I worked my ass off at school, writing papers for both my own classes and for pompous douche bags who’d gotten into Yale with their daddy’s money, then used that same money to pay me to write their fucking essays. I didn’t mind it, though; it gave me enough cash to fuck my way through sorority girls, and to go home to visit Callie and my grandmother whenever I could.
Along the way, I kept tabs on Farrah through visits home and phone calls with Callie, but we didn’t talk, and I didn’t try to contact her outside the times where it was impossible to avoid each other. She seemed embarrassed that I’d seen her at her worst, so I tried to give her space. I didn’t want to be a reminder of that time in her life.
My IQ and numerous scholarships had gotten me sent to boarding schools across the country, away from my family since before most kids my age were wiping their own asses, so I wasn’t homesick at college like many of my classmates. When I got to Yale I thought about Farrah every day, but life was simple for me at school—no drama or responsibility outside of getting my class work done on time. It was a bit of a relief.
I was used to being alone, the misfit, the scholarship student who wore plain Nikes in a gym full of whatever expensive brand was popular that season. I understood it; it was comfortable. So when I got a call from Gram telling me that Callie had been attacked and I needed to get back to Sacramento, I’d had no idea that I would never step foot on the Yale campus again.
By the time I was back with my family, Callie’s body was healing but her mind wasn’t. She was practically comatose, and Grease prowled around the damn hospital like a caged animal. There was nothing we could do for Callie; she had to work through the psychological damage left over from the attack by herself.
The man who’d attacked her belonged to the same gang that had killed my parents, and the correlation between the two events seemed to have been what pushed her over the edge—but thankfully not before she’d saved herself by killing him with one of Farrah’s handguns. His death left Grease and me at loose ends, and neither of us did the whole “helpless” thing well. Instead, we made plans to take care of the rest of the assholes who’d killed my parents and sanctioned the attack on my sister.
Then one day in a warehouse in San Diego, I turned my back on everything I’d ever known and fell in with a brotherhood that offered me the first place I’d ever felt at home. I fit there, in a lifestyle that I’d never imagined or understood. I’d somehow gained their respect with my ability to slide into any situation unnoticed. They compared me to a ghost, and started calling me by a new name. Casper. I became a prospect in the Aces motorcycle club, which worked like a probationary period in the club where I had to mostly stand around and clean shit up. Literal shit and vomit, and whatever other messes the patched-in brothers had made.
After a few months, though, I got a different job. I became a guard dog for the Aces vice president’s daughter, Brenna. God, she was beautiful, the warm kind of beautiful that showed in the way she moved and smiled and listened intently when someone spoke to her. I sat outside her little house day after day, keeping an eye on things while her man, Dragon, did shit for the club. I saw shit that I wished I hadn’t, but kept my mouth shut about it. And then one sunny morning, the threat I’d been watching for showed up.
I was only shot once, but for the second before I accidentally knocked my ass out on one of the posts of the front porch, it burned like the fiery pits of hell. By the time I woke up just minutes later, I’d lost quite a bit of blood, and I could hear Brenna’s ex yelling at her and beating the shit out of her inside the house. I didn’t know where her little daughter was, and I didn’t know how bad off Brenna was, but I was determined to get inside and do something to help. I was bleeding pretty badly, and the porch was slick under my hands as I’d tried to pull myself into the house, using my boots for leverage.
God, I’d used everything I had to try to get in there, my teeth clenched in agony by the time I reached the door, but I failed. I failed her. I heard Brenna moaning and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. For the first time since I was fifteen years old, I felt my throat tighten and the back of my eyes burn.
I wanted to stand up and beat that fucker to death with my bare hands. I wanted to scream for Dragon. I wanted to tell Brenna that she was going to be okay, that I’d get help. And fucking hell, it made no sense, but before I passed out—I wanted Farrah.
Brenna survived, no thanks to me.
It took me months before I was well enough to ride my bike to California, even though my shoulder wasn’t up for the long ride, but as soon as I knew I could make it, I took off. I hadn’t seen Farrah or my sister since I’d been shot because Callie and Grease weren’t speaking to each other at that point, and since the moment I’d woken up in the hospital, I’d been itching to head south. I needed to get to Farrah.
I parked at the apartment complex, the same complex where I’d watched Farrah’s man bleed out on the pavement, and ran my hand over my shaved head. I knew the next few minutes could turn really fucking bad, but I was willing to take the risk.
I was done waiting for her to get her shit together. I was done waiting for her to get over the man who’d fucking left her to the wolves, but she mourned like he was fucking Gandhi. I was done letting her call all the shots.
And I was done pussyfooting around her like I hadn’t wanted her for goddamn years.
Chapter 2
Farrah