Chapter Three

Four hours later, Warren slammed the button on his alarm clock, rolled over with a groan. Jesus God, he was tired. He’d slept badly, far worse than usual, and his sheets were a tangled mess all around him.

He forced his ass up, forced his ass into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, took in his eyes all bloodshot from lack of sleep, his tousled dark-blond hair, his muscular chest covered in tattoos. He ran his hand over his beard, briefly considered giving it a trim, decided against it.

Of all the ways that he’d changed over the past eight months, there were only two that he actually liked. The first was the ink, though he hated that the large one on his upper back was the official Fallen Angels tattoo. It made him feel marked and dirty, but at least it was behind him, so he didn’t have to look at it. The second was his beard.

Warren was almost twenty-six years old, but he’d always looked way younger. He knew now that it had partly been a naturally youthful appearance, but it had also been a certain innocence that he’d had. He’d never been stupid – though he’d never been very book-smart – but he’d definitely been naïve.

Once upon a time, that naïvety had been written bright and large all over his face, and had made every person around him call him annoying things like ‘kid’ and ‘sport’. The beard had been a stab at looking older, and it had worked… though Warren now wondered how much of his suddenly-much-older appearance was the beard, and how much was the world-weary, hardened look in his blue eyes.

Sighing, he stripped off his boxers, stepped into the shower. He turned it on as hot as it would go then just stood under its relentless spray, his hands against the tile, his head hanging low, his eyes closed. Wishing hard for things that were too late to wish for, wishing away things that had strolled on into his life and taken up permanent residence.

Feeling the minutes ticking away, he pulled himself together. He shampooed and soaped and rinsed, then with nothing but regret, he stepped out into the world again. He toweled off roughly, then stalked back into the bedroom to get dressed.

As usual, he put off donning the final article of clothing for as long as possible. As always, he shrugged it on in the end, since he had zero choice in the matter.

He regarded his cut in the mirror with nothing but distaste. It was stunning, he supposed, with its expensive leather and red, white and blue background, and the red and black ‘1%’ patch on the shoulders. Even the club insignia – a skeleton with angel’s wings, stretched across its entire upper back, mirroring the tattoo it now hid – was arresting, eye-catching, breathtaking. Put all those elements together and you had a piece of art, and as much as he hated having the thing on his body, Warren could see the staggering beauty of the cut.

He also knew what it represented to people who saw it coming at them. For most people, it was a clear sign to get the hell out of the way. Since he’d put it on, Warren had noticed people crossing streets to avoid him, leaving shops to get away from him, ushering their children far away from him, as fast as they could manage it. It made him a leper in many ways.

It had gotten him faster service in bars, though, and had attracted some admiring looks from women keen to fuck a bad boy. Guys liked it as well, and that more than anything told him just how many people aspired to life in an MC, how many people wanted his life.

And he’d let them have it, in a heartbeat.

He threw back a cup of coffee – with milk and plenty of sugar, to hell with drinking it black when he was alone – and then headed out to the garage. He got on his motorcycle, already dreading the freezing air, the biting wind. He covered his ears more snugly with his black knit hat, flexed his fingers in his thick gloves. Kicked his bike to start it up, and headed out to the clubhouse.

That was the first moment when he allowed himself to wonder just what the hell Ace had waiting for him. Whatever it was, he hoped that it was easy, quick, and clean.

He had no idea then that what was coming into his life was going to be difficult, drawn-out, and fucking messy.

He also had no idea that it was going to be the one – the only – thing that he’d be willing to live and die for. That it was going to be his sole reason for getting up in the morning and breathing. It was going to be the thing that gave him hope, and bring light into the dark, dismal hole that had become his entire existence on earth.

It was the thing that was going to change everything. Forever.