Innocent (The Exiled Eight MC Book 3) Read online

  Addison Jane

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Innocent

  The Exiled Eight MC Book Three

  Addison Jane

  Copyright 2022 Addison Jane

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations, or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Disclaimer: The material in this book contains graphic language and sexual content and is intended for mature audiences, ages 18 and older.

  There is content within this book that may set off triggers click here for help.

  Editing by Swish Design & Editing

  Proofreading by Swish Design & Editing

  Book design by Swish Design & Editing

  Cover model by Drew Cullen

  Photography by Reggie Deanching at Rplusmphoto

  Cover design by Natasha Snow

  Cover Image Copyright 2022

  All Rights Reserved

  I escaped a brutal past.

  Created a life I loved.

  But when your fake proposal with your one-night stand ends up plastered all over the internet, suddenly you’re right back where you started.

  Fighting for my life and the future I deserved.

  Only this time, I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

  Drake wasn’t just a tattooed CEO of a billion-dollar company.

  He was protective.

  He was passionate.

  And he was a patched member of The Exiled Eight MC.

  With him behind me, I felt strong enough to face my demons.

  I had blood on my hands.

  For that, they were going to make me pay the price.

  Would that cost be my life?

  From USA Today Bestselling Author Addison Jane comes the third book in the Exciled Eight MC Series.

  To my readers – your support has meant more to me than I could ever put into words.

  New things are coming and I’m so excited for what the future will bring.

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  Connect With Me Online

  About the Author

  CASSIDY

  “Just keep moving,” I murmured to myself, urgently stacking my folded clothes into the purple duffle bag on the worn carpet beside me. “Don’t think. Just keep moving.”

  If I stopped to think about it, the fear would catch up. It would grab me by the throat, pin me down, and play on repeat all those awful memories of the past two years. Over and over until I was too fucking scared to do anything but crawl into a corner and cry.

  As it was, it had already begun to hammer away at my resolve, my hands visibly shaking with each movement and a deep ache beginning to build in my stomach as though someone had a hold of my insides.

  Twisting them, squeezing them.

  I gagged for a second, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.

  I had to fight through it, even though each breath was nauseating.

  I had no choice.

  I couldn’t stop now.

  Time was ticking.

  If Brian walked in right now and caught me trying to leave, there was no doubt in my mind the consequences would be painful—and possibly deadly.

  Though not a soul would believe me.

  And I couldn’t blame them.

  Two years ago, I wouldn’t have believed me either. Meeting Brian felt like a dream come true. He was charming, athletic, intelligent, and the perfect dimples he had in each cheek were the kind that made a girl’s stomach go all swirly when he caught your eye across the room.

  His hands were just a little rough from working in the mechanic garage he and his brother, Emmett, owned together, which I thought told me he was a man who didn’t shy away from hard work. But what I should’ve really seen was a bastard who liked to use his fists.

  With a momentary glance over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of myself in the floor-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom, the muddy rainbow of fading yellow and brown shades peeking out through the space between my sweatpants and my shirt. The spread of colored patterns reminded me of watercolor splashed across my abdomen, the same designs decorating my arms and thighs—the reason why people often looked at me horrified when I walked around in jeans and sweatshirts in the middle of summer.

  Because we’d had a fight.

  Actually, not even a fight.

  Just because he got angry.

  “Just keep moving,” I repeated through tears that dripped down my cheeks, forcing myself to continue to place one item after another inside the bag until it was full. My whole life was in one bag. Two years of our relationship, and that was all I had to show.

  A handful of shirts and pants.

  Underwear.

  Then the couple of pairs of shoes I owned.

  The approved pairs.

  Jesus Christ.

  Pausing for a second, I twisted the final pair of socks in my hands and sucked in a deep breath, filling my lungs and holding it there as I fought to keep my heart from changing into the next gear. That’s where it would beat faster, pushing more and more adrenaline through my veins, making it harder for me to not panic and abandon the plan.

  A plan I’d been working on for more than a month.

  I’d prepared for this.

  For weeks I’d practiced, planned, and saved. I timed how long it took me to pack, how far it was to the bus stop, and which roads to take that he’d never drive just in case, for some reason, he came home. I double and triple-checked the time the bus came so I was there exactly as it arrived and wasn’t waiting around out in the open.

  Lastly, I made sure I had a place to go that was far enough away, where I couldn’t be easily found.

  And I would not stop until I got there.

  I’d let him win this fight too many times already. Every time he beat me, I accepted his apology the next
day. Every time the nurses at the hospital called the police, I told them I’d walked into a door.

  Every damn day I stayed.

  But not this time.

  Not. This. Time.

  God, how those words had fucking haunted me.

  If I behave, maybe this time he won’t hurt me so bad.

  Maybe this time I won’t have to go to the hospital.

  Maybe this time he won’t kill me.

  Or, maybe this time is the time that he will.

  I swiped the stray tears from my cheeks and got to my feet, hauling the now full bag with me out the bedroom door and down the hall to the kitchen. I tossed it on the kitchen counter and took a deep breath, dropping to my knees beside the refrigerator and shoving my hand underneath it. Brian didn’t allow me to have a cell phone or my own money, so it had taken some creative work to get enough information and funds together to finally make my move.

  Dust and grime covered my hand as I pulled out note after note that I’d stashed under there. It came from fake doctor visits where I’d told Brian I was seriously ill, knowing he wouldn’t have time to take me to see anyone. I got one of the nurses, Margret, who’d seen me at my worst, to print me out a receipt and kept the cash—that, plus dollars and change he’d left lying around the house or that I’d collected when he sent me to buy a few groceries and they’d cost less than he thought. Overall, I’d managed to collect around seven hundred dollars.

  It was going to get me out of this small town and on a bus to Boston.

  It was also going to pay part of a security deposit to my new roommate—Margret also let me know of a niece she had down there looking for someone to share her apartment.

  I was getting the hell out of here.

  Today.

  That was the plan.

  The clock on the living room wall behind me ticked loudly. It sounded like a bomb counting down, reminding me that if I didn’t get the hell out of here on time, things could explode right in my face.

  I shoved the money into my duffle before pulling on my shoes and making one last run-through of the mental list in my head.

  Clothes.

  Money.

  Important documents which I intended on ordering new versions of when I arrived.

  Everything was done.

  I grabbed my bag and stepped outside, my stomach instantly stirring, my heart pounding a little harder—the things which would usually have me second-guessing myself and turning back.

  But not this time.

  This was it.

  The defining moment in my life.

  The one where I decided if I was going to let him take it.

  Or if I was finally going to live it.

  DRAKE

  Ten Months Later

  Beer at the clubhouse always tasted better.

  I don’t know what my father put in this shit, but I craved it when I was away from home. Which just lately had been more often than not. I took a sip from my glass and placed it back on the concrete beside me before picking up my spray bottle and coating the wheel of my motorcycle in cleaner.

  “You spend more time cleaning that motorcycle than you do riding it these days,” Ripley teased loudly as he strolled out of the clubhouse and over to the garage where I had my bike set up on a stand.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  I cleaned her before I left to go away for business, and I cleaned her when I got back. If I was lucky, I had time to ride her before I left again. Otherwise, she’d just be pushed back into the garage until I came home.

  There were days now where I felt more comfortable in a car than on a motorcycle I’ve been riding since I was fourteen. A motorcycle that was custom made and painted for me because I wasn’t just a member of The Exiled Eight MC, the club ran in my blood, my great grandfather one of the original eight, the founders.

  There were expectations about the man I was meant to be.

  The role that I’d take.

  And a few years ago, if you’d asked me, I’d have been scared as hell to admit I wasn’t sure I wanted them. I’d spent a long time trying to work out this puzzle that was my life, trying to make the pieces fit to please the club and my family, but it was never going to. Because as it turned out, it wasn’t the passion for club life that I inherited from my family.

  It was my love for the business.

  My grandfather started the club’s building business when he was in his fifties with just him and a few guys from the club fixing leaky roofs and building small extensions for locals, their work known for quality and reliability. When my dad took over as club president, he saw potential.

  A way for the club to make money.

  A way for his men to build skills and workmanship, and have at least one income coming in that was legitimate in case others were shut down.

  I took over a few years back after going to business school and graduating with a minor in architecture. Sure, my dad saw business potential, but I saw a future for the company that was beyond everything people thought we could achieve. It had its ups and downs, but we were now on a path no one could have predicted, and the opportunities were absolutely fucking insane.

  Only with those opportunities came choices that needed to be made.

  “Truth be told, I’m kind of fucking enjoying Boston. Vegas will always be home, but I think I was built for the cold, not the desert,” I answered, grabbing my scrubbing brush and attacking the dust and water spots on the inside of the wheel and spokes. Boston really had become home. The opportunities there are almost endless, not to mention I’d found a group of friends there who reminded me of the brotherhood I missed when I was away from Vegas. “Though I feel like I’m living out of a damn suitcase.”

  “You know there’s a pretty simple fucking solution to that.”

  I paused, looking over my bike to see my father standing beside my brother, who had a smug grin plastered on his face. I dropped the scrubbing brush and got to my feet, collecting my beer as I stood. “What? Is this an intervention or something?” I joked though I wondered how far I was from the truth when the stern look on Dad’s face didn’t change.

  Not that it wasn’t normal.

  My dad was Huntsman, president of the Exiled Eight MC, and well known for being one of the most un-fuck-with-able people in Nevada. An ex-Navy SEAL, he got his nickname from his ability to find anyone. It’s a skill he’s still well-known and sought out for, but these days for different reasons.

  To a lot of people, he’s a guy they would cross the street to avoid, his long beard and constant heavy frown would do that. But to me, he’s the one who taught me everything I knew about loyalty, true family, and fighting for the things and the people you give a shit about.

  “Not an intervention, a conversation,” my dad corrected.

  Probably the conversation I’d spent the past few months trying to avoid like the fucking plague. While I’d settled into my role at the company, it still wasn’t easy thinking about leaving this place I called home permanently.

  I could give all the reasons why.

  How I’d miss my brothers.

  How I wouldn’t be able to support them like I should.

  But when it came down to it, I knew the stirring and uncertainty in my gut about leaving was because I didn’t want to be her.

  My mom.

  “Hey, Drake, are you going to be here for the Silver Ridge Apartment opening?” Zoey called out as she strolled toward us from the clubhouse with a folder in her hands, her timing damn perfect if you asked me. “We’re having a party next Friday night, but Huntsman said you’re heading back to Boston.”

  Zoey wasn’t just my father’s old lady, she was also the company’s interior designer. The woman knew style and sophistication.

  Maybe she’ll sprinkle that fairy dust over my dad one day.

  “Remind me again why we’re having an opening party for that place?” I huffed, fighting a shudder I could feel building at the base of my spine. It had been our last big project, and while it tur
ned out amazing, the process had its bumps I’d rather forget. “I’ll be happy to fucking move on and say goodbye to that project.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” she replied, rolling her eyes dramatically as she stepped up beside my dad, subtly tucking her finger into his pocket. “We sold all the apartments before the completion date, they look damn beautiful, and we already have a waiting list full of people who want to be notified if you start making plans to build another. What’s not to celebrate?”

  Dad turned to look at her with a dark frown. “The part where you almost fucking died?”

  She glared back at him—probably the only person in this clubhouse who could do it without getting a crack around the head. “You make it sound so dramatic,” she protested, shaking her head.

  “Oh cool, apparently getting shot and bleeding out on the concrete slab really wasn’t as bad as we thought it was,” Rip joked, snapping a salute. “Got ya.”

  “Didn’t you die, like twice?” I added, raising my eyebrow.

  Rip pointed over at me while holding Zoey’s narrowed stare. “That’s a good point. Should we really be celebrating our death?”

  Dad said nothing, though a smile was catching at the corner of his mouth. It disappeared the second Zoey turned her attention back to him, though. “Suits and ties will be worn. Friday night. Eight-thirty.” She kissed my dad and turned on her six-inch heels, heading back toward the clubhouse. “I’ll expect you all there!”

  Rip groaned. “Do we really have to wear a suit and tie?”

  “I’ll expect nothing less for the celebration of my death,” she called back over her shoulder, just as I took a drink, which I then spat every-fucking-where, including on my ride which I’d just spent an hour cleaning.

  “You’re marrying that woman,” I pointed out to my dad. He watched her until she was out of sight before he turned back to us. “Are you prepared for that?”

  “Prepared? No,” he admitted without falter. “But when the universe knows, you just fucking go with it.”

  I loved Zoey.

  She had given my dad something I wasn’t sure even he knew he needed. It was like seeing a new life in his eyes. Like before, he’d simply been content with going through the motions, and now he was proof that when you wait and are patient, good fucking things come.