by Dani Wyatt
Copyright © 2020
by Dani Wyatt
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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
www.daniwyatt.com
Cover Credit Cormar Covers
Editing Nicci Haydon
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
WRATH
Stalkers welcome.
1 | Wrath
2 | Kristina
3 | Wrath
4 | Wrath
5 | Kristina
6 | Wrath
7 | Kristina
8 | Kristina
9 | Wrath
10 | Kristina
11 | Kristina
12 | Wrath
13 | Kristina
14 | Wrath
HEARTLANDS MC SERIES
OTHER TITLES BY DANI WYATT
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WRATH
By
Dani Wyatt
1 | Wrath
There’s a pounding on the door of the bathroom and I nearly pull my fucking dick off.
“Are you jerking off in there again? You know, the bible says you’ll go blind.” Troy’s booming voice comes through the thick wooden door and I hear some other crew cackling like a group of old women in a sewing circle in the background.
“Fuck off.” I grunt out, pissed he’s ruined my post Sunday morning service stroke.
“Just go across the fucking street, march into the fucking church, throw her over your fucking shoulder and give her father the fucking finger. Then fuck her off into the sunset.” His voice is thick with sarcasm and a barely disguised chuckle as he gives the door another few shaking pounds with his fist and I curse under my breath.
I shove my still hard cock into my jeans and try to zip them up without catching my balls. Then I turn and grip the cool, chipped white porcelain sink that hangs on a wall covered with names and numbers, dates and expressions of events here at the club bar where I hold Sunday morning service most weeks, depending on what was going on the night before.
I’m the club chaplain, which is a bit ironic since my tats would tend to say otherwise. The upside down 666 just below my navel came to be ten years ago, just before I kicked my habit. I got it as a reminder of the hell it is to be a bitch to smack and speedballs.
Troy, our now club president, helped me clean up. Him and a few other guys took me to a cabin and locked me down for two weeks. I screamed and fought and sweated and puked and prayed to die until all I could do was lay on the ratty mattress and let my body try to acclimate and my mind rearrange that my life was no longer under my control and it fucking needed to be.
I don’t remember, but seems during my delusions the club guys that watched over me in shifts heard me preaching and quoting bible shit that they said actually made sense. I’d never read the fucking bible before, so it was all sort of spooky. We’re outlaws but we have a moral code. Don’t fuck with us and generally we won’t fuck with you. All I could think was, God was calling me to make that moral code official, give it some structure, and I do believe that no man is above God.
So, not long after I cleaned up, Troy our club President came to me and said the club could use a chaplain. Nothing heavy, but if even two guys wanted to gather in the name of God it becomes our own sort of church.
I didn’t make much of it at the time, but I said sure and over the years I’ve grown into my role, such as it is. Some Sundays, I’m running on zero sleep and even though I cleaned up from the drugs, I still drink.
Yeah, I’m a sinner but the booze doesn’t seem to take ahold of me the way the other shit did, so fuck me, I’m still going to do what I’m going to do and I don’t care what anyone thinks. That goes for drink and it goes for club business.
I served five years hard for manslaughter when I was nineteen and thank fuck the club has a kick ass lawyer because the charge was murder two and he got it reduced to manslaughter with a minimum sentence, then I got out early thanks to overcrowding and a few payoffs. Killing is sometimes a necessary evil. Another irony, because there’s a whole shit ton of ‘killing is bad’ in the bible, but there’s also a hella lot of revenge as well. My violence is always just under the surface. The crew takes me when they know it’s going to be time to rock on someone’s head because I may have a calm exterior, but I’m a motherfucker when the time is right.
You hurt one of mine? You hurt a kid, an animal or someone who otherwise can’t fight back? I’m coming for you and I don’t care what the judge says.
“Hey,” Hammer says as I exit the bathroom. “You have your own private worship service in there?”
More laughter from the group of about six that came this morning to listen to my little service on giving back and revenge. I didn’t say my services would fit into most churches, I know, but they fit us and that’s what matters.
“Yeah, I did.” I bark back, running my hand down my beard and feeling the ache in my cock which seems to never quite go away.
There’s broken bottles on the floor of the bar, and most of the tables are either upended or shoved out of place because we had a couple Outlaws thought it would be funny to come in for a drink about two in the morning.
They didn’t think it was so funny when they left with a broken nose and a ‘H’ sliced into one of their arms. I’m sure there will be some retaliation, but it’s bullshit. Don’t come to our house smelling like shit and not expect to get cleaned up.
Ranger and Jaxon are playing poker as I head toward the front door, ignoring the rest of the jabs and bullshit. First Baptist’s second service will be starting soon, and there’s that familiar twist in my gut knowing she’ll be standing outside handing out whatever the fuck churches hand out to people arriving for service.
I swallow hard and dig in my pocket for a stick of gum. It’s a bad habit but it helps me think and I need to fucking think right now. I bend it as I push the blue peppermint stick against my tongue and hear Troy as I straight arm the door out into the spring sunshine.
“Don’t forget, we’re meeting at the garage tomorrow, ten o’clock. Bring your iron, just in case.”
I don’t acknowledge him, which will probably get me a verbal beatdown later, but I’m focused on other things. Besides, I’ve never not shown up for a run, and Troy knows he can count on me, so he doesn’t need to talk to me like I’m a teenage pussy forgetting to do her chores.
We have a weapon’s deal going on tomorrow. Not as big as some we’ve done in the past but it’s still outside the law and we’re not meeting with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs either,
so we all need to be frosty and on point when we go.
It’s a fucking beautiful day today though. One of those days that the air is just the right temperature you can wear almost anything you want. I’m a jeans, t-shirt and leather vest sort. Rarely do I vary the pieces, but I have probably twenty clean white t-shirts and the same number of Levi’s 505 button fly jeans folded in perfect squares on two shelves in my closet.
My balls twitch when I adjust to the outside light and look across the street, heading toward my bike. Kristina’s hair is down today. No braid like the first time I saw her. No pink bow or white dress. That day was special. She fucking blew my mind when I saw her the first time.
That first day, I marched across three lanes of traffic without looking, drivers honking horns and cussing me out as I made a beeline to her. By the time I was standing in front of her, her father, Leonard had stepped next to her and she kept looking from me to him, wondering what the hell was going on.
Her father had some choice words for me. There’s been no love lost between him and our crew for as far back as he’s been the pastor at the church, even though we’ve always been respectful of religion and that shit. But that day, I just ignored him, looked straight at her and introduced myself.
“I’m Wrath.” I said, and she squinted one eye at me and crinkled her nose. She wasn’t scared, more curious.
“That’s nice.” She replied, handing me a flier. “Sit anywhere you like but hurry, we’re about to close the doors.”
With that, her father told me to get lost and I just smiled and took a seat in the front row, watching her as she sang in the choir, then watched her father preach, her eyes betraying her every now and then as they settled on me before darting away.
Her eyes aren’t just blue. They’re the color of blue bonnets. There were fields of them around my grandparents’ house in the hill country in Central Texas, and they were my mom’s favorite flower.
Since that first day, she’s told me in no uncertain terms she isn’t interested and her father’s called the cops on me probably eight times. I don’t give a fuck. The law knows me by now and just because I’m in the parking lot staring at his daughter, doesn’t mean I’m breaking the law. The cops come, shake their heads at me and I shrug, give her father a wave if he’s around, rev my bike and leave.
But I always come back.
Like today.
I mount my bike, my eyes trained on her smile as she nods and hands out the little church fliers to everyone going inside the open double doors. Today she’s wearing a light green, sort of ruffly floral deal and white sandals.
I love her fucking toes. She paints each one a different color. The days I am able to get close to her and she’s not wearing sandals or something that lets me see her toes, I’m disappointed. The rest of her is just as good, perfect even, but her toes. Damn, I never knew I was a foot guy until I met Kristina.
I roar into the parking lot and park my bike in my usual obnoxious spot, right near the front door, kick down the stand and pivot, pulling my leg over the back before shoving my hand through my hair and heading directly her way.
She sees me, I know she does. I ride my bike for a reason. I want her to know I’m coming.
It’s almost time for their service to start and there’s no one else behind me. I see her straighten up, glancing around, but I’m the only one here so she has to look at me.
“You here for the service?” She half snaps but I see the blush rise on her cheeks.
“Nope. Just finished my own service. I’m all set on God for today.”
She rolls her eyes on a shake of her head. “Good to know. What do you want? Why do you insist on bothering me?”
“Is that what I’m doing? Bothering you?”
She gives me an incredulous stare and tightens her perfectly plump, cherry-red lips together. “Yes. You are bothering me. So, get lost.”
I twist my lips, shaking my head. “You say get lost, but your eyes say stay right here.”
“You’re obnoxious. You have no idea what my eyes say.”
“Delusions run deep.” I reach my hand toward where she’s holding the fliers. “You gonna offer me one or not?”
She pauses, narrowing her eyes, and the glare she gives me only makes me want her more.
“Fine.” She bites out, shoving the white folded paper my way. “Now will you leave?”
I don’t answer. Instead I meet her outstretched hand, blatantly running my fingers down the top of her wrist, pinching the paper with her hand under mine.
Her cheeks ripen to stop-sign red, but she’s frozen and I love the way she gets so flustered. She does this little tug, but it’s halfhearted at best, and I move my thumb in slow, sensual circles on the underside of her wrist. I swear I can feel her pulse start to race.
She could get away if she wanted, I’m not holding her tight. At least not with my hand. But I am in other ways, and that’s why she’s staying put, because it’s what I want.
“Stop that.” She finally hisses, her eyes darting behind her, and I know she’s looking for her father.
“Stop what?” I tease, moving my thumb in bigger circles now. “This?” I look down, then back at her face, drawing a breath through my clenched teeth.
My dick is hardened steel and I don’t even care if she sees how hard she makes me. The touch of her skin makes me crazy, and I think of my thumb doing this to her clit, listening to her voice crack and beg me to stop as I tease every nerve ending, torturously slow.
Then make her beg me for more.
My mouth is watering looking at her, thinking such thoughts. Her toes are showing and my fucking dick is leaking cum. They are painted alternating daisy yellow and white and I want to feel them stroking off my crazed cock.
But what I really want is to kiss her. To me, kissing is a big fucking deal.
I’ve not kissed a woman in probably twenty years. I just don’t kiss on the mouth, it’s a thing for me. I’ve fucked my share, it’s lost a bit of it’s luster, even before Kristina. But, since I set eyes on her? There is no other pussy in the world. My dick would shrivel up and fall off if I even tried to hook up with anyone else now.
She’s ruined me.
“Stop that.” A deep voice draws my attention and Kristina jerks her hand away. Her father is dressed in his black robe, white hair cut clean and short, face shaved, and there is murder in his gray eyes.
“It’s okay...” Kristina starts, but he moves between us, looking down at her then at me. “Get inside.” He’s addressing her but his death glare stays firmly attached to my eyes.
With one sheepish look and an apologetic grin, she spins and disappears inside, the organ music rises, and the doors shut behind her.
“Get out of here.” Her father seethes. “Leave us alone or I’ll call the cops again. I’ve had enough of you and your kind.”
“My kind?” I tip my head back and forth. “You mean, dark haired, ridiculously handsome guys with beards?”
“You know what I’m talking about.” He jerks his head toward the bar across the street. “I’m not afraid of you.”
I shrug. “You shouldn’t be. I’m not here to hurt you. Or anyone.”
He gives that a moment’s thought, then clears his throat and finishes. “Get out of here. Or I’m calling the cops.”
“Do what you need to do.” I say as I turn toward my bike. As I throw my leg over the seat, before I start the engine, I give him one last look and finish as I do whenever he tells me to leave. I give him a quote from the bible. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
I nod, then start my bike and roar out of the parking lot.
2 | Kristina
The smell of sausage and strawberries hangs in the air as I scrape the dishes and listen to my father on the phone in the living room.
I made his favorite breakfast, even though it’s nearly seven o’clock. Sundays, my mother always cooked our breakfast for dinner as services and activities at the ch
urch took up most of the day.
My heart still clutches in my chest because I still feel her everywhere. Even in the waffles I made and covered in her signature strawberries and sugar recipe, which is my father’s favorite. She passed away a year and half ago from breast cancer. From diagnosis to the end we only had four months, but in a way, I guess it was a gift because we knew her time was short and we did everything we could to make the most of it.
She was the perfect pastor’s wife, as was her mother before her, and I’m coming to understand it’s what my father expects of me—even though I graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Michigan with a degree in microbiology.
My gut tightens and there’s the familiar anxiety building in my chest at the thought of the assumed track my father thinks my life should take. I’m not ready to get married. I came back home after graduating only to help my him while I tried to figure out what’s next for me. I may want to get my master’s and go into medical research.
But when he looks at me, all he sees in the next pastor’s wife, and from what’s been going on I have a horrible suspicion he already has my pastor picked out.
That thought turns the tightness into nausea, and I close my eyes for a moment as I try to clear away the sick feeling.
As I rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, my father’s voice is distant, heading toward his office here at the house. It’s a typical pastor’s church home. Big enough, but not too big, with a private office and entrance at the other end of the house away from the bedrooms.
He’s talking to Mrs. Willington, whose husband is in the hospital, and she’s looking to my father for support. It’s part of his job, I understand, and honestly I think it’s great that everyone finds such comfort from him, but it’s always been ironic that he has time for anyone that calls from his flock, but for me, I’ve pretty much been on autopilot when it comes to him since as far back as I can remember.