Page 1 of Bastard

Prologue

Jace

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9 Years Ago

I took a long, slow, deep breath in. Held it. Let it out even slower. I stood in front of the Devil’s Wrath garage, the gravel of the parking lot cooking the soles of my boots. It was a shithole, but this shithole was my home now, whether I liked it or not.

I cracked my neck and took the first step.

Then another. My hand a fist at my side. One more.

“It’s the Bastard,” one of the Chubbies—my old man’s closest asshole friends—yelled into the garage. Two more appeared from the shadows.

My nerves jumped, but I kept my breath even. Never let them see you sweat. Six months of training and I finally felt like I could hold my own. Establish dominance. It’s all their tiny brains understand. Rocket stood up from the stool and tried to seem imposing.

“You get the money?”

I tossed the paper bag filled with cash at him. He grabbed it out of the air, then stuck his nose inside, whistling. “How in the hell?”

It was a suicide mission. Well, at least a futile one. Normally they sent prospects to collect the money as an initiation. They either got their asses beat or not. A beating showed whether they could handle the pain and embarrassment. Success meant they knew how to take care of business.

I did that.

But I was Todd’s bastard stepson. That made me different. The Chubbies demanded more. So they sent me into Python territory to collect a debt no one had been able to collect in five years.

“I took it.”

All three men stared at me slack-jawed. “What do you mean you took it?”

“I walked in. They laughed at me. I asked for the money. They laughed harder and said no.”

Rocket glanced inside the bag again, blinking in disbelief. “And then?”

“I kicked their asses, found their safe, convinced one of them to give me their finger, and took it.”

All three men blinked at me. “What do you mean you kicked their asses?”

I took in another careful breath and pushed it out using my diaphragm the way Agent Steel taught me. Eight months ago he approached me about the club. Seven months ago he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Six months ago he started training me. “A long-term investment” was how he referred to me.

“There were six in the clubhouse when I got there. I didn’t see the three guys out back. But it didn’t matter. I had the guys inside almost completely unconscious when they ran in, so it was pretty easy to take them out too.”

I stretched my right hand and fisted it again, working the blood through the bruised tissue.

Spades busted out laughing, his beer gut jiggling. “You had me fooled, Bastard! For a second I thought you were serious! Come on, where’d you really get the money?”

These assholes had nothing good in their lives so they found their joy in making everyone else as miserable as they were. When I started my college classes they called me goody-two-shoes. When I let Sam go they called me a pussy. Whenever I did Todd’s bidding they called me an ass licker.

I wondered what they’d call me after this.

In the distance the not-unexpected sound of Harleys cut through the humid Florida air. I expected retribution. I even hoped for it. The only way to get past the Chubbies idea that I was just Todd’s little punching bag wimp of a stepson was to show them I wasn’t.

I couldn’t kick their asses because that was against the rules and would only make my position here even more dangerous. But kicking a rival club’s ass? It was perfect.

“I’d hide that money, Rocket.” I pointed behind me at the rumble getting louder with each passing second. “And maybe call for some backup.”

Spades eyes went round. “Fuck!” A second later he was shouting inside and fumbling for his cellphone. I didn’t really want backup—not unless they pulled hard weapons on me. Instead, I wanted these shitheads, who’d made my life a living hell for as long as I could remember, see who they were actually working with. They made me into this man. This vengeful, angry man, willing to be a mole for the government. They took Sam away and my chance at a different life.

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