Page 72 of Kings Have No Mercy

I turn to go, then stop. My gaze has fallen on the stack of boxes nearest to where I stand. In messy scrawl written by a sharpie marker are what’s labeled as “Bike Festival Meet Ups 1983-2001.” Curiosity flutters through me and goads me into taking a step toward the boxes.

For some of those years, Pop was active in the MC world. He was a Hellrazor. Did he ever come into contact with the Steel Kings during that timeframe? He must’ve if they sought him out to kill him.

I glance over at the staircase to double check no one’s coming. This could be an opportunity to find any clues that might point me in the right direction. Ignoring the fast beat of my heart and nervous twitch in my stomach, I open the flaps on the box and dig around inside.

A gasp leaves me the instant I spot them lying at the very top of the box’s contents. A stack of photos of what looks like some kind of MC gathering. Some kind of big get-together with various clubs. In the first photo I pull out, I’m staring at a 30-something-year-old Pop grinning wide next to none other than…

Tom Cutler.

But that’s not even the most alarming thing of all.

Pop’s face is marked out. A huge red ‘X’ has been drawn over his face. The same has been done to a few other men in the photo, including another Hellrazor, and then a Black man in a leather-clad vest that reads, “Road Reaper.”

Were these men killed? Are the Steel Kings picking them off one by one?

I feel sick to my stomach. Almost to the point I forget to take some evidence. I steal the photo with the red Xs, stuffing it into my jean pocket.

“Girly!?” Velma calls from the top of the staircase. “You done doing an inventory?”

I spin around, my adrenaline racing, and my emotions out of whack. “Ye-yeah… I’m done,” I stutter, then I start toward the staircase. “I’m finished.”

Except… I’m not. My revenge is only getting started.

20

MASON

“You good over there, lover boy?”Cash asks, winking at me.

I’m visiting my Road King, speaking with Chaz the mechanic on modifications we’re making. I look up at the sound of Cash’s voice and reflexively flip him off. He chuckles and thumps me on the back on passing.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “You’re in a good mood these days.”

“I seem to remember a time in high school when you wouldn’t shut the fuck up, so we handled things with our fists. We need to do that again?”

He grins wide, looking more Hollywood heartthrob than ruthless biker. “You won,” he admits. “But I put up a damn good fight.”

That’s true. We had been brawling over a girl. Maisy Hamilton.

It was sophomore year and she had developed tits the size of balloons. The one time Cash and I have ever come to blows. By the afternoon, we were over the feud, agreeing we’d leave Maisy to the other guys drooling over her.

This moment isn’t that different—it’s over a woman.

Cash, and some of the other guys, have begun making slick comments about Sydney.

We haven’t said a thing to anybody about what’s going on between us, so you’d think they’d mind their business. That’s asking for too much from the MC.

Everybody knows we’re fucking. They’ve probably picked up on it being even more than that.

What that more means beats me. I don’t know my damn self. Just that I enjoy Sydney’s company, and I want her in my bed. The sight of her around other men makes me fucking irate and she holds my interest like few have.

At the same time, I haven’t forgotten my suspicions.

They’re on the back burner. Simmering.

Still there in case anything else happens to alert my bullshit meter… but less and less on my mind each day.

Things have been good.

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