CHAPTER ONE
*Zane - Hell for Leather Initiate*
Aschwack rings in my ear and my head slings sideways from the impact. Blinking repeatedly, I jolt upright, palm pressed against the sting radiating along my jaw and cheek.
The outline of a face, features barely discernible in the black room, appears in my gradually sharpening vision. Brodi yanks my hand away and gives my cheek a little love pat. Flashing me his classic, manic grin, his bright teeth are visible even in the dark. “Good-fucking-morning, sunshine. Get your ass out of bed.”
Heart thundering, uncertain as to the reason for this early-morning visit, I struggle to figure out how to respond. One wrong comment or move, and that love pat could turn into another slap. Or worse.
A rapid memory of one of my first wakeup calls flashes through my mind: they had forced me to get drunk the night prior, an easy thing to do since I had never so much as tasted alcohol before. Then, they tucked me in for the night at a park. Naked. My phone alarm went off bright and early the next morning. An incoming text told me I had thirty minutes to use all the playground equipment as an obstacle course. From there, I was required to make my way to the clubhouse to get dressed. The reward for successfully accomplishing those tasks ended up being my club uniform — prospect patch included.
My focus returns to the present just in time. Brodi raises a dark eyebrow and the corner of his mouth ticks upward. I narrowly escape more harassment, ducking my head under his next swipe and scrambling out of bed, wrestling with the bunched sheets along the way.
The overhead light flickers on, revealing my sparsely furnished studio apartment and a second club member — the executive officer who made my prospect patch official. Blood drains from my face, leaving me in a cold sweat. The white thread of his Vice President patch catches my eye as he steps forward. Seeking out the Tail Gunner patch on Brodi, my hazy focus flicks toward him again as he steps back and leans against the wall beside the door. Sure enough, both men are fully dressed in their reinforced, black motorcycle jeans and club leathers. Head tilted down slightly and watching with wide-eyed attention as our superior approaches me, Brodi gnaws on his thumbnail, a small lightning bolt tattoo peeking out from the cuff of his jacket.
Clearly underdressed in only my boxers, I straighten my spine and pin the VP with what I hope passes as a confident glare. “Did someone die?” I ask, trying to piece together why they would be paying me a visit at — I dare a quick glance at the clock — three in the morning. This is a new hazing record for any of the members, executive or not. “Lord knows you don’t need me for an eloping.” I chuckle nervously and consider including something about nobody being crazy enough to marry him but decide the one gibe probably tested my boundaries plenty.
Too much, even. His half-smirk drops. “Smart ass.”
The smug grin returns, leveling out my pulse just as it started to increase. “I like it. Keep up the good work.”
Grinning wide, Brodi speaks up from his perch at the door: “Drop the ‘Lord’ next time, though, and add in a good ‘fuck off’ instead.”
Right. Not a chance. The day I start telling Coty “Coyote” Reed to fuck off is the day I meet my Maker, and as tight as we are, I’m not ready for that yet. I might be able to get away with that behavior with Brodi, since he is only one link higher than me on the food chain, but not with “Coyote.” No way. He would eat me alive.
The animal in question grins, the silvery streaks in his hair highlighted under my fluorescent lighting as he looks down at the watch on his wrist. “You have thirty minutes to get dressed, pack your snorkel, and do your ‘studies’ or whatever the hell it is you do in here at these god-awful hours.” He puts a unique spin on the air quotes around “studies,” curling his fingers into a fist and pumping near his crotch. “There’s been a change of itinerary. Duty calls. Prez wants us — you included this time — to ride out for Florida before the sun rises.”
“D-duty?” All pretending to be a tough smart aleck drains. “This week? Y-you said I would be a prospect for at least a year before getting my first assignment.” Bile singes my throat, leaving behind an acrid tang. No longer caring what the VP does to me, I sink onto the edge of my bed. They’ve been slave-driving me nearly every day since Brodi found me living on the streets. Over the course of the past few months, Coty has even taken it upon himself to toughen me up — to make sure I have the skills to do what true membership requires. I know what to do and what my initiation entails. But now that it is real—
“Stand up,” he demands.
Legs tingling and unable to move, I remain seated, and my unfocused gaze bores a hole into the worn Bible tucked under my motorcycle helmet on the bedside table — my only true physical possessions other than my bike and the clothes on my back from when I ran from home six months ago.
Coty steps into my sightline, grips my jaw, and slams our foreheads together. My focus goes cross-eyed on the center of his nose. “I said stand up… Father,” he sneers, reminding me both of my responsibilities as soon-to-be club Chaplain and why I joined Hell for Leather to begin with. “Time to earn your officer patch.”