That just wasn’t my style.
“You hear about the Mezcal?” Spoil asked, cutting into my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I grunted. “Mexicans pushing up, trying to get in on the drug trade.”
“Violent fucks,” Spoil said. He went on to explain how the cartels and the gangs down south loved to perfect their torture and execution styles, and I mostly tuned him out.
It was just another typical night in the fucking Demons MC clubhouse.
We called Austin home and our home turf. For most of my life, ever since I was just a kid out of high school, I’d pledged my life to the club. We’d fought our way from one of a number of small clubs in the area to the premier club in all of Austin. We were the biggest, the baddest, the most violent bastards, and I had shed plenty of blood, both my own and others, to prove it.
For a long time, my life and the club’s life had been war. That was what we did, what we were good at. We broke the skulls of our enemies and claimed the Austin area for our own.
And we were strong from it. But once the war had finally ended a few months ago, and peace came in, I realized that peace didn’t really suit me.
Some guys, they liked being able to walk around without wondering when the next hit was coming. They liked knowing that they weren’t always about to get murdered by some rival club.
But not me. I thrived on war, lived for the rush, the terror, the violence. I missed the feeling of a man’s face breaking against my fist, of the loud deathly crack of my pistol, of the roar of our club riding out in formation to break the necks of some fucks.
In short, I was bored. I could drink and fuck as much as I wanted, but there was still something missing.
And Spoil going on about Mexican killing rituals was not fucking helping.
“Okay, man,” I said, standing suddenly. “I need a new drink.”
“What’s the matter with you, Ford?” Spoil asked. “I was just getting to the good part.”
“Tell someone else about it, man.”
I walked off toward the bar and leaned up against it. TomTom, one of the pledges, was wiping down a mug.
“Spoil looks pissed,” he said to me.
“That’s fine. Let him bitch and moan. Get me a beer.”
TomTom shrugged and grabbed me a bottle, popping off the top and handing it to me. “Think they’ll take any pledges on the deal tomorrow?”
I gave him a look. “Nah. And if they did, why do you think we’d take you?”
“Because I ain’t a pussy like the others.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe, maybe not.”
I took a long drink of my beer and surveyed the club. It was just another boring Friday night. I had a nice buzz going, and I could feel my blood starting to rise. I needed to fight or to fuck, but there wasn’t anyone nearby worth beating on.
Just another normal, boring night.
Until the door slammed open and she stepped inside.
Her eyes were wide, haggard, terrified. Her clothes were dusty. Her hair was a mess.
And I recognized her instantly.
Every head turned toward her. She stood out like a sore fucking thumb.
A normal girl, a nice college girl. Fucking sexy in her way.
Worse, I knew exactly who she was.
Back then, she was a little different, younger, less experienced, but it was definitely her.
Caralee Lawson, the fucking girl next door.
What the fuck was she doing in the Demons MC clubhouse?
“Someone, please,” she said, her eyes wild, her whole body clenched. “Help me. My friend was just murdered.”
Chapter Three: Caralee
“Someone, please,” I said, barely thinking, barely even aware of what I was doing. “Help me. My friend was just murdered.”
The clubhouse was dead silent, and every single person was staring at me.
I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know why I had shown up in their place, or why I thought they could help me. But there I was, the decision already made, and I couldn’t take it back.
“Do we look like the fucking cops?” a guy with a scar along his throat said. The blonde sitting on his lap sneered at me.
“They were bikers,” I said, the words spilling out of me. “Rod was a good guy. He was a biker too. Please, someone help me.”
Another man sitting alone stood up and ambled toward me. He was huge, easily over six feet tall, and ugly as hell. He terrified me.
“You should get the fuck out of here,” he said.
“Rod was in the Rebels,” I said. “And the guys that killed him, I’ve never seen them before. Please, I’m afraid. They have my wallet.”
“Why the fuck would you come here, then?” he asked. “This is the Demons MC. We don’t give a shit about a Rebel.”
My heart sank in my chest, and the last few hours came pouring out of me in a single rush.