Page 3 of All's Fair in Love & Chaos
My eyes flick from the primal, dirty image of Wrath and the patch bunny to Rogue and his old lady, Kinsey. The two images are night and day, polar opposites in every way. They’ve been together a year, and Rogue just made her his old lady. Everyone loves Kinsey, and I love that she’s brought my brother back home to us.
Over a decade ago, Rogue and I lost people close to us, and after they were taken, I lost Rogue, too. His depression was a thick, inky darkness that surrounded him. He moved out of the clubhouse shortly after, and we only saw him when duty called. Kinsey brought him back into the light. I’ve never seen him happier, and because of that, I owe her everything. Voting on whether or not she’d be his old lady was easy for all of us. Each of us would die for her, if need be, but that’s how it is when you give out a property patch. She’ll always have the protection of the club, even if Rogue is six feet under.
Rogue shut down after the night we lost everything, became an empty shell just to keep taking each step forward. Me? I let the images of Lucas’ burned and mangled body that haunt my nightmares fuel me. His death stays with me in the pit of my belly just as raw today as it was over ten years ago.
My heart is cold stone. I don’t trust anyone, and my family comes above all else. No darkness shrouds me, no emptiness or holes. The opposite, actually. It’s madness. Anger.Chaos. I used to balance on the tightrope, trying to hold onto some semblance of Camden while not giving in completely to Chaos. When I lost my brother, the man I used to be died with him, leaving nothing but Chaos in his wake.
“What’s got you lookin’ like someone just pissed in your beer?”
“Nothin’,” I grunt to Sin, my vice president, a huge, burly fucker with red hair and an iron fist. I look his way as he takes a seat across from me at the bar and roll my eyes. He’s massive, well over six feet and two hundred pounds, and holding a fucking bunny in the crook of his arm.
“Liar,” he says as he strokes the small animal he calls a pet. He looks behind him at where my eyes are focused. Reid spins Kinsey around as her head falls back in a laugh before he yanks her back into his arms, holding her closely and dancing to the beat of the music. “They’re cute, huh?”
“Cute?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s totally normal he just used the word cute to describe a literal gigantic killer while he slow dances with his woman. But then I see him scratch behind the bunny’s ears, and it all makes sense. Sin is a big teddy bear. If a teddy bear played with sharp knives and had as much blood on its hands as I do.
“I don’t use the word cute. But I’m glad our brother is happy.”
“Then why is your face all pinched like you smelled shit?”
“Do I not look happy, Sin? Is that the problem?”
“I mean, do you remember how to smile?”
“I smile.”
Sin laughs, startling the little creature in his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, Mr. Bun-Buns. Daddy’s got you.”
“Jesus Christ. Do you hear yourself?”
“What? It’s called giving comfort. Do you remember how to do that?”
I drain the last of my beer. “Guess not,” I say, standing and adjusting my leather cut. “I’m callin’ it a night.”
“Hold up, I didn’t sit down just to bust your balls. Two more club members from Rebel Sons were just found dead. Murdered the same way as all the others. Throats slit from ear to ear with a branch branded onto their chests.”
Fuck. It’s not uncommon for motorcycle club members to show up dead from time to time, especially if their clubs are involved in wars or conflicts with rival clubs. But the last six months, there’s been an uptick—all murdered and left behind with a calling card, the killer taunting us, leaving their mark on each of their kills. Sin taps on his phone, flipping it around for me to view. I don’t grimace at the photo, having seen my fair share of dead bodies, but I do zoom in on the most important part—the fresh, red brand that was pressed deep into his bare torso, over the left side of his chest.
His heart. This is personal.
“These aren’t random killings.”
“No. Someone’s picking off club members.”
Jesus Christ. If someone is out there taking out club members, it’s all our problem, not just the club that the members belonged to.
“How many does this make?”
“Hard to tell ’cause not everyone wants to share their club business and doesn’t want to come off as weak, but four from Rebel Sons, three from Phoenix Syndicate,five from Hellfire Sentinels, and about five more I’ve gathered from the news that no one’s being open about claiming. Who knows how many more, or how many are unaccounted for, because no one caught the brand. The number could be staggering, for all we know.”
“We need to get to the bottom of it before it comes to our door. Get the word out, no one goes out alone, no outsiders allowed in, double patrols, and set up a meeting between the presidents of surrounding clubs—all of ’em. We need to find out if there’s more in common than just wearing a cut. Have them meet in neutral territory, don’t need anyone trying anything stupid while we’re all looking away.”
“You got it. You think this could be a play for territory?”
“I don’t trust outsiders; I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”
“No one’s getting Amberwood.”
