His Rival: Royal Bastards MC - Miami FL Page 2

  Her entire face pulled up into an over-stretched smile and she clapped her hands, eyeing the first-course dish that if I had to guess was salmon. It had sprinkles of green stuff, some swirly kind of sauce, and fancy flower garnishes that did not look edible.

  “This is beautiful, Carter,” Mom gushed, and the older man who I assume was the chef dipped his head.

  “Enjoy. Your main will be ready in a few minutes,” he said simply before ushering the help from the room again.

  I glanced over at Bailey whose entire face was pinched into this confused but also disgusted look—probably a reflection of mine.

  “Stop it! The both of you,” Mom hissed under her breath as she armed herself with the tiny fork to the left of her plate and began to eat.

  I caught Bailey’s eye across the table and mouthed the words ‘burgers later?’

  The relief on her face was instant, and she nodded quickly before we took the same fork as Mom and began attempting to eat something so she wouldn’t throw a tantrum. But I was pretty sure we were both already dreaming about all the deep-fried food and soda we could consume while we were out.

  “Now, isn’t this nice,” Mom commented with her plastic smile, then she turned to Bailey. “Tell me about your day at school.”

  Chapter Two

  HATCH

  “Hatch, I swear, man—”

  “You swear?” I snapped, pulling my fist back before driving it through Jerry’s face again. His body slumped in the chair, the only thing keeping him sitting up was the duct tape wrapped around his chest and the back of the seat.

  Hype grabbed a fist full of Jerry’s hair and jerked his head back, so the lying bastard looked up at me, barely though, with one of his eyes swollen shut.

  “I thought… I was helping,” he mumbled before spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. That alone would have earned him a broken nose if it wasn’t that this room inside the clubhouse was made for this shit. We called it the Wet Room because it was completely lined and waterproof, able to be hosed down and doused in chemicals to kill any… bugs… if need be.

  “Look, Hatch, I was trying—”

  My hand shot out, grabbing his face and squeezing, knowing his teeth would be cutting into the inside of his mouth.

  Jerry had been an associate of the club for years since my dad was the president. I didn’t like the squirrelly little motherfucker, but I’d put up with him because he had reliable contacts outside Miami, in the wealthy cities up north and out west. And those contacts in the past had been pretty fucking lucrative.

  Jerry was an investment banker. He helped the rich to get richer, and while he was in their homes and corporations, he was selling product for us, helping us get richer too. At least, he had been until I found out today how badly he’d fucked it all up.

  “You fucked with my product, Jerry,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “You fucked with my fucking product!” I reached for the baggy on the table next to me, shaking it in front of his face.

  “I thought I was helping… sales were dropping off, so I added a little bit of ice to it.”

  My elbow connected next with the side of his temple, the fury in me simply unable to be contained. This motherfucker added methamphetamine to the heroin we were running, and a couple of rich college kids had fucking overdosed on that shit.

  Not only does this mean the cops will be looking into it, sniffing around, wanting details about where this mixed shit came from, but I’m gonna get questions from my fucking buyers wanting to know what the hell is going on, because suddenly, our shit is fucking dirty.

  “The club’s worked for years to get the kind of product in that others can’t. Product that people kill to get their hands on, that they will pay a shitload for because they know it’s good, it’s pure, and it won’t cause problems like this.” I paced back and forth, my heavy shitkickers squeaking against the linoleum floor.

  “What can I do? How can I fix it? Just tell me,” Jerry rambled, his eyes moving from me to Hype, then on to Deep before returning to me. My brothers were here to have my back, well, for the most part. They were also here to make sure I considered the moves I was making before I made them.

  I was known for my calm head.

  It was one of the reasons I made a fucking good president.

  I thought shit through.

  I weighed shit up.

  I made sure I was making decisions that were best for my club.

  But I swear when I heard that Jerry had done this bullshit, fury caught me. I rode out of here with my gun, ready to put a bullet in the bastard and take him out on one of the club’s famous fishing trips to feed the sharks.

  Jerry was a dead man.

  But when we picked him up, Jerry also happened to have a large amount of money to hand over for the sales he’d made. And it was a quick reminder of just the kind of income the slimy bastard made us. So we piled him in the van—alive.

  While Deep was purely amused, I could feel Hype watching me out of the corner of his eye.

  These were my men.

  Whatever decisions I made, they would have my back, and they wouldn’t question them for a fucking second. But it was also my job to make the right decisions, and while I was this itchy to pull the trigger, I knew that I needed to step back to consult my men on this one.

  I nodded to the door, drawing Hype and Deep outside.

  “What’s going on?” Hype questioned with his eyebrow raised.

  I ground my teeth together for a second before I answered, “The second this shit gets out, not only are we going to be dealing with cops, I’m going to have to answer to every bastard who buys this shit. I gotta do something about Jerry fucking our shit up…” I trailed off, unsure what to do next.

  “So do something about Jerry,” Deep answered like it was obvious.

  Hype scoffed and shook his head. “That bastard handed over three hundred thousand in last month’s takings, and that’s after the cut he takes.”

  I swept my fingers through my hair, pulling it away from my face. “Call everyone in for church,” I ordered. “I’m gonna take a ride to clear my head, then everyone can have their say.”

  Hype grabbed my shoulder before I turned to walk away, holding me there for a second as Deep headed off to round up the boys. “You don’t have to hold this shit on your shoulders. Fuck Jerry, we can find another one of him.”

  Hype had been my best friend since we were kids. The bastard knew what I was thinking sometimes before I thought it. He knew if I didn’t make an example out of Jerry, it would make me look fucking weak. But I had to weigh up whether I took that on my shoulders so we could continue to make income for the club or risk one large income stream simply because my ego is too big, and I don’t want to look like a man who can’t handle his shit.

  I could fucking handle my shit.

  I’d been leading this club for years, building businesses, making exceedingly high profits, and taking down any motherfucker who tried to step in the way.

  My club came first.

  Always.

  No matter who or what the hell I had to go through.

  “Get the club together,” I told him again with a nod. “I’ll be back.”

  I stomped out through the clubhouse, not even pausing, then threw my leg over my ride and started her up, kicking the stand out at the same time I hit the throttle, throwing gravel up at the clubhouse behind me. A move that would earn any other bastard my fist in their face if they tried it on.

  Riding cleared my head.

  It was home.

  My earliest memories were of motorcycles—riding with my granddad, fixing bikes with my dad, learning everything I could from members of the club around me, each one with something different to share. Nothing grounded me more than when my wheels were touching the asphalt, so when I felt like I was too deep in my head, this is what brought me back to where I was meant to be.

  I was barely a few blocks from the clubhouse when I caught the flashing lights in my mirror. The whirl of sirens came a second later, but I’d already begun to pull to the side of the street.

  This was a regular occurrence.

  You could guarantee that probably seven times out of ten when we left the clubhouse on our bikes, we could expect to be pulled over. Sometimes the cops would flick you a ticket for something fucking stupid like an incorrect lane change or following the guy in front of you too close and be done with it. At other times, it was full searches and checking every bastard’s ID, record, warrants, and what they ate for fucking dinner.

  “Hatch,” Officer Kendell greeted as he, and what I assumed was his latest recruit, walked toward me.

  I kicked out the stand and climbed off, instantly reaching for my hair and pulling it back. “You guys finding your cops at the preschool nowadays?” I questioned, folding my arms across my chest.

  The little bastard pulled his baton from his waistband and pressed it into my stomach. “Step back from the motorcycle, please, sir,” he ordered, surprisingly without his fucking voice cracking. Kid looked like he’d barely broken through puberty. I held my ground for a second, staring the little shitbag down before I finally inched back a little, daring him to try again. “Are you under the influence of any substances today, sir?”

  “No,” I answered through gritted teeth.

  “You got anything on you or on your ride that you shouldn’t be in possession of, sir?”

  I knew he was asking if I was carrying any drugs, and while I was about to answer no again, my mind suddenly went to the handgun I’d placed in my saddlebags earlier when I had plans to put a bullet through Jerry’s head.

  A gun I wasn’t meant to be in possession of because it violates the rules of my fucking probation.

  A gun that was about to send me back to fucking prison.

  “No,” I answered again, though the kid was already pulling on his gloves.

  “Well, I’m going to say I think you might have something illegal on you,” the little bastard announced. “So I guess we are about to find out.”

  So not only was Jerry responsible for possibly losing me a shit-ton of business, he was now responsible for getting me fucking arrested.

  “This yours?” the kid asked, holding my gun up between his fingers and looking back over his shoulder to Officer Kendell, who instantly knew I wasn’t meant to be carrying.

  “No comment,” I growled back.

  Jerry was officially a dead man.

  “You have the right to remain silent…”

  Fuck.

  Chapter Three

  EMMY

  My phone buzzed as I pulled into the staff parking lot at Waterton Correctional Facility.

  This place could look intimidating as hell with its tall fences, barbed wire, and armed guards, but it had never really scared me. Maybe it was because it was a minimum-security facility, and the inmates here didn’t often have the more serious types of offenses. Or maybe it was because I’d spent a lot of time visiting a place just like this when I was little.

  I wasn’t naïve.

  I knew exactly the kind of people who could be here.

  You couldn’t help but find some bad people inside these walls, but I also knew that there were also a lot of opportunities to turn the bad into something a hell of a lot better. And it was all because of the person who was currently lighting up my phone.

  I threw my car into park and swiped the call button to answer. “Hey, Dad,” I stated with a smile, gathering my backpack and throwing it over my shoulder as I climbed out of the car.

  “Hey, Emmy girl,” he greeted, his voice so gentle and warm. “Heading into work?”

  “Yup,” I chirped, pausing to look at the large building. “Had a class graduate last week so there’s a new one starting today. I love seeing them released out into the world, but there’s also something fun about meeting a new group of men who will probably underestimate me.”

  My dad’s laughter made me smile.

  He knew that’s exactly what would happen.

  It’d been that way my entire life—people assuming they knew everything about the girl whose dad was a murderer and whose mom was a gold digger.

  I didn’t really care, to be honest.

  What my dad did for me that day changed my life, and I will never not be grateful for that, for him, and for how my life turned out. It was also one of the reasons why I’d called about the job here the moment I saw it advertised.

  The re-entry program I ran here gave people second chances at life. It gave them opportunities to start again, to move on from their pasts and create something new.

  My dad did the program at the end of a ten-year sentence. A sentence he got because he was protecting me. The time could have been longer, but the judge understood the self-defense aspect that his lawyers pleaded—that there is a right to use force when protecting yourself or someone else.

  Even then, killing someone wasn’t something you just walked away from.

  It’s something you had to pay for.

  Something you had to live with.

  The re-entry course for him was like being given a second chance. He was given the skills to take his life back. And he did.

  A few months after he got out, he started up a business mowing lawns. Almost five years later, and it’s grown into landscaping and lawns, and he had contracts with the county to do parks and roadsides. He was living proof that these men could do great things when given a chance, and that we shouldn’t always judge a person on their circumstances.

  My mom had wealth, connections, and the world at her fingertips, but that didn’t make her any better than my dad. In fact, in a lot of ways, it made her worse. She was greedy, manipulative, and was willing to throw anyone under the bus to get ahead.

  Even though I lived with my mom, it was Dad who kept me grounded.

  It was him who stepped up.

  Him that sacrificed it all.

  I got to live my life because of him, so because of that I was here helping these men get their second chances too.

  “Well, kiddo, you go in there and let them know how you run things,” Dad encouraged. “Dammit! I’ve gotta get back, the customer’s dog just shit right in the center of the lawn I just mowed. Damn you, Fido…” There was a short pause and the sounds of rustling. “Shit, sorry, Emmy, I’ve gotta go. Have a great day.”

  If you are the owner of the business and you are still willing to do the dirty work instead of delegating it to someone else, that’s something to be admired.

  It took around twenty minutes for me to get through all the checks I needed before walking into the classroom. This place might have been minimum security, but there were still plenty of hoops that needed jumping to protect the people who worked at the facility and the inmates.

  I pushed through the classroom door, thankful that the booklets I needed were already stacked and waiting, but that was about as exciting as things got. The walls were bare, except for the barred windows that ran along one side. I had a large table at the front of the room, and there were smaller desks in rows in front of me.

  Everything appeared like a typical classroom, but the desks were bolted to the floor, and the chairs only scooted so far out before the chain attaching them to the table was pulled tight. It didn’t used to be like that. However, just before I started, a couple of the guys in the class got a little too argumentative and began using the chairs as weapons. It got quite bloody from what I was told. So the privilege of having chairs that pulled more than two feet away from the desk was removed.

  Pens and pencils also had to be returned and counted at the end of the class before anyone could leave.

  “Miss Dalton.”

  I fought a shiver at the sound of his voice.

  Mark Foster.

  He was a guard, his focus was firmly on working his way up through the ranks. I was pretty sure it wasn’t his job to be overseeing this part of the prison program, but he insisted on coming to my class to deliver the inmates as often as possible. He walked over to my desk as the men filed in, occasionally reaching over to give one a shove when they paused to look around a little too long just because they were curious.

  That was Foster, though, looking for any excuse to make people look and feel smaller than him.

  I’d felt bad vibes from him the moment I started working here. If he wasn’t trying to flirt with me, horribly, he was trying to get close to me, to touch me somehow, and would not stop asking me on dates.

  So a few weeks ago, I finally gave in.

  And it only made things worse.

  “Thank you so much for dinner, Foster.” I had my eye on the door to the house I’d just started sharing with a new roommate—Dawn. “I’ll probably see you at work on Monday?”

  His brow instantly pulled together into a heavy frown. “I mean, sure, but I’d rather take a little more time with you now, so I don’t have to wait that long. I’ll come in, hang ou—”

  “Actually…” I started, shuffling a little to the side, trying to keep the distance between us but simply wanting to get around him to the door so I could get inside, “… my roommate is getting over a breakup, and I told her I wouldn’t bring any guys home while she’s grieving.”

  He looked back over his shoulder to the tiny two-bedroom house and scrunched up his nose like he could smell something rotten. “The stripper?”

  I’d been working at Waterton for a few months and managed to dodge all his previous invites. This one, though, it was the result of me needing some extra resources. He said he’d get them if I went out with him.

  Dinner was… well, let’s just say… the man liked to talk a lot about himself.

  A lot.

  Like every word that left his mouth.

  A shudder shot up my spine as I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m just going to call it a night.”

  “Emeline!” He laughed, reaching for my hand. I tried to keep it from him, but he grabbed hold and tugged me toward him. “Come on, the night is young.”

  I couldn’t stop the momentum, his hard pull on my hand sending me stumbling into his chest. His arms came around my waist, and he dipped his head to kiss me. I wasn’t sure if he thought that was what I wanted, or if he was some kind of opportunist and was going to take it anyway, but just as his lips brushed mine, I slammed my palms hard against his chest and tried to force us apart.