Lust Hard (Savage Saints MC Book 2)

by Hazel Parker

I snorted, grabbed some water, and stared at the damage.

  “How did this happen, anyway?”

  “Well, Amber and I were here last night, after you left, having a little fun… no, not like that. That’s… that’s a different story. But in any case, she left. I was outraged, trying to calm myself.”

  “OK, timeout,” Trace said.

  Damnit. Now I have to tell Trace what’s going on? Fuck, man. So much truth-telling and emotional conversations these days. Why don’t I just get a fucking therapist and spill everything out?

  “Why were you outraged? Why did she leave? What happened? I need to know, Splitter. You staying out of jail depends on it.”

  “I know, I know, I’m fully aware,” I groused.

  That, and Trace was the one who had authorized us to spend club funds on the legal defense. For that fact alone, he had a right to know what the hell was going on.

  “I made a move to kiss her, and it was great at first. But then I tried to move it forward, and she freaked out. Said she was thinking about dropping the case, that she couldn’t think straight. She did message me after she left to say that she needed twenty-four hours before she would make a decision so she could make the right one, but fuck, man. It’s not looking good. I’m not so sure that things will be landing in our favor.”

  “Goddamn,” Trace said, looking sadder than he was upset.

  And who could blame him? The more time that went by from last night, the less energy I had to be angry. I was still pissed, to be sure, but it was more of a simmering pissed off than a volcano waiting to explode. I just couldn’t muster the same level of intensity and passion that I had the night before, and I’m not even sure that I wanted to. What good would it have done?

  At least Trace, whether because of his experience with Jane or otherwise, could keep a more even-keeled feel to things than I ever could. Hell, I’d fucking cried last night; couldn’t remember the last time that Trace had done something that soft and weak.

  “So, she left, and I was stewing and angry, and then I heard a brick fly through here, the brick you see. I went to get my gun, but then bullets came, about a dozen of them. And that was it.”

  “That’s it?”

  I nodded.

  “A drive-by,” Trace said. “A warning.”

  He sighed.

  “And on top of what Amber told us about needing to lay low…”

  When he made that point, I just felt utterly exhausted and defeated. We either had to lay low or get revenge; one would have the DMs running all over us and laughing, the other would have the police getting the excuse they needed to shut us down and arrest us. It was die by the sword or die by the state, it seemed.

  And I made it so much worse because I couldn’t keep myself from kissing the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

  Or, to be more precise, from grabbing the ass of the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

  Fuck me, indeed. Especially because it had not actually gotten me fucked.

  “We need to call hall immediately,” Trace said. “I’m sending out messages now. In the meantime, let’s put the brick and the message in the hall so that the rest of the team knows what’s going on, but we can clean up this place. Sound good?”

  I huffed.

  “I don’t think anything sounds good right now.”

  But it was the best option that we had. If our lives were going to be cleaned up, well, perhaps it started in the most literal fucking sense of the word by picking up all the debris and trash in here.

  As Trace sent messages out, I grabbed the brick and the paper, took them to the hall, and carefully put them in the middle. I might as well have put our own tombstone right there, with the insignia “Here Lies the Savage Saints. Too Fucked on Both Sides to Do Anything About It.”

  OK, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but with everything going on… fuck, I had no idea.

  I then headed inside and helped Trace clear the room. It was a much easier and quicker job than I think either of us had anticipated, so the two of us just retreated to the hall. Trace had his jacket on, but I had mine over my wife-beater shirt and my gym shorts, making me look the complete opposite of… well, an MC member.

  As the guys walked in, they tried to keep it somewhat lighthearted by giving me shit about my clothes, but for the most part, I didn’t say a word. Trace welcomed them all in, but the mood, aside from those very brief one-liners, was one of very serious, dour, and stern expressions. Mafia was the last one to walk in, and though he walked in with a smirk, he didn’t even get a joke out before he saw everyone’s expressions. He went dead silent as he took a seat.

  “By now, it should be obvious why we are all here,” Trace began. “We got attacked last night. That brick and that note you see lying on the table are courtesy of the DMs.”

  A few swears went up. Trace lit up a cigarette. I couldn’t help it. I bummed one off of him as I continued to mope, half-listening, half-wondering why the fuck I had been such an idiot with Amber.

  “Our lawyer, whom Splitter and I met last night—”

  “Yeah, he did,” Krispy said.

  No one laughed. Krispy apologized and looked down at his feet.

  “We met her last night, and she advised us to lay low. Here’s the problem that we are facing. If we don’t do anything, the DMs feel inclined to attack us more. If we do, the law comes down on us. So it’s simple. Who is the biggest fucking threat right now? Is it the club whose leader we just killed and whose supplies we just wiped out? Or is it the California State Police and the district attorney, who more or less have unlimited funds to attack us with?”

  No one even dared cough at that moment. Trace had the room under complete control.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “What I’m going to say is going to suck, but it’s the truth. No more parties. No more celebrations. We don’t do a goddamn thing here but talk, have no more than three drinks, and work as mechanics until this all blows over. So help me God if I catch one of you assholes causing a disturbance in public, I will not send Amber your way.”

  The very mention of her name made me bow my head.

  “What’s your problem?”

  I looked up to see BK staring at me. Of all the people I had not expected to pipe up during this meeting, it was the massive but quiet sergeant in arms.

  “I’m sorry?” I said, an accusing tone in my voice.

  “You’re usually good for piping up about something,” he said.

  “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I said, tension building rapidly.

  “We’re in a spot right now where we need you present,” BK said, his tone not exactly aggressive… but BK’s tone never really changed, either. One had to listen to his words to understand what he was saying. “You are clearly way the fuck out in some lala land.”

  “Does it have to do with the lawyer?” Krispy said. “She’s a real stunner. Did you get your dick sucked and your heart broken?”

  “That’s enough!” I roared.

  “That’s more like it,” BK had to say.

  “Shut the fuck up!” I snapped. “All of you assholes are over here cracking jokes, but none of you are facing a goddamn life sentence. You all just get to sit here whenever Trace calls you, get to fuck a bunch of whores, and pretend that life’s great. Meanwhile, I’m here about to take the fall for the club and be a scapegoat for everything we’ve done wrong to the public. You wanna know why my head is in the fucking clouds? Maybe it’s because it’s the last few chances I’ll get to relish my freedom before the state puts a goddamn orange jumpsuit on me!”

  I sure as hell hadn’t intended to lash out like that, nor had I ever thought that I carried such resentment for BK and Krispy. And in some ways, I still didn’t. It was just an intense thing said in the face of an intense accusation.

  But it sure as hell did put quite a stir in the room. For several seconds, BK and Krispy were just left speechless. Even I was left speechless at what I said. I actually became emotional and felt myse
lf on the verge of tears, but I refused to allow myself to do that.

  “We’re not here to judge who the hell is going through what,” Trace said, his voice as even-keeled as possible. “Right now, Splitter is going through a lot, and frankly, he could be taking the fall for a lot of us. We are spending as much as we can with his lawyer—no more fucking jokes on that—but we have to acknowledge that no war is a guaranteed victory. And make no goddamn mistake about it, this is a war of a certain kind with the authorities.”

  He sighed, leaning back in his chair as he took a puff of his cigarette. The place was as silent as I had ever remembered it being.

  “We are laying low for the time being. I am the president, and that is the call that I am making. If anyone wants to discuss it with me, this is your chance.”

  No one said a word.

  “We are all a little on edge. We thought that killing Diablo was going to make things peaceful and calm, and it seems all we’ve done is awoken the politicians and police and ignited the DMs. We can handle that another day. But for now? Everyone go home. Relax. Eat pizza, watch TV, I don’t give a shit. Just do it alone or with people who are not in this room. Got it?”

  More than got it, Trace. I need to get my mind right after the last twelve hours.

  “Dismissed,” Trace said, banging the gavel.

  And with that, for at least what I figured would be a couple of days, the Savage Saints were officially on break.

  And then my phone vibrated with a text notification.

  Chapter 10: Amber

  I think I prayed harder for clarity on what to do with the case than I had for what to do with my now ex-husband.

  OK, perhaps that was a slight exaggeration, but it wasn’t as much an exaggeration as it might have been when I started the case. With my ex, it was just a matter of seeking forgiveness for what I was going to do; I had married young, not known any better, and paid the price for not having the long-term vision that I did now. It sucked horribly, but I knew I would not make the same mistake again.

  With Splitter… what had I done?

  When I got home, I was so exhausted that it actually turned out to be a blessing, because I didn’t have time to toss and turn, to risk calling him and turning it into a two a.m. cry-fest. I can’t say that I slept well—I had more than a few nightmares about my kiss with him getting out into the public for all of the world to see, ruining my reputation everywhere—but at least I can say I did sleep.

  When I woke up, the answer wasn’t any clearer.

  Stay on the case, continue to support Splitter, and carry some serious personal and professional risk? Or leave the case but also all but sentence a man to life in prison?

  He did confess to you that he murdered people. What could be a more cardinal sin than that? Do you really want to defend someone who does that?

  But he’s like a soldier. It’s for the greater good. It’s not ideal, of course, we don’t want violence, but what would Los Angeles and Green Hills look like without what he had done? Probably a lot more violent, right? He had to use fire to prevent another fire.

  Or is that just you trying to rationalize for him?

  I didn’t know. I was really glad that I gave myself the twenty-four hours of cushion that I did because had I asked for time until the morning, I don’t know what I would have said.

  To try and move on from all of the madness and insanity in my head, I went to the one thing that seemed antiquated but I still liked to do—I turned on the morning news.

  The morning news gave me the chance to see what serious news affiliates were discussing, and if something was important enough that it jumped off of TMZ and the tabloids and into the morning news, I knew I had to pay attention to it, most especially if it was my client. For the most part, though, it was just local politics, traffic, weather, and the whole typical newscast.

  Many of my L.A. friends wondered why I didn’t go online for such news, but the answer to that was easy. It was much easier to get jumpy and go other places online than it was passively engaging with the television. I didn’t have to worry about checking five hundred other things when I was watching TV.

  The first half of the broadcast did not present anything stunning to me. A note about local politicians voting on a scooter initiative was one thing. They talked about the morning commute, which, surprise, surprise, was horrible. I at least wouldn’t leave for the office until about nine, although I got much of my work done from home regarding emails and the like. They mentioned that it would be a clear day all across the greater Los Angeles area, that the smog had declined to the point that, at least temporarily, things would look good.

  And that’s when, after the second commercial break, a news story popped up.

  “Peters Auto Repair in Green Hills was the victim of a drive-by shooting last night,” the newscaster began.

  Oh no…

  “An unidentified perpetrator appeared to throw a brick through one of their windows and shot the building multiple times. Attempts to reach employees or the owner of Peters Auto Repair at this time have proved unsuccessful, but it does not appear there was any loss of life or injuries of any kind.”

  The newscaster moved on, but I was left to just gawk at the television. When had that damage occurred? Had it come last night? Did it come right after I left?

  If I had stayed there… would something bad have happened to me?

  At least the newscaster had made a point to say that no one had died, which immediately resolved the issue of whether or not Splitter was OK. Still, I was both a little bit shook and a little bit thankful. Shook that the Savage Saints were engaged in the kind of work that would cause someone to do something like that, but thankful that I had not been there.

  Of course, the circumstances why I left… well, I can’t say I liked that part.

  What was for me to decide, though, was reaching out to Splitter. I sent him a text immediately.

  “Hey, saw what happened on the news about your shop. So sorry. If you want to talk about it, let me know.”

  I put my phone down and tried to turn my eyes to the news station, though it was mostly just to pass the time so I wouldn’t get in my head.

  One segment later, though, my phone rang, and I had no choice but to get into my head as I saw Splitter calling. Alright, let’s do this.

  “Hi, Splitter,” I said, trying to maintain a neutral tone.

  “Hey… Amber,” he said, his voice not exactly neutral. “You saw what happened on the news here?”

  “Yeah. The newscaster said your store was the victim of a drive-by attack. Said that there weren’t any casualties, but I just wanted to make sure everything was OK.”

  Splitter laughed, but it sounded like a strange mixture of sadness and relief.

  “Well, OK is not quite the word I would use for me, but the drive-by? That happened maybe half an hour after you left.”

  I really am lucky.

  Wow…

  “It started with someone throwing a brick through our window. I went to get a gun to confront whichever ass… whichever punk, sorry, had done this.”

  He’s still trying not to swear.

  That’s good. That’s really good. That’s even promising.

  “But just as I got to the bar, the bullets started. I took cover and was never really in danger of getting hit, but the message was clear. And I also mean that literally because attached to the brick was a note from the DMs.”

  “DMs?”

  “Devil’s Mercenaries, the rival gang, sorry,” he clarified. “It basically said that because we killed their leader, they were going to kill all of us. So, I think this stuff is about to get a whole lot more violent.”

  He let out a sigh.

  “My question is, how did the news know to cover us? We don’t ever put out relations to the press. We do our best to lay low, well, maybe not to this extent, but we certainly don’t engage the media. I don’t know of a single MC in the world that can say they get regular favorable coverage.�
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  That was actually a very good question. Much of my job was trying to get people to crack and admit to being “anonymous sources” in reports so that we could prosecute violated NDAs or anything of that nature. The fact that the store had said that attempts to reach employees and the owner were unsuccessful made me believe that it was not someone in the club… and if it was, it didn’t make sense.

  “Well, the newscast said they couldn’t talk to you, so I think it must have been someone not associated with the club.”

  “I smell trouble from the DMs,” Splitter said. “It would never be anyone in the club.”

  “Yeah,” I said, trailing off.

  “So…” Splitter said as the conversation reached a natural wrapping up point. “Did you get the chance to think at all about last night? What was discussed?”

  I had, but I had not thought about it enough to make a decision.

  But, in talking to Splitter right there, I knew what I had to do.

  “I did,” I said. “I owe you an apology, Splitter. I’m not very good at following my advice sometimes. Part of the reason I freaked out is that I worried about the paparazzi catching us in some sort of act. I do my best to lay low… well, maybe that’s the issue; I don’t really do my best. I don’t like the coverage, but I know there are more things I could be doing to avoid the coverage that I get. Anyways, they’re on me more than ever because of my divorce. It’s becoming like a game to see who I date next, and I’m trying to keep that part of my life private. I just… I just panicked that it would get out.”

  Splitter did not interrupt or even go “hmm” as I spoke. He gave me the space I needed to speak, and in doing so, he left me wondering what he would think of that.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “If I were, say, a Hollywood hunk or a beloved basketball player, maybe a star or even just a player for the Lakers… would it be easier for you?”

  I could not lie. If I did, Splitter would see right through it.

  “It would be easier in the sense that the coverage would be more… gossipier and less judgmental. I cannot lie to you about that, Splitter. Unfortunately, because you are a Savage Saint, the press would have a field day mocking me and mocking you, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”