Uncontrollable Temptations (Tempted #3)(3)

I frantically checked for a pulse.

Nothing.

“No, no, no,” I whispered hysterically, searching around for help. The car sped away, taking off down the street, no regard for my boy. I looked back toward my daughter.

“Lacey, call 911!”

She didn’t move. She was in shock. She just watched her baby brother get hit by a car.

She watched him die.

I closed my eyes and gathered my boy in my arms, rocking him softly. I stared up at the heavens and screamed for help.

Please God, hear me. Hear my cry for help.





Chapter One


Present Day





I ran my fingertips along the distressed wooden table as I walked around it, taking my seat at the top. This thing had seen better days, been around a long fucking time. My predecessor, Cain, had brought it into the compound when he first took the gavel. A piece he and his old man had built with their own hands. The guys busted my balls, time and again, to get rid of the thing, bitched about getting a splinter whenever we held church. I couldn’t part with it though. It was all I had left of the man who brought me into this club and gave me purpose.

Cain was the toughest motherfucker around but he had a soft spot for me. He was troubled himself, so he didn’t care too much that I was damaged goods. I used to think he took pity on me and that was why he made me a prospect. Truth was, it was unethical for a man in my condition to be a part of something as big as the Satan’s Knights. When it came time to patch me in, some brothers voted against it, they called me a liability. Cain didn’t give a fuck and encouraged the vote to go my way. It wasn’t until the man was on his deathbed that I learned he was my advocate because he saw a younger version of himself in me. He saw the good in me and not the shit that everyone else did.





I lifted the picture frame from my dresser and stared into the eyes of my boy. That’s all I had these days, a fucking lifeless photograph, a captured moment to get me through the rest of my life. No more memories to be made, experiences to be had, nothing but a picture that would wear one day. I would never see my boy look up at me again; never do all the things a father should do with his son.

I grabbed the orange prescription bottle from the dresser and turned toward my bed. I took a swig of the bottle of scotch I had nearly finished and sat at the foot of the bed. My loaded gun right beside me. I stared at the RX label and the one word that could have changed everything.

Lithium.

If I had listened to Connie, and yielded to the warnings, we’d still have Jack. I was too proud to get help; too worried people would think I was a pussy. I was a fucking biker that walked a thin line between right and wrong. I wasn’t some bitch who needed a shrink.

But I was.

I was a manic depressive.

I wasn’t the devil my mother thought I was. I was sick. I was a sick man who never sought treatment for his illness. The same illness that left me in a manic state the night my boy got hit by a car. I should’ve been paying attention to him. I should’ve been on medication.

But I wasn’t.

And he was dead.

It should’ve been me.

I dropped the prescription bottle, watched as it rolled across the carpeted floor and stopped once the door flew open and rolled back toward me. A leather boot stopped it from rolling and I lifted my hazy eyes to take in the man who had now picked up my medicine.

“Get out, Cain,” I growled, looking away and taking another swig of my bottle, my hand closing around the gun as I did.

He stood tall, around six foot three, and was a wall of muscle. He took a few shaky steps in my direction, grabbed onto the dresser to steady himself before his bloodshot eyes pierced me with a glare. He was fucked up. Not an unusual occurrence. Cain liked his drugs, didn’t limit himself to a particular one, shot anything you put in front of him through those veins of his.

We were a lot alike, both of us needed help but only one of us wound up getting it.

“You take your pills today?” He asked, as he leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms against his cut.

“I don’t need no babysitter,” I slurred. “Think I told you to leave, brother.”

“Think I’m the boss around here and I don’t take orders from anyone,” he retorted angrily, pausing for a moment. “What the fuck you doing, Bulldog?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Gonna ask you again, you take your pills?” He questioned hastily, walking toward me and grabbing the photo of my son.

I saw red.

I reached for my picture. He pulled back.

“Give me my fucking son back,” I hollered, lifting my gun and aiming it at him.

“Can’t give you your boy back, Jack. Wish like hell I could,” he replied calmly. He turned around and righted the frame, delicately fixing it so it rested on top of my dresser where it belonged. He turned around and stared back at me. “One more time Jack. Did you take your pills?”

“Yeah,” I ground out, dropping the gun to my side.

I didn’t need anyone to remind me of what I needed to do day after day. The hole in my heart was the reminder, my own personal alarm clock that alerted me every morning to take my medication.

“Good,” he replied, before tipping his chin toward my gun. “You got something happening you want me to rally up the boys for?”