by Dane, Ryder
Big Dog
Burning Bastards MC [1]
Ryder Dane
* * *
Warning: For Mature Adult Audiences. Contains language and actions some may deem offensive. Contains extreme violence. MF with MFM scenes.
In book one of the Burning Bastards MC: Big Dog, Hugh Dougherty, was out for payback. His only hope was to find the one thing to put an end to a rival club's treachery. His future depended on something called the Oracle, and everyone around him was feeling his wrath.
Future had been betrayed by the Burning Bastards once, she wasn't going to let it happen again. She built a life without them, but when they come looking for the Oracle, she was left without a choice. She confronts her past with the MC President by her side; however, is it enough to put her demons to rest were the club is concerned?
Ride along with the Burning Bastards MC as Big Dog struggles to obtain his Future and Future learns that personal demons can be put to rest with the right type of man.
Big Dog
Burning Bastards MC
Book One
by Ryder Dane
© Copyright July 2014 JK Publishing, Inc.
ISBN # 9781310431081
All cover art and logo © Copyright July 2014 by JK Publishing, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Edited by Caroline Kirby
Artwork by Jess Buffett
Published by JK Publishing, Inc.
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Dedication
My favorite Old Man
Table of Content
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Books by Ryder Dane
Excerpt from the Next Burning Bastards MC
Excerpt from Sharing Freedom
Excerpt from Bed of Roses
JK Publishing, Inc. Author List
Chapter One
9:30 p.m. Friday night…
Future was finishing her set on stage in the bar when three of the biggest men she’d seen in ages walked in. They looked around and walked to the bar to place their orders. From the way the room got quiet when they walked in, she knew the patrons were waiting for trouble to begin.
Her audience was lost before her music signaled the end of her dance, so she slid her feet back into the four inch heels and stomped to the bar. The skintight body stocking she wore drew admiring stares as she walked by the men in the bar. She grabbed the short barely-cover-my-ass skirt from the back of one of the barstools, and wrapped it around her waist, before lifting the hinged counter and walking behind the long, wooden bar. She didn’t normally pole dance, but when employees don’t show up, the Boss had better be willing to step in and do the job, or else. Kendal was one of the bartenders tonight and she was becoming flustered. She walked over to where the three roughly dressed men had the little woman standing.
“Hey, Kendal, there’s customers waiting, and you can’t stand around flirting with good looking bikers without starting a riot with your fan club over there. It’s about time for your set anyway, I’ll take care of these guys for you.” She smiled at the younger girl to let her know she was trying to help her, and she was rewarded with a tentative smile and shoulder shrug.
“I’m sorry, Future. I would appreciate it if you could help these gentlemen. They want to know where we have stashed the Oracle. I don’t know what they’re talking about, do you?” Kendal backed away and almost ran into the other girl slinging beer down the bar to a customer.
The three men looked even more dangerous than they did scary. They didn’t appear to be related, except by the colors they were showing on the back of their leather vests. “So, boys, now that you’ve scared the daylights out of her, what can I get for you?”
The man with the three day old beard and shaggy dark brown hair scowled at her, but tried to keep his temper in check. She knew men like these, she wasn’t going to burst into tears when one of them frowned at her. If she showed these men weakness, they would walk over her. She kept a polite smile in place, when she really wanted to lock the doors and hide in her closet. The Burning Bastards MC were a group she couldn’t trust. They’d betrayed her once, and she didn’t plan to allow it to happen a second time.
“We offer a wide variety of beer and wine is red or white. We have three whiskies for you to choose from, and we carry a lot of soda. So what’s your drink?”
Mr. Tall, dark, and scary rolled his eyes at her, actually rolled his eyes. She wanted to laugh, until he reached into the front of his jeans and pulled out a fat roll of money. He counted out five one hundred dollar bills, and put the rest back in his pocket. His big hand slapped down on the cash, and pushed it her way on the bar, keeping his fingers on the bills. “Like the girl said, we’re looking for the Oracle, you have it—we want it. It’s as simple as that. Nobody’s trying to scare the girl, and we aren’t here to cause trouble.”
Oh yeah, thi
s guy had the voice to match the looks. It was a damn shame she was about to piss him off. It was probably the best though, she had a soft spot for men who looked and acted like he did, and they had both been pricks. It was better to get it over with and move on with the night. She leaned onto the bar with her ample breasts cradled over her folded arms, and looked up at him and his companions.
“Mr., if I had an Oracle, do you think I’d be here in this place, pole dancing and slinging beer to a bunch of drunk bikers and rednecks? I don’t know where you got your information, but I haven’t got shit that I haven’t worked my ass off for. I don’t have your Oracle. I told you, I have beer, wine, and whiskey.” Just for shits and giggles she threw in, “I’m afraid you boys are in the wrong place, I’m not sure where the Hobbit village is, but if you Google it, it should come up. They might have one.” She turned to walk away and a hand snagged her ponytail to stop her from leaving.
Dammit, she knew better than to taunt guys like these, she turned back to see the grim looks sent her way by all three men. “All right, I apologize, but you have to admit, it’s not every day someone comes in here and demands something that sounds like it came from a movie.”
The hand holding her hair pulled her closer, and his other hand tucked the bills he’d placed on the bar into her bra. “We’ll be back around later on, sweet cheeks, you keep that attitude, I like attitude. In the meantime, look around for the Oracle. We know it’s here, and we aren’t leaving town without it.” One of his fingers brushed her nipple as he moved his hand from her bra top. He let go of his hold on her hair, and she hated the knowledge that she was disappointed when he let go.
She had to shake herself a bit, and clear her head. He was right, he wouldn’t leave without taking the Oracle. Damn, just when she got comfortable thinking she was finally away from her past, they had to come looking for her. It had been this way nearly her entire life, and she was going to put a stop to it this time. She had roots here. She had made a few friends, and she liked her life.
At closing time, she locked the doors and made sure the serving glasses and dishes were put in the dishwasher, and the trashcans had the lids on them in the back storeroom. She learned her lesson about going out at three in the morning by herself, the creeps and lowlifes would love to catch a woman on her own with no protection, and no one around to hear if she had the chance to scream. So John or Wanda could take the trash to the dumpster in back, and do their usual clean up around daylight, so everything would be ready before they opened tonight.
She went into the basement and around the cases of beer and kegs for the taps, to the small panels on the far wall. The left one opened and shut behind her with a simple push of her hand. She walked through the short hallway that was actually a thirty-foot tunnel to go into her home. It had been one of the unknown perks when she bought the place.
The realtor hadn’t known about the tunnel; she sold the place to her on the condition she had to take both of the buildings, and it was only after they’d closed the deal that Mr.Brennbury had knocked on her door the day after closing, and showed her the passageway. The place was built in the 1920s and had been a speakeasy during prohibition. The tunnel had been built to sneak some very prominent persons out of the building, on the few occasions the place had been raided. The house wasn’t anything fancy, but it was comfortable, and they had left almost all of the furniture with the sale.
The old man had been a second generation owner and was a very nice person. What made him pick her ridiculously low offer for the place and give her terms for a mortgage she couldn’t have gotten from a bank, was still a major issue with her. She tried to give a little extra over and above her normal mortgage payments when she could, but he always applied it to the principle. Something odd was going on but she couldn’t afford to be too picky at the time, and he was anxious to leave the state and retire to Arizona.
After a long, hot shower and tossing a load of laundry in the washer, she checked her e-mail and paid a few bills. The bar was a good solid investment and she was thankful her guides had led her this way. It had been a good night even without the five hundred the biker had stuffed in her bra, tips were good. She locked the cash in the safe, and went to bed.
She should have known she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Thoughts of the big men coming into her bar, and looking for answers instead of pussy was a novelty. The problem that came with the answers was what they wanted, she wasn’t willing to give up again. It surprised her the men didn’t appear to realize the Oracle wasn’t an object—it was a person—her to be exact. She was born Oracle Madonna Smith.
Her parents were products of the 1960s hippie bikers, her father had serious drug and alcohol problems, and a serious belief in the mysteries of ESP, and fortune telling. Her grandmother or aunt , she couldn’t get a straight answer from her parents about who, had told them that she was born to see the future.
The reasoning behind this pronouncement was that she was born with a piece of thin membrane covering her eyes. The midwife pulled it off her face at the time, but her parents kept the ‘veil’ in a plastic baggy and taped it into her baby book. They rejoiced time after time as she grew up, and told them things she saw when she touched someone or something belonging to someone else. It frustrated them the gift of sight didn’t work on command, and only worked for certain persons.
They tried to use her as a trick pony at the biker meets, but after telling one of the big hairy leaders of a gang from up north that he smelled funny, like the dead possum they’d passed on the road earlier, she wasn’t brought out as a party favor again. The fact his body was found a few days later, bloated and stinking by his own men who were looking for him. Her words had been forgotten or ignored by his group. No one took much stock in her observations about the man.
Except by her father’s club, the Burning Bastards MC, they made her parents keep her around the clubhouse, or as her father always called the place, the crib. She became the touchstone of the place, never allowed to be like other kids, and always looked upon with suspicion, and fear.
Before any confrontation, she would be passed from biker to biker and encouraged to talk about them. The hardcore guys refused to touch her, and she understood. A few of them scared the hell out of her too. If she’d told everything she saw, there was no doubt in her mind she would have ended up dead.
She didn’t like being treated differently than the other children in the place. The other kids stared at her and some refused to talk to her. The men gave her the nickname of little witch, and it stuck over the years. She had tried to leave and live with her mother’s parents for a summer, but within a few weeks, she was brought back into the fold “where she belonged”.
She tried marriage, but that was a colossal failure. He was handsome, considered a good catch, and a true badass. He was supposed to be her ticket out of there, but found the club kept him happy to keep her around. He became too self-important, and one night his ego got him killed. She was left with a custom Harley that she couldn’t ride. The ape hangers, or highway bars, depending on who you talked to, were too high, and the bike was too tall for her to put her toes on the ground to balance. She had five grand in the bank and the money Bert had in his pockets when he died. Bert was cremated and his ashes were spread down in the compound where the gang had claimed as the playground. She was twenty-two and a widow with no kids at the time.
The playground was a two acre tract of land the guys drove scooters around and practiced maneuvering and wheelies on. It was used for break ‘em football games and even picnics. It was a place to let off steam and fuck around. It was also used as a place where trials and in club battles were staged. If someone started shit in the clubhouse, they were forced to take it to the playground. Provided the fight wasn’t spontaneous. As volatile as tempers flared most of the time, the playground was seldom used to settle such problems.
She’d been pressured to give the bike to the club, but instead traded it in on a used Heritage softtail for her
own use. It was a good trade as far as she was concerned, and gave her some small measure of independence. She loved to ride, and knew it would take a special kind of man to get her on the bitch perch of a bike behind someone again.
She remembered the last day she’d spent with the Burning Bastards. Her father insisted she come with them to a meeting between their club president and his counterpart in a club named Lucifer’s Breed from a town four counties away. She hated leaving her ride back at the crib, but her father insisted she ride with him. They were to meet in neutral territory, at a farm where the owner was known to be friendly with bikers. The feeling they were driving into a trap refused to let go of her brain, and she tried to tell the VP what she felt. He was one of the men she never trusted, and sneered at her warning. He’d called her a few names and argued the club was becoming pussy whipped by listening to her. He was going to the meeting and anyone who took her word against another club that had never been a threat to them before, was ‘candy assed motherfuckers’.
His, “We’re bikers, not fuckin’ pussies, and if you let this cunt with her voodoo shit stop you from showing up to the meeting, you’re going to be meeting me afterwards, we don’t need her shit to fuck with our heads.”
The meeting went well, and she’d caught the smug looks Dorsey and his buddy, Krebs, kept giving her as they staggered around the campfires acting like the asses they were. She was one of three bitches who had gone on the trip, the other women were servicing their favorite guys while she sat on her bedroll, waiting for the inevitable.