Page 7 of Deranged (American Street Kings 3)

Granite grabbed his lid. “Things don’t always work out the way we plan, Onyx. It’s time you realized that. I know me giving that piece of shit my word seems trivial to you, but I won’t stoop to their level. I will not become the same immoral fucker Slither is. I made a deal. And now I have to live with that. And unfortunately, so do you.”

“All of us do, man.” Dutch revved his Harley, the low rumble thundering through the night. No matter who, where, or what, that fucking sound always grabbed me by the balls.

I had always known Dutch had this direct line to Granite’s thoughts. I’d swear to God, Granite could give him half a glance, and the fucker would know exactly what Granite wanted him to do. And that was probably why Dutch decided to ride off without us, since Granite sent him some telepathic fucking message to give us some privacy.

I groaned, already knowing the discussion that was about to take place.

“Listen, Granite—”

“You need to do this, Onyx. We don’t have a choice.” He sounded grave, serious. Desperate.

“I disagree. We always have a choice, man. I told you, you don’t have to keep your word to a piece of shit like Slither.”

“And I told you it’s not just about him.”

“I know. God!” I kicked at the dirt, my pulse racing as rage burned its way through my chest. “I know you’re protecting Alyx. I get that. But as much as she’s your woman, this club is supposed to be your home. Your life.”

“It was.” Granite’s expression turned somber, eyes creased at the corners. “It was until she became my life. My home. But it’s also about more than that. It’s about all of us. You and I, Dad left us in charge of this club because he trusted us. He trusted that we would do whatever needed to be done to protect each and every member, to give them what they deserved. And what they deserve is revenge.”

I charged forward, stopping a few feet from him. “And we can give them that. Why do you have to step down for it to happen?”

He took a deep breath, craning his neck and looking up at the sky. That was one thing missing in the New York sky at night. Stars. You didn’t see any since city life polluted and pretty much ruined the air around us.

“Tell me the truth.” He looked at me. “Tell me the real reason you don’t want to be president.”

“I don’t have time for this.” I turned my back on him and got onto my Harley, starting the ignition before putting on my lid.

“Onyx.”

The sound of the engine ripped through the night, echoing far in the distance. I bit my lip, clutching the ape-hangers tight. “I don’t want to take your place because there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever be a good president.” I glanced at him. “Not like you, big brother.”

There was nothing left to say, so I rode off, leaving Granite behind. For the first time since all this fucked up shit happened, I managed to tell the truth. Even though every word coated my tongue with bitterness, I hoped Granite would now leave well enough alone and just let me be Onyx. Vice president of the American Street Kings and brother to the president. I didn’t want to be more than that. I didn’t have it in me to be more. Everyone always said I was a loose cannon, a wildcard waiting to wreak havoc. And I never denied it. I was all about breaking rules, not enforcing them. Besides, if it wasn’t for our dad’s instructions and dying wish for Granite to be president and me to be VP, I never would have accepted the rank. I would have been happy as a pig in mud with the sergeant-at-arms tag. Or any rank that required a trigger-happy maniac like me. But the day I accepted the VP tag, it never crossed my mind once that I’d have to one day step up and take Granite’s place. He was so good at leading. Still was. His shoulders were broad enough to carry the responsibility. Mine weren’t. Responsibilities and I simply didn’t get along.

Besides, once I got that tag on my cut, I was sure the day Granite needed to be replaced…I’d be dead.

4

Wraith

I’ve beento many bars in my life, seen a lot of the restrooms some of them have. But I had yet to find one that had a decent sink, walls without lipstick graffiti, and toilet doors without the phrase ‘John and Eve fucked here, December 21st, 2012.’ With the amount some of these holes charged for a beer, one would think they could afford a better place for a person to take a piss.

My reflection in the dirty, oval-shaped mirror mocked me. I hadn’t seen the real me look back at me since I was ten years old. All I saw was an unfamiliar face, and eyes with too much eyeliner and too little humanity. Benevolence had been stolen from me, and all it left behind was an empty vessel of fake smiles, phony laughs, and simulated words hidden within mundane conversations.

I glanced down at the spot on my wrist untouched by black ink. There wasn’t a real reason behind my decision not to have that piece of skin tattooed. Maybe I was waiting for inspiration to hit me with an image that would seal that last void on the flesh of my right arm.

Void.

Wraith.

Perfect alias.

The restroom door swung open, the hinges creaking as two women came stumbling in, drunk on their asses. It wasn’t even three p.m. on a Sunday afternoon, and already the tramps came out to play.

Their drunken laughter sent a bolt of instant annoyance to my brain. No one could ever be that fucking happy. Not even copious amounts of alcohol had the power to conjure up such ecstatic behavior. It was stupid. They were stupid.

I crouched and zipped down my mid-leg boot to secure the hidden blade. A lesson I learned a long time ago, that a woman could never be too careful. As I straightened, I gave myself a last once-over in the dirty mirror, scrunched up my ponytail, and popped my lips. The black straps of my bra showed under the gray shirt I was wearing, and the ever-increasing summer heat had forced me to wear a pair of jean shorts rather than my preferred leather pants.

The loud buzz of the bar hit me the second I walked out of the restroom, laughter and cheerfulness spreading like a fucking infection. Most of those smiles plastered on unfamiliar faces were alcohol-induced, people trying to pretend they were happy, that life was treating them well. But it wasn’t. And even if life threw you a bone every now and then, you’d pay for that motherfucking bone with blood some time or another. Guaranteed. Life favored no one. Some people were just better at pretending than others.

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