Wreaking Havoc (Dead Presidents MC Book 2)

  Contents

  COVER PAGE

  COPYWRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TRAPPING WASP SNEAK PEEK

  THANK YOU!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Published by Harley Stone

  Copyright ©2018 – Harley Stone

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  For Meltarrus: my Havoc, my peace, my lover, and my best friend who pushes me to challenge boundaries, break rules, and who calms the raging bitch inside me. Thank you for always believing in me and encouraging me to follow my heart. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

  I love you!

  Havoc

  Three months ago

  SEATTLE DRIVERS ARE assholes. Our traffic jams are legendary, and today, 5th Avenue is a parking lot. By five-thirty p.m. it was already getting dark and the normal January drizzle had started up again, screwing with visibility and slopping up the roads. Then, some narcissistic motherfucker in a Mercedes decided he was too important to wait, made an illegal turn, squeezed in front of a minivan, and almost clipped my bike.

  The asshole probably didn’t even see me since he was staring at his phone the entire time. Thankfully, I saw him and swerved my Fatboy out of the way, coming within inches of a parked car in the process.

  He had the gall to honk at me. At me! Like I’d almost run him over. Maybe he thought I didn’t deserve to be on the road because I was driving a Harley instead of a Mercedes? Who knew how the minds of rich, conceited motherfuckers worked? Since there wasn’t a damn place to go, he came to an abrupt stop. I squeezed my bike between him and the parked car and knocked on his window.

  Looking at me like I wasn’t worth the air I was breathing, he rolled his window down half an inch like a fucking coward.

  “Didn’t get very far, did you, asshole?” I asked.

  “Fuck you,” he said and rolled up his window.

  It would be so easy to rip my helmet off and use it to bash in the side of his car. Rewarding, even. At least for a couple of minutes. Then the guilt would set in as I remembered how goddamn hard I’d worked to not be the man who flew off the handle anymore. I’d gained a lot of ground over the past few years, and I wasn’t going to let some pansy-ass bitch-boy make me lose it.

  “He’s not worth it.”

  They weren’t my words, but they’d been drilled into my head by Sage, the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club’s counselor. Most clubs didn’t have counselors, but when you shove a ragtag bunch of military vets with post-traumatic stress disorder together, a counselor is necessary. Believe that.

  Sage would also tell me to take a beat and chill the fuck out. That sounded like a good plan, so I parked my bike, fed the meter, and scanned the area for some place I could cool my heels. A bar named The Line sat in the middle of the next block. Determined to take five and not let some entitled asshole get the best of me, I hoofed it down the street and slipped inside the bar.

  Sports paraphernalia was plastered all over the walls and the basketball game was on. I got a couple of sideways looks, but nothing I wasn’t used to, especially while wearing my cut. Confident I’d found a watering hole I could somewhat relax in, I pulled up a barstool and ordered a stout.

  The game was a close one, stressing me out far more than it should have, but if the Blazers didn’t get their shit together, they’d be out of the playoffs again. Two free-throws were missed, and I shook my head and went out back to smoke.

  I was just about to light up when I heard the muffled cry of a girl.

  The city was loud, but I knew what I’d heard. Straining my ears, I put my smokes back in my pocket and ventured out into the covered picnic area.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ bite me, you little whore,” a male voice said.

  There was a slapping noise and the woman called out again. Grunting followed.

  I rounded the divider to find some wiry asshole plowing into a girl bent over a picnic table. He had his hand covering her mouth. She met my gaze, and her eyes begged me for help.

  Her attacker was so busy rutting into her that he didn’t see me. I crept around behind him, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and hauled his ass off her, holding him inches above the ground. His little pencil dick swung from side to side.

  “I see why you can’t get women the right way, but this shit ain’t gonna fly,” I growled.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, helicoptering his hands to swing at me. “Let me go! This is none of your business.”

  The girl was crying. I couldn’t see enough to make out her features, but I could hear the sobs pouring out of her. He’d been fucking raping her while she cried. The reality of the situation boiled rage up inside me.

  “Let me go!” he demanded again.

  “Not gonna fuckin’ happen.” I needed to shut him up, so I set him down and wound up. Right hook to the jaw, resulting in a satisfying crunch. Now he was screaming. It sounded much better than her crying. Left hook to the gut, another crunch. Probably a rib. Maybe two. He tried to block me, and I snapped his arm.

  “Ahhh what the fuck, man?”

  I was too far gone to respond. I dropped him and he spun around, giving me the perfect shot at his left kidney. Bam! Bet the motherfucker didn’t expect that. He fell to the ground and I went with him, my vision exploding in red.

  The next thing I knew, men were hauling me off him and trying to contain me. Sirens closed in on us. Lights flashed. I was in handcuffs and being read my rights. They pulled me out front and stuffed me into the backseat of a cruiser. Looking over my shoulder one last time, I saw the girl being loaded into an ambulance. She’d be okay. That made it all worth it.

  I knew the drill, so I kept my mouth shut through all the questions and threats until the boys in blue let me have my one phone call.

  Dialing Link, my club president and closest friend, I rested my forehead against the wall and waited for him to pick up.

  He accepted the collect call, like I knew he would.

  “Havoc? What’s going on?”

  “I’m in jail, brother. I fucked up. But this time, I swear to you, the bastard deserved it.”

  Julia

  Present Day

  MY LITTLE SI
STER, Laura, stood in the doorway of my bathroom, watching me darken my lashes and color my lips. With blonde hair and pale blue eyes, she looked like the female version of our father. But where he was serious and handsome, she was a jovial beauty with an easy smile and carefree nature that made people gravitate toward her. She pulled people in, and I did my best to repel them. As the recipient of Mom’s fiery red hair, intense green eyes, and savage resting bitch face, I couldn’t pull off beautiful or innocent. But strikingly terrifying… I had that shit down.

  And because I was a contouring wizard, I could paint myself into something more approachable when the situation required it. Luckily, few situations did. Brushing my newest purchase—a shade of blush called ‘Party Girl’—on my cheek, I frowned. “Too pink.”

  Laura nodded. “Scoot over and let me try it,” she said, joining me in front of the mirror.

  I passed her the new blush, wiped the pink crap off, and went back to the earthier tone I normally wore. Laura being in my space felt comfortable now, but it hadn’t always been that way between us. In fact, I could pinpoint the exact moment she became more than the annoying baby sister who stole my clothes and makeup and narked to my parents when I ditched her at the mall. It happened about ten years ago in front of a different bathroom mirror.

  I was preparing for my first day of college and Laura was about to head to her high school freshman orientation. She stood at my bathroom doorway watching me work then, too.

  Nervous about being a little fish on a big campus where people didn’t automatically know and fear me and my family, I didn’t have the time or energy to deal with the brat, so I cut her an annoyed look and asked, “Can I help you?”

  Normally so damn bubbly and sweet she gave me a freaking toothache, that day Laura looked somber and subdued. I’d never seen her like that, and it made me uncomfortable. She stepped into the bathroom, nodding. “I… I have a zit.” Turning her head to the side and brushing her hair back, she revealed the bright red blemish taking up the lower quarter of her cheek. “You’re really amazing at makeup. Will you please show me how to hide it?”

  I considered her predicament for a solid ten seconds while my inner bitch reveled in her misery. After all the times she’d stolen my makeup, this felt like karma. And who was I to question karma? But, she was also my little sister, and therefore a reflection on me. I couldn’t let her begin high school sporting such a heinous imperfection. Pointing at the toilet, I said, “Sit.”

  A smile lit up her face as she skittered over to the toilet, sat, and looked up at me expectantly. I opened the top drawer of my bathroom vanity and started pulling out products. As I went to work evening out her skin tone and contouring away the swelling, I gave her a mini tutorial, explaining the purpose and use for each product.

  When I finished, she stood in front of the mirror, sweeping back her hair. “I can’t even see it anymore. That’s… that’s incredible.” She met my gaze in the mirror, her eyes glistening. “Thank you, Julia. You’re like the best sister ever.”

  I wasn’t, but her praise made me feel more warm and fuzzy than I’d ever admit.

  “You’re not as bitchy as everyone says you are.”

  By everyone, she meant our peers. The children of Seattle’s filthy rich and terrifyingly powerful (kind of like the Illuminati, but localized and more devious). They built, and they destroyed. I knew, because I was their star pupil, their protégé, their sword. Laura and our peers had no idea how bitchy I could be. I was learning to pull strings, play friends against each other, manipulate the results. I was learning to play the game, and I fucking loved it.

  But I never let my little sister see that side of me.

  And years later, when karma came knocking at my door, Laura was the one person who warned me to check the peep hole before I opened it.

  I would do anything for my sister.

  “Keep the blush. It looks better on you,” I said, smiling at her in the mirror.

  She grinned, her dimples making her look fourteen again instead of twenty-four as she closed the compact and slipped it into her purse. “It really does. Thanks.”

  But she was still a snarky little brat.

  I straightened and took one last look in the mirror. “Let’s do this.”

  Laura pushed off the counter. “I’m so beyond ready to be pampered. Wedding planning is stressful.”

  Sure. Like Mom would actually allow Laura to plan anything. My sister was just another piece in our parents’ game. And now, with her nuptials less than a week away, we needed to hit the spa so we could look our best for the upcoming festivities. God forbid we attend a bridal shower or a bachelorette party with imperfect nails, faded highlights, or unsightly body hair.

  Some things simply were not done.

  Especially not if you were an Edwards. We’d spent our entire lives conforming to the image of perfection demanded by our family name and status, and although I’d turned out to be a huge disappointment, Laura was still going strong. I didn’t agree with her commitment to the cause, but I supported her and would do what I could to help.

  “Have you decided on a plus-one for the wedding yet?” she asked, her tone light and conversational with a tiny hint of panic.

  I understood her worry, because every time I so much as thought about attending her wedding, my chest would squeeze, my eyes would burn, and I’d break out in cold sweats. Giving myself a much-needed moment to respond, I locked up my condo and slid the keys into my purse.

  “Not yet. Has Wesley RSVP’d?”

  Wesley. There were too many emotions wrapped up in that one name. He’d been my husband, my partner, and now he was dead to me. Too bad he was still very much alive to my family.

  Laura nodded, looking away.

  My stomach sank. “Who’s he bringing?”

  “Jozette.”

  The rage I’d been working so diligently to keep bottled, bubbled to the surface, blurring my vision and making the world sway. Leaning against the wall, I took a couple of deep breaths and counted to ten. Jozette West had been my friend since grade school. We’d co-chaired committees together in high school, she’d been my college roommate, and she’d been one of the six bridesmaids at my wedding. I could crush her. I could make her regret ever betraying me.

  But I was out of the game. I didn’t want to be that person anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Julia.”

  I swallowed back pain and anger, pushing myself off the wall. Hoping Laura would drop the subject and give me a moment to breathe, I led her down the stairs.

  “Michael said Joel doesn’t have a date yet, and he’d love to accompany you.”

  She didn’t know when to give up. Although I understood and appreciated her need to be helpful, my pride wouldn’t allow me to accept a pity date with the friend of my little sister’s fiancé.

  “No.”

  She grabbed my arm and tugged, turning me around to face her. She stood on the step above me, giving herself a rare height advantage. “Joel’s a really nice guy. Nothing at all like Wesley. He’s always had a crush on you. You should give him a chance.”

  “I can’t, Em. He’s part of the circle.”

  She threw her hands in the air. “You talk about us like we’re some kind of cult.”

  Cults weren’t usually as resourceful or dangerous. I didn’t need a date for Laura’s wedding; I needed a shield to hide me from prying eyes and whispering voices, so I could survive the event without going nuclear. He had to be handsome, loyal, fearless, and ferocious, and I was pretty sure men like that had gone extinct.

  “I’ll find a date.”

  Finished with the conversation, I rushed the rest of the way down the stairs and made my way through the small, cramped bookstore I owned and managed named One More Chapter. The smell of books greeted me, calming me down like a drug. I took in a hit through my nose and felt my shoulders relax as I made a mental note of the elderly couple browsing the westerns section.

  “You heading out?” My assistant, Justin
e, asked without looking up from one of the many thick textbooks piled on the counter in front of her. As a first-year pre-med student at Seattle Pacific, her coursework was the stuff of nightmares. She’d come into the bookstore about six months ago, searching for the type of part-time employment that would allow her to collect a paycheck while she studied. I didn’t really need the help, but she was from a middle-class family and needed the money, and I enjoyed the company and freedom her presence allotted.

  “Yep,” Laura said with a smile. “I’ll have her back in time to lock up.”

  “An order should be coming in soon,” I said, dragging my feet. “Some new releases, so check the dates to make sure you can put them out. If you have any questions, you know how to reach me.”

  Still not taking her eyes off her textbook, Justine waved me off. “Go. Have fun. I’ve got this.”

  When I didn’t immediately run out the door, Laura grabbed my hand and dragged me to the double-parked Town Car waiting for us. A gray-haired man wearing a suit sprang from the driver’s seat and hurried around to open the back door for us.

  “Hi Franck,” I said, greeting him as I slid in.

  “Ms. Edwards.” He nodded. “Nice to see you again.”

  Franck was French, since all uppity families should have at least one French employee. A kind widower in his late sixties with an easy smile and a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he mostly drove for my family, but also sometimes filled in for the butler. Although he was loyal to my parents, he practiced discretion, and didn’t tattle unless directly asked. When I was young, he’d patiently retrieved me from several places I shouldn’t have been, and very few of my exploits got back to my parents. I liked to think I added a little excitement to Franck’s otherwise boring job.

  “Will you be heading to the club for your spa day?” he asked.

  Along with the rest of Seattle’s rich and snobby, my family frequented a country club on Bainbridge Island. Despite their world-famous golf course, fantastic spa, and attentive staff, my sister’s wedding would be the one and only time I returned to the club.