Rico’s Way Read online

  Rico’s Way

  Hell’s Riders book three

  Joy Blood

  Contents

  Copyright

  Warning

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Wraith

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Keep in touch

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Photo by Kruse Images&Photography

  CoverModel Jonny James

  Cover design by Francessca Webster

  Copyediting: Word Nerd Editing

  www.wordnerdediting.com

  Copyright © 2017 Joy Blood

  All rights reserved.

  Warning

  Warning:

  Some parts of this story may cause triggers. Reader discretion is advised.

  Prologue

  Rico

  My arms are extended up over my head, chained to the ceiling as the prick pounds in hit after hit to my ribs like it’s a sport. This is my fourth session with Rocky Balboa here. Before this, it was me tied to a chair. My days are becoming routine. I’m tossed into “the well,” then they fill it with water, and fully submerge me before flushing the water out. This goes on and on throughout the night without a pattern. I think it’s just at the whim of the guards. Then, after the countless forced baths, I’m brought up from “the well” and used as a punching bag. No questions have been asked, I’m just here for the simple fact that I’m being punished.

  “Rico, you were a good solider. Too bad I have to do this. If you weren’t stupid enough to throw your lot in with that traitor,” the Dean’s voice comes into the room—a voice I know all too well. My eyes are swollen shut, a result of my first night in captivity. “But all good things...” he drifts off, waiting for Rocky Balboa to finish his pounding before continuing. “Cut him down,” the Dean instructs, and I instantly drop to the floor, my joints jarring in pain at the force of my defeated body.

  “Time...for another...swim?” I pant, trying but failing to get the words out in one fluid sentence.

  “No. I believe we are done with that. I’ve made a deal. I want this to be done. My son has caused enough of a stink over a woman—again—and I’m done with it.” Someone pulls me to my feet, and trying my hardest, I get one of my eyelids cracked open enough to make out his face before a swift punch to my gut has me doubling over. Lurching forward, I gasp for air, and in my weakness, my palms hit the cold concrete floor with a heavy slap. “Get your last licks in. Then put him in the truck,” the Dean instructs before his footsteps leave the room.

  There’s a sickening scraping noise, then something hard slams down onto my back, sending sharp pains shooting up and down my spine. Whatever it is comes down five more times before I lose count and pass out.

  When I come to, bright light is trying hard to sink through my lids, and the pain is right there along with it. Blinding pain each time I’m picked up by my shoulders and tossed to the ground with a harsh thud. I can barely make out the words spoken by men hovering over me in a haze. Then, the pain takes over again, and I’m out.

  I wake again to the beeping of hospital monitors. The pain is still there, but it’s dulled slightly. My eyes open easier this time when I try, and I realize the only reason they would do that is because they’ve had time to heal. How much time?

  “Reek?” That voice. I know that voice. “Hey, man.”

  “Hey,” I try to say, but I don’t get much sound out due to the dryness of my throat.

  “Yeah. Don’t talk yet. You’ve had a tube shoved down your throat. You just got out of surgery,” Jake informs me, and instinctively, I try to assess myself with my hands, which are immobile. Slowly, I try my hardest to rise just enough to see the damage. My hands look like they have gone through a meat processor. Pins go straight through them, holding the shattered bones in place. “Doc said your hands were broken in several places and they had to operate on your knees too. They were all fucked up.” Each word he says grates at my nerves, along with every bone in my body, protesting each time I try to breathe. The thing I take note of is the fact that I can feel my legs. They are in screaming pain, but I can feel them. Has to be something, right? But that’s nothing compared to the pain in my back. Like someone is taking a red-hot poker and slowly twisting it into my lower spine. “Sorry, man. But I need to get going. I think Vin is about to play cowboy and go into the mansion guns blazing,” he tells me, then rises to his feet. It’s only then I remember why I’m here and who I was trying to protect.

  “Ellie?” I ask, making him pause.

  “The Dean said Avil was gone, so Vin is storming the castle. Alone. Club elected not to help.” He shrugs. “Get better, man. Don’t worry about us. You know we’ll be good.” Then, with his pretty boy smile, he’s out the door, leaving me to the doctor who comes in shortly after to tell me in more detail how fucked my broken body is.

  * * *

  The words malpractice and spinal reconstruction flash over in my mind like a bad commercial that comes on during each break of your favorite TV show. I can’t seem to escape them.

  I was scheduled for a long road of surgeries involving my knees. The damage to my back had been minimal, or so they said. Only when I got full use of my legs back and I started doing PT did I go in for a second opinion. The next person in a white lab coat told me my back was broken and didn’t heal properly and the inflammation build up over the several weeks had caused severe damage. Permanent fucking damage.

  The next asshole I talked to was a lawyer, hence the malpractice. I sued the hospital and then some, making sure the doctor who had overlooked my broken back never practiced medicine again. Not in the legal sense anyway. This is Chicago, though. He’ll more than likely find some mob boss to work for, no doubt. Or drink himself to death because of his guilt. I’m hoping for the latter.

  Vin was able to get Ellie back and they took off to Cental to go live happily ever after, as far as I knew, but only a few months of that, the cockroach who is Avil Cantrell came crawling out of the woodwork and laid down a big, “Fuck you,” to the Hell’s Riders. I had been in my last surgery that day and didn’t find out about the massacre until the day after. By that time, there was nothing I could do—not that I could actually do anything while being held in a hospital bed.

  A couple years later, numerous calls, and a visit from Rock is what it took for me to decide to take him up on his offer. To ditch Chicago in my rearview and head to Cental. He wanted me to patch into the club, become a Rider, but I just couldn’t fathom his request. I couldn’t even ride a bike. The only thing I could ride was my modified wheelchair. I could walk
, but long periods of time were out of the question. The drugs the doctors tried to pump me full of made me feel like shit, so I stuck to pot. It kept the edge off and gave my back some function. Albeit, slow function, but function nonetheless.

  I was content. I could live with the pain. I accepted the pain. Relished it some days. Until one fucking day—the fucking day she walked into the clubhouse. All perky and shit. Instantly pissing me off and making me hard at the same time. She was a conundrum and quite possibly the hottest fucking thing on two perfectly shaped legs.

  Ari.

  Chapter One

  Ari

  Three years ago

  When I wake, the sheets are cold where he had fallen asleep last night. He doesn’t need to be here. We have an understanding—a good thing. We hook up when he visits the club, then he goes home. No strings. Simple. That’s all I need in my life right now. With a new job at the hospital and working long hours, the last thing I need or want is a relationship.

  Stretching my limbs, I sit up and let the sheet fall from my naked chest. The cool air from the room sends a shiver through my body. The clubhouse is always cold in the winter months.

  I take my time in the hot shower, trying to hold some of the heat inside before I need to step out and get dressed for the day. It’s Sunday, but I still can’t just lay in bed all day. Forcing myself from the steam of the bathroom, I dress quickly, finding my last pair of panties—the most uncomfortable ones—and pulling on my favorite jeans and oversized Hell's Riders sweatshirt.

  Sighing at my fate of laundry, I grab my empty basket to gather up the clothes and make my way down the hall to the laundry room. The machines are empty, but I'm sure they won’t be for long, so I take my chance and start filling the first washer.

  "Long night?" the low rumble vibrating through my skin and the heavy scent of weed has me pausing for only a second before pushing to continue my task.

  "Wouldn't you like to know." I let the lid on the washer slam shut and turn to face Rico, the sexy as sin asshole who has done nothing but annoy and confuse the hell out of me since I met him. His hair is a mess, and the few days’ growth on his face makes him look even more haggard than usual.

  "I'm good. Don't need to know who you’re knocking boots with these days." He scoffs and rolls past me in his wheelchair with his own basket of clothes. I almost make it out of the room without further confrontation, but the last step I take, I stop and turn back around. The guy has been nothing but a dick to me since I walked into this clubhouse, and I'm sick of it.

  "Listen, Puerto Rico, I don't know who shit in your Fruit Loops this morning, but if I want to knock boots with someone, I damn well will without criticism from you. You don't see me having a problem with the revolving door of women you have going through your room."

  "Didn't know you cared so much about who I was fucking." He tosses his now empty basket to the floor.

  "I didn't know you cared about my sex life either."

  "I don't," he quips, a slight sneer on his lips.

  "Then quit being a dick about it. Just because I won’t sleep with you—" His boom of laughter cuts me off as he rolls closer to me—close enough for me to look down and see his eyes dilate at the proximity.

  "Trust me, girl, if I were to fuck you, there would be no sleeping." His tone sends a trickle of need through me that pools down deep. "Run along, Atari. You must have homework or some shit to do. You're pissing me off," he grumbles, turning away from me.

  "Asshole," I mumble, then walk away like I should have in the first place.

  "Oh, and, Atari, scream into a pillow next time Premo fucks you in the ass. The whole clubhouse could hear you." Red hot heat covers me from head to toe.

  "You are such a fucking prick, Reek," I spit at him.

  "Yes, Premo, yes. Fuck my ass harder," he mocks, laughing. "Keep walking, little girl." Mortification and anger settle into every cell of my being, but I force myself to keep walking, even though I want nothing more than to shove his dirty laundry down his throat.

  Back in my room, I hit the mattress hard with my fist, then fall face first onto the sheets. What a fucking prick. I don't know why Rico decided to single me out and be a dick, but I sure as hell am not going to waste my time letting him bully me. I’ve had enough bullies in my life. I don't need another one.

  Chapter Two

  Rico

  Present day

  "You serious?" I pause, watching as she nods, not knowing how to react. "Going to need you to say it again. I don't think—"

  "I could say it until I'm blue in the face, that doesn't mean it's going to make the information any easier for you to hear." Ari bows her head, her short locks falling forward. This week, she has pink streaked through her silver-blonde, shorter-than-shit hair. When I first met her, it was a little longer, tamer—so unlike her. She was loud, annoying, bossy as shit, and nosy as fuck, but damn if she didn't get my cock hard.

  "Suppose you're right." I palm the back of my neck and squeeze. "What are you...uh...what do you...?" Fuck, why is it so hard to string along a sentence?

  "Rico, there’s something else. Another…um, factor." The waver in her voice has me narrowing my eyes. She fidgets with her thumbnail, as if it may hold a magical button to make this easier. She has more to tell me. Something I know I won't like. Something I sure as fuck don't want to hear.

  "Just say it, girl. Get it out." I let out a long sigh and brace myself, my eyes on her mouth. That fucking mouth. The memory of what that mouth did to me. Guess that’s why we’re in this situation. I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting to fuck her. The one fucking time I let my dick lead the way...

  “There is a chance—”

  "No. Fuck no, Ree." I shake my head, knowing what the hell she’s about to say.

  "Rico," she pleads, trying to stop my outburst.

  "Who?" Damn my chair. Damn this fucking chronic pain in my back stopping me from storming out of this room so I don't have to hear who she fucked after me.

  "Rico."

  "Who, Ree!" my voice raises, and she flinches at the anger.

  "Premo," she says in a soft whisper, but I hear her. Fucking knew that name was going to come out of those pouty lips of hers. That fucking prick.

  "When?"

  "We don't have to go into detail—"

  "When!"

  "When we were on lockdown at their clubhouse." My stomach drops. Now is my cue to leave—to roll away from her in this constricting chair, this bane of my existence. When I get into the hallway, I can feel her behind me. I know she’s following, but I don't want to hear anymore. She keeps talking anyway. Just like she always does. She never stops.

  "Rico. Please. We were never—" Rounding my chair on her, I don't let her finish. With all the strength I have, I surge to standing, the anger pulsing through my body dulling the pain twinging in my lower spine at the sharp movements.

  "Don't you dare fucking tell me we weren't." My hands go to her hips, pinning her against the wall. "Was it not me who held you and told you your pussy was mine from then on. This fucking pussy." I bring my hand down, cupping her heat in my palm. "My cock inside you, claiming you, marking you. Mine, Ree. Said you were mine. Should have been enough." She lets out a small gasp, her eyes darting behind me, making me realize we now have an audience. I step back when I hear Gin's deep booming voice call out my name. When I turn around, Gin and Grace are both looking at our exchange with matching shocked expressions.

  Ari takes the moment to shift out of my grasp, then storms away into a spare room, letting the door slam behind her.

  "The fucking hell, Reek?" Gin growls.

  "Nothing," I grit out, then slam myself back down into my chair, shifting to get in a position where I feel less pain. I don't say anymore, don't even spare them a glance as I roll to my room and let the door shut behind me.

  Needing something stronger than a bowl, I break out the bottle of Jim stowed away in my dresser and take a long pull right from the bottle, coughing at the burn
. I can smoke with the best of them, but I’ve steered clear from drinking. That, and the fucking pain meds the doctors try to shove down my throat. Weed is what works…most of the time, anyway. If I don't get too crazy with my movements.

  I settle on my bed and tip the bottle back again, only to have someone knock on my door and walk in before I can tell them to fuck off. "You good, brother?" Sage steps into the room.

  "The fuck you think?" I take another drink, then offer him the bottle.

  "Heard a little of what was said, the hallway being right outside my door and all." He grips the bottle, swigs back a sizable gulp, and hands it back. "Didn't know you were hitting that." I let out a sarcastic laugh.

  "Yeah, me and everyone else."

  "That’s cold. You know she ain't like that."

  "Yeah. Only with Siberians."

  "Knock your shit off. You’ve had plenty of chances to make her yours. Shit, she was here for months of PT. Hell, even before that. You could have staked your claim, but you didn't. Instead, you were a fucking prick for who the fuck knows why. Sorry to say, brother, but this shit is on you." His words are a bitter pill to swallow, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit it.