Vicious

by LS Silverii

  VICIOUS

  Savage Souls Series

  Book 3

  LS Silverii

  Dedication

  This third book in the series is dedicated to the Brothers and Sisters in Blue.

  Acknowledgements

  This series allowed the opportunity to incorporate my experiences as an undercover agent as well as what I’ve learned through my studies of human fringe behavior. I appreciate all of my brother and sister law enforcement officers who walk the jagged line daily. Those who keep the faith despite the frayed conditions have my eternal gratitude.

  The writing community is amazing for surrounding each other with genuine support. These wonderful people generously support and mentor me without hesitation. I thank you for your time, talent and truth. Liliana Hart, Jean Jenkins and Danielle Dauphinet.

  Thanks for being a Savage Souls reader. To show appreciation for joining me on this outlaw adventure, I’m giving away Sterling Silver Biker Pendants. Each episode in the series has a unique piece of biker jewelry that symbolizes that book. Enter by clicking the link below and you might become one of the Savage Nations Most Wanted Prize Winners.

  forms.aweber.com/form/32/368041932.htm

  Product Warning

  ABOUT THIS SERIES:

  **Please note this book is dark romance and deals with adult themes. Recommended for mature readers only**

  This story unfolds over five volumes.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Product Warning

  Copyright Page

  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

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Links to my Other Books

  Excerpt from Shattered

  Copyright © 2015 by L. Scott Silverii

  Kindle Edition

  SilverHart Publishing

  Vicious: Savage Souls Series

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.

  Produced by LS Silverii at SilverHart Publishing.

  Chapter 1

  The smattering of locals at Ellie’s Outpost bolted once St. John and Abigail arrived. The outdoor seating burger and beer joint was left completely vacant. Mystic, Colorado had learned to tolerate the Savage Souls’ invasion. They realized without help from the Custer County Sheriff, Roger Reed, the outlaw bikers were there to stay, though it didn’t mean they’d share meals with them.

  Soft lighting contrasted the sky’s defined lines between day and night. In it’s glow, a woman with graying mousey-brown hair eased the side delivery door open. Her long, tangled hair didn’t appear to be an attempt at Rastafarian dreadlocks, but looked instead as if she’d been overwhelmed by the ass kicking life enjoyed putting on her.

  Abigail caught sight of her out of the corner of her eye but her focus remained on St. John. She wanted to know why St. John had asked again about Gray Man. She wasn’t going to let him blow her identity to the rest of the brothers. Her heart pounded because she knew it’d be her sudden, horrible death once the Savage Nation put her, Geneti and Grey Man together.

  “Darling, you might want to put that thing down before you hurt yourself,” her voice was sweeter than the rough exterior suggested.

  Abigail juggled the pistol in her palm, but ignored the woman.

  “You hear me missy?”

  Abigail huffed, and retightened her grip on the Glock 9mm. Both palms were moist with uncertainty, “Back off, old lady. I ain’t doing nothing until this asshole tells me what’s going down.”

  “Name’s Ellie.” The screen door creaked as it bounced closed behind the woman, “Well, Mister Asshole, you gonna tell her what’s going down or we just sitting here all evening?”

  Insulted by his burst of laughter, Abigail shoved the gun closer to St. John. He never seemed threatened by it. She assumed he was used to weapons and threats. She was nervous holding it, but she was fucking serious.

  “What’s so funny, James?” she poked.

  Abigail’s legs trembled on knees that promised to unhinge her at any moment. The nervous quakes rocked all the way through her arms. She fought to conceal them. Although it was her first time handling a gun—she hoped it didn’t show.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to spend some time alone with you. Away from the Savage’s clubhouse. You know, like normal people. Maybe get to know each other a little better.” His voice was always calm—controlling in an assured way. “Who knew you were planning an assassination.” He leaned back in the wooden-slat chair.

  “Well, I planned to find out what the fuck you’re up to. Why you asking me about Gray Man again? Why’s my life any of your business?”

  He swatted at gnats attracted to the colored lights bulbs that hung around the brim of the patio. There’d be no hurry in his reply. His eyes cut side to side as he smirked, and seemed to be deciding whether to answer her question or enjoy the moment.

  “I just thought your close relationship with Justice might’ve shed some light on who Gray Man was.”

  “Other than me servicing him as his whore, we’re not that close,” she said. “And I don’t know who you’re talking about—I’ve never met the man in my life.” The pistol bobbed in rhythm with her speech, more like a wagging finger than a lethal weapon.

  St. John sandpapered his rock-hard jaw with thumb and index finger. A groan escaped him. “Key words are you never met the man. That doesn’t mean you don’t know who I’m talking about. Big difference, so since you’re into word games, let me rephrase the question,” he said.

  “Good point, outlaw. Hell, I caught onto that one myself,” Ellie butted in.

  Abigail stared at the older lady with a dumbfounded expression.

  “Have you ever heard of someone or something called Gray Man?” He leaned toward her with elbows planted against the shredded knees of his denim jeans.

  She looked over her shoulder toward his motorcycle and exhaled. She thought for sure it would be bile from a rattled tummy. “No.”

  “She’s lying.” Ellie jabbed a rail-thin finger toward the younger woman.

  Abigail’s head jerked to the right. “Get back inside, old lady. This shit’s between us.”

  “Number one, I ain’t that old, so stop calling me that. Number two, this isn’t just between you two when it’s on my property.” Ellie pulled back on a finger as she counted down her reasons. “And, number three, this is more excitement than I get on that crappy television in my trailer, so no, I’m not leaving.”

  “Then you’ll see a man killed. How’s that for excitement?” Abigail drew her shoulders back and tossed her head to shake loose the hair stuck against her sweaty, unblemished forehead.

  “Abigail, please put that away before you shoot yourself,” St. John’s tone seemed placating and unafraid. He never lunged for the gun, although she didn’t doubt his agility to do so.

  “Yeah, honey, put it away before you get shot.”

  Abigail whipped her head side to side like a petulant child, and curled her lip again to blow the strands of hair from her forehead.

  “How the hell you figure I’m g
oing to get shot? I got the damn gun.”

  “Well, honey, because you’re pointing it at yourself.” Ellie snorted.

  * * *

  The engine cut, and the heavy machine coasted across a dirt road that led down a tree-lined path. St. John’s nine hundred pound Electra-Glide coasted through the darkness as he angled left and right to avoid the low-hanging pine branches. Finally, the slope leveled onto a plateau. Moonlight reflected off moving water mere feet from the HOG’s fat tires.

  “I feel so stupid,” Abigail admitted, her face pressed into the back of his road-worn leather vest.

  From her seat behind him, her fingers dug into his stone-hard chest. She needed the human touch. Abigail remained on the bike’s saddle, and St. John pressed back against her chest. Her thighs, tight and tense from the long ride now relaxed and eased open to receive the biker’s broad torso. Her ass still tingled from the monstrous vibrations courtesy of Harley Davidson.

  “Don’t cry, baby. You’ve been through hell, so I don’t blame you for protecting yourself. Those Savages can be fucking inhumane.”

  Her cheek nuzzled the softness of St. John’s soft leather vest. Despite the menacing images embroidered on the patches, it gave her comfort. She felt his head ease back and fall against her left shoulder. He sighed, gazing toward a brilliantly star-lit, mountain sky.

  Her thin, tight body slid against his back until she was able to look him in the face. “My turn to play key word. You said ‘those’ Savages, not us or my. Don’t you consider yourself one of them?” She felt a bit of victory through her retaliatory question.

  St. James raised his head and crunched his body over the wide, custom painted gas tank. The rippling of muscles as he flexed his body set her insides ablaze. Her sense of victory quickly faded to dread in anticipation of his reply.

  “Good point.”

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “I’m from a Florida chapter. They act different down South.”

  Abigail snapped her fingers and waved an arm across the space between them like a magic wand. “Oh, so you saying Southern boys are gentlemen?”

  Warmth spread over her at his genuine smile. In contrast to her dread of being struck by a knuckled right fist, St. John touched her cheek with a gentle trace of her angular jawline.

  He stood along side the motorcycle and curled his muscles to limber up. Excitement over, not his incredible physique, but his patient, gentle nature had her motor running. Abigail forced herself to sit and wait for his next move. Her heart pounded. She feared he’d hear the thud inside her chest, and mock her. Showing vulnerability to the brothers was a ticket to ridicule.

  He touched her face with the tips of his fingers as if he were handling fine glassware. St. John leaned over the engine and kissed her. Soft at first then softer still. Her body responded awkwardly. Justice had conditioned her to be prepared to pleasure the brotherhood, especially him, at any time, so lately she’d only been fucked without concern for caressing or foreplay.

  St. John’s eyes remained closed. The Colorado night sky cast gentle shadows across his face. She saw no tension there.

  He pulled back and squinted a frown. “You okay?”

  Embarrassed, she laughed nervously. “First kiss jitters,” she whispered.

  “I thought maybe it was the pistol in your pocket.”

  “Ha, no, but you think I’m crazy for holding onto it?” She gingerly patted the 9mm Glock.

  “Only if you don’t learn how to use it first.”

  She rotated her ass over the saddle until both legs extended from the left side. A strong hand reached out, snaked beneath her dark, shaggy hair. Electricity jolted through her at the touch. His body was solid and intimidating. She’d been a jock junkie growing up and his athletic prowess exhilarated her. She’d always pined over the high school quarterback but was never one of the in-crowd girls, and still, here she was with the outcasts—but, damn, was this one hot.

  It was her house-mouse duty to please this Savage Soul, but she didn’t feel pressured. She desired him. Her moistening pussy yearned to be fucked—to be made love to.

  Abigail’s body had learned its own survival reactions—to avoid the damaging friction she’d suffered from the fierce fuckings she’d been subjected to by the brothers, her vagina became wet at a biker’s touch—not out of arousal, but self-preservation.

  “No need to be nervous, baby. I won’t hurt you,” he assured her.

  She pressed her mouth against his. Lips closed, she opened her eyes. Their eyes met. Both gave a low laugh at the clumsiness of the moment. Her fear of punishment rose, but St. John was different—or so she thought.

  “Why’s this so weird?” he asked without losing his friendly appeal.

  “I guess I’m expecting you to fuck me. None of the others ever kiss me like this.” She immediately regretted her words when she saw the light fade from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem. You’ve been trained well obviously,” he remarked, wounded—then walked away.

  Sandaled feet shuffled across the rocky shore. “James, please don’t do this. I’m sorry. I don’t know how you expect me to react.” She took his wide forearm, colored by The Nation’s distinctive passion cross design inked onto it. Looking up, she peered into his distant gaze. “This is what Justice taught me—I don’t want to disappoint him—I can’t take much more discipline, or the tattooing.”

  The gentle lap of water against the rocky shore rolled a soothing rhythm. Her body swayed in time. She’d not felt unafraid since she arrived at the clubhouse. Even more reason to regret having hurt St. John with the leftovers planted into her mind and body by Justice.

  “I’m not interested in what the fuck Justice taught you,” St. John said, low and sharp. His body snapped away from her grip. Stone-faced, he turned toward the slow-moving river at his feet.

  “Weren’t you your own woman at one point? I still don’t know what it is about you, but I know its not having you service me like you do the others. There’s something inside you that I can see wanting to escape. But you’re too damn afraid. What are you afraid of Abigail?”

  “I’m…not sure. Not even sure why I came here anymore. All that is sure is that I got nothing or no one left in my miserable life. Should’ve ended it back there,” she fought back tears and thoughts of her son, Jack.

  “Back where? Where’re you from?” He clutched her shoulders in a firm grip. “Let me help you escape—this ain’t your life.” Gently, St. John slid his strong hands atop each of her narrow shoulders.

  She felt the solid meat of his palms against her bones. She’d become an empty husk. Her mind toiled over how or why someone—anyone—would find an interest in her.

  “You some saint of loss causes?” she sobbed through a weak smile that exposed her crooked grin.

  “Yeah, I am. I’m James St. John, the patron saint of loss causes,” he said. Their eyes reconnected.

  She felt exposed, as though he knew her every secret—and her plan for revenge. But at that moment she didn’t give a shit if he knew everything—she needed his humanity.

  Her palm returned to the familiar spot beneath his long hair. She pulled him forward with a gentle tug against his thickly muscled neck.

  “Don’t think, just do,” St. John whispered.

  Her blue eyes reflected the light in each blink. Then they closed as she drew into his deep kiss.

  Chapter 2

  Peterson Street in Falling Hope was off the main arteries, so vehicular traffic was minimal. The place was somewhat isolated, and the Foothills Apartments were relatively quiet. Officer Bart Crane was the courtesy officer on site in exchange for reduced monthly rent. No other officers lived there, so he mostly hung out in his place, online, or playing shooter video games.

  One step inside his lover’s apartment, Fury froze at the unusual scenario. Bart was shirtless as usual. His tattoos read like a roadmap of his law enforcement career. Although Bart hadn’t worked SWAT, he sported the typical emb
lem of an eagle holding a machine gun, a dagger and a lightning bolt on his chest, over his heart. Fury thought it was pretentious, but Bart assured him it was just a matter of time until he was selected for special ops. The tattoos were similar to his and his biker brothers’ ink, except they depicted different commitments to fucking with the public.

  Bart sported a close-cropped hairstyle. Generally toned, his body had the lax fitness of occasional gym visits. About five-ten, Bart carried himself much taller in the authority of his uniform but off duty he enjoyed the submission lifestyle.

  Confused, Fury blinked at the bright interior light that still singed his weakened vision from four days in the dark box. Bart stood to his left, close to the small kitchen, wearing only white briefs stained with spots of blood, and what might’ve been semen considering the scene Fury had interrupted.

  Bart’s mouth opened and closed without emitting sound. Gray Man’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the handle of a leather collar and tugged. It bit into Bart’s skin. A wattle of Bart’s chin hung loosely over the buckle.

  Fury waggled his head, shocked at the surreal sight. Fury had known Bart for about eight months, and knew him well enough to sense his fear. Chills crawled across Fury’s own skin as he glared back at the small-framed man who stood without apology in the hallway. No one spoke. Eyes cut back and forth between the unintended threesome.

  Swarthy and unassuming, the man’s hands were held straight against his legs as if he stood at attention. “Well, I’ve introduced myself, and I know your name is Fury, thanks to my lady’s panic at your showing up unscheduled.”

  This shit is freaking me out. Who the fuck is this dude?

  “Bart, you okay?” Fury’s voice wafted feminine.

  “I’d appreciate you not speaking directly to my lady. We may share her, but at this moment she belongs to me.” Nothing moved on the man when he spoke—nothing.