The Biker's Plaything (Straight to Hell MC 1)

He could already feel the sense of closure. The unique satisfaction that came with revenge.

It was time to move on from this betrayal and work on strengthening and expanding the Straight to Hell MC.

When he woke up next, the early morning sun shone right in his face. He rolled to the side to check the time, immediately remembering the call from last night. It was time to clean this shit up.

He opened his bedroom door and whistled. One of the club whores ran up the hall toward him within seconds. Lord grabbed her by the back of the neck and she froze. “Tell Brick, Reaper, and Stump to gear up. We’re heading out as soon as I take a shower.”

“Want me to join you?”

He looked down at the half naked woman. She wasn’t unattractive. He was well aware that getting into his bed was an honor for the club whores, but he had no interest lately. Lord would say he’d lost his fucking libido, but he had no trouble getting his dick hard. It was the dirty pussy he tired of. At forty years old, he wasn’t the same man he was in his youth. He wasn’t looking for a connection, and only when he was extremely pent-up did he ever allow the whores near his cock. It seemed every year he grew darker, withdrew more, and lost bits of his humanity along the way. Some said he was heartless, others said he lacked a conscience. All the rumors were true.

Lord washed up in the shower, running both hands through his hair and allowing the water to flow down over his muscles. He was sore, but it made him feel alive. After he dealt with the cop and the girl, he’d push himself in the gym again. It was his outlet, gave him focus, and reminded him to keep disciplined in every aspect of his life. His body and his rank were testament to his dedication.

By the time he made his way to the yard, his men were ready to go, geared up, and packing heat. He nodded his approval as he approached his bike. The chrome glistened in the morning light.

“Where we heading, boss?” asked Reaper.

“You wanted the cop to get the girl for us. He got the girl.”

Lord lifted his leg and straddled his bike.

He could hear the unspoken words from his enforcer, but the bastard knew better than to open his mouth. Reaper had a soft spot for women. There was no room for weakness in their world. The girl was going to die, regardless of Reaper’s opinion. There was no balancing right and wrong, only their unique form of justice. The Straight to Hell MC had a reputation for a reason. It was Lord’s job to ensure they weren’t seen as weak or ripe for extortion. If his men were more like him, lacking complete empathy for their enemies, they’d be stronger. Their human nature kept bringing down the club.

He revved his engine, glared at his enforcer, then led the way out of the club.

The drive out to the cop’s country home was quiet this early. They drove past countless acres of farmland, dotted with the occasional homestead or herd of cattle. He remembered bits and pieces of a broken childhood. The shed out back, the beatings, the bloodied rope. Being reminded he’d never amount to anything.

Lord had spent most of his forty years trying to forget the past.

When he was around twelve, he lost sight in his right eye. His stepfather was to blame. The motherfucker would hurt his mother while he watched, and the day he tried to intervene, he was left scarred and blinded in one eye. His stepfather said not to watch if he didn’t like what he saw. The bastard used a metal rake from the barn, pinned him in the corner where they stored the hay, and thrashed him over and over until he lost consciousness.

He’d been skinny and helpless way back then.

Things were different now.

Lord had learned to turn off his emotions. Permanently. It was better that way. He’d become stronger mentally and physically and would die before he became the victim to any man again.

He snapped back to the present when he nearly lost control on the dirt shoulder of the road. Lord refocused and picked up the pace, only a few more miles until his destination. He couldn’t let old memories toy with his head. It was easy to slip into oblivion—he knew that all too well. He had to black it out, push the pain, guilt, and shame so far fucking down into the abyss that they couldn’t mess with his head.

Bobby’s old farm appeared ahead, and Lord slowed down his bike before turning onto the unpaved drive. The other bikes settled around him, cutting their engines on cue.