Book of the Lost: AAV-07d25-11: (A reverse harem, post-pandemic, slow-burn romance) (The JAK2 Cycle, Book 3)

by V. E. S. Pullen

  The Sturgis rally during the height of COVID-19 had spread that virus through the ranks of many clubs, and there was a fear for a time that the number of deaths that resulted — bikers not being especially careful about their respiratory health — would herald the end of motorcycle club culture. What it mostly did was clean out the ranks of the entrenched “old guard” and lower the average age of members from their mid-60s to their mid-30s and younger, generations that were more flexible in their thinking and less entrenched in the post-Vietnam counter-culture.

  The Hellspawn Motorcycle Club suffered a lot of losses across all the chapters, including ours. We lost a lot of good men that I had grown up following around the compound, admiring what badasses they all were, coveting their rides and their freedom. We lost a lot of families too, and even if a member didn’t die, not a one of them was untouched by the deaths of old ladies, kids, hangers-on, and all the club sluts and bitches that made every night a party.

  After the COVID deaths, some clubs became more brutal and cartel-like without their elder ranks. They were more concerned with the swollen revenue streams flowing from drug- and human-trafficking than the original, founding purpose of the clubs: bands of brothers united around the desire for freedom to live how we want, go where we want, and not be dictated to or controlled by “leaders” we don’t respect and give no fucks about.

  The majority of the clubs though, even outlaw or 1%er clubs, became even closer-knit and more involved with their local communities post-COVID — especially when those communities had responded to outbreaks within the clubs with compassion and care as most did, showing respect and support for those lost as well as the club family that grieved for them.

  In the early months of the JANUS-23 outbreak, when people were panicking and dying by the thousands, the lines between club and community sometimes became blurred.

  There were shortages of anything consumable — food, medical supplies, any kind of fuel — and some people thought it was acceptable to take what they wanted, especially if they believed the people they were preying on were weak or undefended.

  Clubs stepped up, protected their “territory” and that territory ended up expanding exponentially. Our chapter of the Hellspawn absorbed the entire town because we learned from COVID, and while the town was hit pretty hard, the club wasn’t. When the surviving populace and resources were threatened, we intervened and ended up involved far beyond just one looting incident. That first winter when supplies were low, we all felt the pinch of hunger and sting of cold, and we all shared the supplies we found — even when it was dog biscuits and birdseed — not just with the town but with other Hellspawn clubs and allies.

  Things stabilized after the first year when the death rate plateaued, and in a lot of ways, we all went back to business-as-usual to some degree. Stores and businesses reopened where they could, some new ones sprang up, and people settled into a new way of living that leaned heavily on the barter system and delivery services.

  It didn’t happen so much in our territory, but we’ve heard that in other places and big cities, a lot of businesses hung up signs saying “Immunized Only” and hired security to enforce it: you had to show your vaccination marks, or the tattoo that registered survivors got. In our territory, you wouldn’t fucking dare try to discriminate between the immune and at-risk: take all the precautions you want, refuse to serve someone who showed symptoms and call on a patch holder to back you if there was any objection, but don’t fucking try to check for vaccination marks at the door.

  We aren’t policing the town or anything like that, but if you’re looking to us to protect you from outsiders as part of our territory, or keep you alive if the shit hits the fan again, don’t even fucking think about closing the door in one of our faces. Or our old lady, or an ally.

  If our colors aren’t showing, or an old lady isn’t wearing her property patch, a civilian might not have any way to know. It didn’t take long for them to figure out it was simpler just not to discriminate against the 90% of the population that wasn’t immune.

  Holy fuck are things going to change when Azzie rolls into town on the back of my Fat Boy.

  Azzie

  It was a bar, this little unassuming brick-fronted place wedged between a boarded up cell phone store and a boarded up pizza place. There were two giant satellite dishes on the roof, and a broken sign with shards missing attached to the front. It read “Benf d’s Bar & ill” above some black lettering mounted directly into the brick proclaiming “FOOD” and “LIQUOR.”

  I didn’t know Ben Folds had a bar.

  The entry was set back like a chunk of the building was cut out on one side, with a couple low steps stretched out along the sidewalk like an afterthought leading to the heavy wooden door. The only windows on the entire structure were narrow panes of thick, bevelled glass on either side. A bit of light leaked out, hard to see from the road by the way the entry and surrounding bushes were set, and a piece of paper with the word “OPEN” scrawled in thick block letters was taped to the inside.

  “Uhhh…” I stared around the barren parking lot that ran across the front of the strip of empty stores, not a motorcycle in sight. “Are you sure this is the place?”

  “Yup,” Sasha said with enough confidence that I almost believed him.

  “Benford’s,” Luka said, leaning back to point at the sign. “Pretty sure that’s what that says, right? This is the place.”

  “It’s not supposed to stand out,” Sev dropped his bag and wrapped an arm around me.

  “Mission accomplished,” Tai muttered from behind, and I glanced back over my shoulder and widened my eyes like Right?!

  “If it isn’t the right place,” Sasha conceded, grudgingly, like he was just trying to appease me and not because we were walking into a serial killer’s trap, “we can at least get a drink, maybe some food, and use the bathroom.”

  “Bathroom,” I breathed out, suddenly thinking this place looked cozy and quirky — my bladder had been screaming at me for the last mile but I knew we were close and was willing to hold it for the chance of a real bathroom.

  They didn’t understand what it meant to be a girl in the wilderness. The suffering was real.

  “Okay, looks good to me,” I said decisively, striding forward and grabbing for the handle of the door but Sasha stopped me. My brow furrowed as I squinted at him. “Let’s get inside before we start looking suspicious.”

  “Look at you,” Sev cooed, “all brave once there’s a real toilet involved.”

  “Listen Mr. I-Can-Write-My-Name-In-The-Snow, until you’ve had to drop trou and squat in the freezing cold and rain, in the dark, and hope you haven’t peed on yourself, you don’t get to talk shit about the value of working plumbing—”

  “We have an uncle whose Hopi name is Writes-Name-In-Snow,” Spider said, totally deadpan, and I lost my train of thought trying to figure out if he was being serious. Then Tai burst out laughing, and I shook my head at the dick.

  “You. Jackhole.”

  “Second time I’ve gotten you with the indigenous people jokes,” he grinned, so fucking pleased with himself, and if that fucking smile wasn’t so rare and if it didn’t light up his face like a goddamn sunbeam from above, I might have punched him in the nuts.

  Pretty sure I instinctively go for that attack because I’m secretly hoping one of them will insist I kiss it, make it better.

  Sasha led, opening the door and stepping inside then pausing before moving forward. Sev followed him, then Tai. I made it through the door and immediately saw the sign reading “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing down the stairs on the right. I barely noticed the checkerboard tile floor and flimsy metal railing between the passage farther into the bar and the plunge to your death (or at least a painful fall) into the basement, where apparently my Mecca awaited.

  “I’ll find you.” I beelined to the stairs and got down two before Spider grabbed me, and I tugged away from him, glaring back over my shoulder. “I gotta go.”

&
nbsp; “I’ll go with her,” Luka said, handing his extra bag over to Spider, and he followed me down the stairs with one hand on my shoulder. It was a bit dark — probably not as dark for them as it was to me — so I was happy for the support.

  The stairs emptied out at one end of a wide hallway that continued onto the right, ending at a set of closed double doors. The men’s bathroom was directly opposite the bottom of the stairs, and the women’s about ten feet farther down the hall. Luka walked me to the door, knocked, and when no one answered, he opened it and went inside first.

  It was completely tiled, everything — including the sinks — a drab olive green or gray, but it was exceedingly clean; like so clean that I wanted to finish what I needed to do and then just hang out in here until I needed to go again, so as to be able to keep using this fine facility.

  Luka checked all the stalls and then I shooed him out, hanging both bags up on the hooks on the doors of the two stalls I wasn’t going to be using, and since it was 3 fucking a.m. at a dive bar during the apocalypse, I wasn’t expecting a rush on the facilities. I took care of business and washed my hands, then looked in the mirror.

  Oh. My. God.

  Five minutes later, when Luka knocked on the door and asked if I was done yet, I cracked open the door just enough so he could see my face and assured him that I was going to be a bit, I was taking advantage of the running water to take care of some necessary maintenance. Since I had a layer of suds on my face at the time, and my hair was dripping wet, I think he got the idea.

  The water wasn’t hot, but it wasn’t frigid cold either, which was a nice change. I’d stripped down completely, using a clean bandana as a washcloth to quickly wipe down the important parts, before digging through my pack looking for completely clean underthings and socks. I hated having to put back on my dirty clothes, but technically we were still traveling and I only had two pairs of tactical cargo pants with all the various pockets, and both were equally mud-streaked and crusty. I at least had a slightly cleaner shirt to wear.

  Once I was fully clothed, boots on, and armory in place, I tackled my hair. I had to comb it slowly; I noticed last night that my roots were starting to hurt a bit so my circulation wasn’t getting to my scalp as easily. That was usually a solid second sign that things were slowing down; the first sign was an increase in pain and stiffness in my joints, but with all the walking (and falling, and sleeping on the ground) over the last almost four days, everything already ached so I didn’t notice anything special there. But my hair hurting? I needed a phlebotomy and fluids in the next twenty-four hours, or I’d start developing more serious issues — the kinds of things that led to weeks of smoothies and increasing eye problems.

  Once I got my hair under some semblance of control and had re-braided it, putting my poor, abused beanie away for now, I used a handful of paper towels to clean up the water I’d splashed everywhere, then got my and Mouse’s packs back in place. I exited the bathroom, expecting to see Luka or one of the others camped out in the hall waiting for me, but it was empty.

  That was weird.

  Maybe they’d secured this whole place so thoroughly that I was free to move around without an escort? That seemed… premature. And really unlikely since they hovered over me like new mothers with a toddler who just learned to walk.

  Maybe he was just looking around, scoping out the rest of this area to make sure it was safe? That seemed way more likely. I took my packs off again, setting them on the ground against the wall next to the bathroom, then slid down to sit next to them. I rested my head back, closing my eyes, then startling when I heard a muffled voice that sounded like Luka from behind the double doors at the end of the hall. Maybe that’s where everyone ended up? That made sense, to keep us out of the way and out of sight as much as possible…

  I got back to my feet, knees protesting, then edged down the hall, creeping closer to the doors. There were voices on the other side, pretty muffled, but there it was again, that was definitely Luka’s voice. I pushed open the door and stepped forward into the room—

  That was not Luka’s voice.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Azzie

  It was a fairly large room with a low-ish drop ceiling and dim lights, filled with a scattering of tables with stackable chairs spread around them. That’s about the extent of what I noticed about my surroundings, too surprised by the sheer number of slightly shocked but quickly pissed-off bikers filling the space. I gasped and threw myself backwards, but there was one right next to the door that I hadn’t even seen, and he had me by the arm in seconds, dragging me deeper into the room.

  I got one shriek out before a thick hand that smelled like gasoline and french fries was clapped over my face, and I was lifted bodily up off the floor as I struggled and kicked and tried to get leverage against my captor. Through the fog of panic, I finally remembered I wasn’t helpless, and his arm was covering my gun but I could reach my hot pink tactical baton.

  I slid it out of the concealed pocket as the man struggled to carry me away from the door, flicking my wrist so it extended to its full length, and flung my arm up as hard as I could to whack this fucker on the head.

  He made a sound halfway between a squeal and a grunt, dropping me to defend against the sudden attack from behind, and I pivoted, bringing the baton around to slash against his thigh muscle. He automatically reached for the new wound — I hope he got a fucking charley horse — making himself unbalanced in the process, and I gave him a shove, sending him crashing into the table and knocking around few other guys who were scrambling to get to me. I backed up, checking my six, and dropped the baton in favor of Vera.

  I swung the gun in an arc, making sure every man in the room saw it, and I felt a flare of pride that my hand didn’t shake.

  Fifteen other guns were suddenly pointing at me.

  “It appears we’re at an impasse,” I cracked, my voice steady. I was so going to die here.

  The crowd parted, and a really big man stepped forward. I was stunned stupid by the vision of a thickly bearded Luka, about twenty pounds of muscle heavier with his long hair clubbed back, who’d come back from about twenty years in the future to rescue me.

  “Luka?” I whispered as he stepped up on me and wrapped one of his giant mitts around my hand holding the gun, pointing it toward the ground. This close, I could see his eyes were so blue they almost looked violet, and there were wings of silver in his hair and beard. His eyebrow was pierced with a barbell through it — fucking hot — and he had a silver ball dead center in the dip of his cupid bow on his upper lip, and I needed to talk to Luka about some facial piercings because this was a good look for him. There was a scar cutting through his—

  “Sorry darlin’ but not Luka,” he drawled out with the same commanding tone that Sasha wielded so naturally, but his voice had a permanent rasp to it that appealed to me in a way I didn’t want to think about. “The last month must’ve been rougher than anticipated if my son looks a few decades older than when my boys left,” his sharp, assessing eyes crinkled around the edges, betraying amusement that didn’t show on his face otherwise, just like his youngest son. “Can I take this to mean they’re here?”

  “Upstairs, I think,” I muttered, studying my future. Let me just say, it’s lookin’ bright. “I— they weren’t where I expected and I heard a voice, sounded like Luka—”

  “That was probably me,” said another not-Luka-but-almost-could-be, another towering Viking with long blonde hair and gray-blue eyes, with a short beard and a slight difference to the shape of his face. He was also a couple inches shorter than my Vikings, but clearly related in some way. And sure enough, his voice was really fucking similar to theirs, and easily mistaken from a distance and through closed doors. At least that’s what I was telling myself. “Cousin,” he shrugged, “name’s Lore.”

  “Friend— uhh, girl—?” Well, that was awkward. “Name’s Azzie.”

  “Luka’s girl?” his dad asked, interest piquing. His hand holding my gun
relaxed slightly.

  “Uhh, sure,” I answered, shifting in place, eyeing the group that were now eyeing each other. “Umm, actually— sorta all of them?” I squeaked, instantly regretting my compulsive honesty, but whatever. “And a couple others. What can I say,” I shrugged, adopting a blasé attitude. “I’m a greedy girl.”

  Lore sputtered out a shocked laugh as their dad eyed me with a bit more focus and a bit less amusement. “All of them,” he stated flatly.

  I bristled at his disbelief. “Have you met them?” I asked, sarcasm thick. “How, and why, would anyone choose if they didn’t have to?”

  “You really so shocked your boys are sharing pussy?” someone crudely supplied from the back, and a bunch of them chuckled.

  I curled up my lip in disdain. Whatever. They’d figure it out or they wouldn’t, I didn’t have anything to prove.

  “You aren’t exactly their normal type,” their dad pointed out in a less than helpful way. Ouch.

  “Yes, well, they aren’t exactly mine either, but your sons can be… persistent. They wore me down eventually, and here we are. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  He made a face at me, the same damn look of bemused aggravation that Sasha has made at me a million times, and pointed at the patch on his chest that read “Justice” right above one that read “President.”

  “So my sons pursued you?” he asked with so much disbelief that the anger that was perpetually banked in my gut flared up, and started shooting sparks out.

  “Actively,” I stated coldly, narrowing my eyes at him, “and vehemently. And before you make some crack about how limited their options must’ve been or imply it was temporary and the world will now right itself — yeah, I can see where this is going, you aren’t that subtle — I’ll point out that if this isn’t as temporary as you seem to believe, you’re about to cross a line that you’ll regret later. So consider your next words carefully, Papa Justice, or family gatherings might be awkward going forward.” Then I remembered the promise I made to Luka, about legit trying not to offend their family right out of the gate, and I scrambled to switch gears in my brain and maybe make a joke instead of threatening the motorcycle club president. “Papa Justice? Really? Am I an idiot? Sorry, I get really awkward and say weird shit sometimes, especially when I’m losing my temper—” I paused then blurted out, “You’re clearly more of a Daddy.”