Prologue
Craig “Crush” Jackson
It was late—or, rather, it was really fucking early. It was just after two a.m. on the highway outside Vegas, and there was not a goddamn thing except me, the machine under me, and the road. It was thrilling to be thisfree—a taste of what was available and then some.
Even if it was just a fleeting, fucking temporary sensation.
Yeah, this was nice. Nothing could compare to this. I did my best thinking when I rode, and tonight was no exception—in fact, if anything, it felt like it was the exception in just how damn much thinking I had to do.
When you were a part of an MC, in Vegas of all places, for King of all people, you got used to bad shit and always watching your back.But where do you draw the line?Turns out, when you did draw the line, you had to draw it thick and etch it into the ground. Because otherwise, those who were supposedly your most loyal friends were your most effective manipulators.
At thirty-three, I had spent almost two-thirds of my life serving King. Back in the early days, he seemed like a god to me. I worshiped the ground he walked on. And I worked my ass off to be the sergeant-at-arms. Even as recently as a few months ago, though I wasn’t a fucking idiot teenage kid anymore, I still felt like I had the best job in the world.
But King was losing his head and getting on my nerves. And I wasn’t someone you wanted to be around when my nerves got frayed.
I looked up to the horizon, wondering what other opportunities were just beyond the border. Even thinking about it felt like a dare, as if King had the ability to read minds. Judging by how often he was right in combat and in strategy, I wouldn’t have put it past him.
Thus, even the open air and my Harley couldn’t quell my nerves. Not tonight. Not with the task that lay before me.
Speaking to an enemy without permission from King was a death sentence—and he either finds out and kills me, or I kill him and earn my freedom. Either way, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and I was going in guns blazing.
“Crush, do you ever feel like you don’t get your fair share of what you work for?”
“The fuck,” I muttered.
Asher’s words echoed in my head. There was no goddamn reason for those words to bounce around in my thick skull. King was a savior to me—not many people want to take on an orphan with anger management problems. But King did. He brought me in, groomed me into the man I am today, and taught me how to use my rage as a machine, a device, to kill people.
I was his hound, so much so that some people thought that’s what my name should’ve been. And I was sure they had worse names for me. But no, why the fuck would I not be getting my fair share?
Well…
I usually didn’t mind. But with the recent expansion efforts to Phoenix, the confines of my leash were showing. Even as his sergeant-at-arms, he wouldn’t let me out unless it was for a job. I enjoyed the work and the lifestyle—to say nothing of the ass, drugs, and parties that we’d had—but King thought he owned me. And what was sickest of all was that in some respects, he had a damn good reason to believe so.
Well, he’s got another thing coming.
I rode up to the peak of my route—Sin City further diminishing, just like my desire and interest in the King’s Men MC. I was no angel, but then again, no one else in that club was.
Behind all the lights, pussy, and cash, this was no better than their shitty lives. There were crooked cops and scamming salesmen around every corner, all acting in some capacity for King.And made possible by people like me.
Finally, I reached the destination—an empty spot on an empty highway. I killed my bike, the breeze warm against my face. I waited.
And I waited.
And then I fucking waited some more.
Finally, the sound of motorcycles came.
If it was who I didn’t want to see, I was dead.
If it was who I wanted to see, I was still facing a decent chance of being killed.
The hole I dug myself.
Finally, in the darkness, a bike pulled up to me. It cut off its headlight. A figure approached.
“Crush?”
The one I wanted to see.
