DAMON: A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel

by Meg Jackson

  “Get a closer look, then,” Kennick said. The man holding the dope slammed the door and walked over to the man who’d just given Kennick a pat-down. Now, they both held two guns a piece, and stood watching over James and Kennick, still with their hands in the air. Behind him, Kennick heard a door open. He looked at the two men.

  “If you do anything stupid, like shoot me, your President will die,” he said.

  “What the fuck are you…” one began to say, eyes narrowing, body tensing.

  “Shit!”

  Roper’s scream cut through the muggy air as his body was wrenched to one side. The two men stiffened, then moved into shooting postures, both guns pointed at Kennick’s head. Kennick used every ounce of his willpower to stay calm and keep the men trapped in his level gaze.

  “Don’t. Shoot. Or. He. Dies,” he said again. James suddenly crumpled forward with a shout as Roper’s whipping legs crashed through the air and landed on the backs of his knees. The distraction made the two men jump, lose their focus on Kennick; when they looked back, Roper was standing beside him, his head trapped in Cristov’s arm, a gun at his temple, his eyes wild and furious.

  “Take your guns, and your drugs, go back to the house, and tell everyone in there that this is over,” Kennick said, using his most authoritative voice. The voice of a man who could lead people who hated being told what to do. The voice of a rom baro.

  “Fuck that,” one of the men spat, his words far less confident than Kennick’s. He kept glancing over to Roper, who seemed to be gasping in the tight grip of Cristov’ s elbow. “Boss, we’re gonna kill ‘em, right? I’m ready to…”

  “Are…you…fucking…stupid?” Roper gasped. “Do…what…he…says…”

  “Boss, are you…” the other man said, already backing away, hate in his eyes when he looked at Kennick, his hands still full of drugs and guns.

  “They’ll…fucking…kill…me…” Roper said, lashing out with his legs again but unable to find any purchase against Cristov’s body. James huddled on the ground whimpering, his hands over his head.

  “Shit,” the first man said, glancing at the second man as he made his slow retreat. One last snarl thrown in Kennick’s direction and he began to follow, walking backwards, pointing both guns right at Kennick, fingers itching to pull the trigger. Listen to your boss, Kennick thought. Don’t do anything stupid, listen to your boss…

  Slowly but surely, the two men reached the doorway and slipped inside; just at that moment, Kennick heard the most beautiful sound in the world. Sirens. Distant, but growing closer each second.

  “Wait another minute,” Kennick said, taking his eyes off the house just long enough to grab the gun that Roper had dropped when Cristov surprised him in the backseat. He held it pointed at the doorway in case anyone decided to try and rush them.

  “Get in the car, James,” Kennick said. The man was still huddled and whimpering. “Now, James, or you’ll be going through detox in prison. Cristov, watch him, make sure he doesn’t fucking make off with the wheels.”

  That was enough to get James moving, and he moved pretty fast, all things considered. He was smart enough to get into the backseat, too.

  “Gonna…kill…you…all…of…you…gonna…die…gypsy…scum…gonna…rot…in…hell,” Roper growled, now clawing at Cristov’s forearm. The sirens grew closer. Kennick heard the rapid beat of his heart, tried to judge how far away the sirens were. He had to hope they were responding to his call, and not some other neighborhood disturbance. Five minutes. It had been five minutes, no more, since Cristov made the call. It felt like hours, but it was only five minutes…

  “Now,” Kennick said, and Cristov released Roper, the man stumbling forward, coughing and gagging. But there would be no bruise on his neck when the cops arrived. Kennick pointed the gun at one of the front windows and fired. Glass shattered. Cristov did the same, pointing upwards at an angle to a spot just above the front door. Two more shots each, and then they were gone, the sirens just around the corner, their car squealing as they sped out of sight.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Cristov said. The two guns, hot from use and from the reaction of sun on metal, sat on his lap and he hurriedly wiped at the handles with his shirt. They hadn’t been able to wipe their prints off the other guns, but it didn’t matter. The guns had been handled by so many people by then that prints wouldn’t be easy to lift. And if they did get the prints, and they did arrest Kennick and Cristov, and all the pieces did fall into place and the two men had to go to jail – well, at least it would have all been worth it.

  The police were descending on the biker’s hideaway. And the bikers now possessed two pounds of heroin and two very illegal guns. And they had a human slave living among them. Kennick had kept his word. He’d gotten Jenner out. Whether Jenner went to jail or not for his involvement in Tricia’s kidnapping back in Kingdom didn’t matter. Kennick had promised to save Jenner from the Steel Dragons, and he had. The money he’d promised could go straight into Jenner’s commissary.

  Whatever priors the bikers had, whatever probation or parole they might be on, things looked bad and were only going to look worse when the feds got involved. What was left of the Steel Dragons would soon be no more.

  Now there was just James Whitley to deal with.

  Cristov looked behind him; James Whitley was damn near passed out in his seat, shaking like a leaf with his eyes rolling back into his head.

  James Whitley would be a piece of cake to deal with.

  43

  They waited outside the dingy-looking, weathered apartment building for three hours. Most of the people going in and out looked exactly as broken-down as the apartments. Damon could tell the drug dealers from the drug addicts, the fighters from the thieves, the single mothers from the prostitutes. He didn’t judge any of them. Life was harder for some than for others. He only cared to judge one man. And when he saw that man, coming out the front doors with a pained gait, he stiffened all over. Tricia reached out from the backseat, one arm on his meaty bicep.

  “Calm,” she said, the word sounding very much like its meaning. He nodded and opened the driver’s side door.

  Curly didn’t see Damon, but he heard his name when Damon shouted it. The man turned slowly, clearly suffering somewhat from the fight. His eyes widened, darkened.

  “You,” Curly said, his hands fisting. “You motherfucker…”

  “Get in the car,” Damon said. Curly’s eyebrows rose, and then his mouth quirked upwards slightly. Damon could tell that the man thought this was his chance to finish what he started, maybe collect on whatever he was owed by the Steel Dragons. But when Curly saw the wad of bills in Damon’s hand, poised above the roof of the car, his expression changed. “Whatever they were paying you, I’ll double it. Get in the car.”

  Curly looked up and down the street, calculating. He looked back at the fat wad in Damon’s hand.

  “How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Curly said, approaching the car warily.

  “What? I’m going to kill you in broad daylight in my own fucking car? I know who paid you, I know it’s them who really want me dead,” Damon growled. Curly looked impassive. Damon sighed. “I got my woman in the car, and she won’t abide any killing. Just get in.”

  Curly leaned down, looking in the passenger side window. Tricia recoiled from his cold glare, the violence in his sneer. Damon sat back down in the driver’s seat and waited. Finally, Curly opened the passenger side door, sliding in.

  “I should kill you right now,” Curly said as he shut the door. “Then I could take the money and get the rest of what hose assholes owe me.”

  “I know,” Damon said, trying to swallow the desire to strangle the guy. “That’s why she’s here. She’s got 911 on speed dial. You make any move we don’t like, and she’s out of here, down the block, with the cops on the line.”

  Curly grunted, looked back at Tricia once more, and saw the phone in her hand. Tricia felt, once more, the cold tingle up her spine. Something in this man�
�s eyes told her all she needed to know about his feelings on women. It made her sick.

  “What do you want?” Curly barked, turning back to Damon.

  “I want to end some shit,” Damon said, keeping his eyes straight and level above the steering wheel.

  “You gonna pay me to lay off you?” Curly asked, dropping his gaze to the money in Damon’s hand.

  “I’m gonna pay you to lay off me,” Damon agreed, nodding. “And to tell me something.”

  “What? I don’t know where they’re hiding out,” Curly said. “I only met them at bars and shit.”

  “That’s not what I want you to tell me,” Damon said, and finally turned to look at the man he’d hunted all those years. “I want you to tell me that you recognize me. That you know who I am.”

  Curly scoffed, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the fucker I got paid to kill, the fucker who got a few good shots in before I turned you into Swiss cheese.”

  Damon’s muscles twitched, violently.

  “That’s not all I am,” he growled, nearly spitting the words out. Tricia watched from the backseat, still holding her phone up, her heart racing. Damon might lose his cool. He might snap.

  “Alright,” Curly said, sensing Damon’s growing ire. “Then who are you?”

  “Let’s start with you,” Damon said, impatient. “You’re Curly Gottlieb, right?”

  “Yeah, I am,” Curly said. “Didn’t Whitley tell you my fuckin’ name when you signed up for the fight?”

  “Twenty years ago, you lived in Providence, Rhode Island,” Damon said, ignoring the man’s question.

  Curly’s eyes darkened, his own hands fisting.

  “So?”

  “You beat and raped a woman in a parking lot,” Damon went on, choking the words out like he was coughing up razor blades. Curly’s eyes went wide, his skin blanching.

  “What are you, her fucking brother or some shit? Her son? Shit – you’re not my fucking son, are you?”

  Tricia’s breath caught in her throat. Was that enough?

  Not for Damon.

  “You were a miserable, pathetic little prick,” Damon said. “And I want you to admit it. I’m not your fucking son. If I was, I’d kill myself. I wouldn’t want your shitty blood in my veins.”

  “Who the fuck are you then? What the hell do you care?”

  “I’m the kid you threatened. I’m the kid who saw,” Damon finally ground out. Tricia saw the red rising in Damon’s cheeks, saw pain flash in his eyes, bright hot and searing. Curly’s jaw went slack, and he seemed to re-examine Damon, or see him for the first time.

  “You’re that little gypsy kid? Shiiiit,” Curly said. “I forgot all about you.”

  “You forgot?” Damon barked, his shoulders bunching. “You FORGOT?”

  “Hey,” Curly said, backing away and putting his hands up. “Hey man, it was a long time ago. I’ve had a rough life.”

  “You’ve had a rough life,” Damon said, his voice strangely flat now. “You’ve had a rough life. You’ve had a rough life.”

  He sounded like a broken machine, and Tricia fought back the desire to touch him. She needed both hands to keep the phone steady.

  “Damon,” she said, using her words instead. He blinked, turned away, looked down at the money in his hands.

  “Fuck it,” Damon muttered, then looked back at Curly. “Just tell me what you do remember. I want to hear you tell me the story.”

  “Are you fucking crazy, man?”

  “Stop asking questions, and start talking,” Damon growled. Curly looked at the wad again, sighed, and leaned back slightly.

  “I don’t know,” Curly said. “I was a kid. I was horny as fuck all the time. I’d always cut through the parking lot and see this bitch on her way to her car. She always smelled like fuckin’ flowers ‘cause she worked at that store. And one day I just figured, fuck it. Why not. So I picked up this piece of wood and bashed her over the head.

  And listen, man, I never even got off, alright? I tried to, but I never did. I guess that’s ‘cause you interrupted me – I remember that now. You got me all distracted. By the time I got back to her, I didn’t even really want her anymore. She was all bloody and shit. So I wiped down what I could, ‘cause I wasn’t as stupid as I seemed, you know? And I closed the door and I left her there. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

  The way he spoke, as though telling a story about getting ants at a picnic, made Tricia nauseas. The coldness. The total nonchalance. But he’d said it. He’d told it. In his own words, in his voice. Damon was silent for a long moment. Tricia wondered if Damon would forget all about the plan. She had a mental picture of Damon reaching over and bashing the man’s head into the window. Instead, Damon threw the wad of money into Curly’s pocket. The older man eagerly picked it up, flipped through it, saw that it was all twenties. His eyes were bright, a smile on his face.

  “That’s three grand,” Damon said, his voice flat again, emotionless. “I’m sure that’s a lot more than the Steel Dragons wanted to give you. Now get the fuck out of my car. I never want to see your sorry ass again.”

  Curly didn’t argue, was all too happy to obey. The sound of the door slamming shut seemed too loud, seemed to ring and echo in Tricia’s ear. She put the phone down, crawled up to take his seat. She grimaced, realizing it was still warm from his body. That was closer than she ever wanted to be with a man like that.

  “I got it,” Tricia said, holding the phone out. “I mean, we’ll have to edit it a little, and I still don’t think it’s going to do any good, but I got it.”

  “It probably won’t do a damn thing,” Damon muttered, taking the phone from her hand. On the screen, he could see the first frame of the video Tricia had filmed from the front seat. “I don’t think these kinds of confessions are admissible in court, or even grounds for an arrest.”

  I finally made my movie, he thought, feeling numb and cold all over.

  “But maybe when you come forward as witness…”

  “Maybe,” Damon said, gritting his teeth, doubt in his voice. He knew how these things worked. He’d been through it all in his head already. A witness twenty years after the fact was pretty damn unreliable. This confession was pretty much worthless, even after cutting out the parts that mentioned the money. Stabs in the dark. In the deep, wide, awful dark.

  Tricia folded her hand over his, and a little bit of light shone through.

  44

  They gave Jenner one phone call, but he hadn’t figured out how to use it yet. He could call Kennick, ask for money for a lawyer. He should call Kennick. Kennick had promised him money. Money would be useful, no matter where he ended up.

  He guessed that Kennick hadn’t really gone back on his word after all. Jenner had made him promise to get him away from the Steel Dragons, and so he did.

  Jenner had never specified that he didn’t want to go to jail, either.

  They had him on aiding and abetting, conspiracy, arson, and more. If Jenner got a good lawyer, he thought, he might get off on time served as the Steel Dragon’s prisoner. But that would involve proving he was their hostage, that they held him against the will…and any prosecutor worth his salt could probably argue that the Steel Dragons were hiding him, protecting him.

  He knew that Roper and his men, all of whom had been led out in handcuffs, same as Jenner, would find harboring a fugitive a much better crime to admit to than kidnapping.

  Jenner rolled his head back on the hard, stiff cot. Just like his bed back at the clubhouse. The only difference was that the guards here wore badges instead of cuts.

  Maybe this was what he deserved, after all.

  At least in prison I won’t have to wear an apron, he thought, rolling over onto his side and closing his eyes.

  45

  Tricia was reclining on the bed, her back against the headboard. Damon sat at the foot, re-applying his bandage. Tricia had stocked up on enough antiseptic ointment, gauze, and banda
ges to keep a small army supplied, and she was making sure he took his antibiotics. She had wanted him to go back to the hospital after meeting Curly, but he’d refused, saying he had more important healing to do.

  She understood this, and let it go.

  He would be leaving soon to meet his brothers; he’d be going alone, just as his brothers were going alone. For the first time in a long time, it would be just the three of them.

  Damon had just tied the bandage in place when the news story caught his attention.

  “Eight men associated with the notorious Steel Dragons Motorcycle Club were arrested in Carol City early last night. Police were responding to an anonymous tip when they heard gunshots from the house, pictured here. Inside, they found two pounds of heroin, four pounds of marijuana, and multiple illegal firearms. They also found a fugitive, who sources say is not a member of the Steel Dragons, but who has multiple warrants for his arrest in Delaware. Several of the men were immediately incarcerated for violating their parole, and all will face charges…”

  “Woah,” Tricia said, her body going slack.

  “They did it,” Damon muttered, watching the aerial view in the corner of the screen.

  “…say that a band of gypsies were responsible for the gunshots, but a witness who was at the scene says that it was one of the gang’s members who did the shooting. More on this story as it develops.”

  The newscaster’s emphasis on the word gypsy made Damon’s lips quirk upward. He rose, pulling on his shirt.

  “Guess I’m going to get a sneak peak at the 11 o’clock news,” he said, turning to Tricia, who crawled across the bed to him. He leaned down, covered her lips with his, and felt stronger with the taste of her on his lips.

  The bar where he met his brothers was a nice-looking establishment in South Beach, with an after-work crowd in white shirts and brown slacks hanging around the small, round tables. Damon saw his brothers before they saw him. They looked like brothers, like they belonged together. And so they did. And so do I, he thought, feeling an awful pain in his heart, a sensation like grief. He wasn’t sure if that was true anymore. That’s what he was there to find out.