Stepping out of my car, I’m already regretting my choice to come here. I’ve asked my brother for help before, and he always brushes me off. Unless it benefits his club or him specifically, Clint ‘Mayhem’ Rainer doesn’t have a flying fuck to lend to anyone.
“Well, shit.” Clint’s jovial, cocky tone reaches my ears. “To what do I owe the visit, Cherry?”
I grit my teeth, biting back the urge to remind my older brother that I have an actual name. One I share with our maternal grandmother, not that I’ve ever met her. Mom got herself disowned running off with a bad boy.
“Just dropping by to say hey,” I respond as casually as I can. Just being near this house is enough to make my hands shake, so I shove them deep into the pockets of my leather jacket.
Clint spits on the sidewalk, runs his hands through his dark hair, and drawls his response. “Buuuull shiiiit. You’re welcome to stay, but don’t fuckin’ lie to me right off the bat.”
“Well, you’re forcing me to jump right in,” I reply, forcing a smile. Clint is a human lie detector. My brother has plenty of faults, but he also has his fair share of… qualities. I wouldn’t call them good, though maybe if he wasn’t such a dick, he could put them to better use. Maybe.
“I need a favor.”
A sarcastic snort blows out of Clint’s nose. “Does it look like I have a fairy godmother on standby?” He gestures aimlessly at the property.
“It’s not money or stuff. I… need you to handle someone.”
Exasperated, Clint turns back to the house. “Cherry, I swear to Christ you better not be coming over here to bring up that trooper again.” The screen door slams behind him, but he doesn’t close the interior door, and that’s as close to an invitation as I’m likely to get under the circumstances.
“Come on, Clint.” My voice is dangerously close to begging as I follow him inside. The house is filthy. Stained couches and chairs fill the living room and the air smells like someone tried to make a smoothie out of cheap beer and cigarette butts. “He—” I stop and breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging, but quickly realize it is so much worse when you cantastethe air. “He’s a violent drunk and takes it out on his kid. Youknowhow shitty that is.”
“So you want me and the boys to ride into Haven, and what? Off a cop? I thought you wanted to stay out of all this.” Clint’s tone is teasing, disbelieving even, but there’s something especially flinty about it that sets me on edge.
“Who said I want you to ‘off him’?” I hedge. “I just want someone to stop him from beating his kid.” I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. It’s true I’ve made a point of staying out of Chaos business, but Clint was just as happy to see me go in another direction. He’s a dick, but he’s still my brother. He loves me. I know he does. Even if the only way he can show it is to keep me out of his lifestyle.
And keeping my distance is how I return the affection. Clint isn’t what you’d call level-headed, especially when it comes to me. I certainly didn’t love watching him pull a gun on his friends every time they gave me the side eye. If I make myself scarce, life is just easier for all of us.
Staying off the radar isn’t particularly difficult. I just don’t associate with club members. I keep my ass in Haven where it belongs, keep my head down, and enjoy my quiet life. Hell, I hardly ever cross into the Peril city limits unless I absolutely have to.
“Can’t do it,” Clint grunts, heading into the dingy kitchen. The walls and sagging cabinets are stained brown. You could probably excavate layers of cigarette smoke like an archaeological study. I lean my hip against the counter and immediately pull away when my sweater sticks to it.
“Can’t?” I repeat, frustration squeezing my vocal cords until my voice it tight and brittle. “Or won’t.”
Clint picks up a beer can and spits into it. “Both. Hicks is necessary.”
“Meaning…?” I press, though I already have a good idea of what he means.
“Meaning it’s none of your goddamn business!” My brother snarls in my direction and sweeps a collection of beer bottles off of the chipped laminate counter. They clatter to the floor, bouncing and shattering into amber shards. Stale, sour-smelling beer splatters the walls, the cabinets, the floors, and me. It soaks into my sweater and makes my pants stick to my legs.
A knot tightens deep inside of me, clenching around my heart. In an instant, it’s pumping adrenaline through my bloodstream. My face tingles, icy-cold and burning with panic. My feet are backing me out of the kitchen before my brain even registers what I’m doing.
“Fuck you, Clint,” I hiss through clenched teeth, turning and storming out of the shit-show of a house.
“Cherry…” He calls my name half-heartedly but doesn’t follow me. Just as well. I’d feel really guilty if I slapped him.
Time for Plan B.
2
BEAST
It’s Friday night, and at the Pour House that means three things. I won’t get a break for seven hours straight, I’ll walk out with a fuck-load of money, and someone is going to start a fight. Odds are good someone ends the night with a broken nose.
Rattler taps two tattooed fingers on the bar, barely looking up as I slide another bottle into his palm. “You look like the shitty end of a pit bull. The fuck is wrong with your mopey ass?” I grunt at him, drying a glass and adding it to the clean stack.
Of all the patched members at the bar tonight, he’s the only one acting like a sullen baby. It’s out of character and frankly, the sour expression is starting to piss me off.
“We’ve got a run next week.”