RAW: THE ULTIMATE MC COLLECTION

by Palomino, Honey

  It was moments like this that made me love Harley. He was as calm as if he were talking about the weather, while everyone around us were almost pissing their pants in fear. He had always been like that. That’s why he was made president so quickly, he handled stress like it was a walk in the park.

  “Unfortunately, in order to continue doing business with you, I’m going to need two things from you.”

  “Si, amigo. Anything you want. I apologize sincerely.” Sergio knew the right things to say. It didn’t matter that he was a powerful leader of a huge drug cartel, when someone had a gun pointed at your brain, you tended to do whatever they wanted.

  With a smile, if possible.

  “Good, good. First, you’ll need to agree to never go behind my back and sell to any gangs in my territory. Can you do that?”

  “Si, amigo. Absolutely.”

  “Good, good. And second, I’m going to need to confiscate that product you were trying to sell today.”

  Sergio look defeated, and he was. There was nothing he could do but agree. What else was he going to do? Fight us? Of course not. He was smarter than that.

  “I understand, amigo.”

  “Excellent. Now,” Harley said, his gun still pressed to Sergio’s sweaty forehead, while he spoke to Johnny. “Johnny, you and your men can go ahead and leave. Thank you for your cooperation. Take your cash with you.”

  Johnny nodded silently, grabbed his duffel bag, and walked down the hallway, he and his men exiting out the back door of the warehouse.

  “Oh, and Sergio, we’re going to be taking these guns, too. Gather ‘em up, boys.”

  Hairy Joe and Hooligan picked up the guns at the feet of the cartel men and then grabbed the briefcases. We walked out without another word said, Sergio and his men watching us leave, their hands still up in the air as the door closed shut behind us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Harley

  We roared up to the clubhouse full of piss, vinegar and dangerously increased levels of testosterone and adrenaline.

  “Fuck yes!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, as I pulled my helmet off my head.

  The hooting and hollering began as soon as we entered the clubhouse. Someone turned on the stereo, and the sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd poured out of the speakers. The whiskey began to flow, and a tray loaded with joints and cocaine was pulled from its hiding place behind the bar.

  I hated cocaine. I always had. And I wasn’t fond of doing business that involved it, but it paid the bills, and this was most definitely a job that you sometimes had to do shit you didn’t want to.

  Like Sergio. I really did like him. Up until now, all of our interactions had been pleasant and easy. But business was business, and just as I had told him, there was no way I could let him get away with fucking me over like that.

  I sincerely hoped he learned his lesson, because having to punish him any further than taking his drugs was really going to be unpleasant for me.

  I hated the violent part of my job, but it was a necessary evil.

  But, for now, I was thankful that whole thing was over, and no blood was spilled. Every now and then, one of my brothers got injured during one of our jobs, and there was nothing that hurt me more. I was constantly wracked with guilt for putting our boys in harm’s way, no matter how inevitable I knew it was.

  The next few days should be calm and easy, and I was looking forward to a little bit of time to breathe and relax. Maybe I would try to spend some time with Rebel, try to guide her to a job and a place to live.

  She was a lot more grown up than most women her age, but she still needed some guidance. Now that this thing with the cartel was over, I was looking forward to getting to know her better.

  I spent the day at the clubhouse celebrating with the boys and letting off steam.

  Mason cornered me after a while, and when he told me he wanted to talk to me, I knew it was about Rebel.

  I decided to cut him a little slack, and stopped him before he could get started.

  “Look, Mason, it’s okay, man. I forgive you about what happened with Rebel. Obviously, the two of you are made for each other, fuck the sparks flying off the two of you are enough to light a bonfire.”

  “Are you serious, Harley?” He looked at me so solemnly, so sincerely, that I reached out and hugged the poor chap.

  “Yeah, dude,” I said, hitting him on the back. “It’s all good. I wish you both luck. You have my blessing.”

  “Um, Harley, I’m not sure you understand. I think I’m in love with her.”

  “I know, Mason. Listen, man, just treat her right, and everything will work out. I love that little brat.” I winked at him, and a huge smile of relief spread across his face.

  I could only imagine what Rebel’s face would look like when Mason told her that they had my blessing.

  For a brief moment, I wondered what my parents would say, but I dismissed it as quickly as it came. I was the one in charge now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rebel

  I arrived at the warehouse before anyone else, early the next morning. After parking my bike three blocks away, and hiding it deep between two narrow buildings, I trotted around to the back door of the empty warehouse.

  Quietly and quickly, I picked the lock outside, just like Harley had taught me when we were breaking into our parents bedroom to steal sips from the liquor bottles they hid in there. I had loved the sound and feeling when the lock finally slid open, that feeling of accomplishing something forbidden. It had become a little hobby of mine to try to figure out how to open as many locks as I could over the years. And I was good at it.

  I locked the door behind me as I tiptoed in. It was hours before the meeting was supposed to happen, and I had my backpack with me. It was the same backpack I had since I was twelve - it was made of worn black leather and had a Renegade Rebels patch sewn on the front of it. It contained a bottle of water, a package of chips and a chocolate bar. I knew I might be there a while.

  I quickly scanned the place and saw that I was alone. I found a dark corner up in the secluded loft to hide in, where I could see the rest of the warehouse perfectly. I settled in, turned my cell phone on silent, and opened my water bottle, slowly sipping it, and scrolling through facebook on my phone while I waited.

  El Loco Gatos showed up first. They stood around, speaking Spanish and looking around the place. I was sure nobody would come up to the loft, and I was right. When the cartel showed up shortly after, my heart was racing as I watched from my perch.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but I knew the Renegade Rebels were going to show up, and I couldn’t wait to see Harley and Mason in action.

  When it all went down, I wasn’t disappointed, and I was filled with respect and admiration for my brother and Mason. Sure, it was scary, but they handled the entire interaction with complete professionalism and calmness. It was impressive.

  I waited around until the MC and the El Loco Gatos left, watching the men in the cartel express their extreme anger. I was thankful they couldn’t see me, and for the first time all day I began feeling like maybe it was a bad idea to come here.

  If something happened, Harley wouldn’t even know I was here. But I just couldn’t let that happen.

  The cartel stuck around much longer than I anticipated. My plan was to just quietly slip out after everyone had left, completely unseen. But they must have stayed there another hour, making phone calls and yelling at each other in Spanish, hanging out as if they were waiting for something.

  I quietly sipped my water, until I began to feel the urge to pee, and yet the last thing I could do was get up from my perch. I shifted my body, trying to squeeze my thighs together and think of anything else besides peeing.

  Another half hour passed, and I was about to burst. What the fuck was I thinking? This entire day had gone from a great idea of innocently watching my brother work, to the worst idea ever. When were these idiots going to leave, I wondered for the fiftieth time.

 
Finally, they began packing up their things after a particularly intense conversation, of which I could understand not one word.

  Learning Spanish was not high on my list of priorities while I was growing up. I knew how to order Mexican food, but that was the extent of my vocabulary.

  I sighed a huge sigh of relief when they finally trailed out of the warehouse. I packed up my things, and quickly descended the staircase leading to the loft. I waited another excruciating five minutes to give them time to drive away, and exited the building the same way I came in, through the back door.

  I made sure the coast was clear, then I sprinted down the few blocks to where my bike was parked, pulled down my blue jean shorts, squatted next to my bike and sighed heavily as sweet relief washed over me.

  I had my head down, staring at the concrete when I saw a pair of leather boots walk up next to me, and the click of a gun cocking sounded next to my ear.

  I swallowed hard, and looked up slowly, straight into the eyes of Sergio Garcia.

  “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” I grabbed my shorts, and stood up slowly, pulling them up as I did so. I fastened them quickly, then put my hands up.

  Sergio watched me, keeping the gun to my head the entire time. My body began shaking, and the realization that Harley and Mason had no idea where I was sank in fast and I felt sicker than I had ever been in my life.

  “Who are you?”

  “Um…Rebel."

  “Rebel? Your name is Rebel?” He sneered with his thick accent, and then laughed loudly as three of his men came around the corner, guns drawn and pointed straight at me.

  “Y-yes.” I stuttered. How the fuck was I going to get out of this?

  “So, Rebel. What were you doing in the warehouse back there? My men saw you walk out.”

  “Um…I was just looking around, that’s all.”

  “Looking around, eh?” He raised an eyebrow, looking at me suspiciously. “And what did you see?” “Nothing, I didn’t see anything.”

  He raised his chin, his eyes squinting as he looked me over. Then he spotted the patch on my backpack and picked it up.

  “Now, this,” he pointed to the patch as he spoke. “This is interesting. How do you know the Renegade Rebels Motorcycle Club?”

  Fuck. I could lie, tell him I didn’t know them. But if I told them who I really was I knew one of two things would happen. Either they would keep me safe and return me to Harley, or they would kill me and return me to Harley. Considering my brother had just humiliated the man standing in front of me, I didn’t think my chances of survival were so good.

  Turns out, I didn’t have to say a thing. One of Sergio’s men riffled through my bag, finding my ID.

  “Jill Robinson, boss.”

  “Ah, now let’s see. Harley Robinson is the president of the Renegade Rebel Motorcycle Club. You told me your name is Rebel. But your ID says Robinson. So are you Rebel Robinson?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you are related to Harley, I assume, amiga? Is that correct?”

  I didn’t reply, just stared at him, keeping my face as still as possible.

  “Well, this is definitely an interesting development, isn’t it, amigos?” he said to his men, their guns still pointed right at me.

  “Sí, jefe. Muy interesante,” the biggest of the two replied.

  Sergio dropped his gun to his side, walking over to my bike and looking at it.

  “Is this your bike, Rebel?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

  He stood there silently for a moment, his eyes glued to mine until he suddenly snapped his fingers and walked away.

  “Bring her. Bring the bike, too,” he called over his shoulder as he strode down the sidewalk back to the warehouse. “And don’t hurt a hair on her pretty head.”

  I screamed and struggled as one of them grabbed an arm and began pulling me along with them down the block. The other pulled the keys to the bike from the clip that was fastened to my belt-loop and stayed behind.

  The sound of my bike starting up behind me, mixed with my pleas fell deaf to anyone’s ears but mine.

  I had royally fucked up and all I could do was hope Harley could get me out of this. He was going to hate me now, I just knew it.

  It’s funny that my first thought was of Harley hating me, and not of my own personal safety. Something in the way that Sergio had instructed them not to hurt me, and the firm, but still gentle way I was being led down the street by Sergio’s man, kept me from panicking.

  When we returned to the warehouse, instead of entering the building, Sergio’s man put me in the back of a large, black SUV with heavily tinted windows. He slid in next to me and sat silently as we waited together.

  I looked over at the door closest to me and saw that it was unlocked. Sergio was nowhere in sight, and neither was the man that took my bike. Just this big, silent, dumb guy sitting next to me.

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and saw the big gun he was still holding in his hand. But then, Sergio’s words rang in my head again, and as I looked back at the door handle just inches from my hand, I knew I had to make a run for it.

  He wouldn’t shoot me, and I was a lot smaller than him, and I would bet good money I could run faster than him.

  I took a deep breath, and began talking to him.

  “Look, mister, I didn’t mean any harm. Don’t you think you can just let — ,” I pulled the door handle mid-sentence and jumped out of the car as fast as I could, my feet already running before they even hit the pavement.

  “Mierda!” he yelled, and just as I turned the first corner, I heard him run around the vehicle and begin to chase me.

  I ran as fast as I could, my feet flying under me. I was going fast, too fast. I turned a corner and my feet slid out from under me, and I slid across the pavement, skinning my right thigh and calf painfully.

  Sergio’s man caught up with me instantly and grabbed me with both hangs, pulling me yelling and kicking to my feet.

  “Let me go, you fucking asshole!” I screamed, kicking him as he easily held me up off the ground, my legs flailing. I reached over and bit his hand as hard as I could, a big chunk of bloody flesh left in my mouth as he dropped me and began yelling and cursing at me in Spanish again.

  “Mierda! Mierda!” I started to run away again, but he was too fast and despite the pain he must have been feeling, he caught up to me again, his blood dripping onto my black boots.

  This time, he held me out in front of him, carrying me back down the block and muttering to himself the whole time.

  “Pequeña perra. Me Morder como un pequeño monstruo de mierda!”

  I kicked and screamed at the top of my lungs, but he was holding me so tightly that I couldn’t escape his grip. When we returned to the warehouse, Sergio was waiting outside the vehicle, his arms crossed, his expression stern, yet amused.

  “Ella es un pequeño demonio!” Sergio’s man yelled to him from behind me as we reached the car.

  “Fuck you!” I yelled. Sergio laughed at his man’s words.

  “What the fuck is so funny?” I laughed, my anger rising in me now in waves. Fuck these guys, I wasn’t going to let them take me anywhere without a fight.

  “He said you are a hellion, little one.”

  “A hellion?” I asked, spitting in Sergio’s direction. “You have no fucking idea. Let me go! Now! You have no idea who I am, and you are messing with the wrong woman!”

  “Woman? Woman!” Sergio roared with laughter, and I would have kicked him square in the balls if his goon wasn’t holding onto me so tightly. “You are still a kid, little one. I’d be surprised if you even had any hair on that pretty little pussy of yours. Not only are you a kid, niña, you are a stupid kid, apparently. What would possess you to come here? Huh? You want to be in the big, bad, motorcycle club like your brother? Is that it?”

  So he had figured it out. He knew I was Harley’s sister. Good. That was good, I thoug
ht. Or, maybe not. Either was I was fucked. Once again, I thought of how pissed off Harley was going to be when he found out I followed him.

  “Fuck you!” I said, spitting at him again. He shook his head at me, looking at me like I was an oddity in a circus.

  “Let’s go,” he said, smirking at me. He turned to get in the car as the goon behind me shuffled me forward and put me back in the car roughly.

  He locked the door next to me, sat closely next to me and tightened his grip on my arm even more.

  “You’re hurting me, you asshole!” I said, doing my best to wiggle away from him.

  “Too bad, niña!” he said, not loosening his grip on me at all, even though we were driving down the road at full speed.

  “I’m not going to jump out while the car is moving, for fuck’s sake!”

  He looked at me with his beady black eyes, leaning in so close to me that I could smell his rancid breath.

  “You aren’t going to jump out at all, because I’m not going to let you go!”

  “Fuck you,” I replied.

  I sat there silently, watching my future play out in front of my eyes as we raced down the road. It was simple, really. Either I survived, or I didn’t. I resigned myself once again to not go out without a fight, and if they were going to kill me, which I desperately hoped they wouldn’t, they were going to have to work for it.

  When we finally entered a garage, I looked around and realized we were pulling into the garage at the Crescent Hotel. The Crescent was one of the fanciest hotels in Dallas, and one of the busiest. If these guys thought they were going to successfully keep me from escaping from a fancy hotel, they were sorely mistaken.

  I liked to think of myself as an amateur escape artist, which went right along with my love for picking locks. I could get out of almost everything. When we were kids, Harley, Mason and I spent hours watching old videos of Houdini and trying to recreate his famous stunts. They would practice tying me up, using rope or scarves to tie me to a chair and then see how long it would take me to get out. We took turns, but I always the best at escaping.