WRECKED: GODS OF CHAOS MC, BOOK FOUR Read Free Page B

up to my face and I cringed when I saw the photo of Jesse. “You see, darling, I did a little digging and it appears this person here is the only person, besides your precious dead father, that means anything to you. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for another death, would you?”
    I whimpered in defeat, my heart sinking deep into my chest, the fear wrapping around me like a suffocating, debilitating haze.
    He was right. He’d managed to find the one thing that he could use against me, the one thing that would render me helpless, and cause me to submit to his will.
    I’d never in a million years take that risk.
    And I didn’t. Ten years had passed at the hands of this Monster and I’d not made one misstep, not taken one tiny little risk. Instead, I’d bade my time, sat back, collected information, and meticulously planned every tiny detail of my plan.
    If all went well, Royce Randolph the Third would never know what hit him.
     
     

CHAPTER TWO
    Wreck
     
     
    The first hit always hurt the most. After that, it was gravy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I rarely won, especially when I was fighting against Slade, but he was bigger and faster than me, and, as indicated by the few teeth he was missing - he was used to getting hit.
    But I tended to get some good punches in every now and then. I’ve got a mean left hook, if I do say so myself. But fucking Slade rarely flinches. So, I do my best to follow his lead, try to sneak in a few surprises along the way, keep my feet moving and my hands up, and I try not to forget to duck.
    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