WAR & MAYHEM: 8Ball (Book 6) SAMPLE

8BALL

You’d think I would have my life together by twenty-five. But I’m twenty-five, and let me tell you, I don’t.

Not even close.

Most people my age are figuring out careers or buying their first house, maybe settling into something resembling a plan.

But me? I was still clinging to a life patched together by loyalty, secrecy, and a lot of late nights hunched over screens.

My world was the Highway Jokers MC. My family, my past, my future—and lately, the cracks were starting to show.

It started last year, when Vinnie took the fall for the club.

Five years.

That was the sentence.

He went down without flinching, protecting all of us, buying time and silence. The cops backed off for a bit. But we knew it wouldn’t last. The moment they got wind of something else, something they could use, they’d be back.

And as if that wasn’t enough, we were hit with something worse. Something that had nothing to do with the law.

Mum.

She gathered us together. Dad, me, the club, the people who mattered, and told us.

Cancer.

It didn’t feel real at first. Mum had always been a force.

She was sharp, tough, louder than most of the guys, but with this quiet, grounded energy that kept everything steady. I watched her joke around with Thrasher, call bullshit in meetings, pull a roast lamb out of the oven like she’d just rolled off a bike herself—that was the woman I knew.

So hearing those words come out of her mouth felt like a betrayal from the universe itself.

Terminal. Aggressive. Already spread.

Dad tried to hide how much it gutted him, but he failed. The club was quiet for days. The weight of it hung over us like oil in water. It clung. It didn’t wash off.

But I didn’t have time to fall apart. Not when something was already going wrong in me too.

It had started gradually.

My blood sugar had been off for a couple of weeks, but I chalked it up to stress. I’d been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes when I was a kid. I knew how to manage it. I’d lived with the routines, the highs, the crashes.

But lately, things were…wrong.

The headaches were getting worse. Pressure behind the eyes. My mood was swinging so fast I didn’t recognize myself.

One second, I’d be keyed up and ready to fight, the next, I’d feel like crawling into a hole and disappearing. I was forgetting shit, and I never forgot things. My memory had always been sharp, probably sharper than most.

But last week, I left my insulin pen on the bathroom counter for two full days. Didn’t even realize until I was hit with a low that nearly dropped me in front of Saint and Redback.

And today?

Today was worse.

I’d been staring at code for hours in my dorm room at the clubhouse. The lines were blurring into one long, useless stream. My fingers were twitching, and I couldn’t remember what I was trying to fix.

The longer I sat there, the louder the pounding in my skull got. Like a drum, echoing right behind my eyes.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes on the ceiling, trying to blink through the fuzz. My hands were shaking. It felt like static had gotten into my veins.

I had to get out of there.

I stood too fast, swaying a little, and caught myself on the edge of the desk. My legs felt unsteady. My balance was off.

I tried to ignore it, walking out of the dorm and into the heart of the clubhouse. The familiar smells of leather, coffee, motor oil, and the faint scent of someone smoking a rollie outside hit me. I didn’t realize someone was calling my name until it was too late. My brain felt wrapped in cotton wool.

“8Ball!” someone said again.

I didn’t answer. I kept walking.

Thrasher was in his office. I could see him through the window, flipping through paperwork like the world wasn’t coming apart one page at a time.

The prospects were cleaning. Medusa was running point, taking care of things Mum used to handle. The club was moving, functioning, surviving.

But I wasn’t.

Outside, the air was sharp. Australia’s winter didn’t bring snow, but it brought wind that cut through your jacket and left your bones aching. Dark clouds twisted above the Bunbury coastline, heavy with thunder and the threat of rain.

I walked the dunes, my boots sinking slightly into the wet sand. The waves were rough today, crashing hard and foaming like the sea was pissed off.

I sank onto the sand, hands in my jacket pockets, and stared at the water. I always came here to think. To breathe. To feel human again.

But I didn’t feel human now.

My vision was going.

It started soft, like fog at the edges. Then sharper, like the color was draining from the world. My heart kicked. My fingers started curling without my permission.

No.

I knew this feeling. I hadn’t felt it in years, but it was unmistakable. The drop.

Low.

I patted down my pockets. Nothing.

I’d left my glucose tabs on the bike.

I was at least three minutes from it, and my legs were already losing feeling.

Shit.

I tried to stand. My knees buckled. The world tipped.

My heart stuttered. That wasn’t fear. It was the crash. The world went cold and distant, like I was sinking in slow motion. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by that horrible, cold sinking feeling that came with a full-blown diabetic seizure.

No, no, no—

I hit the sand again, this time hard.

My hands clawed at the ground involuntarily. My muscles jerked. One side of my body went tight, like I was trying to curl into myself. My brain was screaming instructions, but my body wasn’t listening.

My eyes fluttered. Static roared in my ears. I tried to shout, but my jaw locked.

The ocean rumbled.

My body jerked again, once, twice, and then everything started to flicker. Like bad footage on a loop. My own system glitching out.

Then…the sound of running shoes.

A voice.

Far away.

Female.

“Hey! Are you okay?!”

A shape. Red hair. Blurry.

More static.

Then darkness.