Page 1 of Dancin' with Demons

Chapter 1

Renegade

I'm never gonna hear the end of this shit now.

Catacomb is gonna pluck my last fuckin' nerve, and I swear, I'm gonna end up dead because I might punch him in the mouth if he starts in on me. It's after two in the mornin', my fuckin' head is ringin', and I want to bury my cock in somethin’ so I can close my eyes and imagine it's Raylynn. That's the only fuckin' way I can get off anymore. Fuckin' pretendin’ the clubwhore on my cock is the fuckin' woman that disappeared on me three fuckin' years ago.

How fuckin' pathetic is that shit?

Shakin' Raylynn from my head, I push the door open and step into the cool night air and flood lights that hang above the jailhouse entrance. Gatlinburg ain't really cold yet, but it's finally not a hundred damn degrees out. I've lived in Tennessee long enough that the weather shouldn't bother me. But bein’ from Hawai'i, I'm used to a different type of hot, and I prefer the island type to this southern bullshit. A shrill whistle makes my head snap up.

Catacomb, Smoky Mountain Regulators MC's president, my best friend, is leanin' against the side of his pick-up truck, hands crossed over his chest, waitin' for me. Fuck. I can't even see his face from here, but I know damn well he's pissed. Sick as I am of him harpin' on me, I can't fuckin' blame him. I've made the last three years of his life pretty miserable.

I used to be his right hand, the brother he counted on for everythin’. But after Raylynn disappeared, I spent six months lookin' for her. When I realized I wasn't gonna find her, I went right to the bottle. Then the bar fights and gettin’' arrested started, and they haven't really stopped since. I know I need to get my shit together— I just can't. Soberin' up means not bein’ able to block Raylynn's memory out, and I fuckin' can't handle that. Not that the club knows. Ain't no one stupid enough to even say her name around me anymore.

"You know, Ren," Catacomb says as I step off the curb and head across the street toward him, "I've had about all your bullshit I'm gonna take."

Rollin' my eyes, I don't bother lookin' at him. "Get off my ass, man. It wasn't even my fault this time."

"It’s never your fuckin’ fault, Ren,” he snaps, his voice risin’. “Three fuckin’ years of bullshit, and it’s never your fault. When the fuck are your actions gonna actually be your fault? And when did my fuckin’ Enforcer become such a fuckin’ coward?”

Spinnin’ on him, I take a step forward and glare down. Catacomb is a little over six foot, but I’m a little over six-five. “Don’t fuckin’ call me a coward again.”

Catacomb straightens his shoulders and doesn’t balk in any way at me. “Back your ass up and remember who the fuck you’re talkin’ to. I might be your friend, but I’m also your president, and I ain’t gonna tolerate your fuckin’ intimidation shit like some of the others.”

Takin’ a breath, I step back and sigh. “My bad, man.”

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” he says in a hard tone as he reaches for the door handle on the driver’s side.

Walkin’ around the truck, I swin’ the door open and climb in. For the hour ride to the clubhouse, Catacomb doesn’t say a word. He stares straight ahead and blasts his Country shit on the radio. I like all music, but Catacomb only listens to Country when he’s in his head about somethin’. I know it’s me this time. Most of our arguin’ over the last three years is because he tries to get me to talk about shit, and I tell him to fuck off.

I ain’t fuckin’ talkin’ to no one about Raylynn. What the fuck would I say?Yeah, y’all remember that shattered-ass chick we saved three years ago? The one that stayed in my room, had me wrapped around her fuckin’ finger? Yeah, I’m still hung up on her like a fuckin’ idiot and have nightmares and shit, and what the fuck ever.I ain’t doin’ it. And I sure has hell don’t need my brothers tryin’ to play fuckin’ therapist with me. No thanks.

Drinkin’ helps, so I do that.

Catacomb pulls into the first parkin’ spot in front of the clubhouse and doesn’t wait for me in the least. As soon as he’s in park, the engine is off, and he’s out of the truck. By the time I get out and move around the back, he’s already disappearin’ around the side of buildin’ to the main entrance.

Sighin’, I shake my head and follow him. I don’t know when my and Catacomb’s friendship went to shit, but it’s the polar opposite of what it was back when we first found Raylynn. I don’t think I’ll ever get her out of my system. A few days together and one kiss she laid on me, knowin’ damn well she planned to fuckin’ split, turned me into this lovesick, rage-filled asshole. If three years ain’t fixed shit, no amount of time will.

Openin’ the clubhouse door, it’s a busy night as usual. Despite bein’ close to two-thirty, most of the brothers are up, and the clubwhores are minglin’ with ‘em. Three steps into the room, and the newest of the whores, a nineteen-year-old that goes by Kitty, comes up and links her arm with mine. “Hey, Renegade. How about some welcome home fun?”

Tippin’ my chin just enough to make eye contact, I click my tongue against the back of my teeth. “How about you go get on your knees in the playroom, and when I come up, you can suck my cock?”

Her eyes light up as she untangles her arm from mine and damn near skips to the stairs to the second floor. Shakin’ my head, I move to the right hallway and my bedroom. Fishin’ my keys out of my pocket, I almost laugh at the sheer stupidity of our clubwhores.

In three years, I’ve only let three whores suck this cock, and Kitty ain’t been one. She’s too fuckin’ young for me, for starters, and I’ve told her this more than once. Every time I’m in the fuckin’ room, though, she fuckin’ goes in heat and tries to get me to fuck around with her.

7/11, Pint, and Velvet are the only three— and Pint is the only one I’ve let touch my dick more than once. That’s because she knows I’m drownin’ in my own shit, and I’m just lookin’ for somethin’ to distract me. She’s also the only one with any fuckin’ manners or common sense most of the time, and while she might be a clubwhore, she still has fuckin’ dignity. I respect Pint. The rest of the girls are just more fuckin’ problem than they’re worth.

Unlockin’ my bedroom door, I step inside, lock it again, and empty my pockets onto my desk. The only thing I’m doin’ tonight is takin’ a fuckin’ shower and gonna bed. I can’t help but chuckle, wonderin’ how long Kitty’s gonna sit in that playroom on her knees before she realizes I ain’t lettin’ her suck my cock. Again, the younger ones are fuckin’ stupid, and I don’t have any plans of havin’ ‘em near my dick— ever. After turnin’ the shower on, I strip out of the clothes I’ve been in for the last twenty-four hours. The hot water makes me groan, and I let it run over my head, bracin’ my hand on the wall. Closin’ my eyes, I can’t stop my thoughts from goin’ right to Raylynn.

The kiss she laid on me at the hospital sent fireworks through my body that day, and I ain’t ever fuckin’ had a woman do that to me. The night before, she’d tried to slit her wrists in this very bathroom, and after everythin’ she’d been through, I couldn’t blame her. She spent six months as a prisoner with a low-life club in Knoxville. The Havoc Ryders MC was a fuckin’ problem for us right from the start. They were dirty and had no fuckin’ morals. When girls first went missin’, we knew it was ‘em. Then Lacey, Catacomb’s little cousin, went missin’, too, and we knew we had to get ‘em back. The night we fuckin’ took ‘em out, well, most of ‘em, I found Raylynn in a fuckin’ sex chamber, blindfolded and tied to a table, gettin’ fingered by some greasy hair piece of shit. Sometimes, I still hear the snap of his neck from when I grabbed him.

I knew that girl had a hold of me the moment I took her blindfold off, and those blues fuckin’ met mine. By the time she kissed me that last day, I was fucked. She was all I wanted, and I was ready to fuckin’ walk next to her through whatever hell was comin’. Instead, she waited for me to go to the clubhouse under the impression I was gettin’ her clothes to get discharged and come home with me.She fuckin’ ran.All I got was a tear-stained note she left on her kitchen counter.

Renegade— I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I need to figure shit out, and you deserve better. You shouldn’t have to fix some stranger that fell into your life. I really am sorry. —Raylynn.

I’ve carried that fuckin’ note in my wallet— every day for the last three years. She isn’t a fuckin’ stranger and never was. I don’t know how that fuckin’ woman didn’t know that I would’ve fuckin’ done anythin’ to help her. She just needed to trust me.

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