Bull (The Kings of Mayhem MC Book 6) Read online

  “Oh, I’m not denying myself. I’m going to go home and take care of myself with my vibrator.” Her eyes flashed up at me. “Probably more than once.”

  I bit back a groan. The idea of her getting herself off had me so hard, I knew I was going to come tonight, either with her or with my hand. Preferably with her.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be thinking of me,” I said.

  “I don’t suppose I will.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. She was an absolute firecracker.

  But then I knew that the moment I met her.

  I grimaced, already feeling the onset of blue balls.

  But I wasn’t going to push her. It wasn’t my style. Besides, Taylor didn’t strike me as someone who could be won over so easily, and that was part of the attraction.

  Plus, I was no Willy Breeze. I didn’t pressure women. And I sure as fuck didn’t beg.

  No, when this happened, it was going to be Taylor’s choice of the time and the place. When that would be, I had no fucking idea. But what I did know was that Taylor was going to be writhing beneath me, scratching her nails down my back, and coming on my cock, and when she did, it was going to be worth the wait.

  I watched her walk to her car and climb in. She looked over and gave me another wicked smile before closing the door and driving away.

  The challenge was on.

  And I was never one to back down from a challenge.

  TAYLOR

  “Things are finally looking up, kiddo,” I told Noah over breakfast the next morning.

  He looked at me and then dropped his eyes.

  “I don’t know why we had to move here in the first place,” he grumbled over his cereal.

  I sat down at the table as he raised his chin to look at me, and it killed me to see the sadness in those big brown eyes. “It’s a new start for us, buddy.”

  “But I liked our old place.”

  “I know. But this is a better place for us to be. We’ll be safe here.”

  As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

  Noah didn’t know anything about our past.

  Or why we were running.

  Hell, he didn’t even know we were running.

  He was so young when we left.

  “What do you mean? What do we need to be safe from?” he asked, a frown creasing his sweet face.

  Fuck.

  To protect him, I had never told him anything. About our parents. About our godfather. About the horrors of days long gone. None of it.

  And I didn’t plan to either, because the less he knew, the better.

  “I mean, it’s a safe town, and we live in a nice neighborhood, with good neighbors.” I gave him a reassuring smile and ruffled his hair. “Speaking of which, I’d better fix Pickles his breakfast while you get ready for school.”

  Mr. Gino Piccoli, or, Pickles, as he was nicknamed by his comrades in Vietnam, was our neighbor. He lived across the pathway from us in an apartment that mirrored ours. He lived alone, and was frail and elderly. Yet when we first arrived in Destiny, he’d hauled himself up onto his unsteady feet and offered to help us unload the U-Haul.

  He was a kind man. With a kind, toothless grin and laughing eyes.

  He also knew how to sign.

  His only son had been deaf following a bad case of the mumps.

  But all of his family was gone now—his son in a car accident when he was nineteen, and his wife from cancer almost twenty years ago, and in the first few weeks of living here, I realized he had no visitors. No one to call on him. No one to make sure he was alright.

  My heart broke for him. Some days I would see him sitting out on the porch as the sun set, just staring out at the world and thinking about days gone by. A lonely old man in the last years of his life with no one to talk to.

  One day, when he saw me arrive home with bagels, he told me about living in New York with his wife just after the war, and how they would wake up early and wait outside in the dark for their favorite bakery to open, just so they could buy their bagels fresh out of the oven.

  The following day, I brought bagels from a cupcake bakery in town, and every morning since, I dropped a fresh cup of coffee and bagel to him as I was leaving to take Noah to school. No matter how broke we were, I made sure he had a visitor and a bagel.

  Some days, we would sit with him while he ate his breakfast. Other days, Noah would pop over after school and watch TV with him, or talk with Pickles about what life was like when he was a young man.

  Today, Pickles was sitting in his chair by the front door, dressed in his pressed slacks and button-up shirt, his feet in a pair of plaid slippers.

  When he saw us walk across the path, his face lit up.

  “Bella!” he said cheerfully. His eyes gleamed in the pale morning light. “And my favorite bambino, Noah!”

  He held up his hand for Noah to high five, while I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Morning, Pickles.”

  He accepted his coffee and bagel with appreciative delight. “You spoil me!”

  “Well, you’re worth spoiling. How are you feeling today?”

  “If I were any healthier, I’d be dangerous!” He laughed, then turned to Noah and started to sign. “Are you feeling happy today?”

  There was no need to sign. Noah was wearing his hearing aids. But signing was a part of their bond. A magical language between them. A tie to his own son who was gone.

  “I’m okay.”

  Pickles knew about the bullying.

  “Have you chosen the next film yet?”

  Noah and Pickles were both crazy about westerns. It was one of the many things they bonded over. On a Saturday night, you could find them wrist deep in popcorn with their eyes glued to the TV. But they were running out of DVDs because we had borrowed everything available at the local library over the past couple of months.

  “The store has a copy of Shane in the bargain bin. But Taylor says we need to save our money.” Noah replied.

  I felt momentarily horrified. “Only until I get paid.”

  Pickles reached into his ironed slacks and pulled out his wallet, removing a ten-dollar bill. With a shaky hand, he held it up to me.

  “You put that away, Pickles.”

  “Let me buy the kid the DVD,” he said.

  Pickles was on a pension. His house was sparse. His belongings few. Yesterday was pension day. His money had a long way to go. Advanced lung disease wasn’t only a bitch, it was expensive.

  “You don’t let me pay you for the bagels, it’s the least I can do,” he said.

  “And you watch Noah for me all the time without letting me pay you,” I countered. “Besides, I have ten dollars set aside to buy the DVD this afternoon.”

  Noah’s face lit up. “You do?”

  Not really. Things were tight. I had enough for some groceries and gas. A DVD, even if it was in the bargain bin, was not in the budget. But damn it, I was going to make it work so my two favorite people could watch their movie.

  “Sure, I do. Thought I might get a pizza, too, and we could celebrate my new job tonight.” I already knew Trader Joe’s had them on special. I turned to Pickles. “You want to join us?”

  “You got a new job?” He looked delighted. “Where?”

  “The Kings of Mayhem clubhouse. They need help behind the bar.”

  Pickles eyes rounded and then sparkled with amusement. “The Kings of Mayhem…well, I’ll be damned.”

  Everyone in town knew the Kings of Mayhem. But I wasn’t sure if Pickles knew much about them.

  “You know them?”

  “Know them! Cara mia, I got in a bar fight with their president back in the sixties.” He chuckled. “He clocked me right on the jaw, almost took all my teeth out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of a sassy redhead named Sybil Stone.” He chuckled again, and shook his head. “Boy, she was a wild one back then. Great lady. This was well before my lovely Annabelle came along, of course. I was young and dumb. Just about to be ship
ped out. Took my chance on a striking redhead serving drinks behind the bar at the roadhouse out near the railroad tracks. It’s long gone now, just a pile of bricks and dust, but it was the place to be back in sixty-nine. And Sybil Stone sure was a beautiful woman.”

  “You hit on the president’s girl?”

  “Didn’t know she was his girl. But when he told me, I had a belly full of beer and a head full of worry. I was going to war. I didn’t know if I was coming back. That gets you a little crazy when you’ve had more than your share of liquor. He told me she was spoken for, and I guess it just made me a little stupid. But like I said…I was a dumb kid about to head off to war.”

  “What happened?”

  “We brawled. Broke a few chairs. Smashed a few bottles. I got a few punches in, but I was no match for Hutch Calley. He was a strong sonofabitch!” He glanced over at Noah. “Sorry, cucciolo.”

  Noah grinned, while I was intrigued.

  “How did it end?”

  “My friend, a young Marine called Vinnie, said something about us being shipped out. It stopped Hutch mid-throw. He was back from Vietnam going on two years. He grabbed me by my shirt collar and he told me to live every moment I had like it was my last. Because we were about to fly into hell, he said, and when we came back nothing would look, smell, or taste the same. Then he shook my hand and brought me a beer.” His eyes drifted off for a moment, then he came back. “We saw each other around town, every now and again. And he was right, you know. I survived the war, but nothing was the same again.”

  I smiled. I loved Pickles’ stories.

  “The people of this town love the Kings of Mayhem. You could do a lot worse than working for them.”

  I had done a lot worse. My whole life.

  “Thanks, Pickles.”

  The clock on the small table next to him suddenly buzzed, making us all jump.

  “Damn thing. The visiting nurse set it to go off when I need my medication. Damn near gives me a heart attack every time.”

  After I got Pickles his meds, I picked up Noah’s bag. “Come on, time to get you to school.”

  We left Pickles with a promise to pick up pizza for dinner while we watched the movie, and made our way outside.

  As we reached the set of stairs leading down to the road, I noticed a black Cadillac parked down the street and I stopped walking. It was out of place in this neighborhood, and I felt my gut tighten. I couldn’t see inside, but I was sure it was the same car I had seen a few days ago outside the store. Fear tickled at the base of my spine.

  I turned to Noah. “I think I left my purse on the kitchen counter.” I handed him the house keys. “Would you mind running and getting it for me?”

  I waited until he was out of sight before making my way down the front steps, my eyes firmly set on the Caddy parked twenty yards away. Despite the tightening in my chest and the tingle of fear in my bones, I was going to face whoever was behind the wheel and ask them why they were following me. But as soon as I opened the front gate to the apartment complex, the car pulled away from the curb, the driver keeping his face ahead as he drove past me. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses so I didn’t recognize him. But I wasn’t dumb. I was being watched.

  A chill ran through me as I stood on the curb and watched the Caddy disappear down the street and out of view.

  Then, like a firecracker went off under me, I ran back through the gate and up the steps, only slowing down when I reached the front door to my apartment. I took a moment to suck in a couple of deep breaths to calm my nerves before stepping inside because I didn’t want Noah to see me in a panic.

  When I found him in the kitchen, my face brightened. “Sorry, babe. I just realized I left it in my bedroom. Wait here for me.”

  I hurried to my room, careful to close the door behind me, and rushed to the closet. Reaching into the shadows of the top shelf, I felt around until my hand brushed against the cold steel box. Pulling it down, I punched in the sequence of numbers in the keypad to unlock it, and then lifted the lid.

  Inside was a Beretta pistol.

  A Beretta 98A1, to be exact.

  A tactical pistol.

  .21mm caliber.

  125mm of impressive firepower.

  I lifted it out and held it in my hand, feeling a familiar comfort as my fingers wound around the grip.

  This would keep us safe.

  I would make sure it did.

  TAYLOR

  Ten Years Ago

  “Where are we going?” I asked my godfather, Alex.

  We were in the backseat of his shiny black SUV while his driver, Serge, drove.

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  My face lit up.

  “You do?” Alex was too good to me. Always surprising me with gifts. Always lavishing me with nice things. Last week he’d bought me a brand-new Porsche for my birthday. He wasn’t really my godfather. But it’s what he wanted me to call him. “What is it?”

  His hand slid over mine. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Excited, I peered out the window and wondered what he had done for me this time, watching as we left the affluent suburb of Lincoln Park behind us. As the miles rolled by, the landscape slowly changed from the kind of comfortable suburbia, where soccer moms drove Range Rovers and packed their kids nice lunches for school, to the slums of my old neighborhood, where moms were passed out on their heroin highs, while their kids were neglected, malnourished, and left to be unwitting prey to whoever was lurking about.

  I felt my throat tighten, and I struggled to swallow the sudden excess of spit in my mouth.

  I hadn’t been back to this part of town since I’d fled ten years earlier. When my junkie father tried selling me to one of his dealers for his next high. I shifted uncomfortably against the plush leather seat and glanced at Alex. He was watching me, trying to gauge my reaction.

  We never spoke about this place. And I never told him of the horrors of living on the streets for the three years before he found me. About the hunger. About the cold—the type that sank into your bones and froze you right down to your very core. About the sleepless nights and the fear. About the rape. But he knew, I knew he did. Because it was like he’d been trying to make it up to me ever since he’d found me starving and cold, and huddled under a cardboard box in a part of town that no fifteen-year-old should ever call home.

  When we pulled up in front of the dilapidated little house with grimy windows and weeds growing as high as the porch steps, my stomach began to churn.

  “Alex?” I asked, shakily.

  Again, his big, warm hand covered mine. “It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

  He gave me a familiar look of affection. The kind that I craved so badly from him. I wanted to believe him. But as much as I loved Alex, and as much as I wanted his attention and his love, he could be unpredictable. And sometimes that frightened me.

  He came around to my side of the car and opened my door for me, extending his hand. “You can trust me, my darling goddaughter.”

  I climbed out and followed him along the pathway of broken concrete to the front door. The door was slightly ajar, and inside, a kid was crying.

  “Goddamnit, will you shut the fuck up!” Screamed a woman.

  I started to shake. I knew that voice.

  It was my mom.

  My hateful, junkie mother.

  Alex pushed open the door and I followed him inside, and immediately, the sour stench of garbage and stale weed hit me, curling in my nostrils and taking me back to a life I wanted to forget. It was dark inside because the shades were drawn, but it was easy to see the chaos and filth. A dirty couch lined a wall mottled by yellow stains, while cigarette butts spilled from an ashtray on a coffee table littered with frozen dinner plates and drug paraphernalia. I glanced around us, absorbing the house I had grown up in. The putrid green carpet. The dishes piled high in the kitchen, and garbage gathering maggots in the corner. The sickly stench of desperation, frustration, and neglect.

 
The room was empty, but as we stood there looking around us, the sound of a crying child grew louder until he suddenly appeared in the hallway. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen months old, and he was filthy. He wore nothing but a diaper and judging by the state of it, it hadn’t been changed in a while. When he saw us, he stopped and wobbled unsteadily on his little feet. He was distressed, his face slimy with tears and snot.

  My instinct was to go to him. To scoop him up in my arms and take him from this terrible, terrible place.

  But then she appeared. My mom. Or, as I called her, Maggie. Because I had stopped calling her mom the moment I realized she wasn’t much of one.

  At first, she didn’t notice us standing in her living room, and yelled at the little boy again. But then she saw us, and her face paled with recognition and her eyes narrowed. Slowly, she removed a cigarette from her lips with two dirty, nicotine-stained fingers.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she drawled, blowing out a puff of smoke.

  More spit formed in my mouth as the bad memories I’d long since buried raced through my mind. The abuse. The yelling. The inappropriate touching. The yearning for something better. The need to escape this pisshole.

  “Maggie,” Alex said her name coolly. “Do you know who I am?”

  Her hollow eyes focused on him. “Of course, I do. You bring the gear? Playboy told me you were bringing the gear.”

  I remembered Playboy. He was my parents’ dealer. The one they tried selling my virginity to when I was twelve.

  Ignoring the little boy, she sat down on the couch and squashed her cigarette onto a discarded dinner plate before lighting another one.

  I could only stare at her, and she noticed. “You got something to say to me, girl? Or you just going to keep standing there staring?” I was afraid to open my mouth. I was barely keeping down the vomit collecting in my stomach. “What’s wrong with you? The cat got your tongue?”

  “Is he my brother?” I finally managed.

  She rolled her eyes and sighed, as if my first words to her in ten years were a disappointment. “Of course, he is, why else would I put up with his hollering all day if it wasn’t because he was my son.”