Rebel’s Property_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Satan’s Martyrs MC

by Kathryn Thomas

  “I don’t know which would be worse,” I mutter. “I’ve got too much to think about, kid, without adding the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs onto it.”

  “I suppose—”

  “Hey!” Lucca’s voice is a nail on a chalkboard, screeching from the kitchen door.

  Alex scurries away to the opposite end of the bar and immediately begins to clear some glasses.

  I turn and face Lucca. He stands with his hands propped on the top of the doorframe, so that his beer belly hangs over his jeans. He’s a short man, with an awful comb over which always seems to be stuck down with sweat. His eyes rove over me, but not in the same way Killian’s have been all night. When Lucca’s eyes rove over me, it’s like hundreds of insects are scurrying across my skin.

  I think of all the times he has groped the other waitresses. Rachel and Allie and Lily and Jess . . . all of them, I am sure. He gropes them and laughs when they squirm under his grasp. I’m not certain, but I think I’m the only waitress here that he hasn’t groped, that doesn’t take his nonsense.

  He watches me for a few seconds—his tongue licking his lips as a man does before tucking into a big meal—and then barks, “Back to work,” before leaping back into the kitchen.

  Back to work? I think. The place is almost empty, you old pervert.

  But I move around the restaurant, doing what service people all over the States do once the real work is done: pretend to be busy. Wiping down tables. Pushing in chairs. Folding napkins.

  At fifteen minutes past eleven o’clock, a man walks into the restaurant and approaches the Satan’s Martrys’ table. He’s a young Mexican man who wears baggy cream chinos and a red-and-green plaid shirt. His shoes are shiny to the point of being reflective. I’m sure if I got ahold of them I could touch up my makeup in their mirror glimmer.

  The Satan’s Martyrs stop laughing and cheering and watch the Mexican man. Killian holds his hands up and speaks for the first time tonight. “Business,” he says, and then rises to his feet. “Carry on. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Yes, boss,” half a dozen bikers say at once.

  Killian nods and steps away from his seat, meeting the Mexican just beside the table. The Mexican leans in and whispers something in Killian’s ear, and Killian nods again. Business, I think, and for some reason a tingling sensation moves from the base of my spine, up my back, to my neck. Goose pimples appear on my skin. Maybe it’s because I know whatever business he’s dealing with, it’s probably illegal. And he doesn’t look worried in the least. He looks in charge. I didn’t think anybody could control that table of screaming jackals, but with a few short words Killian did.

  After a short exchange, Killian and the Mexican make toward the exit.

  Then Killian stops at the exit, pats the Mexican on the back, says something I can’t hear, and then turns. The Mexican leaves the restaurant.

  I think Killian is going to head back to the table, but instead he walks toward the bar, where I stand helping Alex wrap the cutlery for tomorrow.

  Maybe he wants another drink?

  But then he’s standing before me, close enough to touch, his blue eyes trained on me. He’s so tall that I have to crane my head to look up at him. And he is wide with muscle. An immovable man. A solid man.

  “Thank you for your service tonight,” he says.

  He reaches inside of his jacket, takes out an envelope, and holds it out to me.

  I stare down at it, my mouth falling open. The envelope is unsealed. The green of money pokes out of the top of it. At least one hundred notes.

  “Take it,” he says.

  His voice is cocky and cynical, as though he knows the punch line of a joke the rest of us can’t even guess the setup of. But beneath the cockiness, there is a note of command. This is a man who knows how to get his way. His face is implacable, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a straight line. As I look down at the envelope, I notice that his knuckles are grazed and red. A dangerous man. A man who’s been fighting.

  I know I shouldn’t take the money, and yet—

  My hands begin to shake, but I don’t let that stop me. The fact is I need the money. Gift horses and mouths come to mind. My rent and bills are right there. Some stability for Dawn is right there. Some peace of mind is right there.

  I snatch the envelope and shove it into the waistband of my skirt.

  “Thank you,” I breathe.

  He nods once, and then turns and leaves, swaggering out of the restaurant, the knife-impaled man of the Satan’s Martyrs gazing at me.

  “What. The. Hell.”

  Alex looks at me with wide eyes. Then he raises his eyebrows. What was that about?

  I shrug. “No idea, kid. No idea.”

  I catch Gunny on his way to the bathroom.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  The giant man turns to me, his face unreadable, dull. “Yeah?” he grunts.

  “Killian—Mr. O’Connor, he just gave me an envelope. It had lots of—”

  “If the boss gave you money,” Gunny says, “you take the money and don’t question it. It ain’t a mistake. Don’t insult him by trying to give it back.”

  I won’t, I think. That’s not the point.

  “But won’t he want something in return?”

  Gunny shrugs. “Boss’s mind is boss’s mind. Take whatever he gave you. Keep it. It’s all you can do now. I need to take a piss.”

  He leaves me standing in the narrow hallway which leads to the bathrooms, the envelope a brick in my waistband, pressing into me.

  It’s all you can do now.

  I suppose he’s right. I can’t exactly hunt the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs down and scream: “Hey, mister, take your cash back! I don’t want it!”

  I go back into the main floor of the restaurant. Several of the Satan’s Martyrs are asleep at the table, their snores like the rumbles of their motorbikes.

  I move to an empty corner of the restaurant, take out the envelope, and count the money.

  Over $2,000. Over $2,000!

  “Wow,” I mutter.

  It’s all I can think to say.

  When I get back to the apartment, Dawn is sitting bolt upright in the armchair next to the window. We live on the top floor of an apartment building owned by Frederik Manson, the man who also owns a few night clubs in towns scattered around this particular nook of Cali.

  The lights are out. Dawn sits with moonlight shining on her face, her knees drawn to her chest, gazing out into the street below. Our building is two streets over from Main Street, and there isn’t much to see below apart from streetlamps and the occasional fast food wrapper blowing in the wind.

  She doesn’t turn when I enter, but that’s okay. She’s sweating and rocking slightly, and in the reflection of the window I can see that her eyes are wide and alert. She’s not high. That’s something. That’s everything.

  The money presses into my waist.

  I’m about to take it out and show her, but instead I take my hands from my waistband.

  Telling a recovering addict that you’re suddenly $2,000 richer isn’t a good idea, I decide.

  “Dawn,” I say.

  She turns to me mechanically, her face expressionless and empty. “Hmm?”

  “Do you want something to drink? OJ? Coffee? Water?”

  She nods as though with a great effort. “Water,” she sighs, and then turns back to the window.

  Chapter Two

  Killian

  I ride the long winding roads that lead in and out of Rocky Cove. I don’t ride anywhere in particular, just ride for the sake of it. Clearing my head, maybe. Trying to get a handle on the way things are now that Patrick is out of prison. I ride past the Darkwood, a small patch of trees and fallen browns leaves bordering the eastern side of Rocky Cove, down the thin twisting road, and on and on through the darkness. My bike roars beneath me as I reach one hundred, and then one twenty.

  Riding normally helps me think, but tonight thinking is difficult. Patrick doesn’t get that the
Satan’s Martyrs is a goddamn business. That’s the problem. Maybe he watched too many movies in prison. Maybe he got some stupid ideas in that thick skull of his. The Satan’s Martyrs exist to make money. Of course, there’s pride and loyalty. That’s an important part of the club. But the club crumbles the second we stop making money.

  Goddamn, brother, I think, roaring toward Sapphire Lake.

  I stop my bike in the car park beside the lake. It’s empty. The night is clear. I climb off my bike and walk to the edge of it, looking down at the water. I’m not usually the stand-by-the-water-and-think kind of guy, but tonight’s been that sort of night. Hell, the last week since Patrick got free has been that sort of week.

  Just yesterday we did a routine muscle job for some rich prick with a beach house one mile from the Cove. One of the pros of Rocky Cove, according to the tourist brochures, is that it's next to the beach but not right on it. It should’ve been an easy job. This rich prick had made some enemies by drilling some woman who happened to be married. All we had to do is sit round back and deal with trouble if any came up. The rich prick was throwing a rich-prick party and he was afraid the husband and his friends might show up. Easy. The easiest money an outlaw will ever make.

  I slump to my ass next to the lake, stretch my legs out, and for a few minutes it’s like the events of the night are playing out in the water.

  Five of us sit in the guy’s garden, around a plastic table at the back, in the dark, smoking cigarettes.

  It’s me, Gunny, Max and Craig the Remington brothers, and Patrick.

  “Imagine having all that money and blowing it on parties like these,” Gunny laughs in his deep voice. “Did you see what the guy was wearing. A goddamn mask?”

  “It’s one of those masquerade parties,” Craig puts in.

  “You're an expert now?” Gunny says. “Maybe you should hang up your leather and become a party planner.”

  We all laugh, including Craig.

  “Read a book or watch a movie, you giant lump, and you’ll know what a masquerade party is.”

  “The only time I care about masks is when a woman’s face don’t match her body.”

  “And that, my friend,” Craig says, “is why you’ll die alone.”

  “Ha, ha.” Gunny shrugs. “I won’t die alone. I’ll be surrounded by hookers on a bed of Benjamins.”

  “Jobs like this and it’ll be easy,” Max comments. “We’re here to sort shit out if some random guy comes here and starts causing trouble. This is a walk in the park compared to our normal gigs—”

  “Is this my coming home gig, then?” Patrick suddenly snaps.

  I sit next to him, close enough so that, even in the dark, I can see that his mouth is twisted into a grimace. He clenches his knuckles and his bulky cheeks tremble. He looks like he’s about to explode. I take a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my leather and hand them to him. “Relax, brother,” I say. “This is easy money.”

  He ignores the cigarettes and shakes his head. “Years rotting in a cage, and this is what I come back to. Where’s the excitement in this? If I wanted to sit around and do nothing, I would’ve stayed in the cage.”

  “You got a problem with money?” Gunny asks.

  The only light comes from the house, which flashes like a disco, and from the embers of the cigarettes Gunny, Max, and Craig smoke. The lights from the house stop about fifteen yards from us, crawling up the rich prick’s massive garden and then cutting short.

  “Money don’t mean a thing,” Patrick says.

  I put the pack of cigarettes back into my pocket and lean back in my chair. Let him tire himself out, I think. He’s due a little rant. He took one for the club, after all. Screw that, he took one for me more than anything.

  Gunny makes to speak, but I hold up my hand. He immediately closes his mouth. We sit in silence for a while longer as the party goes on. The sounds of music, giggling, and dancing reach us only quietly. The grass is dew-flecked and my boots are wet up to the ankles. When we breathe, our breath plumes in front of us.

  “What good is money when you turn soft and weak and pathetic?” Patrick barks into the quiet. “Tell me that! Sitting here like cowards—like we’re the guy’s gardeners or something—instead of sorting this out directly. Why don’t we just find this husband and put him in the ground? Tell me that. It’d be a damned better way to spend our time than sitting here and talking trash and smoking—”

  “Enough,” I say.

  I don’t raise my voice, but Patrick stops his ranting and turns to me. His face trembles worse than before and he opens and closes his hands, as though wishing for something to squeeze, to break.

  “Tell me, then, why we don’t—”

  “Because this isn’t a movie and we weren’t paid to kill the husband. That’s why. Maybe you’ve forgotten, brother, but we’re not outlaws for free. We’re outlaws for hire.”

  “Yeah,” Gunny murmurs. “Why risk putting one of us in the can—maybe even you again, Patrick—just to feel tough? We’ll set up the ring when we get back to the club and do some boxing, if you like. You can feel tough then. Hell, I’ll even bet on you.”

  “Boxing.” Patrick shakes his head. “When did you all become such cowards—”

  “Careful, brother,” I say. Slowly, I stand up, looming over him.

  I think that’s it. He keeps his gaze on the dew-flecked grass, shaking his head, biting his lip. But when I’m about to sit down, he lurches to his feet and pulls his pistol from his waistband.

  “I’m taking care of this,” he hisses. “I’ll get us a better deal for taking care of the husband. We’ll ride out tonight and sort it.”

  He begins to walk toward the house.

  Anger flares in me, a pulsing in my head. My hands ache and my muscles tense, becoming tight, screaming at me to use them.

  “Gunny,” I say, voice shaking.

  “Boss?”

  “When he wakes up, make sure he stays quiet.”

  Gunny tilts his head at me. “Wakes up, boss?”

  I ignore him and march after Patrick.

  “Brother,” I grunt.

  He turns. “If you try and stop me, I’ll go crazy. I’m just warning you. Maybe you’ve all gotten soft, but I—”

  When I reach him, I right hook him across the jaw. A well-judged hook, just strong enough to send him cold, but weak enough not to do any real damage.

  He collapses onto the grass, his eyes closing.

  I walk back to the table, running my fingers over my grazed knuckles.

  Then I nod at my passed-out brother. “Get him in his seat,” I say.

  “Boss,” Gunny, Max, and Craig say at the same time, rising to their feet.

  Patrick got over it when he opened his pay packet. A right hook here and there doesn’t mean much when you’re a violent man working with violent men.

  But, hell, I just wish he could go back to the way he was. Patrick before prison would’ve just done his job, nothing more. Just done his job and got his pay and left the place. None of this gun-hoe stuff. None of this tough man routine.

  But maybe it got to me. Maybe it’s why I wasn’t able to enjoy the party. You don’t expect to have to knock out your older brother the week after he’s released from prison. As I sat there, all of them cheering and drinking and laughing around me, the only bright spot in the whole place I could find was that waitress.

  I couldn’t take my eyes from her. Those breasts, squeezed into that shirt; those well-shaped legs in tights; that big, round ass just begging to be grabbed. Yeah, the party was made bearable just by checking her out.

  But if it was just checking her out, why the hell did I give her the cash? I don’t know where that came from. I can’t even begin to guess why I did it.

  Then again, I’ve always been impulsive, and doubly as impulsive around women.

  But the money . . . that means more than just wanting a quick lay, doesn’t it? Women have always been easy to get into bed for me. You ride up on your bike and show t
hem the leathers and then you take them. Easy. No cash gifts required. I sigh and stand up, pacing up and down beside Sapphire Lake.

  There was something in her youthful elf’s face, something vulnerable and innocent. Like she was waiting for someone to protect her, maybe.

  But that shouldn’t be me. The Satan’s Martyrs are making boatloads of cash. I’m wealthy. I’m a leader. I have a lot of stuff to keep me busy. No need adding a woman to that. A woman for the night, maybe. But not a woman. Not a girlfriend, the kind of relationship other men get into. Relationships make you weak. That’s the problem. They make you soft and weak, until you’re a weak, soft man who other men are looking to take advantage of. The moment you’re on a job thinking about a woman is the moment you’ve lost your fight and might as well put a .38 in between your eyes. Relationships get your buried, quick. That’s the cold fact of it.