Twisted Tales of Mayhem: 2019 MMM Special Edition Anthology

by Sapphire Knight

  “Like your road name, Slayer? Maybe I can be Winger.” Yes, I was mocking him.

  “How about Hex?” he bit back.

  My mouth pinched at the word. It was going to be a long road to Austin.

  To be continued.

  Thanks for reading.

  www.themorganjane.com

  Dirty Little Secret

  by Kailee Reese Samuels

  "Where are we going tonight?" Deacon chirped from the sofa in the new Reckless Rebellion MC clubhouse. His well-worn jeans had seen better days, but in the casual attire, he resembled a wayward twenty-year-old.

  "I think the boys have something good planned for the party," Trudy, his mother, replied from the chair beside him. Her trembling fingers held the cigarette as she flicked the ashes into the antique crystal dish. With her slight figure, gorgeous skin, and perfect facial features, it was clear where her son inherited his good looks. "Deacon, there is something you should know."

  "What?" he barked off, a little too gruff. Sitting up, he moved closer causing the leather to squeak. "Tell me."

  Her eyes darted to his as she assessed his resolve. She understood how the weekend would test her son and his best friend. They had been at war for months over a girl. "… He is coming to town for the party."

  "Fuck," he mumbled as his hands quickly covered his face and pushed his long bangs back. "I don't want to see him. He broke a fucking promise."

  With her delicate voice, she reminded, "He is your best friend."

  "Ma," he interrupted as she lifted her hand and silenced him fast.

  "Hear me out." She pointed with a maternal scowl. "This weekend is about Alex and Bleu getting married. It has nothing to do with you and Sal. They are having their parties Saturday and getting married on Sunday. You need to pull your damn head out of your ass for two days." Raising another finger, Trudy made her point quite clear. She wouldn't put up with the ruckus between them, not this weekend anyway. "Your war with Sal Raniero can resume Monday morning, but until then, you best fucking behave."

  A smile erupted on Deacon's full lips as he shook his head. "You do realize I'm the leader of this fucking club, right?"

  "Yes," she said, smashing out her cigarette and standing up. "And I also know you are now the police chief of this tiny ass town. But neither of those things negate the fact that I am your mother. Respect my wishes. Respect yourself. Respect Sal. But more importantly, respect Alex and Bleu. They deserve this time without you two going at it like thugs in the yard."

  She turned away. With a heavy sigh like a disciplined child, Deacon bellowed his displeasure, "… Have you told him the same thing?"

  She pivoted on her heel and lifted a finger. "Deacon Vincent Cruz, I swear to fuck, if you don't change your tone with me, you will know who the mother of this whole show is."

  He rolled his eyes. "I want to know if you issued a warning to the Mafia brat?"

  "Yes," she informed, not putting up with his lip. "I spent over an hour on the phone with him last night. Alex wants Sal here, so he is coming."

  His face deteriorated, Deacon accepted the ruling. It wasn't fair or right. Sal's broken promise led to their rift, and the continuation of their fight for supremacy of Sugargrove would go down in the history books.

  He rose up fast, offering one final defensive strike. "What makes you think he'll behave?"

  With a toss of her hair and a catty tone, Trudy pointed out the obvious, "He is Salvatore Raniero."

  "And I'm Deacon Cruz."

  "You can be a bully."

  "What happened to me being half-Jewish, half-Catholic, and you insisting on raising me to be a Buddhist biker monk?"

  "I never said Buddhists or bikers didn't get pissy," she rebuked, heading to the bar. "Besides, peace, love, and all the fucking harmony in the world aren't going to stop your memories. I'm telling you, Deacon," she whispered, gripping his cheeks. "Keep your cool this weekend. If there was ever a time to embrace your Buddhist biker monk, it is right now. Do not ruin this wedding. I want Sal back on the plane Sunday night without a single scratch."

  Deacon pulled the pipe from his pocket, lit the tip, and took a hit. The heady scent of ganja filled the space between them as Trudy swiped it from his fingers. "You do realize the police chief is getting high in the clubhouse?"

  "I do," she giggled, grasping his hand. “Call a truce for two days, son."

  Reluctantly, Deacon agreed. "I'll raise the white flag, but don't think for a minute that he will. He's going to come down here and stab his damn Italian flag into the ground."

  "No," she confided, revealing a hint of the intimacy she shared with Sal. "He won't. He's too broken. The last thing he wants is a scuffle with you. If anything, he needs you," she muttered, tapping her finger against his head and fussing over his long dirty blonde locks. "And somewhere inside of your heart, you need him, too."

  "Fine." His willpower dwindled against his mother as he bowed down before the one true Queen. Trudy Diaz was his everything. And if she declared the war would have a cease-fire, then there was no question—it would. "I'll go hook the trailer to your truck."

  "Wow!" Her expression shifted as her eyes opened wide. "Are you going to extend a hand?"

  "Yeah," Deacon confirmed, stretching. "I'll go ride with him before the party."

  "Holy fucking shit," she muttered, astonished. "Now, there is my boy!"

  "Yes, ma'am," he deferred with a slight smile, walking towards the door. "But if he gives me any shit, all bets are fucking off." He hunkered down, kicking up a foot, and raising his middle fingers. "I will not hesitate to rip him a new ass."

  “Keep the cuffs off of him, Deacon."

  With a devilishly handsome boyish grin, Deacon added, "But Ma, cuffs can be so much fun!"

  * * *

  Several hours later, the truck and trailer pulled away after depositing two sweet rides at the private landing strip. Wearing his Reckless Rebellion cut, Deacon lit a smoke as he watched the plane touch down. His thoughts were all over the map, but ultimately, they pathed back to Alex and Bleu’s upcoming nuptials. About time one of the good ones made it to the altar.

  He hadn't managed to snag a bride yet, but he held out hope that one day soon, this weekend would be his. He had everything—his father's former club, the job he always wanted as a child, and the girl. Unfortunately, she didn't quite see eye-to-eye with him on the subject of becoming Mrs. Cruz, but that too was hindered by her loyalty to his former best friend.

  Deacon never planned on taking the job as police chief, but when it became available, he seemed the ideal fit for Sugargrove. The three-thousand resident, small Texas town in the middle-of-nowhere held the BDSM school, Juliet. And the bastard getting off the plane held an infamous top dog spot. Sal had avoided returning to his home for quite some time, and Deacon imagined the trip alone would prove arduous for him.

  Sal's reasons for his absence were his own, and by the time Deacon realized his extended sabbatical proved more of a departure, the pair were at odds. But this weekend wasn't about them, their uprising, or their downfall. This weekend was all about entertaining Alex on Saturday night and making sure he made it to the altar Sunday evening.

  Walking down the steps of the small jet, Sal ran his hand through his raven curls and scanned the lot beneath his Bollé shades. His lip curled up at the corner as he spotted Deacon and the bikes and strutted closer.

  "Cruz," he said, extending his arm as Deacon lifted off the bike and shook his hand. "Nice to see you."

  Pulling his old friend closer, Deacon hugged him tightly. "Raniero. We good?"

  "Ya," Sal replied, dropping the duffel bag and kissing Deacon's cheeks. "One weekend."

  "That's all it's going to be," Deacon reiterated, gripping Sal's leather-clad forearm. "Two days of pretending that we don't hate each other. Can you do it?"

  With a furrow of his brow, Sal cocked his head. "Can you?"

  "Yeah, I promised Ma I'd behave."

  "So did I." They laughed. Deacon consi
dered crossing the line with a smart-aleck comment about how Sal's promises meant nothing. Picking the scab from the wound at this early point would do either man little good. And even less in accomplishing the goal of getting Alex Torino married. "You brought the motos?"

  "I did," Deacon snarled, hopping on his bike. "I thought you could use it to clear your head."

  "You know me too well," Sal mumbled, slightly flattered by Deacon's efforts. "I haven't ridden for relaxation in a long time."

  "Maybe it's time to remember who you are."

  The emotional moment transpired between the two as Sal edged his duffel into the saddlebag. "Shit got messed up."

  "I know it did," Deacon acknowledged, studying Sal's moves. "But it doesn't mean shit can't get right. I want to have a good weekend with you, like old times." Sal dropped his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose as he dug through his pockets and emptied them into his bag. "You carrying?"

  Focusing his attention on Deacon, Sal cackled. "I'm an official agent with a government-funded private intel organization. What do you think?"

  "I think you probably have at least two, maybe more."

  "You need to borrow one, Sheriff?"

  "I'm not a Sheriff," Deacon corrected, crossing his arms. "I'm a Chief, and no, I don't need your piece."

  "Uh huh," Sal teased, straddling over the bike. "That's what they all say at first."

  Flustered by Sal's witty charms, Deacon snickered, "Are we going or not?"

  "We're going, Sheriff."

  "Lead the way, Boss," Deacon waved his hand as Sal cranked up the engine. The calmness of being in this place filled his heart as he took off across the empty lot. It had been years since Deacon and Sal had spent any time riding together.

  As they raced out of the lot, suddenly, without warning, everything felt remarkably normal. Putting their issues behind them, they found freedom in not only the open road but with one another.

  With Sal in front, Deacon knew his favorite pit stops. They sped through town as pedestrians and those passing by waved on with stunned expressions. The Raniero-Cruz War hadn't been a silent one, and almost everyone in the small town knew about the feud.

  Sal's wild hair blew in the breeze as he sped ahead, taking the main thoroughfare to the outskirts of town. Deacon couldn't understand why in the hell they went to the abandoned industrial section as nothing but piles of dirt and rock existed past the Harris Road viaduct.

  Stopping the bike under the bridge, Deacon caught sight of the one thing he'd never seen—Sal owning the earth on two wheels. His off-road skills were impressive and spoke of hours of practice he had as a child. He careened the motorcycle back around for one more go before stopping right at Deacon's fender.

  Being police chief, Deacon knew of the area where the kids liked to come party, but the real meaning was unknown. Sal turned off the bike and hopped off as he went and laid his hand on the graffiti-marked concrete wall. His obvious reverence to the spot caused Deacon to question. "What is this place?"

  "When I got out of training, I brought Kaci here and we…" His dirty smirk filled in the blanks. "I never imagined how much I would be hurting for the rest of my miserable life."

  "You lost your wife," Deacon replied, sympathetic. "It's not easy."

  "None of it has been."

  Stroking his blonde scruff, Deacon offered, "You want to go to the cemetery?"

  Sal shook his head. "Nah, this is enough of a walk down memory lane for one day. I wanna get this fucker and take him to Austin. We got reservations at a strip club."

  The news surprised Deacon, but he didn't object. A night with girls spinning on poles meant he wouldn't have to worry about the emotional obstacles with his friend and to him, that was alright. "Which one we hitting?"

  "Jack's club…"

  Deacon's scrutinizing side-eyed glance caused a chuckle to erupt from Sal. "His strip club is a male review."

  "I'm well aware," Sal cockily replied as he fired up the bike again. "And there ain't no better place to get your dick sucked than by a bunch of horny bitches in the crowd."

  Deacon's face fell to his chest as he gripped the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Jesus…"

  "Not yet, but I'm working on it." Sal winked and stuck out his tongue. He checked his thick black banded watch and said, "Limo should be at the clubhouse in ten minutes. We're gonna be late. Let's rally this shit. I need a shower before we go."

  "You are too much."

  "They only say that after the please and yes…"

  * * *

  With the black stretch limo waiting outside the RR clubhouse, Sal took his own sweet time singing show tunes in Deacon's shower. "You know, Raniero, you haven't changed in years. You're still as irritating as ever."

  Swinging open the shower door, Sal had no issues showing off all his goods—naked and wet—as he gave a wide smile with a pristine white grin. He took the towel from Deacon and wrapped it around his waist before dodging past him to the mirror. "You know you love me."

  Leaving the small, confined space, Deacon snarked, "Doesn't mean I like you."

  "We could be so much better together than apart," Sal pointed out, running the razor over his cheeks as he peered into the bedroom. "You need to pull your head out of your ass."

  "Ma said that, too."

  "Your Ma is a smart woman," Sal professed, blotting his cheeks with the towel. "Damn good in bed, too."

  "Fuck you, Raniero."

  "Are you two kids done bickering?" Dom sauntered in, holding a bottle of beer. "We got a party to go to. Alex and the others are waiting downstairs."

  "Oh my god," Trudy giddily boomed as she ran to the bathroom door. Sal picked her up in his arms and spun her around as she pecked tiny kisses all over his cheeks. "I haven't seen you in so long!"

  Sal shot Deacon a scowl. "See, someone missed me."

  Flipping him off, Deacon finished tying his Chuck's and stole the beer bottle from Dom. "Of course, she did."

  Setting Trudy down, Sal gave her a smooch on the lips. "He's like one of my kids!"

  "That's so wrong!" Deacon polished off the beer. "I'm not going there."

  "Not like that!" Trudy playfully smacked her son's shoulder. "He's family, and I've missed him. You best behave!"

  Deacon shrugged. "I'm trying, but I'm somewhere…"

  "He's somewhere between needing to kiss me and wanting to knock my ass to the ground,” Sal pointed out with a grin.

  Deacon lifted a finger as Sal curled his around it. "Exactly."

  "You two should stop the battle," she stressed, hoping they would reunite their once inseparable bond. "You are too close to let this stupid shit over Iris-fucking-Kettles take you down. Blood is thicker than any pussy."

  "Unless the blood is in the pussy," Deacon cajoled as he and Sal bumped shoulders with mischievous laughter. "Then you got a whole other issue."

  "We are not discussing our issues." Sal laid his hand on Trudy's lower back. "We are getting through two days for you.”

  Trudy's eyes darted between the two. "You promise you aren't going to get to the club and kill one another?"

  "No, ma'am," Sal persisted, grabbing his clothes from the duffel and dropping his towel. With a sexy gaze over his shoulder, he soothed, "We are not going to kill one another."

  "I hate you," Deacon quipped as Sal snarled.

  "Mutual, baby."

  Trudy crossed her arms and kicked back on one hip as she blatantly stared at Sal. "Still not wearing underwear?"

  "Please," Sal scoffed, pulling up his jeans which rivaled Deacon's shred for shred. He threaded himself into the blue Henley, showing off every ripple and curve of pure, chiseled man. "Some things never change."

  "No, they don't," Deacon muttered, eyeing the clock. "Including your vain needs."

  Stepping back into the bathroom, Sal ran some gel through his tassels and sprayed himself down with cologne. "What? I had a long flight."

  "From the cornfields of Nebraska," Deacon said, grabbing his jacket. "Just call you F
armer Sal."

  "Fuck you, Cruz."

  "Maybe later, Sally." Deacon winked.

  "They don't see it; do they?" Trudy whispered to Dom.

  "No, they never have."

  Tossing on his rugged boots, Sal left them unlaced and declared, "What are we waiting on?"

  "You," Deacon answered, handing Sal his wallet and keys to the clubhouse. He still cared and aimed to provide for Sal, even though his recent name might as well have been the asshole. "We are always waiting on you. Are you going without a weapon?"

  "Do I need a weapon for hundreds of horny, screaming women?"

  "Only an industrial sized box of condoms."

  Popping a piece of mint gum in his mouth, Sal grinned. "Check. They're in the limo with the booze."

  "For a guy who doesn't party anymore, you sure come prepared."

  "Yeah, I know," Sal acknowledged, grabbing his jacket as they exited the room. "I'd tell you about the suitcase full of illegal drugs, but you might want to frisk me."

  Deacon stopped mid-step and gave him a serious stare. "Too late for that."

  "Figures."

  * * *

  Piling into the limo, the men raved with excitement for the ride to the club in downtown Austin. The group of nine formed the solid backbone of camaraderie. The party of wealth and good looks included: Dom, Jack, Randy, Dale, Joe, Abel, and Alex as well as the dueling bastards, Sal and Deacon. Each added their own brand of testosterone-fueled fun to the bandwagon.

  Taking up the final spot, Sal changed his mind. "I'm going to follow you on the bike."

  "Are you sure man?" Deacon asked, caring about the welfare of his frenemy. "We got plenty of room and booze."

  "Nup, Y'all go on," Sal said, gazing at the sky. Deacon didn't have to ask where he was going—the cemetery to see his wife. "I'll catch up. I promise."

  Despite the ongoing turbulence with Sal and Deacon, there was a limit to how far each would go in exercising their control to be right. The power struggle resided solely around Sal's love, Iris, and the promises he made and broke. Believing that Sal was letting his dick navigate his head, Deacon grew pissed. But the war between them wasn't to the point of wanting to put each other in the ground. It was a quibble, much like a lover's spat, which drove them apart. And a certain sadness existed, ensconcing them in the air of lost time.