Page 2 of All's Fair in Love & Chaos
“Can we come in? We’d like you to have a seat.”
My spine straightens, clarity finally kicking away the post-nap fog. Alarm bells go off in my head, sending tingles down my spine. My arms cross over my chest, my hands rubbing up and down my biceps to stave off the chill washing over me. Even though I know I’ve never broken a single law in my entire life, nerves take root.
“No, I’m sorry, I’m home alone right now and not comfortable with that. Have I done something wrong?” I look around theofficers and into the driveway, trying to see past my Honda Civic for my dad’s car.
“No, Ms. Russo, not at all.” The officers look at each other, their faces solemn and expressive, as if they’re having a silent conversation before turning their attention back to me. My heart swoops down into my stomach as that bundle of nerves that had dug down deep rushes forward. “Ma’am, your parents and sister were involved in an accident.”
“An. Accident?” I repeat slowly, stumbling slightly on my feet. My vision gets hazy, a gray color moving in from all sides as the officers speak, but their words are otherworldly, muffled, and distorted before everything goes pitch black.
Givingthe eulogy at both my parents and my sister’s joint funeral at eighteen wasn’t on my bucket list. Hell, wasn’t even on my bingo card. But here I am, standing in front of all our extended family and friends. My eyes track over each coffin, the polished wood that you can practically see your reflection in, the heavy grain in perfect lines, the gleaming silver hardware, the large flower arrangements sitting in the center of each that I never could have afforded if it weren’t for an anonymous donation to cover the expenses. I look at my sister’s last.
The wreath above where her body rests inside the wooden box holds her photo. I chose one of her that she would want—a picture of her at the beach, her beautiful hair whipping around her face from the wind, a huge smile on her pretty face. She always loved the sunshine.
Willow Maeve Russo
Loving daughter & sister
Not wife.Not mother. She won’t ever get those things. No first kiss. No experiences past the age of fourteen. Some protector I am. I couldn’t save her even if I had been there; a fatal accident caused by a bunch of bikers that we couldn’t have prevented if we had tried. No charges were ever filed. I couldn’t save them. I can’t even give them justice.
I can’t bring myself to look at my parents’ photos, so instead, I take a deep breath and focus on the people in front of me, all dressed in mourning black. I deliver the speech elegantly, poised, but inside, a numbness has taken over. Below it? A fiery pit of rage. Some girls mourn. Some girls seek out therapy or attend survivor groups. Some girls act out or let it destroy them completely, wilting like a plucked flower on a hot summer day.
I’m not some girls.
This was no accident.
My family was brutally taken from me because of the actions of lawless criminals, and I’m going to get revenge for their deaths.
Chapter One
CAMDEN
The hum of the engine still rings in my ears as I park my bike in the garage. Today was a long one,checking in with my men, making sure everything’s running smoothly at all of our businesses, dealing with the constant bullshit that always comes up.
Even if things have calmed down over the last year, the work never stops. But that’s the way I like it. It keeps me sharp, keeps me focused, keeps me from thinking too much and getting lost in my head. As the President of Hell’s Heathens Motorcycle Club, there’s too much at stake to allow my demons to control my thoughts and decisions, so the work is needed.
Music comes in a steady thrum from inside our clubhouse—a large barndominium-style building that houses bedrooms for patched members, a huge, open concept living area with a built-in bar, a kitchen, and, in the center of it all?Church. The most sacred place here. It’s where all our important meetings, votes, and private discussions happen. You can only get inwith an invitation from me, a heady responsibility I was hand-chosen to have much too young. If you’d asked me twenty years ago if I thought I’d be the president of a motorcycle club at twenty-five, you’d be staring at my middle finger. Now that I’m thirty-six? It’s all I know and can’t imagine doing anything different. I live and breathe for this club, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Old, weathered floorboards creak under my boots as I walk up the steps that lead to our front door, members nodding my way, either in greeting or respect. Twelve months ago, we took a hit in our ranks and are still recovering. We’ve accepted more prospects than ever before—something I don’t like doing often. The men are usually young, either running from something or looking for something they’re hoping to find here. They usually all have the same thing in common, though, and that’s a cocky attitude. I can weed out who will be here for the long haul pretty early on, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to become patched members.
I head straight to the bar, taking in the low-key party already in full swing. Patched members are scattered everywhere, their leather cuts setting them apart from everyone else. The smell of weed mingles with cigarettes, sex, and alcohol as I make my way toward the bar, my fingers itching for a cold beer to settle the beast inside me.
“Prez, what can I get ya?” a young prospect asks as he wipes the bar top down with a wet cloth.
“Just a beer. Appreciate it.”
He grabs me one from the cooler under the bar, popping off the top and setting it in front of me. I nod my appreciation, turning back to face the party. At first glance,everyone is carefree, living their best lives, but I know just as well as they do, we’re all just trying to stay sane, coping in whatever way we can with the demons that try to claw their way forward.
I work hard, consistently, to make sure I keep them all safe, checking in with everyone as often as I can, making sure we’re on top of anything that arises. I never join in their parties, preferring to give them their space to let loose without their president looming over them. But I’m never far, just in case shit goes down. You never know with these fuckers, or the constant threats that seem to be waiting just outside our gates lately.
I bring the cool beer to my lips, watching with impassive feelings as Wrath pumps into a patch bunny from behind, his jeans down his thighs, her skirt flipped up over her ass. She’s bent over the pool table, and the poor thing has taken so much over the years, I’m surprised she’s still standing.
The pool table.
Probably the patch bunny, too.
I’ve become desensitized to seeing my patch brothers fuck out in the open. Especially Wrath. We’ve all seen his dick more than any of us would like to admit. The first time I saw someone getting it on wasn’t on a porn site; it was right here at the Hell’s Heathens compound. Obviously, as an older teenager, I thought that shit was awesome, couldn’t wait to be a patched member and be able to take turns with the women here, but as I got older, it was never my scene.
I’m way too territorial. Possessive. The patch bunnies too willing and too eager. I need the hunt, the chase. If she doesn’t make me work for it, then I don’t want it. The girls are here of their own free will, and I’m happy to house them foreverything they do for the club. But they know not to try to get some from me.
