“That was an experience,” Kerri says as she grabs the last of our trash, sounding wonderfully breathless.
“Could be worse,” I remark as we toss out the garbage. “At least these people are up front about who they are. They don’t hide behind a shiny veneer. With the Unholy, what you see is what you get.”
I’m thinking of you, Daniel-fucking-Davenport, with your Fortune 500 company and the pretense of a perfect family life.
We step out into the sunshine, and I pull in a breath of fresh air. Mayhem, like the Unholy, is uncompromising and authentic. Rough around the edges. And like me, if you love it—and love it unconditionally—it will love you back with its whole self.
But we share another trait as well. A darker side to our psyche. If you fuck with this town, it will fuck you right back. That’s why Luke “Jester” Hayden better do the smart thing and heed my warning to stay the hell away from me. He shattered me once, and I swear to God, I won’t give him the chance to hurt me twice.
This time, if he tries to break me, I’m prepared to destroy his entire life.
3
Jester
There aren’t many things that beat spending an afternoon on the back of my Honda CRF450RWE. Sex, of course, is in the top five because there’s nothing better than an orgasm or two (or three—hey, I’m in my prime). Count Rooster and Sadie’s infamous barbecues in there—and not because of the debauchery that follows once the kids leave Sanctum. It’s the total package because the Unholy is more than an organization that lives outside the law. We’re a family. For most of us, like myself, it’s ouronlyfamily, and those epic get-togethers are one of the few times we all gather for something other than a funeral.
They also last for over twenty-four hours and involve a steady flow of alcohol.
Oh, and enough sex to make Devil’s Den seem like church.
Bonus.
The last time Rooster and Sadie hosted one was back in September, and the reason was twofold. First, it was to welcome Wraith home, but also, it was a show of force to anyone who doubted he wasn’t on his A-game after being gone for six months.
Incidentally, that was the night I camethiscloseto fucking Jamie Ellis.
Okay, not really. My body was all in, but my heart and mind were more like,Come on, dude, seriously?I mean, I would have gone through with it if Jamie was dead set on doing the deed, because first, the woman is hot. Second, Wraith screwed up big-time and he literally asked me to do it (kinda, but not really). Third, I’m only human.
Jamie wanted to serve him up with some much-needed punishment. Trust and believe I was prepared to help the woman out—especially since homegirl was still a virgin.
At twenty-four.
Long story.
But I digress.
Let’s get back to now, shall we? Other than sex and spending my days with the Unholy, there is nothing I love more than having my ass parked on the seat of my bike. Today, though, Malice and I aren’t at Sanctum for the thrill of a hard-earned afternoon ride. Instead, we’re at the clubhouse on business. Ripping over the track to kill time, waiting for Crow to start today’s meeting. He called for upper members. Preacher has yet to get his ass here. Traffic can be a bitch, and he’s on his way back to Mayhem after making his monthly rounds.
Preacher often gets mistaken for some sort of spiritual advisor, but nah. If there is an afterlife, the Unholy are bound for hell, and there isn’t a damn thing he can do to save our souls. Not that Preacher is trying to lead us down a righteous path. His actual function is to be our liaison if we get our stupid selves arrested. He’s our elected official who shows up with a lawyer and remains our sole contact with the outside world during our time in jail. Whatever his name was before he took on the role, I don’t remember, because every man takes the moniker Preacher when they accept the rank within the gang.
It takes a particular type of person to fit the position, and right now, I could use a bit of Preacher’s guidance, thanks to a certain tiny, stubborn brunette turning my mind to trash.
Baking under the afternoon sun, the image of Faith is a needle in my brain as I round a bermed turn. I nearly wipe out, distracted as Itear over the motocross track Crow had constructed behind the black, cathedral-style clubhouse that dominates the southside of town. The ass of my bike fishtails, but I regain control. Unfortunately, the pit in my stomach doesn’t leave, and I realize it has nothing to do with almost becoming one with the dirt and everything to do with Faith’s return to Mayhem.
I swear it’s my conscience gnawing at me. But come on. This is me. I’m supposed to laugh off this sort of shit.
Everyone has a talent. Mine is finding the humor in every situation—that and hurting people. Even when I was nineteen and lost my parents in a car accident, I cracked orphan jokes. It’s what I do. It’s my coping mechanism. Did it hurt to lose them? Of course. The pain cut deep. But one of the reasons I earned the name Jester is because I’m not someone who throws himself a pity party. Instead, I make jokes and move on.
At least that’s the “me” the world sees. What goes on behind the scenes is no one’s business but my own.
Like when Wraith vanished. Malice, Havoc, and I methodically beat the living hell out of anyone we thought had answers regarding his whereabouts. And while my brooding companions…brooded…I did what I do best. I was my typical sarcastic self. Same as I was years earlier when I destroyed everything incredible about Faith and me.
I joked my way through my misery rather than slitting my wrists.
And right now, I can’t shake off the weird sense of shame at having her see me with my dick in yet another woman’s mouth.
Faith cloaked herself in anger the first time it happened and didn’t speak to me for seven years. Refused to even glance in my general direction. I might as well have ceased to exist.
