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The Blood That Drives Us (The Devils Dust MC Legacy #1)
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Zane has learned everything he knows from his father, the most dangerous biker of The Devil’s Dust MC. He devours the darkness with a cocky grin and no fucks to give. His immoral obsessions barely keep him content in a life of chaos and havoc until he finds himself craving more.
Addie doesn’t need the risk that comes with Zane… that is until her perfectly orchestrated life takes a sudden turn and she’s left with nowhere else to go.
She’s sunshine and charities, he’s bullets and ecstasy.
Will he step out of his hell and into her bed knowing it’ll mean that he’s dragging her into the depths of his criminal world?
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* * *
A splintered stick holds tight in the heel of my palm as I poke at the dead carcass laid out across the cracked street of a bloated bird to the point of exploding. Flies buzz around like hawks circling a prey, the smell of putrid death, rancid. The smell reminds me of that time our power went out from fires and all the meat in the refrigerator went bad. It’s a smell of its own. I’m supposed to be getting ready for the family BBQ, but I was tired of waiting for my mom and sister to get ready.
How did this bird die? What was so forceful and strong it took the life from this crow? I shove it a little harder with the end of the stick. It’s stiff, and beak half open. I’m strong. I bet I could have killed it if I wanted to. The sound of something snarling catches my attention and my eyes flick away from the bird. A dog sitting a stone’s throw away snarls at me, its fur dull looking, and covered in ticks. He must be a stray.
Growling, teeth-baring, it crouches down as if it’s ready to fight me over the dead bird. I grasp the stick in my palm, pieces of wood splintering into my palm. The pain feels good actually, so I squeeze harder. I should run from the dog, be scared or scream, but I’m not.
I’m not like other kids, this I know. I’ve been told how weird I am from kids in my class.
* * *
Just as the dog leaps toward me, I jab it in the head with the stick. It doesn’t back down, and neither do I. I keep hitting it and hitting it.
I feel mighty. I feel strong. I feel… like I’m in control of something!
* * *
“Zane!” my father yells my name and my spine straightens. The tone in his voice demands attention. Stepping up behind me, he sighs, rubbing his chin as he looks over the scene in front of us. “Shit son.” I can’t tell if that’s disappointment or shock in his voice.
He hunches down and takes the splintered stick from my hand, throwing it to the side of the road.
“What happened here, Son?”
I shrug, chewing on my lip. I mean, I don’t know what happened to the bird, but I do the dog.
Dad sighs, rubbing his chin. The wrinkles around his eyes deeper than I’ve seen them before.
“Does this have anything to do with the neighbor’s hamster?” he asks almost in a whisper.
I don’t answer him. I was at the neighbor’s house and was holding his hamster. It was cute and fuzzy but fucking mean. It bit me to drawing blood and the next thing I know… I killed it.
My parents were not happy with me when they got the call. I can’t help who I am. If I am angry, scared or hurt, I lose control of myself. Kind of like that movie we watched as a family. The Hulk. I am the Hulk. Just like the green monster I can’t be around fragile things, or loved ones because I am not even sure what I am capable of. I have no way of controlling what is inside of me.
“Look, I know you feel bad—”
* * *
“I don’t feel bad,” I cut him off, and he takes his attention from the dog and bird to me, his blue eyes widening. Recognition flashing across his face as if he sees something very familiar while looking at me. Does he see someone he knows?
* * *
“You can’t control it, can you?” His tone unreadable. It’s almost like he has been waiting for this to come, a speech has prepared and readied for me.
* * *
I don’t answer him because I don’t want him to get mad, or look at me different. I know there’s something wrong with me. That I’m not normal. I don’t see a puppy and get stupid happy. I think about how I’m on top of the food chain. How I need to be the stronger one. Just when I think my dad might get angry or discipline me, he cracks a smile and rubs my chin with his calloused thumb. I am confused.
* * *
“You’re just like your old man, aren’t you?”
I smile, this moment feeling like a bonding between father and me. I’ve always wanted to be like my dad. Strong. Serious. A biker. Our family is all about the motorcycle club, but my mother doesn’t want me around it much because she feels it will make me more violent than I am. She’s seen the signs, seen how angry and numb I can get. So she tries to protect me. I admire her for it, but it’s useless. I am this way, and nothing can change it.