Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
RYDER
I never intended to be the member of a motorcycle club. I never intended to fall in love with an ex-con-artist. But I suppose I can’t argue with happiness.
I wince as the water hits the deep scratches on my back and rinse the lather from my hair, vanilla and lemon tickling my nose—Blade’s shampoo, the only one in here. He’s a little flowery, especially now that he doesn’t have to slit people open to get by.
We’ve lived here for over a month, and every day feels a little better—a little calmer. I know the others don’t want to live in this house, don’t want to stay here, but I think I actually like suburbia. The neighbors look at us a little weird sometimes, but they’re coming around. I’m sure the gardening advice Rooster’s passing out like candy is going over well, though it might be his red hair and his Scottish accent. Housewives always love that guy.
I twist the handle to cut the stream of water. The shower knob squeals, making me wince—the bathroom is next on our list of projects. We’ve already revamped the yard, the bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. That’s what happens when you take five hardworking bikers and put them in a tiny house with no responsibilities.
Well, not no responsibilities. There’s always Izzy to take care of, and she never seems to mind the extra attention.
I smile to myself as I step onto the mat and grab the towel hanging from the rack, but pause when I hear the door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I run the towel over my short hair, listening. Are we expecting someone? Probably the neighbors. Ah, maybe the man Rooster was working with the other day—Rooster’s helping him install a coy pond for his wife’s anniversary. They’re cute, that couple, the man with a bald head that practically glows in the sun, his wife with long black locks—surely a wig. But who cares? The way he looks at her, as if she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen… it makes me smile every time I see them. I move the towel down, drying off the rest of the way, but my skin stays damp with post-shower humidity. I imagine that someday, we’ll be that way with Izzy, all of us in various stages of decay, all of us happy just to be together, to be with her.
The knocking comes again, louder this time—more insistent.
I frown. I’m not the only one home. What are they doing? Maybe Mack’s having his way with our girl. I hope so; she wore me out last night, and I’m not positive that my back will ever be the same.
It was well worth it.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I grab Izzy’s bathrobe from the hook, the only bathrobe in here—of course it is—and step into the hall looking like a bear in a short skirt. Ridiculous. From the back of the house, the sliding glass door hisses open. I head that way, but get knocked aside as Blade brushes past me.
“Look out, Ry!”
I stiffen. He always sings Izzy’s nickname for me. I like it when she says it, but the name—Ry—on Blade’s lips makes me want to punch him. At least I don’t have to answer the door.
I turn to head for the bedroom—for my clothes—but call over my shoulder: “Watch it, Prospect.” I rarely call him that; the title is Mack’s thing to make sure Blade knows he’s not one of us yet… but he is. He’s been one of us since he helped us go after the Grunge, to kill the president of that club—to protect Izzy. If the enemy of my enemy is my friend, then someone who loves the woman I love must be one of us.
I’m not as suspicious as Mack, though. Mistrust is basically his job—a real guard dog, that guy.
I’m just the chemist.
But I barely make it a single step before the front door slams open.
“What the hell happened?” Not Blade this time; Mack’s voice. And there’s no mistaking the urgency in his tone—uh-oh.
I change course, following Blade’s footsteps down the hallway and then out into the small living area, skirting the leather sofas, narrowly missing the intricately carved coffee table that Blade claims “ties the room together.” Blade has an eye for interior design, though I’m sure he’d kill me for saying as much. The man is, after all, an assassin.
Blade’s standing at the door now, his back to me, shoulder to shoulder with Mack. Izzy is just behind them, peering around Mack’s side at whoever is on the stoop. And it has to be someone important. It doesn’t take three people to answer the door.
I finally make it to the foyer and peer onto the porch.
Shit.
Ozzy. The man is a biker like us, a member of the new-fangled Grunge—he was voted in as president after Dominick died.
One half of his face has always been covered in tattoos.
Now, the other half is covered in blood.
