Filthy Sinner E-Book

Serena Akeroyd

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: A Dark & Dirty Sinners' x Five Points' Mob Crossover
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 388

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

When my father tries to force me to marry one of his cronies, I run away to my half-brother's home.

He's the black sheep of the family, a biker, not an Irish mobster. At the Satan's Sinners' MC compound, I find more than I bargained for.

Not my brother, ironically, but a man who gives a whole other meaning to 'white knight.'

He's dark and mysterious, a seeker of answers and a finder of truths.

Even better? He offers me an out, a shotgun wedding in Vegas.

I just don't realize he has an ulterior motive.

But he doesn't know I have one too...

Leseprobe

FILTHY SINNER

THE SINNERS & FIVE POINTS’ MOB CROSSOVER NOVEL

SERENA AKEROYD

CONTENTS

FOREWORD & TRIGGER WARNINGS

PLAYLIST

The Crossover Reading Order with the Sinners & Valentinis

Untitled

1. Mary Catherine

2. Mary Catherine

3. Digger

4. Mary Catherine

5. Digger

6. Mary Catherine

7. Digger

8. MaryCat

9. Digger

10. MaryCat

11. Digger

12. MaryCat

13. Digger

14. MaryCat

15. Digger

16. MaryCat

17. Digger

18. MaryCat

19. Digger

20. MaryCat

21. MaryCat

22. Digger

23. MaryCat

24. Text chat

25. MaryCat

26. Digger

27. MaryCat

28. MaryCat

29. MaryCat

30. Digger

31. Digger

32. MaryCat

33. MaryCat

34. Text Chat

35. Text Chat

36. Text Chat

37. Digger

38. Digger

39. MaryCat

40. Digger

Author Note

Free Book!

Connect with Serena

About the Author

Copyright © 2023 by Serena Akeroyd Publishing Ltd.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

FOREWORD & TRIGGER WARNINGS

Dear Reader,

Some books are healing.

You might be reading this author’s note years after the book’s release, so I’ll give you some context.

It’s January 2023.

I’ve just released Filthy Lies and Filthy Truth, the final books in The Five Points’ Mob Collection.

It’s funny to think that, years down the line, people will be reading this book before those two—the advantage, I suppose, of binge-reading once a series is complete. ;)

However, this book… these characters… something about them has healed me. I think it’s the hopefulness written within the story. A chance taken, an opportunity snatched, and the rewards go to those who dared to try.

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

You should know that there is mention of rape and sexual abuse against women as a means of forcing marriage. There are also scenes of violence and references to bullying as well as memories of violent parental abuse.

NONE OF THIS OCCURS BETWEEN THE MAIN CHARACTERS.

May this make the book hangover from Filthy Lies and Filthy Truth that much easier to bear. <3

Much love to you all,

Serena

xo

PLAYLIST

If you’d like to hear a curated soundtrack, with songs that are featured in the book, as well as songs that inspired it, then here’s the link:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3XRCAZfgmq5RfwSnW9fl8E?si=6f9a54a0ca3c4944

THE CROSSOVER READING ORDER WITH THE SINNERS & VALENTINIS

FILTHY

FILTHY SINNER

NYX

LINK

FILTHY RICH

SIN

STEEL

FILTHY DARK

CRUZ

MAVERICK

FILTHY SEX

HAWK

FILTHY HOT

STORM

THE DON

THE LADY

FILTHY SECRET

REX

RACHEL

FILTHY KING

FILTHY DISCIPLE

THE CONSIGLIERE

THE ORACLE

LODESTAR

SILENCED

END GAME

FILTHY RICHER

Please be advised that the first half of the book has been HEAVILY EXTENDED since its original inclusion in A Naughty MC Christmas Anthology. So, please, do NOT skip the first half.

1

MARY CATHERINE

I was sixteen when I first saw the bikers.

Primarily, I noticed their rides outside our house in Westchester, where Daddy never stayed anymore and I had to hole up with Mother in suburban hell until he hauled us into the city for our ‘family duties.’ I.e., church with Father Doyle and his endless sermons.

Bleugh.

It was a surreal sight to behold, though.

Amid the pristine prettiness of ‘Stepford Wife Lane,’ the royal blue bike was riderless, but the owner had dared to drive over our lawn, leaving tire tracks behind that showed the earth beneath.

Mother was going to have a literal cow over that.

As for the other bike, it was a stark, bright red with a fire pattern on its body. The rider had been considerate, however. He was currently parked on the driveway, his head tilted down as he stared at his cell phone.

With that tousled mop of hair, he should’ve looked dirty, but he didn’t. Oh, his hair was definitely tangled and in need of a brush, and combined with the bushy beard, he certainly wasn’t as elegantly attired as I was used to guys appearing. 

Perhaps that was why he caught my eye and why I couldn’t stop staring as I walked toward my house.

With every step I took, the more I could see of him.

That mop on his head, which should have been a deterrent, doubled his appeal, and the massive biceps and how he filled out a Henley helped matters too. Enough that my curiosity at the reason behind the bikers’ presence in my driveway was minimal.

More focused on trying to catch as many glimpses of the stranger’s face as possible, I didn’t think about things like security or my mother’s safety…

That was when my BFF reminded me that we were on the phone together.

“Why are you ignoring me when you called me?”

“I’m not ignoring you, Sarah,” I breathed. “There’s the hottest guy in the world sitting in my driveway.”

“Sitting in your driveway,” she repeated. “What is he? A traveling salesman?”

My lips twitched as I studied the bike. “I don’t know what he’d be selling if he were.”

“How hot is he? Jensen-hot or Harry Styles-hot?”

I mock-gagged. “Jensen isn’t hot. I don’t care if he’s the star QB or not.”

“His ass is beautiful.”

“Asses aren’t beautiful.”

“I swear you’re asexual.”

“Not a crime, is it?” I snapped, even though I’d often thought the same thing about myself.

Well, until today.

Until this gorgeous specimen crossed my path.

“He’s Charlie Hunnam-hot,” I muttered, not letting her answer me.

She whistled. “Take a picture?”

The tapping of my heels against the sidewalk finally drew the man’s attention, and when our eyes clashed and held, I was sure I felt that connection in my soul.

God, had there ever been browner eyes?

They were both hard and soft, piercing yet uber aware.

“I can’t take a picture,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. “He can see me.”

“Are you having an asthma attack?”

I didn’t think so, but it was only because she was marring the moment with her commentary.

For a second, with his gaze locked on mine, the link between us burned brightly, a solid connection that settled inside me.

That made something burn to life in my belly. 

That made my nipples tighten. 

Then his glance drifted, flying over my prep-school uniform, and I felt his dismissal to my bones.

Interest averted now that he saw I was jailbait, the stranger returned his focus to his cell phone.

Though disappointed, I appreciated the fact that he wasn’t a pervert. Plus, it gave me the chance to take in the ink on his throat and how his fingers were loaded with more tattoos. It let me absorb just how massive he was, those muscles in his shoulders bulging in a way that made me want to melt. Then, there was his size.

He was a giant.

He’d probably be able to lift me up with one hand.

Swoon.

“He has muscles on top of muscles on top of muscles, Sarah,” I keened.

“Picture or it didn’t happen.”

I heaved a sigh. “Then it didn’t happen.”

“Share the spoils.”

“Nope.”

That was when the front door burst open.

Another biker, this one with a buzz cut, stormed out of the house, slamming the door closed behind him with such force that I thought the front windows shuddered in response to his wrath.

“Jesus Christ! What was that?” Sarah demanded.

The stranger’s rage simmered along the airwaves, a visceral force that replaced my curiosity with fear. That cooled my budding arousal instantly. 

What the hell had I been thinking by walking toward the unfamiliar, scary biker and not running far, far away?

Daddy wasn’t here to protect us anymore. 

It wasn’t like he could come racing after this stranger to defend us all the way from Hell’s Kitchen. Heck, he might not have cared if I did contact him.

Mother had a guard, but because she spent most of her time at home drinking, he usually went off and did his own thing, and she never said a word because it meant she could bang the pool guy without it coming to Daddy’s attention. That mattered since he’d moved out and her allowance was under threat.

As for the neighbors, sure, they’d see what was happening, but would they care? Mother wasn’t popular and, by extension, neither was I. 

Should I call the cops?

The bikers didn’t seem to have done anything wrong, but they’d…

Why was he in my house?

Why was the second one waiting outside? 

“MARY CATHERINE! What was that noise?”

“My front door. I-I, someone, I, he⁠—”

“Speak English.”

“Stop being a bitch,” I retorted, but, much as always, she calmed me down.

The new guy didn’t notice me, but I couldn’t avoid noticing him. He sucked the oxygen from the air itself, much as my mother did when she was in one of her tempers. 

As terrifying as his wrath was, what stole the breath from my lungs were the similarities between the biker and my grandfather. 

“What the hell?” I whispered with a shaky exhalation. 

“What is it?”

“This guy just came out of my house. He’s the one who slammed the front door closed. He’s an exact replica of my grandad.”

“The Vietnam veteran?”

“Yeah.”

We had pictures of Grandad fresh from ‘Nam: head shaved, eyes haunted, body rippling with muscles but somehow gaunt too. As if something were eating him alive.

This guy was the same. 

It was even stranger because his current facial expression, as well as his features, were all my mother’s. Which, to be frank, would explain the matching tempers if nothing else. 

Finally, he glanced at me, but there was zero acknowledgment there. His dismissal was more abrupt than his friend’s.

Unlike the other guy, I didn’t mind escaping his attention.

Yet, as I wondered who the hell he was and why he was storming out of my house like he’d left a fire in his wake, he was jumping onto his bike, kicking his foot against the stand, and a second later, the engine was roaring to life with the iconic rumble that could only be…

“Was that a Harley?” Sarah blurted in my ear.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the guy shouted, riding off.

That was when I saw the back of his leather vest which declared Satan’s Sinners’ MC, Mother Chapter, West Orange to the world. 

The other guy tucked his cell phone away and, without a single glance at me, took off as well.

With faint wistfulness, aware I’d never see him again, I watched the guy go, noticing that his vest sported the Sinners’ patch too. 

West Orange? I knew that town.

“When you said he looked like Charlie Hunnam, what you really meant was that he’s Jax Teller in the flesh,” she teased.

“A brown-haired one,” I muttered as the world returned to normal around me.

“Can’t believe you didn’t send me a picture,” she said with a pout, but I ignored her.

In under five minutes, the boring ‘burbs had been stirred to life before the vibrancy of the unusual faded away, shifting it back to the perpetual state of deadly dullness.

Of course, when I thought about that biker’s wrathful expression, deadly might be more apt than I realized.

“He was so angry,” I murmured in a daze. “So like Mother.”

“Could they be related? A cousin or something?”

“I don’t think so. But, maybe?”

“If they have matching tempers, can you imagine the argument you missed?” She released a heavy exhalation. “Didn’t she throw a vase at your dad the last time they argued?”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “He moved out the next day.”

Mother hadn’t hurt the biker—I’d seen no sign of injury on his person.

Had the stranger who shared my features hurt her?

“Your mom could piss off a Buddhist monk.”

I had to snort. “And make a saint pull out their hair.”

My brain whirred as Sarah demanded, “It’s one thing for someone who looks and acts like Miss American Bitchface to come racing out of your house, but bikers? And, why were the Charlie Hunnam and Grandad impostors at your place?”

“How should I know?”

“Are you safe, Mary Catherine? Should I call the cops?”

I rubbed my forehead. “No! They’ve gone now. You heard their bikes.”

I wasn’t sure why I did it, had no real idea what made me retrace my steps to the bus stop, but my body took control of the situation for me.

“It’s taking you a while to get to the house,” Sarah said dubiously. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not going inside. Yet.”

“Huh. Why not?”

Could I tell her?

Should I?

“You know I hate her.”

“She’s a bitch. Everyone hates her,” was Sarah’s dismissive retort. “I bet God hates her too.”

I ignored that. “What if he killed her?” Sarah fell silent so I continued, “You didn’t see his face⁠—”

“Because you didn’t take a picture.”

“No, it was Grandad, not Charlie. Grandad-guy was furious, Sarah. Honestly, just like how Mother gets.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Maybe he killed her,” I said in a rush.

“I think that’s wishful thinking, Mary Catherine,” was my best friend’s dubious yet judgment-free response. “Everyone wants our bullies to drop dead, but no matter how hard we pray, it never comes true. Elizabeth Ferrier would have died five years ago if that were the case.”

I grimaced because she was right, but how often did anyone from a group called the ‘Satan’s Sinners’ come to Westchester?

Maybe it was my lucky day.

“So, what? You’re taking the long route home so that if she’s in the middle of croaking it, you can’t fuck things up by saving her?”

My cheeks tinged bright red—the curse of being auburn. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

She snorted. “Because it is?” Still no judgment, though.

It let me whisper, “I’d be free of her.”

“Ugh. True. She’s such a bitch. She has everyone but me hating you in school.”

Hurt washed through me as I started back toward the house. “I know.”

“And at church, they all avoid you like you have leprosy.”

“I’m well aware,” I grumbled. “You don’t need to rub salt in the wound.”

“Just keeping it real.” She hummed. “Hey, if the bitch is dead, you’d be able to move in with your dad. And we’d be closer. His house is only two blocks away from mine.”

The hurt faded and was replaced with hope. “That would be awesome.”

“On the other hand, if the biker did kill her, then you’re fucked because you’re a loose end.”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.”

She snickered. “It’s a pretty big problem but I’ll hide you under my bed. Don’t worry.”

My smile was feeble. “Either way, if she’s dead or not, it’s best if she doesn’t know that I saw what I saw.”

“I don’t know what you saw.”

“Me either, but she wouldn’t have wanted me to see it. Whatever it was.”

“Confusing.”

“Definitely. But you know what she’s like.”

“Spiteful? Cruel? Vindictive? Makes the Wicked Witch of the West look warm and cuddly?”

“Yeah. All that. But she’s secretive as heck too.” I sucked in a breath as I walked along the garden path toward the front door. “I’m here,” I mumbled. “I’d better go.”

“Keep me on the line. If she’s dead and you have to find her body, you’ll need moral support.”

I had to reason that both of us were so blasé about my mother’s potential murder because we were the spawn of the Irish Mob—the Five Points.

Well, that, and Mother truly was horrible.

I didn’t think Father Doyle liked her and he was a priest—he had to treat everyone with the same amount of disdain apart from Uncle Aidan, the head of the Five Points, of course.

“Okay, I’m going in.”

“One small step for man,” Sarah teased, “one giant step for Mary Catherine.”

Ignoring her, I opened the door then called out, “I’m home!”

There was silence. 

My heart started pounding. 

Hope spilled inside me. 

“Maybe she is dead?” Sarah whispered. “Just think, with her gone, you might make up with your dad?”

Grief splintered inside me.

Sarah had a habit of hitting the nail on the head. If I didn’t love her, I’d probably hate her for her candor.

“He sees her when he looks at me,” I whispered miserably. “All the stunts she’s pulled and everything she’s done to hurt him… I-I remind him of all that. The affairs and the arguments and the harsh words. The spite and the laziness and the bitterness.” I bit my lip. “She’s hell to live with. I never blamed him for moving out.”

“I mean, I didn’t either, but it sucks that he ignores you like he does. It’s so irrational to pin her shit on you just because you inherited her DNA.”

I didn’t disagree, but Sarah had only heard about everything Mother had done secondhand. She hadn’t witnessed it for herself.

When I heard Mother’s stiletto heels clattering against the marble tiles, my heart sank. That noise came first as those spindly shoes clacked down the hall.

“Ah, shit. I hear her shoes. Fuck.” Sarah sighed noisily in my ear. “Maybe next time?”

I swallowed. “Maybe. I gotta go.”

“Call me later?”

“Will do.”

By the time I was shoving my phone in my pocket, she was there.

Mother was always dressed to impress even though I was the only one who saw her some days.

She kept herself too thin and encouraged me to be the same. Size 0 was too fat for her, but it was starting to weather badly. Her features were looking haggard, and the amount of wine she drank was beginning to creep up on her.

I’d tried to love her, but she wasn’t particularly lovable, so I’d stopped when I was five.

Something she reminded me of as she hissed, “You’re late!”

My brow furrowed. “Barely. Is it my fault the bus was five minutes behind schedule?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “What happened? Why was it late?”

“Jeez, I don’t know. It just was. There was traffic.” I stared at her. “Is everything okay?” She was riled up, and I knew why. Not that she was going to share that with me.

When she hissed some bullshit at me about always being tardy, I knew I’d been wise to play innocent about the bikers in our front yard.

I didn’t know why it was a secret, just knew that it was.

She didn’t normally give a damn about what time I got home, but today was clearly different thanks to those bikers… 

Two days later, when I checked the letters on the stand that Mary, our maid, had placed there when she collected the mail that morning, I saw a bubble-wrapped envelope with my name on it, and I got a ‘sort of’ answer and a ‘sort of’ confirmation about why she was worried.

Tucked around a cheap cell phone, there was a slip of paper with a note inscribed on it that read:

You don’t know me, but I know you, Mary Catherine.

I’m Padraig. Your half-brother. We’ve met before, but I doubt you remember.

Anyway, we both know she’s insane. You can reach me on the cell phone if you ever need me, but I hope for your sake you never do.

Good luck. 

Sin (Padraig)

As much as his letter and his existence rocked my world, he’d never know that that phone would become my lifeline. 

That it would be the light at the end of the tunnel...

2

MARY CATHERINE

HYSTERIA - MUSE

HELL’S KITCHEN, NEW YORK

PRESENT DAY

“It’s time for you to get married, Mary Catherine.”

As crazy as he sounded, and as crazy as I was for not reacting, I knew the rest of my life hinged on this moment.

My reaction to his statement was pivotal.

Over the last few years, Daddy had morphed into Dad then into Father as his bitterness grew, his hatred for my mother alongside it.

As a result, while his declaration should have had me bursting into tears, I remained calm. 

Losing my shit would get me nowhere.

So, instead of rushing to the bathroom to puke, and rather than hurling my plate at the wall in a tantrum, I scooped up some chicken noodle soup and raised the spoon to my mouth.

His tone brokered no argument—defiance wouldn’t serve a purpose in this interaction. But that didn’t mean I was about to roll over and take whatever bullshit he was handing out.  

Not this time.

Him dictating what I wore and which college I went to was different than him deciding my future husband.

Swallowing the small puddle of broth on my spoon was like asking me to chug down Niagara Falls, but I managed it then asked, “When?”

He arched a brow at me. “That’s your only question?”

“What else is there to ask?” I queried, shooting him a calm, polite smile while trying to exude the elegance he demanded from me.

Elegance he insisted my mother didn’t have. 

Elegance that appeased him and made him a tolerable dinner partner. 

“Who your groom is, of course.” When I didn’t leap to ask him, he stated, “Bill Murphy.”

Inside, I felt everything youthful in me shrivel up as if I were on the brink of death. 

He eyed me, a challenge in his expression as if he knew what I was thinking, as if he longed for my reaction.

As if he wanted to punish me for it. 

Bill Murphy was closer to sixty than fifty, older than my father by a good ten years, and had six dead wives to his name.

Aside from the rumors of him being a very merry widower, rumors that were pretty goddamn bad on their own, I didn’t think he had a reputation for being cruel.

He’d always been pleasant to me when he came over for dinner. By comparison to my father, he’d probably be the lesser evil. 

Jesus. 

What had I ever done to deserve the lesser evil? 

I wanted to ask him why he hated me so much, enough to tie me to a man that old, to a man who had married six times already, but he wouldn’t answer.

The past taught me that much. 

My fate had been sealed a long time ago.

I was a broodmare.

I’d learned that the hard way, but I’d hoped it would be with somebody I knew and who was of my generation, not my grandfather’s. Somebody I could at least tolerate.

There were young Five Pointers. Not all of them had a marital history worthy of The Oprah WinfreyShow. He could have married me off to Jonny Kendall or Cade Frasier. Men I’d been raised with. Both jackasses and loyal to the Five Points but, because of their ages, due to marry.

That he hadn’t chosen them was a punishment in itself. 

But the punishment wasn’t mine.

Like always, it was aimed at my mother, then at me for daring to share her genes, but she wasn’t the one who would be dealing with the aftermath of this.

I was.

This was my future. 

She’d already ruined hers by screwing around on my father and now was a prisoner in her own home. By passing on her DNA to me, she might have destroyed my life too…

But I wasn’t going to take this lying down.

I refused to.

Carefully, I placed the spoon between my lips and carried on eating the chicken broth. 

“Aren’t you excited?” he derided, his satisfaction clear even though my lack of reaction appeared to annoy him. “Isn’t this what every girl wants? Bill is quite a catch. He’s high up in the ranks. You’ll be able to rub shoulders with the O’Donnellys as his bride.”

“We’re related to them. If it hasn’t happened by now—” I almost wanted to slap myself for the retort because reminding him of our low status was a recipe for disaster.

Shit. 

We were related to the leaders of the Five Points—through Mother. 

That link should have been enough to have them invite us to all the big events including Finn and Aoife O’Grady’s wedding, but we hadn’t been because of two or ten fuckups on his part.

He’d been complaining about that ever since. It didn’t matter that the day had ended in a bloodbath. He’d just resented the lack of an invitation.

Seeing his ears turn red with rage, quickly, I added, “But of course, you’re right. I hope that my marriage will be… I hope…” Finish the sentence, Mary Catherine. Finish it! Now! Before he gets even more suspicious than he already is. “I hope it serves our family well.”

His eyes widened, and his shoulders straightened. But his mouth didn’t pinch, and the usual sight of his anger didn’t blast me like flames from a dragon’s maw. No, if anything, he stunned me by actually smiling.

It had been so long since I saw that smile that I almost expected him to leap from the table, hand raised to slap me.

But he didn’t.

He smiled at me, and it was genuine.

Which was terrifying.

I felt my stomach start churning with nausea as I recognized the precariousness of my situation.

I’d pleased him. Pleasing him was always short-lived.

My 4.0 GPA, the scholarship to NYU, the high grades, and the accolades I’d already started to accrue in my Urban Design and Architecture Studies course—none of those things had earned me a smile. 

This did.

Our family’s future rested on my ovaries. Ovaries he was going to tie to Bill Murphy.

God help me.

“I’m so pleased you agree,” Father drawled, but his tone was content, cordial, and he picked up his spoon and continued eating.

A good sign. The best, actually. 

He’d come prepared for an argument, I registered. But I was smarter than him. An argument would get me locked in my bedroom again.

Like the last time.

Being locked in there wouldn’t do me any good.

If I wanted out of this, I had to save myself.

“I’ll arrange an official meeting between you two,” Father intoned. 

That he hadn’t arranged it already was further proof that he’d expected me to put up a fight that would see me caged in my bedroom for days on end. 

The back of my neck turned clammy; my palms grew slick too. I wasn’t sure what was going on with my face, but I could only hope that I appeared relatively normal. That I was managing to hide the growing horror at what he was saying, what he was admitting to without words—he was going to force my compliance.

My wishes didn’t matter to him. My safety didn’t either.

God, how I wished I weren’t his daughter.

Or Mother’s. 

Before I’d moved in with him, I thought things would be better than with her. I could never have imagined how cruel he could be, would never have believed that he could be even more vicious than her, but he was. 

How perfect they were for each other, and they didn’t even know it. 

I dropped my hand into my lap and clenched it into a fist so tight that I felt the joints ache as he told me how the next few weeks would go.

First, a meeting between my future groom and me, he shared, followed by an engagement announcement and a party that the O’Donnellys would likely attend.

Then, the banns would be read in church, and as soon as Father Doyle was content this marriage wasn’t being rushed along because I was pregnant—God forbid—we’d wed in Saint Patrick’s, where all Five Pointers were wed.

I had six weeks at the most to escape.

Six weeks.

As he talked, my mind whirred because I knew I didn’t actually have six weeks. Six weeks was a luxury that wasn’t going to be afforded to me. 

Bill Murphy wouldn’t wait for the wedding night.

He’d seal the deal before then, compromising me, tying me to him even if I didn’t want that, even if…

I sucked in a breath. 

No, my consent wasn’t required.

Not where this marriage was concerned, nor where my body was.

I sailed through the rest of the evening like I was high. I wished I were. I wished this were the worst downer ever, but it wasn’t.

Somehow, despite my internalized distress, I managed to fool him into believing that I wanted what was best for the family.

I’d never known I was that good an actress. 

Padraig’s cell phone called to me like a siren song that I was pretty sure stopped me from going insane as I ate my dinner.

I finished the bowl of soup, then my main course, leaving behind only the vegetables he knew I loathed—carrots. I even devoured the peach cobbler for dessert and enjoyed a glass of wine with him as I talked about a challenging yet enjoyable lecture I’d had today. 

“I’ll speak with Bill. You only have a year left. It would be a waste not to complete your degree.”

That he believed Bill could stop me from finishing my education was a death knell I heard chiming in my ears. 

I felt my entire being freeze and I forced myself to defrost, to drink the last few sips of my wine. 

Somehow, I managed to intone, “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” 

He smiled at me.

Again.

Evidently, he was appreciative of my gratitude. 

Ha.

How I maintained the charade by that point was beyond me. Sweat kept beading on my top lip, and every single one of my flight/fight responses was kicking into high gear when, finally, he dismissed me. 

As always, I got to my feet and kissed his cheek. This time more than most, I’d have preferred to slap him.

Like a good little girl, I went upstairs, and even then, I carried on as if I were content with my situation because I was ninety-nine percent sure that he had cameras in there.

The only room that was safe was the bathroom. I didn’t think he was that perverted, and he’d yet to call my bluff because I stored some things in the toilet tank.

I was, however, sure he’d had the bookshelves on either side of the bathroom door bugged, which meant that I couldn’t have secret phone calls anymore.

All this because I dared to have a boyfriend.

All this because senior year, I started dating a non-Five Pointer.

My life had been a nightmare ever since.

Remembering how the doctor had checked my hymen, shame and revulsion crawled over me as I knew that would be expected of me again.

But Bill would’ve broken that sliver of tissue by that point and would use that to tie me to him.

I knew how this worked.

Knew it because Sarah had gone through it last year. Which took her out of the running for helping me. She was as stuck in this game as I was—we were pawns in a chess match that we should’ve dominated as queens. 

But I refused to be a pawn.

I’d take rook or knight over queen, and I’d save my own damn ass if Padraig wouldn’t help me. 

It was just a matter of planning.

As always, after dinner, I worked on my homework. I gave the cameras a show just in case he was watching, and then, as usual, I headed into the bathroom and changed into workout gear. 

I longed to reach for the cell in the toilet tank, but I didn’t. 

That would break my routine. 

After forty minutes of yoga, sweaty and in need of a shower, I did as I’d been longing to since his initial declaration. 

Once the bathroom door was locked behind me, I took off the lid to the toilet and found the Ziploc bag in there which housed the cell phone Padraig had given me all those years ago.

Carefully placing it on the toilet seat, I returned the lid to the tank and then let the bag dry off as I darted into the shower for a quick wash.

I knew it was crazy, but I headed over to the door with my toothbrush in my mouth and almost made my gums bleed as I brushed them hard enough to be audible to the mics.

Then, I let the water run as I gargled to further cover the noise of me opening the bag, and only when the cell phone was tucked into the pocket of my pajama pants did I breathe a sigh of relief.

I finished up in the bathroom, feeling the comforting presence of the cell phone against my side as I got into bed.

It would need charging, and between now and then, I’d have to develop a strategy to escape my guards’ attention while I was in class, but that was for tonight when I was supposed to be sleeping.

Tomorrow, I’d rewrite my fate.

Tomorrow, I’d take back what was rightfully mine—my future.

3

DIGGER

“I thought the whole point of getting high was to be high,” I grumbled at Sin, who shrugged.

A shrug was pretty much the only answer any of us had right now when it came to Storm, who was the club’s VP and pretty much the daddy of the council if daddies thought tough love was how discipline worked...

Which made this current fuckfest even more interesting.

‘Daddies’ had their shit together. Storm was currently on a downer. In the worst way.

Take now.

The VP was plunked on the floor, his back to the corner of the wall, shoulders hunched, gaze trained on his phone. If he’d started sobbing, I wouldn’t have been fucking surprised.

I didn’t need to walk over there to see that he was looking at pictures of his family. A family that, well, nobody knew what the hell was going on with. 

These were the facts: 

Storm was head over fucking heels for his Old Lady, to the point of obsession—and I’d know more than most seeing as I’d officiated their wedding.

Yet for some reason, Storm was staying here and not at his home with his beautiful wife and daughter.

The deflated whoopee cushion that was shaped like our VP spent most of his day mooning over his camera roll like he couldn’t go home, but I knew for a fact he could because Keira hadn’t tossed him out. At least, not yet. If he carried on like this, getting high and wasting away on the clubhouse floor, shit wasn’t going to last. 

Storm’s breakdown wasn’t just causing problems with his wife, either. 

The clubhouse was in disarray because a lot of the tasks he handled had been shuffled around the MC. As a result, we were all grumbling and groaning about the extra work while trying not to drop the ball. 

Bitching was one thing; letting the club down was another. 

We were family. One of our own was fucked in the head, so we had to make things right as best we could. 

You rallied around loved ones when they were at their lowest, and for all that Storm was drifting from one high to another, I’d never seen him lower than this.

Letting my gaze dart away from the VP, I saw Sin was watching him too as he muttered, “Can you take my shift at the gate so that I can handle the shit in town for him?”

I nodded. “No worries. Why’s Rex got you on the gate, anyway?”

“That Prospect, Cruz, has got gut rot.”

Pulling a face, I asked, “Your business in town have anything to do with those guns being trucked into the city?”

Sin shot me a smirk. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

I snorted, but accustomed to the secrecy, especially when jobs were assigned by the council, I didn’t give him any crap. There wasn’t much point. 

Sure, I’d have preferred to be more involved and to take a deeper cut, but there was time for that.

Considering the setbacks I’d had, I figured I was advancing nicely in the Satan’s Sinners’ MC hierarchy. 

Both of us finished off our beers, and we parted ways at the bar’s entrance, him going to the main office—the place where Rex, our Prez, reigned supreme—and me heading to the gatehouse. That was when I noticed the bike of our Enforcer—Nyx—was out and the saddlebags were stuffed full.

Eyes narrowed at the sight, I stretched, letting some of the meager sunlight from the chilly day beat into my bones.

After a short stroll down the driveway, I clapped Jackson on the back in greeting. He’d heard my booted feet against the gravel and had come out to meet me, eager to hand over the tedious as fuck duty. 

“It’s okay, brother, you can go and get some rest now.”

Wearily, Jackson complained, “Jesus, it’s been a long morning.”

That was the boredom.

Anyone who had guarded these gates, which was pretty much everyone as it was a basic job that each brother was tasked with at some point, knew how fucking soul-sucking it was to just hover beside them, waiting for somebody or nobody to show up.

It was an important duty but boring all the same. We had alarms and other kinds of security systems in place, but it was tradition to have somebody standing at the gate, waiting to let brothers in and to keep enemies out.

Jackson wasn’t in a talking mood, mostly he just yawned as he trudged toward the clubhouse, leaving me to shuffle inside the gatehouse, where I perched my ass on the uncomfortable armchair that had more springs sprung than were held in place.

Kicking my feet up against the wall, I crossed them at the ankle and decided that wasting time on my phone was the only way to go.

I’d have preferred to have been in on whatever business Sin was handling for the council, but I got it. Not only was he older than me, he had an in with the council even though he wasn’t a part of it.

His father, though a son of a bitch, was MC royalty. Grizzly might have been a fucker, but Rex and Bear, Rex’s dad, were all about family loyalty. 

Kendra: Where are you? Wanna hang out?

When the clubwhore sent a picture of her pussy to me, I rolled my eyes, deleted the shot of her cunt, and ignored her.

Wishing that I’d grabbed my iPad before I’d come down to the gatehouse, instead, I went through the photos on my camera, deciding which one I’d be replicating in a few hours’ time.

Nobody knew that I was into art, and I wanted to keep it that way. My brothers already gave me crap about being a nosy bastard—like I could help ferreting out the truth—but adding on the art stuff was more than I wanted to deal with on the regular. 

My brothers—Rex, in particular—weren’t dumb fucks, but we led simple lives. Sure, there was a lot of violence and crime tucked away in our schedules, but we existed for our hogs. Lived for the freedom of flying down the highway, no one yanking our chains other than the council we entrusted our futures to and the men we chose to be our kin. 

Art wasn’t simple. Art wasn’t about riding down Route 66 just for the sheer fuck of it. 

And my stuff wasn’t technically necessary. I knew what people would ask. Why replicate a photo when the photo was enough?

I had no answer, but I liked doing it. Storm liked getting high, Nyx liked killing pedophiles, and me? Well, I just liked duplicating a photograph with a number two pencil. 

It wasn’t as if my hobby were illegal. It didn’t hurt anybody and didn’t ruin lives—even if some lives deserved to be ruined.

A few hours later, I’d welcomed five brothers back home and had watched Sin join a small run as they left for ‘town.’

Fucking bullshitter.

No way they were just heading into West Orange. Not with their saddlebags bulging so much. And not with Link, our Road Captain, and Steel, our Secretary, tucked into Nyx’s mix. 

Did Sin think I was an idiot?

Whatever. 

“Sorting out shit in town, my ass,” I muttered to myself.

Still, it got me thinking about how hush-hush the council had been recently.

Me: Something going on that I should know about?

It was a risky move, as the Prez didn’t owe me jack.

Rex: No? You talking about anything in particular?

Me: Dunno. Just making sure everything’s copacetic.

Rex: You’re a fucking worrier.

Me: Storm’s high, and Nyx, Link, Steel, and Sin just headed off to play hunt the monster under the bed…

Me: Just saying, that’s a big chunk of the council on the road or compromised.

Rex: Is it your job to worry about this?

Me: No.

Rex: So, don’t.

Rex: If you need something to worry about, I can always dump extra work on your shoulders…

Me: Whatever you need.

Rex: You always fucking surprise me, Digger.

Me: What can I say? It’s a talent.

Rex: Where are you?

Me: Guarding the gates.

Rex: Ahhh. So you’re bored shitless, lol. No need to question where this is coming from. I wondered who Sin dumped that job on.

Me: Dumbfuck me.

Rex: Wouldn’t say you were a dumbfuck. Too trusting… sure.

Me: ME? ROFL.

Rex: Hehe. Yeah, you.

Rex: Fuck off, anyway. I’m busy.

Rex: All is right with the world and you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about nothing.

Me: You say the sweetest shit.

Rex: Don’t I fucking know it. And it’s wasted on you motherfuckers.

Me: :P

It was second nature for me to dig—it was how I’d earned my road name. But Rex’s assurance did offset some of my curiosity.

By not saying anything, he’d pretty much confirmed what I thought. Nyx was on a pedo hunt, and I wasn’t sorry about not being invited.

Even if the bastards deserved to be tortured, that wasn’t how I got my kicks.

Sin had anger issues and had even… Well, beating men to death wasn’t outside of his capabilities, that was all I would say about that.

And still, it would make sense why Sin had to keep quiet. Storm was one of the guys who usually accompanied Nyx, but with him being so down and out of it, it would make sense for Nyx to drag Sin into this sorry business of his.

No longer wishing that I’d been called up to help and preferring this dry as a desert task, seeing as this wouldn’t get my ass hauled back in jail, I finally settled on a picture of a snake that I found in the yard two days ago. 

I was going to graft two photographs together. The snake had been hidden among wet leaves under a bush in the yard, but I was going to have it lying somewhere a lot more interesting… I just wasn’t sure where. Somewhere a lot more atmospheric than under a bush, that was for sure. I just didn’t have a suitable picture yet.

No one else came or went over the next couple hours, so I switched from how I’d been passing the time when I was free to do whatever I wanted and had moved on to a game. It was then that I heard the engine, one that was definitely not a hog.

There was very little traffic in this part of West Orange because we owned most of this hill, and there was only one property above us which belonged to the MC’s lawyer, Rachel Laker.

She had a house there where she lived with her brother, Rain, and part of her law practice was on that compound. But I recognized her SUV, knew her engine, and was well aware that this vehicle wasn’t hers.

People didn’t get lost up here, so I knew we had a visitor.

Getting to my feet, I left the gatehouse behind. Tucking my cell phone into my pocket, I shuffled outside, finding a run-of-the-mill yellow cab from the city idling beyond the gates.

When a young woman climbed out of the back, I knew immediately who it was.

Maybe it was the artist in me, maybe it was the man who recognized a beautiful woman, or maybe it was simply somebody who recognized jailbait when they saw it… 

Although Mary Catherine wasn’t jailbait anymore. 

That wouldn’t stop Sin from beating the fuck out of me if he knew I thought his sister was hot, though.

I’d only seen her once, but there was something about her features that was worthy of a third, fourth glance, even.

Cheekbones carved from ice, skin as pale as cream. Those eyes of hers glinted like peridots, seeing more than they should, looking ancient and brand new, like fresh leaves, all at the same time. 

Everything about her was rich. 

Everything. 

And I wasn’t even talking about the designer clothes she wore that put her out of my price range by a good couple thousand dollars. 

I just meant how her hair gleamed like velvet in the miserable sunlight, strawberry blonde and silky with it. It made my palms and fingers tingle with the need to touch it. 

No, bikers shouldn’t get fucking tingles, but the need to stroke this woman’s hair was a craving, and I knew all about those. She was like nicotine or junk food. Both were really bad for you, but the first puff of a cig, the first chew of a double cheeseburger—heaven. 

Those peridot eyes sparked with life as she watched me take her in. Layers within layers. Deep green striations and gold highlights that would make them impossible to replicate if I were drawing her. 

She had a heart-shaped face that gave her a pointed chin with a tiny divot my thumb ached to slot into. 

I had the strangest feeling that my thumb alone was made to sit there. 

Stupid, right? 

This wasn’t a Nicholas Sparks’ novel. 

Not that I’d read any of those. 

Nope. 

Never. 

Not me.

As I processed exactly how badly I wanted my hands all over her, I also processed how out of reach she was to me. 

My brother’s sister? Definitely hands off before he sliced them off. 

So why did my fingers curl in at the thought? Why did I ache to smooth back her hair from her furrowed brow?