The Fire and the Roar Page 5
She ran off again, her fringe shimmying. But that scent of strawberry remained.
For more of Wreck’s turbulent coming of age story and once in a lifetime love saga with Isi, One-Click The Dust and the Roar. Finally experience the fiery beginning of the One-Eyed Jacks and see how the destinies of Meager and the club were changed forever by Wreck & Isi’s powerful love.
Preview - Fury
Prologue
Finger
I was born, but not raised.
I erupted.
I am the weed that grew in the distance fed by rainwater whenever the skies deigned to yield it, sharpened by brisk winds, hardened and spiked by icy cold. Hued by occasional kindnesses, the heat of the sun’s glare.
No, I was forged the day I met Serena. A blade sharpened, a gun barrel loaded, a fuse lit.
My track was laid over her rocky earth, and it only made my soul darker, my heart denser, my blood fiercer, my purpose raw.
With her I was everything I’d never known before. Not helpless, not exposed. Not powerless.
And even through all these years without her and all that I’ve achieved in the world, I’ve been nothing but an open hand grenade, idling, ready to detonate.
Now, having broken into her house, standing here in her bedroom, selfishly stealing the air she breathes as she sleeps, that idling is over.
Her sleep is fitful. She murmurs words, she scowls and twists the sheets in a fist the same way I do.
I still have the dreams, too, baby.
“Touch me. I need you to—” I’d once pleaded with her in the dark.
In my dreams I plead and I wait for that touch to come, like it once had. But it never does. I strain against the iron, but she’s not there. I’m alone. That dream used to come more frequently, regularly. Each nightmare was a visitation reinforcing my passion for her, my passion to love her, to hate her. Each morning, my resolve would be screwed on tight once more, an unyielding cap on an ancient bottle.
This morning, before the dawn had even broken on this brand new day, that resolve was stronger than ever, but my purpose has changed.
I want her back.
I hope she dreams of me. I hope her dreams are as tangled and snarled as mine. The cut of the blade, the sting of her mouth remain fresh. They’ve inspired me, demented me.
All the jagged pieces of our hearts, be they sharp, be they blunt, red or black or gray, are indiscernible now. Me and her, we’re in pieces, shards, but we aren’t broken. She had given up, let go, and so had I. But standing here, inches away from her, I know deep, deep inside I hadn’t, not ever.
Not essentially.
I run a thumb over her full, soft lips, and they part under my touch. A slight intake of breath passes between them, warming my skin. Beautiful lips that were once mine. Lips that once shared words and thoughts and hopes with me, the good kind. Lips that shared fears and horrors. Lips that offered a violent heaven.
I want to take those lips now, possess them, but I stop myself. I need her to give them to me willingly.
And she will.
My finger grazes the tip of her nose. Her eyes dance under her lids, blinking open.
Blue green glory.
My heart settles in my chest and kicks to life all at once, and I know nothing has changed.
Soul dark,
Heart dense,
Blood fierce,
Purpose raw.
I’m a quiet man, observant, introverted, not given to dramatic declarations. But here I stand, feeling that agony, that swell of emotion that only she invokes in me, all of it wiping away the ugly I’ve been clinging to all this time; the remote wilderness where I dwell.
Those eyes hang on mine, and I see her reflection in all the shards of me. She is at the crux. She is the flame. My fever, my fury.
Let it roar.
* * *
Chapter One
25 years ago
Kid
“Should we keep him or kill him?”
Someone kicked my calves, shoved at my back, and I sprawled on the cold floor. The hood was torn off my head, and I blinked in the bright light. A tall heavy set man stood before me, bulky tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Med, the famed President of the Kansas Smoking Guns, a man I’d heard about almost all my life.
The devil himself.
In the flesh.
“You know where you are?” his deep voice practically growled.
I shook my head, unsure of how to answer. The truth often got me in trouble in the past. Why should now be any different?
Med only sneered, or maybe that was just his way of smiling like Jack Nicholson’s Joker. “What do they call you?”
I pushed up on my arms, but my limbs were still numb from being held down in the van on the endless ride here. “I’m-I’m Kid.”
Laughter fizzed around me like a can of shaken beer going off. “Aww, ain’t that cute?” a voice behind me said.
“Prospect, eh?” Med asked, his eyes wandering over my cut.
“Yeah.”
“Perfect.” That Joker grin deepened, and the blood backed up in my veins.
“They probably won’t give too much of a shit about you.” He raised his chin at someone to my side and my cut was ripped off me. “More fun for us.”
“Hey!” I choked out.
They kicked me and ripped off my boots, socks, jeans. I was naked. Thick metal cuffs were attached to my wrists, my ankles, my neck and linked to heavy chains. My head swam, a cold sweat tracked over my skin, my heart plodded through mud.
“You know why we took you?” Med asked.
“‘Cause it’s the kinda shit you do?” A slap cracked across my face. A silvery haze shadowed my vision.
“It’s because the Flames of Hell think they can do whatever the fuck they want. Time to show your club how pissed off I am at catching them on my territory doing what I’d warned them not to ever do.”
My stomach dropped. Reich, our VP, had found a dealer in southern Kansas who used to be supplied by the Smoking Guns, but the Guns had recently iced him, not paying him what he felt they owed. Reich had stepped in and provided Flames of Hell made-product to find new buyers, new addicts along that guy’s route, a route we’d never had access to before. Money was money, and we wanted more of it, just like everybody else.
My dad, a club old-timer and former officer, had told him it was a bad idea. For decades now, our club constantly fought with the Guns over territory, over trade routes, over women, over you name it. All I heard growing up was “this shit’s gotta stop already!” but it never did. It had become part of our day to day, part of our fun. I didn’t think either club knew how not to shit on the other.
In front of everybody, my dad had told Reich his plan was fucking stupid and careless as all hell. Reich’s response? He chose me to make the delivery with another club member, and it got approved real quick.
I’d gotten the surprise of my life when I opened the door to the dealer’s house and saw him hanging from a hook in his ceiling. Me and Siggy ran straight out, got shot at, chased into the woods. Siggy got shot in the face as he climbed a tree. They’d pinned me down at gunpoint and dragged me here to their clubhouse. I was alive, but not so fucking lucky.
My pulse pounded in my ears, my heart muscle vaulting over never-ending hurdles in my chest.
Med made a hand gesture in the air, and kicks and punches rained down on me. I collapsed and went sailing up in someone’s tight hold. Blows and bashes cracked and smashed over my body, pain exploding through me. My head swung to the side, and I gasped for air, choking on my own saliva and blood.
His pinned eyes on me, Med admired my bloodied pulp. “Ah, welcome to the Smoking Guns, Kid.”
They let go, and I crumpled to the floor. Chained to hooks in a concrete post in the middle of a big room, I strained to keep my sore eyes open as they partied and argued around me. Men and women stared at me, laughing, talking, and I stared back. I was the new attraction at the zoo. The freak at the circu
s, their chained cyclops shuddering in a mangled heap, settling in a pool of his own piss, sweat, and blood.
I pressed back against the post, keeping still. I knew how to do that pretty good. All my life I’d been somebody’s afterthought, a gray part of the landscape, but that had just changed.
Now I was front and center.
I gotta keep it together. Keep it together.
Would they kill me? Ask for some kind of ransom? I was sure my dad and my club were working to bust me out. Working on some sort of plan, working hard. They had to be.
One figure, a slight one, stood motionless just beyond the men. A girl. Long bright red hair, and her eyes...the most mesmerizing eyes I’d ever seen. An odd combination of blue and green, like pictures of the Caribbean Sea that I’d seen in magazines. Was it ‘cause her eyes were so big? I held her serious gaze, and she didn’t look away. Her expression was somber, not teasing, not mocking. I wasn’t entertaining her. My vision was still fuzzy, and I blinked, but she was gone. She was probably a mirage. A mirage of hope and empathy in this crazy Roman fucking orgy in the middle of Buttfuck, Kansas.
I counted the lines in the cracked flooring, but I got lost.
* * *
Read FURY, an epic biker saga spanning two decades with a bite of dark, a lot of nasty, and a hell of a lot of raw love. Finger and Lenore killed to be together. What could keep them apart?
Start listening to FURY on Audiobook
Narrated by Aiden Snow & Noelle Bridges
Books by Cat Porter
- Lock & Key Series -
Lock & Key
Random & Rare
Iron & Bone
Blood & Rust
Lock & Key Christmas
Lock & Key - The Complete Series Boxed Set
Fury
MC Romance Standalone Spinoff
- Legends of Meager Series -
The Dust and the Roar
The Fire and the Roar
The Year of Everything
Dagger in the Sea
Mediterranean Romantic Suspense Adventure
Wolfsgate
Historical Romance
About the Author
Cat Porter was born and raised in New York City, but also spent a few years in Texas and Europe along the way, which made her as wanderlusty as her parents. As an introverted, only child, she had very big, but very secret dreams for herself. She graduated from Vassar College, was a struggling actress, an art gallery girl, special events planner, freelance writer, restaurant hostess, and had all sorts of other crazy jobs all hours of the day and night to help make those dreams come true. She has two children’s books traditionally published under her maiden name.
She now lives on a beach in Porto Rafti, Greece with her husband, three children, and three Cane Corsos, freaks out regularly, still daydreams way too much, and now truly doesn’t give AF. She is addicted to reading, classic films, cafe bars on the beach, Greek islands, photography, Pearl Jam and U2, bourbon she brought home from Nashville and whiskey she brought home from Dublin, and reallllllly good coffee. Writing has always kept her somewhat sane, extremely happy, and a productive member of society.
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