He was out to get me.
I slid down the wall, my body falling to the floor with a thump and pulled my knees to my chest.
I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t.
“Daddy,” Lacey screamed, her shrill voice pulling me away from my manic state, forcing me into reality. “Come quick,” she sobbed.
I lifted my head and scanned the room for my daughter.
“Lacey?” I called out.
She didn’t answer me.
Tires screeched across the asphalt, a crash sounded and then there was silence.
I stood, walked toward the front door and noticed it was wide open. My steps quickened, my heart raced and then it crashed the moment I stepped outside. My daughter stood frozen at the curb, staring in shock at my two-year old son lying perfectly still in the middle of the street.
I ran down the porch steps, unable to breathe not knowing which child to tend to first. I tripped over the curb, fell to my knees and crawled to my son.
I frantically checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
“No, no, no,” I whispered hysterically, searching around for help. The car sped away, taking off down the street, no regard for my boy. I looked back toward my daughter.
“Lacey, call 911!”
She didn’t move. She was in shock. She just watched her baby brother get hit by a car.
She watched him die.
I closed my eyes and gathered my boy in my arms, rocking him softly. I stared up at the heavens and screamed for help.
Please God, hear me. Hear my cry for help.
Chapter One
Present Day
I ran my fingertips along the distressed wooden table as I walked around it, taking my seat at the top. This thing had seen better days, been around a long fucking time. My predecessor, Cain, had brought it into the compound when he first took the gavel. A piece he and his old man had built with their own hands. The guys busted my balls, time and again, to get rid of the thing, bitched about getting a splinter whenever we held church. I couldn’t part with it though. It was all I had left of the man who brought me into this club and gave me purpose.
Cain was the toughest motherfucker around but he had a soft spot for me. He was troubled himself, so he didn’t care too much that I was damaged goods. I used to think he took pity on me and that was why he made me a prospect. Truth was, it was unethical for a man in my condition to be a part of something as big as the Satan’s Knights. When it came time to patch me in, some brothers voted against it, they called me a liability. Cain didn’t give a fuck and encouraged the vote to go my way. It wasn’t until the man was on his deathbed that I learned he was my advocate because he saw a younger version of himself in me. He saw the good in me and not the shit that everyone else did.
I lifted the picture frame from my dresser and stared into the eyes of my boy. That’s all I had these days, a fucking lifeless photograph, a captured moment to get me through the rest of my life. No more memories to be made, experiences to be had, nothing but a picture that would wear one day. I would never see my boy look up at me again; never do all the things a father should do with his son.
I grabbed the orange prescription bottle from the dresser and turned toward my bed. I took a swig of the bottle of scotch I had nearly finished and sat at the foot of the bed. My loaded gun right beside me. I stared at the RX label and the one word that could have changed everything.
Lithium.
If I had listened to Connie, and yielded to the warnings, we’d still have Jack. I was too proud to get help; too worried people would think I was a pussy. I was a fucking biker that walked a thin line between right and wrong. I wasn’t some bitch who needed a shrink.
But I was.
I was a manic depressive.
I wasn’t the devil my mother thought I was. I was sick. I was a sick man who never sought treatment for his illness. The same illness that left me in a manic state the night my boy got hit by a car. I should’ve been paying attention to him. I should’ve been on medication.
But I wasn’t.
And he was dead.
It should’ve been me.
I dropped the prescription bottle, watched as it rolled across the carpeted floor and stopped once the door flew open and rolled back toward me. A leather boot stopped it from rolling and I lifted my hazy eyes to take in the man who had now picked up my medicine.
“Get out, Cain,” I growled, looking away and taking another swig of my bottle, my hand closing around the gun as I did.
He stood tall, around six foot three, and was a wall of muscle. He took a few shaky steps in my direction, grabbed onto the dresser to steady himself before his bloodshot eyes pierced me with a glare. He was fucked up. Not an unusual occurrence. Cain liked his drugs, didn’t limit himself to a particular one, shot anything you put in front of him through those veins of his.
We were a lot alike, both of us needed help but only one of us wound up getting it.