Joker (Hell's Ankhor #8) - Aiden Bates

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Joker

I leaned back against the sturdy tree trunk with a sigh and paused in my whittling, running my thumb over the emerging shape I was uncovering—not planning anything, just familiarizing myself with the edges and angles of the wood. I didn’t need to look at the shape, not really. Feeling it out always ended in better results.

A cool gust of wind whipped through the backyard, raising goosebumps along the back of my neck. It was early fall, and I tugged my leather jacket a little tighter around my shoulders. Cooler weather meant a lot more parties—especially at the Hell’s Ankhor clubhouse with its big backyard.

Right. Not Hell’s Ankhor anymore. Hell’s Ankhor Crew. The Liberty Crew hadn’t just patched into Hell’s Ankhor—we’d combined the two into one big, equal club. I could spend as much time as I wanted in the Crew Motel, if the urge hit. But it didn’t feel quite like home, not as much as the clubhouse did.

Though, the clubhouse had started to feel a little less welcoming these days, too.

I pushed the thought from my mind. I’d told myself I would at least try to have a good time at this ‘family day.’

And there certainly was a lot more family here than I was used to. Family days weren’t like the raucous parties we usually had—or, well, used to have. Instead, they included members, old ladies and old men, relatives, and occasionally specifically invited friends. Closed-door. No outsiders, no citizens.

This was a big event, but casual. No volleyball net strung up today. Instead Blade had brought out the big-ass firepit and every mismatched lawn chair we had. Priest and Mal were running the recently upgraded massive grill with surprising ease, with occasional help from Gunnar and Raven.

Jonah and Maverick were closely watching the dog, Gretel—she was getting big now—who was patiently standing in place while baby Grace pulled herself up with her little hands fisted in Gretel’s fur. Star, Siren, and Nix were lighting marshmallows on fire half-intentionally, much to Beau’s chagrin. Tru was cackling. And those were only the people I could see—more members were milling around inside and on the porch.

It was nice.

Right?

Grace wobbled on her little legs, then fell backward onto her butt on the blanket spread out on the soft grass. She looked up at Jonah and Maverick inquiringly, and they smiled, and at their reaction she started to laugh.

It was all so—

So fucking normal.

It made my heart hurt a little bit. When I’d patched into Hell’s Ankhor three years ago, I thought I’d finally found the family I’d never really had. Or at least, hadn’t had since Parker. But this was a little different than the club I’d patched into. We used to throw these big ragers—throw open the doors, get drunk, get laid on any flat surface with another member or a club bunny who happened to show up for a good time.

Those parties didn’t happen anymore. And no wonder—everywhere I looked there was a couple.

I didn’t know how to do this shit. How to stand around a barbeque and shoot the shit about the weather or the traffic or little Timmy’s baseball league. Like everyone else in the club had suddenly decided it was time to move on, grow up, and left me behind. I’d thought the club was a place where I finally wouldn’t have to change to be accepted. But now, the cracks I made that used to get laughs were falling flat. I was back to being an annoyance. An irritation.

I’d served my purpose in the club, and now I was getting left behind, again.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

I flipped open my knife again and started shaving the raw edge of the wood. I’d whittled ever since I was a kid, and I hardly needed my eyes to do it at all—I could carve by feel alone. And it kept my hands occupied.

I scanned the backyard again. I was getting a little too in my head, a little too frustrated—this happened sometimes, when I was left to my own devices too long. I needed to distract myself. And if this wasn’t a fuckin’ family day, I’d find someone to get laid, but with this wholesome fall-carnival atmosphere, that seemed pretty unlikely.

At least, that’s what I thought until the back door of the clubhouse swung open, and a pair of familiar brown work boots stomped onto the deck.

Brown work boots, faded, fitted jeans, tapered waist, broad shoulders, tattooed forearms—and then that big, charming smile. Stubble