Bouncer (Kings of Carnage Series Book 5)

by Kim Jones

  Bouncer

  Kings of Carnage MC

  Kim Jones

  Copyright © 2020 by Kim Jones

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This book belongs to me. If you bought it, thanks! If it was loaned to you, thank your friend! If you stole it, you’re a dick.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are of my imagination. I mean, really? You think heroes like this actually exist in real life? Well they don’t. If they did, people wouldn’t read about them, they’d go out and find their own real life book boyfriend.

  Dedication

  For Bouncer

  Nope.

  Contents

  Kings of Carnage MC

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Kim Jones

  Acknowledgments

  SLY

  Kings of Carnage MC

  Check out all the books in this series:

  Chaos by Hilary Storm

  Bash by Sapphire Knight

  Jinx by Chelsea Camaron

  North by M.N. Forgy

  Bouncer by Kim Jones

  Sly by Nicole James

  Bouncer

  War is in my blood.

  Fighting is what I do.

  Brotherhood is all I know.

  I was born a 1%er.

  I earned the right to be a King.

  For the past ten years, I’ve dedicated my life to upholding the legacy that is Kings of Carnage Motorcycle Club. My job as a Nomad is to ensure that King Nation thrives as a whole. And that the poor decisions of one charter doesn’t determine the fate of the patch.

  When I get the unsettling news that ghosts of the club’s past have come to haunt our mother chapter, I head home to Uprising- prepared to unleash Hell on those who think they can take the kingdom myself and my brothers before me built.

  What I’m not prepared for is the loud, infuriate, foul-mouthed brat with the ridiculous name who cleans the clubhouse. Despite her incessant talking and overly cheerful mood, there is a sadness in her eyes that pulls at my protective instinct. Ignoring the feeling is easy. Until she comes up missing. And for the first time in ten years, I find myself questioning if King Nation is still the most important thing in my life.

  APPLE

  When you’ve been cursed with a name like mine, you develop a thick skin and a high tolerance for jerks. But even Apple Seven VanHolland wasn’t a horrible enough name to prepare me for Kings of Carnage Nomad Bouncer.

  He’s the most narcissistic person I’ve ever met. Even his sexy tattoos, perfect body, and killer eyes can’t atone for his rudeness. He acts as though he can’t stand me. But I notice the way he looks at me-like he can see into my soul. Like he can sense my despair. My struggle. And most importantly, the war that rages inside me.

  Unbeknownst to him, I can see his too.

  One

  BOUNCER

  There’s a storm coming.

  Bolts of lightning flash across the sky, illuminating the dark, ominous clouds hovering over Uprising. Strong gusts of wind hammer into me from the north just as the first drops of rain start to fall.

  With only eleven miles to go, I twist the throttle back and the monster between my knees surges forward—the eight hundred pounds of steel muscle gliding across the pavement with ease. The soft rain becomes sharp needles and the wind slices through my leather cut as my speedometer edges on 120mph. The pain and the exhilaration are welcome after the six hundred mile journey I’ve made today. It distracts my thoughts. Helps me focus on the physical. On my reality.

  I’m here.

  I’m alive.

  Even if I shouldn’t be.

  The lights of the clubhouse come into view and before long I’m easing my way down the narrow, gravel drive that’s lined with cars. The tightness between my shoulder blades and the worry between my brow intensifies. My eyes scan my surroundings. Taking in every vehicle. Every county on every tag. Searching for a sign that these cars belong to the club or club affiliates.

  Chaos told me there was a party tonight. But he failed to fucking mention the number of civilians that would be here. If I had known, I wouldn’t be here. Which is probably why he didn’t tell me.

  I pull up to the covered garage that’s already filled with bikes. I’m forced to wait in the freezing rain while two Prospects rush to rearrange shit so I have a place to park. I take the time to survey the area around the clubhouse. It’s secluded. Backed up to hundreds of acres of woods that lead to nothing. I like the seclusion. I don’t like that we’re boxed in.

  I’m mapping out the best secondary exit--in the event the driveway is barricaded--when the guys wave me in. By the time my kickstand is down, and my helmet is off, someone is handing me a towel and a fresh shirt.

  “I can get my own fucking towel,” I snap, jerking the towel out of the guy’s hands.

  Quincy.

  Twenty-Seven.

  Artist.

  Mother’s name is Sue.

  I look over at the other Prospect holding out a dry shirt to me.

  Boots.

  Lives on Oak Drive.

  Has a kid he never sees.

  Allergic to codeine.

  “And I have my own fucking clothes.”

  I shouldn’t be a dick to them. It’s not their fault I’m wired like this. But I’m on edge because the driveway is partially blocked. And there’s not a clear exit through the back of the property. And some of the people at this party aren’t part of my world. And I didn’t know they were fucking invited. And it pisses me off that these two Prospects are looking at me like I’m some kind of god, when I’m just a man—a mere motherfucking mortal—wearing the same patch one will have in eighteen days and the other one will have in seven. And I know this because I know everything about every man who steps inside my motherfucking circle, yet I don’t know shit about half the motherfuckers on this acre.

  Quincy shifts his weight to his left foot. “You okay, Bro?”

  I’m burning up on the inside. Like I’m in a goddamn microwave. But my teeth are chattering, and the tips of my fingers are blue. I probably look to them like some kind of animal.

  You are an animal.

  “Walk the perimeter. If something don’t look right, I want to know about it. And I want every make, model, and plate number of every piece of shit on four wheels lining that driveway.”

  He nearly trips over his own feet to do as he’s told. There’s a part of me that wants to call him back over and apologize for being such an asshole. But it’ll have to wait for the next time I see him. I’ve got more important shit to handle.

  “Anybody got you on a mission, Boots?” I ask, looking him in the eye and hating myself a little for the uncertainty I see there.

  “Jinx gave me this post. Told me to watch the bikes.”

  I hang my cut on the throttle then shrug out of my jacket. “How many days you got in?”

  “Hundred and ninety-four.”

  “Got all your signatures?”

  He smirks. “Almost.”

  The small talk is my way of putting him at ease. I d
on’t like it, but I think it works. I cut my eyes at him every now and then as I dry off and pull a fresh shirt from my saddle bag. He doesn’t look as nervous as he did a few minutes ago. I grab my cap and pull it over my head, light a smoke and shove my phone in my back pocket.

  “You see that?” I point to my patch. He looks over at it and nods. My gaze follows his. It’s not often I take the time to really study my cut from the back. And a sense of purpose fills me as I look into the hollow eyes of the crowned skull. It’s a feeling I feared I’d never experience again when I left the military.

  You shouldn’t have left.

  You shouldn’t have even made it home.

  “Don’t let it out of your sight until I get back. The only person you give it to is me. Nobody else. No. Body. If you want my signature, you won’t fuck this up. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  My eyes narrow. “Don’t call me sir. I’m not your daddy. Or your Dom.”

  “Yep. Right. Got it.”

  I walk away before I change my mind. I don’t like leaving my cut. Not at my house. Not locked in my bike. Not even with my brothers. The weightlessness I feel without it is unsettling. But the last thing I need is to be swarmed by people who think they need to speak to me because of who I am. In a white T-shirt, ball cap and jeans, I can be just about anyone—only recognized by the King’s in the Uprising chapter.

  When I enter the clubhouse, that moment of calm I found while talking to Boots immediately vanishes. Nobody is watching the door. One of our enemies could walk in any moment with a M16 on his motherfucking shoulder and pick off all five of my brothers who are scattered across the room. Judging by their positions, I map out a kill pattern the enemy could use to drop them one by one without alerting the next in line. “Fame” by David Bowie is blasting so loud through the speakers that even the sound of gunfire couldn’t be used as a warning.

  Chaos.

  Bash.

  Jinx.

  North.

  Sly.

  Dead.

  I force my feet to move and shake away the thought—fighting the urge to unplug the music and announce to the entire room to get the fuck out.

  I find a less crowded area of the bar and grab a seat. Cassie, the bartender for the night, recognizes me and slides a beer across the bar with a wink. Needing something stronger to take the edge off, I search my pockets for my vape pen. But I’m not wearing my cut. The reminder makes me feel naked. And alone. Segregated from my people.

  I can’t turn to face the room because I know what I find will be my undoing. Everyone is trashed. Having a good time. Enjoying life. Celebrating their freedom. I sacrificed my sanity to protect their right to do exactly what they’re doing only to come back and detest them for it.

  America is not Afghanistan.

  Get out of your thoughts.

  Take a breath.

  Calm the fuck—

  “Hey, friend.”

  My hand moves quick. My fingers curling around the piece tucked into the small of my back. I stop myself from pulling my gun on the…creature invading my personal space.

  “What you doin?”

  I intentionally wear a look on my face that dissuades people from approaching me. I emit a leave me the fuck alone vibe that allows me the space I need to not feel trapped or threatened or lose my shit on some innocent person. It’s always worked.

  Until now.

  “I think I love you.”

  Normally, I’d get up and walk away. Not that people make a habit of telling me they think they love me, but if I don’t want to engage in conversation, I don’t. But I let my guard down. Got lost in my own thoughts. Now I’m trapped with no way off this barstool unless I make a scene.

  She’s that. Fucking. Close.

  I move my hand from my back and wrap it around my beer. The movement distracts her eyes and I take the two seconds she’s not looking directly at me to study her.

  5’3.

  No makeup.

  Unkempt dark hair.

  Oversized sweater.

  Jogging pants.

  Tattered Uggs.

  Are those fucking cleaning gloves?

  I meet her eyes and she’s staring at me. Her lips curve into a smile. “Are you checking me out? I mean, it’s cool if you are, but there’s something you should know about me.” She leans in, getting impossibly closer. “I’m a bit of an exhibitionist. So, unless it’s public, sex is off the table.”

  Between my military career, my personal life, and being a Nomad for the Kings of Carnage, I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life. But I don’t ever remember feeling as uncomfortable as I do in this moment.

  I glance around us to see if anyone has their eye on her. Nobody pays either of us any attention. “You someone’s Ol’ Lady?”

  She lets out a laugh then snorts. “Fuck no. Ain’t no one weiner gonna hold me down. Oh no. I got to keep on movin’. You know what I’m sayin?” Her fingers curl into a fist and she extends it to me.

  That’s not going to happen.

  “You mind taking a few steps back?” I ask, impressed that I managed to keep my tone even.

  “Why? You got that virus? What’s it called? Dos Equis…Modelo?” She shrugs. “I can’t remember. But it’s some Mexican beer name.”

  What in the actual fuck?

  My brow is drawn so tight in confusion my head hurts. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Why are you asking me all these questions? You into me or something?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Keeping her gaze trained on me, she moves her head around and opens and closes her mouth until she locates the straw in her cup before taking a big pull.

  I just…stare.

  Who the fuck is this girl?

  This homely, frumpy looking bitch has a big mouth and an even bigger drinking problem. I know she’s no one’s little sister. She damn sure isn’t one of the strippers. She wears yellow, latex cleaning gloves up to her elbows for fuck’s sake.

  There’s definitely something wrong with her.

  “You’re picturing what our kids are going to look like, huh?”

  I’ve had enough. “Get away from me.”

  “Ha!” She points her finger at me. “I knew you had it.”

  “Had what?” I snap, barely refraining from pulling my gun out and threatening to blow her motherfucking tits off is she doesn’t get away from me.

  “That virus. But we don’t have to talk about it.” Her voice drops. “I can tell it upsets you.” She looks like she wants to touch me, so I jerk my hand off the bar and put it in my lap. She just grins. “Cassie! Can I get a shot for me and my new friend?”

  She knows the bartender by name.

  Judging by Cassie’s apologetic look, she knows the girl, too.

  “Um, I don’t think your friend is in the mood for a drink, Apple.”

  Apple?

  “Your name is Apple?” I ask. And I have no motherfucking idea why.

  She takes a step back and I’m so relieved, I almost thank her for the space. “Yep. And before you ask, no. It’s not a nickname. It’s my real one.” She holds up a plastic shot glass and tips it to me before throwing it back. “And if you think that’s weird, you should hear my middle name.”

  “What’s your middle name?” Really, dumbass? You still entertaining this shit?

  “Another time, stud. I have to pee.”

  Just as fast as she appeared, she’s gone. Leaving my head reeling. My mind completely fucked. And feeling even more anxious than I did when I got here.

  This is why I don’t fuck with people who aren’t in my circle.

  And only half the people who are.

  Two

  APPLE

  I’m drunk.

  Nothing new for me. But my job is to clean the toilets. Not puke in them.

  With one cheek pressed to the cold porcelain, I close my eyes and wonder why my real life has to be so…real. For once, why can’t I have some super-hot, alpha male in here holding my h
air while I vomit? He could press a cold rag to my head. Hand me a glass of water with two aspirin. Carry me to bed and tell me something harsh yet romantic. Like, “if you were mine, you wouldn’t sit for a week.”

  I reckon I’m going to be sitting just fine.

  And sleeping on the bathroom floor of the King’s clubhouse. Lucky for me, I just bleached the floors this morning. Unlucky for me, there’s been a hundred people in here since then.

  The door opens and I hear a familiar grunt. “Jesus, Apple.”

  Jinx’s boots appear in my line of sight. They’re wet, as are his jeans. I’m so thirsty, I’m tempted to lick the rain drops from the scuffed leather steel toes. Or suck the moisture out of his denim pants. Before I do just that, I roll to my back and look up at him. His eyes are shielded by the ever-present sunglasses on his face. But the look of annoyance is clear.

  “You look bigger from down here.”

  “You look like a girl in need of a spanking.”

  I laugh. “I was just thinking how wonderful it would be to have a man say something like that to me. Talia is living the dream.”

  His face softens at the mention of her name. “She might not agree.”

  Not many people know that the Road Captain for the King’s Uprising Chapter has a secret kink that includes spanking his submissive girlfriend. But Jinx is who got me this job. And I owe him for getting me off the streets. So, I make his business my business. I also noticed that Talia was sitting a little uncomfortably tonight.