Lucky: Furious Skulls MC (A Bad Boy MC Biker Romance) Read online

  “I’m clean,” I say, driven by the urge to reassure him. We should have used a condom, but I simply forgot about it.

  “So am I. I would never pass any shit to you.”

  “I’m really sorry about...my…” Nervousness spreads in my veins like a wave of spikes.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” he says in a soft voice.

  “I will be on my period in three days and it’s very regular. Nothing’s gonna happen, I’m sure.”

  I’m as naïve as a kid. He must be mad with me.

  “I’m good with kids,” he says. “The house is not very big, only a three-bedroom one, but I can build an extension. For the kids I mean.”

  Dread fills my veins. It’s a cold, primal dread. Now, he’s talking like a lunatic. What was I thinking about? I don’t know. Nothing makes sense.

  “We just need to get rid of the money in your car boot,” he continues. “And everything will be alright.”

  I freeze. My heart thumps in my ears.

  Of course, he’s found the money.

  Of course, he wants the money. Guys like him kill for money.

  Fuck. I’m an idiot. I have no self-preservation instinct.

  “I need the toilet,” I say.

  “Sure.”

  I scramble to my feet and shuffle over to the bathroom. As I close the door behind me, I put on his bathrobe and open the window to assess the height from where I’m standing to the grassy ground. Too high, but there is a wide ledge that leads to a drainpipe.

  Asher

  I wanted to knock her up in all honesty. Yes, I’m a bad man. A selfish bastard. She didn’t protest so I just did what I wanted to do. Not to mention that there are no signs of drug abuse on her body. She really is a good girl. A perfect girl for giving birth to my kids.

  I’ve tried drugs twice in my life. That was when I was sixteen. Blaze was very upset and he said he’d never patch me in if I did it again. The choice was simple and honestly, I’m not a fan of such entertainment. I’m a bit old-fashioned—a bottle of vodka, a pretty chick in my lap, a good, old-fashioned hangover in the morning.

  I hear a bang and then a stifled scream follows. A sense of gloom wafts through me. Ice fills my veins. I jump to my feet and run over to the bathroom, tumbling inside it. A gust of wind sweeps past me. I move towards the window and look out. Look down. Look at her.

  She’s lying on the grass. Blaze is running over to her.

  I freeze for one eternal second then grab my jeans, slipping in and dart downstairs. Bouncing off Python, I tumble out of the clubhouse. I can hear Blaze calling an ambulance and the sound of his cold voice drills into my brain as I move along the building towards the back garden.

  Blaze is kneeling beside her. I kneel down beside her too.

  “She’s breathing,” Blaze says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Immobilise her neck.”

  I kneel behind her head. I know what to do. Her cervical spine must be immobilised and her airways must remain unobstructed. Seconds feel like pieces of eternity.

  The sound of the ambulance siren travels through the air as the vehicle arrives at the parking lot and then stops by the metal fence. Two medics pour out of it. They take over from Blaze and me. I watch them put a collar around Michelle’s neck and examine her.

  A female medic approaches me. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I rasp. “She just went to the bathroom.”

  “Are you her relative?” the medic asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m her husband.”

  Blaze arches his bushy brown eyebrows at me, but he doesn’t say a thing.

  “What is the patient’s full name?” the medic questions.

  “Michelle,” I say. “Michelle Connon.”

  The medics lay Michelle on the stretcher and move her into the ambulance.

  I lean towards Blaze. “Take care of the money in the boot of her car.”

  “I think I’ll need to take care of a lot of things,” Blaze says with sarcasm.

  “I can explain—“

  Blaze shoves my back. “Go. You can explain later.”

  So, I get in the ambulance and sit down beside my wife. The equipment beeps and hums as my eyes roam over the fresh bruising and cuts on her face. There’s dried blood around her nose. Her arm is in a splinter.

  I want to kill someone.

  Then I want to punch myself in the face.

  Forty minutes later, we arrive at the hospital. I follow the medics through the emergency department and then into the neurosurgery department. Michelle is unconscious and needs a brain surgery. The doctors open her skull and deal with whatever damage they find. Eight hours later, the doctors tell me my wife is in a coma and she may be in a coma for a while.

  I call Blaze with the updates and then I sit down in a blue chair by her bed in the intensive care unit and watch her. Her eyelids are swollen as are her lips. A number of tubes are stuck in her body. The sharp scents of hospital environment circle me. Time passes, but I’m frozen.

  What happened? Everything was perfect, right? She is the girl of my dreams. Why wouldn’t I want to keep her?

  A nurse walks in to check Michelle’s vitals.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Connon?” she asks.

  “Yeah, a cup of tea would be great.”

  The nurse walks out as Blaze walks in, a bag swinging in his hand. “Some clothes and boots.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

  “Come with me outside the hospital,” Blaze says.

  I put a zipped hoody on and slip into my boots and then we go outside the hospital building. As we stand near the main entrance with the roof held by two pillars, Blaze takes out a cigarette and lights it up.

  “The money is in the strongbox in the office,” he says. “The whole three hundred thousand and fifty-six.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s a lot of cash.”

  “Yep.”

  “I met up with Franco. He’ll deal with the papers. You want a new wife? Done. You have a new wife.”

  “How much for his service?” I thread my fingers through my hair.

  “His boss likes us to owe him, remember?” He pats my shoulder. “I’m sure Mr Abramo will find a way for us to pay our debts. Her money? It stinks, but she’s young and nice, so I thought it would be good to take care of her.” He nods several times. “I’ve been watching you. She went under your skin, huh?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Talk to her seriously when she wakes up.”

  “I will.”

  “She’ll have to keep quiet.”

  I salute him. “They said she might be in a coma for a while.”

  “You can’t do anything about it, Asher. You can only wait.” He leans towards me. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She went to the bathroom.”

  “She didn’t like your dick or what?”

  “I might have said a few things about her money.”

  Blaze shakes his head, a growl leaving his mouth. “You always want things to straighten immediately. It doesn’t work like that. I told you when you were with Sabrina.”

  “I just wanted everything to be—“

  “What? Perfect?”

  “Michelle—“

  “Yeah, Michelle. You’ve already married her and knocked her up I suppose.”

  “I want a normal home,” I growl. “A loving wife. Kids.”

  Blaze raises his hands and shakes his head. “I gave you a home, a family. I tried really hard.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  He’s not angry with me, just sad.

  He gave me a home in the clubhouse. His women were nice to me. His boys taught me everything about being a club member. Eight years ago, I was patched in. I’m the club’s enforcer.

  It’s just that I want my own happy family. A pretty wife. A bunch of kids. A fairytale love.

  “Go to her, son,” Blaze says.

  I slap him on the back and go back to the intensive ca
re unit.

  I feel numb. Number with every hour that passes.

  Michelle remains in a coma for six long weeks.

  In the meantime, I receive the documents from Franco—her fake NI, birth certificate, passport, even our fake wedding photo. Franco has done a very good job. He is a professional, after all.

  On a chilly morning, Michelle wakes up and her doctors ask me to attend a meeting before I’m allowed to see her.

  We sit in a square office, green walls bringing the kind of tranquillity to my mind, but the doctors’ serious faces make me feel uneasy.

  They talk about Michelle and repeat the term ‘retrograde amnesia’ a few times.

  I clench my jaw.

  My heart hammers in my chest.

  Then everything turns stiff and cold inside of me.

  Chapter 6

  Michelle

  I know how to cook a tomato soup. I can recall the recipe with no difficulty. I know I like food. I know I hate spiders. I don’t fucking know my name, or my occupation, or my address. I don’t know anything about myself. Am I rich or poor? Nothing. Blank. Am I educated or not? Complete darkness. Maybe I’m a criminal. Yeah, I know what criminals are, but I don’t know whether I’m a low-abiding citizen or not. How old am I? What do I look like?

  The doctors said I had a husband. That scares the shit out of me. I can’t remember him. I can’t remember our wedding or falling in love with him.

  But my stomach flutters each time I think of him. Is he good looking? Is he my age?

  Does he love me?

  A man walks into my hospital room and his frame kind of fills the space around me. He’s not massive. I’d say he’s well-built, but something powerful and untamed radiates from him, condensing around me. And yes, he’s a very handsome man. Fuck. I know whether a man is handsome or not, yet I can’t recall my own name.

  The man flashes me a warm smile and drops into the chair by my hospital bed. He’s wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms, boots with the laces pleading to tie them up, a t-shirt and a cut. I know what a cut is. It’s bikers’ thing.

  I’m scared of bikers. I fucking know that.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you, baby?”

  “Do we know each other?”

  He chuckles. “I’m Asher, and I’m your husband.”

  My heart jumps up to my throat. “My husband?”

  “The house is ready for you, baby. You’ll like it there.”

  “The house?”

  “Yep. Our house.”

  Every molecule of my body stirs in rebellion, and I don’t know the reason for my anxious reaction. He is my husband for Christ’s sake. I can’t remember him, but there should be a sense of familiarity inside of me. There should be loads of warmth inside of me. Yes, I’m very interested in him, intrigued, but his cut scares the shit out of me.

  “The doctors said you could be discharged in about two weeks,” he continues.

  He raises his hand, leaning forward and runs his knuckles up and down my cheek. I jerk my body to the opposite edge of the bed.

  He drops his head and then raises it. Our glances collide, and his eyes flicker with something dark. Something unnerving.

  “It’ll be alright,” he says.

  “How long have we been married?” My voice has a delicate hysterical tinge.

  “Two years.”

  “How old am I?” I feel breathless.

  “Twenty-two.”

  Something is wrong. It’s like a subtle itch on the back of my neck. But he’s so gorgeous, my dream personified.

  “I love you, Michelle. I love you so damn very much. I just want you to know this.”

  Strangely, his declaration feels right. More right than everything so far.

  The doctors didn’t want to talk to me. They said that I’d have to work things out for myself. That I’d have to force the part of my brain responsible for storing memory to regenerate.

  “I can’t recall my love for you,” I explode. “I mean…”

  But, I have no doubt that I could fall in love with him again.

  “Calm down, baby,” he says. “We’ll get through this together.”

  My hands shake as a cold sweat pricks my forehead. My heart pounds in my chest. I want him to touch me, and I want him to stay away from me. What a fucking carousel.

  Asher puts his elbows on the mattress and reaches out for my hand, squeezing it gently. “You just trust me, baby. I know what to do.”

  My internal voice tells me not to trust him, but I decide to ignore it. “The doctors said I’d had an accident.”

  “You slipped, baby. The floor was wet and you slipped. The window is very low.” He nods several times. “I always tell you not to open it wide, but you’re so stubborn.” He flashes me a smile and then his face turns into a mask. “I thought I’d go mad, you know. It’s so good to see you all fine.”

  “I’m not fine,” I growl. “I have this fucking amnesia. And a plaster on my wrist.” I raise my right arm, moving it up and down.

  “Michelle, everything will be fine, I promise.”

  Tears well in my eyes. “Do we have kids?”

  “Not yet,” he says. “But we want to have kids.” He flashes me a beguiling smile, bringing my hand up to his kissable lips and planting a hot kiss on my knuckles. “Do you need anything, sweetheart? New clothes? Books?”

  “Our photos.”

  His face turns into a ruthless mask like he’s an assassin from a crime movie. “We’ve got a few wedding photos, that’s all. The rest of them burned when you left a book near burning candles and opened the window.”

  “And you still love me?”

  “More than ever.” He straightens and winks at me. He takes a red velvet box out of the pocket in his cut and hands it to me. “Rest, I’ll pop in tomorrow.”

  “Why can’t you stay?” My fingers close around the box that looks like those with jewellery inside them.

  “I have a job to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Rest, baby, and don’t think about my job.” He strokes my head with his rough palm. “Think about us, okay?” He kisses me on the top of my head and walks off.

  I open the box and glance down at a wedding ring. It’s made of white gold and has a delicate ornamentation.

  It fits perfectly, but feels foreign on my finger.

  Asher

  It’s working. I need to be more careful, but everything is working. Michelle is recovering. The house is ready for her. I have a damn very good plan.

  I’ve thought out every possible course of events. I’m well prepared.

  I leave the hospital and rush towards the parking lot that lies in front of a red-bricked building. The blue sign on the façade says it serves as the HR quarters. My eyes flick over Blaze and Monk, who is my vice. They are waiting for me, leaning against their bikes and smoking cigarettes.

  Blaze tosses his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his worn out boot. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I say.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Monk says as he strokes his long silver beard with his fingers. He shakes his head and his long grey hair reflects the sun’s rays like it’s made of liquid silver. He’s fifty-five, but young women throw themselves at him. “We could—“

  “I owe Abramo,” I say, “and I always pay my debts.”

  Blaze’s jaw muscles twitch. “Just remember what I taught you.”

  I nod and jump onto my bike. The engines roar and we shoot towards Abramo’s mansion. The ride takes us about two hours. We stop in front of a metal sliding gate and two guards walk out to search us through. We hand them our guns and they let us in. We park our bikes along a wall of greenery in the shade provided by three palm trees. One of Abramo’s men greets us and then he guides us across a garden that looks like it’s been brought from a king’s castle. We make our way among enormous stone flower urns and terraces and then walk towards a building made of grey stone. We wa
lk inside it and then into an elevator that takes us down to the basement. A ding hits my ears like a whiplash as the door swishes open. I walk out as shouts, chants and hoots surround me. The smell of sweat, predatory brutality and blood invades my nostrils. My eyes flick over a cage and two fighting men inside of it. Reflectors illuminate them while the audience is bathed in electrified dimness. Blaze lays his hand on my shoulder. I sweep my eyes over my surroundings and see Abramo walking over to us. I recognise his moustache and prosthetic hand as he’s emerging from the crowd, accompanied by four of his men. We shake hands and he guides us to a small room with benches and lockers where I take off my cut and t-shirt.

  “You know what to do,” Abramo says as he pops a cigar into his mouth and lights it up.

  “I know what to do.” I rub my hands against my tracksuit bottoms and Monk starts wrapping bandage around one, beginning from my wrist.

  “I bet a lot of money on you,” Abramo says.

  “I know what to do,” I say with anger, shaking off my boots.

  My glance meets Blaze’s. There is concern in his eyes. He never says a word, but I know he hates it when I’m fighting in the cage.

  I take a few deep breaths and my mind detaches. I’ve been in a fight a number of times. I’ve killed three times. I fucking know what to do.

  I hide my emotions at the bottom of my consciousness and allow my cold instincts for survival to guide me.

  Monk finishes wrapping my hands. I bounce on my knees, rotate my shoulders, and tilt my head to both sides, stretching my neck muscles.

  A bell rings and Abramo thrusts his chin to me. “Let’s go.”

  We walk out of the room and move along a narrow corridor with the white paint peeling off the walls. Then Abramo leads me along the aisle as the audience separated from me by a metal fence yell and chant. Some of them swear at me and wish me death. Women in elegant dresses and fur coats blow me kisses.

  Two massive security guys open the door of the cage and let me in. I stand on the red and blue mat and fix my eyes on my opponent.

  He’s fucking as massive as a mountain. A mountain of muscles. His bald head shines as his cold blue eyes throw the promise of death at me.