Throne of Scars (Lost Kings MC 20)

“Just talk to them about the importance of staying out of trouble. Working a steady job. Avoiding bad influences. Things like that.”

Well, now I just feel like shit. Most people getting out of prison don’t have family bending over backwards to help them out the way I have. Job—club found it for me. It would be dishonest as fuck for me to tell some poor schmuck to “avoid bad influences” when I’ve been socializing with my club from day one. A wheel of hypocrisy—not supposed to associate with my club, yet without them, I wouldn’t be a successful parolee being asked to mentor other criminals. Z’s going to love this slice of irony.

“Saying yes or no won’t impact your early release from parole,” she hurries to add when I remain quiet for too long.

“Yeah, I might not mind doing that.” It probably wouldn’t be much different from how I tried to help other inmates when I was inside. “Let me think about it.”

“Great.” She hands me a card. “This is the coordinator. Give him a call if you’re interested.”

I take a quick glance at the card and shove it in my pocket.

At least by the time I leave I’m feeling a lot more optimistic about my future.

Midmorning at the clubhouse means it’s quiet. Everyone’s either at work or sleeping. Pretty soon I’ll be able to spend time here without any pesky feelings of remorse.

I open the door to my room upstairs. Forget my apartment, this place almost feels like my first real “home” after getting out of prison. After everything I’ve gained and lost in my life, I can’t help feeling sentimental about something as silly as a bedroom. The first night I spent with Serena was right here. In this bed. Regret tugs at me for how conflicted I felt that night. Part of me knew the second we met she was meant to be my future. Thank fuck she gave me a second chance. Running into Rose the other night didn’t hurt a bit. Felt like closing the door on my past once and for all.

Serena and I will be together every night soon enough. I grab what I came for, close the door and head downstairs.

I open the entryway closet, searching for a pair of gloves, when shouting from outside draws my attention. I cock my head, trying to figure out who’s out there.

“Murphy, stop!” Rock’s voice thunders with more concern than anger.

Murphy answers in an angry tone, too low for me to make out what he says. He and Rock seem to go back and forth. Their voices quick and angry followed by stern and pleading.

“I don’t want to hear it!” Murphy finally roars.

More back and forth. Alexa’s wails in the background tug at my heart. These two fuckers need to calm down before they scare the crap out of that little girl.

A door slams. More yelling.

Jesus Christ, where the fuck is Wrath? He should be de-escalating this situation before it gets out of control.

Another door slams.

As much as I don’t want to intrude on what sounds like an extremely personal matter, I don’t want one of these boneheads getting hurt.

I fling the clubhouse door open as Murphy slams his truck into gear and spins his tires. The truck catches and lurches forward. The brake lights flash once as Murphy steers around the clubhouse. Then the truck’s gone, roaring out of sight down the driveway.

“Fuck!” Rock shouts, standing in a cloud of dust.

I pound down the steps and cross the gravel. “The fuck was that all about?”

He doesn’t seem to notice me at first. I touch his shoulder to get his attention. “Rock, what happened?”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “Nothing but some nuclear fallout.”

Fuck, I can guess what went down. “Everyone okay?”

“Not at all.” His jaw tightens again, and he stares at the ground. “Murphy took it harder than I expected.”

No shit. I coulda seen that one coming.

Rock already looks miserable. No reason to pile more guilt on his shoulders.

“Give them time to cool off.” I slap his shoulder. “I was heading out, but I’ll stick around if you need me.”

“Nah, brother. Thank you, though.” He glances over his shoulder in the direction of his house. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, got some good news today. P.O. says she’s going to recommend I’m released early from parole.”

At least that seems to cheer him up a fraction. His lips quirk at the corners. “Damn, that is good news, brother. About time.”

“Z didn’t—”

“Nope. You asked us not to interfere, so we didn’t. This is all because of you.”

“Well, also her hefty caseload, courtesy of Grillo ‘being out on leave.’” I let out a dark chuckle.

He smirks at my sociopathic humor. “The world’s a better place without him and you don’t belong on parole. Win all around for everyone involved as far as I’m concerned.”