“Fuck off, pansy.” Daemon sneered. “I bet you’d love a fuck up the ass.”
Because he knew he couldn’t beat Ryder down with his fists, he always cut him with his tongue instead. My adopted brother’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he threw his head back and laughed. “You offering? Ain’t no man born I'd leave standing alive if he tried to stick his dick up my ass. So back off, asshole.” Ryder turned to me. “Can’t wait till I’m old enough to come along. Mexico sounds good.”
My old man laughed. “You stick to Mexican take-outs a bit longer. Your turn will come soon enough.”
Ryder grinned, pride evident on his face. “I can ride as good as any other motherfucker. Razor and Hammer have been teaching me. They say I’m a natural.”
Daemon pointed a finger at Ryder. “A natural disaster—that’s what you are,” he snickered. “You think everyone here loves you, don’t ya? Well news flash, juvie boy, I hate your fucking guts. And if my old man takes you to Mexico before me, you’re all going to be sorry as fuck. That I’m promising you all today.” The glare filled with enough hatred to detonate a bomb that he passed from one person to the other caused a chill to run through me, as if someone had just walked over my grave.
Although I was no fucking angel, I shuddered at the thought that it could just as easily have been me born that way—evil seeping from my pores, hatred from my breath, maliciousness my intent.
I prayed with every fiber in my being to be spared such a vile life. I needed someone to help keep me from turning to the dark side, because I knew somewhere deep inside me, it was lurking . . . bubbling under the surface . . . just as surely as it was ruling my twin’s life. We shared the same DNA, for fuck’s sake. If I gave in to it, I’d become just like him.
I’d rather die at my own hand than be like Daemon.
Mercy was all that separated us.
Mercy. And a very thin line called humanity.
Chapter 2 — Cobra
One month later
“Fuck it’s hot in this godforsaken place.” My eyeballs scorched in the sun and not even my sunglasses could keep the glare out. Crows squawked lazily from a distance, their long drawn-out caws the only sound besides the whirring of a fan on the wide porch.
“This is no place for a pale-skinned man. I fucking curse every time I come to Mexico, swearing I ain’t coming back. And here I am.” My old man poured water from a bottle down the back of his neck in a vain attempt to cool down. Fanning himself with his wet shirt, he grimaced as sweat trickled from his forehead into his eyes, cursing as he wiped the sweat with the back of his hairy arm.
I chuckled under my breath. Earlier I’d done the same and the salty sweat from my damp skin had burned my eyes more. That was when I’d tied the bandana across my forehead, to catch the droplets of perspiration and prevent them from rolling into my eyes.
So far what I’d seen of Mexico was less than impressive. Old broken-down vehicles lined the dirt road to our destination, a graveyard of rusted metal stripped from all the parts that once made up cars and trucks.
My ass still hurt from the hours on the motorcycle and my skin and lips felt like sandpaper from the lashing of the wind and the sun baking them. Cagey, I sat back in the squeaky chair on the porch of a farmhouse in the middle of the desert, and watched as tumbleweed rolled across the dirt in a warm breeze. A dog barked, then yelped before shutting up.
“Sure as hell don’t know why I was so damn excited to come on this trip with you and the brothers. Don’t think I’ll ever be back. Once is enough.” I smiled wryly. “Next time, bring Daemon—he’s so fucking eager to make the ride and string along.”
The sooner I got out of this fucking place, the better. Coming to Mexico wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
“You’re sure about that? You want me to teach Daemon instead of you? Don’t be so quick to decide.” My old man leaned forward and gave me a pat on the back, his eyebrows lifted as he stared me in the eyes. “I need someone I can trust to run this operation, Son. And I don’t trust Daemon like I trust you. I’m getting too old for this shit . . . I don’t wanna do long bike rides for much longer. I’m skin and bones since your mother died and my ass gets lame on that fucking seat.” He coughed into his fist. “And now with this fucking cancer, well . . .”
I didn’t want to think about Malone’s disease ripping him from my life. My eyes narrowed as I scrutinized his face. The wear and tear of a rough life had taken its toll on the man and I was shocked to admit he was right. He likely had a few more trips in him before it became too difficult. My heart beat furiously, hammering against my ribs. That was why he’d wanted me to come. He wanted to introduce me—the next Scorpio Stinger president—to the Mexicans so that he could retire from the long ride. It all made sense now.