Weaken (Motorcycle Club Romance): Axel and Paige 1 (Fallen Idols Motorcycle Club Book 2)

by Savannah Rylan

  Weaken

  Fallen Idols MC 2

  Axel and Paige Book 1

  Savannah Rylan

  Weaken

  Published By Savannah Rylan Books

  Copyright © 2015 Savannah Rylan

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or events are entirely the work of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Cover art by Cover Up Designs

  ONE

  The iron bars clinked and rattled, moving in slow motion, as they began to close in front of me. I shut my eyes briefly; the sound reminded me of an old wooden roller coaster approaching the crest of a hill. Only, there’d be no free fall at the end of this ride.

  The guard slammed the door with finality as my eyes popped open, the sound of the lock clicking into place, reverberating off the walls, and bouncing around in my head.

  “Welcome to San Quentin,” a staccato voice bellowed behind me. I didn’t bother to turn around. We’d have plenty of time to chat later. Three months, as a matter of fact. Instead, I watched the fat bastard on the other side of the bars, as he double checked the latch, smirking at me in a way that made me want to rip his fuckin’ face off.

  “Feeling a bit naked without your cut, Cook?” the guard sneered. My teeth clenched tight, as he laughed, walking away with a swing in his step. “Better get used to it. The club can’t get you out of this one.”

  My hands clenched at the taunt, my knuckles turning white, but I managed to bite my tongue. Fuckin’ pig wants my reaction; wants me to threaten him so he can have an excuse to extend my sentence. I’d bet anything that he’s on the Las Almas payroll. I’m gonna have to do something about that.

  “So, whatcha in for?” my new cellmate asked. God, why’d I have to get a fuckin’ chatty one?

  I turned around, tossing the provided thin blanket—so pitiful I wouldn’t let my dog lay on it—up on the empty top rack of the bed, pain shooting through my chest. I winced at the movement. “A bullshit trumped up assault charge. Fuckin’ cops just lookin’ for an excuse to get at us.”

  I absentmindedly touched my still-sore ribs, a few of which I knew were broken. Fuckin’ asshole deserved every blow I dealt to him. And more if Rev wouldn’t have busted it up. Not only had I caught that Las Almas prick dealin’ blow in our part of town—even after we declared war, and eighty-sixed a few of their guys just hours before no less. What’s worse, the fucker had backhanded his old lady when she’d gotten out of the car to take a piss. Hit her so hard she was knocked out cold, and that’s some shit I won’t tolerate.

  I’d known better than to pick a beef in the middle of town, but the asshole was dealin’ right in the gas station parking lot when I pulled up to refill my Fat Boy. He was either stupid or desperate, in all honestly probably both, but I couldn’t let that shit slide.

  For years, the Idols and the Almas had an understanding; they wouldn’t sell their shit in Brooks Landing, and we wouldn’t boost any cars from Pineview. Most of the time, everyone stuck to his word. That was, until yesterday, when Rogue declared war for El Presidente allowin’ his boys to deal. He denied it, but we weren’t buying his story. And, their fuckin’ prospect was new, and didn’t know his asshole from a hole in his head. With the concussion, broken ribs, and busted jaw I gave him, he’ll learn quick.

  I glanced back at my new cellmate, his head tilted. “Do I even want to know who ‘us’ refers to?”

  I pulled up my shirtsleeve, revealing one of the many tattoos snaking down my arm. A raven with outstretched wings both above and below the phrase, “By the water I ride” –our club motto.

  The man’s eyebrows rose a bit in understanding, and he nodded. “I’m Marcus. Nice to meet ya as we’ll be spending some time together.” He reached out his hand.

  I gave him a good once over before responding. He was older, probably in his late sixties. His dark, leathered skin had no gang tats visible, and at his age, I wasn’t worried too much that he would jump me or anything. He was probably just a lifer; one of those people who can’t seem to get their act together once they’re out, so they resort back to the only thing they know: crime. I stepped toward him and reached out mine, shaking his hand. “Axel.”

  He winced, finally getting a better look at me. “And, just how bad is the other guy?”

  I leaned against the bedpost, my tongue sliding over the barely healed scab on my busted lip. “Still in the hospital. Lucky he’s not in the morgue.”

  I know I look like shit. Feel like it too. Two fractured ribs, countless bruises, and seven stitches on a cut above my right eye. Bastard had a crowbar I didn’t see till I was already up on him. They did a quick patch job in the ER, but it was still gonna take a few days to get back to feeling normal.

  Marcus nodded. “I’ll bet. Well, I’ll let you be. It’ll be lights out soon. I’ve got the bottom bunk on account of my bum knee, and the fact I was here first, but I’ll switch you just for tonight if ya need.”

  I shook my head. “Nah. I’ll be fine.” I hooked my leg on the rung of the ladder, and hoisted myself up, wincing at the pain shooting through my side. I really wished I had a stiff drink right about now. Or two. Folding the blanket in half, I slid it under my head, and closed my eyes, drifting right to sleep.

  Only eighty-nine days to go.

  ***

  “Chow time!” Marcus announced, just as a buzzer sounded throughout the unit. My eyes popped open, and I groaned at the stiffness in my body. Fuck me, that crowbar really did a number. I sat up, letting my legs swing over, so they dangled off the side, as I inspected my injuries.

  I sucked in a breath, and hopped down, ignoring the pain. The first day in lockup was always the worst, and I’d needed to watch my back for anyone from the Almas crew that might be in here with me. First thing I needed to do was get a message out to Rogue, and find out who my best bet was for protection, but that wouldn’t happen until at least tomorrow, so until then, I was on my own.

  I followed Marcus out of the cell. Within minutes, the place went from subdued to teeming with life—yelling, screaming, and lots of commotion as men made their way into the mess hall. This wasn’t maximum security, and gen pop was overcrowded. I glanced down at my arms. Each proudly displayed full sleeves of tats, but more specifically to the trained eye, they’d see the club tattoo, letting everyone know who I was, and hopefully, not to fuck with me. I was still sore as shit, and I didn’t want to deal with anyone today. I always ran the risk of someone seeing my Raven tat, and using it as an excuse to get at the club, but I was against the wall on this one, and had to hope that respect for the club outweighed any lingering beefs.

  I grabbed my tray and fell in line, eyeing the crowd around me. There were a lot of different groups represented; everyone from the gangs of Richmond and Oakland, street gangs, to the Aryans, but no rival MC members stuck out at me. Marcus was in the middle of some story about his old lady when pain exploded in the back of my head, shooting through my face, and running down my neck. I careened into the guy
in front of me. In a split second, the entire cafeteria erupted as fists flew. I scrambled to my feet, but not before I took two shots to the kidney, sending blinding pain straight through me. Ignoring it, I whipped around, and slammed my own tray into whoever was hitting me. I was about to go for shot number two on the asshole when the CERT team arrived.

  “Everybody down! Now! Hands behind your head. Interlock your fingers. Do it. Now!” There were corrections officers everywhere, armed with tear gas canisters, ready to fire.

  I complied, knowing I didn’t want to add time to my sentence, and dropped to my knees, slowly sliding onto my stomach before I laced my fingers behind my head. I turned my head to get a look at the guy who hit me, and saw the tell-tale Las Almas skull tattoo on his neck.

  Fuck me. Were those pricks really retaliating for a beat down? And here? I know Rogue or my pops must have talked to El Presidente by now. I couldn’t see him ordering this for a clearly earned beating. No, something else was up, and I needed to put a call into the club to find out what.

  If the Almas were trying to start a war, this was going to be a very long ninety days.

  TWO

  “Let’s go, Cook. You’re bleeding all over my cafeteria. Gotta get those stiches reset.” A hand gripped me around the arm, hoisting me to my feet. “Jesus, Axel, you haven’t even been here twenty-four hours yet. What the fuck?”

  I spit the blood from my mouth as we walked to the infirmary, glad to see a friendly face. Well, as friendly as a dirty cop on the take can be. “Hell if I know. I didn’t even see who hit me till we were all down. Something’s up with the Almas. Gotta be. Lemme have your phone. I need to put a call in to Rogan.”

  Officer Max Bradley had been a friend of the Fallen Idols since he was a beat cop almost fifteen years ago. He usually didn’t work corrections, which tells me someone sent him. “I’ll talk to Rogan, see who he’s got lined up for protection, and if he knows anything about this morning.” He stopped abruptly and looked at me. “Am I going to have to put you in protective custody?”

  “Hell, no.” I freed my arm from his grip, pivoting to face him full on. “That’ll just make me look weak. Make the club look weak. That shit can’t happen. Just give me your phone. It’s club business; nothing you need to be in the middle of.”

  Bradley huffed, but handed over his cell. “You’ve got two minutes. I’ve got to get you to the infirmary, or people are going to start asking questions."

  I took it, and dialed the club. Maya answered on the second ring. “How are you holding up, Axel? I’ve been worried about you.”

  Maya was like a mother to us all. The type that would backhand you with one breath, and hand you a cookie in another. No one messed with Maya.

  “I’m hangin’ in there. Is Rogue or my pops around? I only got a minute.” I eyed Bradley and he backed up a few paces, giving me some privacy. A few seconds later, Pops got on the line.

  “Hey, son,” Dad’s voice, gruff from smoking at least a pack a day since I was old enough to walk, greeted me. “We’ve got protection lined up for you from the Aryans. We had to get them a few Maserati’s, but you should be good for the rest of your stint.”

  I wiped blood from my lip. “Fat lot of good that did. I already got jumped by an Almas this morning. This retaliation for the beat down on their boy who straggled into our town, or more fallout from the war?”

  Pops sighed, cursing under his breath. “We’re just finalizing the deal. We had hoped they wouldn’t come after you so soon. I don’t think this is the war. They’d hit all of us, not just you for that. Nah, the fuckin’ pricks are pissed because the kid had almost a kilo of blow with him. When the cops broke you two up, they confiscated all of it, and then used it to get a warrant to search their club for more. Ended up with almost ten kilos in all, and they blame you.”

  I’m dumbfounded. “Are you shittin’ me? Those idiots not only let their newbie wander into our turf after what went down yesterday, but then gave him that much blow to keep on him? What the hell were they thinkin’?”

  “Shit if I know.” Pops paused, coughing up half a lung. “But I’ve got a few prospects looking into finding out more about where all this shit with the Almas started. They usually aren’t that stupid, so it has me wondering what their end game is? Why break the truce now, after we’ve been good for so long?”

  Bradley cleared his throat, and I glanced up. He signaled me to wrap it up. “Alright, I gotta go get these stitches fixed. When does the protection come through?”

  “We promised them two. Got them one so far, will get the other by this afternoon. Think maybe you can chill in the infirmary for a few hours? I don’t want you in the yard until everything’s in place.”

  I nodded, knowing he can’t see me. “Yea, I can do that.”

  “Take care, son. I’ll be up in a few days for visitation. Hopefully, I’ll have more intel by then.”

  “I will, Pops. See ya then.” I hung up the phone, and handed it to Bradley.

  ***

  PAIGE

  The alarm clock came way too early this morning. If the other shift nurse hadn’t already called in sick for the day, I would’ve totally taken a personal day, and stayed in my warm, comfy bed, and done nothing but sleep, watch movies, and drink. Yes, lots of drinking. Three hours of sleep is not nearly enough.

  I was up—again—talking Gina down off a ledge. Not a literal ledge (she’s never been that bad off), but, while I love her like crazy and would do anything for her, she’s a basket case—zero self-esteem (thanks to an asshole father) and she lets that son-of-a-bitch husband of hers exploit that at every turn. Last night was just one of a hundred where she called me at midnight, begging me to come pick her up. Bags packed. She swore she’s leaving for real this time, and not putting up with it for another minute.

  The longest she’d ever lasted was forty-eight hours. And that’s only because she was unconscious for twelve.

  I rolled out of bed, and dragged myself into an extremely hot shower, letting the water scald my back as I thought about how this happened again, and more importantly how I could stop the cycle.

  Gina Probola had been my best friend since the fifth grade. We did everything together, and were as thick as thieves, until Gina met up with an asshole biker at a bar four years ago: Leo Alvarez, but to everyone else he was Chubs. He was in some kind of biker gang called the Las Almas. She was thrilled with the attention he gave her, thought he was so cool in his leather vest and with his black, shiny Harley. He’d even invited me to tag along, introduced me to a few of the guys, but that was not my scene. Within an hour of being there, three of the shitheads had attempted to feel me up, and one outright asked me to suck his dick.

  I didn’t mention my misgivings to Gina at first. She was happy, and I figured it was just a phase. Once she got the “I gotta have a bad boy” thing out of her system, things would go back to the way they’d always been.

  Four years later, she’d not only dropped out of nursing school, but she’d cut ties with all of her family and friends except for me, and had ended up in the Emergency Room half a dozen times.

  The first time he hit her, she admitted it to me, swearing up and down it was a one-off incident, that he was drunk, and didn’t know what he was doing. She fed me some cockamamie story about her being pissed he stayed out until four in the morning with his buddies. She said she pushed him, and he only meant to push her back, but lost his balance because he was loaded, and ended up sucker punching her in the eye. Yeah, because that’s what usually happens when someone is about to fall down: they ball their fist, and aim for your eye.

  He promised her, swearing on everything, including his mother, that it would never happen again. He loved her so much, and it was just an accident. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and stayed with him.

  After that she began to hide it, but having gone through training in nursing school, I knew what to look for. He’d hit her in places that wouldn’t always leave marks, but I don’t need a mark to
see that she was having trouble taking a deep breath because he bruised her diaphragm, or that she could barely sit because he beat her so badly.

  Over their four-year relationship, she’d left him at least a dozen times. I’d begged and pleaded for her to press charges, get a restraining order—anything that would get her away from Chubs, but she always refused. Apparently, his gang had dirty cops on the payroll, and she was too afraid of what he might do if he found out.

  I turned off the water, dried myself with the towel, and slipped into my scrubs before padding into the kitchen to pour myself some coffee. I could hear Gina snoring in the other room, and smiled. At least, for now, I knew she was safe. That eased my mind some.

  I poured the coffee, laden with sugar, into the biggest to-go cup I owned, and left a note to Gina, telling her I’d be home by three with pizza, before I slid in my car, and headed to San Quentin for the day.

  I pulled into the staff parking lot, cutting the engine. After I graduated nursing school with my BSN, I was up to my eyeballs in debt. The California State Prison System had a debt forgiveness program with my nursing school: work for the system for three years, and they’d reimburse fifty percent of your tuition fees. It wasn’t my ideal job, but I was making it work.