Shane (Mallick Brothers 1)

Ross walked straight up to my brother who stood as he approached, brows drawn together like he was confused by the attention. I almost missed the motion it happened so fast. Ross’ hand went into the back waistband of his pants and the camera caught the flash of the blade just a second before Ross plunged forward with it, stabbing it into the center of my brother’s stomach.

I cried out in the empty warehouse as my brothers face contorted with pain, half collapsing onto his attacker.

The video cut out just then, leaving me completely unsure if it was just the one stab, just to get my attention, or if it kept going. If there was real damage. If my brother was even still alive.

On that thought, I opened a new window and searched for any evidence that my brother was dead. I found none, but I also knew that that was not definitive.

I slammed the laptop shut and threw it onto Shane’s side of the bed, curling up on my side and pulling my legs to my chest. It hurt. It was like I had been stabbed as well, like my insides were becoming outsides as I rocked my body, looking for comfort. My eyes stayed oddly dry, like no tears could be brought forth through the guilt and fear.

I stayed that way as the sun hit mid day and then as the sun went down. Eventually, I forced myself to get up and changed for work. About a dozen cups of coffee and six hours later, the pain had turned to a dull ache that I could almost ignore if I set my mind to. I drove back to Shane’s to find he still wasn’t home, something I was thankful for as I slipped out of my clothes and into the bed.

And then, for the first time in almost a year, I let my mind go there. I let it go back.

My family was three generations deep in a one-percent, heroin-dealing MC in California. My grandfather had been in since he was a teenager. My father and brother both aged in at their own pace. As for me, well, girls weren’t allowed. At least, girls weren’t allowed in any capacity more than a scullery maid or set of holes for men to plug. Being that my mother died when she brought my brother into the world, I was literally raised in the clubhouse. I learned to be tough, to not show my weakness, to understand loyalty. The president, Rick, had been like an uncle to me and had actually, despite club rules about chicks not having bikes, bought me my first one when I was sixteen and taught me to drive it in the field behind the clubhouse.

But as I got older and started to develop, I realized quickly that it was smart for me to start hanging out elsewhere except for on nights when my presence was needed. See, it didn’t seem to matter to the vast majority of the men that they had literally watched me grow up, that they had bought me Christmas presents as a kid and kept up the Santa Claus charade for me. As soon as my tits became more than a wish and prayer, I was prime meat and they were hungry dogs. I couldn’t walk through the clubhouse without having my ass smacked or my tits felt up. I worried for worse from men I had known as family so I stopped going.

I didn’t know a whole hell of a lot about a normal view of womanhood in the world, but I damn sure knew that the life of a clubwhore was not for me. I wasn’t about to be passed around and fucked in all my holes at once while men got in line to take their turn.

Granted, I learned from a very tender age to be comfortable with and to use my sexuality, as taught to me from some of the older clubwhores, I always knew that I wanted it to be my choice. I wanted to give it away to men I liked, not just because it was demanded of me.

So from age seventeen on, I had very little to do with them.

Around the time I turned twenty-three, the old president died and his son stepped up. I didn’t know much about Ross. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I could point him out in a lineup at that point. But he knew me. He had seen me. And when Ross saw something that he wanted, he put things into motion to make sure they became his. I was made to start coming around and Ross started showing me attention.

And, well, Ross was hot in all the ways I liked. He was tall and a lean kind of strong, covered in tats, covered in scars, with somewhat shaggy brown hair, and almost black eyes. He had one of those smooth voices too, all whisky and molasses. I wasn’t exactly uninterested. If anything, I was flattered. When I was around, even though we were just talking, he never showed any interest in the clubwhores. He never flirted with anyone else. His focus was fully on me. Fresh off a breakup with a guy who seemed to be more interested in his Xbox than me, I was eating it up.