Spike: Satan's Disciples MC

by Zoey Parker

  “Please, Stacy, just know it’s important,” she pleaded.

  “Okay, okay,” Stacy grumbled. “I’ll be right over once I get rid of this guy.”

  Georgia hung up and looked around her place. Was there any point in trying to clean up before Stacy came over? She tried to bend over and put her standing plant upright, and her ribs felt like they were on fire, so she quickly stopped, dropping the plant back down to the ground.

  She fell onto the sofa, and a million little bits of fluff flew into the air, shooting out from the two or three dozen bullet holes that peppered the couch. Georgia dozed fitfully until she heard a car pull up. She sat up, ignoring the pain as best she could, then gently lay back down when she realized it was Stacy.

  “The door is open,” she called, hearing Stacy walk up the drive. It was pretty easy to hear everything due to all of the front windows being shot out.

  Stacy entered slowly, astonishment written all over her face. “What the goddamn fucking hell happened here, Georgia?” she cried. Seeing her friend on the couch, she rushed over, trembling when she saw Georgia’s bruises. “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Georgia told her, wincing as she sat up again.

  “You are clearly not fine,” Stacy said, watching Georgia struggle. “You need to go to the hospital.”

  Georgia shook her head furiously. “No. No hospitals. It’s okay. I got off light, relatively speaking.” She looked out the window and noticed the dead man in the street was now gone.

  Stacy looked at her. “Light? You’re telling me that whatever happened here,” she said, gesturing around her, “you got off light?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you,” Georgia said firmly.

  “Then you’d better fucking tell me what happened,” Stacy said. “Now. Or I’m calling you an ambulance.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Georgia begged her. “I’ll tell you, just…let me catch my breath for a minute.” Everything had happened so fast, it was difficult for Georgia to put it together chronologically.

  Finally, she cleared her throat and gave Stacy the long and short of it, trying to downplay her brother’s role in the situation as much as possible. She didn’t want another lecture from Stacy about how Felix was bad news.

  “So, you want to walk into the home of the second baddest guy in town, empty-handed, and ask him to take out the first baddest guy in town as what? A favor to you and your idiot brother?” Stacy said sarcastically. “Is that it? Do I have the gist? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Hey!” Georgia snapped, tired of being attacked for her risky plans. “If you have a few grand lying around that you’d like to donate to the cause, or an idea, you should have said something. Otherwise, maybe stop being so goddamn critical and help me!” Pain stabbed at Georgia’s ribs as she yelled. She winced, holding her side.

  Stacy sat next to her on the couch, quiet. “Okay, no,” she admitted. “I don’t have any better suggestions, and I’m broke as fuck. So how can I help?”

  Georgia bit her lip, thinking hard. “I don’t know,” she confessed, tears beginning to well in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Stacy! I can’t think of anything! How can I convince this guy to help me?”

  “It’s alright,” Stacy said soothingly, hugging Georgia gently, taking care of her injuries. “We’ll come up with something together, okay? If nothing else, I’ll be right there by your side when you walk into the lion’s den.”

  Georgia sobbed into her friend’s shoulder. “I’m so scared, Stacy. They’re going to kill us.”

  “Hey,” Stacy said, reaching down to pick up a towel scrap that was on the floor, using it to wipe Georgia’s tears. “That’s not going to happen. We are going to figure this out.”

  Stacy stood up, holding both of her hands out to Georgia to help her up. “Come on. I think I have an idea. But first, we need to clean you up.”

  Georgia took Stacy’s hands, gingerly pulling herself up. Stacy helped her to the bathroom and cleaned her cuts as best she could. Georgia had a split lip, and what looked like the beginnings of a black eye, as well as an impressive array of bruises that covered her midsection. The spot where Ivan had kicked her in the ribs was already turning black.

  “I’m really worried about you having internal bleeding,” Stacy said.

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Georgia told her as Stacy dabbed hydrogen peroxide on her cuts. “The hospital is going to ask too many questions. They’re going to get the police involved, and I already told you why that can’t happen.”

  “Okay, okay,” Stacy muttered. “No hospital. But if you pass out, I will call an ambulance. There,” she said, stepping away from Georgia, “you’re all patched up. Excluding your fractured rib and probable concussion, of course,” Stacy added mockingly.

  “Thanks, Stacy. I feel better already,” Georgia said, smiling gratefully at her friend. “So, what’s your idea?”

  “It depends,” Stacy said, looking Georgia up and down. “How much leather do you own?”

  Chapter Three

  Spike leaned back in the wooden chair and rested his cold beer on his thigh. Joe’s bar was packed tonight, and room seemed to practically vibrate with energy. The number of gangs in the area, and the number of members themselves, had dropped considerably since the Russians had come to town, but you wouldn’t know it looking at the place right now. The music thudded in his ears as he watched the Satan’s Disciples enjoy themselves.

  “Look at Tiny,” Cleo said next to him, nodding towards a large man with a long blond-gray ponytail.

  Tiny’s cheeks were ruddy; he was in a drinking race, his massive paw gripping the base of a pitcher of beer as he gulped down its contents, tiny rivulets running down his long, greying beard. He took his last swallow and won, laughing as he held the glass pitcher aloft. Tiny slammed the glass down on the table in victory, sending cracks all through the pitcher’s base.

  Tiny looked at the broken glass guiltily. Shoving himself away from the table, he picked his way through the crowd with his head hung low. He called over Joe, the bar’s owner, and rather abashedly handed over the pitcher, along with a twenty-dollar bill.

  Spike smiled a small smile to himself. Tiny was the biggest man in Satan’s Disciples, at a couple inches over six feet tall, and almost five feet around, yet he was one of the gentlest men he knew. Tiny had joined the gang to follow in his older brother’s—and idol’s—footsteps, and remained after his brother died in a tragic motorcycle accident to honor his memory. Though Tiny was only in his forties, the members Satan’s Disciples liked to joke that he was a dinosaur leftover from the heydays of biker gangs.

  “He’s having a good time,” Spike said, taking a pull from his beer. The dim light shone on his hand; his knuckles were tattooed, spelling out, Never 4give.

  Cleo snorted softly, shaking her head. Her long, black, wavy hair had thick blonde streaks in it and hung past her shoulders. She flicked it back, annoyed. “We should be planning right now, not playing silly drinking games.”

  Spike looked at her out of the corner of his eye. The first thing anyone would say when they saw Cleo was that she was incredibly gorgeous. Part Egyptian, Cleo had beautiful, regal features, with a prominent nose and golden-olive skin. Spike knew most people looking at her would notice her figure, which was soft and lean in all the right places, and fail to see her capabilities, which were many.

  Tiny was technically Spike’s second-in-command, but it was Cleo who often came up with most of the ideas that kept the gang alive. Spike would promote her, but he was fucking her, and that wouldn’t sit right with the gang. Cleo understood, though. She put the gang first, which was why she continued to help, even if she couldn’t have the title she deserved. She even refused the title of his old lady, wanting to be seen as more than a back-warmer within the gang.

  “Did you hear me?” she said, poking his side.

  Spike sighed and sat up, scanning the bar. He saw Tiny, but if they were going to talk about the
gang’s options, he needed the rest of the higher-ups as well. Spotting Vince and Hector, Spike let out a sharp whistle; they were next two in the chain of command, respectively.

  Vince, a handsome man with skin blacker than the dead of night, immediately stood up, leaving his pool game. Stopping suddenly, he turned back and grabbed a short Hispanic man wearing a wife-beater who was hitting on Jinx, another member of Satan’s Disciples, for the thousandth time. Hector had yet to have any luck with her, or any other woman, but from what Spike could tell, that didn’t seem to stop him from trying.

  Spike shook his head. Hector was always chasing women. It was his only weakness, if you didn’t count booze, drugs, cigarettes, or thrill-seeking. “Have a seat,” he said as the two men approached, kicking out a chair. “We need to talk.”

  Tiny lumbered over, settling into a wooden chair with a creak. “What are we talking about?” he asked, pulling out a cigarette. Hector nudged Tiny and bummed one off of him.

  “Ivan,” Vince said in a deep voice. “Right?” he looked at Spike.

  “We got lucky with Vermin,” Cleo said, confirming Vince’s guess. “But Spike isn’t going to be able to outmaneuver Ivan like that every time. Eventually he’s going to get tired of this little back-and-forth he has going on with Satan’s Disciples, and he’s going to come for us.” Her dark eyes snapped to each face at the table, commanding their attention.

  “Cleo’s right, guys,” Spike said, signaling Joe for another beer. “I figure we have about a month before Ivan decides to come at us with everything he has. Unless someone does something incredibly stupid to speed that along,” he said warningly, looking at Hector. He had a reputation for being a bit reckless.

  “I swear,” Hector crossed his heart, “you will see nada from me.” Cleo snorted disbelievingly and Hector put his hand to his heart again, this time as though wounded. “Mi amor, my love, why do you hurt me this way?”

  “Can we focus?” Cleo said, ignoring Hector. “Spike? A little help here?” She nudged their leader, who, judging by his face, had completely checked out of the conversation.

  ***

  “This was a bad idea, Stacy,” Georgia said, panicking. “They’re going to know we’re lying!”

  It hadn’t taken too long to find Joe’s bar—they just followed the deafening sound of motorcycles. Okay, not really. They had used Google Maps, but the closer they got to the establishment, Georgia had to resist covering her ears against the noise.

  Last night, after Stacy had come over to Georgia’s house, they had gone back to Stacy’s place, where Georgia promptly passed out for several hours. When she awoke, she worked with Stacy to come up with what Georgia was now realizing was a very, very stupid plan.

  Felix had mentioned that Satan’s Disciples weren’t the only gang having problems with Ivan. So, Stacy suggested they pretend to be members of another dwindling gang from the outskirts of Chicago. It wasn’t much, but perhaps if they could pass as fellow bikers, their plea might carry more weight.

  Stacy pulled out every piece of leather Georgia had in her closet, which turned out to be a single pair of boots.

  “Really?” Stacy had said to her, holding up the bright, yellow galoshes. “This is it?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Georgia had replied to her sarcastically, “Had I known this was going to happen I would’ve asked Catwoman if I could borrow some of her clothes.”

  “Wrong kind of leather,” Stacy had corrected her. “It’s okay, though. I have some stuff you can wear.”

  Georgia had nervously tugged at the vest Stacy lent her the entire drive to the bar. Stacy was significantly smaller than Georgia, and the vest barely buttoned over her chest. At Stacy’s insistence, she left the remaining buttons on the top open, exposing her tan, toned stomach.

  Stacy had put on a pair of black shorts, thigh high leather boots, and a tight black tank top that stopped just below her navel. The idea was that hopefully if they looked the part, everyone would be too concerned about Ivan to ask too many questions.

  They’re just bikers, Georgia had reasoned with herself. How smart can they possibly be?

  They had decided to park the car a few blocks away as Stacy’s Prius might have blown their cover as old ladies from a motorcycle gang. Walking into the bar, Georgia had done her best to put on her game face as both her and her brother’s lives were on the line, but looking around at the kind of debauchery going on, she began to have serious doubts.

  “They’re not going to know unless you keep standing there, staring!” Stacy hissed. “Stop looking like you’ve never seen someone do heroin before and move!” She tugged on Georgia’s elbow sharply, almost sending her to the floor.

  Georgia tried to look as aloof as possible as the two women made their way to the bar. It was a little difficult considering she was terrified she was going to burst out of Stacy’s vest at any moment.

  “What can I get you ladies?” the bartender asked, drying a beer mug with a stained rag.

  Stacy glanced back at Georgia, who froze, and said nothing. “Two specials, please,” Stacy ordered.

  Georgia took a quick look at the board hanging behind the bar. Underneath Tonight’s Special was a drink named Hawg Ear, which apparently consisted of a mixture of dark beer and rum. It was disgusting, but Georgia didn’t care. She gulped down a third of it, desperate for the false courage.

  Stacy arched a brow, but didn’t say anything, and took a liberal swallow from her own glass. Pulling out her wallet, Stacy paid the bartender. “Could you help us with one other thing?” she asked.

  “Depends,” the bartender replied, picking up another mug to dry.

  “We’re looking for someone named Spike, the leader of Satan’s Disciples.”

  The woman frowned, a lock of blonde hair falling into her face. “What do you want with him?”

  “My friend needs to talk to him,” Stacy replied evasively.

  The blonde woman shrugged, uncaring, and nodded towards a large wooden table in the center of the room. “Shaggy brown hair; in the black t-shirt and leather vest,” she told them.

  Georgia managed to mutter a thank you, and they stepped away from the bar to plan their approach.

  “So, you’ll go up to him, and—”

  “Wait,” Georgia interrupted. “Why do I have to go?” she protested.

  “Because it’s your brother,” Stacy said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve brought you this far; you have to do the rest.”

  Georgia sighed, defeated. She eyed the imposing man, and a chill ran down her body. His long, lean form seemed to take up far more room than was physically possibly. He was discussing something intensely with the people around him; Georgia couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Suddenly she realized Stacy had been talking to her this whole time.

  “What?” she said.

  Stacy stopped and stared at Georgia. “Seriously? Georgia, you have got to pull it together here! We need to figure out how you’re going to approach this guy.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Georgia said, still staring.

  “What? Why not?” Stacy asked, surprised.

  “Because he’s coming over here right now.”

  ***

  After spending five years in prison, Spike had becoming incredibly in tune with his gut, and his gut was telling him he was being watched.

  It had taken all of four seconds for the gang meeting to derail, when Spike felt someone staring at him. He looked up slowly, not wanting to give himself away, and immediately locked eyes with a tan, curvy woman with curly brown hair and quite possibly the thickest ass Spike had ever seen.

  She watched him like one watched a shark: carefully, with a barely-controlled fear. Spike dimly heard Cleo talking to him, but he didn’t care. Whoever this woman and the friend she had with her were, it was painfully obvious they didn’t belong here. Even stranger, it was clear they didn’t want to be here.

  He stood up, the wooden legs of the chair scraping loudly against the fl
oor.

  “What…where are you going?” Cleo asked as Spike simply got up and walked away from the meeting. “Hello?” she cried after him, but he ignored her.

  Georgia had the strong feeling of being stalked—no, worse, of being caught. Spike’s dark green eyes pinned her to the wall like a butterfly on display. She watched, terrified, as he pushed his chair back to stand, and began to walk towards her.

  “Oh shit,” Stacy muttered. There was still time for them to turn around and run away. She slowly reached forward to grab Georgia’s elbow and pull her back, to tell her they would find another way to help her brother, but she only touched thin air.

  Georgia had stepped forward to meet Spike, her head held high. Stacy quickly moved to stand next to her.