OFF LIMITS: Grim Angels MC

by Evelyn Glass

  Ed smiled and took a long obvious look at Scott, his eyes traveling the length of his near naked body. “But for god’s sake, show some respect and put your pants back on. You can’t go to the doctor wearing only your underwear.”

  Scott began to laugh, then cringed as he bent ever farther over his battered ribs.

  ***

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Ron asked as he entered the bedroom Jess and Scott were sharing. Ed had called Ron and asked him if he could pick Scott and Jess at the Village Heath Urgent Care facility, in Washington, and put them up for a couple of days.

  Scott and Jess had worked out their story on the way to the clinic, and had spun a tale of being involved in a fight with another couple in a bar parking lot to explain their injuries. If the doctor suspected anything different, she didn’t mention it. After they were both thoroughly checked out by the doctor, the only real damage was to Scott’s hand. He had fractured couple of bones when he smashed his head into it, but the doctor assured him it would heal cleanly and he would have full use of it in no time. The rest of their aches and pains were just that, and would heal on their own without medical intervention.

  Scott groaned long, hard and deep as he set up in the bed, a sound Jess thought was kind of sexy, until she repeated the sound as she sat up. “I hurt everywhere,” he groaned.

  “Same here,” Jess agreed.

  Ron presented her with a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. “I figured as much,” he said, handing the items over.

  “Ed Buehler called. He wanted to know if it was okay to stop by later today.”

  “Ed Buehler?” Scott asked as Jess downed four of the Advil.

  “That’s him,” Jess nodded as she handed the glass to Scott. “Did he say what he wanted?” she asked as Scott swallowed his pills.

  “No. He only said he wanted to talk to you both. But he also said he would respect your wishes if you said no.”

  Scott and Jess looked at each other a moment. “What do you think?” he asked Jess.

  “I think Ed is a good guy.”

  “Okay. We’ll meet him. But later, this afternoon sometime. I need some time to work the kinks out.”

  “God…damn! Even my hair hurts,” Jess snarled as she hobbled out of the bed, causing her step-dad to chuckle.

  “Still like the motorcycle club life?”

  “Not so much right now,” she groused as she stiffly made her way down the hall to the bathroom.

  Scott eased out of bed, walking hunched over and listing, causing Ron to chuckle again. “Yep. I can sure see the appeal of a motorcycle club.”

  Scott bared his teeth briefly as a flash of pain passed over him. “And here I thought you were a nice guy.”

  Ron snickered as he turned. “I’ll call Ed and tell him you’ll meet him here at about three, okay?” he said as he walked away to give the kids some privacy to freshen up.

  “Can you help me take a shower?” Jess asked softly.

  “Jess…I’m too sore to—” Scott began.

  “No,” she interrupted. “Really. I need some help. Please. If you’ll help me, I’ll help you.”

  Scott began to laugh. “Jesus, don’t make me laugh,” he said, holding tight to his side. “Is this how we’re going to be when we’re a hundred?”

  “God I hope not! I don’t want to get that old if it is.”

  Jess started the shower, adjusting the water to as hot as she could stand. They carefully stepped into the shower, grateful for not having to step over a tub wall, and stood under the water, allowing the heat to leach the soreness from their bodies. They carefully washed, allowing the other to wash them in places too painful to reach on their own, and giggling at their predicament. By the time they were done washing, the warm water and Advil had begun to work and they held each other under the shower, allowing the love between them balm their aches.

  ***

  “I hope you two feel better than you look,” Ed said as he sat down at the table in Ron’s kitchen, nodding his head in thanks as Ron sat a beer in front of him. “Ron, you may want to stay and hear this, too.”

  Ron paused, then pulled out the fourth chair and sat down.

  “Pretty sore, Ed,” Scott said. “But I want to thank you for what you did for me, for us.”

  Ed smiled and nodded his head. “Well, now I’m hoping you can do something for me.”

  “If I can,” Scott said.

  “There have been come changes with the Angels,” Ed began after taking a sip from the bottle. “Val and Marc are out. Several others have turned in their colors.”

  “What happened to Val?” Jess asked.

  “We pulled his colors. He wasn’t happy about it, but there was nothing he could do. Marc, he’s probably not going to be able to ride again.”

  Jess looked at the table, her fingers twisting around one another. “I wish I hadn’t done that. I never meant for that to happen.”

  Ed took her hands in his and stilled them. “Don’t worry about it. You did what you had to do. He’s bitter, but he’ll get over it. You dance with the devil and all that. I spoke with him and he told me the doctors think he will get partial use of his arm back, but it’s going to be a long haul for him.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” Scott asked.

  “We’re electing new officers. Those who supported Val…they can stay in the club, but I don’t want them in positions of authority, at least not right away.”

  Scott’s ears perked up at Ed’s words. “Who’s the President?” he asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

  “I am.”

  “And the Vice-President?” Jess asked.

  “That’s where Scott comes in. I would like him to be my VP.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because everyone in the club respects you. They appreciate your toughness and your willingness to say, and do, what you think is right. And to be honest, they like the fact that you went all in to protect Jess. But it’s more than that. I liked the fact that you were willing to walk away for her. That tells me you are thinking beyond the club.”

  “What do you mean?” Scott asked.

  “I knew your dad, Jess. I know he didn’t agree with the drugs, and he told me how if he ever became President, he was going to try to get the Angels out of the underground. I agree with him. The fact that Scott could walk away from the money tells me something and I want him to help me do just that. I want to take the Grim Angels legit.”

  “How?” Jess asked.

  “I don’t know yet. That’s what I want him to help me figure out. Security maybe? We might begin to expand the garage and try to make a go of that rather than just using it to launder our dirty money.”

  “And the rest of the club?” Scott asked.

  “The brothers that are left are onboard, to one degree or another, with the idea. Those who couldn’t get onboard, who couldn’t let go of the money, are part of the group that turned in their colors. We lost about a quarter of our members, and we may lose a few more before it’s over. But we’re letting them walk away if they choose to.”

  Scott paused as he thought it over. It would mean moving to Detroit, a place he still hated, but then he looked at Jess and could see the hope in her eyes. He smiled softly at her, taking her hand. Atlanta, Greensboro or Detroit, Michigan, where ever Jess was, that was home…and that was enough for now.

  THE END

  Read on for your FREE bonus book – BOUND TO A KILLER

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  BOUND TO A KILLER: A Second Chance MMA Romance

  By Evelyn Glass

  TOUCH HER AND I’LL BREAK YOU.

  She got away from me once.

  But that won’t happen again.

  I’ll tie her to my bed if I have to.

  Because this time around, I can’t afford to lose her.

>   We almost end up with our happily ever after.

  But then she discovers the blood on my hands.

  CHAPTER ONE

  GRAYSON

  Jab, jab, right hook, left uppercut. He makes contact with the other fighter, throwing him off balance, but the guy comes back with a murderous look in his eye that makes Grayson want to take a step back. He doesn’t, he holds his ground.

  The skinhead lunges at him, putting the weight of his body behind the punch. “Ufff.” Grayson’s head is thrown back by the force of the other man’s punch to his throat. He tries to take some deep gulping breaths, struggling from the blow to his trachea. That kind of move would have been declared a foul in an official fight, but this was anything but official.

  The disguised warehouse looks like something right off of the set of a horror movie. It’s the kind of place you’d expect to find a chainsaw murderer; right on the outskirts of town, the building more or less about to fall down around their ears. It was the kind of place that made you feel like nothing good could come out of it. You wouldn’t be wrong.

  Grayson shakes his head, getting himself back in the game. He bounces on the balls of his feet like he’s seen other guys do. He knows the drill; he’s seen enough of these fights even if this was only the first time he was actually in the ring rather than outside of it.

  Show no fear. It was his mantra, one that he had come by the hard way, the scars on his body evidence of that. The thought almost makes him laugh out loud, as if anything in his life had been easy; hard was the only way he’d ever known. Well, one thing had come easy. He pushes the thought out of his mind. He can’t think about her now, not in this place.

  “Had enough yet, kid?” The skinhead they call ‘Destructor’ smiles at Grayson like he’s enjoying this, as if he doesn’t feel the blood running down his face from the nose that Gray managed to break in the first round.

  “Why? You getting tired?” Grayson doesn’t return the man’s smile. They’re not friends, they’re opponents, and he needs this win. His mom and his little sister need the money he’s bet on himself, not for anything exotic like new clothes or toys, but to pay the rent. They were hanging by a thread, Grayson had to keep focused.

  Destructor doesn’t have time to reply before the bell rings. Grayson tries to hide his relief at the break. It’s only a minute or so, but they’ve been beating the crap out of each other for the past half hour. If this were a real UFC match then the judges would have called time a while back and awarded the fight to Grayson. He had won more points, no contest. But this wasn’t a real match. It was an unsanctioned, underground fight controlled by the bookies that made a mint on the pundits who treated the ring like a cockfight.

  Grayson makes his way back to his empty corner. It’s empty because he doesn’t have a coach, nor does he have any supporters because no one knows that this is what he’s doing with his nights. Not even her. He’d come so close to telling her a hundred times, but he chickened out every time. What would she think of him if she knew? “I’ll see you tomorrow?” The memory of the question echoes in his mind, and he thinks again about how the sweet, expectant look in her eye almost made him tell her how he felt, almost.

  “Kid! Behind you!” One of the spectators is pointing urgently over Grayson’s left shoulder, but there’s no time to turn around before he’s knocked to the floor.

  Grayson hits the ground hard, Destructor pretty much tackling him to the floor. The referee is blowing his whistle, trying to pull the skinhead back, but it’s no contest. Destructor pulls his leg back and smiles, enjoying the moment. He kicks Grayson hard in the stomach again and again.

  Grayson tries to roll, tries to protect his head, but he’s in the worst position possible; he’s vulnerable on the ground, with this monster laying into him. Destructor lifts his foot to stomp on his head. The realization hits Grayson that this guy is going to kill him. If he doesn’t do something, he is going to die in this ring. And then who’s going to take care of his mom and Kay?

  He reacts without even thinking; his body has kicked in before his brain has had time to catch up. He grabs hold of Destructor’s foot, the one that is about to come smashing down onto his head and twists hard. He hears a faint popping sound as he tears the ligament with the force of the movement and he pushes up, knocking his opponent off balance.

  Destructor hits the ground hard, his eyes wide with surprise. Grayson doesn’t waste any time, he scrambles up to get the other man into a clinch hold, but he stops abruptly. Something isn’t right. In fact, something is very wrong. Destructors’ eyes are like saucers, unblinking, but that’s not what’s got Grayson’s attention. His head is twisted at an odd angle, like his neck was made out of rubber.

  Grayson slowly takes a step back, and people start to rush into the make-shift ring. A hand on his shoulder guides him through the crowd, pulling him away from the scene.

  “He’s dead!”

  “Must’ve broken his neck when he fell.”

  “Holy shit.”

  The reality of what’s playing out in front of him hits Grayson like a ton of bricks. His knees go weak, and he feels like he might throw up.

  “Come on, kid. You’ve got to get out of here.” The voice behind Grayson is insistent; a jacket is draped around his half-naked sweat-soaked torso.

  But Grayson doesn’t move, he doesn’t know if he even can. “He’s dead?” The words are like ash in his mouth, something he wants to spit out.

  “Yeah kid, he’s dead. Now there’s no need to hang around until the cops come, right?” The man’s voice is calm but insistent.

  The cops, the thought echoes in Grayson’s mind. He can’t go to jail. His family wouldn’t cope. His mom was already working two jobs trying to provide for him and his sister. His dad leaving was in some ways the best thing that had happened to them. It meant no more beatings, no more nights afraid to go home because of what mood the old man might be in. But his leaving had dumped them in a serious financial hole; there was no getting away from that. He couldn’t go to jail; there was no way he could let that happen. He lets the man lead him out of the back of the warehouse, keeping his head down.

  “You’re a good fighter, kid. You could make a lot of money.” The strong hand on Grayson’s shoulder tightens and steers him towards a sleek black Lexus. “You could use some cash, am I right?” The short man looks pointedly at Grayson’s beat-up sneakers.

  Grayson’s back is immediately up, he doesn’t take charity, never has. Plus, he’s seen too much not to know that there’s no such thing as no strings attached. “Who are you?” His jaw is set hard, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “I’m your fairy-fucking-godmother. Now, if you don’t want to get your ass hauled off to jail, get in the car and we can talk about what we can do for each other.” The short man inclines his head slightly and a steroid-junkie in a monkey suit steps out of the driver’s side and opens the back door.

  Grayson looks behind him at the dilapidated warehouse and thinks about the man that he has left dead on the floor, and he feels his gut twist with guilt.

  “It was an accident, kid.” The short man’s voice is soft, kind almost. “It happens in these places more than you’d think.” He shrugs his shoulders as if to say ‘c’est la vie.’ “I’m hoping you were smart enough not to use your real name when you signed up for this meat market?”

  Grayson shakes his head. No one had even really been interested in his real name. He was the youngest person in the place by a country mile; there weren’t a whole heap of eighteen year olds that were willing to step into the ring and have someone twice their size beat the crap out of them. He’d had to lie about his age, just to get in. So the bookie running the fight had christened him, ‘The Kid’. Grayson hadn’t corrected him.

  “Good.” The man sighs audibly. “In a weeks’ time, this will all have blown over. No one will be pressing charges, it’s not in anyone’s interest for there to be an investigation into these fights, too much to lose on all sides.”


  Grayson nods, dumbly, wondering how his whole life has changed in a matter of a few seconds. An accident, he’d said. It was an accident, but a man was still dead because of him.

  “Tick, tock, kid. Are you coming or not?” The short man has already slid into the back seat and is looking at Grayson expectantly.

  Grayson takes one look behind him, at the scene of the crime, his father’s words echoing in his head. You’re a screw up. You’re nothing. You’ll always be nothing. “Not this time, Dad.” He says the words under his breath, as he takes the offered seat and steps into the unknown.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ADRIANA

  “I mean, seriously, who irons their underwear?” Willow uses her stage whisper, which is only marginally quieter than her normal voice.