Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC Tennessee 1)

“You sick fuck,” I snarl at her.

She brings her face closer. “You know, if you don’t have something nice to say, you really shouldn’t say anything at all.” She laughs maniacally but then stops suddenly, her smile dropping and her eyes going cold again. “Better brace yourself, Bronte, this is going to hurt.”

She lifts the gun.

But in that moment, the self-defense moves Jack taught me come flooding back, and I move with instinct, dodging out of the way and catching her in the ribs with my elbow before stomping on her foot. She yelps and flails forward before righting herself and charging back at me. This time, I hit her in the forearm, and it sends the gun spinning across the floor.

“You fucking, bitch,” she spits.

Riley comes at me again, her eyes wide as she unleashes a yielding battle cry and charges forward, arms ready to grab me, her face a mask of pure madness. However, I manage to dodge her, slip under her grasp and slide across the floor to where the gun lies.

I pick it up, but she runs at me and grabs it.

And…

… it goes off.

JACK

I’ve never pushed my Harley as fast as I’m pushing her now. My every nerve is firing with adrenalin.

Bronte didn’t answer her cell, and the home phone rang out. So, when I tore out of the clubhouse with Paw, Shooter, and Ares, I barked at one of the prospects to keep trying, telling him that the moment she answers, he needs to tell her to get the hell out of the house.

Now I pray I get there before Riley does.

The thought that I might be too late hits me fair in my gut, but I push on faster, praying out to something I’d forsaken the day my brother was killed.

Don’t take her. Dear God, please don’t take her from me.

We roar up my street, four thundering Harleys barking into the afternoon as we race toward my girl. Once in my driveway, I screech to a halt and leap off, my feet barely hitting the ground as I race toward the front door and burst through it.

But the moment I’m inside, I hear the gun go off and I freeze, my heart stalling as the sudden realization I’m too late knees me in the balls.

Bronte.

The family room is empty, but as I sprint into the dining room, I’m stopped by a vision of Bronte straddled over an unconscious Riley, and she’s raining fisted blows down on her. A bullet wound to Riley’s shoulder seeps blood onto the floor.

“Bronte...” I call to her, but she doesn’t look up. Instead, she’s swept up in a wave of retribution. She wants to make Riley pay for what she’s put her through.

“For months…” she cries. “For five… goddamn… months, she has made my life hell.” She closed-fist punches Riley again. “This bitch was supposed to be my friend. But she did whatever she could to break me down and…” she weakens with heartbreak, “… she fucking tormented me.” With a rush of emotion, she stops punching and picks up the gun from the floor and presses it to Riley’s head, and I see the loss of control sweep over her tortured face.

“Baby, you don’t want to do this,” I say.

“But she won’t ever stop,” she cries.

“Yes, she will. I promise you.”

When Shooter, Paw, and Ares run into the room, she jumps, but I put my hands out to bring her attention back to me. “She’ll go to prison, and you won’t ever have to worry about her again,” I tell her.

Ares and Shooter check on Officer Johnson, but Shooter shakes his head.

Officer Johnson is dead.

“She shot him,” Bronte cries. “One minute he’s talking to me and the next…” she digs the gun into Riley’s face, “… this fucking psychopath shoots him. She didn’t even give him a chance.”

“I know, baby, but you don’t want to do this. Think of the consequences. Think of what killing her will do to you. Think of us.”

I watch her jaw tick.

Watch her slowly come back to herself.

Dropping the gun, she sobs and collapses onto all fours. That’s when I let out the breath I was holding and run over to her. Guiding her to her feet, I pull her into my arms, and she sags against me just as the police sirens break into the afternoon.

After Pinkwater takes her statement, I leave my bike at the house and drive Bronte back to the clubhouse in my truck. Covered in blood, she’s in shock and stares straight ahead. My eyes drift to her knuckles which are bloody and bruised, and one of her fingernails is torn and bleeding.

After pulling into the parking lot, I lift Bronte out of the truck and carry her through the clubhouse to my bedroom where I sit her on the bed. “You doing okay, baby?” I ask, kneeling in front of her.