His Mad Passion: Her Stepbrother's Desire, a Death Lords MC (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 17)

by Ella Goode

  Wanting Judge to be right, I pull myself into the truck and turn it back to the apartment. Abel is already there when I arrive.

  “Hey Chelsea.”

  “Abel.” I raise my hand in a weak greeting to the former Marine who decided to throw his lot in with the Death Lords. I’m not sure who his sponsor was or where he’s from or how he found his way to us. Those are questions maybe only Judge knows. His military bearing along with his buzz cut gives away part of his background. He’s got a nasty scar that runs from his temple to the top of his earlobe but he’s never been anything but kind to me. “Come on up.”

  The apartment looks worse than I remember.

  “Shit.” Abel pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures. When he’s documented it to his satisfaction, we get to work putting the apartment back together.

  “You like the winters, Abel?” I ask as I finish placing all the kitchen drawers into their runners. The dishes will need to be washed.

  “Nope but I’m used to them. Come from Bemidji.”

  “This must seem practically tropical.” Bemidji is about four hours north and close to the boundary waters. It’s cold up there nine months out of the year.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  By the grim tone, I get that this applies to more than just the weather. I pull open the dishwasher and tear up when I see the clean dishes. Grant got up in the middle of the night and cleared the table and started the dishwasher. Shit, he’s a good man.

  “You okay? You aren’t going to cry are you?” Abel says alarmed.

  I swipe at my eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking about Wrecker in jail.” I start unloading the dishwasher.

  “He’ll be out tomorrow,” Abel assures me.

  I wish I was as confident as everyone else but Chief Schmidt has a thing for the Death Lords. I don’t know why it started. Some people attribute it to Schmidt wanting the new librarian, Pippa Lang, and her choosing Judge instead. But Schmidt’s hatred for Judge and the Death Lords ran far deeper than that.

  My best guess is that Judge is the real power in Fortune. The town didn’t have a meth problem like so many other small rural towns and for the most part, the only crime around here is petty thievery. Plenty of people use drugs and drink too much around here because there isn’t much else to do, but it wasn’t cooked up here. We can pretend that we’re fucking Mayberry and it probably galls Schmidt that it’s more because of the Death Lords’ presence than any fear of the Fortune police.

  And until Schmidt breaks the Death Lords’ hold on Fortune, he’ll keep coming after us and for now, Grant is his favorite target because Grant’s the Death Lords president’s son. Grant will always have a target on his back here. Always.

  4

  WRECKER

  The Minneapolis attorney shows up close to dawn. By that time several other Death Lords have showed up and the jail lobby looks more like a club event, what with all the leather cuts and Harley’s sitting outside. Or at least that’s what Amelia tells me.

  “Decided to have one of your club meetings right in front of Chief Schmidt?” She smooths a hand down the back of her skirt and takes a seat across from me. “You can leave any minute.”

  That’s directed to Officer Paulson who can’t tear his eyes off Amelia’s ass. She clears her throat when he doesn’t move.

  “Officer, you don’t shut that door and you’ll be in danger of violating my client’s constitutional right to speak to his attorney. I don’t think detective promotions are handed out to officers who are responsible for civil rights suits against the city.”

  Paulson’s face morphs into instant rage as he slams the door shut.

  “You made an enemy there,” I warn.

  “We were enemies the minute that I walked in the door and announced I was representing you.” Her red lips curve into a happy smile. She gets off on the fight. I think she likes it more when everyone hates and underestimates her. “Now, I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

  “I have.” I spread my hands. “Can’t help that Schmidthead has a hard on for me.”

  “There are two sworn statements that place your vehicle in the proximity of the country club last night.”

  “Don’t know how that can be when I was home with Chelsea since seven and before that I was at Wheels Up.”

  “All day?”

  “Other than having lunch at the sub shop, yeah. Judge has a waiting list longer than your arm and we’re trying to work our way through it.”

  “Anyone other than Chelsea at home with you?” Her questions are rapid fire.

  “No, but the Cut-n-Curl is open until nine. Someone may have seen me go up.”

  This tidbit elicits a small nod of approval. She makes a note and asks another question. “How do you know Jessica Trainor?”

  “Don’t. I heard she and Chelsea got into it at Carmichael’s grocery but she’s part of the country club set that doesn’t pay much attention to folks in Fortune.”

  “So you resent them.”

  “Don’t know enough about them to have any feelings.”

  “But you and Judge are very protective of Chelsea.”

  That isn’t a question. Everyone knows that Chelsea is off limits so I didn’t answer.

  “How long have you been sleeping with your sister?”

  I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I can taste the copper of my blood. Good thing my hands are under the table so she can’t see them form into fists. “Thought you were on my side counselor.”

  She leans forward. “I am on your side. You should know by now that the questions I ask aren’t anywhere near as intrusive or offensive as the prosecution will throw at you.”

  When I went to prison, I wasn’t soft by any means. I’d grown up in the club and as soon as I graduated, my dad had me doing small runs with him, getting me ready for my patch. But prison had made me hard, not just in my body but in my mind. No one is breaking me now. Not Miss Amelia and her razor sharp questions or Chief Schmidt and his immoral pursuit of the Death Lords.

  “I took Chelsea’s virginity when she was seventeen and she’s been mine ever since. That’s how long I’ve been sleeping with her.”

  If Amelia is surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Back when she represented me four years ago, Chelsea begged me to keep my mouth shut. She hadn’t wanted Judge to know that we had started something. Maybe she didn’t trust my intentions, but I knew—even if she didn’t—that taking her virginity was the same as making her a promise that there’d not be another woman after her.

  When I got out, I was tired of hiding. Didn’t matter to me what other folks said. Chelsea wasn’t my sister, no matter that Judge looked after her since Chelsea was fourteen. She’s my girl, my old lady, my motherfucking heart. So no, I didn’t care what a million Mrs. Trainors had to say about my relationship with Chelsea.

  “Fine. What did you do after you got home around seven?”

  “Ate dinner. Had sex. Chelsea fell asleep and I got up around two to watch some television when Dumb and Dumber showed up.”

  “Dinner lasted how long?”

  I could see her mapping out a timeline. “Half hour max.”

  “And then you had sex?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And after sex you went to bed?” She raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

  “Chelsea was wore out.” She actually might have passed out after our second go around. Since I’d come already, I held off for a long time, making sure that the only feelings Chelsea had were good ones.

  “That’s all you did was eat and have sex? All night?” Amelia taps her pen against the paper.

  “It was only about three hours.” And for the first time since I was dragged from the apartment, I grin because Amelia is dumbstruck.

  “No one has sex for that long,” she hisses.

  “You ain’t never had a Death Lord in your bed have you?”

  “Incredible.” She stares and then starts laughing. “I have to go to one of your parties, don’t I?�
�

  “Invitation is always open. Of course, I don’t know if half those fuckers would know what to do with a classy broad like you.”

  “Three hours, Grant. I don’t know what to do with them.”

  We share a smile before Amelia gives a little shake of her head and we get down to business. “Not many people are going to believe that you had sex for three hours. And Chelsea’s not a great alibi because she’s your girlfriend. Can you get me a list of the people who would have been at the Cut-n-Curl between the time you got home and the time it closed?”

  “Yes. Did they say when Trainor was killed?”

  “Time of death hasn’t been identified yet.” She wrinkles her nose. “Small town crime means the autopsy isn’t top priority either so I imagine we won’t know for a week or so. On the bright side, since you do have an alibi and you aren’t a known flight risk, we should have you released shortly.”

  “What’s that mean?” Short in lawyer time could mean days instead of weeks.

  “Shortly means I’m going out there right now and demanding your release. They have statements that your vehicle was in the vicinity but that’s it. There’s no gun of yours that matches the bullets used on Jessica Trainor and the statements only identify your vehicle, not you. That’s not enough to convict anyone, not even you.”

  Not even me, a convicted felon who had already killed one man.

  “Why the arrest then?”

  “Because they can.” She pushes away from the table and knocks on the door to get Paulson to let her out. “You should think about getting a new zip code because I don’t think these guys—“ she tips her head toward the door “—like you much.”

  It’s the same tune that Chelsea’s been singing, only a slightly different verse. When I sat in my cell in Oak Park, the thing that kept me sane was imagining coming home, pulling on my cut and making love to Chelsea. I’ve only been back a year and already people are telling me it’s time to go.

  I don’t like that.

  But I also don’t like seeing Chelsea’s ragged face as every belonging of ours is tossed to the ground. And the bracelets I’m wearing around my wrists don’t feel great. Nor do I want to sit behind bars for one more goddamned minute. It was one thing to serve time for something I did do, which was knife that motherfucking skinhead rapist, but it’s an entirely other thing to be incarcerated for killing a woman I could barely pick out of a line up.

  Time passes way too slow for my liking but the clock on the wall tells me only an hour has ticked by when Paulson throws open the door. From the sour look on his face, I know that Amelia has gotten her way. I stand and hold out my wrists.

  “Nice visiting with you.”

  He’s rough when he handles the cuffs, trying to rub the metal into my skin. It’s a bullshit move and one that show’s how desperate and weak he is. “You’ll be back soon enough.”

  He hands me a bag of clothing and I strip there in the room, happily shedding the orange jumpsuit. Chelsea’s packed me a change of underwear, jeans, heavy socks, my favorite boots and a long sleeve henley t-shirt. Each piece of clothing reminds me of how much you lose when you’re imprisoned. It’s not just freedom, but privacy and a sense of self. In prison, there are regular checks that require you to strip out of your jumpsuit. The guards can make you bend over and spread your ass cheeks to make sure you’re not hiding contraband up your butt.

  Clothes, several layers, is just part of regaining dignity.

  So are unlocked doors. I knock on the door to signal my readiness. Paulson takes his sweet time in opening it but I ignore him. Instead, I walk toward the Club members who are waiting for me. Though the glass partition separating the waiting room from the rest of the police office, I can see Easy smiling and joking with the receptionist while Michigan stands in the corner looking ready to cut off the head of anyone who looks cross-eyed at him. Dad is talking with Amelia. They laugh over something. BangBang, the Club’s Warlord, is tossing his keys in the air. He’s a fidgety guy except when he’s upset or in the zone. When BangBang goes quiet, it’s best to find some kind of shelter because shit is about to go down.

  Paulson’s heavy treads reverberate behind me. “By the way, your sister’s snatch smells good.”

  As if sensing something is wrong, Judge’s head swivels toward me and every one of the Death Lords snap to attention. I raise my palm to tell them I’m okay and I’ve still got it under control. He’s saying this shit to get a rise out of me, maybe charge me with assault of an officer. I don’t do anything now but there’ll come a time of reckoning because no one says shit about Chelsea and gets away with it. I know better than to say that sentiment out loud because Schmidt and his crew are just waiting for me to fuck up. They’ll be waiting a long time because I’m willing to swallow a lot of anger to keep her happy.

  “You outta get a girl of your own so you don’t have to sniff another woman’s panty drawer.” I keep walking.

  “Maybe your sister will sleep with me to keep you out of prison.”

  I stop in front of the door and wait for the receptionist to let me through. The door buzzes and I push it open but before I let the door close, I use the noise to cover my threat. “Sleep with one eye open, Paulson. That way you can see me coming before I cut off your dick and shove it down your throat.”

  5

  WRECKER

  Judge holds out my cut and I swing my arms through it.

  “Is that wise?” Amelia asks. The clear implication is that she doesn’t think it’s smart.

  “It’s who I am,” I answer.

  “Let’s move out,” Judge calls behind us.

  Outside, I see my hog. “Nice,” I grin.

  “Thought you might like a ride this morning.” BangBang hands me a heavy down coat and leather gloves.

  “You thought right.” I don the outerwear. In the saddlebag of my bike are a pair of sunglasses and my helmet. Fully tricked out, I swing a leg over the seat.

  “Meet me at the clubhouse when you’re done,” Judge orders. I give him a nod to let him know that I heard him. “And don’t be gone long. Chelsea’ll worry.”

  Not likely.

  I’m at the apartment five minutes later and Chelsea is halfway down the stairs by the time my front tire hits the driveway. She flies down the last few stairs and launches herself into my arms. The helmet prevents anything more than a quick peck and I shove it off impatiently. The mint of her toothpaste tingles against my tongue as I delve deep.

  Her moan is full of relief and happiness and all of it is conveyed in the fevered movement of her lips against mine. Need for her transforms into a steady burn that I suspect will never be fully extinguished.

  I need Chels more than I need the road, the cut, or the Club. I can’t live without her. Waking up to her every morning and falling asleep in her arms every night is all I want to do for the rest of my days. The way she clutches me to her says she feels the same.

  Our kiss is less passion and more relief and gratitude that we’re together again.

  “Everything go okay?” she asks, drawing back. I reach for her helmet and pull it over her head before answering.

  “Yeah. They have some fake statements saying I was in the vicinity but that’s it.”

  “Shot with a 22? Such a small barrel. Like a girl’s gun.”

  “It was probably hers. Someone surprised her. She got out the gun and the intruder took it from her. Happens all the time.”

  She swings her leg over the bitch seat and settles in close. Eating up the pavement with my brothers on a sweet summer day is about as close to heaven as I can imagine, but I can’t say it’s better than having Chelsea riding bitch and her soft tits pressing into my back and her hands hooked into my belt, sometimes dipping lower.

  She makes the endless winter feel as good as a week in the tropics.

  “All right then. I’m not going to worry.”

  Neither of us believe that but it sounds good. I roll the bike backward and then gun the engine. It’s so
cold that if we didn’t have helmets on, our saliva would freeze in our mouth. But I need to feel the bite of the wind after the long hours in jail. Chelsea tucks her face into the hollow of my spine and we roar out of town. I head west, past the town limits and into the county where friendlies will allow us to pass through without hassle. All the browns and greens of the rural land is covered in a pristine blanket of white. The branches of the pine trees dip low with the weight of the deep winter snow. Running parallel with the ditch a couple of snowmobile tracks weave around each other.

  And the air is crisp and clean. I flip up my visor and breathe in the cold, cleansing air until the stench of jail and Schmidt and our troubles is wiped away.

  * * *

  “What’d she say?” Judge asks when I arrive at the clubhouse.

  “Chelsea?”

  He frowns. “No. Your attorney. What did Amelia Harris say?”

  “Keep my nose clean.” I toss my jacket and gloves onto an empty sofa and then climb onto a bar stool. Our Vice President, Flint, slides a beer down the counter.

  “Did you do it?” Dad asks the one question that Amelia won’t. She doesn't want to know. She assumes that all her clients are innocent. You could carry out a hit in front of her and she’d still defend you. I asked her why and she told me a story about an old man who spent twenty years on a rape charge only to be exonerated by DNA evidence after the OJ Simpson trial. Apparently that old man was her uncle. He killed himself after he was freed and she devotes her life to seeing that no innocent man goes to prison on her watch.

  But Judge wants to know the truth so that he can protect the club.

  “No. I don’t know who the fuck the Trainor woman is. I haven’t been out to the golf course since this summer when I delivered a couple golf carts that we fixed. I don’t know whose truck they saw.”

  “Fine.” The matter is closed. “How’s Chelsea taking it?”

  “Not well,” I admit. “She wants to run.”

  “Run where?”

  I shake my head. “I don't know. Wisconsin? Canada? Somewhere far away from here where no one knows us. Where no one knows I have a record.”