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Smoke clouds and engines revving fill the night air. Smack in the center of it all is the clubhouse that I crossed enemy lines for. Compared to others, it’s actually quite impressive. It’s still a clubhouse, though, no matter how much the Prez here pretties it up. Thirty bikes parked out front advertise that loud and clear. That, and the club whores lounging around the big open front porch, just waiting to get hauled off to a room--or a bush.
I glance up at the sky and suppress all the shit I’m feeling. Tonight, the stars have lost their time to shine. My people are just as bad when they’re in a mind to party. There’s nothing wrong with that, but there’s also nothing wrong with appreciating the world we’re in--and the sky above--either.
Watching all the men walking around in their cuts makes me miss mine. Truth be told, I grew up in leather and I’m more than a little naked without it. But it is what it is. I didn’t have a choice. I had to leave it home if I was planning to live longer than five seconds past the gate.
The Hands of God Motorcycle Club run this territory, pushing their Christian bullshit on everyone. They preach ‘Adam and Eve--not Adam and Steve’, park their bikes at abortion clinics to scare off anyone making a choice, all while demanding each of their members get born again. And in their free time, they share their women and shove coke up their noses because their own rules don’t apply to them.
Every MC--including my own--has their own core values or code of conduct to live by. HOGs just happen to be racist, sexist, antisemetic--you name it. I say, save the politics for politicians and the riding for bikers.
Can I dance that dance? Yes.
Do I like it? Not particularly.
I’d rather get down to some simple ‘live and let live.’ I don’t give a shit about what color or creed you are, just your loyalty and ability to follow orders. There is money to be made, bikes to be riding, and roots to be setting down.
You see, I’m in the market for a place to call my own but in order to get to my promised land, I gotta put a whole army of zealot assholes six feet under first.
I took over my cousin’s old crew--Oden’s Army--to do it, too. I inherited enough good men, and plenty of not-so-good ones to make it possible. I renamed us the Hell’s Heathens MC because I knew from day one our biggest enemies were the HOGs.
“I got a bad feeling about this,” my Veep, Butch, says in my ear. He’s not too keen on the idea of infiltrating enemy territory.
Too bad. I refuse to miss the opportunity to know my enemy better. Standing between me and this lush territory is a man by the name of Bellagio. He runs the Hands of God--got his name for his unhealthy love of gambling. I know it sounds like it wouldn’t be much to put this fuck up down.
Unfortunately, his enforcer is legendary--goes by the name Berserker. He used to be part of a crew called the Valhalla Riders before he followed some pussy to join the HOGs. Word is, he settled down with kids and stayed on the payroll.
It’s not an uncommon story for skilled men in our world, doesn’t make things any easier though. I could run at this full force and half cocked or I could take my time. I’m in no rush to bash my face against a shield wall. Instead, I’d rather take my time and find the weaknesses.
Not in any mood for my Veep’s shit, I growl under my breath, “Then you’d better watch my six.”
“But, Cycl-”
“Can it,” I cut him off. I can’t have anyone hearing my name, not while I’m posing as a nobody. I’m not as established in these parts, but my name is known regardless. At least, my club name--Cyclops--is. I’m not half blind or nothing, just nearly. I caught a piece of glass to the eye on one of my first scuffles and even though I made a recovery, the name stuck. Sigtryggr is what my momma blessed me with, but I’m not much of a family man so having an old lady walking around calling me by it isn’t likely.
Butch clears his throat and nods his head. I lead the way because I doubt we would have ever made it past the gate if it was up to him to take the initiative.
“Hey, baby.” A red head slinks off a bike toward me. “You looking for your momma?”
She sees my age. Which, I can’t blame her for. Without my cut, I look it. I rose through the ranks rather quickly--hard living does that to a kid. Needless to say, I’ve had to prove myself quite a bit. I’ve also learned when not to. This chick is not getting my time of day. Maybe she thinks she’s being funny, pointing out a ‘baby’ in the crowd. Or maybe she’s got her wires crossed and she’s actually warding who she thinks is an innocent off. Regardless, I won’t let her rile me into a pissing match to save pride.
“No, just some company,” I lie, because despite the bullshit she’s pulling, a red blooded man like myself not down to fuck would be suspicious.
She glances away, as if the offer made her uncomfortable. What kind of club whore is she? “Sorry, sugar. I only blow fully patched in brothers. Come back with a cut and we’ll talk.”
She’s lying. There was too much bravado in her words to be true. Luckily, I don’t care, because I’m about as interested in putting it to this woman as I am getting a haircut. Keeping up the appearance otherwise, I say, “A few more drinks with a couple more hits, and I bet I can change your mind.” I wink, because I’m a charmer like that.
She blinks at me a few times, trying to tell if I’m crazy or not, then when she decides I’m harmless, she throws her head back to laugh. I take that as my cue to leave, Butch trailing behind. In just twenty more steps, we’re over the threshold to the main room. A smog of tobacco and weed makes it hard to recognize anyone at first, but it doesn’t take long before I see the motley crew of who has to be Berserker’s men hanging in the back corner.
I send Butch to the bar to grab us each a beer, and linger on the fringes, slowly advancing. I know these men only by reputation, Nuke, Hatchett, Padre, and Boner. Each one of them have more than earned the one percent patch on their cuts, but together, their kill count is off the charts. Word is Hatchett keeps quicklime in his bike’s saddlebags at all times just in case.
I’m no fool. I know that just killing Berserker isn’t enough. I’m gonna need to put an end to his men too. Loyalty is a bitch like that.
A beer hovers in front of me, announcing Butch’s return. I take it and tip my head to him. “Seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Jukebox’s playing shit tonight?”
Good thing he remembered our code. “Mmhm,” I confirm.
His eyes follow mine and I can tell the second he recognizes someone. Butch has been in a scrape or two with Hatchett and Boner before. It’s been a bit, so him not wearing his cut--and that we chopped off all his hair--might be disguise enough. Not that I’m interested in taking the chance.
“Wonder if there’s any live entertainment?” I say, letting him know to stay put and out of sight while I take a stroll.
I doubt I’ll see much, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t check. The house is one big continuous party from room to room as if the walls between everyone don’t exist. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ comes on and people drunkenly slur the lyrics in unison, all thinking about a stint on the road that’s gone too long before.
On my right, I turn to the muffled sound of a scuffle. Nuke has a prospect by the arm and he’s grinning so wide, all his teeth are showing. “Ssss-sorry,” the man stammers.
Nuke laughs and pulls him in tighter. “Not yet, but you will be.”
The man shakes his head, his eyes wide. This guy must have screwed up somehow. Out of the corner of my eye I see the redhead cut through the crowd, her hands go to his shoulders. Her voice is lower and hard to hear under all the noise, but it’s obvious she’s trying to find out what’s going on too.
Nuke bellows out, “He called me by my christian name.”
“So what?” She asks, but the look in her eyes gives her away. First she was trying to save little old me from coming inside, and now this guy from getting his arm broke. Does she know she’s in a MC?
“Only my woman calls me that,” he explains, one of his hands going over hers, the other one still firmly locked on the man’s. Nuke turns to stare the man in his face as he says, “You saying you’re my woman now?”
I stifle a chuckle of my own as the guy’s face goes white.
The redhead pulls her hand out from under his and slaps Nuke on the back of the head. “Be nice.”
He lets the man go, pretending to wince before he laughs and pulls her into his lap. However stupid the man was, he seems to regain his senses and run. “What’s the matter, Babe? You don’t want the competition,” Nuke teases.
That rubs her wrong because she struggles to get up. “Fuck you, Nuke !” She spits his name in his face, determined not to use his christian one. Though she didn’t correct me when I thought she was a club whore, there’s definitely more going on here.
“Oh Eadith, come on!” He argues. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
She manages to get up and whirls back around on him. “Seriously just shit or get off the pot already. I’m tired of this in between bullshit! I’m yours or I’m not.”
“Eadith!” He calls after her but she’s already lost through the crowd.
Apparently, Nuke has commitment issues. I’m not sure how that information will be useful later, but I’ll note it regardless.
The guy who must be Padre--if the little white square in his collar is anything to go by--hands him a shot and the long look on his face does not disappear. Looks like Nuke’ll be tying one on tonight, best I get moving so I don’t end up caught in crosshairs just for being in the room. Never trust a man who handed his heart to a woman for safe keeping--they are desperate and irrational, just trying to survive the predicament they put themselves in. Giving your heart away is the surest way to get it crushed because there’s no tighter grip than a woman who wants more.
Have I mentioned I don’t deal with family?
I turn a corner and stop dead. A tiny little thing with soft blue eyes and dirty blond hair is giving lip to an older woman towering over her and something about the sight is rooting me in place. The older woman has dark hair and too much makeup and she’s not any taller than any other woman, but against this little bit, she seems almost giant. I hang back beside a keg so I don’t stand out, because I can’t seem to take my eyes off the little one.
Her whole body tenses as she scowls. “I don’t care! I’m not for sale.”
Instead of being disappointed to hear that, I find myself smirking. I like that she’s feisty--not afraid to tell someone how it is.
“It’s not like that,” the bigger one tries--unsuccessfully--to soothe. “No one’s saying you’re a whore. No one would dare.”
The little one turns and growls, “You’re goddamned right, A.”
“All I’m saying,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Is that it would go a long way toward smoothing things over and making life a little easier on your father.”
“My father fights his own battles, or did you forget who he is?”
Now I’m curious. She said it with such conviction that I wonder if I know the guy.
The woman--A--draws a deep breath, like she’s trying to find some patience with the fierce little beauty. “I know your daddy, Stiorra-”
So the little wildcat has a name…
“More than most.”
Stiorra scoffs.
A rolls her eyes. “Which is why I know he won’t make you. Even though it's the best option.”
Stiorra purses her lips. “I’m not putting out for some grey-haired, saggy-balled douchebag just because he has some pull with Bell.”
Bell? She must mean Bellagio. Is that who her daddy is? No, he’s too young to have a kid this--my eyes look her up and down-- mature.
“Fang isn’t that old,” A says under her breath, and looks away, doing a piss-poor job of sounding convinced herself. “Besides, he’s pretty liberal with his women. You could do whatever you wanted.”
Stiorra’s fist clenches at her side and I wonder if she’s about to strike. “If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.”
“Hey, me coming to you instead of your daddy, is me respecting you.”
“Bullshit.”
All the good nature drips from A’s face. “Look, Princess. Everyone needs to do their part. It’s about time you do yours.”
“Fuck off.” Stiorra waves her hand dismissively, not in the least concerned.
‘A’ glares back before turning on her heel and leaving.
A couple of seconds pass before Stiorra says to no one in particular, “You can come out now, whoever you are.”
I freeze for a moment. Is she talking to me?
“What’s the matter?” She pulls a pouty face and looks in my direction. “Is the big bad prospect too scared to come out and play? Rather eavesdrop all night?”
She’s too pretty not to take the bait. I step out from behind the keg I was leaning not-so-casually against. I give her the Who? Me? Look. “What makes you think I’m a prospect?” I ask, looking for any reason to keep her talking.
“No patch, no cut--could see that clear as day, even if you were hiding yourself back there.”
There’s no point trying to deny it, and I kind of like that she knows I was watching. She doesn’t seem overly put out by it either, so I start to fancy the idea she might have even liked it a bit. Hell, I know a lot of ladies who have taken a shine to me--maybe she appreciated the view.
“You get a good earful?” She asks, breaking me from my musings.
I play dumb. “Hard to hear anything over the asshole singing ‘Freebird’ like he’s auditioning for The Voice.”
“Boner loves Skynyrd,” she says, cracking a grin. “Don’t worry, someone will make him change it.
Now that I’m not lurking in the shadows, I can see her so much more clearly. She is unlike any woman in any club, including my own. While they’re all wearing tight dresses, short and cut low, this girl’s in jeans and riding boots. She’s got a tank top on because it’s summer, not an excuse to flash her tits for a little recognition. I like that about her--I like it a lot.
All at once, my senses come to me and I ask, “Who’s your daddy?”
“Wow.” She laughs. “Not bothering with a build up?”
I shrug, acting like I one hundred percent meant the doubletalk. There’s no room for backing down, not staring between the double barrel of these soft cobalt eyes. Women are drawn to confidence, and judging by the way my dick jumps for this little spitfire, I guess I am too.
She must see something in me that makes her feel comfortable because she wets her lips and says, “I doubt this is foreplay, so I’ll just tell you--Berserker.”
I still, my heart beating a mile a minute in my chest, thumping through every extremity. Fuuuck. I inhale through my nostrils, steeling myself to this little attack of information.
She flashes her eyes at me--noting my momentary shock, no doubt. “You gonna run now?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Really?” She teases. “The look in your eye says otherwise.”
I smile, taking too much joy in her cunning. “I don’t have any reason to run. Until a minute ago, I was just a guy holding up a keg. What do I care who your father is?”
She laughs and I decide that it sounds better than my bike’s engine roaring or my enemies dying. I gave her happiness and in turn, little else matters to me anymore. I would question this feeling if I could pull away from it far enough to realize it.
“Says the man who inquired about him.”
“ Inquired ?” I like the feel of the word in my mouth. She’s smart, this one. “I was just curious who was pimping his flesh and blood out to Fang.”
For a second her face falls, not anticipating the brutality of such an honest question. Then she rallies herself and her mask falls into place. Her chin lifts and I can’t believe I ever questioned her lineage. “My father doesn’t get involved in that shit. It’s all A’s idea.”
“Yeah, she seemed like a peach,” I say, trying to commiserate because I’m enjoying this chat way too much for the fact that I’m supposed to be undercover. “Selling you off to some old geezer.”
Stiorra takes a swig of her drink. “She thinks she’s something. But I’ll say this right now--my dad only ever had one old lady, and she wasn’t it.”
“Your mother?”
She says nothing, which tells me to drop it. Silence on someone so outspoken says a lot. Instead I say, “So, A. I guess there’s no love lost there, huh?”
“She’s alright.” Her gaze flicks down to her feet. “When she’s not angling for anything.”
“How often is that?”
She takes another sip of her drink to avoid answering.
I chuckle. “Jesus, I’m starting to feel sorry for Fang.”
She turns on me. “Why would you say a thing like that?”
“That poor fucker has no idea how big of a handful he’s getting.”
“Who says he’s getting me?”
That’s some of the best news I’ve heard all night.
I clear my throat and play it cool because that’s pretty much the only thing I can do right now. “Well, it’s not as if you’ve said he isn’t. And as beautiful as I find you, I’m certain I don’t stand a chance of getting your attention.”
Her cheeks redden and goddamn that’s got my palms sweatin’.
She gives me an unapologetic once over and everywhere her eyes land, turns to fire. “What makes you say that?”
“You probably only go for patched brothers,” I take a stab in the dark. Most MC girls don’t waste their time on anyone who hasn’t proven themselves to the crew. I’ve more than proven myself--but to the wrong crew. I’ll just keep that fact to myself for the time being.
She scowls at me and I wonder if that’s even cuter than the dimples on her cheeks when she smiles. “I don’t give a fuck about that.”
“Really?” My curiosity peaks. “You should watch out,” I warn. “You’re sounding a bit too much like a Heathen.”
Yes, I know I’m an asshole. I said that on purpose to get an idea if her head and her heart hang out in the same space or not. Heathens are her daddy’s sworn enemy--at least, they are his boss’s. I gotta know how off book this girl is willing to go.
“I bet they’re not too different from us,” she says and I only fall further for her.
I try not to let on how exciting her open mind is. "So you’re not too good for a lowly prospect?”
“Oh, I definitely am.” She takes a step closer and runs her fingertips over my forearm. I would wonder where this courage came from, but I’m no fool. Judging by the looks she’s given me, she’s just as into this as I am. I force myself to stand still while she plays with the leather and chain bracelets I got around my wrist. “But when I decide I want someone,” she whispers, leaning in closer. “I don’t care who they are to who.”
My eyelids flutter shut at the feel of her hot breath against my ear. I reach for her, so full and warm in my hands as I ask, “How old are you?”
She laughs and presses herself further into my grasp, brushing against me. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
My eyes snap open at that. “What is?”
“Out of all the illegal shit you’ve done, that’s the law you think twice about breaking?” She runs her fingers through my hair and clucks her teeth.
It’s mesmerizing--her hands on me--and I don’t know how we suddenly got to this point, but I refuse to be the one to back down. “It isn’t about the law.”
She drops her hands and takes a step back, crossing her arms. “Then it’s about Berserker.”
“Nope.” I make myself stay where I am, even though it is particularly hard to do so, what with her looking so downright tasty over there. “I don’t give a shit who your daddy is.”
She sighs like she’s heard that one a time or two, and I’ve never wanted so badly to put my fist through so many hypothetical faces before. Whoever it was in her life that said something similar, they weren’t much more than a pathetic boy that obviously didn’t do much but let her down.
They’re not in my league, sweetheart. I know you can’t tell it without my cut or my patches, but I am not that eager boy breaking false promises just to get in your pants. Shit. I’m not even making any promises.
Just taking an interest, and too much of one, at that.
“I mean, I know I asked,” I start to explain, because damn if the girl isn’t owed some small explanation after how I’ve been acting. “I just wanted to know what I was stepping into, is all.”
“Stepping into?”
I smirk. “You know what I mean.”
How can she? I don’t even. This girl has got me all twisted up. Women make men weak, so I swear off them for more than a night, and yet here I am, struck. I couldn’t leave if I wanted to. Shit, I’ve seen desperate before, but is this what it feels like?
“How many times you gonna smile at me like that tonight?” She asks, proving that she absolutely knows.
I bite the inside of my cheek to lessen my grin. “I’m not keeping count.”
She smiles and asks, “What’s your name?”
I hold my breath. Shit. What do I tell her? “I…uh… Trigger.”
“Trigger?” She arches a brow at me.
I nod my head. It's what everyone would have known me as, if it weren't for that fucking glass. I can’t let her know who I am. Not yet anyway. There’s too much I need to figure out. In just the span of a half hour, everything has changed.
“Well, that’s better than what I’ve been calling you in my head.”
It’s my turn to give her a curious look.
“Keg-boy.” She laughs and I find myself chuckling too.
“Stiorra?”
We look over at the deep sound of a man’s voice saying her name. He’s large, but not a mountain by any means. He walks toward her, and his particular brand of danger is in his movement. He knows how to carry himself, how to manage in a fight. The cut and the patch tells me he’s important, but it isn’t until I see the one to the side that reads, Berserker , that I know without a shadow of a doubt how this night is bound to go.
“Yeah, Daddy?”
“Who are you talking to? Is he bothering you?” He asks, stepping in front of her, placing himself between us.
I tense, and start cataloging all my blades. I couldn’t sneak a gun in--prospects aren’t allowed to carry. It’s a right they gotta earn. It’s the same in my club too. Having expected it, I loaded up on blades. He looks quick, but so am I--maybe my youth will give me the advantage.
Before I can take that chance, Stiorra grouses, “No, he’s fine. But you know who is bothering me?”
Berserker glances back over his shoulder, reluctantly. He was ready to lay me out. “Who?”
Stiorra crosses her arms over her chest. “A.”
Berserker groans, and turns around to face his daughter. “Why do you insist on giving me such crap for her?”
“Maybe because she refuses to stay in her own lane!” Stiorra exclaims and just when her father runs a hand over his face, she winks over his shoulder at me and waves her hand.
Damn, this girl just gave me a way out. I take a couple of steps back, waiting for Berserker to notice. He’s too busy trying to reason with his daughter. Turning quickly, I grab Butch by his collar and get the hell out of there. She probably thought she was covering for some new kid not ready for the life. I cringe at the thought of her reaction when she finds out just who she helped escape. I doubt she’ll be smiling at me much then.