“I’ll give you a ride home, Mel,” I said with soft menace, enjoying the sudden shock in her face. “We can talk when we get there. Privacy, you know?”
She glanced around, eyes wide. She knew half the men here tonight, but they could be strangers for all the good that’d do her now. Ruger. Gage. Horse. Puck. They all stared back at her, eyes cold. Not one of them would lift a finger to protect her—not from me.
“Fuck . . .” she whispered. Yeah, enjoy your reality check, baby.
“Maybe we’ll do that, too,” I said, thinking about that hot, sweet pussy of hers. Hadn’t felt that for years now, but I still dreamed about it every goddamned night.
I reached for her, jerking her into my arms as she screamed. Nobody moved. Seconds later I had her over my shoulder, hauling her out into the night. Her hands pounded my back, which was adorable because she didn’t stand a chance.
Little Melanie was all grown up.
I’d spent five years dancing to her tune, but that shit was over. In my mind, she’d lost her freedom the instant she threw her leg over another man’s bike.
Now all I had to do was fuck some sense into her.
CHAPTER ONE
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
Dear Levi,
You know, someday you should really tell me how you got started with your artwork. It seems like I share everything with you, but you never tell me anything real about yourself. It’s kind of weird. I keep thinking that I should stop writing to you, because it’s not like we even really know each other. (I still don’t quite understand why you let me borrow your car all this time, but I really appreciate it—I make sure the oil is changed and stuff.) Then something will happen and I find myself wanting to tell you about it, so I write again.
Anyway, you don’t have to write back if you don’t want to. I know you think I’m just some kid, but I’m twenty years old now and I’ve lived through my own shit.
Okay, so I had to stop writing for a while. Jessica stopped by—we’re getting a house together this semester. (Um, just so you know, she told me. About you and her, I mean. She said it didn’t mean anything, but I can’t help but wonder if you still think about her like that.) She’s doing really well, by the way. We just finished summer session, and she got a 3.00 GPA, which kind of kicked ass. I’m super proud of her, because she has learning disabilities, so it’s not like that was easy. I have good news, too—they told me today that I’m getting a full tuition/books scholarship, which means I can use the rest of my financial aid to live on. I won’t have to work this year, so I’m loading up on the credits. If everything goes right, I’ll transfer to the University of Idaho in January, a whole semester early!
So . . . something happened that I wanted to tell you about. I met a guy. He’s cute, and we have the same birthday—isn’t that funny? We went to this party at a house downtown and they were singing “Happy Birthday” to him and then Jessica started singing “Happy Birthday” to me and things sort of grew from there. We’ve been on a couple dates now, and he just asked me if it could be exclusive.
What do you think about that?
I mean, do you think that a guy should be asking that after such a short time? I know, I should probably talk to Loni about it, but she totally worries all the time, and . . . anyway . . . I just wanted to know your opinion.
Should I start dating him for real? Any reason I shouldn’t?
Melanie
PS—thanks for the drawing you sent—it almost feels like I’ve been there. Every time I see one of your sketches it blows me away. I can’t imagine being able to create something like that.
I folded the letter carefully, looking out across the yard. The air was warm—perfect, really—and I thought about Idaho, where you couldn’t sit outside like this for most of the year.
The only good thing about prison was I hadn’t frozen my ass off last winter. People back home saved all year to try and find some sun during the cold months, but I’d gotten my snowbird “vacation” for free. In the distance, Puck wandered toward me, his path apparently aimless. I knew better. He had shit to distribute, and it was my job to watch his back and make sure nobody noticed anything while he made his rounds.
That’s when Prince Fester of the Fuckwits ran up to me, grinning.
“You get a new letter from Melanie?” he asked, eyes bright. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to ignore him. This idiot was me and Puck’s cellmate, and I gave serious thought to shanking his ass at least twice a day.
“She send any pictures?” he asked, licking his lips. I fought back a snarl.
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth. I catch you touching her picture again, I’ll kill you. That’s not a joke, Fester. Puck and I already planned out exactly how we’re gonna do it.”
His smile faded, his feelings obviously hurt. Jesus help me, just one little slice . . . that’s all I want. Just one swipe of the knife to take out his tongue. “You don’t mean that.”
I didn’t answer, because the man had the brain of an eight-year-old. A vicious, dangerous eight-year-old who’d been committing armed robbery half his life, but trust me—he was seriously lacking in the IQ area. Puck was always telling me to be patient with him, and I tried. Seriously. I tried fuckin’ hard, but sometimes it took everything I had not to cut his tongue out for real.
“So, I had this idea,” he said, leaning up against the wall next to me.
“Shut the fuck up and go away.”
He frowned. I ignored him until he shuffled off like a kicked puppy, keeping my eyes on Puck as he drifted toward a cluster of skinheads. Always thought that was funny. They called him a mongrel behind his back, but when he had product they were happy to forgive Mr. Redhouse for his many sins against the Aryan race. I’d have laughed if I wasn’t so busy making sure nobody murdered him.
Just two more weeks.
Two more weeks in this shithole, then I’d be headed home to Coeur d’Alene. Back to my bike and my club. My brothers.
Melanie.
Pretty Melanie, driving around in my car because I’d felt guilty about leaving her alone without transportation that last night . . . Christ, thought I’d be loaning it to her for a couple days, and now she’d had it for a year. Ridiculous, but who was I kidding? I liked the idea of her in my car—of her thinking of me every day. Of her owing me.
Not like I needed the damned thing in prison.
I reached down, feeling the letter in my pocket, wondering what the hell I should tell her about the asshole trying to get into her pants. Wanted to say she should blow him off—he wasn’t good enough for her. She was too young, too soft, and too pretty for some twenty-year-old cocksucker looking to get his rocks off. He didn’t care about her, either—he just wanted to get laid. They all did. Maybe he’d grow out of it someday, although I had five years on him and I hadn’t yet.
I had no right to an opinion, though. She hardly knew me. We’d spent maybe eight hours together total, and trust me when I say there weren’t any happy endings. I’d given her a ride home, watched a movie with her. Taken her to dinner to get her out of the club’s way—it wasn’t even a particularly nice dinner, not like she deserved. She was nothing to me.