The Devil's Scars (The Road Devils MC Book 1)

by Marysol James

  “You think so, huh?”

  Wolf spoke softly, and Scars tensed right the hell up. A quiet Wolf was the most dangerous version of the man, and automatically, Scars’ foot twitched: his second gun was there, in his boot, and he suddenly wondered if he was going to need it.

  Yet again, just for a heartbeat and a blink, Scars thought about Sam’s words, about how there was really no getting away from this slimy, mucky underworld; he also wondered if he was about to take yet another life.

  Maybe finally have his own taken.

  “Yes, Wolf,” Dawson said, clearly sticking to his guns even as the house fell down around his stupid head. “I really think so.”

  “No.” Wolf stood up and Scars followed suit. “Thanks for the meet.”

  “Just – just no?” Dawson was stunned, got to his feet too. “Wait –”

  “No.” Wolf grabbed his gun from the table, watching Dawson closely. “No way.”

  “But –”

  “No.” Wolf nodded at Scars, who picked up his own main piece. The two men backed up, not taking their eyes off Dawson for even one second. “Good luck, man. You’re gonna need it.”

  “But why –”

  “Because, Dawson,” Wolf said, as Scars got the conference room door open and shot a filthy, warning look at Patches, The Road Devils’ ex-manager at Blue Dragon who was now standing guard. He nodded at Wolf that he had eyes on the man outside, and Wolf returned his focus to Dawson. “We’re better off out of this life. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to bring my boys back into it, you hear me? If they’re unhappy with earnin’ an honest paycheck, they know where you are, and they can defect on over here like the rest of my traitor ex-brothers you got in your crew. But as long as my people show up to tend bar, and fix cars, and do tattoos, I’m gonna assume they’re good with how things stand. That they already think I’m a good, strong President.”

  “I’ll lose Skulls and Crusher,” Dawson said, almost desperate now. “I’ll lose a shit-ton – hell, man. I might lose everything.”

  “Karma’s a bitch,” Wolf said coldly. “You made your decisions, and now you get to live with ‘em. You got some good stuff out of leavin’ The Road Devils, and now you gotta face the bad stuff, too. You’ll figure somethin’ out, man. You always do, when your back is against the wall.”

  “You’ll be sorry for this,” Dawson said, taking a step forward, his expression furious. He was angry and reckless, beyond caring, and he proceeded to lose IQ points at an exponential rate. “This isn’t over, Connor. Not by a fucking long shot.”

  “Listen up, asshole,” Wolf hissed, and Scars tightened his grip on his weapon, stared Patches down. “It is over. It’s been over for a year, but I guess you missed the fuckin’ memo that went around, so let me make this clear to you: we’re out of the life. I don’t give a shit how much money you throw at me, my answer is always gonna be ‘no fuckin’ dice’. End of. Here’s the thing, though… you threaten me or my people ever again, and I’m gonna forget that I’m a law-abidin’ citizen now. Just because I pay taxes don’t mean that I’ve forgotten how to make a man stop breathin’.” Wolf stepped forward, stood almost toe-to-toe with the smaller man. “So… you wanna test my memory on this point?”

  “No,” Dawson stammered, dropping his eyes, taking a step back, but Scars wasn’t fooled at the docile act. He’d seen the flash of sheer, murderous rage in those dark depths before Dawson had looked away. “No… it’s cool, Wolf. We’re cool. I’ll – I’ll figure something else out.”

  “You do that.” Wolf turned, trusting Scars to have his back. “I have complete faith in your ability to screw someone over for your personal gain. Carry on, man.”

  Scars and Wolf left the clubhouse, barely glancing at their former brothers who were standing around, but their every sense, every nerve-ending, every fibre were all straining, prickling, alert and pumped to the max full of adrenalin. If they heard so much as a ‘click’ – even if it turned out to be a goddamn pen – they’d pull first and ask questions later.

  Nothing happened, though, and they hit the parking lot without an issue. They got on their bikes without a word, peeled out and away. Scars knew that Wolf had plenty to say, though, and so he wasn’t surprised when Wolf pulled over at Dangerous Curves, killed the engine.

  Scars parked next to his Prez, removed his helmet. “You need a beer, man?”

  “Nah.” Wolf shook his head, flattened his hair. “Just wanted a second to talk to you before we head back.”

  “OK.” Scars leaned back, his weight braced on his long, strong, jeaned legs, crossed his massive arms. “Shoot.”

  “First, thanks for havin’ my six in there. For a second, I thought it might go another way.”

  “Yeah. I did, too. Glad it didn’t.”

  “No shit.” Wolf ran his hand over his stubble, briefly shut his eyes. “Can you believe him askin’, though?” He snorted. “‘Illegal-lite’, my ass.”

  “Right? “ Scars managed a grin at Dawson’s idiotic choice of words. “Anything that involves Crusher and Skulls isn’t ‘lite’ anything.”

  “Amen, brother. Now, the second thing is… what do you think the chances are that Dawson’ll do somethin’ as payback for me sayin’ no?”

  This was the big question, and Scars knew it. He also knew his answer, and he believed in it with everything that he had, despite Dawson’s split-second of rage.

  “Honestly?” Scars said. “I think the chances are slim-to-none.”

  “Yeah.” Wolf blew out a breath, looked at the passing cars and trucks on the busy highway. “I think so, too. The man is too busy sortin’ things out right now, especially with probably losin’ two key drug buyers… but once he does sort shit, he may turn his attention our way.”

  “I really don’t think so. I think that by then, he’ll have forgotten it ever happened. I mean, we know he can plan, and we know that he can follow through. We saw that with him starting up The Blood Crew right under our damn noses.”

  “Mmmm,” Wolf said darkly. “Too true.”

  “But even though he’s a two-faced, sneaky prick, Dawson doesn’t hold a grudge. He never has. He gets mad fast, he gets over it faster. He doesn’t dwell on his failures either. Look at Ice and Cain and the twins: he begged them all to join his new crew as Enforcers, and they turned him down flat. He bitched and screamed for three days, threatened them and acted like a jerk, then he just stopped, and put his time into scouting and recruiting new guys. After the temper tantrum, he always comes to his senses, refocuses his energies, solves the problem, moves on to bigger and better things. I say, he’ll be pissed at us until he comes up with a plan to get new clients and sets it in motion. In a week, he’ll have forgotten he ever asked us for help.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I agree. But still – I need you to keep an eye on Zoe. Just for a little while.”

  “What? Zoe?” Scars damn near toppled backwards off his bike, both in shock and delight. “Why?”

  “Because I promised her that she and Keira would be safe if she came back here and worked for the club. I said all the shit was over and in the past. I don’t think Dawson and his crew will do a damn thing to any of us, let alone her – but I ain’t takin’ even the smallest chance with that woman. We protect her, we protect her baby, and since Zoe’s the most important damn thing in my world, she gets the best I got watchin’ her back. That’s you, man.” Wolf looked as soft and worried as Scars had ever seen him, in all the years that he’d known the man. “Do this for me, OK?”

  “Of course I will. You know you don’t need to ask twice.”

  “Thanks.” Wolf straightened up, his tone going brisk and cool again. “I’ll tell the guys what’s what with Dawson so they can watch Zoe at Blue Dragon and Silver can watch her at home, but I don’t want her in the loop yet.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So.” Wolf put his helmet back on, lowere
d his kick stand. “Let’s go, Innis. We got to call a meetin’ of all The Road Devils, and give ‘em the news. They need to be on alert until I think Dawson’s over it.”

  “Wolf?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think… you think we can ever really get out? Out of the life, even though we were in it for so damn long?”

  Scars hated to ask, hated to sound pessimistic, or like he was questioning Wolf’s leadership and decisions, but this was weighing heavily on his mind. Some days, he thought that it was just about all he thought about.

  Except for Zoe, of course. He thought about her near-constantly, and it had just about killed him to keep his distance for the past week, but she’d been up to her eyeballs in settling in at work, and trying to find a babysitter, and moving fully into the house.

  He’d figured that she’d need to focus and get organized, and his private welcome gift to her had been to give her the space and time to do what she had to to start a new life, on her terms. Scars had watched with interest and pride as she’d kicked the parlor into a semblance of order in record time, and hired Maria Torres, a genuinely sweet and good-hearted woman, and had listened to Silver talk about how he’d hung some of Zoe’s own art on the walls of his house.

  In short, Scars had backed off, but it was always meant to be a temporary capitulation, a brief respite in his campaign to take Zoe on a real date, one with clothes and talking and maybe even some good old-fashioned hand-holding at the movies. And if he were being totally honest, he’d also been hoping that his short, self-imposed absence would give her a chance to miss him, maybe just a little bit. He’d been planning to make another Zoe approach soon, anyway, and Wolf had just given him the green light.

  “Hell, yes, we will.” Wolf was firm, fierce. “It’ll take some time, Scars. Longer than I’d hoped, I see that now, but that don’t mean that it’ll never happen. We just keep makin’ the right choices – like we did today. We keep sayin’ ‘no’. We keep watchin’ out for each other. We keep the faith, and we keep puttin’ one foot in front of the other on the right road. We do that, and one day we’ll be free from it all. No more calls to wipe out one-percenter MC’s lookin’ to do us harm, no more requests for cooperation with drug runners. One day at a time, man. We’ll do it, if we do it together. If we stick together.”

  And just like that, Scars believed all over again. He believed in his President, in his plans, in his ability to change Scars’ world for the better.

  Now… he had to figure out how to watch out for Zoe without having that woman make him lose his freaking mind.

  Easier said than done.

  Chapter Ten

  One week later

  Zoe was at home after a long day of work, alone with Keira. The baby was in her high chair, enthusiastically eating Cheerios with her fingers, while Zoe stirred the pot of pasta on the stove, reheating the meal from the night before. She was hungry, she was exhausted, she was hours from sleep… and she was the happiest that she could recall being in years. Maybe forever.

  When she’d driven from Fargo to Denver, she’d adamantly refused to get her hopes up about what Wolf might have been offering her. Zoe had learned the hard way that expecting anything in life was a grave error, and always led to disappointment. She’d been sure that Wolf was going to give her something, but she’d also been sure that although it would be an improvement on her life in North Dakota (because how could it not be, the way that things had been going?), it wasn’t going to lead to her bliss.

  Well. She’d been wrong.

  She’d been in Denver for three weeks, and she felt like she’d been there forever. Like she’d never left in the first place.

  The work at Blue Dragon was excellent; the cute little house was snug; the guys were courteous and respectful; Keira was happy with Maria. Yesterday, they’d celebrated Keira’s first birthday, and it had been a joyous, heartwarming party, with just Wolf, Zoe, Willa, and Keira. Zoe and Willa had stayed up most of the night talking, making plans for the summer for visits, maybe planning a Christmas trip in Canada.

  After the hours and hours of talking, Zoe had dropped Willa off at the airport stupid-early, and despite the eight a.m. flight departure time, she’d looked so thrilled to be getting back to Jimmy.

  In short: all was right in the world, and Zoe knew now that she wasn’t a woman who needed wild dreams of glory or fame. At the end of the day, she just needed a pot of pasta, a happy baby eating Cheerios, a sweet little house, a job to go to in the morning.

  She just needed a home. A family. A bank account that grew a bit every month. A backyard with a porch. A little life to call her own, where she could raise her daughter safe and warm.

  And if there was a little lonely part of her heart longing for someone to come up behind her here at the stove and kiss her neck, or come in that door with a bottle of red wine to share after putting Keira to bed, or to scoop her up in his strong arms and fuck her against the bedroom wall until she collapsed on his body – well. Zoe could shout down that part of her heart, tell it to cut it the hell out. Remind it that she wasn’t looking for a man, or a relationship. She had other things to do.

  Just then, the doorbell rang. Keira startled, gave a bit of a cry, and Zoe turned off the element, swooped across the kitchen floor and picked her up.

  “Hey, little flower,” she murmured in Keira’s ear. “It’s OK. Just the doorbell. Wanna go see who it is? You think it’s Silver, coming over to hang some more pictures for us?”

  Keira gripped Zoe’s shirt, gave her a gummy grin. She was teething again, and Maria had bought some plastic water rings and put them in the freezer for Keira to chew on. She’d told Zoe that the cold was soothing, and it helped numb the pain a bit, so Zoe grabbed a ring as she passed the freezers. Keira took it with a squeak, stuck it in her mouth, drooled all down Zoe’s chest.

  “Yeah, nothing sexier than mommyhood, huh?” Zoe said as she went to the door. “I hope whoever’s standing out there likes wet t-shirt contests, because little flower, you’ve got me in first place.”

  “Arrruuummmfff,” Keira muttered around the frozen plastic starfish. “Aaaaarrrrr…”

  “Yeah, ‘aaaaarrrr’ to you too, cutie pie.” She got to the door, shifted the baby to her hip. “Silver? Is that you?”

  “No, Zoe. It’s Scars.”

  At that voice, that one that she heard in her dreams, that one that she thought of as a velvet growl, as a bit of wild with some tenderness, Zoe damn near dropped Keira. She also seriously contemplated hiding under the high chair.

  “Scars?” Her own voice came out a little strangled, so she tried again. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m standing on your front porch, talking to you through a door. What are you doing?”

  “Uhhh.” God, the man always knew how to throw her off-balance, didn’t he? Damn him. “I’m – I’m just making dinner.”

  “You can stop. I brought you dinner.”

  “You what?”

  “Hard to hear through the door, huh? Maybe open it up, so we can talk like normal people?”

  “Uhhhh,” she repeated, desperately casting around for an excuse. “Well… the thing is –”

  “There’s no ‘thing’, Zoe. I’m standing right here. I brought you something to eat. It’s getting cold. Open the door.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said, fully aware that she sounded like a child, but going ahead and carrying on anyway. “I want you to leave me the hell alone. I’ve only said it a hundred times.”

  “You’ll need to say it a hundred-and-one.”

  “Leave me the hell alone.”

  “After I feed you. I’m not leaving until you take what I’ve brought you, so you might as well open the door… it’s a nice night, and your front porch has an awfully comfy chair to just hang out in.”

  She sighed, feeling mutinous and mulish, like an utter brat. “Fi
ne.”

  “Thank you.”

  She jerked the door open, and Scars grinned down at her, all sexy-hot muscles and devastating charm. He was wearing well-worn jeans, a tight blue t-shirt that made his eyes stand out in that hard, scarred face even more, a jean jacket, and his Road Devils cut on top. In one hand, he held a large pizza box; she saw a bottle-shaped paper bag tucked under his arm. He was so achingly huge and strong, and the way he just towered over her in her bare feet made Zoe feel impossibly feminine and fragile.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he drawled. “How you doin’?”

  “Don’t call me that, Scars,” she snapped, hating the jolt of desire in her stomach. “I told you that already.”

  “Wasn’t talking to you, Zoe, so stomp down on that monster ego.” Scars stepped into the house, and she sniffed appreciatively at the delicious smell of super-cheesy and -gooey pizza. “I was talking to this sweet peach.” So gently, so impossibly carefully, he reached for Keira’s tiny hand, shook it with two of his fingers. “Hey, little lady. You’re Keira, I guess?”

  The baby gurgled, kicked her chubby little legs against Zoe’s body, totally selling her Mom out by smiling at Scars with every ounce of her cuteness. He returned her smile, then winked.

  “The way I hear it, kiddo, is you had a birthday yesterday. I also hear that you like bunnies. Is that true?” He cocked his head at Keira, then with a flourish, produced a pink rabbit from his jean jacket pocket. He handed it to Keira and she took it with a shriek of utter capitulation. Right away, she dropped the teething ring and bit the stuffed animal’s left ear, grinning widely the whole time. “Yeah, I guess my intel was solid.”

  In response, the baby gurgled again, adding to the mess on Zoe’s shirt. Despite her shock and anxiety at Scars’ sudden appearance, and despite the fact that she was about as unsexy as humanly possible in her baggy jeans and messy ponytail, Zoe found herself smiling too. Keira’s sweet little laugh always had that effect on her: if there was anything better in the world than baby giggles, Zoe had no idea what that might be.