I wiped the blade on my new jeans, but that didn’t get it clean. I was covered in blood. I handed it back to Styx. The kid smiled. It was the first time I’d ever seen any expression from the mute Little Reaper.
“Now that was fucking awesome . . . I got a huge-ass boner. Anyone else?” Vike spoke, but I kept my eyes on Reaper.
“Church.” Reaper turned to walk back toward the clubhouse. All the brothers left, and I was left looking down at Trace. Taking my cell from my jean pocket, I took a picture of Trace’s fucked-up body and sent it to the one person I’d thought would never fucking betray me.
He didn’t succeed. If you want me dead, fucking come get me yourself.
When the message sent, I walked from the shed, leaving the Klan firmly behind. I didn’t go get Beauty; instead I took a shower in the room in which I’d been staying and threw the jeans away. I looked in the bag Beauty had brought in from Ride. Inside were another pair of jeans and a white shirt. I slipped them on, then sat down on the bed. I took a huge breath out. When I looked down, my hands were shaking. My legs couldn’t keep still and adrenaline surged through my body, lighting me the fuck up.
Trace. Fucking Trace. The guy who took me off the streets and gave me a family. A family that were evil. I closed my eyes, thinking of that first night I’d helped them take out a rival gang member.
A black gang member . . .
Trace’s loud laughter came from the driver’s side as I sat beside him on the passenger seat. He turned the wheel, and I heard the sound of the body being dragged behind the car across Landry’s land. Trace handed me the whiskey. Then he came to a stop. He got out of the car and I followed. We stopped at the back of the car. I looked down. And I didn’t fucking move as I saw the state of the body.
“Another victory for the white race.” Trace handed me a smoke. “Celebrate, Tank. You just got yourself your first kill . . .”
I pulled my hands down my face and felt my stomach fucking recoil at the memory. Because I’d been all in. Young, stupid, and high off my first kill, Trace fanning the flames of white pride.
Now, years later and grown the fuck up, I saw him for what he was . . . a fucking deadbeat loser who I’d put all my damn trust in. Followed the guy to hell with a burning cross lighting the way.
I was as stupid as his dead ass. Had innocent blood on my hands. Not all. Mostly rival gangs, but some that were just in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been on the bed, but eventually I heard Bull’s voice from the door. “You’re needed in church.”
I studied Bull’s face, trying to work out what was going on. The guy’s face was blank, not giving shit away. I followed, and as we made our way down the hallway, I let numbness fill me. Whatever was about to happen, good or bad, I wasn’t getting away.
When I walked into the room that I hadn’t ever been allowed in, all the brothers were sitting around a table. Reaper sat at the top, a gavel in front of him, Hades Hangmen patch on the wall behind him. Big Poppa was to his left, Styx to his right, Ky next to Styx.
The door shut behind me, but I kept my eyes on Reaper. If for some fucked-up reason he thought I’d brought the Klan here, I wanted to see the psycho coming at me. I wondered if this was some kind of test. Wondered if he’d kept Trace alive for me to see if I could do it. If I could kill a former Klan brother.
I tensed, fucking waiting for Reaper to speak, then he reached under the table and threw something at me. I caught it instinctively. The smell of fresh leather immediately shot to my nose. I glanced down to see a brand-new leather cut in my hands. It had the Hangmen patch on the back. On the front was the word “Prospect”, with my name beside it . . . Tank.
My head snapped up as my heart started to fucking slam in my chest. Reaper sat there in his chair like the fucker was Hades on his throne. A hand landed on my shoulder from behind. Bull.
“Well?” Ky said, smirking from his seat. “What the fuck you waiting for? Put it the fuck on.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slipped the cut over my shirt. And fuck, did it feel perfect. I ran my hand over the patch. “You fucking defended the Hangmen from your old brothers. Killed for us.” Reaper shrugged. “Showed you just might be one of us.”
“I am,” I said without taking a breath.
Reaper banged the gavel down on the table, the sound echoing off the walls. I heard that sound replaying in my head as I watched, in disbelief, the brothers get to their feet. I thought my heart was about to burst from my chest when I saw their faces, felt each slap on my back. My breathing was so hard I heard it in my own ears, the air rushing through me as fast as my blood rushed through my veins. Then I glanced down to my cut—my fucking cut—and read my name over and over again. “Tank” stitched into the leather . . . the smell of that leather telling me one fucking thing: I was a motherfucking Hangman.
I’m a motherfucking Hangman . . .
The world came crashing back into real time when Reaper came over, the last to reach me, Big Poppa beside him. “Prospecting is shit. Earn your dues, then one day you’ll be patched in.” I nodded, hanging off his every word. I was trying to take it in. Trying to believe it was true, that I wasn’t still under from the attack and dreaming it all up in my head.
But I was here. As Reaper hit my shoulder in congratulations, I knew I was really fucking here. They’d let me in. Beauty and me . . . we were no longer on our own.
Bone came past me and took hold of my arm, dragging me toward the door of church. I frowned, trying to focus on what the hell was going on.
It was Big Poppa who spoke. “First you’re getting those fucking Nazi tattoos covered. If I have to see them one more day I’ll fucking slit your throat myself.” Poppa clapped his hand down on my shoulder. “And my bike never ran so good. Don’t wanna have to find a new mechanic.” Bull and Ky pushed me into the bar. As the doors swung open, I immediately saw Beauty. Her blue eyes fell to the cut and the brothers standing around me, and her hands flew to her mouth.
My heart
was a fucking iron fist when I saw the fucking happy tears sprout in her eyes, but I managed to smile. I didn’t get a chance to go over because rock music came blasting through the speakers, a bottle of liquor was put in my hand, and I was shoved into a chair beside Bone, who emerged from the back room with his tattoo gun in his hand.
“Get the fuckin’ sluts in!” Big Poppa called. “Time to get fuckin’ wasted and fucked! We got a new brother!” My cut and shirt were removed and Bone started free-handing Hades cover-ups over my Nazi ink. And with every minute, I got more shitfaced, the tattoo gun erasing the final tie to my past life. The biggest fucking mistake I’d ever made.
As I looked up at Beauty, smiling and crying, drinking whiskey that I knew she fucking hated with Letti, Lois, and Marie, I felt like I could finally fucking breathe.
I was a motherfucking Hades Hangman.
And we were home.
Epilogue
One week later . . .
Beauty let loose a long fucking “Woohoo!” as we cruised down Congress Avenue, her arms in the air. Her vest, showing everyone who she belonged to, was on her back, tight black leathers on her long legs. She had her Hangmen tank on—Vike was right. It made her tits look unreal.
People stopped and stared as we went past. I rode and rode, until a familiar building came up ahead. The building I picked Beauty up from all those months ago. Beauty’s arms came around my waist and her lips came to my ear, like she was reading my damn mind. “Best fucking thing I’ve ever done, darlin’.”
I smirked, knowing it was true. A fucking beauty queen in a crown and sash climbing onto my bike changed it all.
An hour later we were back in our home near the compound. The minute I got off the bike, Beauty jumped into my arms, legs around my waist—where they seemed permanently attached—and her lips on mine. Holding her ass in my hands, I carried her up the stairs to the porch, then through the front door.