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God, she is smoking hot. It’s been three days since that hot diva walked through the club’s door—which means I’ve had a hard-on for three days. And she just keeps getting hotter every time I see her. It’s really pissing me off. Devil immediately warned the brothers not to “ touch, taste, smell, or look” at his little sister, but I already know most of them are struggling to follow that order. Like the rest of her family, she doesn’t show much—just that cold face of hers.It makes me wonder about her past. Like usual, I make my way toward my room when I hear heavy breathing. Not the good kind. The distressed kind. I pause, trying to figure out where it’s coming from, and realize I’m standing in front of Violet’s room. The breathing gets louder, more labored. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t said a word to the girl yet, and the one time she talked to me, she was seriously pissed off. I found that kind of cute. Wait. What? I take a step back, ready to walk away, but it’s hard to ignore the sound of her now-pained gasps. “Leave me be, God!” I knock first. No answer. I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching, then open the door. Only, it barely cracks open before it bumps into something. A grunt follows, and I look down to see Violet on the floor—curled in a ball. She looks small, fragile. Not at all like the girl who took on three girls earlier like it was nothing. I step quietly into her room and close the door behind me. A small whimper escapes her throat, and I’m at a loss. What am I even trying to do? I hate women. Still… watching this chick suffer doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe it’s because she’s my best friend’s little sister. I scoop her up from the floor and carry her to her bed. She fits in my arms perfectly, and somehow, I’m not even disgusted by having a woman in my arms. Before I can set her down, she shifts in my hold, sniffing me, then buries her face into the crook of my neck. Her breathing begins to slow. Did I just calm her down… by doing nothing? Are women that easy to soothe? ****** I slowly park my Forty-Eight Harley Davidson on the side of the nearly empty street. A broken streetlight flickers above my head, while the rest are completely off. The street is quiet, except for the snoring of a homeless man sleeping in the alley a few feet away. At least, I think it’s a man. I get off my bike and pull a cigarette from my new pack. After a glance across the street, I cross the road, lighting the cigarette with the Zippo lighter I keep in the pocket of my leather biker jacket. The parking lot on the other side is empty, indicating the 24/7 diner is just as deserted. When I reach the doors, I turn around and kneel down, leaning my back against the wall. I’ve been more stressed than usual lately—and that says a lot. I finally let myself relax now that I’m feeding my nicotine addiction and close my eyes. But not long after, I hear a car approaching and open them again. A truck pulls into the parking lot and parks like an idiot, taking up two spaces. I narrow my eyes against the harsh headlights shining directly at me and take another drag from my cigarette before dropping it to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of my combat boot. “Miss Larkson?” A man approaches me, and I give him a quick once-over. I know who he is—I hired him a couple of weeks ago. We’ve only spoken over the phone, so I’ve never seen him in person until now. I think his name is Vince, but I’m terrible with names. He’s short, bald, and slightly overweight. He’s wearing a raincoat over a thick sweater, and I cringe. It’s so hot—even if it’s 4 AM and the temperature’s cooled down a bit. “That’s me.” “Good. Do you want to, uh, go inside?” Vince—if that’s even his name—asks while glancing over my shoulder at the diner door. I stare at him for a beat too long, just to make him squirm, then lift my chin and walk into the diner. Immediately, the stench hits me, and I wrinkle my nose. The place reeks, like there’s a dead animal rotting in one of the corners. Lovely. The interior is old, filthy, and cheap. I take a seat in the far corner, facing the door, and lean back. Vince sits across from me, still looking uncomfortable. I nod at the disinterested waitress trudging toward our table. “How can I help you?” she asks, pulling out a tattered notebook. She doesn’t even look at us—her eyes are fixed on something outside the window. She looks suicidal, honestly. But I would be too if I had to work in a place that smelled like decomposing rats. Her hair is greasy, her makeup looks two days old, and her non-existent eyebrows are drawn on in crooked lines like she used a ruler while drunk. Her uniform needs to be washed—badly. God only knows what it’s stained with. “Coffee and blueberry pancakes,” Vince says. I glance at him and grimace. He ignores me and smiles at the waitress. She nods, scribbles down the order, and walks away. “I didn’t come all the way here for a dinner date,” I say sharply. “Tell me what you found so I can get going.” I tap my heel irritably against the floor and meet his eyes. I don’t have time for this—I need to keep moving. Vince nods and pulls a large envelope from his jacket. “Right, uh, I found something you might be interested in,” he begins. I let out a heavy sigh. “After opening your adoption file, I found out it was a closed adoption. But I managed to connect the time of your birth and your age to your birth mother. You were given away when you were about a year old. Since you came from a small town, it wasn’t hard to figure out who your mother was.” I glance up at him, then at the waitress who practically throws the plate of pancakes and coffee onto the table. This person is seriously getting on my nerves. If she keeps this up, I might smash her face into the table. I force myself to ignore the violent urge and look back at Vince. “Right. Uh, your mother died five years ago of a overdose. But you have an older brother and a father. Your mother’s name wa—” “I don’t give a hoot- about her.” Vince swallows hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his face. “Right. Your father is fifty years old. His name is Damon Montague. Your brother is thirty—Steven Montague. They’re both in an MC called the Highway Demons. Your brother is currently the president. Your father was president before him and the original founder of the club. All the information I found is in this file.” He pushes the envelope toward me and waits for a reaction. I stare out the window, taking in the quiet street and drawing a deep breath. Of course my family isn’t normal. A biker club? Seriously? I look back at Vince, the private investigator. After a moment, I reach inside my jacket and pull out another envelope—this one with $400 in cash. I set it on the table, and Vince immediately grabs it and starts counting, ignoring the nasty-looking pancakes in front of him. I stand up, take the envelope with the files, and walk out. The cement floor I’m lying on is cold. I shiver and try to ignore the black spots forming in my vision. My whole body hurts, and I let out a small whimper. The welts on my legs are infected, and pus is dripping from them. I know I need a doctor, but Sir only calls one when the wounds are life-threatening. I hate Sir—my master, my torturer. The middle-aged man who brought me to this huge house when I was only five years old. Took me out of the overpopulated orphanage that was more than happy to let him take a child off their hands. He stole everything from me—my life, my freedom, my innocence—the moment I stepped foot into this house. A child screams in the distance, and I try to detach myself from the sound. I know what’s happening. I know it’ll be my turn again soon, once I’ve healed a bit more. The screaming gets closer, the voice growing weaker until it turns into soft sobs. This girl must be new—she sounds young. I feel pity, but a darker part of me is relieved. Another person means more time for me to heal. More time alone. More time away from Sir. The door opens, and I look up. The comforting darkness around me is disrupted by the faint light spilling in from the hallway. It stings my eyes, making me squint and groan. A guard enters, carrying a plate of the usual: cold, watered-down soup, hard bread, and a small cup of lukewarm water. He also sets down a bucket—for relieving myself. I try to push myself up to reach the food, but I’m too weak. Another whimper rises in my throat, but I force it back down. I can’t show weakness. I have to be hard. Detached. Cold. The guard leans against the wall, arms folded over his bulky chest, smirking. He enjoys my pain. I can see it. I’m glad Sir makes it clear that no one else can touch his Dolls. Because I know that look in the guard’s eyes. Lost. He wants me like Sir has me. I cringe and crawl toward the plate. It takes forever, and by the time I reach it, I start eating straight from the bowl. I no longer feel ashamed to eat like an animal. I know what I am—nothing. Just a toy for Sir. I learned that quickly. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. I don’t even know how old I am. I look down at my thin, broken body. Bruises, welts, and old scars cover my once porcelain skin. My bones press through my skin, and I barely have any covering. But there’s hair growing in places there wasn’t before, so I must be a teenager by now—if what the older girls said in the orphanage was right. I haven’t seen the sky since I left the orphanage. Haven’t felt the wind in my hair or the sun warming my skin since that day. I don’t even remember what it feels like. After I finish eating and drinking, the guard roughly shoves me aside and takes the plate. He leaves the bucket and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking still breaks my heart. I want to cry, but I’ve already cried a lifetime’s worth of tears. I’m completely empty. –––––––––––– I open my eyes and throw the dirty blanket off my body. I’m sweating and breathing hard. Getting up, I glance at the cracked mirror hanging on the wall near the door. I I look like hell. Sweat drips down my skin, my eyes are wide, and my shirt is ripped, my upper body fully exposed. Must’ve torn it while thrashing in my nightmare. I rip the shirt off, toss it into the trash, and head into the dingy bathroom. A cockroach scuttles across the sink like it owns the place. God, maybe it does. Who knows anymore? I step into the sorry excuse of a shower and scrub the terror of the dream off my skin. It’s funny—how numb I am to everything now, yet still haunted by the past. Pathetic. After the quick shower, I pull on a black string thong, my black leather pants, a gray tank top, my leather biker jacket, and combat boots.I’ve got a small chest, so I don’t wear a bra. They just make me uncomfortable. I tie my dreadlocks into a low ponytail and look for my phone. 6:00 AM. Good. I’ve still got a three-hour drive ahead of me. I pack my stuff into my black leather backpack and grab my hunter knife and Glock. I don’t go anywhere without them. I tuck the knife into the hidden pocket I stitched inside my boot, pulling my jeans over it so it stays concealed. The Glock goes in the back of my pants. Then I walk outside. I hate motels like this, but they’re cheap—and no one asks questions. I walk to my bike, load my gear into the duffel bags, and straddle the seat. With a smooth motion, I start it up and ride out, heading into the rising light. Three more hours to go. Toward a small town in the middle of the Nevada desert. Hard music fills the overcrowded, dimly lit clubhouse. My brothers are messed up, like always—partying on tables, getting attention. getting blowjobs, having threesomes on the floor, and doing lines of coke. I sit at the bar, watching the chaos from a distance. My Prez, Devil, sees me and takes the seat next to mine. “Not joining again?” he asks while nodding toward Linch, One of the Soul-Eaters, who’s currently struggling with David. “No way,” I say, taking a huge gulp of my lukewarm beer. “Another,” I tell the bartender, Whiskey. The huge man lifts his chin and slides me a new bottle. “You need to get over that workday, man. Nothing’s better than the cozy warmth of the cave,” Devil grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t concern yourself with my tool,” I reply. I’m so tired of people telling me what to do. I really hate women. I don’t want them to touch me. I nearly hurried one away once when she tried to get close—and I really don’t feel like doing that again. I don’t hurt women unless they’ve harmed the club. I just don’t want them near me. God, I don’t want anyone touching me. I can barely handle my brothers, let alone some person who’s just hunting for a tool. “Whatever you say, man.” Devil gets up from his seat and grabs Linch by the hair. She likes being dominated, so she enjoys Devil dragging her toward a chair. It’s obvious from her face—excitement shines in her eyes, and she licks her lips. I turn away just before Devil intervenes, and I finish my beer. “Uh… hey.” I turn and see a young woman.She must be new, because everyone in here knows not to come on to me. If I ever needed to relax, I’d go to the beach, put her on her knees, and get off right then and there. And even that doesn’t happen often. I’m a troubled, aggressive person, and I know it. Apparently, this chick doesn’t. She bites her bottom lip, trying to be seductive, and looks up at my six-foot-five frame. She steps closer, slowly. I let out a low growl. "What do you want?” Her eyes widen, but there’s still curiosity in them. Crazy character. She likes the danger I give off. “You were sitting here alone, and I thought you could use some company,” she says, trying her luck. I know this type. She sees an opportunity because the others are too scared to get near me. She wants to be an old lady and thinks I’m a good candidate. “I’ll give you ten seconds,” I say, looking down on her. She smiles, supidly thinking it’s a good sign. “Ten seconds to disappear before I break that little neck of yours.” I’m only half bluffing. Devil would kill me if I hurt new blood. Well… he could try. I get blackouts. And when I do,I really don’t care whether you're a woman or not. The girl stumbles back, trips over her own foot, and falls to the ground. A few people around us snicker, laugh, or look a little worried. She scrambles up and half-walks, half-runs out of the clubhouse. “AW, GIRL, YOU CAN COME TO ME—I’LL GIVE YOU A GOOD TIME!” Rios, one of my brothers, shouts after her. The girl on his lap glares and pushes her something into his face, trying to win his attention back. Rios just laughs and playfully taps her shoulder. I get up, fed up with this mess, and head for the stairs. The world spins, and I only now realize I’m more drunk than I thought. With a lot of effort, I make it to my room and stumble inside. I slam the door shut behind me, strip off my clothes, and toss them to the floor. Only my cut is neatly folded and placed on the closet. My room is my safe haven, though it’s small—just a bed, a tiny bathroom, and a closet. There are holes in the walls, stained with blood from one of my blackouts. I never bothered to clean that up. It’s a warning to anyone who thinks about entering. Nobody’s allowed in here but Devil. I trust my brothers with my life, but I don’t want them in my space. I sit on the bed with my back against the wall and close my eyes. I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. ––––––––––– As always, I wake up on the ground, facing the door. My back hurts, and I grunt as I get up. Stretching my arms over my head, I walk into the bathroom and take a cold shower. Still partially dressed, I walk back into the room and dig around for some jeans and a shirt. Eventually, I find some that look clean and get dressed. Lastly, I throw on my cut and walk out the door. The bar’s already clean, and most of the Soul-Eaters are gone. The kitchen’s filled with hungover brothers—and a grinning Rios. The troublemaker never gets hangovers for some reason. I sit next to Devil and lift my chin up at the others. “Morning, VP,” or “Morning, Killer,” they mumble. I grunt in response. The kitchen is one of the biggest rooms in the clubhouse, with a long table that can seat around fifty people. Most of the brothers live here, so a big kitchen is necessary. It’s the only room that’s always clean since the Soul-Eaters basically live in here during the day. It’s their job to clean up after our messes. We pay them with a small weekly allowance, a roof over their heads, and protection. Bee Tessa, the club’s promoted Soul-Eater, smiles at me and sets down a plate of toast and coffee before walking off. She knows which brothers like what when it comes to food—hence her promotion. She pays attention and keeps the others in line. “We’re having Church in two hours,” Devil says, and we all nod. We’ve been having problems with some of the deliveries, so this was inevitable. Three runs raided in a short period—if we don’t fix this, We’re gonna have problems with a powerful figure. None of us want that. “HELLO!” someone screams. My brothers go quiet and turn toward the door. We abandon our food and rise, moving in that direction. Some of the guys look curious, others pissed that someone just walked into our clubhouse. One by one we move through the open doorway, until I nearly run into Rios, who stops abruptly. “Fuuuuuuuck me,” he mutters. I look over his shoulder and have to agree. Yeah. me sounds about right. The chick standing in the middle of the bar is very attractive. Too bad I don’t want anything to do with her gender—because she would’ve been my type. Young, slender body, small features, nice posture. Black and grey tattoos peek out from under her leather jacket. Her dark green and black dreads are tied in a high ponytail. She’s tiny too—probably around five foot two. If I wanted to, I could snap her in two with one hand. She looks around, completely unfazed by the thirty or so huge, jacked bikers surrounding her. “I’m looking for a… Damon Montague,” she says, checking a small slip of paper. My eyebrows shoot up, and I glance at Devil, who’s now glaring at the girl. “ What do you want with him?” he growls. His voice is threatening, but the girl couldn’t care less. “None of your business,” she says, matching his tone. Wow. Girl’s got courage. Devil has a nasty rep—almost as bad as mine. His name wasn’t given to him for fun. The methods he uses for killing or ‘talking’ aren't jokes. “Trust me. It’s my business,” Devil says, stepping closer. Now they’re nose to nose—well, as close as they can be. The girl barely reaches his shoulders. “And how is that?” she dares him, eyes cool. “He’s my old man,” Devil says. In the corner of my eye, I see Chaos—Devil’s father. As usual, his face gives nothing away. “Ah, that’s fine then,” she says. “I’m Violet. Apparently… you’re my older brother. Steven Montague?” It’s kind of funny, seeing the supposedly scary man in front of me turn into a statue after I told him he was my big brother. Still, I keep my stone-cold mask on and glare at him. After a minute or so, he recovers and glares back. “I don’t have a sister.” Too bad he doesn’t sound very convinced by his own words. He should work on that. “Yeah, well, like I said—that’s what I’ve been told. If you want, we can do a DNA test. Just to be sure.” I’m not 100% convinced either, even though we do have the same eyes. He’s a big man—a handsome one—with a dark and dangerous air about him. Dark hair, a medium-length beard, and an old-school mustache that suits him surprisingly well. “As far as I know, I don’t have a daughter.” A deep, cold voice suddenly cuts through from somewhere behind the line of big bikers. I take a step back so I can see past my brother—and find another huge man staring daggers at me. He’s older, with salt-and-pepper hair. If this is my father, then wow,, he’s aging well. He doesn’t even look like he’s fifty. Strong, muscled build, the same height as my brother, and intense eyes. The same eyes as mine. The same eyes as my brother. That same cold look must run in the family. I sigh and pull out the envelope my private investigator gave me, stepping around my brother. He doesn’t stop me but immediately follows when I move toward the man I assume is my father. I look up at him, ignoring everyone else, and hand over the envelope. He snatches it from my hands and opens it roughly. While he studies the information inside, I glance around. The bar is spacious, with leather couches and a sleek, black wooden counter. Three stripper poles stand in the middle of the room, each carefully positioned so you can see them from every angle. A pool table sits in the corner, cues neatly hung on the wall, the balls arranged in a perfect triangle. The bar looks spotless, and the alcohol bottles are lined up with military precision in glass cabinets hanging above the counter. This place is clean—for a biker bar. Only the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and cigars gives it away. I turn around and spot the massive logo of the MC painted on the wall: a black, realistic-looking skull grinning on a red background. Behind the skull are huge black angel wings, and a blunt hangs out of the creepy grin. Above it reads "Highway Demons," and below: "MC" and "Nevada." All the men around me wear that same logo on the backs of their cuts. Some have many patches on the front; others only have their names. But every one of them bears the infamous 1%’er patch. I know enough about MC culture to recognize that only fully patched members are present—and I haven’t figured out if that’s a good thing or not. On the opposite wall, there's another heavily decorated space. A trophy wall… or more accurately, a hunting wall. I know what it means. I’ve seen it before. Different cuts are nailed to the wall—colors from rival clubs, marked as enemies. Some of them also have Highway Demons patches—traitors from within. Those patches are slashed through, probably with a huge knife, and the front patches are burned, leaving only charred fabric behind. Every club has traitors, if you ask me, so it’s no surprise this one does too. You can’t trust everyone. I look back at my father, whose face is now contorted with fury. My brother’s turned pale—still angry, but now also shocked. I guess my sweet mother managed to keep me a secret from them too somehow. “WHAT is this?! My father’s roar shakes the room. A few of the bikers take a step back. I don’t flinch. “My private investigator gave it to me. Problem?” Some of the bikers look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Joke’s on them—I lost my mind a couple of years ago. “THAT person!” He slams a punch into the beautiful bar, splintering it slightly. Such a waste. “I totally agree,” I say, nodding, until I catch a warning glance from my brother—who seems to be waking up from his shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” my brother says, and I frown. “Why are you apologizing for something you had no control over?” I ask him. Humans are weird. Sometimes I really don’t get their behavior. “…Right. Anyway, while our dad’s over there losing his temper,, I should probably introduce myself. I’m the President of this club—but you already knew that. I go by Devil, but you can call me whatever feels comfortable. Our dad goes by Chaos… and well, you can probably guess where that name came from.” I blink. Is he serious? “You’re awfully trusting for someone in your position. Shouldn’t you, like, demand a DNA test first?” Devil smirks, amusement flashing in his eyes. “We probably will, but I knew our mother—and she was a troublesome woman.” Yeah, I figured. I glance behind him to see Chaos pacing back and forth like a caged animal, mumbling to himself. Huh. So crazy really does run in the family. “Calm down,” I say. He stops and glares at me with eyes that almost burn my skin—but I’m not intimidated. “Lose your temper after we know for sure.” Devil actually has the audacity to laugh. But Chaos marches up to me and towers over me. Before I can move, two massive arms wrap around me and lift me clean off the ground. “What the fu—” “I don’t need no a test. I should’ve known the moment I saw you with Devil. You were mine. That woman left around the time she probably started showing, and I didn’t think much of it. She always walked out, sometimes for months at a time. To think she actually hid away to give birth to you—and never even told me? That pisses me off. I should’ve definitely known.” “You have a weird taste in people," I inform him. Also, I really hope he puts me down soon—I’m starting to lose air. Thankfully, he does. He puts me down and stares into my eyes. It’s strange, being looked at by someone with the exact same eyes as yours. “You’re home.”

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