Free Always (Wesson Rebel M.C. Series) by Shyla Colt Page A

thi nk you’re ready to be king?”
    He has asked this question so many times, I’m tired of hearing it. “Did I say I was?” I whisper.
    His head s snaps back like I punched him.
    “If I decide to go f or your crown, you’ll know it.” My chest heaves and heat engulfs my face. My mind is a mixed bag of anger, regret and fear. Fight or flight sets in.
    “You want to come at me right now? I dare you.”
    My body shakes and for a minute, all I can see is everything he’s ever put me through. The back handed compliments, hazing and mental abuse. I clench my jaw, ball my fists and prepare to unleash the hell locked within, festering as it rots me from the inside out.
    The air between us is char ged. He squares his shoulders. The sound of his phone going off is a crisis-ending intervention. He pulls the phone out of his pocket and gives me his back. “Rule.” 
    His shoulder s slump and I know we just lost Torch.
    “When? Yeah.” He releases a large sigh. “I’ll let the brothers know.”
    My stomach is a whirl pool. The remnants of my last meal swirl around in a circular motion, climbing their way back up towards my throat. I take a step back toward the door.
    My father turns around. There’s pity in his gaze , along with sorrow. “Torch is gone.” 
    With those three wor ds, my world is turned on its side. I was the one in charge of this run. This is on me. I think of his old lady and his two–year-old, Tommy. I turn on my heel and walk out.
    “Dallas.”
    My father’s voice is background music as I stroll to the bar and snap my fingers at the blonde behind the counter. “Whiskey bottle now.”
    She scurries over to the shelf, grabs a bottle of top grade and sets it in front of me.
    I snatch it off the counter , unscrew the top and take a healthy swallow. The burn is welcome and necessary to keep me from knocking someone’s head off. My father steps out of his office and I walk to my room. I don’t want to hear the news a second time, or share this moment with other mourners.
    The bottle is half gone when a knock sounds on my door twenty minutes later.
    “ Dall, it’s Danny.”
    Only my baby brother would risk my wrath right now. “Good for you,” I slur.
    “Fuck. Are you drunk?”
    I laugh. “You think?”
    The doorknob turns and the door opens slowly.
    He knows me well enough. I’m not a happy drunk when I don’t want to be bothered.
    He steps into the room. “Hey, you okay? We all heard about Torch.”
    Do you think I’m okay? I got my best friend killed out there. “I’m solid.” I raise my bottle. “To Torch! May he rest in peace.” The words are acid on my burn. I take another swig to wash away the sting with a different type of fire.
    “You don’t look solid.”
    “Then you must have something wrong with your eyes.”
    His face lines with irritation. He always wants to be touch feely, it’s like we don’t come from the same gene pool. He’s never had to deal with the harshness from Dad, not as the baby. That’s an honor that falls solely to me. The bitterness wells up, turning my mouth sour and I take another drink. This is all the medicine I need. My soul is weeping. But I can’t let it show, it’s not the Wesson way. I can’t be a pussy on top of being a failure. My father’s words haunt me. This is on you. My hand clutches the bottle tighter.
    “You need to talk to— ”
    “Danny?” I meet his gaze. “Get the fuck out.”
    He opens his mouth again to speak.
    I bare my teeth. “Did you fucking hear me?”
    “This isn’t you, this is Dad.”
    It’s the wrong thing to say. My mind goes blank. The bottle explodes against the wall beside him before I even register I’ve thrown it. 
    He jumps back. “Jesus Christ, Dallas! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
    I stare him down.
    “Fine…shit.” He backs out of the room and slams the door behind him.
    Exhausted , I fall back on my bed, remembering all the things Torch and I shared over the years. The liquor is