Page 1 of Runt's Haunted Ride
Chapter 1
My fist connected with bone, and for three seconds, the Silverback clubhouse went dead silent.
The crack echoed through the makeshift cage like a gunshot. Blood sprayed from my opponent's nose, splattering the chain-link walls that separated us from the howling crowd. The Devil's Rejects prospect—some hotshot punk who'd been talking shit about gorilla shifters being slow—swayed on his feet, eyes rolling back.
Too fucking easy.
I stepped back and shifted into my gorilla form, roaring as I beat my chest. My victory. My dominance. The Silverbacks echoed it, their roars shaking the clubhouse. I shifted back, letting my knuckles return to human form as adrenaline sang through my veins. My enhanced hearing picked up the rapid heartbeat of the fallen man. The metallic scent of blood mixed with stale beer and cigarette smoke that permeated the clubhouse. The prospect lay on the ring floor, quietly moaning.
One. Two. Three seconds of stunned silence.
Then the Silverback members erupted.
I bent down. "Next time think twice before you call your opponent nothing to be worried about, you asshole."
"Runt! Runt! Runt!" The chant started low and built to a deafening roar. Bills flew through the air as members collected their winnings from the Devil's Rejects crew. Two of them stepped into the ring, picking their club mate up by the arms and dragging him out.
Tank and Diesel slapped each other's backs, grins splitting their scarred faces as they counted cash.
Victory. Money in their pockets. Another win for the Silverbacks.
And I felt absolutely nothing.
I stood in the center of the cage, blood—not all of it my opponent's—dripping from my split knuckles, watching my so-called brothers celebrate around me. Through me. Like I was a piece of equipment that had performed its designated function.
Because that's all I was to them. The President's trained attack dog. The expendable muscle who got thrown into these fights because what did it matter if Runt got his ass kicked? It wasn't the President's blood on the concrete. Wasn't the VP's ribs that might crack. Wasn't the Sergeant-at-Arms' face getting rearranged.
Just mine. And I was replaceable.
"Good show, Runt." The voice cut through the noise like a blade. My spine stiffened as President Bruno "Bones" Silver approached the cage, his massive frame casting a shadow over the blood-stained concrete. The club president's cold eyes assessed me the way a man might evaluate livestock. "Nice job, pipsqueak. Devil's Rejects won't be talking shit about us anymore."
Us.As if I belonged. As if I was anything more than a weapon in the President's arsenal. As if any of us were anything more.
"Yes, sir." My voice came out flat, emotionless. Twenty-seven years of this shit had taught me to keep my mouth shut and my feelings buried deep. Safer that way.
The President's lips curved into what might have been a smile on a less brutal face. "Clean yourself up, Runt. Then get back in here. I've got an announcement for everyone."
I nodded, stepping out of the cage as the celebrating members began setting up for the party that always followed a successful fight night. Bottles appeared on every surface, music cranked up, and the sweet ladies who hung around the club emerged from wherever they'd been hidden away during the fight. Club business, after all, was only for the club.
Typical Saturday night at the Silverbacks. Blood, booze, and pussy. The holy trinity of MC life. Their MC life.
I grabbed a towel and my t-shirt from the stool and wiped the blood from my hands. My knuckles were already healing, the enhanced metabolism of my gorilla shifter genetics knitting bone and tissue back together. By morning, there'd be no sign of tonight's violence except the memory of another empty victory.
The party swirled around me as I made my way to the bathroom. Someone had cranked the classic rock that pounded through speakers older than half the prospects. Women in short skirts and even shorter tops draped themselves over leather-clad bikers, their laughter mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the occasional crash of someone getting too rowdy or too stupid. Either way.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead as I caught sight of myself in the cracked mirror above the sink. Six-foot-four of solid muscle stared back at me. My gorilla genetics had filled me out over the years—broad shoulders, thick arms, and an even thicker chest. The "Runt" nickname was a sick joke now. I was bigger than half the guys in the club, but the name had stuck since I'd joined at fifteen. Back then I'd been scrawny, awkward,the smallest gorilla shifter they'd ever seen. Now? I could take most of them in a fight.
Not that it mattered. I'd always be the runt of my clubhouse.
Dark, almost-black hair, kept short enough to stay out of my way during shifts. Jaw covered in my tapered beard. Someday, I'd shave when I felt like it. Maybe. My face was all hard angles and old scars, a roadmap of every fight I'd survived. There was a particularly nasty one above my left eyebrow from a bear shifter with a piss-poor attitude.
Luckily he'd missed my eye. My eyes made people uncomfortable. Dark brown, almost black, with that predator intensity that came from my gorilla. Most people couldn't hold my gaze for long. Although the club women claimed it was unfair that a guy like me got the eyelashes I did.
I'd never been very popular with the club women. They liked the guys with titles. Guys who knew when to slap their asses and when not to. Guys who didn't care which woman it was as long as she sat on their lap and gave good head. None of the females were mates. We had a strict rule about mates—they didn't belong in the clubhouse. Once a guy found his mate, he was required to reject her or leave the club. The number of idiots who had rejected their mates for the club blew my mind. I would never do that, of course. I wasn't ever going to have a mate, so I guess my opinion didn't matter.
I turned on the faucet and started scrubbing blood off my knuckles, watching it swirl pink down the drain. My hands were massive, indicative of my gorilla. They were scarred and calloused from years of fighting and working on bikes.
I splashed water onto my chest. The Silverback MC tattoo at the top of my right forearm stared back at me, the club's gorilla logo snarling up at me like it was mocking my existence.
