by K. J. Dahlen
Jaxson’s hand grazed her skin. She had a worried, almost frantic look in her eyes. She was breaking down in front of him, but at this point, he didn’t know how to fix it. The bastard had scared the living daylights out of her.
Shit. Now here she is looking up at me with those big eyes like she is about to cry all over again.
Anger rose within him. This time, he couldn’t control it, he was visibly shaking with rage. What kind of disgusting son of a bitch would do this to a sweet girl like her? An image of that bastard fucking her against the wall flashed through his mind. He couldn’t let her down again. He had a duty to protect her; she was his responsibility. One thing was for sure; she didn’t deserve this. Still holding her close to his chest, he closed his eyes in shame.
As his eyes shut, he shivered. No. Not now. His mind flashed to the night her father died—sacrificed himself for another—for Jaxson. That night by the docks ten years ago, Chloe’s father, a Blood and Bones MC, had shown up to supervise the loading of some moonshine. A good man, when he saw what he thought were a few young kids breaking into the old factory, he went after them, as he knew it was unsafe. It was too late. The young men had already fallen through the mezzanine floor, but he could hear that at least one was still alive. He lowered himself down the buckled steel frame to rescue them. When he got down to the basement, Jaxson was the only one still alive, trapped behind a giant pile of galvanized flooring.
Jaxson watched as the man lifted a girder as a lever to free him with otherworldly strength. Finally, Jaxson was able to pull himself out, and he ran to the side to get well clear. As Jaxson turned back, he saw the man’s Jacket on the floor – a Blood and Bones jacket! Moments later, part of the framework tumbled and smacked the man across the body, pinning him to the floor and knocking him out. Police sirens sounded outside. In a panic, Jaxson grabbed the man’s flashlight and ran to escape. His mind filled with the vision of looking down at Chloe’s father, lying bloody and unconscious on the ground. The thought still made his stomach churn. It’d been his first kill, despite not having done it himself, he always believed he’d killed the man.
Try as he might, Jaxson had never been able to delete that memory from his mind.
The next day, word flew around the MC that two of their prospects had gotten themselves killed at the docks. Nobody knew Jaxson was there that night. Nobody could ever know that Jaxson left his brother’s for dead. A week later, news broke that Jessie Mariano, a Blood and Bones MC Member, had died in the event too. Although the guys were more interested in the widow he left behind—an ex-model. It turned out, the poor woman had a eleven-year-old daughter and was working at the local food place, Mandy’s, all hours to look after her, and, with no money for childcare, she brought the kid with her after school hours.
Jaxson began eating at that place nearly every night, tipping generously, just to make sure little Chloe was ok. At 16, Chloe worked there too, and he became like a big brother to her. It always did baffle her that Jaxson was the only male friend she had who didn’t try to get into her pants. She trusted Jaxson. And, Jaxson owed his life to Chloe’s father, and he would do anything for her. The worst part—she had no fucking idea.
Jaxson’s mind whirled again with hellish thoughts. She probably thinks I’m some hero who is going to save the day. But I’m a monster; a cold-blooded shark just like Bruno, a scruffy, tattooed guy in a motorcycle jacket, who smokes too much. She deserves better than a punk-ass biker who runs from the law. He shook his head and told himself to snap out of it.
The day Chloe’s father died, he unwittingly left her fate in Jaxson’s hands. But for the girl whose father had died an MC man, an MC protector, it was the last thing she wanted. Every one of those guys scared the living daylights out of her. Jaxson represented her worst fears. It’d been a life she’d distanced herself from since the day her father passed. Danger, criminals, violence, and death. Jaxson knew this about her as they’d talked several times about it. It hadn’t hurt his feelings in the least, as he agreed with it whole heartedly.
His lips touched her forehead, and he cupped her head in his palm, cherishingly. “I won’t ever let him touch you again. Not ever.” Jaxson’s heart sank to see her so distressed. “You need a drink.” Before she could protest, he waved his hand at the barman and ordered her a shot of jack.
When it arrived, Chloe downed it in one gulp. She relaxed a bit and wiped the tears from her cheek with his jacket.
Jaxson looked outside; the rain was coming down steadily now. “You will have to come home with me tonight Chloe. You need a place to sleep.”
Chloe’s eyes widened for a second in fear as her breathing picked up. She hadn’t seen Jaxson in three years.
Chloe wasn’t the only one who felt nervous. If anyone who knew both Chloe and Jaxson were in this bar, they would have seen them together. As it was, none of them here knew who she really was. If anyone baited them out, Jaxson would be out of his club for sure. The moment they stepped out that door together, Black Devil law would be broken. She ‒ a daughter of the Blood and Bones MC and he ‒ a Black Devil. If Jaxson had thought he was having a bad day an hour ago, things had just taken a turn for the worse. He knew with a sinking feeling that his loyalty to his club was now in direct conflict with his vow to keep Chloe safe.
Right now, it didn’t matter. Chloe was his now, to cherish and protect. The smart, beautiful girl he didn’t deserve was leaving with him.
Jaxson turned to Chloe and smiled confidently. “You’re coming home with me tonight. You ready?”
She didn’t answer right away. He had drawn her in with a touch and voice so gentle. “Yes. It’s been a long day. But, just for one night. Deal?” Chloe took a deep breath and smiled at him.
He nodded, “Deal. One night…”
JAXON
Black Devils MC
J.R. Ryder
&
K.J. Dahlen
Chapter One
(Chloe)
“Mmm-mmm-mmm. Damn Girl!” a man heckled from across the room with exaggerated cheesiness as I stepped into the biker’s bar.
I jolted, and my breath hitched. There was moment of silence across my side the room as I stood there. Summoning as much dignity as I could, I wiped the tears from my puffy eyes and ran my fingers across my brow to pull the hair out of my face. Soaked through, I was cold, fatigued, and feeling a bit like a shipwreck victim.
I was acutely and uncomfortably aware that I looked a mess. As I stared down at my exposed, pasty body, I discovered to my quiet dismay that my tube-skirt had ridden right up my thighs. When I raised my head, I was hardly reassured to find that - sitting at the two tables ahead of me - at least ten; tattooed, bearded men were eyeing me up and down, approvingly.
Dammit to hell. I just made a total fool of myself.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. A wave of insecurity washed over me leaving me feeling incredibly self-conscious. I half-wondered whether to walk straight back outside and never come back – ever. Tears still running down my cheeks, I took a few deep breaths to try to calm my breathing, and pulled down my skirt. After trying unsuccessfully to compose myself in front of the craning faces, my eyes darted around the room in a mild panic, looking for Jaxson.
A sinking sensation of fear and disappointment overcame me the moment I realized—there were too many damn guys dressed in jeans and motorcycle jackets to find Jax, even if he were around. This thought was followed instantly by a pang of regret. Looking at the drunken people around me, I wondered whether I would find anybody in the place who I could have a sensible conversation with. I shuffled my feet, nervously, not knowing what to do next.
Shit! Just keep it together. Everything is going to be ok.
For some reason, I had it in my head that I would find Jax at the biker’s bar It was every biker’s second home. However, at this early hour, my odds of finding Jaxson Coltrane – Vice President of the Black Devil MC – kicking back during work hours were slim
to none. The rub was, my only alternative was to go to his motorcycle club’s clubhouse; a place which justly terrified me. I’d never been inside of the Black Devil’s fortress, but it was known to be strictly off-limits to outsiders, including the club’s own prospects.
When I had ran out of the house, my only viable option was to head to the club’s bar and hope that I could find or get in touch with Jax there.
Only moments before I arrived, it suddenly occurred to me that the bar might not even be open at this early hour. In which case, I would have been stuck—no money, no phone, stranded outside in a skirt and skimpy top in the pouring rain with nowhere to go. As it was, it’d been quite the miracle to find the place at all. Juanita’s, the bikers bar, was more of a shack tucked away behind the town boulevard than a bar. It had the look of an old electricity substation, and the courtyard looked like a perfect site for covert meetings and illegal drug trade.
I had run the whole five blocks from my mother’s house to the bar practically blinded by the downpour. It had just started to rain when I darted out of the house. Soon, tiny bullets of water were beating down on me so hard and so often that I couldn’t see anything, just blurry expanses of pavement and shops. Several young men had catcalled at me from the lowered windows of their warm and dry cars as they cruised past on the main road. I’d been sure the same bus had passed me twice as though it were mocking me for not having used its service. The bus would have gotten me to my destination comfortably and dry in six minutes or less.
Despite the rain and the fact I was utterly drenched, at least I had made it.
Inside, the place gave the impression it’d been left unkempt for the past ten years; the stale odor of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, dimly-lit with ancient furniture that was suggestive of a time long past. Yet, judging by the vast number of eyes facing me at that moment, it seemed to be doing quite well. Perhaps, there was something sentimental about the place that I would simply never understand. The customers stared at me like I was an exotic zoo animal and felt compelled to inspect every part of with wonder.
Privately, I’d always wondered what it was really like in here, and what it was about the place that could make it a biker’s favorite hangout. By my judgement, it could only be the pull of cheap liquor, or possibly its function as a refuge from the harsh world of a nagging wife at home.
The soles of my shoes stuck to the beer-stained plywood floor. Three-by-twos supported the exposed oak beams of the roof forming the bar’s skeleton. The walls were lined with numerous portraits of Black Devil club members from past to present day. Club logos, plaques, and bumper stickers seemed to fill every vertical, flat surface that could be taken. To my right, just by the entrance, was a cigarette machine which was almost out of stock of every type of cigarette it had to offer. A massive sticker was plastered over the cigarette company logo that ran across the top of the machine, with the tag line: ‘Two Wheels Move The Soul.’
The focal point of the space was the front end of a gleaming black Harley Softail that adorned the wall above the bar. It looked like it had just smashed through the concrete from the other side. A wooden, heavily varnished countertop ran along the length of the back wall ahead of me. The mahogany counter of the bar and the Harley looked to be only things in the place that’d been kept polished, and free of a thick coating dust.
A wooden stage sat to the left of the bar. Live blues instrumentalists played 80’s music on poorly tuned instruments; the trio stood behind a shield of chicken wire that stretched from floor to ceiling surrounding the raised platform area. Beer bellied patrons sat on barstools across the stretch of the scarred countertop, tapping their drinks to the music. Airborne musical sounds echoed through the rafters to overcome the barrage of deafening male voices and phlegmy laughter of the customers.
Thirty or so round tables were spread out over the floor; each sat four to six people. The dive was full, and undeniably more intimidating than I would have expected. I could feel my heart thudding in my ribcage as though I’d just run up several flights of stairs. I also knew myself well enough to recognize when my cheeks had flushed to the colour of raspberries, without the aid of a mirror. My pale skin was indeed unforgiving at the best of times, much less in moments of humiliation. Fear induced adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream and trampled on my plan to ask around for Jaxson. A panic stricken freeze over my body prevailed over my will to move, and I found myself standing frozen, blocking the entrance and exit door like a deer in the headlights.
Fuck me. What the hell am I doing?
I had a painful epiphany about the inherent riskiness of my situation, and snapped out of my standstill seconds later.
I had entered the shark tank. Juanita’s was owned by the formidable Bruno De Luca, head of the De Luca crime family of San Diego. The ancient Italian family were known as the Black De Luca’s on account of the notorious history of murder, suicide and terrible rages that the clan seemed to be pray to. Nearly every man in the place was either a hardened outlaw biker, or one of their prospects who was willing to do anything to get into Bruno’s motorcycle club, the Black Devils MC. It wasn’t in these people’s DNA to welcome or respect outsiders, let alone women. Women didn’t belong in motorcycle clubs unless they wanted to be used and cast aside. It was part of the reason why I’d always stayed well away. I knew, in these profound moments of realization, that I had made a mistake. I was twenty-one years old, half the age of most of the guys in the place, and I was stuck here, alone and without backup.
I moved several paces further into the bar to clear the doorway, and found myself sandwiched between two tables. I was surrounded by several more packs of men; every last one of them ogling me all over. I gave an uncomfortable nod to the six men sitting on my left and the five on my right. To my left, one man’s black leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. The white lettering on the back told me that the man knew Jax. The upper rocker of his jacket read: ‘Black Devils Motorcycle Club’. The lower rocker read, ‘Coronado, San Diego’, followed by the word, ‘Spider.’ I assumed Spider was the man’s street name. In the center, was the same logo that could be found on the many stickers and plaques that decorated the bar’s walls. ‘Spider’ was a large, barrel chested man with heavily inked arms and tattoos of spiders that crawled down his neck. I believed that his appearance and street name was probably a reflection of his inner man. He had a fierce and unapproachable demeanour that caused me to give his table a wide birth.
The table ahead of me sat six younger guys who looked to be in their mid-twenties. All of them wore leather jackets without patches or club lettering. At first glance, their appearance seemed to be a conscious effort to adopt the Marlboro man image – strong, macho, and independent. Though, despite their leather jackets, these men exuded the image of diehard hippies. All of them had a free spirited, nonconformist vibe. All of them clearly appeared stoned out of their minds. They seemed to be fairly harmless, but I was sure I wouldn’t get any sensible answers out of them even if they’d seen Jax. I glanced around the bar a second time in the hope that Jax might appear.
No such luck.
As I surveyed the scene, an entirely different trail of thought crossed my mind—not only had my entrance been far more dramatic than I would have liked, but I had arrived to find that I was the only female in this place. Or rather, the only female barring the two platinum-blonde, heavily made-up, slutish bartenders, whose immaculate appearances hardly eased my anxieties. One stood pretty behind the bar pulling pints. The other was flirting at a table with a couple of guys who’d just come in. Goodness knows, how girls like this find the time and energy to work while being cheery and flawlessly made up 24/7.
In the past, I’d always stayed away from the MC’s bar. It was only really a good place to be if you were one of two kinds of people. One, the bikers and their wannabe prospects, and two, the club whores. To all outward appearances, I looked like the latter in my revealing, barely-there clothes. Later on, I had wo
ndered whether my biker groupie like appearance had done me a favor by making me look less of an outsider. Perhaps, it had kept me out of trouble. But bursting into a place like this soaking wet, wearing stripper-like day clothes I’d been trying on for summer, was hardly any strategy for somebody that didn’t want to draw too much attention to themselves.
From behind the long mahogany bar at the back of the room, the barman gave me a pleasant smile, beckoning me over. Although the bar was crammed with people waiting to get drinks, I had caught his eye. He was a solidly built, middle-aged man, and the only male in there who didn’t wear a damn leather biker jacket. Although he was still reasonably intimidating, the barman seemed like the safest looking guy in the place. And the bar looked like the safest place to sit.
As I approached the bar, I could feel the stares burn into my ass from behind from the dozen or so men who clustered around the tables I had to pass. I suppressed the voice inside of me that told me, this really isn’t a good idea. Get out!
“What can I get ya?” the barman asked in a thick, Italian accent.
Exhausted, and still reasonably breathless, I rested my forearms on the counter to take some weight off my feet. I looked up at the barman. My vocal chords felt spent and raw as I struggled even to respond to his question.
His eyes widened, and the warm expression on his face dropped – replaced with one of shock and concern.
I did my best to hold onto my tears, but I certainly wasn’t fooling him that I was ok.
“Sit down,” he said, gesturing with his hand to the free barstool beside me. Like he was reading my mind, he grabbed a tall glass, filled it with water and pushed it toward me.
I sat down on the stool in front of him. My hands shook a little as I picked up the glass and took a large swig. I let out a heavy sigh; my body may have been cold and wet, but the run had left me dehydrated, my throat dry. I put my elbows on the countertop and slumped my chin down on my hands.