THE END
Lucifer Riders
Chapter One
Thunder
I gunned the throttle and drank in the hot air washing across my neck and chest. Leather vest open, no shirt on—I could feel road grit pelt my pecs and abs. The tree-lined corridor of the Garden State Parkway swept by, and my tires gobbled up the asphalt. Summer riding was always my fave. Some of the Lords didn’t care for it—too much road heat. Fine. Pussies stay home, I say.
Sweets’ hog was seven stretches ahead of me. His Lords of Lucifer jacket strained to reach across his fat back, and the motto at the bottom, Reign in Hell, bulged out from his lard rolls. Normally, as his number two, I’d ride up by Sweets. Not today. I couldn’t look that son of a bitch in the eye.
He was up to something. I knew it. Sweets was betraying the club. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know when, but I knew he was up to something.
Some piss-ant citizen in a Prius moved into my lane, busting in on our convoy. It wasn’t like we were in ferry formation, playing guardian to some swag, but it still pissed me off. Tomorrow, after we met up with Sweets’ connection in AC, we’d be rolling on guard patrol, but today we were just enjoying the ride.
I lifted my arm and drew a circle in the air. Our crew was tight. They knew the signal. Zipping around the Prius, I maneuvered in front of the eco-yuppy. Not even bothering to look back, I listened for the roar of my posse to know they were in place. In a few minutes, we had the Prius pinned.
Then I slowed down.
It was the most dangerous position, to be in front of the car that was the target of our muted revenge, and I assumed it without hesitation. I was a leader. The crew expected it of me, and I never let down the Lords. A man has to have a code, and he has to be loyal to something. The Lords of Lucifer was my something.
The Lords of Lucifer was my everything.
The eco-yuppy honked at first, but then caught on. I zig-zagged in front of him, looking back over my shoulder. We had one petrified citizen in our vise, trapped between five Lords. When I tired of the game, I lifted my arm and pointed skyward. The Lords of Lucifer sped off to catch up to Sweets, leaving one petrified dude in a Prius behind. He probably took the next exit. We never saw him again.
Gerbil rode up alongside me. His pointy teeth emerged from beneath his scraggly mustache and beard. “L-o-L!” he shouted. Lords of Lucifer indeed.
“LOL, brutha!” I shouted back.
We motored down the highway, pressing a hundred to close the gap with Sweets.
The Prius shouldn’t have pissed me off. I was in a bad mood. I’d been in a bad mood ever since Sweets bounced that check and I took a more careful look at the books.
Damn Sweets! The fucker taught me to ride. He was like a father to me. Betraying the club—how could he do that? Shaking my head, I knew I needed to shift my thoughts. Easier said than done. Sweets’ betrayal would reveal itself eventually. I just had to keep my eyes on him.
Maybe once we got to AC, when we had some time to kill, I’d find myself a diversion. A little gash went a long way. There was sure to be some willing beaver-sling, or a sorority sister looking to dance with the devil, who would toot my horn. It was never hard to find a soft, wet place to shoot my spirit. There had been so many of them. I always remembered their tits and asses. Damned if I could put a name to any of them though.
Love and relationships were for citizens. I was too busy being a Lord of Lucifer for any of that shit. Plus, I had to keep an eye on Sweets.
I never had, and I never would, meet a jenny that I’d fall in love with. Not gonna happen. The Lords of Lucifer was my one true love.
No woman could compete with the club.
Chapter Two
Priss
“Priscilla, did you hear me?” Debbie asked.
“What?” I said, looking back over my shoulder as we hurried down the service corridor.
Debbie followed my gaze. “Oh, it looks like Daniel and Sarah are sneaking a little passion in on their break. Leave them be, Priscilla. We’re late.”
I pulled down on my dealer’s vest, smoothing it over my button-down shirt. I used to do the same thing when I danced with Jazz Dance, my former modernist group. My anxiety manifests itself in costume adjustments, and as a blackjack dealer, the vest, shirt, and skirt were my costume. Of course I was anxious, but I couldn’t tell Debbie.
Debbie had no idea Daniel and I were planning a weekend getaway in the Poconos, at Mount Airy Lodge. I had planned on finally consummating my relationship with Daniel at Mount Airy Lodge. Not now. No way.
“Come on, Priscilla,” Debbie said, pulling at my arm. “Pitsy will make our night miserable if we’re late.”
We hurried down the service corridor. Casinos are gargantuan complexes, and it can take forever to get anywhere. The very last thing casino architects worried about was the convenience of the employees. As such, the walk from our locker room to the gaming floor was almost fifteen minutes.
“You go ahead,” I said. Pulling my cell out of my vest pocket, I sent Daniel a text. When I looked up, Debbie was still waiting for me.
“Who are you texting?” Debbie asked. “I thought I was your only friend.” She smiled. It was a joke, but it hit a bit close to home. Debbie had no way of knowing that, so I forced a return smile.
Since coming back from the Big Apple, Debbie was my only friend. I thought Daniel was my friend, too, but he obviously wasn’t.
Sam “Pitsy” Calahan made a show of checking his watch when Debbie and I entered the blackjack area. Give it a rest, Pitsy. The gamblers aren’t going anywhere.
I struggled through my first session dealing. The work didn’t tax me—who can’t add to twenty-one?—but my mind raced. Where did everything go wrong?
You make bad choices, Priss, my Dad had said to me. He was right. Nothing like having a know-it-all father who was also a cop. Daniel was a bad choice. I saw that now. Skipping college and heading to Broadway was probably a bad choice. I’d fought Dad on that one. Dad might be a hard-ass cop, but he was an old softy deep down. In the end he let me go to New York, using my college money to support myself while I went on every audition I could. I’d thought my years of modern dance training would ensure me a career on Broadway. Dad had hinted that nothing was a lock, but he hadn’t wanted to crush my dreams, and in the end he let me go. Now I was twenty-two years old, living back at home, and my hopes of Broadway stardom a distant memory. This job of dealing blackjack was a way of paying for community college, while I tried to get my life back on track.
Yes, I occasionally make bad choice.
On my first break, I noticed Daniel had replied to my text. Are we still on for Mount Airy Lodge this weekend? I’d asked. His reply: No doubt, babe. Pack light. We’re hardly going to leave the bedroom.
Yeah, Daniel was a bad choice. How long after necking with Sarah in a not-so-secluded corner of the service tunnel did he send this? Probably right after.
I shouldn’t go away with him. I should confront him. I should totally tell him off. But I wouldn’t. As I said before: I make bad choices.
“Whoa, look at this beauty,” one of the blackjack players said as I was relieving Carlos. The table minimum was fifty dollars, so I was surprised to see bikers sitting there. The one who called me a beauty had a leather vest with no shirt. What a pig. That had to be against dress code.
“I think you’re going to be good luck for us, darling.” One of the other bikers said. This biker’s long hair, coupled with his beard and narrow face, made him look like a ferret.
“Dealer has blackjack,” I said after flipping my card. A dealer isn’t supposed to root against her table, but part of me was glad they all lost.
The biker with the vest revealing a very muscled chest tossed a twenty-five dollar chip my way.
“But you lost,” I said, confused. No one tips the dealer after they’ve lost.
“That’s to make you smile.”
Tucking the chip in my vest pocket, I thanked h
im and forced the corners of my mouth to turn upwards, hoping it looked somewhat like a smile.
“There it is!” he said. “Nice to know you can be bought, or at least rented.”
What a jerk! Hating this asshole, I still managed to pretend to smile. I dealt the cards, hoping I gave myself another blackjack, just to beat him again. I dealt myself an ace, face up, and hoped for blackjack, but when I checked the Peeper to look at my whole card it was only a four. Rats.
I dealt the biker who couldn’t afford a tee shirt for under his vest, he of the hairy, corded forearms, a hard nineteen. He didn’t take a card, of course.
“Dealer busts,” I said after throwing myself a jack and a king.
“Nice,” vest-dude said. I looked at the patches on his vest. Stitched over his left peck was his name, or nickname—Thunder.
“Hey, Smiley,” Thunder said to me. “I leave here a big winner, and I promise you a big tip.” I’d already paid him two-hundred dollars on that hand. With my tuition bill looming, I wondered what he thought being a big winner was—I could use a big tip. “I bet you’d like that,” Thunder went on. “You’d like a big tip, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah she would,” ferret-biker said.
“That’s right,” Thunder said. “She looks like she could use a big tip…like she hasn’t had a big tip in a very long time.”
My cheeks burned red as I dealt the next hand. Was it that obvious? No, he probably said things like that all the time. Dammit! I dealt him blackjack. Thunder was letting it ride, and now he had twelve-hundred dollars at the bet line.
“Thunder?” I said. “That’s your name? What, are you flatulent?”
Anger flashed across his face. Thunder’s rage made my stomach turn to ice, and my fingers quake. What had I done? Why couldn’t I control my mouth? Another bad decision!
“Save the sass, Smiley, and deal.”
I hurriedly dealt out the cards. Part of me was relieved when he won again. The casino floor was blanketed with video surveillance. This animal wouldn’t dare accost me here, not physically, at least. That was a good thing. Physically, he looked like a monster. His powerful body radiated a potential for violence that he wore like a second skin. I wished I could sic him on Daniel, that two-timing loser. That would teach Daniel a lesson. Thunder looked to be three times the man Daniel was.
To my relief, Thunder soon had over ten-thousand dollars in chips in front of him. With the casino’s blackjack odds being in its favor, Thunder was experiencing a very lucky, and quite unusual win streak. He’d give it back, though. They always gave it back.
Ferret-biker, whose jacket aptly read Gerbil, spoke up. “LOL, brutha. We have to get to the Slot Machine for the meet.”
“Right you are,” Thunder replied. He gathered up his chips. I watched the hundred-dollar ones get scooped up by his thick, powerful hands. A hundred-dollar tip would go a long way to helping me with my tuition bill. He won big, and he said he’d tip me.
Thunder and Gerbil rose from their seats and walked away. Neither of them gave me a second glance!
When my hands shook this time, it wasn’t out of fear. It was out of anger.
Men! They couldn’t be trusted. They never did what they promised. Daniel was supposed to be true to me. That was why I’d been prepared to give myself to him at Mount Airy Lodge. Daniel said he loved me, but they were just words he uttered to get laid. He probably told Sarah he loved her too, right before he made out with her in the service tunnel. Men! Sometimes I really hate them.
And Thunder—I sat and took his abuse, for what? Just the twenty-five dollar tip he gave me when he lost. Nothing for when he won. The casino paid crap for my standing there all day dealing cards. My real money was in tips. I could go all year without someone winning ten grand. Ten thousand dollars, and no tip. What a piece of shit.
I traipsed back up the service tunnel to take my lunch break, my head in a funk. At this rate, I was never going to save enough for college. I felt like a loser. Up in New York, when I’d been going on audition after audition, only getting cast as a chorus member at best, I felt like a loser as a dancer. Years of study, and no one wanted me. Now, in the ordinary world of workers, I was feeling like a loser again. No money for school. Living with my father. A boyfriend who cheated on me. Loser.
Sure, I didn’t love Daniel, but I thought I might grow into it, given time.
Time. Time was a wasting asset. Although I was only twenty-two, I felt like my life, and my time, was swirling down the drain. I was passively letting the world walk all over me. I should have been more aggressive in New York. I should be more aggressive in general.
That was it! Time for a new Priscilla to emerge. From here on, I was going to seize the bull by the horns, starting with Thunder.
Where did Gerbil say their meeting was? The Slot Machine. I knew the Slot Machine—it was a topless bar a few blocks back from the boardwalk.
Marching out of the casino, I headed straight for the Slot Machine.
I was going to get my big tip from Thunder, come hell or high water.
Chapter Three
Thunder
The fake-breasted bimbo kept hitting me up for a lap-dance. Dumb skirt wouldn’t take a hint. Gerbil had two eager beavers with him, one on each knee. I wasn’t up for that—not yet. The world had a never-ending supply of easy lays. No reason to rush.
Besides, I had to keep my eyes on Sweets. I knew he was up to something.
“Fuck off,” I said to the lap-dance wannabe.
The MC’s books didn’t add up. Sweets had been skimming. It had to be Sweets. He and I were the only ones who could sign the checks, and I knew it wasn’t me. Nobody would have the cojones to forge a Lords of Lucifer check. No, it had to be Sweets. The fat bastard always thought he was smarter than everyone else.
Sweets was a few yards away from me and the boys, and chatting up a gorgeous black girl. Her skin was flawless, and bits of glitter shone when the strobe light hit her. If Sweets was hot for her, maybe I’d take her away from him. Sweets hated it when I did that. The girls were better off—Sweets couldn’t fuck them like I did. I always left the ladies broken and satisfied. Sweets left them wanting a shower.
The girls weren’t interesting me tonight. It was weird. I couldn’t get that preppy blackjack dealer out of my head. She had a rocking bod that even the dealer’s uniform couldn’t hide, but that wasn’t all of it. The Slot Machine had plenty of bimbos with rocking bods. No, there was something about that blackjack dealer. She had some spunk. I didn’t normally care for that, but in her I liked it. I’d cowed it right out of her, which was what I do, but it was there. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t in the life that appealed to me. She was a citizen. Priscilla—that’s what her nametag said. There was something about Priscilla.
Fuck it. I’d never see her again. There had to be a whore inside the Slot Machine that looked like her. My eyes roamed the room. No, no one looked as good as Priscilla.
I kept scanning the entrance and the exits. We were here to meet Freddy Mac, of the Balties, out of Maryland. Sweets had insisted that we ride naked, that is to say, without any firearms, because of the heat after the bank heist. We put it to a vote. Sweets won. I didn’t like not having my Glock, but a club vote was a club vote.
The front door opened and my gaze shot over there. Well, I’ll be.
Priscilla, the blackjack dealer, just sauntered in. If she danced here, my luck was definitely on high today. Then again, maybe she was a taco muncher, and preferred the ladies. Too bad, but not a total loss. I could go for a two-fer.
How did she manage to look hotter than all these half-naked girls wearing only lingerie? Priscilla had on a button-down shirt that glimmered from the ultraviolet lights. Red vest, black skirt, stockings—she looked like a diner waitress. Super hot bod, though. The bimbo must be an aerobics instructor or something.
Once she spotted me, Priscilla bee-lined my way.
“Can’t get enough of me, can you Smiley?” I said. The gi
rl had spunk, but she was nervous as fuck, too. Her slender hands were shaking.
“You owe me a big tip,” Priscilla said.
Gerbil laughed. “I told you she wanted your big tip, brutha!”
“LOL,” I said. “Don’t they all?” I spread my legs and patted my knee. “Cop a squat, Priscilla, and we’ll talk about it.”
The girl stood there all defiant, but I could swear from the look in her eyes she thought about it. If only for a moment, Priscilla seemed to think about sitting on my lap. I hoped she would. It was a short walk from on my lap to having that lean and curvy little citizen wrapped in my arms.
“I’m not sitting on your knee,” Priscilla replied. “You’re a pig.”
“That I am,” I said. “That I am. But I think you are too, a little bit, at least. Are you my little piggy?” Pulling a hundred-dollar chip out of my leather vest’s pocket, I set it on my jeans, right over my fly—right over my cock. “Here’s your tip,” I said. “But you have to pick it up with your mouth.” I lounged back and clasped my hands behind my head, and then I pumped my hips slowly. “Come on little piggy. Come and get your big tip.”
Well, Priscilla didn’t know what to make of that. If she got down on her knees in this strip club and plucked that chip off my crotch with her lips, I’d have to fuck her. And I hadn’t fucked a citizen in ten years.
That look! That look crossed her face again. I wasn’t even sure if she realized it. The look was so fleeting, Priscilla might not be aware of what she was thinking, but she was contemplating it. I would swear on it.
In the end, though, the trim hottie didn’t get down on her knees for me. Priscilla extended her palm and said, “Hand it to me asshole.”
The girl had stones. I’d give her that.
I spotted Freddy Mac coming in through the front door. His hand was sporting iron. Sweets was nowhere to be seen. “Gerbil!” I shouted. “Gun!” Gerbil dropped to the floor, spilling his two bimbos.
MOTORCYCLE CLUB: Rebel Riders (Billionaire MC Romance) (Biker With A Cause Book 1) Page 18