Page 4 of Lucky's Trouble

Elder Young clears his throat. “Trials are designed to test your faith, and distancing yourself from the Son of God during a difficult time is like taking away the safety of your seatbelt during a car crash. Instead of pulling away from the church, you should turn to prayer and scriptures.”

His patronizing tone grates on my every nerve, and his condescension fuels the anger burning in my gut. I’m so sick of feeling like there’s something wrong with me, like the reason I don’t believe in their fairy tales is because I’m weak and don’t try hard enough.

I’ve read their books, sat through endless hours of Sunday school, and attended more young women’s functions than I can count, and still, I feel nothing. There’s no warmth or understanding when I pray. There’s no still calm voice in my head telling me what’s right or wrong.

What happened to Myla and me wasn’t the spark; it was the fuel.

“With all due respect,” I start, earning another sigh from Dad. “You don’t know me or my sister. You have no clue what we’ve done to get through our fiery trials.”

“Tinleigh,” Mom admonishes.

I stand. “No. This is bullshit.”

Myla takes my side, not brave enough to speak for herself. She never has been. Hell, she quit talking for an entire year when we were three, trusting me to communicate for her.

“Sit down,” Dad orders.

“No. I’m sick of us being treated like we’re beneath you somehow because we don’t believe in the things you do. It’s time to end this charade of a perfect family and admit you failed. We’re never going to be the daughters you want us to be, and it has nothing to do with us failing trials.” I push my chair in, because not being faithful doesn’t mean I don’t have manners, and storm to my room.

Seconds later, Myla appears, closing the door after her. “That went well.”

“Should’ve known they’d pull that shit.” I pull my suitcase out from under my bed.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re leaving now.”

“Now?” Her eyes go wide. “We can’t leave now.”

“Yes, we can. Once we get on the road, I’ll call Neal, and we can get the contracts signed. We have enough saved for gas and a hotel for a couple nights.”

She plops down on my bed. “Are you sure about this?”

“Positive.” I sit next to her. “Do you trust me?”

“Always.”

CHAPTER ONE

LUCKY

I lean against the wall, folding my arms and crossing my ankles. “You’re a twisted son of a bitch, you know that?”

Riot, the club’s Road Captain and resident sadist, grunts as he throws another fist into the poor bastard’s face that he’s turning into ground beef. The guy passed out a long time ago. Hell, he probably died after Riot slammed his head onto the concrete floor until his skull cracked before stomping on each of his limbs with his heavy boots until they laid at awkward angles.

I know our instructions were to make him pay before killing him, but if he’s not conscious for the beat down, does it even count?

Riot’s fist rears back before delivering another blow. I realize he’s not the only weird one because here I am, watching the whole thing while chewing on a rope of licorice, not feeling a damn thing. I haven’t looked away, and my stomach isn’t sour; I see nothing wrong with what he’s doing.

“You finished?” I ask as Riot sits back on his haunches, sweat glistening on his brow and his once-strained features relaxing.

He stands, rolling his head on his thick neck. “He’s dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” I push off the wall and pull my cell out before snapping a few photos. Then, I give the prospects a nod. They’ve also watched the whole thing, but unlike me, they’re looking a little green. Called into action, they each grab a bucket and move in for clean up while I get to walk away. One perk of being a patched-in member of the Sons of Erebus is that you get to have all the fun with none of the dirty work.

“Text us if you run into any issues,” I say as I follow Riot up the stairs, through the hidden door, and into the pantry at the Honey Pot, the brothel our club recently opened. On the other side of the pantry, another door opens to the kitchen, where I make eye contact with the head chef. “Ten minutes, and then everyone goes on break, Hugo.”

“You got it, boss,” he says with a salute.

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