Prologue

Twenty years ago, I found my religion. I didn’t find it in a church or at some temple. There was no holy figure praying for me, welcoming me into his kingdom as he submerged me in water.

There was me.

And there was Satan.

Dressed in leather, I kneeled before his altar and instead of chanting well-rehearsed prayers I took an oath. Fearing nothing, I vowed to ride through the valley of the shadow of death with my brothers at my side. I swore to serve and protect. To uphold simple values like honor, integrity, trust and respect.

Old school shit.

The kinda shit the punk ass kids of today know nothing about.

People think being a biker is all about riding. They think it’s an excuse to wear leather and fuck the law. They know what society tells them and that’s all they’ll ever know because, like any other lifestyle, if you don’t live it, you don’t know it.

They don’t know loyalty is the core of a biker that it’s the one thing that binds one brother to another. In a world gone soft, loyalty means a fuck of a lot. It’s the thing that takes years to build and only seconds to destroy.

For years I built that shit up but, in every life there comes a day of reckoning. For the righteous it’s a joyous event, for the wicked it’s the day when values are severed. It’s the day darkness is exposed and sinners are punished for their trespasses. My punishment, my day of reckoning came when my wife died.

Finding her amongst the ruins maimed, her head barely connected to her body, ruined me. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, most of it ugly as fuck but watching them close the body bag, having to let go as they wheeled her to the morgue—that fucking wrecked me. Left with nothing but a pair of red shoes and a need for revenge, I lost my religion.

Once the man who believed in the sanction of brotherhood, I am now a widower whose club got his wife killed. I’m the man who stripped off his leathers and ran to the woods. The man who gave Jack Parrish and his club a pardon when they deserved death.

Now, here I am in upstate New York, in a podunk town fucking two whores to remind myself I’m alive. Turning to the brunette, I watch her finger fuck herself as she keeps her eyes pinned to the blonde riding my cock. My fingers curl into blonde’s hips and I lift her off. She whines as I reach for the brunette, pulling her fingers from her pussy.

“Your turn,” I growl, as I roll over and settle between her legs. My eyes dart to the blonde as she brings a bottle of whiskey to her lips. Reaching over, I snatch it away from her before she gets a taste. A phony pout works her lips as I take a swig of the alcohol.

“Don’t share my booze, bitch,” I sneer, as I lean over and set the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand. Then I grab another condom and replace the one already covering me. “Now, sit on her face and fuck her mouth,” I command as I spread the brunette’s legs wide and position myself between them. I slam my cock deep inside without any regard. The bitch can take it—her fucking pussy has more mileage than my Harley.

The obedient blonde matches my stance and straddles the brunette’s mouth. She grabs my hands and places them on her fake as fuck tits. Twisting her nipples between my fingers, I continue to pound into the other bitch. Then I close my eyes, forget who I am and what I lost and let the whiskey take me away.

The blonde wails as she comes.

The brunette claws my ass as she does too.

Then just when I’m about to join them, I hear the rumbling engine of a bike. Knowing it’s not mine and pairing it with the knowledge that there ain’t much chrome around these parts, I pull out of the cunt and scramble off the bed. Grabbing my gun from the top drawer of my nightstand, I head toward the window and push the vinyl blinds out of my way. The bike turns into my driveway and I’m temporarily blinded by the headlights.

“Are you going to finish?” the brunette pants.

Blinking, I focus as the engine dies and the headlights dim. Then I lift my eyes to the man straddling the bike and watch as he throws his leg over.

Fucking Parrish.

Grinding my teeth, I turn to the two bitches in my bed playing with one another.

“Party’s over. Get your clothes and get the fuck out,” I order as I lower my gun and pull the rubber from my cock. Tossing it into the wastebasket, I wrap my hand around my shaft and wonder if I got enough time to rub one out before Parrish comes barreling through my front door.

Then his fists pounds against my door, answering my question.

“You’re replacing us?”

“I said get your shit together and get the fuck out. That’s not an invitation to ask questions,” I clarify as I pull on my jeans.

Lifting the zipper is painful and I forgo buttoning the top button before, pulling open the door and padding through my house. Glancing at the gun in my hand, I pull back the safety as Jack’s knuckles rap one final time against my front door. Then my eyes dart down to the mat covering the worn floorboards, to the red heels resting neatly next to my boots.

“Open the door, Pipe,” Jack demands. His voice echoes as I stare at the shoes and my wife’s lifeless eyes assault my memory.

Trying to erase the image from my mind, I swipe a hand over my face and scratch at the scruff lining my jaw before I open the door. Eyes as dark as the soul of the man they belong to peer back at me and the last twenty years flash in front of me, reminding me of a time when we would race against the rain. Days when Parrish and I would ride the wind and chase sun on our bikes. Days when brotherhood was the conditioning of a man’s soul. Days when I was proud to call the man standing in front of me family.

However, those memories fade as quickly as they appear and are replaced with the bitterness of truth. Jack Parrish is no brother of mine. He’s nothing.

“You going to invite me in or we going to do this on your front porch?” he questions, rolling a toothpick between his lips. Then I watch his eyes dart toward the house next to mine. “Got an audience, Pipe. You want me to blow this shit wide across your lawn to your neighbors? Might tarnish your good reputation around these parts.”

He pauses and glances over my shoulder as the two girls stumbling down the hallway.

“Never mind,” Jack grunts. “Looks, like you got that covered.”

Red hot anger pulses in my veins and hammers against my chest as I step forward and narrow my eyes at him.

“You judging me Parrish? That’s pretty fucking rich coming from you considering it wasn’t all that long ago you would’ve been looking for an invitation to join the fun,” I growl.

Silently his eyes penetrate through me as he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step back.

“That was a long time ago,” he finally replies. “Things were different then.”

He’s not wrong.

Back in the day, things weren’t just different, they were fucking good. Great even. Jack was voted president and our club fucking soared. We made money hand over fist, partied until the sun came up and rode until our tanks ran out. The times have changed. Brotherhood no longer means respect and wearing Jack’s patch isn’t a thing of honor but a thing of destruction.

The brunette and the blonde slide beside me and stare between me and Jack.

“Hi handsome,” the blonde croons.

Jack’s eyes don’t waver from mine.

“Not interested,” he dismisses automatically.

“That’s right,” I snarl. “Parrish, here, has a good woman at home waiting for him to fuck her senseless.”

“Overstepping, brother,” Jack warns, his jaw ticking with anger.

Hearing him call me his brother causes something inside me to snap and I step forward, poking my finger into the brick wall of his chest.

“You don’t get to call me brother,” I grind out.

Remaining completely still, his eyes drift toward the girls next to me.

“Time for you two to leave,” he orders.

“You don’t get to come into my house and demand shit, Parrish. I don’t take orders from you anymore, which means neither does anyone I’m fucking,” I growl, poking my finger harder against his chest. He doesn’t react, a sure sign that the fucking lithium he takes daily has decided to work for today.

Lucky me.

Realizing his maker isn’t controlling him and that he’s not going to go away until he’s spoken his piece, I drop my hand and slice my eyes back to the two girls.

“Get out,” I tell them.

“Will you call?”

Call? I don’t even know their fucking names. I picked them up at a fucking gas station and they followed me back here on the promise of a couple of orgasms.

“No,” I answer honestly as they step over the threshold and brush past Parrish. I watch briefly as they stumble down my front porch.

“What the fuck are you doing, Pipe?” Jack calls, dragging my attention away from the two slobs. I ignore the concern etched on his aging face and turn around. There ain’t no point in closing the door in his face, the motherfucker will only take it off the hinge—when Jack Parrish wants a word, he moves heaven and hell to get it.

Making my way into the kitchen, I open the fridge and grab myself a beer and damn myself for wasting my whiskey. Listening as Jack’s boots pound against the worn floor, I twist the cap off and slam the fridge closed.

“I gave you time,” he starts as I bring the bottle to my lips. Pausing, I drop my hand and slam the bottle down on the counter.

“You gave me shit,” I sneer, turning to meet his glare.

“The fuck I did,” he retorts. “You didn’t give me a chance to make things right. You showed up at my house before I was even healed from the explosion and took your fucking cut off.”

“Make things, right?” I question, laughing bitterly. “Motherfucker I know you think you’re God but you ain’t shit, Parrish. You can’t make anything right. Your club is dying, and it’s dying a slow death.”

Slamming his fist down against the counter that separates us, he leans forward and glares at me.

“You of all people should know better than to underestimate me, Pipe. Now, I get it. What happened to Oksana was horrible— “

“You don’t get nothing. You don’t even get to say her name,” I holler. “Don’t fucking play me, Parrish. You never gave a damn about my wife. You, like everyone else, thought my marriage was a joke.”

The wounds are still as fresh as they were when I sat at his table on a Sunday with Oksana at my side and the men I called brothers took turns ripping on her.

“You go around preaching to everyone, encouraging them to find their heart and congratulate them when they do. I found my fucking heart, and you didn’t so much as give me a pat on the back. You took your fucking jabs whenever you got the chance. Now, me and Oksana we may not have had a story like you and your old lady but we had something good, something real—and she sure as fuck didn’t deserve to get killed for a club that never gave her so much as an ounce of the respect they give Reina.”

“You got it all wrong, brother,” he protests.

“Call me brother one more fucking time and so help me Jesus, I will put a bullet in you,” I sneer.

“Like it or not, I’ll never stop calling you my brother,” he shouts angrily.

“You seem to have forgotten what brotherhood is,” I tell him. “Let me remind you, Parrish, aside from never leaving a brother behind, we don’t lie and steal from one another. We protect each other and those we love. If you were my brother than you would’ve kept my old lady as safe as you keep your own.”

“You think I wanted any of this? You think I wanted Oksana’s blood? Pipe, I didn’t see any of this coming. For fuck’s sake, they blew up my clubhouse on my wedding day. It could’ve been Reina in the morgue. It could’ve been my daughter too.”

“But it wasn’t,” I argue. “Your wife is safe at home caring for your boy and your daughter is tucked close to Blackie night after night.”

“So, they were lucky,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face. “Would it be better if they were dead too?” he asks, peeling his hands away. Gripping the edge of the counter he stares back at me. “Would it make you feel better if I was the one who buried my wife? Would it change your stance if I put my little girl in the ground?”

Instantly, I feel guilt and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for letting Jack’s grief overpower mine, but he lost a child already. After a tragic accident, Jack buried his two-year-old boy, and I stood next to him as he did so.

“Blackie handed you a knife and gave you the chance to cut the teardrops from Charlie’s face. He delivered retribution to you for Oksana because he buried his wife and knew your pain better than anyone.”

When Blackie laid his wife to rest, I stood next to him too. I watched him fall to drugs as the grief tore through him and the guilt swallowed him whole.

“You hurtin’ we all hurtin’, brother,” he adds. “But you leaving like you did, you didn’t give us a chance to help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” I defend.

“This ain’t you, Pipe,” he accuses, tipping his chin toward me. “The brother I know doesn’t give up. He doesn’t give up on himself or his club,” he pauses. “We’re sinking man,” he admits.

Hearing the desperation in his voice, I lift my eyes and peer back at him.

“Got all these people I’m responsible for and I can’t keep them safe. I can’t keep them breathing because I don’t know what’s coming next. I sit night after night and wonder who’s next to die.”

“Not my problem anymore,” I tell him.

“You used to sit next to me and make sense of everything,” he recalls.

“Got yourself a vice president to do that for you, Parrish.”

He doesn’t respond immediately but after a few moments pass, be slaps his palm against the counter. Accepting defeat, he gives me a curt nod.

“I hear you, brother,” he says finally and pushes off the counter.

He’s right about one thing—for years I was the man who made sense of his head. I know Jack better than he knows himself, better than any of his brothers know him. I also know he may be turning his back and accepting defeat now but it won’t last long.

He pauses at the end of the kitchen and turns slightly to glance at me once more.

“For what it’s worth, I visit your old lady every time I go visit my boy and I’ll keep on showing my face because it’s what brothers do.”

I don’t respond and he turns away, disappearing out of my line of sight. The door clicks closed and a moment later I hear his engine purr to life. Turning back to my beer, I empty the contents into the sink and chuck the bottle into the trash. I make my way out of the kitchen and to the front door. Leaning against it, I slide my body down until I’m sitting on the floor staring at Oksana’s shoes.

It only takes a second before I’m transcended back to her death.

Climbing the debris to get to her, I find her shoes.

Then I spot her.

I try to cradle her body against mine but I’m not sure where to touch her. Knowing the simplest touch will leave her decapitated, I sit beside her and stare into her lifeless eyes.

Then they come to remove her from the scene of the crime.

I hear the zipper on the body bag.

I feel my fingers slip from the gurney as they take her from me forever.

There are things in this world a man can forget.

Things he can forgive.

Losing his heart isn’t one of those things.

For when a man loses his heart, he’s left in ruins.