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“You were hired to threaten and stalk—but you weren’t going to hurt anyone?” Patriot inquired incredulously, uncrossing his arms to stride forward and grab the man’s throat. “You may not have hurt anyone, but I saw the goodies in your trunk, Roger, I know you intended to hurt someone alright, and now I want to know who exactly you were sent after.” Patriot asked the question, but he didn’t need to hear the answer, because he already knew the answer.
“That fat bitch, C-Cilla,” Roger croaked, barely able to get his words past the grip Patriot had on his throat. He tightened his fingers until he could feel the blood flow slow to a crawl in Roger’s artery.
Roger’s eyes bugged out of his head, his lips turning purple, the veins in his forehead popping out like Twizzlers under his flushed, sweaty skin.
“You mean my woman, Cilla,” Patriot growled, feeling the rush of rage and the need to avenge pulsing through him. It would be so easy to just keep his hand there around his throat; to feel the life sap from Roger’s body…but he wasn’t that kind of man anymore; the kind who killed mercilessly. Roger would die, but it would be painless and quick. However…until then, he’d hurt.
In an instant, Patriot’s whole life changed. With a single smile in his direction that first night they met, Cilla had changed him, scorching away the demons from the dark that had sucked at his flesh for so long, and leaving behind fresh wounds that would eventually heal. She would heal him. After years of wallowing in his freakish misery, tainted by his guilt and regrets and self-hatred, he wanted to be free. He wanted to be unchained from his past, and chained to his new affliction, one that would infuse his blood with something other than the ichor of his sins…he would be filled with hope.
Cilla was his hope for a better life, one he didn’t deserve but would selfishly pursue. She was his life, his breath, his very reason for waking in the morning.
And he almost lost her. Because of a greedy, jealous bitch.
After he took Jaime’s drunk ass home and heard her drunken confession, he’d realized the truth that had been staring him in the face all along. The truth he kept denying because he wanted to believe that Stallion’s sister wasn’t like that.
But the truth was there was no stalker. No real danger to Jaime or the club.
It had all been fabricated with the help of one Roger Adams. White, skinny, pot belly, greasy brown hair, all of five foot eight on a good day. Apparently, he’d worked as a detailer at the same Mercedes dealership as Jaime, but he was fired five months ago for stealing from people’s cars while he was supposed to be cleaning them. Change, cell phones, dry cleaning—the fuck even stole the spare tire out of one of the cars, thinking he could sell it for big money. Once Patriot had gotten the name Roger from Jaime’s ramblings, his first call was to Red, who cross checked the name with anyone in Jaime’s periphery. It didn’t take him long to find Roger, whose physical outline and sense of style matched the guy in the doorbell camera footage who put that threatening note on Jaime’s door. That same note that made Patriot come running—because Jaime had been “terrified.” Patriot was man enough to admit that she’d fooled him, she was one fuck of a good actress, playing like she’d actually been in fear for her life, when in actuality, she’d been playing him—and his club—since that first night when she’d summoned him into his own room at the clubhouse to spout her “I need you to play my boyfriend” bullshit.
And it had nearly worked, too.
Jaime had hired Roger Adams to make it look like she was in danger. Why? So Patriot would come and save her. So he would drop everything and run to her—like some goddamn guard dog for his master. While he hadn’t confronted her about anything yet, he already knew what her intentions were; there was no other explanation. She’d intended to use their shared past, Patriot’s guilt over breaking Stallion’s trust, and Patriot’s own “hero complex” to get him right where she wanted him. She expected him to ride to the rescue, wrap his arms around her, and keep her safe—and in the meantime, Jaime would attempt to seduce him into turning protection detail into sliding his property kutte onto her back.
Where the fuck she got an idea like that, he had no goddamn idea. And it might have worked—if he’d actually wanted Jaime in the first place, or if Cilla hadn’t stolen his heart on sight seven months ago. Jaime’s plan was fucked from the start, but because of her arrogance and ignorance of his involvement and feelings for Cilla, she just assumed things would fall into place.
It wasn’t until Roger, the fuck, had spied Patriot coming out of Cilla’s place, and then reported that to Jaime that Jaime realized there was as obstacle in her path to his patch.
Cilla.
And so she set out to get rid of Cilla. Thank fucking God that Patriot and Horde had gotten to Roger before Roger could but the shit in his trunk to use.
Zip ties—that Horde had happily used on the fuck himself, duct tape, a box cutter, black rubber gloves, trash bags, and a fucking shovel. It was like straight out of some fucking serial killer guidebook inventory list. And he’d planned to use those on Cilla.
My Cilla.
Red hot, blistering anger blazed through his blood, boiling away restraint and searing away the last threads of his humanity.
He was going to make everyone fucking pay—Roger, Jaime, and those club sluts. The club bitches hadn’t helped Jaime with her scheme, but their penchant for spreading lies, hurtling insults at good women, and just being untrustworthy skanks was enough to warrant his wrath.
Patriot was cleaning house.
Starting with Roger.
Leaning in until his nose practically touched Roger’s, Patriot snarled, “You were going to kidnap, torture, and kill my woman, motherfucker. And so you’ll pay for that.”
Beside him, Horde stood, his large body tense, his hands fisted at his sides. He looked ready to beat the shit out of Roger, because Horde wasn’t just Patriot’s brother, he was also the old man of Cilla’s best friend. He knew that if anything happened to Cilla, Stephie would break.
Pushing himself to standing, Patriot stretched his neck and shoulders, feeling the tension roiling beneath his skin.
It had been too long since he’d seen Cilla, touched her, scented her, fucking talked to her. After the shitshow that was the night at Cool Hands, he’d been busy putting his plans in place. Plans that would ultimately lead to finally having Cilla at his side, his property kutte on her back, his last name behind hers, and his baby in her belly.
He was so fucking close to having everything he ever wanted, he could taste bliss on his tongue. But he still had to wade through the swamp of bullshit to get to the treasure on the other side. His first step was finding Roger. Check. Next was getting Stallion to fucking call him back—he was still waiting on that fucker to surface. But his plans with Red, Frost, Horde, and Tornado were all in place.
As if the universe had finally decided to throw him a goddamn bone, his cell dinged in his pocket, and he pulled it out.
Bad Pony: OMW from NC. What the fuck is so important that you send so many fucking texts?
Patriot read the text and grinned, chuckling at his old friend’s response.
