Kace (Shattered Souls MC 3)

“Call your guys off and we’ll fucking talk,” Zane yells.

“Not a fucking chance,” Bane laughs, folding his large tattooed arms. He’s a big guy and definitely hasn’t seen a gym in at least twenty years. His big, round belly hangs over his jeans, his dark eyes bounce around to all of us, while his wild, long gray hair stands at all angles.

“Hawk, we need to talk,” Brooks says, not moving.

Hawk looks around, uncertain of what to do. They trust us as much as we trust them. No one feels safe right now and that’s dangerous. Hawk runs his hand through his short salt and pepper hair, as he looks to his vice president for advice. Hawk rests his muscular tattooed arms behind his head, his broad shoulders getting wider as he appears to be having a silent conversation with Bane.

I glance back at Zane and he nods slightly. If they don’t agree to this sit down, we’ll make sure it’s a painful mistake. I keep my gun pointed as I look around. This place is awful. It’s dark with just a few flickering lights. There are only three wooden tables, covered in beer bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. The walls have holes in them, and the floor is a patch job of tile and two by fours. I have to imagine this is the place they torment people because it looks abandoned. It pisses me off thinking about what could be going on behind the closed-door Hawk stands in front of.

“Brooks, Enzo, and Zane come with us,” Bane says.

A chill runs up my spine as I turn to look at them. I don’t like that he wants to talk in private. I’m not sure who’s in more trouble, the three of them going back or the five of us who stay here waiting.

“No one comes back, if they try fucking kill them,” Z whispers has he walks past.

I nod watching them all disappear behind the door. Once it clicks closed, my eyes bounce between the seven Raging Devils, guns still drawn by us all. Damon and Casper are the only two that I know. The others I’ve seen around but know nothing about. Damon is a massive motherfucker. I like to think I’m built, but I’m nothing compared to him. He’s got a shaved head with tattoos covering every part of him except for his face. His head, neck, arms, chest, and I’m sure more I can’t see, are all covered in ink. The blue T-shirt he’s got on is straining against his muscular body. Casper is not as massive as Damon, but he’s still big. He’s equal to me, but he only sports a few tattoos on each arm. His long brown hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, his dark eyes drill into each of us, as his muscles flex holding the gun. The rest of the club look young, maybe even younger than Finn, which I don’t like. It means they are reckless and not grown enough to question what they are told to do.

Riley whispers something behind me, but I refuse to take my eyes or gun off Damon and Casper.

“You have something to say?” A young kid growls, stepping closer.

“Step back baby boy,” Riley hisses.

“Baby boy?” he laughs with no humor. “I’ll skull fuck your daughter, grandpa.”

Fuck. Before I can even turn around to stop Riley, he pulls the trigger and shoots the kid in the foot. “Learn some respect asshole,” he says, laughing.

Damon takes a shot at Riley, but he misses, and I charge him. The gun slips from his hand, but I don’t get him down. I reach up and punch him across the jaw, just as his fist meets with mine. My focus is solely on Damon, but I hear the punches and grunts behind me, hoping it’s us who are dominating. My adrenaline is coursing through me and I manage to get Damon on the ground. I could easily shoot him, but I’m trying to avoid a war. We are rolling around on the floor, punch after punch being thrown. I use my Glock and crack him across his cheek, causing him to groan in pain. I know I need to get my gun out of reach but I’m fearful to toss it and one of the Raging Devils pick it up, so instead I drop the clip out, pushing that out of the way. Damon growls as he wraps his massive hand around my throat, locking his dark, angry eyes with mine.

“Call your guys off,” he growls.

I refuse to let him know he’s actually cutting off my airway, so I grin and lift my knee, slamming into his balls. He groans in pain as I quickly grab my clip and pushing it back in the gun. I stomp on his chest and cock my gun, pointing it at his head.

“Call your guys off or they’ll be cleaning up your fucking brains,” I hiss. He tries to kick my legs out from under me and I instinctively pull the trigger, but I’m careful to make sure I hit the floor next to his head. “I’m not fucking playing.”

“You’re dead,” he growls, and I apply more pressure on his chest. “Enough! Everyone back the fuck up.”

I keep the gun pointed at him and turn around to see if my guys are whole. “Riley?”

“We’re all good,” he calls back.

I look back down at Damon and his face is red with anger, but he’s smart not to move. Kill or be killed and I’ll definitely be the one killing. All of this is a bad fucking sign. Their hatred toward us is much worse than I thought. Which makes us all a target. I hope Brooks is making a sweet deal because this won’t end good.

“What the fuck is going on?” Brooks yells, coming out from the back. Zane rushes to me as Enzo rushes to the others.

“A game of getting to know each other,” Riley says.

“What the fuck?” Zane whispers, as he takes in the situation.

“Not good,” I whisper back.

“You’re all fucking dead,” Damon hisses looking between me and Zane.

The threat is not something I’m taking lightly. I embarrassed him, which is worse than killing him. His massive size should’ve taken me down easily, yet I got the upper hand, and his guys see him on the floor at my mercy.

“Let’s fucking go,” Z, says grabbing my arm.

I keep the gun pointed at Damon as I back away toward the door. I don’t turn around until I’m outside and relief floods me. We rush to our bikes and get the hell out of there. On the way back to Souls, I start to relax, which makes me start to feel my injuries. Fuck, he got some good punches in and I’m feeling them all. I didn’t even notice the blood dripping down my face until now. I reach up and feel an open gash above my eye, flinching when I touch it. Fuck, I probably need stitches.