Finding Nirvana (Black Shamrocks MC, #5) Read online

  Also by Kylie Hillman

  Black Shamrocks MC

  Seizing Control

  Making Choices

  Seeking Redemption

  Tempting Fate

  Finding Nirvana (Coming Soon)

  Conquering Circumstances

  Soothing Suffering (Coming Soon)

  Standalone

  Brawl

  FINDING NIRVANA (BLACK SHAMROCKS MC #5)

  Copyright © 2016 Kylie Hillman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licenced for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: DyMi Ink Pty Ltd

  Cover Design: Designs by Dana

  Developmental Editing: Rose Vaden

  Line Editing: Tara Dawn at The Word Wenches

  Proofreading: Philena Heaney-Allen

  Images in Manuscript: ShutterStock

  Cover Images: DepositPhotos

  CONTENTS

  Playlist

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Newsletter Signup

  Playlist

  Brawl Sneak Peek

  Amnesia Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Contact Kylie

  Also by Kylie

  DISCLAIMER

  This story isn’t suitable for those who do not enjoy dark romance. It contains graphic depictions of potentially triggering events.

  Please consider yourself warned.

  However, if you chose to delve into this story, you will find that all issues are approached with sensitivity and real life reflections.

  This is the final book in the Black Shamrocks MC series. The four novels and two novellas that precede this book need to be read first to fully appreciate the story.

  PLEASE NOTE: As this story is set in Australia it is written in UK English.

  DEDICATION

  This story is for the people who never give up. The ones who’ve been hurt, the ones who are sick, the ones who are struggling. The people who, like me, had their life mapped out and were working their ass off to achieve their dreams, only to have something outside their control come along and stop them in their tracks.

  For me, it was Crohn’s Disease. It stole my career. It ruined my plans for raising my children. It tested my marriage. And, it taught me which people were in my life for what I could do for them and who loved me for me.

  Most of all, it taught me that I’m a survivor. Life can throw its worst at me, and I’ll grab it by the balls, turn it on its head, and find a way to keep on keepin’ on.

  To everyone who has only just begun their fight, or the ones who are in the middle of it, don’t give up. A better life can rise from the ashes.

  All you have to do is believe ... and work your ass off.

  PLAYLIST

  Music is my main inspiration. When I write my stories, I have a specific Spotify playlist that I listen to which sums up the emotions of the story.

  Feel free to follow Finding Nirvana’s playlist:

  SPOTIFY

  “A great battle is a terrible thing,” the old knight said, “but in the midst of blood and carnage, there is sometimes also beauty, beauty that could break your heart.” ~ George R. R. Martin ~

  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so it’s said. The day he walked—limped—into my clinic, there was no beauty to be found. Instead, a gigantic dark mass of rage hid his soulful blue eyes, perfectly symmetrical features, and full lips under a cloak of misery so dense that it stole the breath from my lungs. I took down his name, and he took a piece of my heart.

  My mum always says that I’m too quick to trust, too fast to give away my feelings. I can’t help it. Pain and suffering calls to me. It whispers my name, begging me to act as a salve to the unbearable ache that I can see them crumbling under.

  From the first moment I can remember, my touch has brought comfort. Whether it was my puppy when he injured his leg, my little sister when she grazed her knees, or my daughter who still looks to her mummy to kiss away the hurt—I’m the person who makes everything better.

  Until him. He confounded me; shook off my desire to care for him with an angry shrug that should have scared me into leaving him alone. It didn’t work, though. Because beneath his veneer of hostility, there’s a glimmer of something deeper. It’s easily identifiable to those who are adept at finding it.

  Hope. That’s what I see when he lets his guard drop.

  And, it’s what stops me from walking away when he begins snarling at the world.

  Life let me taste the sweetness it can offer—one time, long ago. The spark of interest that colours his cheeks when he looks at me. The hint of jealousy that narrows his eyes when I talk to his friends. The way he angles his body closer to mine when I’m near. They tell me two things.

  One. I’m responsible for the hope that’s growing in his gaze with each furtive glance in my direction.

  Two. This man is my last chance to grab the fleeting goodness that life has to offer.

  Because, together, we could do more than fall in love.

  We might find nirvana.

  A sharp bolt of agony travels from my knees to my hips. Thankfully, I broke nothing when I dropped to the ground next to my bleeding sister, although my relief is short-lived when she screams as I prod her in an effort to find the source of the dark, red liquid that’s pooling on the ground beneath her. Shifting so I can get out of her way when she reaches for Mad Dog’s hand, the sheer fury in the words that Maddi yells freezes the beating of my heart. It stops. Dead in its tracks. Unable to cope with the bloodbath that surrounds us.

  “This is wrong. It’s my goddamned wedding day. It’s not supposed to end like this.”

  The unfairness of the situation is clear. What I can do to help is not. The hand she’s holding belongs to her more-than-likely, close-to-death—or dead—husband of fifteen minutes, not even two metres away, her best friend lies unmoving over his family, while just beyond him our cousin lays dead. Wha
t used to be his chest is sprayed over the ground in front of him; the knees of his sobbing father—my uncle—kneeling in the remnants of his only child. Around him, the rest of the Shamrocks women scream, and the few men who are still standing search the yard for clues to whether the attack is over.

  Lacey falls to the ground beside me, finally able to come in answer to my wild beckoning. Her eyes are wide, filled with the same emotions that I imagine she’d find reflected in mine.

  Disbelief. Urgency. Sorrow.

  “Are they alive?” she shoots the question at me, then ducks her head to brace herself for the answer. The couple in front of us aren’t moving, except for the minute rise and fall of their chests.

  “I think s—”

  My reply is cut off when another explosion erupts. The row of Harley’s that line the front fence lift off the ground and then burst into flames, sending everyone scattering. This time we have no leadership to tell us what to do, and it’s apparent as everyone takes off in different directions.

  We are sitting ducks.

  And, the snipers who have us in their sight know this.

  “Get down,” I growl at Lacey, pushing her by the shoulders until she’s on the ground next to Maddi. “Play dead.”

  Sparing my suddenly cooperative hands a quick glance, I force myself to my feet. I need a weapon and I need to find out who’s left to form some sort of a defence with me. No sooner has that thought taken hold in my mind when it’s sent spiralling to the dark recesses of my brain.

  I spot three men, all dressed in black. One is positioned on top of the Clubhouse, the second partially hidden in one of the alcoves built into the eight-foot-tall concrete fence that surrounds the compound. That’s bad enough. But, it’s the third guy, who turns my blood to ice.

  He has his rifle pointed at Benji. My brother is distracted; his attention focussed on Viking and our younger brothers. He’s frantically gesturing for Matty and Lachie to help Mad Dog’s ailing father into the workshop. Over the shrill cries, and the gruff voices that are trying to take control, I can hear my brother taking charge—all the while, oblivious to the threat that’s bearing down on him.

  “Get in the shed, and, get the fuck down. Don’t look out the windows.” My feet have a mind of their own, heading in my brother’s direction before I decide to. The limp that normally slows me is curiously absent as I watch the third sniper lean closer to his scope and line Benji up. My brother’s still yelling orders as I close the distance between us.

  My throat has seized up, the warning that I need to provide not coming. One step. Two step. I open my mouth and yell louder than I ever have in my life. “BENJI! SNIPER!”

  He spins toward me, turning his back on our little brothers. His mouth—the one that’s been responsible for some of the greatest one-liners I’ve ever heard—drops open when he sees me gaining on him. My right arm lifts in an attempt to show him where the sniper is, only to fall uselessly to my side when the sound of a shot being fired rings out and a perfectly round, bright red circle appears in the dead centre of his forehead.

  Benji drops to his knees. The surprise that was on his face disappearing as his expression turns blank and his life comes to an end. He slumps forward, falling face first on the concrete driveway. I stumble over my own feet and land next to him. My hands raise just in time for me to brace for impact, then I roll onto my side next to my dead brother and look up at the cloudless, blue sky.

  For a second I close my eyes and hope to hell that this is all a dream. Opening them, I’m met with the shocked faces of my two little brothers and Kyle leaning over me. Matty begins to speak, only to be drowned out by the staccato sound of an automatic rifle echoing off the surrounding buildings.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  One. Two. Three.

  Matty. Lachie. Kyle.

  One by one, my blood brothers and our adopted brother fall to the ground beside me.

  Everyone I love. My sister. My cousin. My brothers. Gone.

  The shooting stops, a deathly silence taking its place. I turn on my side, determined to find another survivor. Instead, I see nothing but rivers of red. The blood of my family running down the concrete driveway and pooling together as a manmade tribute to the carnage that I just played witness to.

  I lower my eyelids again. Please God, let this be a dream. I lift them, only to be greeted by the same sight.

  Nope, it’s definitely not a dream.

  With effort, I roll onto my side. I don’t quite manage it as my shoulder hits a warm body lying next to me. Gritting my teeth, I pray for patience. I don’t need to open my eyes to know who’s snuck into my bed in the middle of the night—just like I don’t have to check the recliner in the corner of my bedroom. The person who’s light snoring I can hear from that direction is the same one who’s been there since the sniper attack at the Shamrocks Clubhouse.

  “Lacey.” My soft tone belies my annoyance. “What are you doing here again?”

  The curvy blonde doesn’t answer me. She snuggles into my back, sliding an arm around my waist, and running a small hand over my morning wood. I didn’t think it was possible to grind my teeth harder until they started making a sound that sends shivers up my spine. Gripping her wrist, I pull it away from my cock, and try my hardest to ignore the way the usual shaking in my hand seems to be worse this morning.

  “Benji,” Lacey mutters in her sleep. My irritation ramps up another notch at the mention of my dead brother. “Don’t go.”

  “Lacey.” This time, I speak louder. There’s a sharpness in my voice that would make me feel bad if I let it. Except, I don’t. There’s nothing in this world that could make me feel worse than I already do. Kicking my legs out, I manage to stand. My movements wake the lump that’s snoozing in my armchair, and Kyle springs to his feet as if an attack is imminent.

  He makes a hiss, then cradles his arm against his chest, so he can take the pressure off the still-healing bullet wound in his shoulder. Lacey, for her part, seems to stay asleep, despite the racket that the lanky giant’s making.

  “Kyle,” I grumble his name as I shuffle my way toward my ensuite. He nods. Two red spots growing in his cheeks, making his face almost match the colour of his hair. “I’m not Benji. Never have been. Never will be. Both of you need to stop sneaking into my room in some desperate attempt to stay close to him.”

  “I can’t,” Lacey’s wobbly voice halts my tirade. “You’re exactly like him. It helps me.”

  My shoulders lift as I drag in a deep breath. I let it out between barely parted lips. It does nothing to calm the black ball of rage that lives in my stomach, but it does give me enough patience not to kick the now-crying woman out of my bedroom.

  Turning to face her, I have to hold my arms out at my side to keep my balance. This display of weakness pisses me off further, so my retort comes out even harsher than intended. “I don’t care. The last thing I need is my dead brother’s woman in my bed and his best friend sleeping in my chair. Get help elsewhere. I’m done.”

  With determined steps, I head for my bathroom. I pretend that I can’t hear Lacey sobbing or Kyle trying to calm here. As I’m about to close the door, I throw extra salt into their wounds.

  “Don’t you two need to get ready. We have funerals to finalise.”

  I press the door closed, then lean my back against it. It’s been three weeks since the ambush, and everyone is healed enough to be released from hospital. It’s time to bury our dead tomorrow. My chest tightens, hampering my ability to breath. You’d think that I’d be more at peace with what happened by now; yet, it still feels like we lost them yesterday.

  Looking in the mirror that’s on the wall opposite me, I try to ignore the familiar face staring back. It’s impossible. From the silky black locks of hair that sit atop my head, to the straight nose and sharp cheekbones, right down to the full lips and the five o’clock shadow that seems to be present no matter how often I shave, the similarities are hard to deny. My brother stares back at me every time I loo
k at myself; a stark reminder of what I’ve lost—and what I’ll never be.

  Because, the face might be the same, but the crippled hands and lame leg are not. The world lost the original and the best to a bullet that would have been better suited to me. The useless, broken version that’s never going to be capable of taking his place.

  I’m the carbon copy that got irreparably damaged in the process.

  I’ll never be a substitute for the loss of Benji.

  So, they all need to leave me the hell alone.

  ***

  “Talk to me, Angel. Tell me how you feel?”

  Squaring my shoulders, I walk into the hospital room with Kyle and Lacey hot on my heels, and straight into the Shamrocks version of Days of our Lives. In spite of the sling that’s holding one of his arms immobile and the massive amount of bandaging that binds his bare chest, Mad Dog has managed to sneak out of his bed and into Maddi’s. He has her cradled against his good side while everyone else is crowded around them cooing our whatever she’s holding in her hand. Matty and Lachie’s beds have been pushed closer to our sister’s so they can see what’s going on.

  Don’t ask me how many favours he needed to call in to make it happen, but my crazy-ass brother-in-law managed to organise for my family to share a six bed hospital room. He also arranged to have the remainder of the injured Shamrocks put into the room next to this one. I guess being part of an outlaw motorcycle club has its perks—you know, other than watching most of your family being gunned down in front of you.

  “How do you think, Mik?” Maddi’s voice is strained. I can tell that she’s teetering on the edge of losing her shit, and trying real hard not to do it with an audience. “Twins. It’s as if the universe is comforting me and mocking me, all at once.”

  I step closer, like a moth drawn to a flame. Timber looks down at me from his abnormal height as he lets me past, sympathy all over his face. Leaning against his chest is JJ. She has their baby in her arms and a glint in her eye that screams her disillusionment with the people in the room. When the crowd parts to let me through to the side of the bed, I realise that she is the only outsider. Every one of us has a dog in this race—except JJ. She’s here simply because of Timber, and if the aura I just read around her is telling the truth, he might not be enough to hold her if the danger doesn’t dissipate quickly.