Naiya’s mother had been Viper’s favorite sweet butt—one of many women who hung around the MC, doing chores and servicing the needs of the bikers in exchange for safety and a place to live—and second only in importance to his old lady, the biker equivalent of a wife. Naiya couldn’t see the appeal of a forty-year-old meth addict to a man who could have any woman he wanted, especially when he’d demonstrated a taste for fifteen-year-old girls.
In the end, Naiya’s mother had paid a high price for Viper’s attention: death by overdose in Viper’s bed. At least Grandma Kelly wasn’t alive to see it.
Amen.
Naiya glanced over at the tombstone beside her mother’s grave etched with her grandmother’s details: Marjorie Grace Kelly, wife of Peter Kelly (deceased), mother of Laurie, beloved grandmother of Naiya. She didn’t remember much about Grandma Kelly’s funeral, only that she’d been afraid for the first time in the nine years since she was born. Grandma Kelly had always taken care of her, and after that day, she had no one. Well, almost no one. Her drugged-out junkie sweet butt mother didn’t count.
The priest sprinkled the casket with holy water. She missed Father Doyle who had been a fixture in the church as long as she could remember. He had led the service when her grandfather died and had been very close to Grandma Kelly. If not for Father Doyle, she might have made an even bigger mistake than going to the Black Jack clubhouse on her fifteenth birthday.
In a low, soothing voice, the priest asked again that her mother’s soul rest in peace, and then he made a prayer for mercy.
Mercy.
A sob welled up in Naiya’s throat as she contemplated her last few moments of freedom. Not even Viper would dare step foot onto holy ground, but even if he did, who would stop him? The priest? The cemetery workers standing ready with their shovels? No one else had come for the funeral. Junkies didn’t have many friends.
And neither did she.
After her mother sold Grandma Kelly’s house and blew the money on drugs, they’d been forced to live above a sex shop with a cruel, brutal Black Jack named Abe. Parents didn’t want their children associating with the daughter of a drug addict and bike gang whore, and she’d been ostracized at school. Naiya took refuge in books, her only saving grace her intelligence and her determination to succeed at school so that she could leave the biker life behind.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord.
Damn the Black Jacks. Damn Viper. Damn her own stupidity for coming back to Devil’s Hills. But there was no running from Viper. She knew he’d kept tabs on her in college; she’d heard the Harleys, seen the occasional Black Jack cut. If she tried to run, he would hunt her down. The Black Jacks were one of the most powerful outlaw MCs in the country, and second only to the Sinner’s Tribe MC in the state.
And what kind of daughter wouldn’t bury her mother? Even if her mother had done nothing to save her when Viper decided to give Naiya a birthday present she would never forget.
Happy fifteenth birthday, love. Now lie still and shut the fuck up.
The gate creaked. Heavy footsteps thudded across the grass behind her. Trembles wracked Naiya’s body. The priest intoned the last prayer, and Naiya placed the flowers on her mother’s coffin.
“Good-bye,” she whispered.
And let perpetual light shine upon her.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and Naiya fought back a whimper of fear.
May she rest in peace.
“Amen.”
“No use praying, love,” Viper murmured in her ear. “God’s not gonna save you now.”
*
Sometimes Holt “T-Rex” Savage found pleasure in the pain.
In the furthest recesses of his mind, he could tell good days from bad.
On the bad days, Viper didn’t come to the dungeon. On those days, Holt suffered as his body tried to heal from countless months of torture. He felt every bruise, every cut, every lash, every bone that had broken and not reset. His lungs burned with every breath. His heart ached with every beat. His blood crusted beneath the manacles that held him to the wall.
But worse were the memories that assailed him when he stared at the Sinner’s Tribe cut—the leather vest worn by all outlaw bikers—that Viper had pinned to the cinder block wall with the dagger Holt received when he patched into the Sinner’s Tribe.
His cut. His club.
At least they had been until the Sinners betrayed him.
The Sinner’s Tribe MC—the club he had loved, the bikers he had called brothers, the president he had respected above all men, the man he had called friend—were nothing to him now. He had sacrificed for them, offered himself to Viper to save the life of the Sinners’ VP’s girl, Evie, and in return they left him to suffer and die.
Funny how history repeated itself. Except this time his sacrifice hadn’t landed him in juvenile detention, but in hell.
Yesterday should have been a good day. On the good days, Viper tortured him until his mind went blank, erasing memories, hopes, and dreams, wiping out the pain of betrayal and replacing it with fantasies of revenge.