I thought they’d broken me, and there was no doubt if Wallstreet hadn’t channeled my hatred into something productive, I would’ve ended up dead or in a straitjacket.
He disciplined me when I failed, he praised me when I succeeded, and most of all he filled my brain with power.
Endless power.
The stock market. Not just options, bonds, and blue-chip corporations, but the highly volatile and equally lucrative foreign currency market. He taught me algorithms and formulas he’d guarded with top secrecy since he dabbled in trading when he was in his early twenties. Foolproof ways to watch, learn, and above all, protect his investment.
He’d never married nor had children. His family was his MC, who were currently ripping his heart apart by going against his every command. He trusted no one. He’d given this legacy to no one.
Just me.
He turned me from a heartbroken betrayed teenager to an educated man with a benefactor with power stretching not just across America but Europe and Asia, too.
Not only did he give me the reins of his trading empire, but he gave me the tools I would need to take out my vengeance cleverly, secretly, and to have so much fucking cash behind me I would never be lonely again.
Four years, six months, seventeen days I served of my life sentence.
Then I got out.
Arthur was dead. Kill was born.
Freedom was granted.
Vengeance was coming.
Four Years Ago
The day I left prison was the scariest, most exciting day of my life.
I knew no one.
My world before Florida State no longer existed, and I’d made no secret that I had nothing but hatred for the ones who’d done this to me.
Wallstreet had pulled a miracle, getting my parole hearing moved up, going above everyone’s heads by enlisting favors from people who had the power to undermine the entire defense. He painted me in the perfect light of a reformed underage offender who had been a puppet for others’ wrongdoings.
The ironic thing was, none of that was a lie. It was the truth. And finally, the truth had set me free.
“You Kill?”
I held my hand up, shielding my eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. Thrown across my shoulder was a tattered backpack with my worldly possessions in it. The clothes I’d worn when I’d been arrested, the rolled-up math notebook where I’d been solving a supposedly unsolvable problem, and a keepsake from Cleo.
My heart hammered. Pain. Regret. Hated. Guilt.
Don’t think about her.
The first opportunity I had, I’d burn the lot. Including the eraser in the shape of a Libra star sign that had never been used to rub out mistakes.
I’d only ever been truly happy around her.
I’d been so fucking in love with her.
Now she was gone. And I had to carry on living without her.
I fucking hated the memories of her—they hurt like a shank to the jugular. Every time I looked at the damn eraser, it ripped out my heart. I couldn’t keep it. It hurt too damn much.
Get it together, Killian. This is your new world. The old one is dead.
Striding forward, I nodded. “Yep, I’m Kill.”
The guy grinned, holding out his hand. He had to be fucking melting in the black leather jacket with a fireball and some death symbol stitched into it with the words CORRUPT AS THEY COME on the shoulder blades. “I’m Grasshopper.”
My eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”
He took my bag, slinging it over his shoulder and moving toward the parking lot. “Nah, my real name is Jared Shearer. But I got the nickname ’cause I like to smoke grass and I got to be VP by hopping over other fucktards.” He grinned. “Get it? Grass… hopper?”
It’s fucking ridiculous.
I bit my tongue. “Got it.”
The last few years of my incarcerated life faded as my past came back—reality stomping rudely into my future. I wasn’t surrounded by strict laws or whitewashed walls anymore.
Car horns. Smog. Heat. Children’s laughter as a family wagon rolled past. Dogs barking. The loud blare of a stereo.
Complete and utter chaos.
Everything was madness out here.
You better learn quickly how to play the game again.
“Wallstreet told me he’d arranged everything. Care to tell me if that’s true?”
Who the hell knew what sort of situation I was about to walk into. After all, Wallstreet had been locked up for fucking years—who was to say he still had power enough to pull off this switch?
I would be the one who would die if it didn’t work out.
Grasshopper smiled, his dark mohawk stiff with gel. “Yep, all arranged, dude. He got word to me. I’m one of the few originals.”
“Originals?”
“Yep. When Wallstreet was top dog, the Corrupts were a business, you know? We had regular business meetings, profit-and-loss discussions, investment research. We existed in that grey area, you get me? Part in the law, part out of the law. We didn’t do harm to others, ’cause we didn’t need to run drugs or guns. Wallstreet had us hiding bucketloads of cash so good old Uncle Sam didn’t get his sticky fingers on it. He also didn’t agree with pimping whores or cooking meth.” His voice trailed off.
The loyalty and nostalgia in the guy’s voice was touching. Wallstreet was missed—even after all this time. “Sounds like a good deal.”
And nothing like the Club I’ve come from.
“It was. We were tight. Rolling in it. The brothers were the best bastards I knew. But then Wallstreet’s fucking tits on the side decided to get back at him for stepping out with a Club bunny. The feds had wanted him for fucking decades, and they finally managed to slap him with white-collar bullshit.”
We stopped beside a Harley and another biker dressed all in black. The stranger, with sandy-blond hair and a crooked nose, pushed off from the machine, tossing me the keys.
I caught them, tasting the animosity in the air.
Grasshopper sighed. “Don’t mind, Mo.” Turning to me, he muttered, “Mo, real name Tristan Morgan, is just a bit pissed.” Glaring at Mo, he snapped, “Get it together. You’re his master-at-arms. You have to be in for reals, dude, else no room for you in this new outfit. Boss’s orders.”
Mo crossed his arms, his teeth grinding hard. He didn’t say a word.
My fingers clenched around the keys to the whiskey-colored Harley behind him. “Having a hard time ’cause I’m a complete stranger and stepping in to be your president?”
Mo bared his teeth. “No, newbie. My attitude is because I preferred it when we didn’t have a fucking boy who’s probably jerked off more than he’s ever had a pussy. You’re not a man. What the fuck was Wallstreet thinking?”
I straightened my shoulders. “I may be young, but I’m smart and willing to learn.”
Mo laughed. “Takes more than book smarts and a kiss-ass attitude to run a Club.”
I know. I was groomed to be VP somewhere else.
My temper—the fire I’d been able to smother ever since I met Wallstreet—simmered.
“Don’t let them bitch you around, Killian. You’re in charge. You answer to nobody but me.” Wallstreet’s voice jumped into my head. All his lessons and tips—they swam in my brain, completely scrambled. As much as I hated to admit it, Mo was right. I’d gone to prison a fucking virgin. I’d been waiting.
For her.
How could I pretend to be a man when I had so many life experiences to catch up on?
Can’t think that way.
I had to project the power that Wallstreet had instilled in me. Mo was my bitch. The Corrupts were all my bitches. They had to obey or fucking leave. Those were the choices.
Pulling my shoulders back, I whispered, “Doesn’t matter what you think. It doesn’t change the fact that you now belong to me.”
Mo’s eyes widened, his leather jacket creaking over his muscular bulk. “No one fucking owns me, asshole.”
This was it??
?the first standoff—and I had to show my strength. I had to be dominant—to show them I deserved the right to be at the top of the pecking order.
Pulling my fist back, I smiled with grim satisfaction as it cut through the air and crunched against his nose.
The man collapsed to a knee, holding his gushing bloody face. If his crooked nose wasn’t broken before, it was now. “What the fuck—”
I might not know what pussy felt like, but I’d been in more fights than I could remember. The prison boxing team had been education for my body while Wallstreet tweaked my mind.
Grasshopper stooped and grabbed the guy beneath his armpits. “Leave it, Mo. You were being a dick. Kill is our new Prez. He takes orders from Wallstreet and no one else. If you’re so fucked off at having to obey a dude younger than you, pretend it’s Wallstreet you’re mouthing off to and we’ll see how long that shit will fly.”
Mo glowered, his dark eyes watering. I guessed he was in his early thirties. In my book, an IQ like mine and the body of a tried-and-true fighter would win every time.
“You’ve got some nerve, kid.”
I inspected my knuckles, loving the slow comprehension that I was free. Really, truly free. My life was my own again. And today marked the first day of my retaliation program.
“Name’s not Kid, it’s Kill.” Swiping a hand through the hair that I’d let grow in prison, I muttered, “And if you know my track record, you’ll know I earned that nickname for a reason. Best listen to your mate.”
Eyeing up the bike behind Mo, I said, “Do I get my own or are you riding bitch?”
Grasshopper let his brother go, punching me in the bicep. “You’ve got balls, Kill. I have a feeling you’re going to be the iron fist the Club needs.”
That’s the plan.
“You make them pay for disobeying me. Clean it out. Tear off their patches. Put an end to their fucking nonsense.” Wallstreet’s instructions were clear. The Corrupts were done. It was time for a new name.
“What happened to the guy I’m replacing?” Wallstreet had special plans for him.
Hopper grinned. His blue eyes glinted with a hint of evil. “You don’t need to worry about him, dude. I took care of it.”
My stomach twisted. “That wasn’t your call to make. It was my job.”
“Gut him, Kill. Make a point with him—so other rejects know what happens when they mess with you.”
If I didn’t have anyone to maim, how would I make my point?
Mo jumped in, swiping a hand over his sandy-blond hair. “It was him or Hopper. Shit got heated. It’s done. He’s been dead for two days—alligator bait, and dealt with.” He stepped into my space. “You got an issue with us cleaning up shop for you?” His voice lowered to a rasp. “Don’t forget, newbie, we still only take orders from Wallstreet and he told us to ensure it was safe for you to take over. Well, we made it safe.”
Rage boiled in my blood. If anyone had got as close to me in prison as Mo was, they would’ve been unconscious by my feet. My entire body wanted to annihilate him before he became a threat.
That’s not how shit works out here.
Taking a deep breath, I dangled the keys to the bike in Mo’s face. “Wallstreet has high hopes for his brothers. I’m just delivering them. Grasshopper was right to end the old Prez if it was a matter of self-perseveration, but from now on, if you don’t obey me, you don’t obey him. And if you don’t obey him, I have full permission to hurt you.”
Mo’s eyes burned into mine, willing me to back down. “You’ll hurt me, huh?”
Lowering my brow, I growled, “You don’t want to know what will happen if you piss me off.”
I was done being used, abused, and thrown away to rot.
The air hazed with anger. I waited for him to strike—my muscles bunched, hands clenched. But then the tension dispersed as Mo rolled his shoulders and grinned. “I like you, newbie. You got guts, and whatever life did to you to get you in the slammer—you’ve come out better for it.” Holding his hand out, he shook my grip in welcome. “Get on the bike; we’re going home.”
Home.
I wouldn’t let anyone stand in my way ever again.
It was time to start my new rule.
“Will she do?” Grasshopper strolled into my new quarters. I’d commandeered Wallstreet’s old rooms at the compound in the Keys. It backed onto the Everglades, all one level, with barbed-wire fencing hemming us in like animals.
I knew it was to protect us from other gangs or idiot druggies, but the second I walked through the patrolled gates and into the courtyard of the run-down, paint-peeling hellhole, I wanted out.
My skin crawled. My soul screamed for freedom. I didn’t walk free from prison only to chain myself back up again with a bunch of leather-wearing bikers.
The inside of the compound wasn’t much better with graffiti spray-painted on the walls, cigarette-burned couches, and bedrooms that reeked of sex, pizza, and dope.
Wallstreet’s room hadn’t been used—so that was a fucking blessing—but it still had bars on the windows, mildew in the carpet, and an adjoining bathroom that made my metal shitter at Florida State look like a fucking suite.
I can’t stay here.
Already the walls hemmed me in—my temper rising with every breath, preparing to fight for freedom.
“You won’t like it when you get there. I’ll hazard a guess it’ll be completely run-down and like a fucking dump site by now. But no matter where you want to go, you can’t leave. Not until you’ve got full control. Then you can live off-site if you have the men you trust acting while you’re gone—but not before, Kill. You’ll stay there until you’ve taken care of things.”
At the time, it’d been no hardship to swear. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than prison. So, like a fucking moron, I swore.
Now I wanted to revoke that promise. But I couldn’t. I’d given my word, and Wallstreet was the only one deserving of my loyalty.
“Kill?” Grasshopper brought my attention back to him. Striding farther into the room, he dragged a blonde with him. She had a big rack and wore a skintight tiger-print dress and heels that turned her from midget to model.
She fit the seediness of the room perfectly.
She’s not her.
My heart twisted and I gritted my teeth.
“She’s great. Thanks.”
Grasshopper grinned, shoving the girl toward the king-size black-covered bed. “Had her on standby. Know what it’s like to get out of the slammer and need a welcome party.” He winked. “You got the rest of the night. Go nuts, Kill.”
I smiled, remaining silent until he’d closed the door.
Striding over to where he’d disappeared, I turned the dead bolt and spun to face the whore. “What’s your name?”
Fuck, what am I doing?
All I could see was Cleo. All I could hear was Cleo. All I fucking wanted was Cleo.
Her eyes drifted from the top of my head, down my chest, to my cock. She licked her lips, stumbling forward in her ridiculous shoes. “You can call me whatever you want, Prez.”
I held up my finger. “I’m not the president until the ceremony tomorrow. Call me Kill. And I’m going to call you…”
Buttercup’s name danced on my tongue. Her smile blazed in my brain. Her laugh echoed in my ears.
Fuck.
I was so fucking horny—had been for ten years. I’d wanted to take her, to make love to the girl who’d had my heart the moment I saw her. But out of decency for our families, and our ages at the time, I’d avoided taking things too far.
I wasn’t a guy who wanted to whore around. I knew how precious Cleo was. I knew that the moment I took her, she would be mine for eternity and I’d be hers. I’d wanted it to be perfect.
You were a dick for waiting.
Now, I was about to lose my virginity to a Club bunny who’d sucked more cocks and slept with more bikers than minutes I’d been alive. 12,622,776. Okay, maybe not that many, but still—a fucking lot.
&nb
sp; “I’m not picking your name. Give me one and I’ll use it.”
She smiled, resting her fingertips against my chest. “Okay, call me Meadow.” Her body shifted closer, pressing her large tits against me. The softness of her body sent a need so damn strong through my blood I knew I wouldn’t last long.
Placing my hands on her shoulders, completely fucking dwarfing her small frame, I walked her backward till the backs of her knees hit the bed.
She fell, sprawling onto the covers, a small laugh escaping.
Meadow’s laugh was nothing like Cleo’s. It was all kinds of wrong and almost threatened to kill my hard-on.
My mouth ached to kiss; my tongue wanted nothing more than to taste. But not this woman. Not a whore who I didn’t want. Only the girl from my past.
The first time I’d kissed Cleo—the first time I’d broken my stupid rules and let her win—I’d known. My fate was sealed to hers and she had power over me more than anyone.
She would’ve given me her virginity in that wonderful afternoon, but I’d stopped. I’d been a fucking idiot and thought we had forever.
Instead, here I was about to fuck a stranger just because I had to get her out of my mind once and for all. My past was dead to me.
She had to be, too.
“Do you have a condom?” My voice was rough, angry.
Meadow nodded, pulling a packet from her cleavage. I stole it from her fingers. It was warm and the rubber inside slipped like disgusting slime against the foil. Placing it on the bedspread in easy reach, I growled, “On your knees.”
I couldn’t do this looking into her eyes.
I swallowed hard. Goddammit.
I’d survived almost five years in a penitentiary without thinking of her, yet the moment I got out and saw the gift she’d given me all those years ago, I couldn’t stop her invasion.
You’re cheating on her.
I wasn’t.
I couldn’t cheat on her.
She’s dead.
Meadow rolled onto her knees, wriggling her ass, hoisting her tight dress past her hips to her waist. She wasn’t wearing underwear. She spread her legs for me, just like she had for the twenty members of the Corrupts.
My teeth locked at the blatant display of female body parts. I could fucking stare all day.