Page 1 of Shadow

PROLOGUE

Malik

For as long as I could remember, I’d always been a problem child. Couldn’t remember a day in my life when someone wasn’t punishing me for something. And it wasn’t that I didn’t have a good home life. Mom always took damn good care of me, paid all the bills, put food on the table, and gave me all the love and attention I needed and wanted. I just, for some reason, always had this burning rage inside of me that I couldn’t control—especiallywhen I got uncomfortable. And I got uncomfortablea lot.

Mom tried anger management classes, but when I got sick of the mother fucker asking me questions, trying to get to the root cause of my rage, I ended up tearing his office apart. No rhyme or reason as to why. Just didn’t like him prying, and I lost my shit.

In middle school, I ended up in what they called “alternative school”, which was where troublesome kids like me ended up when the school system didn’t want to expel kids, but theycouldn’t keep them in regular classes with the “good” kids because we were too disruptive.

And despite the alternative school having teachers with military, police, etc. backgrounds, it didn’t stop me from still always getting in fights, always arguing with authority, and somehow always finding trouble.

Some people said I was ungrateful. That I didn’t give a damn about my mom. But they were wrong. I loved my mom to pieces, and she was the one and only person in the entire fucked-up world that I respected. I bit my tongue with her. I said “yes, ma’am”, “no, ma’am”, “please”, “thank you”, and “you’re welcome” around my mom.

It was just the rest of the world that made me feel like a ticking time bomb.

At eighteen, knowing I was headed down a dark path and not wanting to break her heart by winding up dead or in prison, I asked Mom to take me to see a Marine Corps. recruiter. I’d done my research. They were the easiest branch to get into. I swore, my mom had tears in her eyes when I brought it up at dinner. She thought the military would save me. Would keep me out of prison as an adult. Or out of a casket.

And when I went four years without getting kicked out, without going to jail, without being hit with an Article 15, I thought maybe I could be in society as a normal adult. Hold a normal, steady job. Stay out of trouble. Sure, I got into it with my commanding officers quite a bit, but Imostlyshut my mouth and listened.

I was a fool for ever thinking I could be a civilian and not land my ass in jail.

Two days was all it took for me to fuck my life up. For my straight and narrow path to bend and create a fork in the road. And of course, I went down the wrong fucking lane.

Mom had to work that night. She got called in to cover a shift in the emergency room at the local hospital. I got bored at home, so I went out for a couple of drinks, thinking maybe I could get a piece of ass while I was out. I was flirting with some random girl in a tight little black dress with ivory skin and vibrant red hair when her fucking ex-boyfriend popped up, running his mouth and trying to drag her out of there.

I busted a beer bottle over his head, then bashed his face into the bar top. And then, because she was crying and cradling her wrist, which was clearly broken by then, I beat his face in with my fists. Cops showed up. I got arrested and charged with drunk and disorderly, public disturbance, and battery. Only reason I didn’t get hit with assault is because that girl—Shannon—showed up at my hearing as a witness. Her story, along with proof, got the charges reduced.

A year later, I was on the outside again, and I wasn’t the same man that’d gone in. I ran my mouth a lot, and most mother fuckers in there liked to run their mouths, too. I was a big guy with bulked-up muscles. I was built like a fuckin’ tank, really. So when they popped off at me, I popped right back.

With words and fists.

It was a miracle I got out on my one-year mark like I was supposed to. Parole would be a bitch for the next several years, but I’d deal. I just had to keep my ass out of jail, and I could manage the rest.

Hopefully.

“You.”

I looked up from the ground, frowning at the two men in front of me. They were standing by two gleaming Harleys with leather cuts on their shoulders that named them Trick and Satan. Trick was apparently the secretary of whatever club they were with, and Satan was the Sergeant at Arms. Didn’t know what either of them wanted with me, and I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

Motorcycle gangs were the perfect way to land my ass right back inside lock up. No fucking thank you.

Turning on my heel, I began walking in the opposite direction. “Malik,” I paused, my muscles bunching at the use of my name, “I know you heard me.”

Gritting my teeth, I turned back to face them. Something in my gut told me I wasn’t getting out of this conversation. “The fuck you want?” I demanded.

“For you to come with us,” Trick said. He had a sort of baby-faced look about him with olive skin and dark brown eyes. His hair flopped over onto his forehead. He was clearly of some kind of Asian descent, and he was only about half my size.

“You can fuck off,” I told him.

“You walk away again,” Satan warned when I turned to do just that, his voice cold enough to freeze hell, “and we’ll take you by force.”

The muscle in my jaw ticked, and tension rode my shoulders hard. I eyed Satan, taking in his paler skin, the curls on his head, and the shadow of a beard on his jaw. He was even slimmer than Trick, but there was something about him that warned me not tolet his size fool me. There was a darkness beneath his impassive mask. Something cold and heartless.

He had the gaze of a predator.

“What do you want?” I snapped. “I don’t have time for bullshit and games.”

“You made quite the name for yourself in there,” Trick said, jerking his head toward the looming fortress behind me that’d kept me captive for three hundred and sixty-five days. “We’re offering you a chance to prospect with our club. You’ll have a home. A job. Steady income. And we’ll help keep your reckless ass out of trouble.”

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