Don’t do this to this girl. She’s never done anything to you but opened her legs.
He waited for her to say something, do something. Call him down. Berate him. But, no, she fucking took it. The most resistance she put up was not sucking his dick out in the open. She was so desperate now, he knew she’d do it. He could get her to do anything he wanted, even take his verbal abuse.
Disgusted, he tightened his grip on the handlebars. “Have a little more fucking pride in yourself,” he growled, and drove off, unable to stand it a minute longer. He’d been a moment away from taking her to her apartment, fucking the shit out her, and then leaving.
She might’ve been ripe for the picking but she didn’t fucking deserve his mistreatment. Enough motherfuckers that came after him would do it.
His night completely fucked now, he stopped at a liquor store and picked up a bottle of Everclear and another pack of cigarettes, then headed to his room. He sat outside his door, gun in his jacket pocket and watched his fucking bike. Maybe, he’d get lucky and a motherfucker would fuck with it. Then, he could shoot them, take them somewhere and dispose of the body. Release some of this fucking tension.
Ten minutes later, he heard the roar of motorcycles and tipped his bottle back, smiling in nostalgia. He’d bounced back and forth between LA and Hortensia for almost five years. At first, he’d still been allowed to live at his father’s mansion. Now, Mort couldn’t be paid to look at that motherfucker.
Blow it up. Fuck, yeah, preferably with that bitch in it.
A bike, black enamel and shining chrome, with a grim reaper painted on it, complete with scythe and glowing eyes, glided next to his bike and Mortician narrowed his eyes. Everclear was pure fucking grain alcohol, but he’d drank this shit before without imagining Outlaw there.
Two more bikes rode into view. John Boy and Val. Okay, definitely not hallucinating. He couldn’t dream up all his boys, could he? Then, he remembered, he’d given the address to K-P.
One-eyed motherfucker always getting shit from him.
“You lookin’ like one lost motherfucker, Mort,” Outlaw greeted, smirking at him, spurs jingling like he’d been pulled from the Old West. “I haven’t been fuckin’ ridin’ fifteen hours to hear your same bullshit. I want the fuckin’ truth why you hidin’ out here.”
“I’m not hiding out, Outlaw.” Oh, but he was, and he felt like stomping the fuck out of K-P. He got to his feet and slapped hands with his friend, then retreated back to his loneliness. “I just want—”
“Bullshit,” Outlaw interrupted.
“You don’t even know what the fuck I’m about to say.”
“Don’t fuckin’ matter cuz I call bull-fuckin-shit on whatever the fuck you about to say. You went with Boss to Logan. Got your ass shot off. Snake fuckin’ callin’ me to pick you the fuck up. You heal and, then, jet. ‘Fess up, assfuck. What the fuck happened?”
“We want to know, too,” John Boy said, joining them. “I beat Snake to a pulp. Can’t get shit out of him.”
Val paused next to Johnnie and Mortician nodded, sighing when Val dropped his gaze to the bottle in Mort’s hand. He thrust it toward him. “Here, fuckhead.”
“Take Val and find us somethin’ to fuckin’ eat, Johnnie,” Outlaw instructed. “I’m fuckin’ starvin’.”
Within five minutes, Mortician found himself alone with Outlaw in his cheap motel room, passing a joint and his bottle back and forth, and being the focus of those green eyes that missed nothing.
“Spill, Mort.”
“Outlaw—”
“I want the real fuckin’ story. Not some bullshit ‘bout you gettin’ accidentally shot by Snake. We all fuckin’ know if one of you motherfuckers got the drop on the other, wouldn’t be no accident and wouldn’t be no survivors.”
Mort yanked on his shoulder-length hair. He’d been keeping his shit trimmed but, maybe, he’d let them grow just to see how fucking long they’d get.
“Mortician.”
“Fuck. Fine. If Snake shoot my ass off, you the fuckin’ reason,” he snapped, then spat out the conversation he’d overheard between Logan and Snake. The scene he’d walked into. The way he’d jumped in front of the bullet meant for Hopper.
“You ain’t fuckin’ thinkin’ I needed to know this shit earlier?” Outlaw roared, his hand hovering near his cut, where he kept his gun. “Pack your shit, motherfucker. We hittin’ the fuckin’ road. Gettin’ back to Hortensia and tellin’ this shit to Big Joe.”
This was exactly the reason Mortician hadn’t wanted to tell this story. This couldn’t go unanswered, so blood would have to be spilled. He only hoped like fuck it wasn’t his own.
Chapter Nine: The Heist
1 week later
“He’s gone, so I don’t have to worry about that bullshit,” Big Joe said flatly.
Mortician cursed under his breath. Two days after his return from California, Big Joe had forced Lowman on a plane and staged the man’s death. He hadn’t had a chance to even tell Boss why he’d left for LA for all those months before more shit was going down.
Not little shit, either. This was an epic shit hitting the fan episode, with secret brothers and shit. In comparison, Mortician relating the events from the day he’d been shot was small.
Especially since Lowman wouldn’t ever be around again to pull this bullshit. Still, Mortician didn’t think Big Joe would just brush it off as he had.
“Boss—”
“Don’t want to hear it, Mortician. I have other fucking problems that I’m taking care of. Serious fucking shit.”
“Having your ass drugged up not serious?”
Big Joe narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Mortician, who backed up. They were standing in Boss’s bedroom and he looked worn and weary. Sad.
“I’m obviously not fucking addicted,” he barked. “I don’t even feel a need for a high, so the old fucker failed. Can’t lay all the blame on Logan, anyway. He didn’t drug me behind my back. He started suggesting the shit to me.”
That might’ve been the case towards the end, but he’d gotten him hooked originally by sneaking and doing it, but, what more could Mort say? Maybe, if Outlaw wasn’t on the road, he’d get the man to listen. On the other hand, Outlaw might’ve seen Big Joe as Mortician had until that episode at Lowman’s farm. Infallible. Untouchable. Almost immortal.
“Do you know who they were talking about? Who’s supposedly paying to keep—”
“Drop it, Mortician,” he ordered. “Logan left behind a fucking mess that I’m trying to clean up, so whatever the fuck you heard months ago isn’t important. It’s fucking done.” He brushed past him, then stopped. “You want to do something? Get the fucking money Sharper’s keeping in the safe your mother wanted you to have. Figure out a fucking way to get that.”
“What safe?” Mortician asked stupidly, spinning to face Boss, but all he saw was the back of the man, ponytail swinging, as he stormed toward the door.
What safe, indeed. The fucking safe Mortician hadn’t known about until Boss snarled those words and Mort spoke to his little brother.
“The safe Dad said Mom left for us. The one he said you’ll get over his dead body.”
Oh, that fucking safe.
“You fucking telling me that motherfucker stole my woman, my son, and my fucking money?”
“I guess so, Mort.”
“You guess so? You fucking guess so? Tell you what, Mark. You don’t want to be involved with what the fuck going down, go to fucking Bimini or some shit. When Sharper got my son, I was determined to let that be the last fucking thing I ever lost. I don’t give a fuck if it’s two fucking dollars. I’m getting what’s mine and I’m coming out on fucking top.”
“You sure you want to do this?”
Outlaw scowled and Mortician snapped his mouth shut. Too fucking late for questions now, anyway. They were already in LA, already going round and round up the mountain to get to Sharper’s mansion. The heist was planned tonight because Sharper was out of town.
“We don’t travel too often trapped in fucking cages,” Johnnie said. He had three knives laid out on his lap. Cloth in hand, he began to clean the largest one.
“It took me a while taking to a bike,” Mortician admitted. “I grew up being chauffeured in cages.” He still found it hilarious at the term cage, but Outlaw explained it came from the feeling of being trapped in an enclosed vehicle such as a car or truck. However, hearing the ever-proper Johnnie saying it, made it even funnier.
“Lucky motherfuckers,” Val called, over his shoulder. “My mode of transportation was my fucking legs. I used them to walk wherever the fuck I needed to go.”
Mortician didn’t comment. Over the months, he and Val had made peace with each other and he was proving to be a good dude. A little pussy crazy, but, then again, he couldn’t get into any pussies that bitches didn’t allow him into.
Ten minutes later, Val turned into the service entrance at the house Mortician grew up in. No one commented on the expanse of land or the huge French Chateau that sat there in graceful grandeur. Lights shimmered on the mansion’s pink bricks and walls of polished glass.
Mortician punched in the code, still surprised that Sharper hadn’t changed it. Then, again, he probably knew Mortician hadn’t intended to ever set foot in this motherfucker again.
He clenched his jaw as they passed the purple Jacaranda trees that had been planted on this side of the property. Memories of his mother begging his father to allow her to redesign the grounds swamped him. It was the last major thing she’d done before her death. It was during the landscaping that she’d managed to get Mortician’s music room finished.
“We should be in and out in ten minutes,” Mortician explained to Val, shoving aside the gnawing sense of loss he always experienced whenever he thought of his mom.
All the more determined to get the safe with the hurt burgeoning in him, he opened his door and gritted his teeth. The scents of the jasmine and gardenias pervaded his nostrils. He’d stolen one of each flowers the day of his mother’s funeral and hid them in his suit pocket. His father had forbidden him to go near the grounds. Until Mortician had been captured handing the gardenia to Mark. The series of photos had caught them as they’d placed the flowers on her casket. Suddenly, the poignant scene had been Sharper’s idea, a father’s means of helping his grieving sons. The vines and bushes and trees he’d planned to destroy instead became the subject of photo layouts, an homage to the wife he’d lost to soon.
Mort shoved the memory aside and felt in his pocket for his gun.
“Yo’, Mort, in order to get the fuck in and out in fuckin’ ten minutes, we gotta get the fuck out this fuckin’ van.”
Outlaw’s voice allowed Mortician’s detachment to return.
“Meet us in front by then,” he instructed coolly. Because of the security detail driving through the neighborhood, Mortician had already explained to Val that he should wait back here. At the eight-minute mark, he needed to drive around to the front and be ready to roll out.
Stepping out, Mortician waited for Outlaw to follow him to the door, which Digger had left unlocked.
Gloom swirled around him and Mortician wondered how it could be. The place was an architectural wonder. But nothing but sadness and pain was known inside these walls. A bleak aura blackened the air.
“Luke?”
“Motherfucker insist on calling you by your old fuckin’ name, huh, Mort?”
Yeah, and it irked the fuck out of Mortician. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to knock the fuck out of his little brother.
“Where the fuck you at?”
A light flickered on and Mortician sagged in relief. Mark stood in the doorway between the foyer and the hallway. He hadn’t realized how worried he’d been about him, being here with their father while Mortician enjoyed his life in Hortensia. Mark travelled to the club every month and it was getting harder and harder for them to part ways. Something had to be done. Mark wanted to patch in. He even did little tasks, but Mortician hesitated.
“You just standing there all night, Luke?” He rocked on his heels, shoving his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Motherfucker shouldn’t wear that shit. It made his skinny ass look ridiculous. “Bodyguards not going to be away all fucking night.”
“He havin’ a fuckin’ moment, Digger.”
Outlaw’s mock seriousness filled Mortician with as much distaste as the name the man had pinned on his little brother. Mark’s pleased grin pissed Mort off a little more.
“He not Digger.”
“He Digger to me, motherfucker. He the best fuckin’ hole digger I know.”
Mark laughed, his sense of pride deepening. “I can take that a couple ways, Outlaw. Digging up dirt and digging in pussy.”
Unable to help himself, Mortician snickered. “Cocky little motherfucker. What do you know about pussy?”
“More than you,” he shot back, puffing his narrow chest out.
“Fuckin’ doubtful. Pussy this motherfucker middle name.”
“Look who the fuck talking,” Mortician retorted.
“You didn’t say nothing about my hair, Luke.”
Mortician glanced at Mark’s row of braids. “What the fuck you want me to say? It’s just cornrows.”
“I’m thinking about getting locks like you.”
“Fuck, fool. Stealing my style?”
“Imi-fuckin-tation the sincerest form of fuckin’ flattery. But a motherfucker ain’t gonna be fuckin’ alive if we don’t get the fuck goin’ to find that fuckin’ safe. Discuss your fuckin’ hair some other time.”
“What’s going on in here?” John Boy’s voice rose behind them.
Mortician rolled his eyes. “Didn’t I fucking tell you to wait the fuck outside?” he barked while Mark and John Boy exchanged hand slaps.
“Fuck, you grew up in this place?” Val asked, his awe hard to miss.
“Digger, you got the combination?” Outlaw asked, nipping anymore conversation before it began.
Mark dug in his pocket and handed the piece of paper to Mortician. They wanted to make sure the shit wasn’t empty before they stole it.
“Okay, motherfuckers. Cover our asses,” Outlaw instructed. “Me and Mort goin’ safe huntin’.”
It took slightly longer than ten minutes to reach the third floor and the utility room with the safe. He used the numbers Mark had provided him with and opened it.
The stacks of money greeting him made his eyes widen. He and Outlaw exchanged incredulous looks.
“Okay, this bullshit for fuckin’ real. Let’s get this and get the fuck out.”
Not arguing, Mortician slammed the door shut, struggling to lift one end while Outlaw wrestled with the other. Halfway down the staircase, Mortician heard the front door open.
“Fuck,” he whispered, a moment before gunfire erupted downstairs.
“Take me with you, Luke.”
With their van loaded with a safe full of cash and four, dead bodies full of lead, Mortician slammed the doors of the cargo hold shut. He didn’t want the glamour of being a biker to blind Mark to the realities. And, there was a certain glamour to it. Bikers were legendary for their women, fast living, and freedom. But the flip side of that was dark. It could also be lonely. It didn’t matter that they’d have each other, he wanted more for his little brother. “No.”
“I disabled the alarms and cameras. I got the combination to the safe for you. Please—”
“What the fuck can your fuckin’ ass do besides dig holes?”
Mark blinked at Outlaw’s impatient question.
“Outlaw, this not the life for him,” Mortician protested.
“Look, motherfuckers, I ain’t givin’ a fuck. But you gotta fuckin’ decide this shit some fuckin where else. We got four of Sharper’s bodyguards dead as fucks. I ain’t trustin�
� more of them motherfuckers not to ride up.”
Mortician gritted his teeth.
Desolation tightened Mark’s face. “I miss you, Luke. “I can do anything. Please—”
“Fuck, man, fine. Just stop calling me fucking Luke. If you can remember I’m Mortician, then get the fuck in and let’s fucking jet.”
Not wasting any time, Mark grinned. Mortician stepped aside to allow his little brother to precede him in.
If truth were told, he’d missed Mark, too, and was happy as a motherfucker that they’d be together once again.
Chapter Ten: Dwelling in Death
6 years later
The screams turned Mortician’s stomach and he covered his face, fucking wishing he could cover his ears. Or rip them the fuck off his head.
He was always too fucking late. No matter what the fuck he did, how he tried to gauge Big Joe’s moods, he was always too fucking late.
He stood frozen in the hallway as the horrible cries died down and he knew. He’d have to dispose of another girl. How many fucking more did he have to do before he walked the fuck away? It didn’t matter what they’d gone through together. How much Outlaw had done for him. Mortician had some morals. Even if it was the tiniest bit.
Big Joe’s bedroom door blasted open and the president stood there, his eyes wild, his face spattered with blood. Blood dripped from his hands and stained his jeans.
“Where’s Meggie?” Big Joe cried, his dilated pupils lacking humanity or sanity. He kicked the door. “Where’s my girl?”
Mortician never knew how to answer that because he didn’t know who Meggie was.
“Answer me, motherfucker,” Big Joe snarled, his hands shaking. He smelled of sex and alcohol, blood and death. His hair was greasy and unkempt. Just like him.
The proud man Mortician had met, who protected women and kept everything running smoothly, had been reduced to a crazy, drug addicted killer.
“Mortician!” Big Joe’s tone remained the same as it had before, and Mort remembered he was required to give an answer.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 183