Specter's Wake

by Quinn Ryder

  The second I saw the familiar leather; I fell to my knees, immediately wrecked with uncontrolled wailing sobs. My father and brother tried to comfort me, but I was curled into a fetal position on the ground, wading around in my own tears. My dad literally had to scoop me up and carry me back to the house. That’s where I laid for ten whole days, waiting and waiting to hear if he was alive or if they had found his body.

  Switchblade and Guerrilla were sent out by my dad to gather information about Midas’ disappearance, and it wasn’t long before they heard chatter that Midas had been assassinated by none other than Diego Montez himself, in an attempt to obtain information about the club’s drug trafficking we were rumored to be doing. It was all hearsay, but poor Midas had been spotted riding into town by himself, and the Saints jumped him. When Midas wouldn’t give them the intel they were looking for, because really there was nothing to say, they shot him—killing him in cold blood. The rat who outed Diego, never told Guerrilla or Switchblade where they hid Midas’ body, so they shot him dead. “The only good rat is a dead rat,” I remember Guerrilla saying.

  Even after Midas’ death, my dad was still reluctant to jump off that proverbial ledge that kept the Armada on the right side of the law. Guerrilla, enraged and wanting revenge, wanted to hit the Saints hard and take them all down, starting with Diego, but my dad wouldn’t allow the club to go to war. It didn’t matter that Midas was an unfortunate casualty; back then, all my dad ever wanted to do was keep the peace between his club and all the other clubs in town. Two years later, my dad started showing signs of Alzheimer’s disease. When he disappeared one day after a ride and came home and didn’t realize that Jimmy and I were his own children, we knew it was time for him to step down from being club president—his mind just wasn’t there anymore.

  Jimmy and I put him up in a swanky assisted living center, but besides the club’s old Sgt. at Arms, Tank, my dad’s best friend, I’m the only one who ever goes to visit him. Jimmy hasn’t been to the assisted living center since the day we moved our dad in.

  Once my dad was out of the equation, the club was quick to elect Jimmy as club president, and Switchblade as his new VP. Everyone thought that Tank would be elected into the president position over Jimmy, but he retired the minute my dad’s patch was removed—Spike, Gonzo, and Hook weren’t far behind him. Guerrilla and Trigger were the only old school members of the club that stuck around. Trigger promised my dad he’d keep an eye on me and Jimmy which is why he stayed, but I’m pretty sure Guerrilla thought that since all the old-timers were gone, that he’d be a shoo-in to take over as President. He didn’t consider all the young blood supporting the club. Nobody fucking even nominated him. I guess they thought that if my Dad was a good president and Jimmy was already his VP, that Jimmy should be next in line. I’m not even sure why Guerrilla’s still here. He’s nothing but a fucking drunk that treats women like shit and the club even worse. I’m convinced he was the one doing all the drug trafficking that got Midas shot, but I’ve never had the proof to back up my assumptions.

  Now the club is full of nothing but shady individuals, and that clean, perfect image my dad had worked so hard to keep together, had been shredded apart by my brother and his delinquent goons.

  Around the time Jimmy was patched in as president, is when I started to rebel. I decided to take Midas’ death into my own hands and went on my super-secret squirrel mission to infiltrate the Saints and find out who killed Midas myself, since my brother and the rest of his club didn’t seem to care anymore. I picked my way through the scraps, working my way up the food chain until I found the head and made my move. It wasn’t long before I had Diego’s full attention. Between my good looks and Diego’s roving eye, I was in his bed within a week of hanging around his club.

  It took me a while to become his number one fuck, but now here we are, I’m his queen and pretty soon I’ll be bathing in his blood.

  “Are you coming?” Holden asked me. Breaking me out of my hazy memories. I stood frozen in place for far too long. My thoughts running away like children playing hide ‘n’ seek. Trapped in a revolving door by the things that haunt my dreams.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled reluctantly, following him inside.

  Jimmy was standing behind the bar pouring himself a few shots of whiskey. His left eye looked like shit, and he had an ice pack ready on the countertop. He caught my eye as I entered, and I noticed an instant look of regret consume his face when he noticed the purple bruise forming on my cheek. He felt like a jackass, and in all honesty, he was a jackass—a big dumb jackass.

  I walked over to the bar and immediately began getting glasses ready for the non-existent customers I would be getting later. I wasn’t stupid. This bar didn’t make enough money on Armada sluts and club members alone. Jimmy was obviously making money somewhere else, but he wouldn’t tell me how or where he was getting it.

  “Your cheek looks bad,” Jimmy remarked, as Holden slid into the stool in front of us.

  I turned toward my brother and glared at him, “Well, your eye looks like Barney’s wrinkled butthole!”

  Holden’s laugh bellowed throughout the room, but my brother was taking a sip of his whiskey when I said this and ended up spitting it out all over the bar top.

  “That’s our good whiskey, jerk.” I threw him a towel which wrapped around his face. “Clean your shit up.”

  When he removed the towel, my brother’s smile slid to a frown. He knew I was pissed, and I knew he was sorry, but there was no way in hell I was apologizing for the shit I said to him outside.

  “I’m sorry for hitting you, Faith. You know I didn’t mean it. When you said that shit about me never being as good of a president as dad, I lost my head.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry. I meant every word I said, Jimmy. Ever since you took over as president, this place has been a packrat’s nest of fuckups and druggies. You need some good blood in here—blood that hasn’t been tainted by prison sentences and shared needles.”

  Jimmy looked over at Holden who was sitting at the bar and handed him the other shot of whiskey. “You been to jail?”

  “Spent a few nights in lock up for a drunk and disorderly a few years back, but nothing that required an orange jump suit or being someone’s prison bitch.”

  Jimmy smirked.

  “How long you been riding?”

  “Since I was a teen. Hell, I’ve been riding bikes since I was five years old. Only, the bikes I started with had big wheels, training wheels, and baseball cards in the tires.”

  Jimmy nodded. Putting cards in the spokes of his tires was something he always did to his bicycles as well. It was like this Holden guy knew everything he needed to say to make Jimmy like him.

  “You ever prospected a club before?”

  Holden took a long sip of whiskey, almost as if he was mulling over what to say next and shook his head. “Never been in a place long enough to care. The wanderer’s life isn’t for the weak.”

  “How long are you planning on staying in town for?”

  Holden looked over at me.

  I was busying myself with the glassware, but I couldn’t help watching them both as they spoke. He held my gaze for a few seconds and continued holding it as his next words left his lips, “I have no plans to move on any time soon.”

  “I should kill you for hitting me, you know that, right?”

  Holden finished off his whiskey and wiped his mouth. “Yeah, I know, but from what I’m overhearing, you’re in need of some quality muscle and loyalty around here. Loyalty I have, muscles are still in the works.” He winked at me and I almost dropped the glass in my hand.

  Damn him and those devilish hazel eyes.

  “What’s your name?”

  “If I said I didn’t have one, would you believe me?”

  “No. If I vouch for you, then I need to know who I’m bringing into my club. One of my members is a God when it comes to computers, he’s probably already got your background check and then some done for me. If you won’
t give me your name, he will.”

  The corner of Holden’s mouth slightly lifted. “Well, my license says Holden. I guess you can call me that.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Holden? Really? That name doesn’t fit you. It sounds too yuppy. You need a ghost-like name, something that fits your lurking-in-the-shadows persona. Something badass that doesn’t sound like I need to kick your fucking ass every time I talk to you. You know, something like Ghost, but that name won’t work, there are too many Ghosts in the MC world, so how about something different? What’s another name for a ghost?”

  “Spirit?” I offered.

  “Too girly,” Jimmy said before he rolled his eyes. Pretty sure my brother has an eye rolling problem, those big blue eyes of his roll around like marbles inside that big fat head.

  “Shadow?” Holden suggested.

  “Nah, my dad used to have a dog named Shadow and I don’t need another dog, I need someone who’s going to have my back. What’s a badass name for a ghost? Wraith? Dammit, I know a guy named Wraith so that ain’t gonna work either.” Jimmy sat there lost in thought and then snapped his fingers. “I got it! Specter. I’m gonna call your ass, Specter. That sounds fitting and pretty bad ass if you ask me. No calling you by your bitch-ass Holden name. You’re Specter from now on.” Although the name Specter had a nice ring to it, I was a little partial to the name Holden because I remember that Midas’ favorite book was the Catcher in the Rye and the main character’s name was Holden. Meeting someone with that name made me feel even closer to him.

  “Okay?” Holden said, giving my brother a weird look. “I guess you can call me Specter.”

  “Damn straight I can. Cause if you want me to call you Holden. I’m going to end up kicking your fucking ass every time I say it. The club may want to change it later, but if you go around telling people in the club that your name is Holden, they’ll kick your ass, too. So, I’m just gonna tell them I named you Specter. Unless you like getting your ass kicked?”

  “Nah, I think Specter will do just fine,” Holden remarked while laughing.

  Jimmy smirked. “Look, Specter, I’m not the one that makes decisions about potential members, the club does that. Technically, I’m just the gavel at the end of the table, but you got something I need around here—something a lot of my guys are lacking. I want to have you prospect the club. Do you know what that is?”

  “A club grunt?”

  Both Jimmy and I laughed because he wasn’t too far off. A prospect was basically the grunt worker of the club until they proved to be worthy of being patched in. I’ve seen a lot of prospects go through the club. Some make it to being patched in. Some wuss out before they have a chance. Then there are the few who make it a whole year and get told they aren’t worthy. I had a feeling Specter wouldn’t be either of those, he’d make it a year; I could tell.

  “Pretty much. Prospects do the grunt work none of the patched members want to do. If a patched member tells you to do something you do it. Most of our prospects have no clue what it entails to be in a club like this, but I get the feeling you know more than you’re letting on. Prospects usually are patched in after a year, but to be patched in or prospect the Armada, you need a unanimous vote from all club members. You’re already on Switchblade’s bad side, so I don’t even know if I can get you through the door.”

  “Who said I wanted to prospect your club?”

  “I did. You owe me at least that for fucking up my eye. Between knocking the knife out of Switchblade’s hand the other day, and defending my sister’s honor—not once but twice, I know you’re somebody I want to keep around.” Jimmy poured another shot for both him and Specter, then grabbed the towel of ice off the counter and put it against his eye. “Fuck, you really owe me,” he hissed once the cool compress touched his sensitive skin.

  Specter looked at my brother and then over to me. I quickly looked away because technically this was club business and I wasn’t supposed to partake in this kind of talk. Jimmy knew I was listening, though—they both did.

  Switchblade, Guerrilla, Trigger, and Cipher picked that exact moment to walk through the bar door. The second Switchblade saw Specter, he puffed out his chest like a cock-fighting rooster.

  “Damn, Scythe, what the hell happened to your eye?” Cipher asked once he was closer to the bar.

  Jimmy motioned to Specter. “This guy decided to defend her honor again when I got a little too aggressive with her.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. He knocked you on your ass after you smacked the shit out of me because you were acting like an uncouth asshole,” I exclaimed, loving the memory that flashed in my brain for a few, brief, glorious seconds of Jimmy hitting the ground.

  “Right. He laid me out for being an uncouth asshole. You and your big words, Sis. You need to stop reading those trashy romance novels you got hidden on your Kindle.”

  I didn’t hide shit. Those books were life and I loved every naughty word on each electronic page.

  “Who let the roadkill in, anyway?” Switchblade growled. “And why isn’t it dead yet?”

  “I did. I said the other day I was looking at him as a potential prospect, didn’t I? He hit me because I deserved it, but it’s the only pass he’ll ever get with me. If he punches me again, he’s dead.”

  “Don’t touch her then, and we’ll be just peachy,” Specter spat.

  I caught Specter glancing my way again, this time I blushed. His smile told me he saw that, too.

  Damn it.

  “Church ain’t gonna agree to this asshole being part of the club, not if I have anything to do with it,” Switchblade said as he moved toward the back of the bar. He instantly started walking toward me, but I put my hand up to stop him.

  “Fuck you, Switchblade. You know better than to come back here,” I snapped at him.

  Switchblade glared at me and decided to return his attention back to Specter. He walked straight up to him, invading his personal bubble, and loomed over him like a Neanderthal. “So, you wanna be in the Armada, huh, bitch? You do know that a prospect has gotta do whatever we want. That means if I ask you to suck my dick, you gotta drop to your knees and open that big mouth of yours like the bitch you are.”

  My mouth dropped in tandem with everyone else’s in the room. All eyes were on Specter and Switchblade, and despite the fish-gaping shock on everyone’s face, Specter seemed unfazed. He didn’t even look up.

  But he did smirk.

  “What the fuck is so funny? You like the idea of sucking my cock, don’t you, you sick fuck?”

  “On the contrary, Friend. I’m laughing because I watch a lot of shows on Animal Planet. I recently watched a show that featured the Silverback Gorilla and learned some interesting information that explains a lot about you. On the outside, the male Silverback Gorilla is king of the jungle. He’s strong—tough, but it turns out that the male Silverback Gorilla is the animal kingdom’s version of a souped-up Ford truck. That big and bad exterior is nothing more than a desperate compensation for the lack of penis size on such a large and powerful beast.” Specter looked down at Switchblade’s crotch and grimaced. “Judging by the lack of bulge in those bitch-ass skinny jeans you’re wearing, I’m gonna say that you and the Silverback Gorilla have a lot in common, Switchblade. If I actually thought I could find your tiny dick somewhere behind that zipper, I might consider helping your sad cock out because God knows, no one else has been able to find it recently. Unfortunately for you, I left my magnifying glass back at home, and don’t feel like sleuthing it up like Sherlock Holmes this late in the afternoon. So, why don’t you do us both a favor and stop pounding on your chest like an ape, and sit down and have a drink with me?”

  Silence. Pure, perfect silence.

  Switchblade had nothing—no smartass comeback. Hell, he didn’t even cuss. You could see the rage in his eyes, but he was also silently stunned. He was probably thinking about grabbing his knife and pulling it on Specter, but he was in too much shock to even do that. Nobody had ever talked to Swit
chblade like that before.

  “Screw you, man. I don’t have a small dick.”

  Specter lifted an eyebrow, reveling in the small victory as Switchblade plopped down in the chair next to him and relented.

  Specter slid him a shot glass of whiskey and Switchblade reluctantly grabbed it, throwing it back in one large gulp. After he was done, he wiped his mouth and slammed the glass on the bar top. “Who the fuck is this guy?” he asked Jimmy, who was still babying his eye with the towel of ice.

  Specter turned toward Switchblade and outstretched his hand. “Your president just named me Specter, and I’m your newest Armada prospect.”

  Chapter Ten

  Specter

  It took less than a day for Scythe to call Church and vote on whether I would prospect the Armada. They had me wait outside. A few other prospects that I didn’t bother getting names from, were watching me like curious kittens. I know they were put on babysitting duty, but it was kind of hilarious how they admired me from afar.

  “I can’t believe he knocked a knife out of Switchblade’s hand,” the smaller one whispered.

  The other guy standing guard looked at me and spit at the ground, his eyes bore through me as an angry scowl curved his lips. He was covered in a maze of tattoos and looked like he had been mauled by a chihuahua with all the meth scars and scratches across his face. I could tell, just by his cheery demeanor, that he probably did time recently. “He doesn’t look so fucking tough,” the big guy added, spitting on the ground again. “I bet I could fucking take his ass.”

  I bet he couldn’t.

  The door to the compound opened, and a few women in scantily clad clothing came waltzing in. I could sense a sweetbutt from a mile away, so the second they walked in, I knew I was in trouble.

  The Armada sweetbutt was like a crafty lioness. She stalked her prey carefully, camouflaging into the background as she analyzed every member’s move until she found the perfect meal to sink her teeth into. The little ones, prospects like me, were usually pounced on first; catching them when they were still fighting for scraps with the other weaklings not yet ready to advance the ranks. It was easier to become an Old Lady that way—tie down the cub before he turned into the ruler of the pride. But everyone knew that a true sweetbutt kept her options open as wide as her legs, giving herself up to every proud lion that ruled the pride with a pack of lionesses rolling around at his feet. Yeah, I wasn’t a fucking lion yet, but that wasn’t going to stop a sweetbutt from tackling me from behind and staking her claim on me.