Nomad Kind of Love Page 3

  I didn't answer. His nasty fingers pinched my shoulder, the same way he grabbed me when I saw Dad dead in the sink.

  “I'm glad this happened, June bug. I only meant to hurt her and teach her lesson. Maybe it's better this way,” he said coldly. “She's not our problem anymore. You're free to focus on yourself, and I think we have a special understanding here. Even a dumb bitch like you gets it, doesn't she?”

  Now he pinched my chin, forcing me to lean and look at him. I almost vomited all over his jeans and cut, the leather jacket bearing the monstrous symbols that destroyed my life.

  The word PRESIDENT filled my eyes. It may as well have said LUCIFER.

  “Answer me. I won't ask a second time. Sick of fucking repeating myself with you girls.”

  “Yes.” My voice was quiet. Detached. “We have an understanding.”

  Vulture gave me the biggest smile in the world, leaving the cruelty in his eyes. The painful pinch stopped. He moved his hand away and clapped me on the shoulder like he did with his brothers.

  “I'm real happy to hear that. You start at the Dirty Diamond next week. Keep your head down. Do your fucking work like a good girl. I'll make sure you don't end up like your sister. Even give her a nice send off for you and make sure her ashes make their way to your parent's plot. We good?”

  He squeezed my shoulder again. I didn't shake outwardly, but everything inside me was spinning, lost and wild in an infinite void of blackness.

  “Yeah. We're good.”

  For two years, I danced. I learned to take the catcalls, the jeers, to climb up on the stage and shake my tits and ass.

  I wasn't another heap of pretty meat on stage. I was the best damned dancer, the favorite, probably because everybody thought my numbness was an act. Like playing hard to get.

  The Dirty Diamond's clients were mostly average joes with a taste for loose women. They loved the way the way I never offered more than a lap dance. Every man wanted to be the one to get behind the dark mystery in my eyes.

  I overheard their whispers, and I didn't care.

  A tiny part of me enjoyed their easy-to-please presence. Every minute at the Dirty Diamond meant one more away from the Grizzlies clubhouse, where Vulture and his pigs reigned.

  Incredibly, the devil kept his word. Not long after Clara's urn was buried in a cheap plot next to Mom and Dad, new whores moved in, new girls with perfect skin and sharp tongues offered up by the Polish man.

  I stayed out of their way, and they were happy to return the favor.

  They were hotter than me and willing to worship cocks at the MC. Vulture and the boys had new love interests. They started fucking left and right, and a couple of the better guys claimed old ladies.

  Whatever the deal with the Polish man involved, it had brought them drugs and women. Lots and lots of both. Harder shit moved in.

  Tweaking on coke and other crap got so bad during the winter Vulture had to lay down the law so his guys could still ride their bikes without wrecking them.

  I receded into the background, forgotten in my room when I returned there to sleep.

  All they cared about was the money I brought in by becoming the new strip joint's number one mover and shaker.

  Time passed in a haze. Days yawned into weeks, and then weeks blurred into months.

  Two more years went by in a hollow blink. I was nearly old enough to drink the night my soul returned, suddenly unchained from its depths.

  The strangers did it. As soon as they came swaggering into the Dirty Diamond, I knew something was seriously different.

  They were men with leather jackets and the same gruff, dangerous aura every outlaw carried who wore the 1% patch. But they weren't Grizzlies.

  I was up on the stage. I'd just gotten started when they came in and took up a table near the front.

  I was so into the routine I'd worked a thousand times I didn't notice him at first, just his group, the mysterious intruders.

  When I finally saw him, the whole world seemed to stop. I almost lost my footing as I swung around the pole, popping my ass toward the crowd, trying to clear my head and forget my miserable life.

  The big man in the middle of the table was watching me.

  His eyes flickered with masculine heat, a gaze a million times more intense than the ones that drooled over me day and night.

  His eyes said I want you, but it wasn't just my flesh he was after. His hard gaze demanded everything – body, mind, and soul.

  He was tall, powerful, probably in his early thirties. Clean cut compared to the Grizzlies. Some prickly stubble lined his cheeks, but he was missing the tangled beard and grease they wore like bad cologne.

  His face was hard. It wasn't evil. His curious intensity only grew as I peeled off my panties and thrust my body at the leering men circling the stage.

  This man never licked his lips or patted his crotch. He never jeered or reached into his wallet and walked crumpled dollars up to the stage.

  He just sat tall and watched like I was something incredible, even while his buddies whispered and ribbed him with their elbows over beers.

  Total presence. Watching him was like watching a time bomb waiting to go off.

  And go off, he did, as soon as the Grizzlies came in.

  It was Claws and that asshole Scoop, prowling at the stage's edges to leer at me. They always did while I was working, a sickly reminder that I was never completely free, even when I wasn't at the clubhouse.

  Scoop always took keen interest because I looked just like her, Clara, the woman he'd helped murder with his lust. If I ever fucked up, Vulture wouldn't hesitate to sic him on me like a hungry dog.

  I never got the chance to stop and worry about what Scoop would do. The man with the intense eyes got up, walked over to where he was standing, and threw him to the floor.

  Claws instantly began punching his back. The other strangers threw themselves into the brawl, turning over tables and shouting. Patrons ran for the door.

  I grabbed my underwear off the floor and went running for the corner. I dressed and crouched on the floor as a beer bottle came sailing onto the stage, shattering into smithereens.

  I didn't dare move backstage with shit flying. Had to stay low on the floor in case somebody started shooting.

  The chaos stopped. I blinked, looked up, and saw all the overturned tables and broken glass on the floor. The Dirty Diamond had truly become dirty as hell.

  Claws was knocked out flat on the floor. The big man who'd watched me held Scoop by his cut, pressing him flat against the stage.

  “Last chance, asshole. I'll burn this place to the fucking ground if you want to keep this fight going,” the stranger said.

  “Okay, dammit! I'm not authorized to do shit without Vulture's approval. Lemme call my VP.”

  Grudgingly, the man let Scoop get on his feet. The Grizzlies enforcer paced the floor, nursing a bloody nose. I couldn't hear what he was saying.

  Nobody had ever drawn blood from him. He won all the fights that broke out in the clubhouse over silly shit. Watching the bright red trickle harden to caked brown beneath his nose made me smile.

  “It's done. You've made your point, dickhead.” Scoop spat the last word in a hurry, as if he was afraid to say it. “VP says we've got an understanding. We'll let you assholes fuck around in Python, seeing how it's not formally our territory. But you ever come to Missoula again and trash one our businesses, every charter ten states over will kick your brains out your asses.”

  “Good.” The stranger grinned. “I like to fight fair. Now get the fuck out of my way and let me take my collateral.”

  “Collateral?” Scoop spread his legs like he was ready to go for a re-match.

  “Yeah, asshole. You said your VP brokered a deal. I'm gonna assume things work here out West the same as they do with every other MC from here to Maine. Collateral means we won't torch this place to the ground, and you boys'll have extra incentive to keep your word.”

  Scoop chewed his bloody lip, repressing a
volcanic anger. A big guy with the stranger pushed him aside, and my jaw dropped a little when he didn't shove back.

  Blood rushed into my ears, hot and steamy and scared. Bright eyes was heading right for me.

  I hadn't felt true paralyzing terror since the night they killed Clara. But he brought it back, shot such blinding intensity into my brain I nearly passed out before he was at my side, a godly silhouette above me, reaching out.

  “What is it?” I moaned. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Get up, babe. I'm Maverick, President of the Prairie Devils MC, and I'm here to get you out of this shithole.”

  II: Gold Rush on Wheels (Maverick)

  I've always said there's nothing in this world like the roar of the open road and the wind in my face, even when it's colder than a witch's tit.

  “You feel that frost in your beard yet?” I said over the radio clipped to my helmet. “Don't tell me I'm gonna have to thaw you boys out over the fire when we get to grandpa's house.”

  “I can still feel my fucking face, so there's that.” My half-brother, Blaze, rode right behind me. “Let's keep up the pace, Maverick. Would be nice to get there before sundown when Jack Frost really starts blowing something fierce.”

  I smiled, watching him wipe the ice cold skin on his chin behind his visor. Hypno and Shatter trailed him, all four of us who made up our small Nomad charter.

  It was a long drive from central Minnesota where my boys and I had stayed the winter, taking care of business for our founding charter in North Dakota. Now, we were almost back in Cassandra, a dusty little town just West of Fargo, birthplace of the Prairie Devils Motorcycle Club.

  I'd been a Nomad for nearly ten years since I patched into the club, and President of this charter for three.

  Best part about being a Nomad? We didn't answer to fucking anybody.

  Nobody except Throttle, President of the mother charter, who'd called us home on business.

  Hell, it wasn't even right to call the Cassandra clubhouse grandpa's house anymore. Throttle's old man, Voodoo, the guy who started the whole club back in Nixon's day, was killed last year during our war with the Raging Skulls.

  Since then, his son had taken over. He ran a pretty tight ship from what I'd heard, despite a few growing pains.

  New boss. Better be the same as the old boss for our purposes.

  I swallowed, gulping down Springtime air, cold and fresh. The plains were half-frozen, caked with snow reflecting silver and orange.

  Pretty damned weird to visit mother charter so early in the year this far north.

  When mother charter called, everybody was willing to help. It seemed like we were the only ones who weren't there for the big dust up with the Raging Skulls MC last year. They took out Voodoo, hit Cassandra hard, and nearly took down Throttle too before he put them in their place.

  I doubted he needed us for anything too serious. Nothing as bad as another war between clubs with the recent drama behind them.

  Good fucking riddance.

  Still, I wondered...what the hell were we going to find there? The man wasn't calling us home for whiskey floats like some kinda ice cream social.

  Being a Nomad means being free. In this charter, a man has the same privileges as the rest of the Prairie Devils brotherhood, but without the politics and the bullshit that goes on in the clubs with one place they call home.

  And God willing, I was gonna keep it that way.

  My brothers hit the bar to warm up with whiskey and burgers as soon as we were inside. I marched straight back to the office attached to the meeting room.

  The door was half-cracked. A huge Prairie Devils MC emblem hung on the door, the devil's face surrounded by pitchforks. Same as the patches on our jackets, except blown up in a way that made anybody wearing these colors want to give it a sharp salute.

  I raised my fist above the emblem and knocked.

  “Come on in!”

  I walked through, shut the door behind me, and stared as Throttle rose. He smiled and stepped through the cramped space separating his desk from the wall.

  “It's been a long time, brother!” Throttle embraced me, pounding my back.

  He was a little younger than me, but he had Voodoo's edge. Not to mention his old man's spitting image too.

  I slapped him on the back one more time and he let me go. Throttle fumbled with bottom drawer to the huge filing cabinet behind him. I smiled when I saw it was filled with something way more interesting than manila folders.

  He pulled out a fresh bottle of Jack and set down two tumblers. My stomach growled, hungry to feel its sweet, comforting burn even more than I wanted some grub.

  “Well, chief, what brings us here?” I took my glass and took a long sip.

  Heat exploded in my guts. Pure heaven after a six hour ride through a late Midwestern winter.

  “You're a spirited man, aren't you, brother? Always ready to go.” Throttle cocked his head, eyeing me closely. “My VP, Warlock, says I almost had to call you up myself to keep you in Minnesota last summer.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. I like to keep my fists fresh when the club's in trouble. You know me. I love a good fight when it's for a good cause.”

  I folded my fingers and cracked my knuckles. Cassandra's President nodded.

  “That's what I thought, and it's the reason you're here.” He picked up his glass, swirling around the amber liquid at the bottom. “Now that we've got our heads straight after breaking up the Skulls, it's time to take on new opportunities and get some fucking money flowing. I want you to head West, Maverick. There's a little town called Python just south of Missoula. Perfect place to set up another charter and bring this MC to the wild West.”

  I gulped the other half of my whiskey and clinked the class on the table.

  “Montana,” I repeated. “Isn't that Grizzlies territory?”

  “Just a sliver now. I've done my homework and the Grizzlies MC is stretched pretty thin these days. Their club doesn't even do much in Bozeman and Billings anymore. They pissed off a lot of people when we fought them outside Sturgis a few years ago.”

  “Who could forget?” I smiled, tasting whiskey on my lips.

  I'd personally clobbered at least four big guys during that dust up. The Grizzlies were strong, but we beat them then, and Throttle smelled blood.

  “I told you, I crunched the numbers. If we get ourselves a charter out there, we've got a pipeline straight up to Alberta. Maybe Idaho too if they're weaker than I think. Two point seven million dollars to start. Chew on that for a minute.” He raised his fist and extended his pointer finger at me.

  “That's a lot of fucking bills, brother.”

  “Damned straight. And that's just for the first few shipments up to our friends north of the border. The Grizzlies never got up to Vancouver and Calgary. Hell, they've been struggling to hold down Boise with all the shit going on with their southern flank. The Mexican cartels are muscling in on their turf. Tearing them a new asshole out in California.”

  “And that's where I come in,” I finished. It didn't take a psychic to know where this was heading.

  Throttle flashed me his trademark grin. “Exactly. Look, I know playing custodian isn't your style.”

  I nodded. Throttle's face went serious, sizing me up.

  “I need you on this. I know you like a good fight, even though I'm really asking you to play pioneer. We can't go head to head with the Grizzlies unless they make us. But if they decide to break into our new shop while we're setting it up, then there's no man I'd rather have at the tip of the spear.”

  The compliment was genuine. Wasn't just blowing smoke up my ass.

  Honest Jack. That's what some guys had taken to calling him behind his back, a play on his real name instead of his MC handle. Can't say no to confidence like that in these bones.

  Not that I had much choice turning down a direct order from the mother charter. When mom called his kids, we all answered, and were fucking glad to do it.

  I extended my ha
nd. “You've got yourself a deal, brother. Just as long as you let me get back to what I do best after everything's rocking in the mountains.”

  He grinned and shook my hand, edging his fingers up to my wrists. He eyed the place where the club's pitchfork symbol began, inks I'd gotten tattooed on these guns years ago.

  “I wouldn't ask a Nomad to settle down forever. Until then, we're gonna send your cut to Frannie so she can spruce up those patches. Congrats. You're the new President of the Prairie Devils Python charter.”

  Throttle and I carried on our conversation in the famous bar. He was telling me all about how his charter had mopped the floor with the town's corrupt mayor last year, the asshole who'd set up the brutal war with the Skulls.

  I was feeling good. Tight lightning buzzed in my stomach from my fourth shot of Jack.

  “Fuck, brother, where are those burgers? I'm gonna be running on pure fumes here if they don't show up soon.”

  As if on cue, two women walked out carrying heaping platters of cheeseburgers and fries. It was Frannie, the charter's oldest and wisest old lady. She belonged to the VP, Warlock.

  Also had a younger girl at her side I didn't recognize, until she flashed her teeth at Throttle.

  “Here you go, boys,” she said sweetly.

  “What the fuck, baby girl?” Throttle's eyebrows shot up. “You're like a month out from delivering our baby and you're carrying piles of steaming food over our kid?”

  “Oh, give the girl some credit, Jack.” Frannie pushed my plate in front of me and clapped her President on the shoulder. “She's been doing just fine. I cut her hours patching up your boys, just like you asked.”

  “Yeah, Jack. Frannie's right. She always is. You know I wouldn't do anything to screw with our kid.” She threw her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. “There's nothing I keep closer to my heart, love, except maybe you.”

  Damn, they were tight. Only two ladies around who could get away with calling him by anything but his road name.

  “And that's why I love you, Rach.” Growling, Throttle wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.