by Debra Kayn
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Chapter One
Hard Reality
Notus Motorcycle Club
By
Debra Kayn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Hard Reality
Notus Motorcycle Club series
1st Digital release: Copyright© 2018 Debra Kayn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Debra Kayn. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
www.debrakayn.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Prologue
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Author Bio
Debra Kayn's Backlist
SNEAK PEEK — ... or something
Chapter One
Dedication
To family
Acknowledgment
While Notus Motorcycle Club is a work of fiction, their purpose to find missing persons is a real-life problem.
— Every 40 seconds, a child goes missing in the U.S.
— In 2016, an astonishing 830,000 people were reported missing.
It's easy to go through life unaware. We walk by the missing persons' flyers tacked on the wall at Walmart because those faces are always there. We read Amber Alerts when our phones buzz and then go play with our kids. An elderly person wanders off, and we finish cooking dinner. Why? Because we rely on the police, search and rescue, and groups (like the fictional Notus Motorcycle Club) to find those who are missing. It's easy to say "be more involved" or "keep your eyes open." It's another thing to be someone who actively searches.
There are 4 different reasons why people go missing.
DECIDED — For reasons of their own, people decide to run away from the life they were living. It could be escaping personal problems, relationships, violence, and even mental health problems
DRIFTED — Over time, people lose touch with family and friends
UNINTENTIONAL ABSENCE — Alzheimer’s disease, mental health problems, accidents, and miscommunication
FORCED — being a victim of crime such as homicide or abduction
Prologue
"Rich? You're in St. John's. In Jail."
"He can't hear you. He's drunk off his ass. We're not going to get any answers out of him until he sobers up."
"His Harley was right beside him when the cop found him passed out on the sidewalk."
"None of this makes any sense. There's no way Rich could've rode in his condition."
Familiar voices he heard in his head every God damn day continued talking. He tried to lift his head and tell them to leave him the hell alone but the movement muffled the conversation happening around him, and he stopped.
Motherfuckers forgot about him.
They asked questions like they couldn't see in front of their faces. He was right here.
His body moved. He jolted, swinging out against the hands that touched him. He wouldn't let them take him back.
"God damnit, grab his legs."
"Where are we taking him?"
"Brother or not, I don't want him around any of the women until we find out what the hell is going on and how he ended up in jail."
The world swayed. What the hell were they talking about?
He tried to tell them to go away and leave him alone, but they acted like they hadn't heard him.
They couldn't be here. It wasn't safe to be around him. He had to leave.
"We could take him to my parents' house."
"No, man. Not until he sobers up. He's already swinging. I don't want your dad getting hurt, cause he will step in."
Were they talking about him? He wasn't in St. John's. He'd never go back there.
"We'll take him to the townhouse, and I'll bring Gracie back to stay at our place until we figure things out."
"Someone needs to stay with him."
"I'll do it."
He wasn't going anywhere. All he needed was a drink, and the voices from his past would go away.
He could forget.
Forget.
Chapter 1
A rhythmic pulse filled Rich Carter's head. He rolled off the soft surface, and solid ground met his hands and knees. A groan ripped from his throat at the jarring.
He relaxed all his muscles, plopping down to the non-moving surface below him. Coolness pressed against his temple and he inhaled, prepared for the shakes building up inside of him.
He needed a damn drink.
Opening his eyes, he clamped his teeth together, hoping it was enough to stop the tremors. He pushed up on his hands and knees, found a couch, and pulled himself to his feet. His boots skidded against the polished wooden floor. Running his hands up and down his face, he looked around the room.
Fuck.
He hadn't made it back to the Komoon clubhouse last night.
The unfamiliar room appeared clean and orderly. A flat-screen television hung on the wall. A bowl full of pine cones sat on the fireplace
hearth next to three candles. Three pictures of a bridge from different angles lined the wall opposite the window. He peered closer, stumbled, and grabbed for the bookcase to keep his balance. He knew that bridge.
He'd rode that bridge.
As a kid, he used to dream about jumping off the St. John's bridge into the Willamette River on hot summer days. The five of them—Wayne, Thad, Glen, Chuck, and he spent their youth underneath that bridge, doing dares, bullshitting, and even vandalized a few columns spray painting their initials.
Shaking his head, he looked away and stared at the contents on the bookshelf, wondering what the hell was in the last bottle he'd downed. A bridge was a bridge. There were probably fifty of them that looked the same on the West Coast.
Needing to know where he'd crashed for the night, he picked up a picture frame and held the photo in front of him. His vision blurred and he moved his hand back and forth until he could focus.
"Damn," he muttered, seeing double.
The long, blonde hair on the woman caught his attention. He closed one eye, and still, he was seeing two identical women in the same photo. Had he fucked the lady in the picture last night? Was this her house?
Who and what he'd done no longer mattered. He needed a drink, and to get back on his motorcycle.
He set the picture back on the shelf, and the frame tipped over. The sound echoed in his head, and he left it lying down to go in search of a bottle. Around the corner from the living room, he limped into the kitchen. The whole place looked like one of those model homes where nobody lived. No dirty dishes, no broken furniture, nothing that told him how the night had ended.
Opening the fridge, he studied the contents and found a six-pack of beer on the bottom shelf. He grunted. The last time he'd seen Rainier beer, he'd been too young to legally drink.
He took the whole six pack and put the beer on the counter, removed one, and popped the top. He tipped back the drink. The moment the wetness hit his dry tongue he started to feel better.
He drank one and opened another before he spotted a man in the room. Not in the mood to share, he carried the other four cans in one hand and sucked down the beer in his other hand. He had to get out of here. As soon as he finished his liquid breakfast or maybe it was lunch, he'd ride back to the clubhouse.
The man followed him into the living room. Rich sat down on the couch and burped, crunching the empty can in his fist.
"That's enough." The man took the other four beers off the couch beside Rich and set them on the fireplace mantle before facing him. "Start talking."
"Is there anything stronger than beer in this place?" He lifted his chin and let his head fall back on the couch.
The empty can fell to the floor.
"I think you've had enough."
Rich closed his eyes. "Not near enough."
He needed enough to hold off the shakes that came with a dry run. He needed something before they became bad enough he couldn't ride.
"You need to sober up," said the man.
He chuckled, and the vibration in his chest made him nauseous. "The day I decide not to drink, I'll be dead."
"Is that what you're trying to do? Kill yourself?"
Rich opened his eyes, pushed to his feet, and approached the man. Nobody told him how to live or took his drink away. The other riders would come looking for him soon if he failed to return. In the meantime, he planned to finish the rest of the beer he found before he rode back to the clubhouse and went to bed.
He reached out to grab the cans off the fireplace, and the man put his hand on his shoulder. Rage overrode his plan. Rich curled his fingers into a fist and swung. He brought up his other hand and squeezed the man's throat, slamming him against the wall.
Leaning in close, matching the man head to toe, Rich said, "Touch me again, and I'll kill you."
"Almost did." The man's neck muscles strained as he struggled for breath. "Once." His eyes narrowed. "Pushed me." He strained under the hold to tilt his head to get more air. "Front of." He groaned, but barely any sound made it past his lips, only the vibration on his palm. "Mrs. Coleman's car."
Pushed him in front of Mrs. Coleman's car? The only person he'd —
Rich let go, rocking back on the heels of his boots, and stared at the man in front of him. Only four other people would know the old bitty who lived on the street where he grew up. He studied the man's long, dark hair, peppered with gray strands and equally long beard of the same color. The man stared at him out of watery eyes as he tried to fill his lungs.
He had to be dreaming or drugged out of his mind. The wrinkles around the man's eyes weren't supposed to be there. He dragged his gaze down. The shoulders were broader than he remembered. But, he recognized the tat on the arm, the leather vest, the challenge in the man's stance.
Unable to believe who he was seeing, he backed up a step and rubbed his hand over his beard, wondering if he looked as damn old and how he could get out of here and disappear.
Wayne.
A boy he'd grown up with and had spent every day with until he was almost twenty-one years old and left his hometown. A man who at one time would've sacrificed his life for Rich, and he for him, stood between him and the door. Wayne, one of the original Notus Motorcycle Club members.
The president.
Five members.
Five brothers.
A pledge of loyalty.
Wayne, Thad, Glen, Chuck, and he had an unconditional bond grown over time until his girlfriend, Thalia, was abducted and murdered. When he'd received the news from the police that they'd found her body, he'd lost it. At twenty years old, he failed to understand.
He'd failed her. He'd failed himself.
He never planned to come back, and nobody was supposed to find him. Where in the hell had Wayne come from?
The weight of the world landed on his shoulders. "Where's my Harley?" said Rich.
"It's been twenty-five years since I saw your ugly face and that's the first thing you're going to ask me?"
Ignoring him, Rich picked up a can, popped the top, and guzzled half the beer daring Wayne to stop him. He needed to get out of here, wherever here was, and put miles between them.
"Come on, man. After all these years, you have to talk, brother." Wayne reached into his Notus vest pocket, held up the key, and tossed it to Rich.
The key to his Harley dropped between his boots. He stared at Wayne, never thinking he'd see him again in his lifetime. "Where am I?"
"St. John's." Wayne rubbed his neck and turned his head to the side before looking back at Rich. "You're at my woman's sister's house."
Jesus Christ. He tipped back his head and drank the rest of the beer, tossing the empty can to the other side of the room. Why couldn't he remember traveling from Klamath, California to Oregon?
Wayne strolled over, picked up the can, and left the room. Rich scooped his key off the floor and walked to the door. Stumbling outside, he groaned in pain, squeezing his eyes shut against the glare of the sun.
"Your motorcycle is at my place," said Wayne behind him. "You can have the Harley back when you sober up. In the meantime, a member of Notus will be here to watch over you. When we can't be here, we've got other people lined up to keep you clean."
Rich reached behind his back at his belt.
"The police removed your knife when you were thrown in jail. I signed off on it and have it at home. You're unarmed. There's also nothing in the house you can use to hurt me," said Wayne.
Rich turned around. "Did you take my damn cell phone, too?"
"You didn't have one on you when the cops found you passed out drunk on the sidewalk." Wayne walked farther into the house. "You can leave when you're sober, and I can look in your eyes and see the man you used to be. See the man who swore on the Notus patch to be my brother."
Rich limped back into the house and painfully lowered himself to the couch. His leg killed and for a split second, he wondered if he'd hit the asphalt arriving in a town he was never going to return to.
"There's a lot of people who want to see you." Wayne sat on the arm of the chair across from him.
"There ain't nobody I want to see," he said.
Wayne studied him. He stared back. He'd worked too hard to cut the ties with his old life to let himself think about the others.
"You came back," said Wayne, raising his eyebrow.
"The hell I did." Rich huffed and patted his chest, expecting to touch the leather of his vest. His palm rubbed his T-shirt, and he looked down. His Komoon Motorcycle Club vest was gone.
Fuck.
There was only one way his vest would've come off his body. Someone would've had to remove it.
His leg ached. His chest constricted as the pain he'd felt since he rolled off the couch clued him in on what happened. He leaned over, rubbed his hand over his sore calf. Komoon had put a target on his back and stripped him of everything.
He looked up at Wayne. "I need a drink."
He'd lived what felt like a hundred lives, and he suspected each one of those lives was going to collide in St. John's and destroy the very men he'd tried to protect for the last twenty-five years.
Chapter 2
Clara Nelson delivered the food order to three of the five Notus Motorcycle Club members at Vavoom's Bar. Gracie, Clara's identical twin sister, studied each of the men she'd grown close to over the last four years from behind the kitchen door. Knowing how wrapped up Chuck, Thad, and Glen was in finally finding their long-lost club brother after twenty-five years, she couldn't imagine what they were quietly talking about in Booth Three.
She'd witnessed each of them battle their own demons over not being able to stop Rich from leaving all those years ago, and their dedication trying to find him for half their lifetime. In the end, it'd taken one phone call from Lieutenant Gomez informing the club that Rich had been locked up after being found passed out drunk on the sidewalk a block from the St. John's Police Department to turn Notus Motorcycle Club upside down.
While happy for all the members at the return of their childhood friend and MC brother, she was scared of what Rich's appearance meant to the family—which included her, since her twin sister, Clara, belonged to Wayne, the President of Notus.