My father's roar shakes the clubhouse walls, but I don't flinch. I've spent years surviving inferno, a biker gang's chaos is nothing.
I never knew my real family until a private investigator handed me an envelope after my mother died of overdose. "Your father is Damon Montague. Your brother is Montague. They're both in an MC called the Highway Demons," he said.
I'm the long-lost daughter of their founder, Chaos, the little sister of their ruthless president, Devil. And here I am, Violet Larkson—ex-Doll, street rat, and now, apparently, MC royalty.
This club has rules. Enemies. And him—Killer, the VP with a reputation for violence and a stare that burns through my armor. He hates women. I hate men. Yet every time our eyes lock, something primal ignites.
———————
I slowly park my Forty-Eight Harley Davidson on the side of the nearly empty street. A broken streetlight flickers above my head, while the rest are completely off. The street is quiet, except for the snoring of a homeless man sleeping in the alley a few feet away. At least, I think it's a man.
I get off my bike and pull a smoking from my new pack. After a glance across the street, I cross the road, lighting the smoking with the Zippo lighter I keep in the pocket of my leather biker jacket. The parking lot on the other side is empty, indicating the 24/7 diner is just as deserted.
When I reach the doors, I turn around and kneel down, leaning my back against the wall. I've been more stressed than usual lately—and that says a lot.
I finally let myself relax now that I'm feeding my nicotine addiction and close my eyes. But not long after, I hear a car approaching and open them again.
A truck pulls into the parking lot and parks like an prick, taking up two spaces. I narrow my eyes against the harsh headlights shining directly at me and take another drag from my smoking before dropping it to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of my combat boot.
"Miss Larkson?"
A man approaches me, and I give him a quick once-over. I know who he is—I hired him a couple of weeks ago. We've only spoken over the phone, so I've never seen him in person until now. I think his name is Vince, but I'm terrible with names.
He's short, bald, and slightly overweight. He's wearing a raincoat over a thick sweater, and I cringe. It's hot—even if it's 4 AM and the temperature's cooled down a bit.
"That's me."
"Good. Do you want to, uh, go inside?" Vince—if that's even his name—asks while glancing over my shoulder at the diner door.
I stare at him for a beat too long, just to make him squirm, then lift my chin and walk into the diner. Immediately, the stench hits me, and I wrinkle my nose. The place reeks, like there's a dead animal rotting in one of the corners. Lovely.
The interior is old, filthy, and cheap. I take a seat in the far corner, facing the door, and lean back. Vince sits across from me, still looking uncomfortable. I nod at the disinterested waitress trudging toward our table.
"How can I help you?" she asks, pulling out a tattered notebook. She doesn't even look at us—her eyes are fixed on something outside the window.
She looks suicidal, honestly. But I would be too if I had to work in a place that smelled like decomposing rats. Her hair is greasy, her makeup looks two days old, and her non-existent eyebrows are drawn on in crooked lines like she used a ruler while drunk. Her uniform needs to be washed—badly. God only knows what it's stained with.
"Coffee and blueberry pancakes," Vince says.
I glance at him and grimace. He ignores me and smiles at the waitress. She nods, scribbles down the order, and walks away.
"I didn't come all the way here for a dinner date," I say sharply. "Tell me what you found so I can get going." I tap my heel irritably against the floor and meet his eyes. I don't have time for this—I need to keep moving.
Vince nods and pulls a large envelope from his jacket.
"Right, uh, I found something you might be interested in," he begins.
I let out a heavy sigh.
"After opening your adoption file, I found out it was a closed adoption. But I managed to connect the time of your birth and your age to your birth mother. You were given away when you were about a year old. Since you came from a small town, it wasn't hard to figure out who your mother was."
I glance up at him, then at the waitress who practically throws the plate of pancakes and coffee onto the table. This bimbo is seriously getting on my nerves. If she keeps this up, I might smash her face into the table.
I force myself to ignore the violent urge and look back at Vince.
"Right. Uh, your mother died five years ago of a dope overdose. But you have an older brother and a father. Your mother's name wa—"
"I don't care about her."
Vince swallows hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his face.
"Right. Your father is fifty years old. His name is Damon Montague. Your brother is thirty—Steven Montague. They're both in an MC called the Highway Demons. Your brother is currently the president. Your father was president before him and the original founder of the club. All the information I found is in this file."
He pushes the envelope toward me and waits for a reaction.
I stare out the window, taking in the quiet street and drawing a deep breath. Of course my family isn't normal. A biker club? Seriously?
I look back at Vince, the private investigator. After a moment, I reach inside my jacket and pull out another envelope—this one with $400 in cash. I set it on the table, and Vince immediately grabs it and starts counting, ignoring the nasty-looking pancakes in front of him.
I stand up, take the envelope with the files, and walk out.
The cement floor I'm lying on is cold. I shiver and try to ignore the black spots forming in my vision. My whole body hurts, and I let out a small whimper. The welts on my legs are infected, and pus is dripping from them. I know I need a doctor, but Sir only calls one when the wounds are life-threatening.
I hate Sir—my master, my torturer. The middle-aged man who brought me to this huge house when I was only five years old. Took me out of the overpopulated orphanage that was more than happy to let him take a child off their hands. He stole everything from me—my life, my freedom, my innocence—the moment I stepped foot into this house.
A child screams in the distance, and I try to detach myself from the sound. I know what's happening. I know it'll be my turn again soon, once I've healed a bit more. The screaming gets closer, the voice growing weaker until it turns into soft sobs. This girl must be new—she sounds young. I feel pity, but a darker part of me is relieved. Another person means more time for me to heal. More time alone. More time away from Sir.
The door opens, and I look up. The comforting darkness around me is disrupted by the faint light spilling in from the hallway. It stings my eyes, making me squint and groan. A guard enters, carrying a plate of the usual: cold, watered-down soup, hard bread, and a small cup of lukewarm water. He also sets down a bucket—for relieving myself.
I try to push myself up to reach the food, but I'm too weak. Another whimper rises in my throat, but I force it back down. I can't show weakness. I have to be hard. Detached. Cold.
The guard leans against the wall, arms folded over his bulky chest, smirking. He enjoys my pain. I can see it. I'm glad Sir makes it clear that no one else can touch his Dolls. Because I know that look in the guard's eyes. Lust. He wants me like Sir has me.
I cringe and crawl toward the plate. It takes forever, and by the time I reach it, I start eating straight from the bowl. I no longer feel ashamed to eat like an animal. I know what I am—nothing. Just a toy for Sir. I learned that quickly.
I've lost track of how long I've been here. I don't even know how old I am. I look down at my thin, broken body. Bruises, welts, and old scars cover my once porcelain skin. My bones press through my skin, and I barely have any breasts. But there's hair growing in places there wasn't before, so I must be a teenager by now—if what the older girls said in the orphanage was right.
I haven't seen the sky since I left the orphanage. Haven't felt the wind in my hair or the sun warming my skin since that day. I don't even remember what it feels like.
After I finish eating and drinking, the guard roughly shoves me aside and takes the plate. He leaves the bucket and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking still breaks my heart. I want to cry, but I've already cried a lifetime's worth of tears. I'm completely empty.
––––––––––––
I open my eyes and throw the dirty blanket off my body. I'm sweating and breathing hard. Getting up, I glance at the cracked mirror hanging on the wall near the door. I look terrible. Sweat drips down my skin, my eyes are wide, and my shirt is ripped, my breasts fully exposed. Must've torn it while thrashing in my nightmare.
I rip the shirt off, toss it into the trash, and head into the dingy bathroom. A cockroach scuttles across the sink like it owns the place. maybe it does. Who knows anymore?
I step into the sorry excuse of a shower and scrub the terror of the dream off my skin. It's funny—how numb I am to everything now, yet still haunted by the past. Pathetic.
After the quick shower, I pull on a black string thong, my black leather pants, a gray tank top, my leather biker jacket, and combat boots. I've got a small B cup, so I don't wear a bra. They just make me uncomfortable.
I tie my dreadlocks into a low ponytail and look for my phone. 6:00 AM. Good. I've still got a three-hour drive ahead of me.
I pack my s**t into my black leather backpack and grab my hunter knife and Glock. I don't go anywhere without them.
I tuck the knife into the hidden pocket I stitched inside my boot, pulling my jeans over it so it stays concealed. The Glock goes in the back of my pants. Then I walk outside.
I hate motels like this, but they're cheap—and no one asks questions.
I walk to my bike, load my gear into the duffel bags, and straddle the seat. With a smooth motion, I start it up and ride out, heading into the rising light. Three more hours to go.
Toward a small town in the middle of the Nevada desert.
Hard music fills the overcrowded, dimly lit clubhouse. My brothers are screwed up, like always—banging women on tables, getting blowjobs, having threesomes on the floor, and doing lines of coke. I sit at the bar, watching the chaos from a distance.
My Prez, Devil, sees me and takes the seat next to mine.
"Not joining again?" he asks while nodding toward Linch, one of the Soul-Eaters, who's currently choking on David's manhood.
"no," I say, taking a huge gulp of my lukewarm beer.
"Another," I tell the bartender, Whiskey. The huge man lifts his chin and slides me a new bottle.
"You need to get over that nonsense, man. Nothing's better than the sweet feel of wet, tight vulva," Devil grins, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Don't concern yourself with my manhood," I reply. I'm tired of people telling me what to do. I hate women. I don't want them to touch me. I nearly killed one once when she tried to rub herself on me—and I really don't feel like doing that again. I don't hurt women unless they've harmed the club. I just don't want them near me. I don't want anyone touching me. I can barely handle my brothers, let alone some bimbo who's just hunting for a patched-in manhood.
"Whatever you say, man." Devil gets up from his seat and grabs Linch by the hair. She likes being dominated, so she enjoys Devil dragging her toward a chair. It's obvious from her face—lust shines in her eyes, and she licks her thick, fake lips. I turn away just before Devil shoves his manhood into her still c*m-filled mouth and finish my beer.
"Uh... hey."
I turn and see a young woman. She must be new, because everyone in here knows not to come on to me. If I ever needed release, I'd grab a bimbo, put her on her knees, and get off right then and there. And even that doesn't happen often.
I'm a sick, aggressive piece of s**t, and I know it. Apparently, this chick doesn't. She bites her bottom lip, trying to be seductive, and looks up at my six-foot-five frame. She steps closer, slowly. I let out a low growl.
"The heck do you want?"
Her eyes widen, but there's still lust in them. Crazy bimbo. She likes the danger I give off.
"You were sitting here alone, and I thought you could use some company," she says, trying her luck.
I know this type. She sees an opportunity because the others are too scared to get near me. She wants to be an old lady and thinks I'm a good candidate.
"I'll give you ten seconds," I say, looking down on her.
She smiles, stupidly thinking it's a good sign.
"Ten seconds to disappear before I break that little neck of yours."
I'm only half bluffing. Devil would kill me if I hurt new blood. Well... he could try. I get blackouts. And when I do, I really don't care whether you're a woman or not.
The girl stumbles back, trips over her own foot, and lands hard on her hip. A few people around us snicker, laugh, or look a little worried. She scrambles up and half-walks, half-runs out of the clubhouse.
"AW, GIRL, YOU CAN COME TO ME—I'LL GIVE YOU A GOOD TIME!"
Rios, one of my brothers, shouts after her. The girl on his lap glares and pushes her fake boobs into his face, trying to win his attention back. Rios just laughs and smacks her hip.
I get up, fed up with this nonsense, and head for the stairs. The world spins, and I only now realize I'm more drunk than I thought. With a lot of effort, I make it to my room and stumble inside. I slam the door shut behind me, strip off my clothes, and toss them to the floor. Only my cut is neatly folded and placed on the closet.
My room is my safe haven, though it's small—just a bed, a tiny bathroom, and a closet. There are holes in the walls, stained with blood from one of my blackouts. I never bothered to clean that up. It's a warning to anyone who thinks about entering.
Nobody's allowed in here but Devil. I trust my brothers with my life, but I don't want them in my space. I sit on the bed with my back against the wall and close my eyes. I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep.
–––––––––––
As always, I wake up on the ground, facing the door. My back hurts, and I grunt as I get up. Stretching my arms over my head, I walk into the bathroom and take a cold shower.
Still undressed, I walk back into the room and dig around for some jeans and a shirt. Eventually, I find some that look clean and get dressed. Lastly, I throw on my cut and walk out the door.
The bar's already clean, and most of the Soul-Eaters are gone. The kitchen's filled with hungover brothers—and a grinning Rios. Prick never gets hangovers for some reason. I sit next to Devil and jerk my chin up at the others.
"Morning, VP," or "Morning, Killer," they mumble. I grunt in response.
The kitchen is one of the biggest rooms in the clubhouse, with a long table that can seat around fifty people. Most of the brothers live here, so a big kitchen is necessary. It's the only room that's always clean since the Soul-Eaters basically live in here during the day. It's their job to clean up after our messes. We pay them with a small weekly allowance, a roof over their heads, and protection.
Bee Tessa, the club's promoted Soul-Eater, smiles at me and sets down a plate of toast and coffee before walking off. She knows which brothers like what when it comes to food—hence her promotion. She pays attention and keeps the others in line.
"We're having Church in two hours," Devil says, and we all nod. We've been having problems with some of the dope runs, so this was inevitable. Three runs raided in a short period—if we don't fix this, we're gonna have problems with a dope lord. None of us want that.
"HELLO!" someone screams.
My brothers go quiet and turn toward the door. We abandon our food and rise, moving in that direction. Some of the guys look curious, others pissed that someone just walked into our clubhouse. One by one we move through the open doorway, until I nearly run into Rios, who stops abruptly.
"Fuuuuuuuck me," he mutters.
I look over his shoulder and have to agree. Yeah. F-k me sounds about right.
The chick standing in the middle of the bar is hot as sin. Too bad I don't want anything to do with her gender—because she would've been my type. Young, slender body, small boobs, nice little hip. Black and grey tattoos peek out from under her leather jacket. Her dark green and black dreads are tied in a high ponytail. She's tiny too—probably around five foot two. If I wanted to, I could snap her in two with one hand.
She looks around, completely unfazed by the thirty or so huge, jacked bikers surrounding her.
"I'm looking for a... Damon Montague," she says, checking a small slip of paper.
My eyebrows shoot up, and I glance at Devil, who's now glaring at the girl.
"What the heck you want with him?" he growls.
His voice is threatening, but the girl couldn't care less.
"None of your business," she says, matching his tone.
Girl's got balls. Devil has a nasty rep—almost as bad as mine. His name wasn't given to him for fun. The methods he uses for killing or 'talking' aren't jokes.
"Trust me. It's my business," Devil says, stepping closer. Now they're nose to nose—well, as close as they can be. The girl barely reaches his shoulders.
"And how is that?" she dares him, eyes cool.
"He's my old man," Devil says.
In the corner of my eye, I see Chaos—Devil's father. As usual, his face gives nothing away.
"Ah, that's fine then," she says. "I'm Violet. Apparently... you're my older brother. Steven Montague?"
