Page 1 of Mischief Mayhem

1

VERONA

“Do you believe in soulmates?” my friend and fellow MC princess, Ru, asked as she leaned over the pool table so she could sink her four ball into the corner pocket.

“I suppose.” I cleared my throat and winced as the familiar ache shot down the center of my chest. Instinct had me clutching the glass jar necklace that hung under my shirt, the one I wore at all times, the one that reminded me I was still alive. “Like twin flames? That kind of thing?”

“Sure.” Ru took a sip of her beer and nodded, her curly brown hair bouncing around her face as she moved. When she failed to put her next ball into a pocket, I took my turn, easily sinking my nine in the center.

“Maybe.” Taking a drink of my own beer, I ignored the throbbing scar that ran in between my breasts. “What about you?”

“I used to think it was bullshit.” She grinned, her icy-blue eyes sparkling under the shitty fluorescent lighting in the club as they sought out her fiancé, Saint, across the room. The dark-haired brother sat with some of the other motorcycle club members, drinking and laughing as my cousin, KC, talked. “But after everything that’s happened, I can’t deny it.”

“Please.” I rolled my eyes and sank another ball in the far left. “You’re twenty-three, same as me. Don’t you think you’re a little young to be talking soulmates and happily ever afters?”

She laughed, her cheeks flushing despite how open we were with each other. Once upon a time, Ru and I had been best friends. I was the president’s daughter, the proverbial princess of the Steel Roses Motorcycle Club, and she’d been born to the VP two months after me. We were raised in this chaos together, and even if we lost touch after high school, I’d never discounted her friendship.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she said, nodding toward the rest of the brothers, “to have one of them devoted to you, those alpha assholes.”

“I grew up in a house with four of them. I think I have an idea.” Being the youngest with three older biker brothers, combined with having the president as my father, meant I’d had to be tough, much tougher than the rest of the princesses and hang-arounds. Bear was the eldest, Castor and Pollux were the twins in the middle, and I came last. Our mom died when I was nine, leaving me as the sole girl, someone to be protected, the apple of their fucking eye. It had been fifteen years and my father still hadn’t moved on. I’d never even seen him with a hang-around.

“What about fate?” Ru brought the topic back as she tried to make another pocket, missing it.

“Maybe. My mom was a witch. She used to believe in magic.” Memories of helping her with her spells and rituals flooded through my mind as I lined up to pocket another ball. It bounced off the edge and scattered the others around it. Of course, magic hadn’t saved her in the end; she’d still gotten blown up by the MC’s enemies, the Caputi Mafia.

“You believe in magic but not soulmates?” Ru raised an eyebrow and moved around the table, tilting her head to the side.

No, that wasn’t true. I did believe in magic, the kind that linked two people based on spilled blood and experience, the kind that gave me an undeniable link to my found family. But soulmates might be pushing it.

“I don’t know what I believe,” I said, because that seemed easier to explain. “But I do know that settling down and getting married at twenty-three is stupid.”

“Hey,” she grumbled with a laugh. “I’m not married.”

“Uh-huh.” I chuckled and swallowed the rest of my beer, deciding to change the subject. “How’s the construction going at the Beacon?”

Her features dropped, and she ran her palm over her flushed alabaster face. “We’re almost there, thank fucking God. Hopefully, by St. Patty’s Day we can be back in the space.”

This past Thanksgiving, a former hang-around turned traitor had bombed the BDSM club where Ru and I worked. Technically, the MC owned the place, but Ru had been given a partial stake and a loan to renovate it. On the night of our grand reopening, the whole place exploded, nearly killing my brother, Pollux, and putting dozens more in the hospital. He’d been in ICU for weeks afterward, and only just recently started talking again after being taken off the ventilator. After that, the Beacon had been confiscated by the Feds, and once they returned the property to us, Ru had filed the insurance claim to rebuild. She had the stamina of an Olympic athlete. I would have thrown in the towel and sold the place by now.

“But with the insurance payout, I can finally get those marble countertops I wanted for the bathrooms, so . . . silver lining, I guess?” She smiled and set down her stick when Saint approached, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind before whispering in her ear. The public display of affection would have grossed me out if it wasn’t such an everyday occurrence around the clubhouse.

She, of course, had been right. These alpha assholes loved their women, and the more they loved them, the more obsessive they were about them. Ru turned in Saint’s embrace to wrap her arms around his neck while he grabbed her ass and nodded toward the exit with a devilish grin.

“See ya, V!” Ru waved before giggling and stumbling out into the frigid February air.

With Valentine’s Day tomorrow, the normally grungy clubhouse looked like love had vomited everywhere. My cousin, Selene, grinned at her husband, Thor, by the bar while Ru’s sister, Alba, walked over to sit on KC’s lap, leaning in so she could kiss his cheek. Some of the other old ladies mingled around, laughing with the old-timers, the ones that had been in the club since I was a child. Red hearts hung from the rafters and streamers weaved from corner to corner. It was tacky as hell, but at least no one was getting shot or murdered. So there was that.

I stood by the pool table, knowing I’d be alone for the first Valentine’s Day in years. I was proud of that fact and celebrated my single status. I’d gotten away from an abusive ex-client, I was back with my family, and . . . My gaze caught on a dark stare across the clubhouse.

Hollywood—my eldest brother’s best friend and the club’s resident manwhore. He’d gotten his road name because of how beautiful he was. At six foot five, corded with muscle and tanned skin, Hollywood had the traditional square jaw and chiseled features that made both women and men swoon. I, on the other hand, lived to push men like him to their knees and hear them beg.

As soon as I made eye contact with him, he darted his gaze away, going back to his conversation with Bear and another brother, Wheels. Had he been staring at me?

I snorted and took a drink of my beer, grateful Hollywood had never been interested in me, not like that. Pick any number of the female notches on his bedpost, put them in a lineup, and they’d all fit a profile: paper thin, traditionally gorgeous, hopelessly devoted to inflating his ego. None of that was me. Sure, I was tall with legs for days, but my thighs had been built for crushing men’s souls, not appeasing their fantasies. I preferred my tattoos and raven hair with matching makeup. I liked people to know who I was as soon as they saw me, lest they form any incorrect opinions.

Besides, it wasn’t like Hollywood was my type, either. He was probably a dominant biker badass in bed—holding his women down, growling dirty words in their ears, choking them until they begged for air. While I loved a good rough fuck, I preferred to be the one doing the growling and choking.

Despite his namesake and the rumors floating around about his sexual prowess, I wasn’t susceptible to his charms. Sure, his dimples complemented his perfect teeth, and the fact his biceps were bigger than my thighs meant he could probably bench press me, but that changed nothing about how I treated him.

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