Wreaking Havoc (Dead Presidents MC Book 2) Page 3

  Wasp was a good man, here to help other good men.

  But he was also a smartass who liked to get under Link’s skin. Despite that fact—or maybe even because of it—the three of us were closer than most real brothers. No doubt Link had also shared his news with Wasp. Hell, half the club probably already knew by now. The announcement was merely a formality at this point.

  “I’m getting there. Have some goddamn patience,” Link growled, looking over the room as he waited for anyone else to speak up with new business. When nobody did, he announced, “I asked Emily to marry me.”

  The room filled with hoots, hollering, and congratulations. When the ruckus died down, Wasp hit the table to get Link’s attention and said, “Aww man, she was about to leave your sorry ass for me.”

  “Not fuckin’ likely. I already told you, stay the hell away from my woman. Goddamn pretty boy can’t even find his own woman,” Link grumbled.

  “That hot little number agreed to marry your ugly ass?” Tank asked. Tank had been a tank driver back in the day… as in way back in the day. He was one of the founders who’d helped Link’s dad form the Dead Presidents, making him one of Link’s many honorary uncles.

  Link flipped him off, grinning. “Yep. The day you drugged Amy and forced that ring on her finger I realized there’s hope for every sorry motherfucker out there.”

  The room filled with laughter as Tank nodded, conceding the point.

  Jake, Link’s father and the original club president, stood, waving a beer in the air. “I move that we wrap this shit up, so we can get to celebrating. My boy’s getting married to a good woman who makes him happy, brothers. I couldn’t be prouder. Now, maybe I’ll get some damn grandkids before I die.”

  Loud cheers of agreement erupted, kicking off what promised to be a good time. One by one the men came up to congratulate Link. I stood back and watched as my friend shook hands and took an endless supply of shit from the rag-tag group of men he called family.

  “Can’t believe he’s really doing it,” Wasp said, sidling up to me. “They’ve known each other for, what? Three months?” He shook his head. “He’s a braver man than me.”

  Link wasn’t scared of anything. Not even marriage. “No balls, no babies,” I agreed.

  Wasp stared at me for a second before clapping my back, throwing back his head, and laughing. “No balls, no babies, indeed. Havoc, you are one quiet motherfucker, but sometimes when you say shit, you sound like a goddamn biker Yoda. Come on. Let’s go find Emily and see how many hugs we can steal from her before Link kicks our asses.”

  Watching Link and Wasp throw down was always amusing, so I followed Wasp out of the meeting room and into the common area where the women were waiting for us.

  “Jesus,” Wasp swore.

  My gaze followed his until it landed on the crowd surrounding the old fire pole in the center of the room. Jayson, Emily’s flamboyant assistant, was dressed in a flowing button-down teal shirt and black leather pants so tight I could see his religion, gyrating his hips against the pole as his hands stroked it reverently, like it was a giant cock. A circle consisting of old ladies and club whores surrounded him, watching with wide-eyed fascination and what looked a hell of a lot like curiosity. One woman even had a note pad and pen, and appeared to be taking notes.

  The club whores wore close to nothing while the old ladies dressed a little more conservatively. Emily and her grandmother, Annabell, were part of the circle, but they stood out like a couple of Ducatis in a room full of Harleys. Even dressed down, they looked classier and more refined.

  “Never a dull moment around that one,” Wasp said with a chuckle, nodding in Jayson’s direction.

  Emily saw us and excused herself to wander over and give us each a hug. “How’s the gardening coming along?” she asked, releasing me to accept another of Wasp’s hugs, which the bastard held onto a little too long to be brotherly.

  “Dead,” Stocks piped in, joining us. “It’s like a tomb where perfectly good flowers go to die.”

  “Really?” Emily asked. “What happened?”

  I shrugged. “Watered them. They get sunlight. Even got them some of those plant food sticks. Seems like the more I do for them, the faster they die. Any suggestions?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Plants never live long around me. I usually forget about them until they’re almost dead, then water them enough to temporarily bring them back to life. Yours at least get a tomb. My plants live in eternal purgatory. Maybe you should buy a gardening book or something? There’s a little bookstore a couple blocks down on Eighth Avenue. I bet they have something that could help you.”

  “Or you could just give up,” Wasp suggested. “You’re more fun when you’re beatin’ the shit out of people. I don’t think I like this anger-controlled pussy version of Havoc.”

  I gave him a little love tap, shoving him into the side of a pool table, reminding him that this ‘anger-controlled pussy version’ could still rearrange his face.

  “Rude motherfucker,” he said, laughing as he righted himself and rejoined us. “Here comes Link.” Wasp snakes his arm across Emily’s shoulders. “We gotta show him our love and make him jealous so he steps up his game. Can’t have the prez goin’ limp on you.”

  Emily elbowed Wasp in the side. “Trust me, that is not a problem Link has to worry about. Quit messing with my man, Wasp, or I’ll pull out my taser and see how many volts you can take before you apologize.”

  Rubbing his jaw, he looked her over before asking, “Can I cop a feel while I’m flailing? Because that would be worth it.”

  “You’re impossible,” she said, giving him one more elbow before joining Link.

  “She wants me,” Wasp said, watching her walk away.

  If I thought for a moment he was serious, I’d kick his ass good for him, but I knew better. Despite his clowning, Wasp would do anything for Link. We all would. Tank’s old lady offered me a beer, and I accepted, leaning against a pillar to watch Link wrap an arm around Emily. Jayson held up a glass of something pink and bubbly, making a toast that ended in, “Let’s party, bitches,” which made everyone cheer.

  This was our little slice of heaven, and I felt content to bask in my friend’s happiness, while wondering what it would be like to have someone look at me the way Emily looked at Link. I’d never had that in my life, never even wanted it. Before I could give much thought to my sudden curiosity, Eagle held up a dart and asked if I was up for a game.

  Julia

  SUNDAY MORNING, THE incessant buzzing of my alarm shot bolts of pain through my pounding head and reminded me that I needed to get up and get my ass to work. Groaning and cursing last night’s bad decisions, I turned off my alarm and cradled my head in my hand as I took in my surroundings. My apartment. I was alone, still in my clothes, and sprawled across my bed with my phone in hand.

  Crap.

  Praying I hadn’t done anything stupid like drunk texting, I bolted to a seated position—wincing against the sharp pain brought on by the change of elevation—and checked my outgoing texts. Nothing. Sighing in relief, I opened my phone’s windows to see exactly what I had been up to. Wesley’s Instagram page popped up.

  Like a loser, I’d been stalking my ex-husband’s pictures. Awesome. And now I was curious, so I glanced through them. Lots of pictures with different women hanging all over him like he was some sort of rock star. Stupid poser. Not even worth stalking. At least I hadn’t texted him.

  Bullet dodged, I massaged my temples and tried to remember what else I’d done last night. Fragmented scenes from a club on Pike Street flashed through my memory. Loud music, packed dance floor, fru-fru drink in hand. Determined to let loose and enjoy Laura's bachelorette party, I’d invented my own personal drinking game. Every time one of Laura’s friends asked about Wesley, why they hadn't seen me at the country club, or who my date for the wedding would be, I excused myself to order another drink. I don't know how many times I visited the bar before the bar tender cut me off, but judging
by my headache… too many. Enough to have no memory of getting home. Needing to make sure I hadn’t made a complete ass of myself, I called Laura.

  She answered with a sleepy, “Hello,” followed by, “You're alive?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am,” she admitted. “After the Jell-O shots, I fully expected you to be sleeping off one hell of a hangover. How do you feel?”

  Like someone with no memory of Jell-O shots. Hopefully I hadn’t taken them off someone. “Like death, but I must endure. I have a store to run, after all. Never underestimate the fortitude of the small business owner.”

  “Of course not, sis. Just be sure our fortuitous business owner is at the bridal shower by three.”

  Laura had a habit of using words incorrectly. It was one of her more endearing qualities. “You know fortitude and fortuitous don’t mean the same thing, right?”

  “Whatever. Just be proud of me for using a big word and be sure to look gorgeous by the shower. Not too gorgeous, of course, since I’ll want everyone’s eyes on me, but gorgeous enough that I can call you my sister without hanging my head in embarrassment.”

  “Of course, your highness.” Purpose renewed, I headed for the bathroom cabinet to grab something for my headache. My image in the mirror was terrifying. Crazy bedhead, puffy eyes, makeup smudged everywhere, I looked more suited for a horror flick than a bridal shower. I needed to pull myself together and look presentable before I had to face my mom, Wesley’s mom, and the rest of the fake bitches of Seattle’s top one-percenters.

  I was going to need more alcohol to get through the day.

  “How early is too early to drink?” I asked before popping some ibuprofen into my mouth and heading for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. “I mean mimosas and bloody marys are technically breakfast food so is there really a designated start time?”

  Laura giggled. “I think you should stay away from alcohol for a while. Give your liver a chance to flush out all the crap you flooded it with last night. By the way, how’d it go with the guy you took home? Did you get lucky?”

  I froze and recounted my steps. Had there been a guy? No one was in my bed. Had he left early? Or was there still a random stranger passed out somewhere in my apartment? I’d never had a one-night stand, but lately the combination of loneliness and romance novels had made me mighty horny. Throw alcohol into the mix and who knew what I was capable of? “What guy?”

  “I can’t remember his name. Rob? Ron? Rich? You seriously don’t remember him?”

  Leaning against the wall for support, I eyed the door to my spare bedroom and asked, “You let me take a guy home?” My voice had crept up three octaves.

  “I tried to stop you, but you started talking about women’s rights and how it was your choice to hoochify, so I let you do you.”

  My body wasn’t sore like I’d had sex, but the alcohol could still be dulling the pain. Then again, I hadn’t had sex in so long maybe it had changed? Maybe it no longer caused soreness and heartache? “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  She laughed again. “So totally kidding. You danced a lot, but always by yourself. Whenever anyone got too close, you ignored them and walked away.”

  “Great. Even while wasted I’m a bitch.”

  “Not bitchy, cautious. No one can blame you after… well, after.”

  I snorted and pushed away from the wall. My legs were still a bit wobbly, but Laura’s bluff had shocked my system awake. “I can’t believe you scared me like that.”

  “Shouldn’t have drank so much. Although, it was fun to see you relaxed and enjoying yourself for once.”

  Her voice was packed with more emotion than I was prepared to deal with. Stepping into the kitchen, I set the coffee pot to brew and then headed back toward the bathroom. “I hate to cut this call short, but I gotta get ready for work.”

  “And I have a date with a makeup artist and last-minute changes to discuss with the photographer. I’ll see you at the shower.”

  Inwardly groaning at the reminder, I said goodbye, set my phone on the bathroom counter, and turned on the shower. After I was clean and dressed, I filled up my giant coffee mug and headed downstairs. Then, since coffee is life, I set the downstairs pot to brew and opened up the shop.

  My shop.

  I’d fallen in love with One More Chapter, the little downtown bookstore when I was still married. Desperate to revive some sort of physical relationship with my mostly absent husband, I’d turned to romance novels for ideas. But, since Wesley was too busy dipping his stick into everyone else’s honey pot, my research didn’t do shit to spice up our love life. However, I did manage to rekindle my love for reading. While his workdays lengthened (or he got comfortable spending more time with the sluts he was screwing), I dove deeper into romantic fantasies about alpha-males who worshiped their women and took care of all their sexual needs, wondering how much spinach or protein drinks or beer or whatever I’d have to feed Wesley before he became one.

  Since I preferred paperbacks to eBooks, the search for book three in a particularly spicy series led me to One More Chapter. Here, nobody knew me. The sweet, elderly owner greeted me and led me to the romance section like I was anybody else. Behind the safety of the barred windows, walking between packed shelves of books, reading in comfy, overstuffed chairs, I didn’t have to plot or plan or pit or control.

  Here, I could breathe.

  But all good things must come to an end, and my little sanctuary was no exception. The sweet, elderly owner decided it was time to retire shortly after Wesley and I had called it quits. I couldn’t allow some greedy investor to liquidate the bookstore and turn the space into another hipster coffee joint or cannabis shop. Not when I had the means to save it. So, I swooped in and took over the building lease, bought the business, rented the apartment above it, and began expanding my vast literature empire.

  Sure, the business lost money every month, but the good investments I made from my trust fund could carry the loss. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past three years, it’s that peace and love are worth far more than any amount of money. This place was my peace and my love now, and I’d give every last penny I owned to keep it alive. Just breathing in the book smells and walking down the crowded aisles soothed my raging migraine. I perched on the stool behind the counter, found my place in my latest romance story, and drifted off into the kind of fantasy land only a good book could provide.

  About a half hour, three chapters, and two cups of coffee later, the bell above the front door chimed. Pleasantly surprised, I set my book down and looked up, preparing to greet my first customer of the day. At the sight of who had come in, the greeting froze on my lips. Standing close to six-and-a-half feet tall and wearing the same inviting smirk that seemed to grace all his pictures, Marcus “Havoc” Wilson filled the doorway. And I mean, he filled the doorway. Everything about him was big, muscular, and imposing, blocking out the sunlight and dampening the sounds of the city.

  After the hours I’d spent scanning the web for juicy details on the Kinlan scandal, I’d recognize him anywhere. I just never expected to see him in person. Wearing faded blue jeans, dirty work boots, and a leather biker vest over a tight black T-shirt, he was one hundred percent, grade A, pure male, exuding sex and power like rays of sunshine penetrating my cold, dead love life. His testosterone levels had to be off the charts. I was tempted to close my eyes and bask in his manliness, but instead drank in his appearance once again, pausing to appreciate how large his hands and feet were.

  No doubt this man was huge everywhere. The thought stirred something to life inside me and heated up my entire store.

  “Mornin’,” he said, closing the door behind him. Such a deep, sexy voice. Deep and sexy enough to send vibrations straight to my lady parts. If that sound was coming through a speaker, I’d be tempted to sit on said speaker and work some stuff out.

  I needed to get a grip.

  Actually, I needed to get laid. And to stop reading romance nove
ls. And to stop drinking. What if he wasn’t real, but just some figment of my imagination spawned from loneliness, desperation, and booze?

  “You’re open, right?” he asked.

  He sure sounded real

  “The sign says you’re open. I can come back later if you’re not.” He reached for the doorknob.

  The idea of him leaving spurred me to action, freeing me from whatever spell his unexpected presence put me under. I stepped forward, ready to tackle him if he tried to escape. “Sorry. Yes. I’m open.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  Unintentional sexual innuendo for the win. Heat flooded my cheeks. “The store’s open, I mean. You’re… you’re Marcus Wilson, aren’t you?”

  His eyebrow dropped, and his expression darkened. “Havoc. Please. Do I know you?”

  “Did Laura put you up to this?” Had my sister really contacted him and sent him my direction? I’d kill her. Or I’d hug her. I was so confused I didn’t know what I’d do.

  “Laura?” He tilted his head to the side staring at me like I was a puzzle. Either he was an excellent actor, or he had no clue who I was talking about. Carefully watching me, he shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know any Laura. I’m just here looking for a book.”

  Could it be true? Had the universe brought him to my doorstep out of mere coincidence? If so, I’d just made a complete fool of myself. “Right. A book. I can help you with that.” Scooting down the counter to my computer, I pretended we hadn’t just shared an award-winning awkward moment and got down to business. “Do you know the title, author, or genre?”

  He stared at me, no doubt trying to determine my level of sanity and possibly marveling at my recovery skills before answering, “Something about keeping flowers alive.”