CHAPTER ONE
GRIM
Babies. I don’t get the fuss. They cry, they smell funny, and they don’t do anything apart from eat, shit, and sleep. I’ve never really been around them, and I don’t intend to stick around now as I grab my jacket and head for the door. “Going somewhere?” Meli gives me a sly smile, and I narrow my eyes. “Because I’m pretty certain Mav said everyone needs to be here tonight.”
“I’m the VP, I’m exempt.” I’m almost out the door.
“Let me just check that with your Pres before you hightail out of here,” she says, smirking as she waves to her brother.
My President, Maverick, heads over with a beer in his hand and a stupid goofy smile on his face. Why do babies make everyone grin like that? “Our first club baby,” he says, holding up his beer, and I arch my brow. He takes in my jacket and bike keys, and he tips his head to one side. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, irritated that Meli’s dropped me in it. She somehow always finds a way to piss me the fuck off.
“I’m thinking there must be a real good reason you’re leaving here tonight when I specifically said we were all staying here to celebrate.”
“Come on, Mav,” I say with a sigh.
“Pres,” he corrects me, and I roll my eyes. It’s our little thing—he insists I call him Pres, but we’ve been mates since we were in the womb, so calling him Pres is weird. “Please tell us where else you have to be that’s more important than welcoming Scar and Gracie’s first child.”
I growl, irritated. “The kid’s a day old. He don’t care.”
“I care. It’s club duties, you gotta stay,” says Mav with a smug smile. Club duties is something he throws at the brothers when he’s giving no option but his way.
“Can I point out again,” I mutter, laying my jacket back on the chair, “that this is your dream, not mine.”
He pats me on the back, laughing. “I got that, but as my VP, your job is to make my dream work. That starts by staying here and celebrating our next generation.”
Slumping down near Hadley, I grab the beer Ghost passes me and glance at Mav’s younger sister. She’s always got her head in a book and it irritates me. “Why don’t you do that shit upstairs?” I snap.
“Don’t get moody at me because Mav pulled rank,” she utters, not bothering to look up from the tatty paperback.
“What are you reading?” asks Ghost, joining me on the couch.
“You wouldn’t know it,” Hadley mumbles. I reach over, snatching the book, and she glares. “What are we, teenagers?”
Ghost takes it from me, scanning his eyes over the pages before laughing. “Shit, Hads, does this stuff come with an age warning?”
“I read it for the romance,” she snaps, her cheeks flushing.
“Like hell you do.” He chuckles, arching a brow. “Is this legal? How the hell does he last this long if she’s so fucking hot?” he asks, reading with interest.
“Read it, you might learn,” says Rosey, joining us.
“Hey, I can last,” argues Ghost. “Just with the shit this guy’s doing, it’s impossible.”
“Maybe that’s why it’s called fiction, because it’s not real,” says Rosey sarcastically. “Women write it down and call it fiction, but what they really wanna call it is dreams that will never come true.”
“Is that why you read it, Hads?” I ask. “You’ll only be disappointed when you actually have sex.”
“Wow,” hisses Rosey, narrowing her eyes in anger.
“I’m just saying, she’s getting the wrong idea about relationships. Bet that book doesn’t tell you how he’ll fuck her friend just as good, maybe her cousin too. He’ll probably tell her how amazing she is right before cheating or breaking her heart.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Hadley says, taking her book back from Ghost. “It’s fantasy, better than real life. Maybe if you read more, you wouldn’t be such a bitter, resentful arsehole.” Everyone around us laughs. I don’t. How the hell does she do that, be so calm and cool when she delivers a blow? I don’t think I’ve ever heard her shout or get mad. The closest she came was when Rosey shot her half-brother, but even then, it was mostly tears.
“Better to be an arsehole and live in the real world,” I snap, “than a fake character in your book of unachievable dreams.”
I wait until the guys begin to disappear. We have a busy day tomorrow helping Arthur Taylor with money collections. The club works alongside the mafia—we help them, they help us, and we all live amongst one another in harmony.
I head out to my bike, throwing my leg over and immediately feeling calm. Something about the road keeps on calling me. I love being here at the club with Mav, but I can’t deny my feet are getting itchy to hit the road again. We spent a few years travelling together until Eagle, Mav’s old man, died and we returned to The Perished Riders. Then, Maverick was voted in as President and he chose me to be his VP. And that’s where our adventure ended . . . or began, if you look at it through Mav’s eyes.
Before I know it, I’m stopping outside Mum’s place. It’s a big house split into small bedsits. The main door is open, cos someone bust the lock weeks ago and the landlord hasn’t fixed it. I guess he doesn’t see the point as someone will just break it again.
Mum’s place is on the ground floor, and when I knock on her door, it swings open. A drunk guy, double my age, staggers out, not noticing me waiting to enter. Stepping inside, I shake my head and sigh. The hall is littered with discarded wrappers and empty beer cans. If I was to dig around, no doubt there’d be used needles too.
To my left is the small kitchenette. It’s basic, with a kettle and toaster. She didn’t bother to get an oven or microwave because she doesn’t eat, and when she does, she gets take-out. Mum is hunched in an old, dirty-looking armchair. Her greasy, matted hair hides her pale face. I crouch down and whisper, “Ma.” A small grunt escapes her. “It’s me, Hudson.”
She raises her head slightly and peeks out through her hair. Her washed-out complexion only highlights the dark circles under her eyes. “Hudson,” she whispers in a croaky voice. I smile, brushing her lank hair from her eyes.
“Hey, Ma. How ya doing?”
“I need—” she mumbles, and I know exactly what she’s going to say.
“Some food and sleep,” I cut in.
“It hurts, baby,” she croaks, starting to rock back and forth. “It hurts.”
Her words haunt me, reminding me of when I was a small child, before Dad came and took me away from this hell. It pains me now that he had to die and she’s still here, living her life like this. Wasting away.
“I can take the pain away, Ma,” I reply, and she almost looks hopeful. “If you come back with me.” It’s an offer I make every week when I come to see her. She looks crushed, and another muffled noise leaves her throat. “I’m not gonna give you money, Ma. I never do.”