WRECKED: GODS OF CHAOS MC, BOOK FOUR (3 page)

But lately when his fist has made contact with my face, I was starting to like it, you know? It reminds me that I’m still alive.

Most of the time, that’s debatable. I’ve felt barely ‘here’, wherever here is, for so long, I’ve convinced myself I’m only half a person. It’s like I left the other half somewhere in a past life and I forgot to pick it up. Like I’d left it at the cleaners and forgotten about it.

Truth was, I’d left it behind in little pieces - scattered along the curves of Highway 26 just outside of Seaside amidst the ruins of my first Harley, smeared over the Terwilliger Curves in Portland just as the sun came up after a night of partying at a strip club, and a minor incident caused by an unexpected pocket of misty fog on the winding Columbia River Gorge Scenic Highway one cold January morning. I’d had chunks of my flesh carved out of me with each crash, acquired deep scars that I wore like armor now.

But I’d left the biggest piece of me amongst the rubble of a smoldering house under a beautiful, star-filled sky ten long years ago.

It’s a miracle there was anything left of me after all that, to be honest.

But I was still here. Hanging on, getting punched square in the face by the toughest member of the Gods of Chaos Motorcycle Club and loving every fucking minute of it.

Well, as much as I could love anything. My heart was just as dead as the rest of me.

It was probably for the best anyway. I’d been down so many dark roads, it would have been downright fucking torturous to pull anyone down with me.

Besides, the only person I wanted to open my heart to was long gone now. So, my heart was on lock down.

Closed.

Out of business.

Locked away behind iron gates and wrapped in barbed-wire.

Hell, I couldn’t access it now, even if I wanted to.

Which I didn’t. I was perfectly happy with the way things are. It was a lot easier not to feel anything than be open to feeling the good stuff and having it ripped away. So, I stayed half-dead. Or, half-alive. Depending on how you saw the whiskey glass, I guess.

As long as it was filled with booze and there was a party surrounding it, it was all the same to me.

My head snapped back as Slade’s fist kissed my nose, the taste of blood dancing on my tongue like a spicy pepper. A slow grin spread across my face as my eyes slowly refocused on his weaving face in front of me. Or, maybe that was me weaving. I was never quite sure.

“Had enough, kid?” he snarled, his fists still at attention.

My eyes darted around to see who was watching. The clubhouse was in full party mode tonight, music and mayhem spilling out of the small rundown cabin that I now called home. Slade and I were squared off in the gravel parking lot, surrounded by a small circle of Gods and I took them in with a sweep of my pulsing head.

Doc was leaning against the porch railing, holding a beer in his hand and watching us with a disapproving glare. His wiry gray hair stood out in a chaotic unruly mess that surrounded his leathery, weathered face like an angel’s halo. He was a retired Army medic and he did his best to patch us up when we needed it. He’d saved more than one God in his time and I was pretty sure he’d save a few more before his time was up.

Riot stood nearby, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and his girl Lacey in the other. Riot was solid. A big, burly, bearded ex-boxer and tattooed menace that could scare the pants off most anybody with a glance. In reality, he was a gentle giant and he was madly in love with Lacey. He towered over her and she rarely left his side. As Slade yelled at me again, I saw her cringe.

“Answer me, boy, before I hurt you!” Slade demanded.

I turned back to him, shaking my head slowly and smiling at him again. Hoping to catch him off guard, I popped my fist out, hitting him square in the nose with a left hook. His head spun around in a flash, and in the next second, he was tackling me to the ground, his arms wrapped around my neck in a head lock.

“Oh! Look at you,” he taunted, tightening his grip on me, “someone’s growing some hair on his balls!”

“Alright, alright,” a muffled voice from above warned. “Let him go, now.”

Reluctantly, Slade released my head and I bounded to my feet.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said, looking into my Uncle Ryder’s eyes. “I had him,” I insisted.

“Yeah, kid, you had me,” Slade replied, his low baritone dripping with sarcasm.

“Fuck off,” I said, shrugging as I walked away.

“Hey, maybe you could use some manners every now and then,” Uncle Ryder called to my back as I climbed the stairs to the porch. I turned around, catching Slade’s eye before raising my fist and flipping him the bird.

“Please fuck off, Sir!” I said, bending at the waist with a pretend bow.

Doc roared in laughter from his perch and Ryder shook his head in mock disappointment.

“Kids these days,” Slade said.

“Don’t worry,” I quipped. “I know how to respect my elders.”

“Elders!” Riot roared, walking over and slapping Slade on the back.

“Shut the fuck up, little dude,” Slade yelled to me. “I’m hardly fucking old. And you’re still a prospect, so you better watch yourself!”

“Yeah, yeah, that doesn’t mean you aren’t old,” I replied.

“You fucking kids don’t know the meaning of old,” Doc said. “Look at this fucking hair!” He pointed the tip of his beer bottle up at his head. “That’s old, you bastards!”

I laughed, shaking my head and walking into the club to get a beer, which is where I went every time after I fought Slade. I groaned when I saw Cherry in the kitchen. She was constantly flirting with me, then following it up with saying she was just kidding, but I was pretty sure she wasn’t. She was at least twice my age, probably more, and I had no idea how to handle her advances without coming off like a dick.

So far, ignoring her was keeping her off of me. Most of the time. Once she had a few beers in her, she tended to get a little grabby. My ass had never been pinched so much as it had in the last two months, to tell you the truth.

I’d arrived at the clubhouse pissed off, drunk, and plenty bruised up. After my third crash and second arrest, my Mom finally took notice that maybe I was spinning out of control. Sure, I was almost thirty fucking years old but I still didn’t have my shit together. Not that I hadn’t tried, but the thrill of hurtling myself down the freeway without the protection of a steel cage and getting drunk every night was a hell of a lot more exhilarating than leading a more traditional, straight-edge life. Mom had been trying to get me to contact my Uncle Ryder for years, but I’d blown her off every time.

Sure, I loved bikes, but the idea of joining up with a club was not my style. I was a loner. I didn’t need anyone but myself. I tried the ‘needing’ someone game before and it hadn’t turned out well at all.

I was best when I was alone.

When I didn’t have to talk to people or have any expectations placed upon me.

Doing my own thing had become a way of life. It was easier this way.

With every one else out of the picture, there was no room for disappointment.

So, I tended to get a little drunk during my alone time. And I loved to ride.

Those two things don’t mix well at all, which I guess, judging by the scars under my clothes and the huge angry gash that slashed through my right cheek, I had to learn the hard way.

So, two months ago, while I was in the hospital healing up, Ma took the opportunity to hold me hostage and plead with me to spend some time with my Uncle Ryder and his crew. I barely knew Ryder, and the few times I had seen him, he was quiet and withdrawn. Nice enough guy, but hardly someone I wanted to hang out with.

When he visited me in the hospital this time, he was much different. He’d shown up with Grace, who he was obviously madly in love with. They sat at my bedside, cracking jokes and telling me all about how they met, which was an amazing story in itself. But then when they started telling me about their organization, Solid Ground, I couldn’t help but be intrigued.

I’d grown up hearing about the Gods of Chaos MC, thinking it was just your typical criminal group of bikers. Knowing that they were doing such intense and meaningful work made me proud. It made me want to be a part of it. To be a part of something that actually counted. Something real. Something right.

I’d begged him to let me join right then and there. But joining Solid Ground wasn’t something you could just ‘do’, he’d told me, unless I was a God, too. They went together.

So, here I was. A prospect in my Uncle’s motorcycle club, surrounded by a bunch of hard-partying do-gooders, as I liked to jokingly call them.

In reality, what they did was no joke at all. Their job was serious business and I understood why they let loose so hard when they weren’t working. They needed a break, needed to forget about the shit they’d seen. It wasn’t easy.

Neither was rejecting Cherry’s advances, which was exactly what was required in this moment.

“Hey, Cherry,” I said, grabbing a beer from the fridge, turning my ass away from her as much as possible in the tiny kitchen of the clubhouse. She smelled like flowery Avon perfume and it reminded me of my great-grandma.

“Hi, Wreck,” she said, calling me by the name that Ryder and Slade had bestowed upon me during my first night here. “Having a nice time out there?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said, wiping a drop of blood from my mouth before taking a swig off the bottle. The cold glass felt good against my split lip.

“Don’t let Slade hit you too hard,” she drawled, a cigarette hanging from the tip of her smeared-red lips, her copper curls bouncing around her wrinkled face. “You’re too young and pretty to let that face go to ruin so soon!”

I grunted and walked away, holding the bottle to my lip. I walked back out to the porch and sat down next to Ryder on the steps.

“How’s your lip?” he asked, staring off into the tall towering pine trees that wrapped around the cabin. The clubhouse was deep in the Tillamook Forest of Oregon, not far from the coast, but so far off the main road that it was completely hidden and private. I loved it here. I loved being so far away from civilization. I loved the freedom we enjoyed, the complete inhibition that we all experienced together. The Gods were a close-knit family, with a common mission to save the people that needed it the most, and I was proud to be a part of it.

I wore the split lip like a trophy. I felt like I’d finally won at life.

“Lip’s fine,” I mumbled. Ryder was a man of few words, but when he did speak, he commanded attention. He’d been the president of the Gods since his father died, and he was a damned good president. These days, the Gods kept busy with Solid Ground business most of the time.

To say we weren’t your typical bikers is an understatement.

We weren’t running drugs or weapons. But we were technically still criminals.

Willing to do whatever it took to get the job done, whether it was inside or outside of the law, didn’t matter. We were there to do what needed to be done, what most others wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do. The hard jobs. The difficult jobs. The jobs deemed impossible by other, ordinary people.

We were anything but ordinary.

We were there when it counted. When all else had failed, when even your last chance had come and gone, we were the ones that were called upon.

The hard part was the waiting. The time spent waiting was the time spent partying. Or fighting. Or drinking. Or fucking.

Not that I did much of that, though.

I mean, I’d tried. I had lots of sex with lots of faceless, unmemorable women. But when you’re haunted by the memory of the most perfect woman that ever lived, it kinda ruins other women for you. I’d learned long ago that the booze let me numb that part of my body, so I just kept drinking and kept my pants on, until my body insisted on a quick release.

If the yearning got too bad, then I secluded myself away with my memories until I’d spent enough time with them to be able to lock them away again. It was a slippery slope, but so far so good.

I guess that’s why being here was such a great thing. It was the perfect distraction from all the things I’d rather not think about.

Frankie. The explosion. The end of everything as I knew it.

“You’re doing good, Wreck,” Ryder said. “You did good last week on that call. You stayed alert, followed instructions, and did your job. Proud of you,” he nodded. My chin lifted a little at his words. I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted him to let me hang out here as long as I could.

“Thanks a lot,” I replied, my voice low and gruff in the darkness. The party swirled around us, and I watched Riot and Lacey making out against a tree in the distance. “I like being here.”

“I’m glad,” Ryder said, turning his head and watching Grace walk towards us. Grace and Ryder had built their own cabin a short distance away and Grace spent most of her time there working, away from the chaos of the clubhouse. “We like having you here, too.”

“Thanks, Ryder. Means a lot,” I said. He patted me on the back and flashed me a warm smile, before standing up and pulling Grace into his arms as she walked up. They kissed and I looked away. It was so good to see Ryder so in love, but damned if it didn’t slice right through my heart, too. I used to have that. A love that deep. Fuck, I missed it.

I stood up, nodding to Grace as they pulled away from each other.

“Hey, Wreck,” she said, flashing me a smile. She was so fucking pretty, but most of all, she was the strongest woman I’d ever known. Ryder was a lucky man.

“Hi, Grace,” I nodded.

“What’s going on, love?” Ryder asked. “Coming to join the party?”

“Hardly,” she said, with a playful wink. “I got a call.”

“Another one?” Ryder asked.

“It’s a big one, babe,” she nodded slowly. “Probably the biggest one yet.”

Vanessa

“What’s the password?” the woman on the other end of the phone asked in a clipped tone.

“Sanctuary,” I whispered.

“Hello,” she replied, her voice instantly turning warm and calming. “My name is Grace. You’ve reached Solid Ground. We’re here to help you. Are you in a safe place?”