Lethal Temptations (Tempted #5) Read Online Free

for the bugs the Feds plant when they are looking to send your ass to jail.
    That was the first of many memories I have of my dad losing his battle with his maker . His maker is his mind, and it reigns over everything. My father is Jack Parrish, president of the Satan’s Knights MC and he is a manic-depressive.
    He didn’t know at the time of Jack Jr.’s death he was mentally ill, and it wasn’t until after my little brother was buried six feet in the ground he sought help and was diagnosed.
    He blames himself for his death but it wasn’t his fault.
    It was mine.
    I stood there as Jack Jr. smiled and pointed at me.
    “Lala, look!”
    I should’ve run after him.
    I could’ve asked a neighbor to help.
    Something.
    Anything.
    Nothing.
    Instead, I stood there listening to my father shout at the demons in his head and watched as the car sped down the street.
    I want to believe that I called out to him, that, I shouted at the driver to stop but I remember nothing other than standing there and watching as the tires skidded across the tar and over my baby brother. I try to block out the last sound he made a shrill cry that rings over and over again in my ears until it fades to silence. The silence is worse though because it reminds me that when his cries faded so did his life.
    My father snapped out of it too late and when he made his way to Jack, he fell to the ground and cradled the child he lost.
    His maker won that day.
    And mine was born.
    Today would’ve been Jack’s fifteenth birthday. It’s also the one day a year my father goes off the grid, a day when he struggles to find the courage to end his life and be reunited with his son.
    It doesn’t matter I’m still here.
    And I suppose it shouldn’t.
    Because I let him die.
    I’m the reason my dad didn’t get to watch his little boy grow into a man.
    I’m also to blame for why my mom will never dance with her son.
    It’s my fault I’ll never hear him call me Lala again.
    I usually let my father have the day as I wait in agony for the moment one of his brothers comes knocking on my door to tell me that it’s over. Jack Parrish the toughest man I’ll ever know, has finally succumbed to his maker and is now at peace.
    Not today.
    Today I foolishly want to be enough. I wanted what I suppose any surviving child would want, and that was for him to look at me and realize I am still here and that I have been here for the last thirteen years wishing to be enough for him. Just once I wanted him to see me, just me.
    You’re selfish.
    You’re foolish.
    He’ll never see you.
    All he sees when he looks at you is the boy he lost and the girl he was left with.
    I lifted my eyes to the rear-view mirror and stared at the dark eyes reflected at me. I had my father’s eyes, identical in color and when you looked closely the pain in his eyes was mirrored in mine.
    I tore my gaze away, glancing out the window and stared at the Dog Pound, the Satan’s Knights clubhouse, the place where my father spent most of his days and nights. I slid out of the car, slamming the door behind me and beeping the alarm as I started for the compound. The parking lot was mostly empty, and I didn’t see my dad’s bike but my eyes zeroed in on the Harley parked in front of the clubhouse.
    The bike was as badass as its owner and just as beautiful too.
    Blackie, the tortured soul with a patch declaring him the vice president of the Satan’s Knights.
    My father’s right hand and his best friend.
    His brother .
    Blackie.
    He’d make me feel better.
    He always did.
    Always.

    I ripped the line of coke like a motherfucking champ, desperate to reverse the effects of the heroin. If there was any justice to be had, I’d suffer a fucking a heart attack as a result of mixing the uppers and downers but I wasn’t that lucky. There was a higher power that had my destiny all mapped out, he’d let me beat all the odds, keep me breathing just to torture me more.
    I pushed the remaining coke with a credit