by Kim Jones
“I’m going to kill you for this. I swear on my life you’ll pay for every woman you’ve ever hurt.”
He grins up at me—the sight even more repulsive because I’m seeing two of him. “I like when you talk dirty to me.”
Then his smile fades. His eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps to the ground in front of me. Just before my vision blurs to black, I see my savior.
It’s not one of my brothers.
It’s not one of my sisters.
And it sure as fuck, isn’t Marty.
CHAPTER TWO
One Year Later
Marty
For the past six hundred mornings, I woke up like any other common person. I drank coffee, I showered, shaved, ate and breathed like every other man in the world. I’m not special. There’s nothing unusual about me. I’m just another guy.
But in an instant, I can change that—I can separate myself from the ordinary. It only takes a moment for my transformation to take effect. With the simplest gesture, I become powerful and lethal. I become the kind of man only few are.
Today, as I pull the thick, heavy leather over my back, I perform the morning ritual once again.
Six hundred and one.
My eyes connect with the man in the mirror. I silently vow to him that I’ll make him proud. Then I gaze at the patches that stare back at me. They offer me a promise that only I fully understand. And a reminder of the heartbreak I suffer every day because of them.
My fingers slide over the dirty, orange threads—each one representing a different part of me.
SERGEANT AT ARMS
DFFD
I AM MY BROTHER’S KEEPER
DRMC
But there’s no patch for the part of me that aches from the loss of Maddie. She broke my heart, and this cut is the reason she left me. A reason she never fully explained, because she didn’t feel like she had to. I guess our love was a one-way street. So now, I only have one purpose in this life.
I buckle the silver chains across my stomach. Then look back over my shoulder at the orange reaper patch whose eyes are hidden beneath the hood of his black cape. He’s a reminder of what I’m willing to sacrifice for my club. And who I want to be…which is exactly who I am.
A Devil’s Renegade.
“We have a problem.” Is the greeting I get when I step inside the Devil’s Renegades’ Hattiesburg, Mississippi chapter’s club house.
“Don’t we always,” I mutter to Luke, our chapter president.
Joining him at the bar, I motion to the PROSPECT for a cup of coffee. Nervous and fumbling, he manages to pour more on the counter than he does in the cup. I remember those days.
“Madness MC has three new chapters in north Mississippi.” Perfect.
“And you’re just now finding out?”
He turns to face me—fire blazing in his blue eyes. “They did it over the weekend.”
Pulling a cigarette from my cut, I notice the PROSPECT nearly breaking his neck to get close enough to light it. In the mood to be humored, I wait patiently for him to dig out his lighter from his pocket. It takes him three strikes, but he finally gets a flame.
Inhaling, I welcome the dizziness from my first morning pull. Now that I can think clearer, I turn my attention back to my very pissed off president. “Where in the hell do they get the idea they can just set up shop wherever they want?”
Madness calls themselves an MC, but they don’t abide by the rules set by the Confederation of Clubs, or CoC. We’ve had problems with them before, but managed to keep things under control. Now, they were getting out of hand.
“They think just because they have lawyers and cops wearing patches, they can do whatever the fuck they want.” He lets out a breath. Damn, he looks exhausted. I can only imagine the pressures he has as a president. But as much as I hate it for him, he’s the best man for the job. “We have to be smart about this, Marty. I don’t want anybody doing time. I like to spend my Sundays with my family, not visiting a brother in county.”
Grabbing his shoulder, I try to offer him some encouragement. “Let me ride up there today and check it out. I’ll give them a little welcome home present.”
He starts to say something, but the door opens and we both turn to see who it is. At the sight, my face remains frozen, appearing completely unaffected. But my body stills … I hold my breath … my heart quickens. Because it’s her—Maddie.
She’s beautiful. A vision. A cock twitching, salivating, nipple hardening, five foot three, blonde hair, blue eyed vixen. And she’s just wearing pajamas. At one time, she loved me. She used to be mine. And at the sight of her, my soul aches with the memory of us.
When I met Maddie, I was in a dark place. And like a beacon of light at the end of the black tunnel, there she was. At first it was just sex—raw, powerful, no strings attached hardcore fucking. But in the midst of it all, Maddie fell victim to the life of the MC. It damaged her not only physically, but mentally too. After that, she needed more than just sex. So, I gave it to her—I wanted to.
It didn’t take long for me to realize that Maddie wasn’t just a distraction. I wasn’t with her just because she needed me. I was with her because I’d fallen in love. We hid our relationship for a while, but when the secret became too heavy, I confessed my love for her to Luke.
Watching her grow up, he’d taken on an overprotective brotherly role in her life. He didn’t take the news well. He thought she deserved better than a piece of shit like me or him. But she stood her ground, refused to succumb to his demands and eventually he gave in.
With Luke’s blessing, we were the happiest we’d ever been. I had my family, my club and the perfect woman. She drove me crazy, and I loved it. Being with her was a constant thrill and a test of my patience and strength. It was like I was living on the edge—waiting for her to make the next move that would ultimately put her in danger, so I could sweep in and save the day.
A few months later, that thrill started to die. We weren’t sneaking around anymore, so the excitement became dull. Then one day, she just left. Her reasons were bullshit. She claimed we weren’t right together. That I wasn’t the same man. That I had changed. But it was all lies.
“I’m just not ready, Marty. I thought I was, but I’ve been around the MC all my life. I want to make sure what we have is real—not just what I know.”
That was almost a year ago. But I still can’t shake her. Every time I see her I get this feeling. She’s like nicotine from a cigarette—the alcohol in whiskey. She’s that relaxed and happy feeling you get when you smoke weed. All the things that make me feel good come from her. And without that goodness … I don’t want to feel.
A part of me wonders if she’s reflecting on us just like I am. Even though she tries to ignore me, she knows I’m here. There is no mistaking my two hundred and twenty-pound body on this barstool. But she overlooks me completely and seeks out Luke. When she slides a set of keys down the bar, I reach out to stop them. At the sudden movement, she finally turns those big, cornflower blue eyes on me.
I see a flash of pain … a hint of regret … a touch of sadness. But she quickly conceals it and looks over the top of my head at Luke. “Dallas had to go to the office. She said to make sure you got those.” Without a second glance in my direction, she disappears.
I stare at the closed door, willing myself to go to her. But my pride and fear of rejection cements me to my seat. Luke clears his throat and it’s like a punch to the gut back to reality.
“Jack,” I tell the PROSPECT, and silently thank him for delivering it to me quickly, and in one piece. Taking a pull straight from the bottle, I welcome the liquid encouragement as it burns the back of my throat.
“So,” Luke says, and I don’t have to look at him to know he’s wearing that smart-ass, signature smirk of his. He’s clearly amused by the effect she still has on me, and the fact that I’d rather drown myself in liquor than do anything about it. “You still want to go up north?”
The humor in his words doesn’t go unnoticed.
So I make sure the conviction in mine doesn’t either.
“You fucking right I do.”
Elvira is the name of my bitch—a custom built Harley Street Glide with a 110 motor that will stand up in first gear. My girl tops out at one forty, and because of my shitty morning, I’m doing every bit of it. My speed cuts my riding time in half, and two hours later I arrive in the town that will soon know my name.
Water Valley is a small city located just south of Oxford—home to Ole Miss College and the largest medicinal marijuana farm in the nation. Because we don’t have any clubs within a hundred miles of this area, Madness has chosen this particular location to set up shop. Unlucky for them, I’m about to shut it down.
They bought Willie’s Place, a small beer bar just outside the city limits, and they’re using it as a club house. As I pull into the gravel parking lot, I watch as one by one they walk outside. Cutting the engine, I can feel their eyes on me. I’m not nervous about being outnumbered. I’m not scared for my life. They’re not stupid enough to kill me, but they’re not all smart enough to keep their mouths shut.
“You lost, homeboy?” someone shouts from a safe distance away. I just smile and shake my head as I unmount my bike. Homeboy? Really?
Walking toward the entrance, I survey my surroundings and I’m not impressed by what I see. It’s a shitty place. The wood structure is rotting, the porch is falling in and the parking lot is a death trap. The bikes scattered among the potholes are in poor condition and cheaply made. There’s only one Harley gracing this place with its beauty, and that sweet bitch belongs to me.
The ten men lining the front of the building aren’t very impressive either. They’re young, cocky and three of them aren’t even wearing shirts—even though it’s an unusually cold day for October.
I brush past them, ignoring the stares and the knife in one kid’s hand. Inside, the lighting is dim, the smoke is thick and the walls are plastered in everything Madness. Posters, flags, stickers and pictures cover every surface. Even the ceiling tiles are painted black and white. They’ve really worked hard on this place. And because of that, it will be even more satisfying when I burn it to the ground.
“Budweiser, please.” I plaster a smile on my face and the old man behind the bar returns it. For his hospitality, I’ll let him keep his teeth. He hands me the ice cold beer, making sure to leave the top on. He’s obviously skilled in his MC knowledge. You never hand a biker an unopened beer. Could be roofied. And you could get fucked.
I throw a ten down on the bar, then motion for him to keep the change. I’m aware of the men standing behind me. I can feel their lethal stares hitting me in the back. They’re trying to intimidate me with their silence. But I’m not that easily threatened.
Halfway through my beer, I notice the bartender nod to one of them. With a nervous glance in my direction, he leaves. Figuring I better turn around in case there’s a gun trained on my head, I slowly spin my stool so I’m facing them.
I want to laugh at what I see. Even with leather cuts, they still don’t come close to resembling bikers. They feel like they have the upper hand because there’s safety in numbers and all that shit. But, this isn’t my first solo rodeo. And besides that, they look like a bunch of guys fresh out of a refugee camp. What a fucking joke.
“You got good beer,” I say, holding up the bottle. My eyes seek out the patch that will point me to the highest ranking officer in charge. It doesn’t take me long to find him. Six feet tall, a buck eighty and about twenty-five years old is their Vice President. I’m only twenty-nine, but the innocence on his face makes me feel a lot older.
I cock my head, narrowing my eyes on him. Focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, I wait for it to quicken before I speak. “Snake, right?” I point to the white threads on his cut that give away his name.
“Nobody talks to my VP without going through me first.” Slowly, I turn my gaze towards one of the shirtless punks. Of course, he’d be the Sergeant at Arms—the man responsible for maintaining order in the club. If you don’t have muscle to fill that position, I guess you go with stupid.
“Fine,” I shrug. “What’s it gonna take for me to get to him?”
The dramatic scene reminds me of my first fight in middle school. He’s breathing hard, slapping his bare chest and bouncing around like a fucking ping pong ball. This kid has probably never even thrown a punch. But, if he asks, I’ll give. I’m just that generous.
“You and me,” he says, gesturing between us. I guess I’m giving.
Draining my beer, I lay the empty bottle down on the bar and stand. I’d offer him an out, but I feel like hitting something. And since he took the time to get all pumped up, I really shouldn’t let him down.
Like the fool he is, he tries to rush me. My feet don’t even move as I extend my right arm and land a blow to his jaw that knocks him out cold.
“So Snake,” I start, finding him in the crowd again. His eyes are a little wider, but other than that, he does a good job of concealing his emotions. “You’re the man in charge here. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing in my town?”
“This ain’t your town,” he says, keeping his voice calm. I probably shouldn’t underestimate this one.
“This is my region. My state… My county… My town.” I pull a smoke from my cut, noticing the man closest to me move his hand to his back. I don’t let on that I’m aware he has a gun. Instead, I light the cigarette and keep my attention on the VP who seems to be losing his patience.
“Leave. Now.”
I don’t show it, but I’m impressed by his demand. There’s even a hint of a threat in there. Ballsy little fucker. I have a great comeback, but suddenly, I’m bored. I’m tired of playing this stupid back and forth game. So, I cut the shit. “You’ve got two minutes to get the fuck out.” I announce. The air shifts in the room at the change in my tone. Now, they know I mean business.
“We’re not leaving—“
“Then you die.” I cut the VP off, spitting my words as I level him with a look. “Don’t fuck with me, Snake. You got one minute.”
I turn my back on all of them and walk behind the bar. Grabbing two bottles of Everclear from the shelf, I start the countdown from sixty in my head. By the time I reach the door, I’m at forty-five. Eight seconds later, I’m at my bike. Ignoring their voices, I open my saddle bag and pull out a couple of orange bandanas.
“Ten, nine…” I silence my countdown as I pull the plugs from the bottles with my teeth. Stuffing the bandanas into their necks, I strike my Zippo against my jeans. It takes them a moment to figure out my plan, and the second they do, I notice the guy from earlier put his hand behind his back again.
In one swift movement, I pull my gun from my back and aim it between his eyes. “You really want to kill a Devil’s Renegades officer?” I ask. Even from ten feet away, I can see the movement of his throat as he tries to swallow his fear. He holds his hands up in surrender, and I wave my gun around until the others follow suit.
They look to the VP and he shakes his head, warning them to not do anything stupid. I smile. “That’s what I thought.”
I drop my gun in my saddle bag and light the bandanas. Just as I near the door, the bartender comes out followed by the unconscious SA who’s being carried by his brothers. As soon as their feet hit the gravel, I’m sailing the first bottle through the air. It shatters against the outside wall and their black and white flag immediately ignites.
I throw the second bottle and hear it break somewhere inside. Soon, the flames are licking their way up the walls. I stand next to Madness, delighting in the look on their faces. They’re pissed, sad, shocked … and they can’t do a fucking thing about it.
“Hey homeboy,” I call to no one in particular. “Go ahead and call your chapters in Coldwater and Falkner.” Pulling a contact card from my cut, I sling it in their direction. “Tell them motherfuckers I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER THREE
Marty
Instead of going
north, I head home. I sent the message. Now, the ball is in their court. By leading them to believe I was on my way to their other chapters, they’d call in an army. It wouldn’t be long before they planned a counter attack. We expect it. And we’ll be ready.
It’s after two in the morning when I roll back into Hattiesburg. I head to the clubhouse, sure that everyone is asleep. But at least I’ll be there by the time they wake up. Luke probably won’t like what I’ve done—only because I didn’t tell him first. He knew I was going to pay them a visit, which would normally entail me giving them a warning to leave. Not burn their fucking bar down. He doesn’t like anything to happen without his say so. I guess that’s one of the perks of being president.
Turning down the drive, I flip up my visor before killing the engine and lights. I coast downhill the remaining distance, so I don’t wake everyone in the house. Luke’s house served as the original clubhouse until the club could afford to build their own. Because Luke’s house is out of the city and secluded, they chose his backyard to build it. Now, Luke’s house sits about twenty yards away from the home to all Devil’s Renegades.
Tonight, the sky is cloudy, offering no moonlight in the darkness. My eyes adjust by the time I make it to carport that sits off to the side of Luke’s house. The only light comes from the glowing red cherry of a cigarette. I make out that the silhouette holding it is none other than Maddie.
My blood sizzles as a jolt of electricity shoots through me. Every hair on my body stands at attention and I break out in a sweat despite the cold night air. This is the kind of effect this woman has on me. It’s actually pretty fucking pathetic.
I climb off my bike, noticing out of the corner of my eye that she’s watching me—remembering me. Removing my gloves, I flex my stiff fingers—the ones that used to pump inside her until she came hard. Then I remove my cut, hanging it on the handlebar while I take off my jacket—the one I hung on her bed post all the nights I stayed with her wrapped in my arms. When my jacket is off, I slide the cut back around my shoulders—like I did before I’d kissed her goodbye. She’d stand at the door and watch me ride away, until I was no longer visible. Good times.