Chapter 1
Slate
Ijolt straight up to a sitting position in bed. My chest is heaving, and my entire body is covered in sweat. I can still smell the smoke and hear the sounds of battle echoing in my head. It takes me a minute to fuckin’ realize that I’m not hunkered down in a bunker with a rifle in my hand, trying desperately to avoid being killed.
When I catch sight of my cut folded neatly over a nearby chair, I realize I made it home alive, and there’s no rifle, no bunker, and no goddamn enemy insurgents trying to kill me anymore. I’m the VP of Sons of Rage MC. I’ve got other guys that occasionally try to kill me, but not the Taliban. That’s my new normal.
I throw back the blankets and curse under my breath as I head to the shower. It’s been four fucking years since I left the military, but sometimes it felt like I was still there, and the nightmares wouldn’t stop.
Stepping under the spray, I stand with both hands braced against the wall, letting the hot water soothe my jangled nerves and jagged scars. Yeah, it stings, but it also reminds me that I survived what a lot of men didn’t. To my mind, that doesn’t make me special, only lucky. Too many of my brothers-in-arms came home in a damn box. I owe it to them and myself to live my best life. And that’s exactly what I’m gonna fucking do, bad dreams or no.
I shove away memories of dust, sweat, and black smoke thick enough to take your breath away. The scent of diesel and burned metal still lingers in my mind. The bullets coming down with the force of an angry god and my brothers falling around me are as fresh in my mind today as the day it happened. The part that haunts me is the fact that I couldn’t save them.
Once the water runs cold and I’m tired of fighting my inner demons and losing, I step out of the shower and towel myself dry. By the time I slide my cut on I’m finally able to shake it all off. The morning’s young, and my club is waiting for its VP to jump into action.
I go downstairs to the main room, taking the steps two at a time. Our folks expect us all at the table for breakfast and dinner. It’s always been our mother’s way of carving out family time. I see my father at the head of the table. Even though Jasper is club president now and sits at the head of the table at club meetings, Rock does the same for family activities. It’s our way of acknowledging that no matter who is running the club, our father is still the head of our family. With our family, respect is second only to brotherhood.
The club girls are putting the finishing touches on the breakfast buffet set up in the back of the room. In return for doing jobs around the place they get accommodation and meals. They seem happy with their lot in life. Some even have jobs in the community. I grab a plate, fill it with mostly protein, and take a seat at the family table. Brothers are scattered around at various tables with their own plates. It’s just another day in the Sons of Rage clubhouse, the one I grew up in and will likely never leave.
When I sit down, my dad tilts his mug in my direction and gives me a good-natured chin jerk.
My ma smiles at me. “About time you showed up, sleepyhead.”
I murmur right before digging into my eggs, “Bad night, Queenie.”
Her expression turns sympathetic. “Sorry to hear that, Wiggles.”
I shoot her an exasperated look for using my childhood nickname. “Enough with that shit. I ain’t five anymore.”
Her eyebrows fly up. “You started it by calling me Queenie instead of Ma.”
I swallow the bite in my mouth and apologize. “Sorry, Ma. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Her face lights up, but before she can forgive me, a fight breaks out between two prospects across the room. They’ve turned over their chairs and are screaming at each other and throwing hands. And Silver is standing nearby, watching with a coffeepot in her hand and a big, fuckin’ devious smile on her face. That woman is the root of all evil when it comes to club girls. I’m convinced of it.
Jasper mutters, “You gotta be shittin’ me.”
Rock’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move because this isn’t his job. It’s mine because supervising the prospects is my responsibility. I jump to my feet and stalk across the room, intent upon dealing with this situation once and for all. Theother club girls scatter, clearing the path ‘cause they already know what’s coming.
When Silver sees me coming, her chest puffs up, and a hint of a smile jumps onto her face. She proudly stands there, while the prospects fight over her, like it somehow makes her special.
Here’s the thing, Silver isn’t the real problem. It’s that these prospects are letting her get into their fuckin’ heads and manipulate them. No patched brother would fall for her shit. That’s why she likes messin’ with the prospects so much.
The prospects are scrapping like middle schoolers when I get to them.
“She’s in my bed now,” Johnny spits out. “She told me that you’re just a pity fuck.”
Graham goes after him again, while Silver protests mildly, “Boys, don’t get into a fight on my account. There is enough of me to go around.”
“Enough!” My voice cuts through everything. The entire room goes quiet.
Silver moves closer to me. “Now Slate, don’t punish them…”
I don’t ever look at her. “Get the fuck outta my face, Silver.”
Tessa’s stern voice calls her name and Silver freezes for a second before backing away.
Meanwhile, Graham takes another swing at Johnny, and Johnny grabs him by the neck. I step up, grabbing Johnny first, because he’s closer. When I have a good grip on the front of his cut, I shove him backward into the table they were sitting at. Plates and flatware slide onto the floor as the table flips over.Graham starts to square up again, so I catch him by the arm and throw him in the other direction. He flies right into the wall, with a sickening thud.
