Page 89 of 12 Months of Mayhem

A SCORCHING SUMMER

12 Months of Mayhem Anthology

CHAPTER ONE

Calli

Sixteen Years Old

Fighting my way through a crowd of leather cuts and club patches wasn’t an easy feat given I was all of five foot and the men that filled the bar around me were heavy, hardened bikers who didn’t move their asses for anyone—especially not a teen girl trying to make it back to her tent before her MC president father realized she was out after curfew, and, also drunk.

I kept my head down and my hood pulled up, trying to avoid any unwanted attention while I made my escape, but it wasn’t easy. My heart felt like it could pound straight out of my chest at any second.

Or maybe that was the bass from the music playing.

Every damn year I was blown away by how the little city of Kingston in the Arizona desert came alive for Scorch. The event had been running since well before I existed and had grown exponentially every year since.

Scorch celebrated the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. Dad said it started a long time ago with clubs from up north who spent a lot of the winter not being able to ride because of snow and ice, so they’d travel somewhere hot at the start of summer to celebrate being back on the roads.

But it had become so much more than that. It was a place where rival clubs set aside their grudges under an unspoken truce for one week out of the year. Where entire chapters met from across the country. And where MC members or not—people celebrated their love for the open road and the brotherhoods it brings.

And they do it with parties and endless supplies of alcohol.

A lot of which I’d consumed myself tonight with some other club kids—after my father strictly told me not to—and now I was desperate to get back to the club’s camping site before he or someone else noticed I was gone.

Finally reaching the edge of the crowd, I sucked in a long, deep breath, grinning as I reveled in the cool night air, relieved to be out of that sauna. My body was heavy and swayed as I trudged through the event grounds, people everywhere, drinking, laughing, and throwing sticks onto bonfires.

I kept my head down and checked my watch—2:07 a.m.

He better be there, or I’m screwed.

My stomach twisted, and my mind instantly flicked through backup plans.

Can I walk to the club’s camping area?

Is anyone else here who could give me a ride and won’t tell my dad?

At what point do I just call him and admit I snuck out?

The idea of that alone scared the shit out of me, so when I rounded the next corner and saw a shadow out at the street, leaning back against an old truck with a cigarette glowing between his fingers—I almost said a little fucking prayer.

With a relieved breath, I hurried over. He turned before I reached him as if he felt me coming, and when his dark eyes locked on mine, the grin that tugged at his lips was enough to make my knees weak. “Took you long enough.”

I rolled my eyes as I closed the space between us. “You’re impatient.”

“You’re late.”

I shrugged, stepping up in front of him and tugging on his club cut, my fingers lingering on the slightly worn leather, but it was the Hell’s Bandits MC patch stitched across the front that made my heart stall every damn time. It was a reminder of everything that was wrong with this—everything that should’ve kept me far, far away.

And yet, in the past five years at Scorch, Mason and I had only grown closer. It started with secret meetings at Walmart when we were younger, where we wandered the aisles for hours, discussing our favorite music and foods.

Year after year, we learned a little more.

We grew closer, we got bolder with our meetings. Every stolen moment, every secret glance, had only deepened our shared connection.

He was the first boy who had the balls to talk to me despite everyone knowing exactly who my father was and the weight that came with that information. Most people steered clear, keeping their distance out of fear or respect for the Exiled Eight. But Mason? He didn’t give a damn.

He was the first boy to hold my hand—like it was something sacred, something worth fighting for. And my first kiss—though it was stolen behind old buildings in downtown Kingston, hidden in the shadows where no one could see—it wasn’t romantic by anyone’s standards, but I’d never been one to need flowers and chocolates to feel special.

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