Spike: Satan's Disciples MC

by Zoey Parker

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

  SPIKE copyright 2016 by Zoey Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

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  Chapter One

  Joe’s Bar was, as usual, a mess. The air was filled with smoke so thick visibility was restricted to about thirty-five feet. Not that it mattered—the room was only half-lit to begin with. The corners were a shrouded mystery of debauchery. The floor was packed with people surrounding the scattered pool tables, money changing hands every few seconds.

  In the middle of the hazy room was a large wooden table. Over a dozen people sat around it, all engaged in their own conversations, yet seemingly oriented towards an imposing man sitting at the center. Every person sitting at the table had a patch sewn somewhere on their leather clothing: flaming skulls chasing each other over a Welcome mat that sat at the entrance to the gates of Hell. Underneath it said Satan’s Disciples.

  The man at the center of the table was resting his arm on a motorcycle helmet that had the Satan’s Disciples patch drawn on the front with Leader stamped across the top. He was handsome, in a hard way, with tattoos and scars haphazardly strewn across his body and a crooked smile that said he knew a thing or two about a thing or two. He turned to his left and looked at the gorgeous, olive-skinned woman sitting next to him.

  The man opened his mouth, leaning forward to shout above the din, his auburn hair falling into his eyes, when the front door burst open, sending a cool draft of air across the room that parted the thick clouds of smoke clinging to the ceiling.

  “Spike!” A very tall, very heavy-set man stood in the entrance, gasping for air as he leaned his huge belly against the doorframe. His long blond hair was falling from its ponytail, matting against his sweaty face.

  The man at the table sat up, suddenly alert. “What is it, Tiny?” he demanded.

  Tiny did his best to explain what happened between huge gulps of air. “Vermin…selling out back…Ivan showed up…”

  Spike held up his hand. He didn’t need to hear any more to know what happened. “Thanks, Tiny. Take a breather, okay?” He needed Tiny with him out there, not passed out from exhaustion.

  Joe’s Bar had once upon a time been considered off limits, a home base of sorts, where none of the gangs were allowed to conduct business, or settle old scores. Joe’s was a cease-fire zone where leaders could meet peaceably.

  Then the Russian mob had moved in, taking the corner market on almost every territory with their foreign products and far-reaching fingers. Their leader, Ivan, was merciless, and his second-in-command, Yury, delighted in inflicting pain. They had no order, no code to keep them in line, which meant eventually they would burn themselves out. Spike just hoped the Russians wouldn’t take everyone else out along with them.

  Spike stood up and looked at the people sitting before him. “Vince and Hector,” he said, pointing at an incredibly good-looking black man with a goatee, and a short, stocky Hispanic man who was wearing sunglasses even though he was indoors. Without any hesitation, they both immediately stood and followed Spike to the door.

  Tiny stepped back, holding the door open for the three men. He let the door swing shut on the smoky room, where the remaining patrons anxiously returned to their conversations, pretending they hadn’t overheard what had just transpired.

  Still panting a little, Tiny led the men around to the back of Joe’s, where five men stood in a pyramid formation, the man at the front holding another man by the back of his neck with one hand, and pointing a gun at his side with the other. The one holding the gun was massive, well over six feet tall with ice-blond hair.

  “Vermin,” Spike whispered to himself, recognizing the much smaller man being held at gunpoint. “What’s going on here?” he asked the group, his breath puffing small clouds in the cold night air.

  “I just found your boy selling on our territory, that’s what’s going on,” the man with the gun, Ivan, said.

  “Joe’s isn’t supposed to be anyone’s territory, Ivan. You know that,” Spike said patiently. “And if it were going to be anyone’s territory, it would be Satan’s Disciples.”

  Ivan sneered at him. “You know all of downtown Chicago belongs to the Russians. Don’t make me give you a reminder,” he threatened, stabbing the gun into Vermin’s side, causing him to grunt with pain.

  Spike sighed, annoyed. The Russians had their hands in a lot of cookie jars—trafficking, witness intimidation, hits—but their drug game was weak. They cut their coke with caffeine pills and their ecstasy was always laced. Ivan was too proud to admit it, but anyone who wanted good product came to Satan’s Disciples.

  “You should be happy Satan’s Disciples keeps to themselves and doesn’t infringe on your other areas of business.” Spike countered Ivan’s threat with his own.

  “What are you trying to say?” Ivan asked.

  “I’m saying you’re a shitty businessman, Ivan,” Spike said disgustedly. Goosebumps raced up and down his bare arms. “If you did good business, you wouldn’t need to resort to busting low-level gang members who are breaking meaningless rules.”

  Ivan looked at Spike like he was crazy. Who the fuck did this man think he was? Ivan raised his gun, cocking it as he pressed it to Vermin’s head. Vermin whimpered, staring at Spike, pleading with his eyes for him to do something.

  “I’m going to kill this man if you don’t swear to me right now, in front of your own men, that you will stay out of Russian territory,” Ivan said flatly.

  “Didn’t I just say he was a nobody?” Spike said, chuckling. He pushed his shaggy auburn hair back with one hand. “I don’t care about him.”

  “Please…” Vermin sobbed, “Spike, help me—”

  Vermin’s voice was cut off by a loud gunshot and he fell from Ivan’s grip, crumpling to the gritty asphalt of the wet back alley. He let out a high-pitched scream that settled into a low wail and he sat up, gripping his leg where Spike had shot him.

  Spike lowered his gun and put it in the back of his waistband. “See?” he said. “Go ahead and shoot the dumb bastard for all I care.”

  The men flanking Ivan shifted, muttering to each other under their breath. Ivan looked at Spike, snarling. He pointed his gun down at Vermin and fired, shooting him in the opposite leg. Vermin screamed and then immediately passed out.

  “Don’t let me catch you interfering in our business again, Spike,” Ivan growled, his Russian accent finally making a subtle appearance. He turned and left, his men following him without a backwards glance.

  Spike didn’t move until they had rounded the corner. Once they were out of sight, Spike whipped around to face his own men and began barking out or
ders.

  “Vince, go tell Joe to call an ambulance. Tell them to prep for multiple gunshot wounds.” Vince took off at once at a run, his long legs silently carrying him back to the bar. “Hector, find Roxy and tell her to bring her kit around back.” The shorter man nodded, his sunglasses gone.

  “On it, boss,” he said, quickly following Vince’s path, his feet slapping against the ground in his haste.

  “Tiny, help me,” Spike said, pulling a bandana from his back pocket. Tiny’s hands shook as he removed the dark red bandana from around his head and passed it to Spike, who tied the two pieces of fabric together and wrapped them around Vermin’s leg, applying pressure to the wound.

  Vermin woke slowly, groaning in pain. “Wh-why’d you shoot me, Spike? Why’d you do it?” he asked, taking shallow breaths.

  “Because if I hadn’t shot you in the leg, Ivan would have shot you in the head,” Spike answered angrily. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing selling behind Joe’s, anyway?” he asked, tightening the tourniquet.

  “Not so tight!” Vermin squealed. “Some college kids were down here looking for coke, enough for a party,” he explained. “What was I supposed to say to them? ‘Meet me five miles from here and it’s a deal’?”

  Spike sighed, but didn’t loosen the makeshift bandage. If he did, Vermin might bleed out. “How much did you get?” he asked out of curiosity.

  “A grand,” Vermin said, his eyelids beginning to flutter. Spike heard rapidly approaching footsteps. Roxy had arrived with her medical kit. She had spent a couple of years as an EMT before joining Satan’s Disciples, and was their resident doctor for sticky situations when the hospital wasn’t an option.

  “Hang in there, Vermin,” Spike said, stepping back to give Roxy access. An ambulance wailed in the distance. Spike had a feeling it was only the first of many he would be hearing. Things with the Russians had been tenser than ever. It wouldn’t be long before something happened that forced the two gangs to settle the matter between them once and for all.

  ***

  The thin wail of an Enrique Iglesias song echoed from the depths of Georgia’s purse. She stopped in the middle of lobby of the office she worked at and dug through the contents of her bag until she found her phone.

  She pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was her best friend, Stacy. Georgia pressed the green button and answered. “Hey, Stacy. I’m just leaving the office now.”

  It had been a miserable day at work for Georgia, again. She had come into her new job with the title Administrative Assistant, fully expecting to spend the first couple of months doing all of the bitch work, but last week marked six months, and she was still just the gofer girl.

  She wasn’t even the gofer girl for the PR department either, which was where she eventually hoped to work. No, she was the designated bitch for the whole office. Step right up, everybody, and give Georgia an errand to do. Out of coffee? Georgia would get it. Need those papers sent out? Georgia would do it. How about your asshole wiped?

  “Georgia?” Stacy said in her ear. “I’m really sorry you had a bad day, but remember to breathe, okay?”

  Georgia realized she had been standing the parking lot next to her car, ranting for the last five minutes solid. “Sorry, Stacy,” she muttered, smoothing her thick brown hair. “I could just really use a vacation.”

  “Couldn’t we all,” Stacy replied, drily. “Wanna have a girls’ night soon? Maybe we can have a staycation this weekend,” she suggested.

  “That sounds exactly like what the doctor ordered,” Georgia agreed, her blue eyes lighting up at the idea of homemade hair masks and a bottomless glass of merlot, though Stacy was probably envisioning a nightclub and enough vodka to put down a horse.

  Stacy Kwon had always been Georgia’s wild friend. She was incredibly beautiful, tall and lithe, a model’s figure, with long, straight black hair that hung to her waist. In college, it had been Stacy who had given Georgia her first beer, encouraged her to try her first one-night stand, and once upon a time—and perhaps once or twice since—had given Georgia her first experience with pot. Stacy was daring, promiscuous, and she took risks Georgia would never even consider. She was, in short, everything Georgia wasn’t.

  Georgia’s phone buzzed, bringing her back to Earth.

  “Hey, can I call you back?” Georgia asked. “Felix is calling.”

  “I wonder what he needs,” Stacy said cynically.

  Felix was Georgia’s younger brother and they were incredibly close. There was nothing Georgia wouldn’t do for Felix, and she knew the opposite was true, too, no matter what other people said.

  “He’s better now,” Georgia insisted. “He got off probation five months ago and he hasn’t been in trouble since.”

  Georgia and Felix’s childhood had been less than happy, with Georgia doing her best to shield Felix from the worst of it. Their father was a drunk, to the point that their mother had eventually abandoned him, leaving Georgia to pick up the pieces of their family at age fourteen. Felix had only been eight at the time, and now, eleven years later, he was still dealing with the aftermath in a variety of ways.

  When he was younger, it was just schoolyard fights. Someone would say something about their mother running off, or their father’s consistent unemployment, and it would set Felix off. As he got older, though, Felix began to turn to drugs, usually coke, but any kind of upper would do. Anything so he could feel good for once.

  Georgia felt sorry for him. He had been too young to remember when their family had been happy. She still had memories from before things got bad. Felix had no happy times to fall back on when he was struggling with life. But three months ago Felix said his friend Alex had gotten him a job, and that things were finally looking up.

  “I wish you would at least give him a shot,” Georgia said.

  “We’ve been down this road before, Georgia. Several times, in fact. He’s a drug addict.”

  “I told you—not anymore!” she protested. “And if you would just go out with him the one time, then maybe he would stop bugging me to bug you and he could move on.”

  “Shouldn’t you answer your brother’s call?” Stacy asked, trying to change the subject.

  Georgia rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll talk to you later,” she said. She quickly hung up with Stacy and switched lines, managing to catch Felix just in time.

  “What’s up, little brother?” she said when she answered.

  “Just checking up on my Joja,” he replied, charmingly using his childhood nickname for her. Felix had struggled with forming the letter R as a baby, turning Georgia into Joja. “How do you feel about some brother-sister bonding time? Tonight? Your place?” he asked.

  Georgia’s gut turned. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to spend lots of time together. Growing up, they had only ever had each other, with Georgia as the primary caretaker. Georgia had even selected a college nearby so she and Felix could stay close. They never went more than a week without seeing each other.

  And yet… Was Stacy right? Did Felix want something? More often than not, during their brother-sister bonding time, Georgia paid for their dinners, the movie, and anything else that came up, even going so far as to buy him groceries on occasion.

  Georgia gave herself a mental shake. Felix wasn’t a bum, he was her brother, and he was just going through a rough patch. He was getting better, after all.

  “Sounds great, Felix,” she finally answered.

  “Awesome,” he said. She could hear the grin in his voice. “I’ll bring the booze!”

  “Felix, you’re nineteen,” she reminded him.

  “When has that ever stopped me before?” he said, chuckling.

  Georgia hung up after giving Felix a warning about underage drinking. She got into her car and resisted the urge to send Stacy a smug text about Felix paying for something for once.

  An hour later, Felix was at her front doorstep, brown paper bag in hand. Georgia brushed a chip of peeling paint from the doorframe as she an
swered. Her place was a piece of crap.

  “What’d you bring me?” she asked cheekily, putting her hands out.

  Felix reached into the bag and pulled out a box of wine. “Merlot, right?” he asked hesitantly.

  Georgia nodded, happy he remembered. Stacy would probably scoff at the fact that it was box wine, but Stacy could stuff it. As far as Georgia was concerned, it was another point in her brother’s favor. “I have lasagna or empanadas,” she told him as she grabbed two wine glasses.

  “Speaking from my vast knowledge of wine pairings, I think lasagna would go better with this oaky merlot. Once it’s been properly aired out, of course,” Felix said, opening the plastic bag inside the box and pouring the glasses for them.

  Georgia laughed. Her brother was always cracking jokes.

  “So, how have you been?” he asked once they had sat down to eat. “Are you still seeing Whacko?”