The Broken and the Damned: An MC Club Alpha Male Romance

by Lucas, Helen

  “It helps me feel,” I replied, simply. “It’s one of the only things that gets the endorphins pumping anymore.”

  She selected a hot sauce to try, doused her beans with it, and took a bite.

  “Jesus Christ!” Claire gasped. “How do you eat that stuff?”

  She began shoveling grated cheese and tortillas into her mouth, gagging as I cackled.

  “You get used to the burn. And the pain elicits an endorphin response. So you feel good and relaxed afterwards.”

  “I just feel like I’ve been poisoned. There’s no way humans were meant to eat stuff like that.”

  “Humans are actually the only animal that will eat a chili pepper a second time,” I noted. “All other animals will steer clear of peppers once they eat them… But not humans. We love that shit.”

  “That’s… Almost beautiful, in a way.”

  “What?” I asked, going back for a second helping of the sauce that had lit Claire’s mouth on fire.

  “Humans will go back and try a painful thing a second time if they think there’s something worthwhile to it.”

  Our eyes met, her baby-blues searching mine.

  “Yeah… Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I said with a shrug, making a taco for myself. “Or maybe it’s just that we don’t learn the first time.”

  Claire smiled.

  “I’m pretty bad at learning my lesson the first time through. I know that, at least,” she admitted.

  We finished lunch and then went downstairs to the parking lot. Claire road my bike around the lot for the rest of the afternoon, working up a good sweat out there in the sun. I brought a six pack of beers down and sat, watching her ride, swilling back beer after beer as the sun went down, bathing the Florida coast in a sickening orange glow.

  By now, she was able to ride reliably around the parking lot without crashing into anything, without having to stop, without gasping and freaking out. It was a success, I had to say. Not that I would admit that to her.

  “Yeah, you don’t look too bad out there, kiddo,” I said with a shrug. “Not great, but not terrible either.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Claire scowled as she pulled the helmet off her head, sweaty hair tumbling out. “What’s next on the agenda?”

  “Dinner. So, get upstairs and make me something,” I ordered. She rolled her eyes, but more playfully than in frustration. I slapped her ass as she went by me and she giggled, running a few steps into the building.

  This was all fun and good but I was in dangerous territory here. I couldn’t be letting myself fall in love with this woman. I just couldn’t.

  Not only because we were supposed to be doing a job together, a job that would mean my death if it failed—fuck my life. I didn’t care that much about it. Not in the long run.

  No, I couldn’t fall in love with her because she was Fred’s and I hated the idea of taking her from him, even in death.

  I could see why he had loved her. Why he always carried snap shots of her. Why he bragged about her, bragged about how smart and successful she was, graduating top of her class at FSU and getting all sorts of offers from the big Miami law firms. She was going to be paying all the bills when he got home, he declared. He was going to sit on the couch, drink beer, and watch football while she was at work every day, making bank for them.

  But he never got home. He never got the chance.

  Dinner was more of the same. Claire tried some more of the hot sauce and it lit up her face again like a firecracker, shades of red and pink I swear I’ve never seen before blazing across her cheeks.

  “I really, really can’t understand how you eat this stuff…” she gagged, setting her plate down and shaking her head.

  “I do and it’s great,” I retorted with a chuckle.

  “What’s the next step in my Damned training anyway?” Claire asked once she was able to talk without stopping every few moments for a drink of water. “I mean, I can ride fine, but I’m not allowed to talk about that…”

  I hesitated and then went for it.

  “You need tattoos. Lots of them.”

  “Oh. Right. That.”

  “I’ll take you to my artist. He’s one of the nicest, most trustworthy guys I know. He goes the name of Gentleman Joel. He’ll take good care of you, but you’re trying to look the part of a girl who hangs out with bikers, so you’re going to need to get a lot of work done in a very, very short period of time. It… Could get rough. That’s why I wanted you to learn to ride first—you’re going to be healing for a few weeks and it would have hurt something awful to fall off the bike onto freshly tatted skin.”

  “The things I do for work,” Claire sighed, shaking her head.

  “So, start thinking about what kinds of shit you want.”

  “He did all your tattoos?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can I get a sleeve like yours?”

  “Sure. Hell, that’d be a great idea—it’s gonna’ take a long time, but that’s what we’re looking for.”

  “I don’t have any tattoos. Does it hurt?”

  I shrugged.

  “Depends on where you get it. But in general, not too bad. It just feels like you’re being scratched. Like you’re getting a shot at the doctor’s office.”

  “I hate getting shots.”

  “Well, they’re going to feel real easy after this,” I said with a grim smile.

  “What did I sign up for…” Claire murmured, sitting back in her chair and staring up at the ceiling.

  After dinner, I left Claire at the apartment and headed to the clubhouse. Spending too much time with those jokers made me feel sick, but I had to be putting in appearances.

  When I got there, there was a Haitian kid tied up outside. His face was bloated and bloody, completely distorted. He smelled like piss—I didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s.

  “What’s with the kid out there?” I demanded as soon as I entered.

  “That was one of Bolo’s guys. He was trying to pass off some coke that he said the sting missed. Turned out to be ninety-percent sugar,” Fatman roared from his place on the couch, a sawed-off shotgun laid out over his lap. He was cleaning and oiling it and it looked deadly, even in pieces on the obese fuck’s legs.

  “So you decided to piss on him?”

  “That wasn’t me,” Fatman laughed. “I don’t know who did that, but I didn’t have to go.”

  He was going to execute the kid the second he finished cleaning his gun. I knew how he worked.

  “Well, give me a chance to work him over before you finish him off…” I mumbled. “I’ve got a pretty full bladder myself.”

  “It can always get fuller, esse,” Manuel announced from behind the bar. He laid out two shot glasses and filled them till their overflowed with cheap Jamaican rum. We both knocked our shots back, the sweet burning liquid streaming down my throat like bleach.

  “It always can,” I murmured. I chatted with Manuel for a few minutes until I saw that Fatman was just about finished cleaning his shotgun.

  “Hey, brother, let me fuck that kid up a little bit more before you stick your dick up his ass,” I called out to my ostensible boss. Outside the club, it was deserted and the kid was passed out. I drew my Python and pistol whipped him hard to wake him up.

  “Listen, you son of a bitch,” I growled. The kids eyes were wide with terror, an admirable feat considering how bruised and swollen they were.

  “They’re planning on executing you in about two minutes. I’m going to cut you free and make like you got away. You best start running now.”

  And with that, I drew my switchblade and sliced the ropes binding his hands.

  “What’s your name, asshole?” I murmured as he stood up.

  “Henri,” the kid replied. “Thank you so much, man, I ain’t gonna’ forget this, I—“

  “Just fucking run, okay?” I growled, lifting my pistol up into the air. Henri took off running and when he was down the road and out of sight, I started hollowing.

/>   “You fucking cocksucker, get back here!” I roared, shooting into the air. “Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”

  Fatman and a few other Damned tumbled out of the clubhouse.

  “What in fuck is going on out here, Fang?”

  “That fucking Haitian kid ran off!”

  “What?! How the fuck did he get loose?” Fatman screamed.

  “Someone smashed a beer bottle over his head and he must have grabbed the shards of glass,” I said, pointing to the shattered glass surrounding the post where Henri had been imprisoned only minutes before. “Which one of you dumb fucks thought that was a good idea?”

  All eyes settled on Fatman who scowled, his chins wobbling as he waddled off to his bike. But the kid was long gone, and it took the fat ass too long to get onto his chopper anyway. I couldn’t promise that the kid wouldn’t be caught later, wouldn’t die another day—but at least he wasn’t going to die here and now.

  Of course, if he were caught and he told them how he’d gotten free… Then I’d kill him myself. If I didn’t get killed first.

  I settled back down at the bar, listening to Fatman roar off. Dog tossed me a beer, which I caught effortlessly, cracking open against the edge of the bar counter.

  “What a fucking idiot…” I muttered.

  “The big man?” Dog asked.

  “Who the fuck else?”

  “He’s good at what he does, homes,” Manuel said with a shrug. Dog nodded.

  “Ain’t none of us would be here if it weren’t for him.”

  “Sure, sure,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s a fucking saint and plays checkers with retarded blind children on Sundays.”

  “Ain’t nobody said that,” Dog replied. “But man… You got to be loyal. It’s all we got in this world.”

  “Sure is, man,” Manuel agreed.

  “I can get behind that,” I said with a shrug. “Loyalty. Yeah, that shit’s important.”

  But there are some things that were more important, I wanted to tell them. I wanted to tell them that it matters who you’re loyal to.

  It’s one thing to be loyal to a fat psychopath making a grab for power because of his small dick.

  It’s another thing to be loyal to an old dead war buddy, to trying to make things right in your life while protecting his life.

  Oh, I had chosen my loyalties all right. I knew exactly who I was going to be loyal to.

  It just didn’t necessarily include the jokers sitting around me.

  CLAIRE

  The morning after I learned to ride Fang’s bike, we rode up to the little tattoo shop off the highway that Fang had been going to for years. It was called Gentleman Joel’s, after the owner and main artist.

  I wasn’t sure who to expect but it definitely wasn’t who I saw: a tiny Asian kid, dressed like a hipster, who embraced Fang when he came in.

  “You son of a bitch, Fang, I haven’t seen you in god knows how long!”

  On closer inspection, Joel wasn’t a kid—he had to be in his mid or even late thirties, but he dressed like someone on his way to a music festival or a dance club—definitely not a tattoo artist.

  But the photos and art on the walls of his hole-in-the-pavement shop attested to his skill: samurai, all but leaping off the page, dueled with dragons and demons and more. It was like stepping into an art museum or a high-end art gallery, except for the fact that there were signs on the windows warning customers to leave their guns in the car and wear shirts and shoes on the premises.

  “So, who do I have the pleasure of…” Gentleman Joel started to say, turning to me. I took his hand.

  “Claire. Claire Powell.”

  I glanced at Fang, seeking affirmation that Joel was safe, and he nodded.

  “Special Agent Claire Powell. FBI.”

  “So, this is the one you were talking about on the phone…” Joel murmured, taking a step back and looking me up and down like an artist taking in the sight of a blank canvas. I had purposely worn very little clothing for the excursion: a pair very short running shorts that showed off my long, un-adorned legs, and a top that cut off at my belly, showing off my midriff. It was the perfect outfit for the hot southern Florida weather, and the perfect outfit to show Joel what I wanted done.

  “That’s right. She needs to look less like a Fed and more like a biker chick, and quick.”

  “You got any ideas for what you’d like?” he said, turning to me. “It sounds like I’m going to be doing a lot of work on you today but you’re the one who’s got to live with it.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Well, I like the idea of a koi sleeve…”

  “Cool, I can jam out with that. What else?”

  My eyes widened.

  “What else?”

  “You’ve got to have a lot to fit in.”

  “This is what I’m thinking,” Joel said, grabbing a sharpie marker and uncapping it. “I’m thinking some sparrows here…”

  He drew haphazard stars at the corners of my collar bone, just above my breasts.

  “A tramp stamp…”

  He turned me around and scribbled a long, warped squiggle along my lower back.

  “The sleeve here…”

  He laid scribbles into my left arm.

  “Some lines of poetry along your ribs…”

  He slid up my top just far enough to scribble in lines indicating that poetry would go there. Poetry. Poetry would go there—on my ribs, of all places. Who would ever see that?

  “And then I’ll jam out on your other arm. And, hey, why not a ship or something nautical on your thigh? Those are popular these days.”

  He drew a few swirls to indicate where the ship would go. I felt like a piece of meat, being carved up for dinner.

  “How does that all sound?” Joel asked finally.

  I shrugged.

  “If this is what I have to do…”

  “It’ll look good,” Fang cut in. “Joel’s one of the best in the business.”

  “Aw, shucks, you’re making me blush, Fang, you bastard,” Joel said with a chuckle.

  “And none of the tattoos will be in places that you can’t cover up.”

  “That’s right. You’re not going to have the shit this joker has slathered all over his hands and face.”

  Fang rolled his eyes.

  “That’s right…” Joel murmured, looking me over. “This is going to be tasteful. Real tasteful.”

  “It can’t be too tasteful,” Fang cut in. “It’s the Damned, after all. We’ve got a reputation for complete and utter lack of taste to maintain.”

  “That’s right. Well, the tramp stamp will take care of that. Easy.”

  With that, I stripped down and Joel began to wipe down my skin, disinfecting it and getting me ready for the work I was about to undergo. As the needle’s motor began to whir and Joel pressed the sharp point into my collar bone, I gasped. Mostly, it was from surprise—it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as I thought it would. If anything, it was strangely pleasant—a slight pinching. If the skin had been itchy, it would have been even better.

  Fang sat by, watching silently while Joel worked. It took an hour for each sparrow on my chest and after that, I realized why Fang had been so serious and grim about the process—I was looking at hours and hours of further work.

  “You need to keep your blood sugar high while he tattoos,” Fang commented after Joel began in on the sleeve. This was to be just a half sleeve, stopping right at my elbow. It wasn’t going to go any further than that, mostly because Joel didn’t imagine he could get it all done in the time we had.

  “I’ll go and get you a candy bar.”

  “Oh… Thank you…” I murmured, trying to ignore the fact that the pain was finally starting to build, finally starting to gnaw away at my resolve. The endorphins that my body had had in reserve must have been used up and now, I found myself closing my eyes and gritting my teeth as Joel carved my skin like a renaissance sculptor would have carved stone.

  “He’s a good guy
,” Joel said after Fang had left, all without looking up from his work, consummate professional that he was.

  “Oh? Is he?” I asked, trying to seem as uninterested as possible in whatever Joel might have to say.

  “He is. He doesn’t act like it and frankly, he doesn’t want anyone to know. But he is.”