Exiled (Anathema Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

wanted with a laptop. Half of their windows cracked
and shattered, and yellowed paper curled beneath the broken frames. The rusted body
of an old Chevy blocked access to a broken bay door. More than fuel and oil sullied
the air.
    No
wonder the girl sat on my bike. It was the cleanest place to rest that tempting
ass.
    “Entry’s
around the side,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”
    At
least she had sense enough to keep out of the MC’s business even if she thought
her bones were made of concrete. My jaw tensed.
    This
wasn’t what I was expecting.
    Then
again, I didn’t have a right to expect anything after leaving Anathema. The
road dulled only so much pain, and every bump in the asphalt ached in my
healing shoulder. When the bullet struck me, it was courteous enough to divert
away from any major arteries. It didn’t kill me, and more importantly, it
hadn’t hit her. Anathema’s last gift to me was ripping the slug out of my arm,
but the wound it left behind required more than a handful of antibiotics and a
tumbler of whiskey to manage.
    Death
had to be cleaner than this life—easier than running packages cross-country and
dealing with disorganized and desperate MC’s with half the discipline of Anathema
and all the aggression of the remaining leadership.
    Most
men lived for the job.
    This
wasn’t living.
    The
money I made and the men I contacted and the miles I rode existed only to pass
the time. But it wasn’t on my side, and the days my father served protected him
behind unbreakable walls and bribed wardens. We both had debts to our name, but
mine would last long after he repaid his to society.
    The
garage was a bad front, but in this area, even the cops struggled to survive.
Bad money traded between both sides of the law, the same greasy dollars trapped
in a cycle between drugs and women, cash for beer and a kid’s braces. The bikes
loaded into the bays were missing parts and covered with dust. Waiting for the
money to replace broken starters, or probably stripped to pay for something
else.
    The
further I ran from home, the more familiar everything seemed. My family fought
the same poverty. I got out of jail at twenty-one and learned quick how a heavy
a burden real-life was. My father did what he did best to get money, and my
brother injected courage into his veins to do what my father asked.
    And
Rose?
    The
first time I met her she was four years old and playing under the bar with a
one-armed doll while Mom served more than drinks in the back room. She smiled
because she didn’t understand, and her giggle was a sweet sound after those
years in prison.
    I
didn’t know what to do after she hugged me, so I stole a TV and pawned it to
buy the kid her first real stuffed animal—something fluffy and pink that
smelled like baby powder. It didn’t matter where it came from. I owed her that
much, something to hold onto at night when Dad beat the shit out of Mom for
spending all their cash on more drugs.
    The
officers of the Sacrilege MC waited in an oil-stained break room. The fridge
hummed, but the fluorescent lights zapped in the bulb’s death throes. Four men sat
in silence.
    I met
the president—Sam “Harbinger” Ferrero—a few days before the meet. The former
mill worker was laid-off when the industry failed. He was too old to return to the
forge and too proud for social security. He laughed when he should have thrown
a punch, but I had my fill of violent presidents who fought first and snuck in
a second shot before the dust cleared.
    The
other three were strangers. A blonde kid sat on the counter, pants covered in
grease. He couldn’t have been over twenty-five, and his only patch labeled him
as Red . He didn’t focus on me, not when his attention was reserved for
the behemoth threatening the room. I didn’t blame him.
    The
hulking beast was more freak show than genuine bulk. He glared with all the
subtlety of a charging bull and the intelligence of a rutting cow. Some fool gave
him a vice-president