Page 3 of Psycho

I shook my head, turning to the tools on my workbench.

“Hell will freeze over before I ever get married.”

“Obviously.”

“Just the thought of it makes me claustrophobic,” I added.

“I can tell,” Hades said with a smirk.

But when I ducked under the minivan’s hood to get back to work, I paused and scrubbed away the grease on my palm to find the small scar there, faded to a silvery shine with age.

Don’t make a promise you have no intention of keeping, Arrow. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime. You’re not allowed to break my heart, just like everyone else did.

I closed my eyes at the echo of those words.

Roberta “Bobbie” McGrath was my first crush, my first kiss, my first everything. She kept me sane in the foster care system. We were just two fucked up kids who were too damaged to get adopted.

So, we made a pact. We swore that if no one wanted us by the time we were thirty, we would marry each other. And it wasn’t some cutesy pinkie promise either. We sealed that shit in blood.

I had no idea where Bobbie was these days, and my thirtieth birthday passed a few years ago now.

But I still kept my promise to her. I had no intention—and no desire—to marry anyone else.

Just her. Only her.

My phone rang, jolting me out of my thoughts. For the second time, I startled, bumping my head on the minivan’s hood.

“Motherfu—” I broke off, rubbing my head.

When I straightened up, I caught Hades pressing his lips together, trying to hide his amusement and failing miserably.

“Shut up,” I muttered.

“I didn’t say anything,” Hades protested.

“No, you’re just laughing your ass off,” I said, digging my phone out of my pocket. “What do you want?” I barked.

“Whoa,” came Pretty Boy’s reply over the phone. “Sounds like someone is in a bitchy mood.”

I sighed and my shoulders sagged.

“Sorry, Prez. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Well, I’m not going to make that bitchy mood any better. I’ve got bad news.”

I grimaced and leaned back against the minivan, bracing myself.

“I’m listening. What kind of shitshow are we looking at?”

“Moses ‘Cyclone’ Huxley, Road Captain of The Filthy Rebels MC. Do you remember him?”

I breathed a faint laugh.

“How could I forget? He stuck a knife between my ribs and put me in the ER, losing blood like a leaky faucet.”

The tension between The Reckless Order and The Filthy Rebels had been simmering to a boiling point well before I came along. A few years ago, they tried to steal our territory, and we barely managed to hold them off.

As a brand new Prospect, with my patches freshly stitched onto my cut, I crossed paths with Huxley at a Fourth of July biker rally. It was supposed to be neutral territory. Everyone was welcome, regardless of feuds, turf wars, and old grudges. No fighting allowed—just booze, bikes, and good food.