He had more right—
“Lucas?”
Mortician froze at the sound of his father’s voice blaring his name over the microphone. Not responding, he snatched a cigarette and lighter from his cut, and lit it to stop himself from shooting up the place like a fucking common criminal.
The moment his cigarette cherried up, a stern clearing of the throat sounded next to him, pissing him the fuck off.
“Put it out, Lucas.”
Not his father, but one of his fucking father’s ushers/bodyguards/dickheads on the payroll, who also happened to be Mortician’s cousin and a member of Oakland PD.
Mean motherfucker. Now, though, Mortician was fucking meaner. Osti might have the law on his side, but Mortician had his tools and his brothers on his.
“Fuck off,” he growled, loud, taking another drag and blowing smoke in the man’s face.
Osti took a step towards him, but he halted at Char’s order. “No, Osti. Leave him be.”
Mortician glanced over his shoulder and saw Char hurrying off the choir stand and rushing to him as his father began the dismissal and the ushers got into place to herd everyone out like cattle. In one door and out the other. Barricades and bodyguards would hurry matters along before the next service began.
Char placed her hand in his and smiled at him, her eyes losing some of the sparkle at his frown.
“What are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly.
He looked her up and down, feeling absolutely nothing for her. She’d come in useful, though, so he forced himself to bring his hand to her cheek and caress it. “I need to talk to you, Char,” he said in a low, rough voice, sidling her with a glance he knew would have her panting to fuck him. He drew in on his cigarette and lifted his head to blow the smoke in the air.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
He smiled at her. “Yeah, girl?”
“Lucas—”
“Take me to your office so you can show me how much,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear her bullshit. He was finally close to getting where he needed to be.
She swallowed and ran her tongue along her lips. “In my office. Take me there. You know the way.”
He sure the fuck did. Grabbing her elbow, he dragged her toward the offices, where she occupied his mother’s old office. Why the fuck a church first lady needed an office, he didn’t know, but whatever.
In the vestibule, he did a double take, his eyes widening at the sight of John Boy, speaking to one of Sharper’s bodyguards.
Wearing eyeglasses and a dark suit, John Boy caught Mort’s gaze, nodded to the door, and shook his head the tiniest fraction.
Apparently, he’d tried to get to the back and hadn’t been able to, either.
In the time it took for Mortician and John Boy to communicate, Char had pulled out her key card to access the office area.
“Our son is back here.”
Our son? When had that bitch decided to acknowledge that fact? Suspicion settled into Mortician. Char was making a claim on him, playing her bullshit games to throw him the fuck off. Without a doubt, she knew about Bailey. “Char—”
“You look good, Luke.”
“Not Luke,” he gritted out. “I’m Mortician.” Still stuck between the hallway and the vestibule, he pointed to his patch proclaiming his position.
Hesitating, she leaned against the half-opened door, then stepped closer. “Can we go somewhere? Maybe, go to your motel room? I won’t be satisfied with just a quick fuck from you.”
It took all his willpower not to shove her away. Instead, he offered her another head-to-toe look and another lurid smile. “Just a quick dick suck in your office, first, then we’ll talk about the rest.”
She started through the door then stopped again. “Are you really married?”
He narrowed his eyes at her, her question confirming what he’d already guessed. “Who the fuck told you that?”
Not that his marriage was a secret. But he was fishing for shit, just as she was. He hoped like fuck she said Digger told her. It would give Mortician even more incentive to make his brother’s death as painful as possible.
She bit down on her lip. Tears hovered in her eyes and began to fall. “It’s true, isn’t it? Who are you married to?”
“A fucking girl,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin at this bitch’s stalling tactics. “She’s having my baby and, unlike you, she not fucking pretending it belong to somebody else.”
“You promised,” she said on a sob. “You swore you’d never marry anyone if you couldn’t marry me.”
Mortician attempted to move around her, but she blocked him. “Shut the fuck up. You expected me to spend the rest of my fucking life alone?”
“Then you don’t love her?” she sniffled. “You married her so you wouldn’t be alone?”
“The reason I married my wife between me and her, Charlemagne.”
She stilled at his rough tone and swiped at her tears. Her nipples beaded against her dress and Mortician glanced away, clenching his jaw.
“I’ve thought about sending you pictures of him,” she whispered into the tense silence.
Him. Their son.
“Thinking not doing,” he muttered.
“His name’s Tyler,” Char admitted softly.
Tyler. The name they’d talked about the day she’d told him she was pregnant. It was a unisex name, good for a girl or a boy.
He rubbed his hands over his face and breathed in deep.
Glowering at her, he got hold of her arm again, just as a voice screamed, “Help me.”
Not any voice, though. Bailey’s.
And, then, Mortician saw her, running down the hallway behind Char. It wasn’t long because it curved off to go into the back, so the blood running from her head and lip, her swollen cheeks, was quite visible. As were the bruises on her breasts and legs, since she was quite naked, too.
Mortician registered the fury in Char’s eyes as she attempted to close the door. Behind him, bullets began pinging in the air. One whizzed by his head, travelling from the way he faced.
Two men ran behind Bailey, guns raised. Mortician held onto the door, not allowing Char to close it, drew his gun and fired at the men chasing his wife.
Unable to stop herself, Bailey crashed into Char, still screaming. He doubted she even realized he was there.
“Bitch!” Char growled, shoving Bailey back through the door and knocking her off her feet.
Seeing who stood over her, Bailey scooted back, chanting, “No, no, no.”
A lot of people would accuse Mortician’s next actions on Char’s past actions. The way she’d fucked over him and nearly broken him. The way she’d toyed with his emotions and shattered his heart.
Mortician didn’t give a fuck. At the moment, she was the bitch who was terrifying Bailey.
He simply raised his .380, aimed it at Char’s head and fired.
Part One: The Biker
Chapter One: Revelations
14 years ago
“Luke.”
Lucas Banks looked up at the sound of Joseph Foy’s voice as the entry door to the farmhouse flew open and Outlaw Caldwell stalked out, blowing past Luke like a tornado. He stood up from where he’d sat on the second porch step, and dusted his jeans off, not sure what he wanted the verdict to be. The ability to stay at the Death Dwellers MC or being unwelcomed?
Outlaw had brought him to Hortensia at his own request, but his heart and mind was with Char, his girlfriend. She had his heart. Although, she was part of the reason he’d fled LA.
Three days ago, on impulse, he’d skipped out. Wanting the freedom that Outlaw seemed to enjoy. The dude was out there. Like for real. A head case and a lot of fun, but the man was also dark, dangerous and scary.
So unlike he, himself, was. Luke had gone to private schools, been in church almost every day of the week his entire life, wore custom made clothes, drove expensive cars and had servants to wait on him. He had his little brother, Mark.
; Everything most people ever dreamed of. But, unlike Outlaw who seemed free, Luke’s life wasn’t enough for him. No matter how shit went, everyone bitched and moaned about what they didn’t have. It’s just the way people worked. Never satisfied with what they had, regardless if it was a silver spoon or a brass fork. It was just the nature of most people to want more.
Luke certainly did. He wanted love and warmth, which he hadn’t had unconditionally since his mother’s death when he was seven. He was seventeen and a half now, so he’d lived in a cold, untouchable bubble for over ten years.
Then he’d met the motorcycle men. They’d come to straighten him out. A friend of his mother’s had heard about his drinking bouts, which had gotten him suspended and his name—his father’s name—in the newspapers.
They’d taken him on a road trip and he’d gone willingly, not really caring about the consequences. His father had tightly agreed to let him go along with men he’d normally classify as thugs.
Looking back now, Luke realized he’d been the one with the pre-conceived notions about Christopher Caldwell—Outlaw. He’d looked him up and down—and judged him—placed himself above the man immediately.
Their introduction had been to the point. “I’m Outlaw. I gotta have you ridin’ fuckin’ bitch on my bike. You got a problem with that, stay the fuck here. You come and bitch and complain, I’m fuckin’ you up. I’m waitin’ outside for you. Hurry the fuck up so we can go have a fuckin’ drink and I can get the fuck away from that judgmental motherfucker.”
A friendship had been forged. That motherfucker in question had been the Reverend Sharper Banks—Luke’s father. And the thought of a drink to quench the loneliness in him had sealed the deal.
They’d been standing in the church hallway, right outside the sanctuary, and Outlaw hadn’t put up a pretense and hadn’t flinched at Sharper’s glare. Luke had followed Outlaw outside, leaving the other motorcycle men with his father. Once they’d finished whatever business they’d had, they’d hit the road.
And, finally, finally Luke had felt kinship to someone. Outlaw was four years older than him, but he had a world of experience and all kinds of insight. They’d offered Luke friendship and camaraderie then. Now, it seemed like a joke. The final decision on whether or not he could truly be in their presence rested in someone else’s hands.
That cut.
They’d blazed into town yesterday. Luke almost fell into bed, unused to such rough travel. After a night of resting and a morning of shooting the shit with Outlaw, they’d arrived at the farmhouse, located at the end of a road, about an hour ago. Big Joe and Outlaw had gone in, instructing Luke to wait for them on the porch. It was quiet and peaceful out there, surrounded by trees and flatland. The skies were clear, the air invigorating.
Luke had only enjoyed fifteen minutes of solitude before the MC President had come out, lit a cigarette, and studied Luke like a specimen in a lab, not speaking, until now, when his voice boomed out.
“Stop!” he ordered Outlaw.
As if programmed to obey the man’s command, Outlaw halted but didn’t turn.
“Come here.”
“I ain’t a fuckin’ dog,” he growled in frustration. “Ain’t matter what that dirty old fucker say.”
Not knowing who they’d needed to visit to get a yea or a nay from, Luke started for Outlaw, but stopped at Big Joe’s warning glare. Muscled and tall, he reminded Luke of some old time Viking. He even had long, blond hair and Nordic blue eyes.
“I said to come here. Now.”
Outlaw turned, but stood his ground and refused to move.
Big Joe nodded, his unamused snigger filling the air. “Stubborn motherfucker.”
“I did what the fuck you asked me, Boss.”
“Did you?” Big Joe lifted a brow. “I saw you storming the fuck out. I doubt he’d dismissed you yet.”
Thinning his lips, Outlaw glanced away, not confirming the angry speculation.
“You want him in this fucking club,” Big Joe barked, nodding to Luke, “you’re going to fucking stand up on his behalf. A man can’t call you friend if you run the fuck off at the first sign of trouble. The world can’t call you a man if you don’t fight for your convictions. I can’t call you a fucking member of my club if you can’t take the same shit you give.”
“I ain’t a member of this fuckin’ club. I’m just a fuckin’ probate.” Outlaw shoved his finger toward the word on his leather cut. “Dealin’ with him wasn’t part of my fuckin’ initiation.”
“It is now,” Big Joe stated simply. “You changed it when you insisted I bring Luke here.”
Luke frowned and opened his mouth to speak, although he wasn’t sure for what reason. They didn’t need all this drama, just so he’d have a place to stay.
“You the fuckin’ president. Not him. You stand up to him for every-fuckin-thing else, stand the fuck up to him now.”
A chilling light entered Big Joe’s eyes. “If you don’t want me to break your fucking jaw for talking to me like that, you’ll shut the fuck up and get the fuck over here.”
Tension whirled in the breeze, thicker than the storm clouds in the distance. For a full minute, Outlaw faced off with Big Joe, who looked more than ready to back up his words.
Finally, Outlaw flipped the man off, turned and headed to his bike. Lucas wasn’t sure what to do. He’d ridden over with Outlaw but he hadn’t been dismissed by Big Joe or Boss or Joseph Foy or Prez. Or what the fuck ever he wanted to be called. But Luke had seen everyone wait for a nod or a wave before they walked away from the man. K-P, Rack, and a few other men he’d met last night before crashing. Even Outlaw.
Outlaw was a good dude, so Luke didn’t want to offend him or his people.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here, Luke.” Outlaw snatched his gloves from his saddlebags and jerked them on. “Hurry the fuck up—”
“Fuck! Christopher, get your ass—”
“Want your Black to leave before I tell him what I think of him?” someone interrupted.
Wait, what?
Luke’s blood chilled at the venom in the words and feelings stormed through him. Indignation. Disgust. Anger. Skepticism. And a damn healthy amount of fear.
There was one of him and three of them.
Wait. No.
There’d not once been a him or a them in their days together on the road.
Luke considered his arms and hands. He was Black. Well, dark brown but…
But what?
It didn’t make the meaning of the question any less insulting or frightening.
Luke glanced in the direction of the doorway. An older man stood there, face twisted with the same scorn dripping from his voice. Hatred brimmed from his eyes as he zeroed in on Outlaw.
From the moment the man had opened his vile mouth, Outlaw hadn’t moved. Until Big Joe shifted, then Outlaw gazed up, the briefest flicker of hurt in his eyes before loathing swallowed it up.
“Shut the fuck up,” Outlaw called. “Ain’t gotta take out your fuckin’ filth on Luke. He ain’t ever done you shit—”
“At least you are shit,” the man snapped back, his nostrils flaring. He stared at Luke, who instinctively stepped back at the light in the man’s eyes. “This beast doesn’t even count as that.”
Humiliation roared through Luke and he thundered up the wooden steps, but Joseph Foy stepped between him and the other man, the sound of motorcycle pipes vibrating through him and intensifying his impotent anger.
Hands grabbed Luke from behind and he jerked away, turning around with fists raised. He might die, but he wouldn’t go down a fucking coward.
“Come on, Luke,” Outlaw ordered, not intimidated at Luke’s need for violence. Outlaw had to see it, feel the blinding rage pulsing through Luke. But the man kept his cool, not flinching.
“Putting your hands on him, huh? You’re not fit to touch any of our women.” The disgust on the man’s face turned Luke’s stomach. “Not that you were before. You’re nothing but dirt, the shit on my boo
ts who should be wiped away and forgotten. Stupid piece of shit, don’t even know what to do with women.” He pointed to Big Joe. “This motherfucker didn’t either. Going to live with his bitch instead of keeping her on her back to keep our boys pleased.”
Big Joe balled his fists at his side but stayed silent. Luke swallowed, his anger deflating like air from a popped balloon. If Big Joe stood down, Luke best follow suit. In this instance, he’d turn the other cheek.
To let Outlaw know the storm inside of him had settled down, Luke clapped him on the back. Outlaw still hadn’t moved. A muscle ticking in his jaw, his green eyes watered.
Luke thought of an appropriate bible verse to make the other man feel better. But, shit. He really didn’t believe in the bible, anymore. Wherever it served his purpose, the words of Sharper’s mouth spoke the text of God. Wherever he was protected, the actions of Sharper’s body screamed the guidance of the devil.
Luke knew what disdain felt like. His father, that holy man of God, who preached about faith, hope and charity, only showed a modicum of civility and parental authority in public. Considering how often they were in public, Luke should’ve basked in attention.
Somehow, Sharper managed to seem like a doting father while still being the emotionally bankrupt and morally corrupt asshole that he was.
A throat cleared behind Luke, and he turned, meeting K-P’s one-eyed gaze. An eye patch covered the white gauze bandage on the other one. He wondered how he’d gotten the injury.
Although he’d ridden from LA to Washington State on the back of K-P’s bike, Luke really didn’t know him.
“Ahh, Brother Kaleb.”
K-P nodded. “Logan.”
Logan? So that was his name. Lowman was more accurate. He was fucking low. Low-brained. Low-browed. Just plain damn low. As a matter of fact, he was one of the lowest motherfuckers Luke had ever met. And he’d met a lot of motherfuckers. This one took the medal, lower than even Sharper.
Logan was insane. Anyone lower than his father wasn’t working with a full barrel.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 176