PROLOGUE

Luke

To hell with reason.

With doubt. 

With love. 

To hell with it all. 

Especially us.

Chapter 1

Luke

“Boss, we have a problem,” Marcus announced, barging into my office without knocking, forcing my attention over to him. 

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, where one year bled into the next. 

I glared up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Congratulations. Did you forget how to fuckin’ knock?” The blonde who was sucking my cock tried to look up, but I pushed her back down. Looking down at her, I warned, “Did I say you could stop?” 

She gagged, taking my dick all the way to the back of her throat. 

“I-I…” Marcus stuttered, watching her mouth and hand stroke my cock up and down while my grip never moved from the back of her head. 

My cell phone rang. “I need to take this.”

“I—”

“I don't know why you think this is suddenly my problem. How ’bout you man the fuck up and take care of it yourself? Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

“Boss—” 

Patience was never my virtue. “Did I stutter? Leave. Now!” 

He jolted, turned, and left. 

I shoved the blonde’s head away, causing her to fall on her ass. “That means you too, sweetheart.” 

“What the fuck?” she seethed. 

“No shit. With a mouth like yours, I thought you’d suck my dick like a goddamn pro.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to like that? I’m the best.”

“The best thing that’s come out of your mouth is my dick. Now get the fuck out.” 

“You bastard!”

“Been called worse by better, sweetheart.” 

“Ugh!” She stomped her way toward the door, like I’d give a shit.

A woman’s place in a club owner’s life was always in the background. My clubs came first, no matter what. She was a new club whore with a curvy body, huge tits, a heart-shaped ass, and way too much makeup on her mousy little face. She’d been eye-fucking the shit out of me since she showed up a few days ago. I was never much for dabbling in my club’s bunnies who bounced from one cock to another, but that didn’t stop me from letting them suck my dick. 

After the day I’d had, I fucking earned it. 

I wasn’t a good man. 

I had more enemies than friends.

I was ruthless. 

I was feared. 

I lived in a dark and seedy world where I was never afraid to get my hands dirty. I didn’t just step into my father’s shadow. I was a Jameson, and with that last name came money, respect, and power. I got whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. 

My father was Creed Jameson, and before him was my grandfather, the prez of Devil’s Rejects, a 1% motorcycle club. They were outlaws up until my old man put him to ground, killing his own flesh and blood and setting the tone for the man I’d become. 

I only stepped in and made my presence known if someone dared to cross me or if shit hit the fan in a catastrophic way. 

Other than that, I did whatever the fuck I wanted. It was a free-for-all. I always made sure to cover my tracks. The cops’ pockets were greased with dirty money to turn a blind eye to all my illegal activities. Everywhere I went, people looked in the opposite direction and moved the hell out of my way. 

The only enemy I had was the law. 

My father was a hero of war. A soldier for our country who brought the flag home. It was at his clubhouse, in his office, along with all the other medals he received through his four-year term. My father may have turned his life around and become a law-abiding citizen, but I couldn’t say the same for me. 

Although I was raised in a normal, loving home, I decided at a very young age that I didn’t want that cookie-cutter life. Outlaw was in my blood, and I had no fucking problem stepping into my old man’s shoes, so to speak. 

Sometimes I killed. 

Sometimes I tortured. 

Sometimes innocent lives paid the price. 

My price. 

Just to prove my point. 

No one fucked me over and lived to tell the tale. I had no respect or loyalty to anyone but myself and my family. Not once did I ever think about the pain I could be inflicting. About the consequences of my actions and how they’d affect anyone. 

Everyone. 

I was a diehard biker.

Honorable killer. 

After turning eighteen, I spent the past twenty-four years ruling with an iron fist. My future was sealed the first time I tasted blood. I’d seen and done more shit than any mother would ever be proud of, but that never mattered to me. I was thrown in with the wolves too many times to count, just to see if I’d come out alive. I did, and every time, I wore a wide-ass smile on my motherfucking face.

I proved myself, my worth, to a bunch of corrupt criminals. 

It wasn’t a lifestyle. 

It was a way of life. 

The only one I strived for. 

That Jameson trait ran deep in my veins. I determined the who, what, when, and where in life. Anyone who didn’t approve could go fuck themselves.

Bottom line, I lived and breathed for my family. Everything else was just a means to an end for me. The world truly wasn’t a good place. Seeing bloodshed wasn’t out of the norm for me. My dirty hands were in everything from drugs to guns to clubs. I guess you could say I was the epitome of organized crime. There was very little that I didn’t own and operate. 

Politicians.

Police.

FBI agents.

They were all corrupt and in my pocket. Not a damn thing could be traced back to me. I’d built an empire on nothing but shady-ass shit. Laundering money through my clubs was how I remained off the radar. There was a reason they were number one. 

The darkness surrounding me only dragged me further and further into the black abyss. My demeanor always read of nothing but power and control, portraying the perfect image of the envied leader. The older I got, the more my mother loved to remind me how I was the spitting image of my old man. 

From our deep-set gray-blue eyes, narrow face, high cheekbones, strong square jaw, and pointed nose to our stubborn, bullheaded personalities. Our dark brown hair was always long on the top and shaved on the sides, reminding me of a military cut. We were both tall, slender, and had ripped, tattooed bodies. He taught me how to shoot everything from handguns to assault rifles, and I’d been hitting targets at seventy-five yards out since I was twelve. 

My parents thought if they taught my older sister Harley, younger brother Owen, and me the power of weapons, it would keep us away from them. Little did they know, it couldn’t have been further from the truth when it came to me. I was always strapped because I had to be. It came with the territory of who I was. 

My life was private, and because of that, my family remained unaware of my illegal activities. With that said, my old man wasn’t blind. To this day, he hadn’t questioned me about the life I led. I think some part of him knew that our true nature would somehow shine through his genes, and he could do nothing about it. 

I answered my call, instantly asking, “How many assault rifles in the crates?” to the black-market arms broker on the other end of the call. 

“Six to eight,” he replied in a thick Russian accent. 

“It’s either six or it’s eight. Which one is it? I don’t have time for your bullshit.” 

“Usually six.” 

“Usually six? So what you’re sayin’ is that you were tryin’ to fuck me when you already knew it was six? You just wanted me to pay for eight, yeah?”

“No, that’s—” 

“That wasn’t a question. My reputation speaks for itself. Would you like me to remind you what I’m known for?” 

His silence told me he wanted to tell me to eat shit but knew better. 

“I want a thousand rounds of ammunition for each of those rifles.” 

“We can do four hundred.” 

“If I wanted four hundred, I would’ve said four hundred. Now, that’s six assault rifles per crate, and I want two hundred crates. I’ll pay you three grand a crate. That’s five hundred a rifle and a hundred and fifty thousand for the ammo. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars total.”

“That’s too low. We need—” 

“The crates need safe transportation until they’re offloaded at the shippin’ port in downtown Miami. I’ll pay you half now and half when they get delivered.” 

“Let’s nego—”

“If you want to negotiate, I’ll find someone else.” 

He sighed deeply. “We take on a high risk doing this, and what you’re offering isn’t much for the risk.” 

“Seven fifty isn’t an offer you should refuse. Your risk is being more than well compensated. They’re wholesale rifles, and I’m movin’ them onto the streets. The serial numbers need to be shaved off, and that’s gonna cost me a pretty penny. If you don’t want to take my deal, I can reach out to the Albanians. You’re not the only sons of bitches I can buy from, so take it or leave it. But next time you call me, don’t waste my fucking time with your bullshit excuses. We’re not selling Girl Scout cookies, motherfucker. We’re in the business of making things happen, so either you make it happen or I’ll find someone who will.” 

He cleared his throat. “Right… we’ll have them delivered next week.”

“I need them Tuesday.”

“My friend, that’s four days from now.” 

“I’m not your friend, but since you think I am, then we’re not gonna have any problems, ya feel me?”

“Right… well then, would you be interested in the women we picked up? They’re ready to be transported. If you’re—”

“No,” I crudely cut him off. 

“Are you sure? They could make you lots of money.” 

“I don’t traffic women. Understood?” 

“Yes, but—”

“My men will see you on Tuesday at noon, and they’ll bring the money with them.” I hung up on him. 

Respect wasn’t given, it was earned, and there wasn’t a chance in hell… 

I’d ever think otherwise.