Chapter Two

Grief wears so many faces. When my parents were taken out by the Italian mafia, I was barely old enough to understand. My brother and his crew took care of me, taught me how to be ruthless, and I looked up to him more than I had our father. I wasn't na?ve. I knew that, as Greek mafia, they did bad shit— I did bad shit—but my brother took it too far and I shot him. He deserved it. The grief came in small waves for the loss of my last blood relative, until I found the Sons of Khaos, until I discovered my love for speed was shared. Until I found a real place for myself. True brotherhood.

Then, one of my chosen brothers died. Python was a prospect, but that didn't make him any less one of us. The pain was new to me, and with nobody to blame, I know I wasn't the only one rattled by it. But I had Mackenzie, my Cherry Pie. Holding her all night in my arms was soothing in a way that can't be replicated.

Now, I've been holed up in a jail cell for two months, charged with intent to maliciously injure by use of explosives—I had planned on more than injuring the Rebel fuckers but that's irrelevant. What is relevant is that my Cherry is gone and I can only think of one thing worth living for.

Retribution.

I won't rest until every single Toxic Rebel is rotting in the ground, but I can't do fucking shit from where I am.

The cops showing up right at that moment had me questioning how they knew what I was planning, but it turns out I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They"d been tipped off anonymously with a shit load of evidence to finally put the Rebels behind bars.

A few days after my arrest, my arraignment was held, and even with the best lawyer in the world, the crap falling from the prosecution's mouth landed me here awaiting trial with a fucking ridiculous bail amount that I refused to let the club pay. Days have merged into weeks, and if it weren't for the visits I've had from my brothers, I'd be six-feet under with Mackenzie. Not that dying is the worst thing in the world; at least we'd be together. A life without her feels impossible. But Bear, especially, has kept me relatively sane. Prez was angry with me at first for trying to blow the Rebels up by myself; getting arrested and leaving the club without an Enforcer means others have had to step up, but he gets it. With everything he did to tie his old lady down, blowing shit up is like a walk in the park. At least, that's what I've heard.

The fact that he got his old lady, and mine is dead, is something he can never comprehend. As I held Mackenzie in my arms, lifeless and limp, whatever light I had inside me snuffed out. Darkness I"ve always known was there creeped in thicker and more somber with every foot, then yard, then mile the ambulance put between me and Mackenzie. But the final blow to my sanity came when I saw her lying frozen on the cold, hard, stainless steel table of the morgue.

I'm a broken man but, for once, I have a semi-plan. Kill every fucker who ever touched my Cherry Pie. If that takes me to the afterlife right along with her, then so be it.

The lock on my cell creaks, followed by the door swinging open before the guard, Roy, bangs on the metal.

"Lunch."

Once a day, we're allowed out of our cells for an hour—in shifts because there'd be a riot if we were all out at the same time. We get to eat lunch in a communal cafeteria. It's the only semblance of normal this place provides. They allow thirty minutes for yard time, where we literally have to walk in a giant circle. This is what they call exercise time, which I suppose I shouldn't scoff at since the same privileges aren't available at every jail.

Pushing up from my bed—if you can call it that—I walk out of my cell, glad to be free of the four walls surrounding me. Being who I am has benefits, one of which is being given a cell of my own.

Regardless of the friends the club has here, I'd kill a motherfucker without blinking if I had to share this tiny space.

Landon and Jackson catch up with me as we head toward the cafeteria, walking silently by my side. They've both been here for over a year awaiting their trials, which is lucky for me. As friends of the club, it means I have allies while I'm here. I don't know exactly what their connection is, and I haven't asked, but their presence is strangely comforting. In my broken world, they're a quiet reminder that my brothers are still with me.

We each wear matching dark green pants and shirts with a beige undershirt that itches like a motherfucker. The green sports the Rockford Beach County Jail logo, and the beige indicates which wing we're in.

Some kind of soup is served today, which tastes like watered down cabbage with a hint of onion, but I need sustenance if I'm going to survive long enough to draw Rebel blood. Hell, any blood would do right now. There are only so many exercises and movements a man can do alone in his cell to occupy his mind.

"Hey, Psycho, I heard Roy mention a new inmate was arriving today." Landon, the shorter but bulkier of the two, is the most talkative. Not that talkative is the worst thing in the world. "Heard this one's been on the run for a couple of months."

That piques my interest. Mostly, I communicate with a series of grunts and head movements because I'm consumed with a rage so deep that anything more than that feels next to impossible. These guys are loyal friends of the club, but I don't wanna get to know them. I have enough people to leave behind when I'm done here, I don't need to be adding more. However, the information Landon is giving right now causes my eyes to move quickly, glaring through my lashes at him and silently telling him to continue.

"I'll find out what dinner rotation he's on later. But I think it's one of the guys on that list of yours. Goob? Gabe? Something like that."

Yes, I have a list. One I've written out several times a day on scraps of paper before ripping them to shreds. Scratching their names down with a pencil, then destroying them afterward has become a bit of a habit.

I know exactly who Landon is talking about.

"Goblin." My voice is low, deep, my tone scratchy. The only time I really speak these days is when one of my brothers visits.

"That's the one!"

"We'll find out which section he's in a—"

Whatever Jackson is saying has turned to white noise as my gaze zones in on my target.

Goblin is already fucking here. Sitting in the corner of the cafeteria with a group of skin-heads. They're not particularly friends of my club—not at all, in fact. They're dirty fucking scum who deserve to be hung from the ceiling by their scrotums. Just like their new friend.

He's getting closer, or I'm getting closer to him, I guess, since he's still sitting down. I feel hands on my arms, attempting to get my attention, pull me back…? I don't know and I don't fucking care.

Goblin's arm is no longer in a cast from when I shattered his elbow with a baseball bat a few months ago, which just means it's going to hurt more when I break him all over again. There's even a fucking smile on his smug little fucking face as he talks, without a care in the world, to his new soon-to-be-dead friends.

Darkness invades my vision from the edges, shrouded in red as I move closer. I may as well be floating because nothing is registering. Nothing except my rage. My breaths are coming short and fast, the sounds of the cafeteria nothing but a buzz, and just as the stupid fucking prick notices me, I grab the back of his head and slam his face into his lunch bowl.

It cracks and smashes everywhere, luke-warm soup spilling all over the plastic table, and the sound that he makes as I lift his head and see a piece of the bowl sticking out of his cheek fills me with pure satisfaction. One of the skin-heads tries his luck, standing sharply and throwing a fist in my direction, but he's too fucking slow. Grabbing the first thing available, which happens to be a spoon, I block his punch and shove the spoon into his eye before returning my attention to Goblin.

"What the fu—"

My fingers are still gripping the greasy strands of his hair, and I yank it backward so he's looking up at me, stopping him mid-sentence.

"Dead man walking." It's all I can manage to say, my jaw is clenched tight, anger rolling through my body in waves.

With my free hand, I grip his wrist and smash his arm against my knee, grinning when he screams like a fucking banshee as the bone snaps, leaving his arm at a very wrong angle.

Sobs are the only thing leaving his mouth now as he tries to bring his arm into himself, but I bash it against the table a few more times before letting go. Forcefully, I yank his head up once more and throw him out of his chair.

His back meets the floor with a loud thud that makes me grin as I approach him, ready to stamp on this fucker's head and end him. Someone steps in front of me, trying and failing to block my path before I punch him and push him so he falls out of my way. Another body is in front of me, and another, hands held up in surrender, and I take a deep breath, allowing some form of clarity to focus on the wall of Jackson and Landon.

Did I mention they've stopped me from killing a few motherfuckers in this place already for simply looking at me funny?

They're right.

The red haze fades and I continue to take deep breaths to calm my trembling limbs. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins and I'm struggling to contain it, but if I ever want to get out of here, I should definitely not kill people. There are only so many officers around here that are willing to be paid off for turning a blind eye. Luckily for me, they happen to be on duty today.

"You back with us?" Jackson is first to speak, the rest of the cafeteria so silent that Goblin's blood can be heard dripping onto the cold tiles beneath us.

One edge of my mouth involuntarily creeps upward into a half grin as I narrow my eyes and nod once. Before I walk away, I hold up a finger, letting Jackson and Landon know I just need a second, I'm good. Then I slowly step to the side and glare down at Goblin, clutching his arm to his chest as blood falls down his face where the piece of bowl still protrudes.

"You won't die today. Lucky fucker. But then again, maybe you will. Who knows? Oh wait… I do." I punctuate my sentence with a sharp kick to his ribs before turning and walking away.

There are still fifteen minutes left, but I'm done here. If I can't kill the fuckhead, I sure as shit can't be in the same room as him.

The officers are conveniently not here right now, and everyone else quickly averts their eyes when I walk past, pretending their lunch is the best thing since fucking was discovered.

A few feet from my cell, Shane—another officer here at the county jail—heads in my direction.

"Today's visitor is here, room three." Shane's on our payroll, but he doesn't like it, and I have to follow procedures and be led to the room instead of being able to make my own way there.

"Forty-five minutes." He opens the door to let me in, closing and locking it behind me.

"Is that blood on your knuckles? Again?" Bear stands, all six-foot-six of his bulking frame, landing his deep brown eyes on me in amusement.

"It is." I nod, gripping Bear's wrist as he grips mine, pulling each other in for a back tap. Seeing one of my brothers brings a lightness to the dark that consumes me, even if only briefly. "Goblin's here."

"Fuck yeah." We both take a seat on opposite sides of the clinically white table in the most uncomfortable plastic seats known to mankind. "Celia called Prez this morning when they arrested him for something to do with a robbery. They'll file the same charges against him as the others they arrested at their compound that night, so he's fucked."

I can't help the low laugh that escapes. Celia Shipman is the Deputy of the Rockford Sheriff's Department, and our agreement with her has been a godsend. She keeps us informed on things we need to know, and we do what we can to keep our town safe from people who think they're worse than us.

"You could say that, yeah." The image of Goblin lying on the cold floor of the cafeteria, whimpering like a fucking dog, blood pouring from his face… it sends a pleasurable shudder up my spine.

"You didn't kill him, did you? How much clean up do we gotta do here?"

His concern is warming in the strangest of ways. I don't want to feel good, not at all. It's like I'm cheating. How am I allowed to feel things when my Cherry Pie can't? There hasn't even been a funeral. Prez said that her best friend Spencer had been seen at the churchyard with a large vase about a week after the night she…

I missed Python's funeral too…

Shaking myself free of the spiral I will no doubt continue to travel down when I'm alone in my cell, I shrug.

"Nah. Didn't kill him. Just fucked him up a bit." I know Bear can see my internal struggle. You don't become best friends with killers unless you can really know or trust them, and he knows me almost better than myself. It's like he sees something in me that I just can't anymore. Any hope I ever had of a good life died right alongside Mackenzie.

I zone in on the package in the center of the table, at my sucker stash that's replenished with every visit—thank fuck because I need the taste, the smell, to center myself and stay on task. They're only allowed if I have the papery sticks that go soggy if I suck on them for too long and it pisses me off, but they're better than none at all. Then another wave of grief hits me, because Mackenzie will never again have the pleasure of anything, let alone a sucker.

"Okay, brother, drop the shit act. You're no good at keeping things from me and you know it." His tone is firm and he relaxes back into his chair, his thumbs casually slipping into the pockets of his jeans.

"I'm good, man. Nothing to worry about." I hold my hands out, palms up, before cracking my knuckles and linking my fingers behind my head, mirroring his laid-back posture. Inside, I'm screaming, trembling for some kind of justice, for time to be turned back, for one more second of pure happiness. All things that will never come.

But justice can't be had because we don't know which motherfucker shot the gun that killed her. And everything else is impossible.

"So, what's new? That new parts dealer working out?" Outside, I'm the picture of calm and collected.

"Yeah, Jed's stuff has been good so far. But fuck that shit. Look, the lawyer said she should have you out in a few days. They're dropping all charges. I don't know the details, but she'll probably come and see you first. All you've gotta do is keep your shit together for a while longer. Okay?"

I'm getting out.

Finally.

Someone's going to die.

The real world outside of here feels like something from a TV show, someone else's life, and like a tornado, pain twists through me at the thought of the life I could have had. The life that was ripped away from me.

I'm nodding in response, words not forming as I try to contain the wave of grief.

"Let it out, brother. Let it out. Argh!" He yells out, then, as though that wasn't the weirdest thing he's ever done, he gestures for me to do the same. "Your turn."

"Fuck off, man." I shake my head, guilt now trying to overpower the grief, because I'm being and have been a shitty friend and a shitty brother to my club.

"Why?! ARGH!" he yells out again, and with each shout, he appears lighter. He gestures again for me to have a turn.

So I do. I scream, I yell until I can barely breathe. Fuck, that actually feels good. And hello again, grief. Why is feeling good so fucking painful? I yell again, and it's louder this time, but seeped in anger. I stand, pick up the chair, and throw it across the room.

The door clicks open as the chair smashes against the wall and Shane enters, concern written all over his face.

"Fuck off." Bear and I shout out at the same time, because I do not need that cunt in here witnessing this. He holds a hand up and backs out, scowling as he slams the door closed again.

"Feel better?" Bear's beside me now, an arm across my shoulders.

"No, I feel like fucking shit."

He chuckles. "Yeah, well, shit's better than nothing, brother."

"You sure about that?" It's a serious question because I'm not positive that he's right.

"Listen, don't kill or maim anyone in the next few days and you'll be sailing free faster than Greased Lightning. Ninja misses you."

Another pang of guilt hits me. My beautiful boy has been sleeping in our suite at the compound, on my pillow.

"You mean you miss me, fucker."

Bear squeezes my shoulder in a kind of side-hug before walking over to the chair I threw and picking it up, placing it back beside the table.

"Yeah, I kinda do, brother. We all do."

Shane gave me a visitor request to approve for some woman I'm assuming is on Veronica Luna's team—our club lawyer—as soon as Bear left from his visit three days ago. Scarlett Green is hopefully going to be the lady that tells me I can walk the fuck out of this hellhole.

Bear gave me a lot to think about. He always fucking does, the smug shit. I probably would've taken out every motherfucker in this place given half a chance if it wasn't for the two visits a week from Bear or one of the others.

This is it though.

I follow Shane through to the visiting rooms, door number thirteen today. If I believed in superstition I'd say it was a bad omen.

He opens the door, closing and locking it behind me once I'm inside.

Some woman, all decked out in a gray suit and black heels, sits at the same white table where Bear tried to talk me down from the ledge. Her profile is hidden by a long, thick curtain of red hair as she scribbles something onto a notebook.

With a tone that clearly says, get on with it, because at this point I don't give a shit about anything, I ask, "You Veronica's messenger?"

My body reacts before my brain can even register what the fuck I'm seeing as the woman's face comes into view. Every muscle in my body freezes, even my lungs. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't… understand.

Words spill from my mouth in a barely audible whisper but I'm not sure how I was even able to form them since my mind is a complete and total blank.

"What the actual fuck?"