Burnt: A Devil's Spawn Novel

by Natasha Thomas

  BURNT

  A Devil’s Spawn Novel By – Natasha Thomas

  Copyright © 2015 by Natasha Thomas

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  eBook Published and any subsequent Printing done and developed in Australia

  First Released, January 29th 2015

  Second Release, February 28th 2015

  ISBN 9781311940582

  Natasha Thomas

  Sydney, Australia

  www.natashathomasauthor@gmail.com

  eBook copyright ©2015

  Natasha Thomas

  All rights reserved

  By purchasing this eBook it allows you one legal copy for your own personal reading, on your computer, tablet, or other device capable of viewing eBooks. After purchasing, you do not have the rights to; resell, print, distribute, or transfer this book, in part, or whole to any other person via any method currently known, or yet to be conceived, or developed in the future. It may also, not be uploaded, in part or whole, to any file sharing programs, websites, or social media outlets. Being resold, given, or transferred to any other person is in direct violation of the Australian, and U.S. Copyright Laws.

  WARNING

  This book is a work of fiction, and is written to be taken as such.

  Characters, names, road names, motorcycle clubs, places, businesses, towns, events, and incidents are a product of the author’s own thoughts, and imagination. As such, any resemblance to persons living, or dead, actual events, or incidents, past, present, or future, is purely coincidental, and is not in any way intended to offend, upset, or disturb person/s reading its content.

  This book is intended for mature audiences aged 18 and over. It contains content that may be viewed as disturbing for some readers, graphic sexual scenes and references, coarse language, and violence.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly I would like to thank, my husband and children for all their support and understanding as I went through this time consuming, emotional journey. It took all of your patience, and effort not to scream, yell, fight, and possibly kill me in my sleep for my neglect when it came to feeding and watering you during my down times writing. I love you all, and I promise that I’ll eventually take a break and cook dinner, one day soon.

  Next, a big thank you to Monica Langley Holloway for her amazing help with my eBook covers, banners, teasers, and in general listening to me bitch and moan about not being able to work out how to do basic fonts. You’re a legend.

  To all the Facebook pages, and groups that have supported, pimped, uploaded, and encouraged me; thank you. Without you this wouldn’t have been possible.

  Dedication

  To the man that make me smile.

  He makes me laugh and cry.

  He holds my hand in support and through hardship,

  &

  Makes me grateful for every day we have together.

  To my Husband… Sven

  PROLOGUE

  Once upon a time… Nope. That sure as hell isn’t how my story should start. One day, long, long ago… No! It shouldn’t start that way either. Let’s try this…

  Sometimes there is a moment in time that changes you. A moment where all things cease to exist, but that burning feeling in your belly. The pain in your chest, and the feeling of emptiness. I had that moment, and when I did it hurt. It hurt so badly that I thought I’d been consumed by it. By the pain, the sorrow, by the sheer magnitude of it.

  But I wasn’t.

  Not me. I wasn’t lucky enough for it to consume me. For it to burn out taking the emotions dragging me under with it. No. I was left with the embers. The fire that was nearly gone, but refused to be completely extinguished. My fire was one that would stay with me too. Embers being stoked from time to time reminding me that there is no fairness in this world. That karma isn’t always enforced on the wicked. Justice for the survivors isn’t always found.

  My name is Kendall Jacobs, and I have been burnt. The start of my story might sound like a dream. It will most probably cause similar feelings to that of a dream. Lulling you into a false sense of security, making you feel warm and peaceful. Maybe even wrapping you in its arms like the stars do the moon. That won’t last long though. It will quickly turn into a nightmare. One that you won’t be lucky enough to wake from. A nightmare that you will remember forever.

  Sometimes there is no waking from things that are better left in the fantasy world of your dreams. There is no amount of hoping, praying that it will be just that. A dream. Occasionally when it is all too much you, like me, will remember a time when life was simpler. A time when you saw all people as good. When the sun came up, and went down with a regularity that you found calming, and the future was a place you looked forward to visiting. Most of the time, well if you’re me, you learn to embrace your new reality. You realise that this is all there is. This is what your life has become, and you accept it even though you wish nothing more than for everything to be different. You come to recognise it probably never will be.

  This is my story. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kendall

  Ping. Ping. Ping. I’m not asleep, but I’m not completely awake either. I’m in that mellow place in between. You know that place where you can feel yourself falling into that peaceful abyss, but you’re still holding onto consciousness.

  The sound I am hearing is one I know well. The sound of tiny pieces of gravel from the path behind our house hitting my bedroom window. It reminds me of the sound small hail stones hitting my window pane during a summer storm.

  It has to be well after eleven-PM. That noise never happens unless it is. Some nights I wish it wouldn’t happen. Those nights I wish the sound away. I know if I don’t get up it will continue, but there’s something inside me that tells me tonight I shouldn’t get up. Maybe tonight I should try to ignore it. For once I might be wrong, and if I do it will go away. Of course me being me; stubborn, curious, and slightly too crazy for my own good don’t do any of these things. I just have to get up don’t I? Let’s rewind for a minute…

  My name is Kendall Jacobs. I’m seventeen-years-old. Well I actually turn eighteen in three days. I’m a senior at Blackwater High School that’s located in Blackwater Colorado. I have no siblings. I’m not sure if that is part of the reason my parents are uber protective, or not, but I assume so. My best friend is Declan Marks, and he means the world to me, and I want nothing more than to be a tattooist when I graduate at the end of this year.

  There is probably one other teeny tiny little thing I should mention. I am also the daughter of Kane ‘Priest’ Jacobs President of Devil’s Spawn Motorcycle Club. Thinking about it that might just explain the over-protectiveness of my dear dad, or most of it at least.

  There is a slight difference between me, and a lot of the kids that grow up with bikers as fathers. Where others kids are raised knowing their dads’ position in the club, and attend hog roasts, social events, and parties deemed acceptable for families, I did not grow up the same way. I’ve been raised firmly entrenched within the club. Meaning I have dozens of ‘uncles’ and ‘aunts’. Heaps of fiercely protective older brother types, thank God I don’t have any actual brothers, and a truck load of willing shoulders and ears.

  Most people think bikers are nasty, angry, old dudes that go around doing a bunch of illegal stuff. That they proceed to drink their lives away, objectify women, objectify is a nice way of them saying women are put on this Earth to serve them as well as showing a whole heap
of tits, and ass while they do it, and start bar brawls when the occasion hits. These people would be right. To some degree at least. My family is like any other. Probably better actually. They love hard. Fight harder, and will never let you down. I have always had one of the guys at my back since I could walk.

  Take my uncle Max. Max ‘Reaper’ Andrews is as big, hard, and angry looking as they come. 2 full sleeves of tattoos. A full chest, and back of colourful masterpieces that take up so much real estate I often wonder where he will find room for more. Toss in a few scars, and a nasty smile when he gets pissed, and voila. You have a scary ass biker. He’s also my dad’s SAA, and has been since before I was born. Reaper is also one of his best friends. More than the sum of his appearance, he’s just Uncle Max to me.

  When I scraped my knees coming off my first ever bike Uncle Max was the one to scoop me up putting Hello Kitty Band-Aids on my boo-boos. When I broke my arm climbing the big Oak tree in the courtyard of the clubhouse Uncle Max was there talking to me until my mom could arrive. See. Like I said bikers are most definitely hard, angry, and may occasionally do things that are not completely within the bounds of the law, but they are also the very best family I could ever hope for.

  Other than Uncle Max my closest ‘uncle’ is uncle Pipe. Okay. His name isn’t really Pipe. That happens to be his road name, but he’s threatened to decapitate anyone that calls him anything else. Except me of course. He never has anything, but a hug, and a smile for me. I’m just lucky like that I guess. No one else gets to see the softer side of him like I do very often. While most of the time I do indeed call him uncle Pipe; the other times when I really want something from him, or need his brand of bear hugs I call him uncle Jeri. Jeri is short for Jerimiah, and there is nothing he hates more than to hear me call him that with a smile on my face.

  Uncle Pipe is dad’s vice president. He’s held that position since the day my dad took the gavel, and I don’t see him retiring it until my dad turns over his presidency. They make a great team I must admit. Dad is more stoic and thoughtful, while uncle Pipe is loud and brash. While they come across as opposites I think that’s why it works for them. They both have the other to balance them out.

  The best thing about uncle Pipe, other than his awesome bear hugs, is his son Declan Abraham Marks. Declan was born exactly 3 months before me, which means that we are not only close in age, but were destined to be great friends too. Declan’s mom was what the guys call a club whore. I’ve never liked that term, but it is what it is. According to uncle Pipe that’s what most MC’s call these type of women.

  The story goes that after finding out she was pregnant, Missy Declan’s mom, told Uncle Pipe she wasn’t having the baby. She wasn’t cut out to be a mom, and so she tried to sneak away to have an abortion without uncle Pipe knowing about it. Uncle Pipe was furious. He apparently locked her in his room at the club house, and refused to let her leave until his kid was born. I say ‘apparently’ because this is all stuff I heard one day when I was playing hide and seek with Declan in the main room of the club house. I’m pretty damn sure we weren’t supposed to overhear any of that stuff, but it couldn’t be unheard, so here we are. When Missy went into labour uncle Pipe offered her a ton of money to sign over her rights to Declan and leave.

  No need for me to give you two guesses as to what she chose. Yep. Missy signed on the dotted line picking up her cash, and moved away. Uncle Pipe and Declan have never heard from her again, and I can’t say that I’m too upset she never came back either. I may never have known her, but anyone that can leave a guy that hugs like uncle Pipe, or a boy as wonderful as Declan mustn’t be a very nice person.

  My naivety as a child regarding the character of Declan’s mom morphed into actual understanding when I was about fourteen. Missy was after fun, freedom, and the chance to be the centre of attention. All three of which Declan threatened just by being conceived. That doesn’t make what she did right. Far from it. I can just understand her motivation better now. Uncle Pipe never tried to replace Missy. In saying that, I don’t mean in the sense of women to warm his bed at night, or during the day. Whenever the mood struck him really. He definitely has plenty of those type of women. I mean he has never tried to find a woman to be a mother figure to Declan, and all that entails. Declan hasn’t suffered from her absence, or that of a female role model however. Not that I’ve seen, or picked up on anyway. He has his dad. My dad. My mom. All the guys in the club, and of course me.

  From the time I could crawl we have been best friends. When the men had to go on a ‘run’ Declan stayed with my mom and me. When he needed stuff for school, or to go to the doctors my mom took him. That’s not to say uncle Pipe hasn’t been an active part of Declan’s life because he definitely is. Uncle Pipe took him to school every day when he was younger. He taught him to throw a football, coming to all his little league, and football games when he got old enough to play. Uncle Pipe taught him to shoot, ride a bike, one with pedal power, and one with a motor. He taught him to fish, and ewww, gross, later uncle Pipe taught him to glove up, or no love. That was definitely one I didn’t need to hear about.

  I will never forget when we were thirteen, and Declan asked me if I knew what condoms were, and how to use them. At the time I looked at him like he’d lost his mind. Of course I knew what they were. We did have health class in school for God’s sake. I didn’t know how to use them though. Because frankly put I didn’t have the necessary parts to require them. After informing Declan of this very important fact we both burst out laughing. When we collapsed on the lush green grass in my backyard, Declan proceeded to tickle me mercilessly until I tapped out screaming ‘mercy’ at the top of my lungs.

  All-in-all Declan hasn’t done too badly for not having a full-time mom at home. There is only one time I can remember that my mom got angry with uncle Pipe over Declan, and that’s saying something because my mom doesn’t get angry very often. Most of the time mom took her role as a secondary caregiver to Declan in her stride, dealing with anything that arose without the need for input from Declan’s dad.

  On this occasion I don’t think they knew I was listening. I probably shouldn’t have been either. I was about eight-years-old at the time I think. Uncle Pipe was late picking Declan up one night. I remember being so thirsty, so I decided to make the trip down to the kitchen to get a drink. I was coming down the stairs when I heard my mom raise her voice. Brenna Jacobs, my mom, never raised her voice. Even when Declan and I decided it would be a good idea to make mud pies in the living room when we were five because it was too rainy to do it outside. She just shook her head, and said “What am I going to do with you two?” She smiled as she said it, which made us understand she wasn’t angry with us. This night was different though, so I did what all curious eight-year-olds would do. I hid around the corner of the staircase and listened in.

  “Jerimiah Prescott Marks,” oh yeah, he was definitely in trouble. No one calls uncle Pipe that, and the only person that will get away with it is my mom. “What kind of example do you think you’re setting for you son?”

  I take it Uncle Pipe was frustrated by the tone in his voice. Not that I knew what that meant back then, but I do now. He does this little angry headshake, and grind his back teeth together.

  “Jesus, fuck, Brenna. What have I fucking done now?” I should probably mention that fuck, shit, damn, hell, cock, and pussy are words I hear all day every day. Growing up around bikers taught me what could almost be classified as a second language when it came to curse words. These words didn’t even affect me by the age of five unless I repeated them. Then I was affected by the soap that was stuffed in my mouth, and my mom looking at me with disappointment written all over her face. That was something I hated to see so it cured me of cursing, at least in front of her, quickly.

  “Don’t you Jesus me Pipe. That boy does NOT need to see the revolving door of pussy coming in and out of your house day after day. What are you thinking? Letting them into your house in the first place. You boys have
a club house for that sort of shit.”

  “Fuck Brenna. What do you expect? I’m a man I have needs and shit. Don’t have an Ol’ Lady. Don’t have a wife, and sure as fuck don’t have a girlfriend. My cock’s gonna drop right the fuck off if I don’t use it. I’m thirty fucking two-years-old, and you want me to act like a fucking ninety-year-old limp dick geriatric.” I don’t think what my Uncle Pipe said makes my mom very happy because it sounds like she yells at the ceiling. She does that sometimes with dad when she isn’t happy with him too.

  I crouch further back because I hear heavy boot falls coming my way. Seconds later I hear my dad make it into the front room. Well I assumed it’s the front room seeing as that’s where mom and Uncle Pipe are after all.

  “What in the holy fuck are you yelling at my woman about Pipe? I better have heard you wrong brother. No motherfucker talks to my woman like that.”

  He doesn’t answer. My mom does instead.

  “Calm down Kane. I’m just having a word with Jerimiah here about the revolving pussy party that’s been taking place at his house.”

  My dad laughs. Uh-oh. My mom hates when he laughs at her when she’s angry. He does this a lot. It also makes my mom angry every time without fail. Not that she stays mad for long, but that’s neither here nor there.