Edge Of Darkness (Arrow's Edge MC #2) - Freya Barker Page 0,1

but keeps his eyes on me the whole time.

“I didn’t ask. They were busy today and besides, it’s not like I have a ton. I could manage.” I swear he snorts, but I can’t be sure since he has the bottom half of his face covered with his big hand. “I appreciate your help though,” I quickly add.

The only response I get is a grunt. Then he raps his knuckles on the doorway and with a chin lift, turns on his heel and heads down the stairs, disappearing under the overhang.

Okay, so nix the hot chocolate I was about to offer him. So much for a friendly conversation over a hot beverage.

It’s almost midnight by the time I have my sparse belongings put away and arranged the way I like them. The rain outside has stopped and I peek out the living room window to the river across the road. One of the many perks of this unit: hardwood flooring throughout, an updated kitchen complete with island, and a fabulous view of the Animas River.

The water is choppy and even by the light of the odd streetlight; I can see it streaming by. It reminds me of the creek running beside my old cabin back home.

I’m about to close the blinds when I hear an engine start up. A lone motorcycle crosses the parking lot and pulls out into the street. Its deep rumble still audible after the biker disappears from sight.

Yuma

I ride whenever temptation looms and it sure as fuck does tonight.

For the past three months, I’ve stayed in the small apartment off the office. I would sleep at the club, where I have a room, or at my place up the mountain, if I didn’t think being at either of those places would send me right back down the hole I’m just climbing out of.

Some days everything is a temptation, even a hot fucking cop.

That’s another thing I’ve gone cold turkey on—women. Or maybe I should say sex in general, since I’m afraid there were times I wasn’t that discriminate. Sex and booze have gone hand in hand since I was a teenager. Part of that was growing up in an MC, where morals were loose and the law wasn’t something we concerned ourselves with.

Things have changed in the past twelve or so years, since my dad handed Ouray the gavel. Fuck, was I pissed. I’d grown up the crown prince, thought my future was cemented by merit of my father’s reign over the club. I played it off as a responsibility I didn’t want—being president—but it stung.

Fuck that, it killed.

If I cared before, I certainly didn’t give a shit after. The knowledge expectations were low anyway; I didn’t even bother trying to change them. What was the point?

Momma got shot last year. Her body healed, but her mind started sliding. I got injured myself, not long after. The club was hit hard and everyone was pulling their weight to keep us afloat. Everyone except me, that is. I was too busy numbing myself with Jack and whatever else I could get my hands on.

Then one morning, I woke up and happened to catch the date on my phone. My birthday. My fortieth birthday. Fuck, when did that happen? My eyes were bloodshot in the bathroom mirror and I looked like death warmed over. Forty years old and I was fucking drinking myself into an early grave.

I got scared that morning four months ago. So scared, I drove myself to the club, still drunk, and asked for help. By nighttime, Trunk had me on a plane to Denver where I spent sixty days in an addiction treatment center. The worst part of getting sober is discovering how low you’ve really sunk.

Coming home had been fucking torture. Everyone eyeing you like any minute you were going to fall off the wagon. Careful with what they say around you. Fucking awkward as hell. I jumped at the chance to take over the Riverside Apartments, needing something to keep me busy. Nights are tough, though. Momma used to say idle hands are the devil’s playground; and I’ve never understood it as well as I do now.

I went to one AA meeting when I first came back, but sitting there, listening to everyone’s goddamn sob story, had only made me more depressed. I haven’t been back since.

Then the other night I found myself sitting at the bar at The Irish, ordering a shot. Fuck, that smell had my hands shaking. As some