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FORTY-TWO
KANE
Twenty-Six Years Old
Kane was wellaware that he had spent the last decade in a spiral. Taking a straight nosedive into depravity.
Into greed and immorality and every kind of wickedness. Doing the bidding of the MC.
So far gone from the boy his mother had believed he was, she would not have recognized him if he were standing in front of her.
But she couldn’t stand in front of him, could she?
Couldn’t see the vile perversion that he’d become.
He wondered when it was all going to catch up to him.
It was insane that he’d let himself go so far while his loyalty and love for his crew remained, but he guessed it was the same for all of them.
Each running at the cruel beckoning of Cutter, the president of their MC.
Kane couldn’t decide if it was because there was a boot on the back of his neck or if he did it of his own free will.
If he did it because he got a sick satisfaction in the power and money or if it was just because he couldn’t be destined for anything else.
“He has you running again?” River asked from over the volume of the heavy metal music that screamed from the speakers. He was lounged back in a stool at the dive where they always hung out.
The grungy walls were filled with Iron Owls. The only women there with the sole intention of riding their cocks.
Hoping for the privilege of then riding on the back of their bikes.
That was shit that was never going to happen with him. He loved to fuck, but he was never one to bother with a name.
“Apparently, I’m the best.” He sent River a big grin.
Otto took a swig of his beer. “Or maybe the most expendable,” he razzed.
“Fuck you, man.” Kane was standing next to him, and he jostled his elbow into the brute’s side.
Otto laughed.
Kane’s chest tightened.
He didn’t hear that sound nearly enough since the dude was always fretting about his baby sister who kept getting herself and River’s sister, Raven, into trouble.
Grimness filled River’s dark features, and he lowered his voice as his attention skated to the back of the bar where another group of Owls were snorting a fucking mountain of coke and passing around a bottle of tequila. “Be careful of Tyke and Kelp. Don’t trust either one of those fuckers.”
Kane barely glanced in their direction where they were partying with the rest.
Kane had a mind that River had come not to trust anyone in the club other than their family, plus Trent and Jud, Cutter’s sons. It was becoming clear that there was no love lost between Cutter and the two, either, and since Kane and his brothers were tight with Trent and Jud, it made Kane speculative, too.
But he still had his job to do.
A runner.
The gun who made things right if a delivery went south.
Weapons.