seein’ as you’re already naked…”

I glanced over at him.

ZZ.

Yet another biker in the Hell’s Horsemen Club. Sort of. He didn’t associate with anyone in the club other than Deuce West, the president, and he hadn’t set foot back in Miles City since Danny, Deuce’s prissy-ass little bitch of a daughter, had cheated on him with another Horseman, Ripper, and broken his heart around the same time my mother had been shot.

Deuce’s offspring were good at that…breaking hearts.

All the West kids looked the same no matter who their mothers were. Cage, Danny, and Ivy were all blond with identical dimpled smiles. The girls had been blessed with wide, doe-eyed baby blues and full lips, and Cage…ugh. UGH.

He was beautiful. And an asshole.

Like father, like son.

As for Deuce, I wouldn’t be surprised if every blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and dimpled beauty queen across all fifty states belonged to him.

My body and my looks would always be a sore spot for me. I was ridiculously skinny, and not in the graceful supermodel way, but instead awkward, all elbows and knees like a newborn foal. I had tiny breasts and no hips, my collarbone stuck out, and so did my hipbones.

I was still pale-skinned, red-haired, and freckled.

And I would always be—no matter how many times I looked in the mirror and saw someone not quite as unattractive as before—that stupid and ugly little girl that no one had wanted.

But whatever, I’d accepted the fact that I’d never be beautiful a long time ago.

After my mother’s injury, I returned to San Francisco just in time to start my sophomore year. Two months into fall semester, ZZ showed up looking for a place to crash in his downtime. Other than the Horsemen, he didn’t have anyone else. His father had been one of Deuce’s lifers but had died when ZZ was twelve. Deuce had become his surrogate father and ZZ had taken the path his own father had, into the life. When he was twenty, his mother had passed away, her body ravaged by cancer. Not wanting to return to Miles City and subsequently see Danny or Ripper, he’d tracked me down instead with Deuce’s help.

As much as I wanted to hate Deuce, I couldn’t. Even though I’d gotten a full scholarship from San Francisco University, I still needed money for living expenses. Deuce had paid my rent and all my utilities, even my cell phone service, and provided me with extra spending money throughout my college years.

And, despite my protests, he was still paying for everything. No matter what I said, pleading and begging him to stop, he always refused.

“You’re family,” he’d growl. “And I take care of family.”

It was hard not to appreciate that but I knew deep down he was only doing it for my mother, not for me. They all loved my mother, not just Jase and Hawk, but all of them—the bikers, their old ladies, their kids, even the club whores. She was a mother by nature; she cared for people and enjoyed doing it, and it was damn hard not to love her.

So, really, I was only sort of family. More like the redheaded stepchild of a family full of badass bikers…but still family.

And so was ZZ.

We hardly knew each other, but after six months of periodically rooming together when ZZ wasn’t on the road, one thing had led to another and we ended up fucking. And had been fucking ever since.

Occasionally, I heard ZZ on the phone with Deuce and got the impression he was doing the Horsemen’s dirty work, the kind of shit that never got talked about unless it was in some sort of biker code consisting of broken vowels and grunts. Then he’d leave for a while and the next time he’d show up, he always looked that much more damaged. I asked him once what he’d been doing and the look on his face was so utterly terrifying that I hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to ask him again. Not that it really mattered to me what he was doing while he wasn’t here.

Ours wasn’t an emotional attachment, we were just…making do. He was too old for me anyway, somewhere in his midthirties. Whereas both Danny and her stepmother, Eva, seemed to like older men, I couldn’t picture ending up with one. Who wanted to be in their thirties with an old dude who could no longer get it up? Not me. Not even for a guy as hot as ZZ.

I glanced over at him and ran my eyes down his naked body. Long dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, killer muscles.

I’d never seen a guy work out as much as he did. He ran in place, he lifted weights, he did close to a thousand sit-ups and push-ups combined every day.

The aggression he was always trying to work off was off the fucking charts and I was starting to think exercising wasn’t working.

I watched ZZ palm his cock and point it at me. “Climb on and sit the fuck down.”

“Shut up,” I muttered. “Why are you being so bossy lately?”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who’s haulin’ ass back to Miles City and gotta deal with those assholes. I’m outta here in a few days, maybe for two weeks, maybe for a month, depends on the lineup Deuce sent me and, baby, figured you and me both could both use a good poundin’ before I head out.”

I snorted. “Like you don’t pick up ass wherever you keep disappearing to.”

“I like your ass,” he growled.

“And every other female’s ass in existence,” I finished for him.

“Last three runs,” he shot back angrily. “Haven’t fucked with anyone but you.”

Since ZZ’s version of a calendar was based on mileage and how many runs per year, I tried to remember when his last run was and the one before that and then the one before that.

When I did, I gaped at him. “Are you trying to tell me you haven’t fucked anyone but me in over six months?”

His dark eyes bored into mine. “Did I fuckin’ stutter?”

Huh. I suppose in a way it made sense. Why bother with anyone else when you had a person you knew for a fact could physically satisfy you sleeping right beside you?

But still, ZZ and I were not exclusive…at least, we never used to be.

“For fuck’s sake, Tegen, stop overthinkin’ every damn thing. Just get on my goddamn dick and start fuckin’ bouncin’.”

Well, how could I deny such sweet talk?

“It all depends,” I told him. “On whether you want my pussy or my ass.”

He grinned and the expression changed him. Gone was the angry, gruff man I often saw, and in his place was the ZZ I remembered as a kid. The man he’d been before Danny had dug her pink-tipped claws into his chest and ripped out his heart.

“Figure I should give your ass a break,” he said.

Snorting, I climbed on top of him and straddled his thighs. Reaching over to the opposite nightstand, I snagged a condom, tore it open with my teeth, and rolled it down over his cock.

“And that was the right answer,” I told him. “My ass thanks you.”

Grabbing hold of him, I lifted my hips and guided him to my entrance. It took me a moment to work him inside me.

“Make it count,” I told him, then slammed down over him.

Gasping, I folded my body over, my hands clamped down over his biceps. He growled, and his hands flew to my hips.

“Don’t I always?” he said smugly.

I shrugged. “No,” I said, being honest, purposely clenching my inner walls around his cock and watching his face tighten with lust. “You don’t.”

In response, his dark eyes began to burn, his fingertips dug deep into my hips, and I smiled to myself.

He was so easy to piss off and when he was pissed, he fucked like an angry god readying to smite the universe. I had no doubt that now, he would most definitely make it count.

• • •

Cage pulled into the parking lot beside the Silver Demons’ brownstone, shut off his engine, and toed his kickstand down.

He was fucking exhausted. He’d driven straight from Montana to New York and only stopped for gas and once to sleep.

Grabbing his bedroll and duffle, he headed across the parking lot and up the walkway, bumping fists with a few Demons standing outside.

“Preacher ’specting ya?” Tiny asked as he passed by. Cage paused to look at the overweight, sweat-drenched, graying old man who was the Demons’ sergeant-at-arms.

“Naw,” he said. “But I need to crash and I ain’t feel like drivin’ to my boys in Queens.”

“We got a full house,” Tiny said. “But Prez keeps Eva’s old room empty.” Nodding, Cage turned and continued up the walk, ignoring two club whores who were looking him over like he was a piece of meat.

“Horseman,” one of them drawled, a brunette wearing only a bikini top and a leather miniskirt. “You want company tonight?”

Grabbing the handle on the front door, he turned to look at her and narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck happened to your nose?” he asked, cocking his head to the side and studying the obvious break that had healed horribly, leaving the poor bitch looking like she’d gone head-to-head in the ring with Evander Holyfield.

Her slutty smile fell from her face and was instantly replaced with a snarl. “Courtesy of your old man, West,” she hissed, her upper lip curling. “Right after I sucked his limp dick.”

Unfazed, Cage continued to stare at her nose, wondering why the fuck she hadn’t had that shit set straight or gotten it fixed, for Christ’s sake.

“Limp dick, huh,” he said. “Not too sure you’re talkin’ ’bout my old man, ’cause that fucker ain’t ever put that thing away. Every time I’m turnin’ around he’s maulin’ his old lady.”

It was true. Eva and his old man were always at it. Always touching and kissing and grossing the hell out of everyone.

The whore’s scowl deepened. “Little blue pills work wonders,” she snarled.

“Forget her,” another bitch said, pushing in front of her friend. “Name’s Gail, honey, but the boys call me Slitty. You wanna find out why?”

Laughing and shaking his head, Cage pushed open the front door and headed inside where he was greeted with more of the same. Club whores and Demons with cuts from various states crowded the hallways and rooms. Must be something big brewing, he surmised, for Preacher to have gathered the masses. Not that he would know; Cage wasn’t privy to this kind of info. But his old man would know, being in as deep with the Demons as the Horsemen were.

Only his old man’s top boys—Mick, Ripper, Cox, and now Tap, who got promoted after ZZ ran off—knew the nitty-gritty.

Which was fucking fine with him; he didn’t need to know shit, he was perfectly happy doing what he was told. Yep. It didn’t bother him at all that his own father didn’t trust him with club business.

Whatever.

Reaching Preacher’s office, he curled his hand into a fist and gave the door a good, hard knock.

“Yeah?” yelled a familiar gruff voice.

Cage grasped the knob and pushed open the door. Damon “Preacher” Fox was alone, sitting behind his monstrous desk, his head bent over a laptop as his fingers tapped hesitantly at the keyboard.

Cage gaped at him. Preacher. Laptop. It wasn’t adding up in his head.

“You know how to use this thing?” Preacher muttered, glancing up at him. “I feel like a fuckin’ rat in a maze over here.”

Cage laughed. “Sorry, that’s Danny’s territory. I ain’t no good with computers.”

Preacher grimaced at the machine, then swiveled around to face him. “Fuck this shit. Take a seat, kid, and tell me how those beautiful sisters of yours is doin’. And that fucker Danny married? They got a baby now, don’t they?”

It was Cage’s turn to grimace. Fucking Ripper. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be okay with Danny’s choice in men. The asshole had been sleeping with his sister in secret, during which Danny had been forced to kill one of Ripper’s girlfriends because the bitch had pulled a gun on Ripper. And if that weren’t bad enough, Ripper took off after that, leaving Danny alone and out of her mind depressed only to find out later she was knocked up.

After an abortion and a whole lot of misery, Danny started dating ZZ, the best of them, the nicest brother the Horsemen had ever seen, and she’d pulled herself out of it. Then fucking Ripper came back and shit went to hell again. Yeah, they were together now, married with a kid, but at what fucking expense. The club had lost ZZ and Danny wasn’t ever going to be the same fun-loving, ditzy little sister he’d once adored.

So yeah, fuck Ripper.

“They’re fine,” he grumbled, taking a seat in one of Preacher’s uncomfortable high-backed chairs. “He’s fine, the kid is fine too.”

Preacher studied him. “Yeah, good to fuckin’ know, and how ’bout you? You fine too?”

Sure. Why not.

“Yeah,” he said.

Preacher’s dark eyebrows rose. “Yeah sure, kid. But it ain’t my business. So, movin’ the fuck on. What’s bringin’ you to my neck of the woods? Deuce didn’t say shit about it last time we talked.”

Cage fought back his grimace. Nobody needed to know how he really felt about putting a man to ground. It was the way of his world. Only…he’d thought after the first few times it would have gotten easier.

But it hadn’t.

And if it ever did? Well, Cage feared that day.

“Bannon,” he said, referring to one of the most notorious crime bosses on the East Coast, who ran his business out of Philly. “His right-hand man fucked up, thinkin’ he was just dealin’ with a pack of redneck bikers, and made the mistake of shortchangin’ the Horsemen.”

Preacher grinned, the expression taking a good ten years off the man’s face. Like Cage’s own father and unlike most of the men in this life, Preacher didn’t look his age. His long brown hair had very little gray, although his short-trimmed beard was nearly all gray. Laugh lines gave his already squarely defined features that much more definition. Cage would even go as far as to say that Preacher was definitely a ladies’ man.

Not that he was gay or anything, but a dude knew when another dude had pull with the bitches.

“Bannon know it’s comin’?” Preacher asked.

“Fuck, yeah,” Cage said. “Fucker set it up himself. Texted me the location ’bout two hours ago. Shit’s goin’ down tomorrow.”

Preacher’s loud laughter echoed throughout the small room. “Give ’im two,” the man said. “One in each eye, one for Deuce and one for me.”

Cage smiled grimly. Preacher’s signature “I can see you, fucker” hit was infamous. Everyone knew a bullet in each eye meant the Demons had gone and cleaned house. Everyone. MCs countrywide, nomads, cops, the Feds…everyone. Trouble was, no one could pin it on him. The man was just that good.

“Will do,” he said, standing up. “But right now I need shut-eye. Tiny said Eva’s old room is up for grabs?”

Preacher nodded. “Only for family,” he said. “And that means you, kid.”

Preacher reached to the right of him and Cage heard a desk drawer being opened, then closed.

“Heads up,” he said, and tossed a key chain over his desk. Cage caught it one-handed. It was a single silver key on a Harley wings key chain. In the circular center of the wings, Eva had been inscribed.

Thanking him, Cage took his leave and wandered back out into the hallway feeling more at home in an MC all the way across the country than he did in his own. Eva was lucky, having a father like Preacher.

Real fucking lucky.

She was also the best thing that had ever happened to his family, not that his father deserved her. That man could make good on a million promises from now until the day he finally kicked it, and it still wouldn’t make up for all the shit he’d put her through.

But whatever, that shit wasn’t his business.

About to head into the brownstone’s stairwell, a curvy blonde came out of a nearby bathroom, smiling as she passed by him, purposely brushing up against him. His arm shot out and his hand gripped her wrist. Yanking her back around to his front, he gave her a quick once-over.

Natural blonde, early twenties, cute face, killer rack, hips he could get a good hold on. She was a little meatier than he liked his women, and he was usually pretty liberal, preferring his women soft, liking watching their shit shake like fucking Jell-O while he slammed into them. But fuck it, those tits were calling his name.

“You family?” he growled, yanking her flush against him.

She shook her head.

“Anyone layin’ claim?”

She shrugged. “Preacher has me most nights,” she said. That made sense. Preacher liked his bitches curvier than most; the more to grab, the better, the man had always said.

But if she wasn’t claimed, that was all he needed to know.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, turning her toward the stairwell and slapping her hard on her juicy-as-fuck ass.

When they reached Eva’s bedroom door, Cage grabbed her again, pushed her up against the wall just outside Eva’s old room, and shoved her too-tight T-shirt up over those two big bad boys, already half hanging out over the scrap of purple lace she was passing off as a bra. Thrusting her chest outward, she helped them the rest of the way out and he watched, growing hard as the soft flesh piled over. Bringing her small hands to her chest, she cupped both breasts, squeezing and kneading, spilling through her spread fingers.

“You like?” she whispered, smiling up at him.

He stared down at her. She might be young but she knew what was up, and he had to wonder how many times she’d been passed around the club already and to how many brothers.

Fuck it. Why did he even bother to wonder? He’d fucked so many club whores and random sluts, women he knew had been passed from brother to brother and back again. Hell, there’d been so many he’d lost count a long time ago.

Yeah. He was a whore. A man whore. He knew it; hell, everyone knew it. He’d been sleeping with every pussy that came his way since he’d lost his virginity, courtesy of Mick and Tap, at the age of twelve to a club whore seven years older than him. After that, after a few more sexual encounters, it just seemed like it was…his thing.

The girls flocked to him. They thought he was hot as hell and didn’t give two fucks if he fucked them once and then tossed them aside because, really, all they wanted was to say they’d fucked him.

But like he said, it was his thing. It was almost expected of him to act like a slut. That was all anyone ever thought about when they looked at him. And that was cool, whatever, sex was fun as hell, he loved it.

Until he didn’t love it anymore.

Now it was just…sex. And now, every time he came, if he even remembered it, he was starting to feel more and more like shit. He wasn’t even sure why he felt like shit. What dude feels like shit after getting laid? Sometimes multiple times in one night.

This dude.

Suddenly he didn’t want to touch this bitch. He definitely didn’t want his mouth where he knew countless other mouths had been and…

A vision of Preacher came to mind; the old guy sucking on her fat tits, jerking his hips back and forth between her thick thighs.

Feeling…off, Cage backed away, all the way into the opposite wall, ready to tell her to take a hike, when suddenly she dropped to her knees and yanked his leathers open. The bitch had his cock out and in her mouth, sucking his shit like a starving leech, faster than he’d ever freed that motherfucker before.

Holy fuck. His head fell back against the wall, his hands found her hair, grabbing handfuls, fisting, and his eyes closed. This bitch wasn’t a leech, she was a goddamn circus clown, the kind that blew up balloon after balloon, turning those fuckers into ridiculously detailed balloon animals.

Holding tighter to her hair, he punched his hips forward, forcing her to take all of him. Jesus, fuck, that felt good.

He expected her to protest, to gag, something, but Jesus, she was so damn into it, sucking and licking his shit, moaning and purring like a fat kid with a fucking ice cream cone.

Groaning, he came quickly, more than likely a straight shot into her stomach considering she’d been champion deep-throating him like a sword-swallowing porn star.

After licking him clean, she shot to her feet, her tits nearly hitting her in the face as they bounced with her swift movement, and curled her body around his. “My turn,” she purred, grabbing his hand and helping him down the waistband of her jeans.

Eh. Whatever. Fair was fair. Circling her clit he went clockwise, counterclockwise, then slid a finger inside her and began pumping slowly. All of two seconds passed and he was bored out of his fucking mind. He needed this over with, like, yesterday.

Grabbing her throat, he squeezed until she gasped, then swung her around and shoved her up against the wall.

“Come on, bitch,” he growled, cutting off all her air supply as he continued working between her thighs. “Give it here.”

Eyes wide, eyelids fluttering, the girl went stiff, shuddering silently through what was probably the best orgasm she’d ever have. Cage silently thanked Bucket for telling him, years ago, how to pull that shit off as quickly as possible. Although, whereas Bucket used the trick to keep the bitches coming back for more, Cage used it to get rid of them as quickly as possible.

Releasing her throat, he backed away from her and buttoned up his leathers.

“You wanna fuck?” she called out, her voice breathless.

God, fucking, no. That bitch was a straight-up whore. Barely twenty and already a fucking champ. Her pussy would be swinging wide open by thirty. Fuck that.

“Nope,” he said evenly, pushing past her. Pulling out Eva’s key from his pocket, he proceeded to unlock the door.

“Asshole,” he heard come from behind him.

Uncaring what the bitch thought of him, he stepped inside and slammed Eva’s door closed behind him.

Falling back against the door, he took several deep breaths. What the fuck was wrong with him? Since when did he give a fuck who else was fucking who he was fucking? Aside from club whores, he almost never fucked a bitch twice for that reason, not wanting to step on anyone’s toes, or to ensure the bitch didn’t get emotionally attached to him.

Maybe he was getting a cold? Maybe he swallowed a bug on the ride up here and he was now dying of West Nile virus?

Or maybe he was just sick of fucking whores?

“Whatever,” he muttered as he scrubbed his hands over the stubble on his cheek and jaw.

A quick survey of the room showed him a bed, a dresser complete with an ancient stereo system, and a rack of CDs beside it. An old, ripped bean bag chair sat on the floor, and the yellowed-white walls were lined with posters: Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash, Hendrix…and Billie Holiday? Huh.

Eva and her random, usually crappy, borderline-obsessive taste in music would never fail to amaze him.

Moving on, he found photos of a very young Eva sitting on the back of Preacher’s Harley, holding tight to her old man. Then one of Eva and Kami, they couldn’t have been older than five or six, and the photos that followed were of them growing up together as kids, teenagers, and women.

More photos of Demons barbecues and out-of-state runs, photos of Eva and the boys as she grew up within the club.

Eva’s high school graduation, her college graduation, Kami’s first wedding to some douchebag lawyer, and the birth of her first son, Devin (who looked nothing like that lawyer and a whole lot like Cox).

Cage started laughing until he came to another photo, and he stopped laughing.

Eva and Frankie’s wedding picture.

Cage stared at the maniacal face of Franklin “Crazy” Deluva, Eva’s first husband, the madman who’d ganked Ripper on a run and slashed his face and body to shit; the asshole who’d murdered Kami’s first husband in some sick serial-killer-fetish fashion; the fucker who’d broken into the Horsemen’s clubhouse, cuffed Deuce to a radiator, and made him watch while he raped Eva.

The man who’d then taken Eva, who probably would have killed her if she hadn’t killed him first. The man who, because of all that, had fucked his already fucked-up family even more.

Noticing something strange about the photo, he stepped closer and studied it. Yeah, the bottom left corner was pushed out. Lifting the picture off the wall, he turned the frame over in his hands and flipped open the clasps holding it together. After tossing aside the backing, he found what was making the bulge in the photo. An old envelope, folded in half.

Setting aside everything else, he unfolded the envelope and looked inside.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

It was Eva, sitting at the bar next to Blue, her elbows propped up on the countertop, her chin resting on the palms of her hands, grinning at the camera. And she was young, real fucking young, like…

He looked around and locked on a photo of her at her college graduation, wearing her cap and gown. She was college young. Which meant…

He counted back the years and…

Yeah, his parents had still been together. Just barely.

Cage looked back at the photos. He knew there was some hard-core history between his old man and her; he’d heard some of the boys tease Eva about it on occasion, but he hadn’t known the whole story. The most he’d ever gotten out of his old man was after he’d first brought Eva back to Montana with him.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“She the reason you’re pissed off all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“She the reason you left Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“You love her?”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause.

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

He continued flipping through the old photos. Some were of Eva and the boys, some of Kami being mauled by both Cox and Ripper, some of ZZ, some of Dorothy and Jase.

Jesus. They were all younger than he was now.

But it was the next photo that caused his jaw to drop.

Lying on her back, propped up on her elbows, butt-ass fucking naked, legs spread wide open, sprawled across what he recognized as his old man’s bed at the club, was Eva. College-age Eva with that “come fuck me” smile, and those tits, hanging heavy off to her sides, begging to be—

Hurriedly, he tossed it aside. Yeah, they weren’t actually related, but she was his old man’s wife and the mother of his youngest sister, meaning he shouldn’t be using her as bate material. At least, not anymore.

Back when he was eighteen, yeah, that was a whole other story.

The next photo was even worse. It had been taken at such an angle that you knew the person shooting it had been lying down, capturing the person above them.

And the person above them was his father, looking ungodly young compared to now. His long blond hair was pulled back, his suntanned face drawn tight, his nostrils flaring, his light blue eyes were hooded as he stared down at the photographer with…

Lust.

Adoration.

Maybe even some disbelief.

And even though Cage couldn’t see anything past his father’s tattooed chest, it was obvious what was happening. Eva had snapped a picture of his old man while he’d been in the middle of fucking her. No, not just fucking. That sorry old bastard had been in love.

Even way back then.

Jealousy swamped him. Not jealousy over Eva, even though she was one fine-ass female, but jealousy of his own father.

How many times had that asshole fucked up? How many people had he hurt along the way? And as punishment, God goes and gives him one of the most perfect women Cage had ever known? Beautiful, eighteen motherfucking years younger than him, with a heart so big, everyone around her could feel that love just pouring out.

Fair. Real fucking fair.

His asshole of a father had everything, and he had…

A whole lot of nothing.

Cursing, he jammed the photos back into the envelope, then inside his cut. After setting the photo back to rights on its place on the wall, and giving Frankie one last long look, he headed for the bathroom, suddenly acutely aware that Frankie had once walked these very same steps, had headed for the very same bathroom, pissed in this very same toilet, showered in the very shower behind him, slept in that bed…beside Eva…with Eva.

Fucker had been damned obsessed with her. Worse, even. He’d raped his own wife, forcing Eva to kill him, her own husband.

Flushing, Cage headed back into the bedroom and went straight for the door. No way was he sleeping in a room full of creepy memories and a ghost who may or may not have haunting capabilities, which may or may not include gouging eyes out and slashing skin and making dudes eat their own dick.

Yeah, he liked his intestines exactly where they were, thank you very much.

He’d sleep beside Tiny. Hell, he’d sleep on top of Tiny before he slept in here.

“You didn’t deserve her either, Frankie,” he muttered, closing the door, gladly leaving behind him his stepmother’s painful past and all the garbage that had followed in its wake, locked up tight inside that shrine Preacher was passing off as a room.

“And now you can rot in motherfuckin’ hell. All alone.”