.jpg)
Saint's Sinner can be found here!
He
didn’t blink, he barely breathed, and forget the long, relieved exhale he
wanted to let out when his grandfather looked away, he knew Creed was still
watching him, staring at his black leather kutte and the patches on it like
they were a puzzle he needed to solve.
He shouldn’t have
asked if he could keep the colors on. What he should have done was begged one
of his club brothers to come with him, only, the moment he thought the words, two
faces came to mind: Saint’s and Sinn’s. A stiff wind swirled the nearby leaves
into a tornado of motion and raised goosebumps along his arms as Saint’s words
ran through his head.
Get
back here safe and in one piece so we can make this official. All of it,
understood?
It was a promise,
one he held tight to even as he fought to keep thoughts of the men whose lives
he wanted to be a permanent part of, from distracting him so much he got called
out over it. Saint’s words rolled
through his mind again, and he hoped they were able to carry him through the
rest of his day. The full length of the state, from opposite corners even, sat
between him and the Joker’s clubhouse. It might as well have been an eternity as
his grandfather threw the first handful of dirt on the coffin like he was aggravated
with the whole affair.
He probably was.
Having to plan all this, summon everyone home, and pay the undertaker’s bill no
doubt had the old bastard in the foulest of moods, which was one of the other
reasons Night hadn’t asked anyone to make the trip with him. The third went
back to the rules he’d grown up with. He’d learned the first time he’d tried to
invite a friend over to play that never lead anyone back here also meant never
bring anyone home who wasn’t already a member of their family.
Not coming hadn’t
been an option either. He’d been honest when he’d said he needed to see for
himself that she was worm food, but he’d left out the part about fearing the
repercussions if he failed to show up. How to explain that he could face down a
knife wielding bastard with little concern for the outcome but was scared
shitless of a wizened old man with a limp?
Maybe it was
because it was harder to slip the mask of arrogance and indifference back on
now that he’d discovered what a true family was, and how he didn’t have to pretend
to be someone he wasn’t with them. He could ask questions, he could be curious
and not mocked for not knowing, and he could be silent, and no one would press
him into conversation just so they could wind him up and get him to lose his
temper.
Head games. His
family was infamous for them. Which meant he’d better get his shit in order
before they rode back to the house, because that was where he’d really have to
watch himself and the answers he gave to whatever questions they threw at him.
Each handful of
dirt seemed to hit harder than the one before, until it sounded like they were
hurling stones at the coffin. Then it was his turn, and he took one last look,
just to be certain she wasn’t going to rise up like a harpy and take to the sky
on a three headed broom. Night let the dirt slip from his fingers as he turned
away, heading for the god damned limousine his grandfather had insisted they
all ride in. He hated leaving his baby back at the house, guts tied in a knot
of cold anxiousness at the thought that it wouldn’t be there when he got back.
Then what?
Could he even go
back to the Jokers without his ride, and even if they did accept him, would it cost
him his prospects rocker?
He wasn’t like
Bellamy. He didn’t have a previous patch to show that he knew what it was to
belong to something. He’d been lucky enough to happen along when one of Olof’s
old ladies had been stuck on the side of the road, shaky, throwing up, and
clinging to the open door of her vehicle with two puking little kids and a car
full of groceries under the hot summer sun. Food poisoning. It had been a no brainer to
help her into the passenger’s seat of her vehicle and drive them to the
clubhouse under her direction, her gun shakily pointed at his side the entire
time.
He got it though,
and there were no hard feelings. Alone and sick the way she was, with her
little ones to protect and him a perfect stranger, she’d had no way of knowing
that he was an honorable man. Olof had been grateful enough to let him hang
around after they’d gone back for his bike, something else that had earned him
points with the rest of the club. That he’d left his pride and joy on the side
of the road to ensure that she and her kids got to someplace safe had earned
him a small measure of respect. Slowly he’d gone from hanger-on to prospect, doing
whatever was needed of him and pitching in at several of the various industries
they ran.
All legit.
It was a good
feeling to earn honest money, to not have to steal, cheat, lie, forge, deceive,
stomp, or threaten what he wanted out of somebody. Having a sense of place and
purpose was a whole new feeling for him, and the knowledge the older members of
the club constantly shared with the younger was an invaluable piece of his
personal evolution. Slowly, he came to realize that he wasn’t an idiot. That he
was capable of learning. That he just needed to find his niche and be allowed
to explore his own brand of creativity, like recipes he secretly loved
tinkering with, and he’d do just fine. Dalton was steadily teaching him that,
and what a grandfather should have been like, rather than the one whose gaze
was fixated upon him the moment he sat down.
“I suppose you
think you’ll be hopping on that machine of yours and taking off again,” his
grandfather said, his stare so intense it took every shred of Night’s control
not to squirm. His guts roiled, bubbling, and he found himself with a different
problem: trying to hold in a massive fart as they headed down the road,
bouncing over the rocky, pothole pocked asphalt towards the house he’d hoped
never to enter again.
“That was the plan,”
Night admitted.
“Not anymore.”
He shouldn’t have
been blindsided by that, and yet, dread sent a chill down his spine and that
fart got harder to contain without grimacing. He waited in silence for his
grandfather to say more to him, but all he did was turn his attention towards Haze
and their cousin Bobby as they climbed into the back of the limo beside him.
“Don’t you two be
getting any dumbass ideas about taking off either, not that any of your
vehicles will be capable of going anywhere until I decide to give back the
parts that have been stripped off them. Consider that my little insurance
policy to ensure you guys get the job done right.”
“What job!” Bobby
snapped, inches away from a meltdown until their grandfather stared him down.
“You’ll find out
at the house like the rest of ‘em.”
And that was that.
No more conversation, just silence and cotton fields rolling past, the monotony
broken only by the occasional herd of swine and the fart he let rip when he
couldn’t hold it in anymore. The look of disgust his grandfather gave him was
expected, while Bobby tried, and failed to keep from snickering, which earned
him an equally disgusted look. Haze just rolled his eyes at them and stared out
the window he was wedged against by one of their larger cousins. No one looked
comfortable, some from lack of space, others the potential situation they were
driving into. Night had a sinking suspicion that the shitstorm his grandfather
was about to unleash wouldn’t have a happy ending for him. He was the one man with the power to snatch away
the legit life Night yearned to return to and the brotherhood he’d come to
embrace, leaving him with little besides a 6 x 8 cell to look forward to.
Rollin' Jokers Sale!
Lucky Strike McAllister isn't very lucky. In fact, he isn't much of anything most days, to hear his MC tell it. Since the death of his father from cancer and the suicide of his pops, he's done nothing but find ways to get into trouble. He's talented with an airbrush gun and an amazing artist when he sets his mind to it, but more often than not, the things Lucky sets his mind to are pretty self-destructive.
When Thorn and his partner Cain, are forced to fish Lucky out of the ocean on a chilly fall night, both men decide he needs a keeper and who better than them to keep Lucky from destroying himself? Too bad Lucky can't see that they're trying to help. Bitter and lashing out, he does everything he can to sabotage the only chance he's ever been given at truly belonging to someone.
Will Lucky be able to put aside his anger long enough to get to know the two men who have taken such an intense interest in him, or will he run from them, his club and everything he's ever known, and burn the last of his luck in the process?
When Lucky moved to the Outer Banks to work in Thorn and Cain’s surf shop and eventually fell in love with them, Cody lost himself in gambling to dull the ache of missing his best friend. The flashing lights of the casino, the feel of cards beneath his fingers, and the rough-smooth texture of poker chips all served to drag him deeper into an addiction he was slowly giving himself over to. It helps that he works security there, easy access, and an increasing reason not to go back home. The Rollin’ Jokers are family, always would be, but there’s an ache Cody can’t fill with the roar of his machine and the wind in his hair. The best he can hope for is to dull it one bet at a time.
Wreck owes a lot to the Rollin’ Jokers MC, after all, his old man was a founding member. So, when the Joker’s president asked for a favor, no way would he turn him down. Even if the favor meant playing babysitter to Mark’s out-of-control son, Cody, who seemed to get a kick out of pushing buttons Wreck didn’t know he had. Still, he has no intention of letting Mark down, and if that means teaching Cody some discipline, well then, there are plenty of ways he could make it fun…for them both.
Only…Cody’s got different ideas, and issues that are only just being brought to light. Add in bad boy Bellamy, the wandering nomad biker who happens to land on the same road Cody’s cruising down, and Wreck finds his carefully ordered world turned upside-down. Now he’s wrangling kittens, including a human-sized one hell-bent on making a home in Wreck’s lap when he’s not looking to scratch his eyes out…and Bellamy? Let’s just say that’s the mystery element in an equation Wreck’s not certain he can solve.
With the past closing in and the future uncertain, Wreck’s desperate to find a way to protect Cody….from himself, from his demons, and from a past that’s come back to haunt him.
No comments:
Post a Comment