Chapter Nineteen: Dancing, Dicks, and Dildos
Chapter Twenty: Q&A
Chapter Twenty-One: One Step Ahead
Part Three: The Bet
Chapter Twenty-Two: Lamentations
Chapter Twenty-Three: My Memento
Chapter Twenty-Four: DNA
Chapter Twenty-Five: Runt
Chapter Twenty-Six: Testing Her Commitment
Chapter Twenty-Seven: You Fuckin’ Lost
Part Four: The Baby
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Big Easy
Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Life in the Balance
Chapter Thirty: A Knock from the Past
Chapter Thirty-One: A Simple Answer
Chapter Thirty-Two: Losses
Chapter Thirty-Three: Honor Thy Father
Chapter Thirty-Four: Sons & Daughters
Omega
Alpha
Lucas “Mortician” Banks allowed the breeze to blow through his dreads as he followed the president and vice-president of their MC to retrieve Prez’s wife. Mortician had left Megan Caldwell with his wife, Bailey. Meggie had been so upset after discovering her pregnancy. Too upset to face Prez and too sick to drive. Bailey’s condo had been the best place for Meggie to chill at and get herself together until Chester, Prez’s sister, picked her up.
He’d promised Bailey he’d return later, once Chester and Meggie got back to the club.
But he’d fucked up and let the cat out of the bag, ratting Meggie’s location out to Prez. It was either that or getting a bullet in his head. Mortician hated to be a picky motherfucker, but he’d preferred snitching to a spattered brain.
Still a possibility if Meggie told Prez that Mortician knew she was pregnant before Prez had found out from Red, the worst possible person—to Prez anyway.
Halting at a stoplight, Mortician scowled. He had no fucking business worrying about the other girls—Meggie, Red or Chester. He had his own woman problems with his own damn wife. Mainly, because of that fucking bet he’d made.
At least, Prez had allowed the original bet to be amended from no time frame to win or lose, to six months. Those six months would be up in a matter of days. Then, he’d be home free. If he wanted to, he could shout from the rooftops how much he loved Bailey—if he’d loved her, he meant. How addicted to her young pussy he’d gotten. Not that he had. He could concede that he was one jealous motherfucker, (not that he was), and wanted to throat punch any motherfucker who looked at her. Not that he ever would.
The point was if he wanted to do any of those things, he’d be free to do so after he won the bet.
Stoplight changed to green and Prez headed off. Mortician sped behind, barely able to restrain himself from jumping ahead to get to the condo ASAP. He couldn’t wait to see Bailey. Look into her pretty eyes. Feel his daughter moving inside of her.
Fuck.
Hold on.
He didn’t have to sweat this. Friends enjoyed each other’s company and that’s what they were. Friends. Besides, he didn’t need a fucking excuse to want to be in her presence. They were married.
A dark van sped by, nearly clipping Mort, and he threw up his finger, hoping the driver looked in the rearview mirror to see the obscene gesture. A bell rang—his sound for an incoming text message—as he pulled to a stop in a parking spot in the condo garage where Bailey lived.
As soon as he collected his money from all those smug motherfuckers, he was going to move Bailey to the compound full-time. This goddamn building was too easily accessible.
Outlaw whipped by him in a frantic rush to get to his girl while Mortician got off his bike and paused to read the text he’d just received.
Zoann headed 2 the club Im on my way 2 u
Mortician frowned, sure Val hadn’t meant to text him. Damn, was he stepping out on Chester? He couldn’t be. Not after all they’d gone through to find their happiness.
Clenching his jaw, Mortician pushed aside Val’s history. Of fucking Mort’s girlfriend and of damn near forcing Meggie. The fuckhead had been high during both fuckups, but, fuck…
U txtng wrong mothrfuckr mothrfuckr this Mort not the bitch u reachng out 2
Phone in hand, Mort reached the inside of the building, finding no sign of either Prez or John Boy. He pressed the call button for the elevator. His wait wouldn’t be long because this was one, fast bitch. On cue, he heard the ding just as another text message came through.
Fuck u I kno who the fuck Im textng
Jabbing his finger on the button for the 4th floor, Mortician shook his head. Val was coming to Bailey’s for what…? Because picking up Meggie certainly didn’t warrant half the fucking club officers at Mortician’s wife’s apartment.
The doors slid open and he walked into the hallway, pausing to tell Val to fuck off if he valued his life.
“Yeah, what the fuck about Outlaw, motherfuckers?”
Prez’s voice boomed down the hall a moment before gunfire erupted. Mort’s heart dropped to his nuts and his money—his pride—departed on the fucking elevator he’d just stepped out of.
At Bailey’s door, he halted, the scene before him converging into a narrow lens—one where Bailey wasn’t in it, but a whole bunch of dead bodies were, along with a furious and blood-splattered Outlaw and a terrified Meggie. John Boy was already on the phone, barking orders. But…Mort didn’t see his Bailey. He rushed through the small place. Her frilly bedroom. Her pink and yellow bathroom. The kitchen with white appliances. He didn’t find her. She was nowhere in this condo filled with wasted motherfuckers and…Meggie, who was shaking, trembling, and crying, clinging to Outlaw.
Refusing to accept what the evidence showed him, Mortician stared at Meggie. His heart went out to her, but…“Where’s Bailey?”
No one answered. Outlaw was trying to calm Meggie while shielding her from the four, dead motherfuckers. His warning glower told Mort to back off. Normally, he would, except, he had to find his wife.
“Meggie girl, where’s Bailey?” Mortician repeated, closing the distance. He felt drunk, sucker-punched, and sick to his fucking stomach.
Meggie raised her frantic eyes to him and darted her gaze between him and Prez. Whatever she had to say wouldn’t be good.
“They took her!” Meggie cried, her fast, trembling words blurring together in Mort’s head. “Digger and a girl named, Peyton.”
Digger? As in Markus “Digger” Banks, Mortician’s little brother?
No…
“These men were going to meet them, too,” she continued. “They were! But they didn’t know what to do with my body. They wanted to throw me out the window so you could find me and then they said it wouldn’t matter because you wouldn’t care because I was dead.”
The more Meggie spoke, the further Mortician’s heart sank, until he felt as if it would explode. He was that child again, who’d gotten word of his mother’s death in a cold, detached manner from a cold, detached father.
Meggie wasn’t cold and detached, though. She was nearly hysterical.
“They just wanted to get back to Sharper with Bailey so she could tell him about letters that K-P had because Sharper sent Logan letters from Big Joe after he got my daddy hooked on drugs and…and…and he…he had to kill K-P after he threatened to bring the whole thing down and…and…and th-they…th-they…h-he…” She pounded against Outlaw’s chest, losing complete control.
Wait, what the fuck had she said? Sharper? Mortician’s father? Letters? What the fuck—?
“Fuckin’ Sharper sent that dirty, old fucker those letters pretendin’ to be from Big Joe?”
At Outlaw’s statement, Mortician slid into the dark place he didn’t go to very often. He performed his tasks however necessary. If he needed to shoot a dumb fuck, he did. Knife him? Not his thing, but if he had no other option. Beat a fucker to death? He liked how handing out ass whippings expelled pumped-up adrenaline and energy. On the other hand, if he needed to just dispose of dumb fucks, he did that, too. It was his role in the club, enforcer and disposer of bodies. Most time
s, he didn’t think about it, so he couldn’t dwell on it or analyze it.
It was just how he rolled. He made it through with firm coping mechanisms. Alcohol. Ganja. Jokes. And losing himself in pussy. Fucking was his favorite form of forgetting the bad shit. Plowing pussy gave him back a small bit of humanity, the only piece left to him. Girls were special. Soft. They kept life interesting.
And Bailey?
Fuck. Bailey. His wife. His woman. The mother of his unborn daughter. The girl who loved him.
His father wanted Mort’s girl, another of Mort’s girls. Only this time…this time… Bailey’s apartment smelled of death and body fluids. Blood, bone, and gray matter was splattered everywhere. Prez liked his fucking head shots.
Mortician rested his hand on his .380 holstered beneath his cut, but he had no one to kill yet. Not until he got to Cali and got his hands on his brother and father.
Not only had they put their filthy hands on his pregnant, young wife, they’d taken her from Mort.
They were fucking dead.
“I’m hitting the fucking road, Prez,” he said coldly, his fear for Bailey and their baby making his head hurt.
“Wait, Mort,” Prez called, setting Meggie down. “Megan, go put cold water on your face and lie down on Bailey’s bed for a bit.”
She nodded and stumbled away from him, not looking at the bodies. While Prez was distracted with his wife, Mortician walked away.
Nothing in the world the man could tell him would keep him from going after Bailey.
3:33AM.
Mort sat amidst his father’s congregation, thinking about the meaning of that particular time of day.
Every decision for life-changing events happened at 3:33 in the morning.
Or so his father claimed.
To Mortician, though, three thirty-three represented something different. Symbolized half of evil and, when doubled, created a whole.
Six fucking six six, divided by two, equaled half of fucking Satan. Fitting. Sharper and Charlemagne Banks equaled the demonic fucking duo. One couldn’t work without the other. Therefore, life-changing events always took place at three fucking thirty-three—because Fat & Skinny, Evil & Eviler, Slicker & Slickest, worked together.
Muscles twitching in anger, Mortician hunkered down in the pew, glaring at the overcrowded pulpit and searching the choir stand for Char as Sharper’s voice droned on.
Mortician had spent too many Sundays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays in this fucking building. As the membership grew and Sharper’s pockets swelled, their status inched up. And the fucking deceit went out of control.
A flash of silver material caught his eye and Mortician shifted, angling his head to get a better glimpse of her. Char, still gorgeous with her dusky skin, high cheekbones, and slanted eyes. Bitch couldn’t compare to Bailey, though.
Not wanting to think of Bailey right now because he needed to keep calm to get to her, Mortician gritted his teeth and shifted, scowling at the imperious lift of the brow from the older suited-up motherfucker next to him. Suit and tie bent and whispered something to his wife and she peeked around her husband. She was younger, could have been his daughter, except for the way the man buzzed her lips with his own.
Unable to help himself, Mortician winked at her. Sadity, stuck-up, society bitch, who would open her legs to him in a minute. He tried his best to stay away from married bitches, although he’d made exceptions once or twice.
The nose-far-enough-in-the-air-to-drown-in-a-drizzle motherfucker angled his body toward Mortician in clear warning.
He wanted a dick measuring contest here? In church? Really?
If not for the maid he’d bribed—well, the knife to her throat had helped—he’d be bored as a motherfucker listening to his father’s baritone voice singing Praise Is What I Do.
He needed to act normal. If his dad thought for one minute that Mortician knew he had Bailey, he’d give the order and have her killed.
That thought fucked with his head, so Mortician leaned over to fuck with Mr. Asshole and Mrs. Sadity. “If your dick too limp seeing as how you kind of up in age, I’ll fuck her for you.”
Anger lit the man’s dark eyes. Finally, some fucking entertainment. But it didn’t ease the ache in Mortician’s chest.
He needed Bailey.
No. He needed to get Bailey to safety. He didn’t need her. He’d needed his mother and he’d needed Charlemagne and he’d had his heart ripped out both times.
Give it up, asshole. You need Bailey. You want her. You love her.
So now he was hearing romantic fucking voices in his head? Fuck off. He’d prefer to talk to his dick. Once upon a time, he’d named it Roscoe.
Had he ever told Bailey that his dick’s name was Roscoe? Had he even remembered? There wasn’t much he remembered when he was around Bailey. She consumed him.
Mortician shook a little, almost unable to remain in his seat and pretend she wasn’t somewhere in one of the million rooms of this mega-church.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But, mostly, he wanted to fucking kill. And he would. Brutally and viciously. Slowly and methodically.
John Boy the sociopath. Prez the psycho. So what the fuck are you?
With fucking voices in his head, he was on the other side of fucking gone. He was worse than either John Boy or Outlaw. That made him a homicidal maniac with stalker tendencies who got off on the scent of blood and head shots.
He turned to the couple next to him again before he fucking lost it with the bullshit running through his brain. “See Reverend Banks? That’s my fucking pa, so my dick’ll be as golden as yours.” Judging by asshole’s Rolex watch, his dick was very golden. Course, motherfuckers liked to front, too. “I got a fucking safe filled with bills.” Truth. It came from the trust fund his mother had left him. He had several fucking safes stuffed with bills and so did Digger. Mortician intended to remove the money and stuff his brother’s dismembered body into the biggest one, but he’d keep that shit to himself. “Make it fucking easy. I’m a preacher’s son, a fucking biker, and was a fucking music and math major in college. I can be religious, tough, and educated for her, depending on her fantasy.”
The man jumped to his feet and Mortician smirked at him, his gun pressing into his side.
“Would you like to meet me outside, sir?” Mr. Asshole asked tightly.
No need to meet him outside. Right here, he’d yank his gun out, shove it in the man’s face and pull the trigger. Except too many witnesses were present. A couple thousand, at least.
Glancing toward the stage, Mortician watched as Char faltered. She saw him and stilled, her long throat moving. He sat close enough where he didn’t need a monitor to see anyone on the stage, either left in the choir stand or right toward the row of chairs set up for the assistant and visiting ministers. The crowd shouldn’t allow Char to see him, but she did. Her dark gaze landed on him and she cast a nervous glance toward Sharper’s back.
Mortician wanted that motherfucker to see him. He wanted to shock the fuck out of him. He wanted to knock the fuck out of him.
Three fucking thirty-three. Lying motherfucker. Had he decided to steal Char from Mortician at three fucking thirty-three in the morning? Or, maybe, he settled upon the amount it would take to buy her cooperation and swear to the world the baby in her fucking stomach belonged to Sharper and not Mortician.
Perhaps, at 3:33, he’d figured out the number of dick pumps and dick-hardening pills he needed to make his cock work by the time Char reached her thirty-fifth birthday and he reached his fucking seventieth.
3:33 might’ve been the time he’d written his death sentence and decided to take Mortician’s wife. Maybe, Mortician should wait until 3:33 to blow his fucking head off.
He yanked the arm of the man sitting next to him and lifted it to read the time on the asshole’s watch. Just to fuck with him since he had his own watch on his wrist.
The dude jerked his arm away and glared a warning to Mortician. Folding his ar
ms and sucking his teeth, Mortician responded with a nasty smile.
He only had a few minutes left until the end of service. About two hours and seven minutes until 3:33PM. Sharper always claimed to have his revelations at 3:33AM.
Oh fucking well.
Couldn’t have everything. He just needed to get the fuck in the back where the offices were to get his girl.
He’d always sworn he’d get his girl back from his father. Only then, it had been Char. As the years passed and the club became so much a part of his life, he’d let that fantasy go.
Charlemagne Williams-Banks would turn her nose up at his lifestyle. Fucking a biker appealed to her. Living with one didn’t. She didn’t know hardship and she didn’t do casual. Queen Charlemagne had been born to suck on a rich dick. For a while, his cock had been worth its weight in fucking gold.
He’d been heir…to this. He’d been twelve when they met and she’d been fifteen. As his thirteenth birthday present, she’d sucked his dick, blowing him daily for the next few weeks until she’d had him so fucking hooked, he would’ve done anything to get her to start again when she’d suddenly announced she intended to stop.
Calculating fucking cunt.
A week later, she’d showed up at his house and offered him a deal. If he wanted his daily dick sucks, he had to eat her pussy every day.
Mortician glowered in her direction. He hadn’t liked it at first, but he’d enjoyed the fuck out of her mouth on him, so he’d learned to love the feel and taste of pussy juice.
He snickered. He’d been another motherfucker, then. Young, grieving for his mother, and guilty because of how he’d reacted when she’d followed him into his father’s office, saw Sharper fucking one of the deaconesses, and ran out.
Mortician had stood in that doorway, transfixed at the woman’s pussy and his father’s glistening dick. By the time he realized his mother had left him…it was too late.
He’d heard the crash. Not a block away, her Mercedes had slammed into a delivery truck, killing her on impact.
His nostrils flaring, Mortician got to his feet, glaring at the church folk eyeing him with distaste, studying his cut with distrust. These judgmental motherfuckers could eat the fucking pavement. Clueless assfucks.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 175