Devil's Fall: Dust Bowl Devils MC

by Britten Thorne

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  More Dust Bowl Devils MC

  Apocalypse Riders

  Copyright 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental.

  Warning: contains adult content

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  Bones cracked beneath his fist with the first punch. The recipient of his assault tried to shrink away but the second punch struck nearly as hard and knocked him to the ground. Blood poured into the man’s beard as he tried to shield his face from any more damage but the attacker’s control was gone. Fueled by rage and adrenaline, he struck again, and again, as though he were trying to hammer to man into the floor and through it.

  Hands yanked him off his victim and to his feet. His arms pinwheeled as he knocked his friends away; their words were nothing but buzzing in his ears. Air. He needed air. Bodily slamming the door open, he left the bar and the blood behind and burst into the night, shaking the ache from his abused hand.

  “Gunner.”

  That dour bastard Jester had followed him outside.

  “The fuck you want?” His veins still vibrated with violence. He needed to smoke a cigarette and fuck a girl and not necessarily in that order.

  “You don’t even know who you just hit, do you?”

  He turned and faced the tall, lean biker. “Hit?” He smacked his hands together, fist to palm. “I broke his goddamn face.”

  Jester lit a cigarette, taking his sweet time doling out whatever information he seemed to think he had. Who cared who it was? The bastard had insulted him. Gunner didn’t care if that was the goddamn governor in there, no one talked to him that way and kept all their teeth. Jester took a drag on his cig, scratched his scraggly black goatee, and finally deigned to say, “That was Officer Rockwell.”

  Gunner’s lip curled. “He wasn’t in his uniform.”

  “You think that’s gonna make it better for you when he presses charges? Fuckin’ idiot.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. “Brotherhood” and “club rules” and “basic codes of human interaction” be damned - Gunner hadn’t even begun to cool down yet. He closed the gap between them in a flash and his fist made contact before the other man could flinch.

  Jester laughed as he hit the ground ass-first and bounced. He was high as shit and unfazed by the blood welling from his split lip, down his chin and onto his shirt.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. “Run or stay?” Jester asked, taunting. “Let’s see which one of your messes we get to clean up tonight. Come on, Gunner. Are we covering for you now or bailing you out of jail later? Gonna hide like a bitch or take what you’ve got coming?”

  Gunner clenched and unclenched his jaw and his fists, paced back in forth in front of his fallen friend, and rolled the question over in his mind. Go or stay? Stay or go?

  He asked himself that very same question every goddamn day.

  ◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙◙

  “It was a step too far, Gunner. We can’t just clean it up and pretend it never happened.” Bill sat in the presidential seat at the head of the long table in the dimly lit, windowless conference room. The recent years had thinned the tall man out, though his lanky appearance still hinted at the strength that lay beneath. Gunner himself had been the receiving end of those fists before - the president was far stronger than he appeared.

  Vice president Bars sat to one side; on his other sat Nomad - Gunner’s own father and the former president of the Dust Bowl Devils Motorcycle Club. They were the club’s center, its power - and all three were glaring accusations.

  “Why not?” he asked, pacing at the opposite end of the room. “You practically own the damn cops. Pay him off.” The day and the night he’d spent in a jail cell before Bill bailed him out had been rough. He hadn’t showered, shaved, or slept and it showed on his face. And now this meeting. He just wanted to go home and crash for a few hours. Or weeks.

  “Officer Rockwell’s threatening to press charges,” Bars said, his voice low and calm like he was trying to sooth an angry animal. His dark features were locked in a neutral expression. “I’m more concerned about him going after you himself when he’s out of the hospital.”

  “We’ve agreed,” Bill said, looking between Gunner’s father and Bars, “We’re sending you out of town. Just until things cool down around here and until you cool down yourself.”

  Gunner stopped pacing. “What?” This was bullshit. Banished? What did they think he was? Gunner was too old and had been around far too long for that shit. Hell, his father was the former president, it ought to give him a free pass - it had before. Plenty of times.

  “You’ll run Bars’ club up in Lawgate. Take some time to cool off, manage the place, turn it around, and we’ll talk about when you can come home.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “The place is bleeding money,” Bars said, “I need someone I trust to manage it.”

  “So manage it your damn self,” Gunner growled. Why were they looking at him like that? Their faces were deliberately neutral but they sat upright, tense.

  “This isn’t up for debate, son,” Nomad said.

  “You, too? Kicking me out again, are you?” His father looked away.

  “This is temporary.” Bill pushed his chair back and stood. “And it isn’t a request. It’s an order. I want you on the road tonight. No excuses.”

  “Fuck you, Bill.”

  “Yeah yeah, fuck me,” he said, waving a dismissive hand as he walked out, Bars on his tail. Only Nomad remained behind, apparently intent on carrying on a conversation that Gunner wanted no part of.

  “If you have something else to say, old man, just say it,” Gunner snarled, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles cracked. Banished. Ridiculous old men getting their panties in a twist over a little fight. They’re turning this club into a joke.

  Nomad shook his head. “You need to get your shit together, Gunner.” If he had a nickel for every time he’d heard that phrase. Everyone from his drill sergeant over sixteen years ago to half the girls he spent any time with to his own damn club and family. “Get your shit together,” they said. As if it were so easy. “I know you’re angry but maybe this will be good for you.”

  He snorted. “Managing a shitty strip joint? Really?”

  “You’ll have help.”

  “You mean you’re sending some guys to supervise and make sure I don’t burn the place down.”

  Nomad slammed a fist to the table, taking Gunner by surprise. He jumped back. “Yes, to supervise you, dammit. To fucking babysit you and make sure you don’t go off the rails and do something else that’ll get us all in trouble.”

  “Hey, that guy-”

  Nomad’s face twisted up in an ugly sneer. “Oh,
he insulted you? He hurt your feelings? He disrespected you?” He took a step closer with each question, backing Gunner up against the wall. “You have to earn respect, you little shit. You never really learned that, did you? Tell me, Gunner, when was the last time you did something that wasn’t a hundred percent impulsive and a hundred percent selfish?” He looked him up and down like he didn’t even recognize him.

  Gunner clenched his jaw tight. His body vibrated like he was ready to explode, but he wasn’t going to hit the white-haired older man. As much as he wanted to, he wasn’t going to punch his father. He liked to think he had more control than that by now. But Nomad didn’t know when to stop pushing. “If Bill wanted to exile you I would have been behind him. You aren’t a brother to these men. You only think about yourself if you bother to think at all.”

  “You’d better take a step back, old man.”

  Nomad’s expression finally softened just a fraction as he backed away. Whatever he saw in Gunner’s face put him back on guard. He spoke softly. “You don’t have to manage that shithole. You could go live with one of your brothers instead. You know either one of them would take you in.” Now he was talking about Gunner’s blood-related brothers - half brothers, really - but Gunner was even less interested in seeing them than he was in running Bars’ club.

  “I don’t need to be ‘taken in.’” He rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the stress from his tight muscles. “How long?”

  Nomad shrugged. “If there’s no trial? A couple months, maybe.”

  Gunner sighed. “What’s his problem? It was just a bar fight.”

  “You broke a cheekbone and blinded him in one eye.”

  “Damn.” He looked down at the older man. His father wasn’t a short guy but Gunner had towered over him by the time he was fourteen. Anger finally dissipating, he could understand why they wanted to send him away. It was still the chicken shit easy way of solving the problem but he was through fighting. Maybe time spent elsewhere would be a good thing. It would be like a vacation - sleeping all day, fucking hot strippers and riding all night. “Try not to turn this place into a retirement home while I’m away,” he said, and Nomad snorted.

  “We’ll see. Just stay out of trouble.”

  Yeah, right.

  Senna shifted in the driver’s seat and wondered just how depraved the powder blue minivan looked resting right in the middle of the parking lot of a strip club, in the middle of the afternoon, at that. This ridiculous family minivan. The backseat was strewn with clothes and blankets and empty snack bags and soda cans. The front passenger seat had been littered with CDs - the poor old vehicle was born before the time of the mp3 player. It was a van for families with little children or big dogs, not for badasses out on a mission, demanding answers. But badass I must pretend to be.

  Unfortunately rental cars were for girls with more money, and Senna’s funds were running low. Too low. But no so low as to sink to working at a place like this.

  The lights on the billboard flickered on as the sky darkened. “Fast Girls - Hot Nights” it advertised beneath the main sign, “Heaven’s Highway Gentleman’s Club.” “Gentlemen” indeed. She considered going inside. Stalking the doors seemed safer, saner. Maybe I’ll work up the nerve in a bit. Women entered the club not too long after she’d parked - four in all, she’d counted, and none of them the girl she was looking for. Men, too, though she didn’t count them. Some reemerged not long after, casting furtive glances about the area before scurrying to their cars, hoping their shame would remain unwitnessed. The married ones, I’d bet. But Senna wasn’t there to judge. Senna was there to find and warn her sister, extend an invitation, then disappear herself out to the west coast.

  The loud blasts of engines shook her out of her brooding. A motorcycle wheeled into the parking lot, spitting exhaust and gravel in its wake. Then a second; and a third. Three men in leather vests and black helmets parked and dismounted, moving with no rush, no shame. They weren’t like the other men who darted in and out of the building, hiding their faces or slumping their shoulders. These three passed through the front doors like they owned the damn place. It was a relief when their backs and their matching gang patches disappeared inside. Dammit, Aster, gangs? What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?

  But her relief was short-lived. Just moments later, one of them reappeared and strode right for her van. He was the youngest of the three she’d seen, with a shock of dust-colored hair, trimmed short at the sides but curling wildly at the top. Shit. She sank down further in her seat but it was too late to escape notice.

  He rapped on her window. She had to roll it down manually - another modern feature they old minivan was missing. The smell of leather and motor oil wafted inside as she let the fresh air in. She would have studied his face if he wasn’t wearing sunglasses; she couldn’t really tell if the tall man was angry or annoyed or anything at all.

  “Looking for a job, sweetheart?” His vest fell open as he shifted, revealing the material of a black t-shirt clinging to a taut chest. He crossed his arms over her open window, all thick, strong muscles and dark tattoos. She swallowed. She’d expected a rough cigarette-damaged voice, or a dirty southern accent, or even worse, a tough guy Jersey accent. Not that sexy, smooth bedroom voice, the kind you feel just as much as you hear. She couldn’t place where he might be from, but that wasn’t what she was thinking about anyway.

  “Definitely not,” she mumbled, shaking her head and pulling herself out of that unsettling line of thinking. She fumbled around the discs scattered across the passenger seat before finally finding a photograph. She held it up for him to see. “I’m looking for her - do you know her?”

  He ignored it - instead he tilted his head as he looked her up and down, checking out her body as if assessing her, weighing her in his mind, as if she hadn’t just told him she wasn’t looking for employment. It made her self-conscious. Guys just didn’t look at her like that, ever. Most guys she met just looked straight through her. Whatever it was that she was missing, she’d yet to figure it out. Bigger boobs, she told herself, but she knew it had to be more than that.

  “You sure?” he asked. His shrug held just a hint of derision. “I mean, I’ll bet you’d do okay as a waitress.”

  She held her face steady. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t find that just a tad insulting. “The girl, please?”

  Finally, he pulled off his sunglasses as he took it from her. Whoa. The man had the most beautifully chiseled face she’d ever seen in person. With eyes like blue ice chips and the type of five o-clock shadow that started at noon, he looked more like someone who belonged in advertisements than in the parking lot of a strip club. A damn shame. Anyplace else she’d have found him devastatingly attractive, though being somewhere in his mid-thirties she guessed, he was a little older than she normally went for. Her girlfriends back at college would have had their tongues on the floor regardless of his age. She couldn’t forget where she was, though. He was just some dirtbag biker, likely a criminal; a handsome face didn’t give him a free pass.

  She was too busy checking him out to register any recognition in his eyes as he took in the picture. Way to pay attention. “Who’s she to you?” he asked.

  “Why? Do you recognize her?”

  He handed her the photo back. “Couldn’t tell you if I did. Stripper/manager confidentiality.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “We’re hiring, though. I could tell you more if you were my… employee.”

  She struggled to keep her lip from curling in disgust. “I’ll just wait here, thanks.” She started to crank the window back up but he reached inside and stilled her arm.

  “Private property. No loitering.” The strength of his grip made her blink, but she was not going to be intimidated by this guy.

  “Get your hand off me, please.” He withdrew, the amusement on his face melting in a scowl. “I’m not bothering anyone.” She turned the handle again, but he shoved the window back down, breaking the mechanism inside. Oh, shit.

  “
You’ve got three options, darlin’. Get hired, get a drink and a dance, or get the fuck out of here.” His knuckles turned white where he gripped the door and finally it occurred to her that she might actually be in trouble here.

  He must have seen the change on her face, because his softened instantly. He took a step back and held up his hands, but the gesture was as close to an apology as she was going to get. “Your pick, or I’ll have you towed. Got it?”

  Shit shit shit. I have to find her. I have to. The trail went cold after this place. But this guy is clearly unstable. “A drink and a dance,” she said, fishing for her purse before getting out of the car. She had to take the risk - she had to find her sister.

  She stepped quickly away from him, conscious of the danger he posed. He could have dragged her out of that car at any point, she should have never opened her window at all.

  Fear wasn’t the only thing she felt, though, and that was even scarier.

  He wore an amused grin but that could mean any variety of nefarious things. Let me just get out of this parking lot and inside where there are witnesses. She was too low on funds to do this but if she didn’t find Aster here, she’d have nothing left but to give up on her search and use her bus ticket to head out west. At least until she dug up another clue.

  His blue eyes narrowed as she smoothed her shorts and passed him. “You’re serious.”

  “I don’t bluff.” She strode ahead of him towards the front entrance. His eyes burned into her back like twin lasers but she ignored him, determined to not let him think he’d frightened her or gotten the better of her, or to give him the upper hand. I’m letting myself get distracted. Just get in and get out. She clutched the picture tight as she stepped through the doors.

  The inside was exactly as she’d imagined - lit up in red and pink lights, with a long stage down the middle and a bar to one side. It was too early to be very crowded but the air was already thick with cigarette smoke and the smells of beer and perfume. It made her reluctant to touch anything in the place, and she reassured herself that there was hand sanitizer in her glove compartment. One girl was doing a slow dance on the stage’s pole while two others circled the room. She tried to imagine Aster working here, dancing here. Tall like Senna, with lighter hair, a trimmer figure, and a nice expensive rack, physically she’d blend right in. But she’s so much smarter than this.