MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: (Complete Series: Parts 1-5) An MC Fighter Menage Romance

by Juniper Leigh

  MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees

  (The Complete Series: Boxed Set) Parts 1-5

  By Juniper Leigh

  Copyright 2014 Enamored Ink

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  Table of Contents

  Craving Her Biker (Part 1)

  Her Biker’s Touch (Part 2)

  Club Business (Part 3)

  Breaking Bonds (Part 4)

  Rebel’s Tryst (Part 5)

  Craving Her Biker

  (MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: Book 1)

  By Juniper Leigh

  Copyright 2014 Enamored Ink

  Craving Her Biker

  “He’s here.”

  Lucas Whalen exhaled a thick plume of smoke and stabbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on the table in front of him. He gave a barely perceptible nod of his head, and the doors were flung wide, granting admittance to three men, two of whom were dragging in the third.

  Lucas rose to his feet and tugged the black leather kutte over his shoulders. There were two patches on the worn old vest that set his apart from those worn by the rest of the members of the Iron Banshees Motorcycle Club: the most important in this particular moment was the one that read “Vice President.”

  “Where do you want him, Lucky?” asked Fitz, his Sergeant at Arms, essentially his right-hand man. Flanking their new guest was a prospect, much more brawn than brain, much more bite than bark.

  “He can have a seat,” Lucas said, crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. He regarded the man with cool curiosity as he was deposited, rather unceremoniously, into a chair in front of Lucas. The man had been roughed up a little — nothing too extreme, but at the first opportunity he got, he leaned forward and spat blood onto the concrete floor at his feet. “Oliver Flynn,” said Lucas, steadying himself a few feet in front of the man. “Our paths finally cross.”

  “Would that it were under more fortuitous circumstances.” Oliver’s manner of speech had the gentle lilt of a person who had been born in Ireland but raised in the States, a mere shadow of his father’s more aggressive brogue. And his father was precisely why young Oliver was sitting in that seat to begin with.

  “Yeah,” Lucas agreed, shifting his weight to fall into an easy lean against the table at his side. “I know this isn’t exactly your fight.”

  “But I’m here to clean it up anyway, aren’t I?”

  Lucas looked past Oliver and glanced between Fitz and the Prospect, a cant of his chin indicating that he wished to be left alone with their guest. The two men obliged, and a little of the electricity went out of the air with them. Oliver relaxed against the back of the chair into which he’d been deposited.

  “Sins of the father, and all that,” Lucas grimly intoned, fishing a half-crushed pack of Camels from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Aye,” Oliver agreed, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. “How is Old Pete, anyway?”

  “He’s stable, I think. Took one a’ those bullets in the chest, collapsed a lung. So he’s on a ventilator, in and out of consciousness. But it looks like he might pull through.” Lucas placed the cigarette between his lips and plucked a tarnished silver Zippo from the pocket of his kutte. He lit the cigarette, inhaled, exhaled. “And that is very good news for you and your old man.”

  “Why don’t you just take your pound of flesh and be done with it?” Oliver had expected the Banshees to come for him, as soon as he’d gotten wind of the attack on Old Pete Harrington, Lucas’s father-in-law and the President of the Iron Banshees Motorcycle Club. He’d been perturbed, but not exactly surprised, to learn that the perpetrator of the attack had been his own father, Tommy Flynn. Not that he’d deign to bash Old Pete’s skull in himself, no: had one of his ex-IRA cronies do it, no doubt. Tommy Flynn insisted that he was absolutely not part of an organized crime ring. But when push came to shove, they seemed pretty organized to Oliver.

  “I’m not here to rough you up, Oliver,” Lucas said, “I’m not gonna kill you. I’m not gonna lay a finger on you.”

  Oliver quirked a brow in question. “What d’ya want with me, then?”

  “What do you know about Tommy Flynn’s attack on my father?”

  Oliver shrugged and leaned back in the metal folding chair. “Next to nothing. Don’t know if you heard, but my da an’ me, we aren’t exactly… close.” To put it mildly.

  “The Banshees run a bit of a…. an underground competition, shall we say, where we pitch two men — fine athletes — against each other for sport. Then, our guests are free to place wagers on the fighters.”

  “Spit shine a turd, it’s still shit,” Oliver said with a grin, which Lucas immediately mirrored.

  “Yeah, it’s cage fighting. Bloody, brutal shit, but turns a good profit. So, your father was a regular around the ring. Lost a lot of his own money, lost a lot of other people’s money. He knew we were gonna come after him for what he owed, knew that he was facing a truly savage beatdown, and tried to disband our entire organization in one fell swoop, rather than pay what he owed or take what was coming to him.”

  “Yeah. Sounds like my da.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Not a clue. I imagine he hightailed it across the pond as soon as he heard Old Pete was still breathing.” Tommy Flynn’s connections to the crime syndicates in Ireland ran deep. Oliver guessed he’d have rather an easy time of hiding out there forever if he needed to. But someone had to pay; someone always had to pay.

  “That’s what we figured.” Lucas tapped the end of his cigarette and let the ash scatter over the blood on the concrete floor at their feet. “So that’s where you come in.”

  “Listen, Lucas, if I had the kinda money Tommy owes, I’d just give it to you. But I don’t.”

  “I know, man,” Lucas said, and his green eyes softened. Oliver found himself realizing that he actually kind of liked this crazy son of a bitch. “So we’re gonna take it from you in trade.”

  “Trade?” Oliver worked construction. He wondered if Lucas Whalen needed any walls demolished.

  “Yeah,” he said. “How good are you in a fight?”

  ***

  I swore I would never return to Hollybrook, swore my son wouldn’t grow up with the constant threat of violence hanging over his head, as I had. I swore left and right that I would protect him from that world and clawed my way up and out of it, swearing, swearing I would never come back.

  But when my mother called me in the middle of the night, her voice tremulous with fear and rage, how could I refuse her?

  “Mama, what happened?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbow, still hazy with sleep.

  “Your father was attacked,” she said, and I could hear her struggling to keep the tears at bay.

  “What?” I snapped to, immediately awake, and switched on the bedside lamp. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s in surgery,” she said, and took in three deep breaths before continuing. “I can’t get ahold of your brother, and I’m all alone here, and I can’t—” There was a crack in her voice, and I was already out of the bed and fishing my ratty old suitcase out of the closet.

  “Mama, I’m on my way, ok? I’m coming now. I can be there in six hours.”

  I packed quickly, deciding to bring almost all of the
clothing I owned, since I had no idea how long I’d be staying in Hollybrook, how long my father’s recovery would take — if he recovered at all. I paused by the vanity mirror and gazed at my reflection: rested, healthy, the three years I’d spent away from my hometown had done wonders for me. My hair was ink black and lustrous, without the streaks of neon pink and purple of my misspent youth. My eyes were bright and clear, a limpid blue that was free of bloodshot veins, something I could not have boasted as recently as two years ago. My skin was pale and milky, unblemished by bruises, scrapes, scabs, burns. Sure, I’d put on some weight after Jamie was born, but I thought I wore it well, in my breasts, hips and ass, though I’d long ago given up on the dream of ever fitting into my skinny pre-pregnancy jeans.

  I packed all of Jamie’s things as well, toys, clothes and all, and loaded up our well-loved pickup before rousing him from his slumber.

  He stared up at me with sleepy blue eyes, his blond hair sticking up in all directions, and reached for me. I hoisted him up into my arms and rocked him gently.

  “We’re going to visit grandma and grandpa,” I whispered as I pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. But he was already asleep again by the time I strapped him into the car seat.

  I drove through the rest of the night and into the morning, arriving in Hollybrook at a little after ten. I cut through the familiar streets, past the strip mall where I’d spent most of my free teenage hours, up by the high school where I’d been entirely passed over for homecoming queen, and through the town’s main thoroughfare, directly to St. Agnes Hospital.

  With Jamie in my arms and my purse slung over my shoulder, I pushed my way through the small crowd of nurses and orderlies, to the waiting area of the ICU. I saw my mom’s small grey head resting on a set of large shoulders, clad in black leather. I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the back of this familiar head. I’d known for certain that I would see Lucas Whalen when I was in town, but I hadn’t expected it to be so soon. I found myself wishing I’d taken a moment to glimpse myself in the rearview mirror, maybe bother to put on a little lip gloss. But it was too late, because Jamie began to squirm and make small baby noises in my arms, and the sound immediately caught Lucas’s attention.

  He turned, jostling my mother as he did so, and they both looked back at me.

  “Oh, Harper,” my mom said, rising to her feet and coming immediately over to me, wrapping her arms around me and her grandson at the same time. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “Of course I came, Mama,” I said, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Any news?”

  She shook her head. “He’s not out of surgery yet.”

  Lucas rose then, uncoiling to his full, considerable height, and was approaching, a pair of bright emerald eyes darting between me and Jamie. They had the same flaxen hair, like fresh-hewn corn, though Lucas’s was short and well kept, and Jamie’s was a mass of curls and tangles.

  “Lucas just came to sit with me a while,” my mother said by way of explanation. I proffered a thin-lipped smile. Lucas wore no discernible expression that I could read, simply locked those cat eyes on me like he was afraid I might disappear at any moment. And I might.

  “You look good, Harper,” he said, his voice low and rough from too many cigarettes. “Christ.” He reached out for Jamie and took him into his arms. “He got so big.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, rubbing Jamie’s back as Lucas cradled him. Seeing Lucas hold Jamie, my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. And whether it was the exhaustion or the stress from the drive, I couldn’t say, but tears began to well in my eyes. Lucas looked good holding our son. “He looks more and more like you every single day.”

  “Poor kid, got my hair,” he said, smiling. “Hey, buddy.” He kissed Jamie’s cheek, and Jamie smiled in a vague sort of way that indicated he didn’t exactly know who this strange man, his father, was, but he didn’t altogether mind the attention. Jamie wiped absently at his cheek where his father’s lips had touched him, and it made Lucas laugh.

  “How have you been, Lucky?” I asked, trying to avert my attention from the flood of emotion I was feeling at seeing him again. It was stupid, I reasoned, just leftover nostalgic nonsense from a past life. It didn’t mean anything.

  “Seen better days,” he said, “what with all this shit with Old Pete. I’m sorry, by the way.”

  I arched a shoulder in a shrug. “I knew this life had consequences, and so did he.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s why we left,” I said, looking him directly in the eye. I wasn’t exactly the kind of girl to pull any punches. “Because I didn’t need my son to see his father kill himself.”

  “First of all, he’s our son, not just your son. And secondly, I would never kill myself, but plenty of people would line up to do it for me.”

  “And that is precisely my point.” Jamie began to fuss, and Lucas set him down on the linoleum floor so that he could run into my mother’s open arms. I watched her rock him gently from side to side, humming the same little nameless tune she’d hummed to me when I was small.

  “I don’t want to argue about this, Harper,” he said, rather more sternly than I thought was strictly necessary. “You made your choice — I have no intention of trying to change your mind.”

  “Well. Good.”

  “But,” he said, pointing one long finger at me, “I do think it’s been too long between visits, too long between phone calls, or even a goddamned e-mail with a new picture.” His voice was raised, agitated. “I’m his father, whether you like it or not.”

  “Don’t yell at me, Lucas, not right now.” He took in a deep breath, as though he were going to pick a fight, but something he saw in me stopped him, and all the air went out of him. He dropped his hand so it smacked against his leg.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He pulled me into his arms then, and I stiffened at his touch. But when I laid my cheek against his chest, all the fight went out of me and I relaxed into him, breathing in his familiar scent: sweat and sage, cigarettes and leather. I hadn’t left him for lack of love, not even close.

  He rested his chin on the top of my head, and hugged me like he didn’t care if we stayed like that all day long. “Come on,” he finally said, “Angie’s got Jamie. Let’s go get a cup of shitty hospital coffee.”

  How easy it was to be back in his company. Too easy. In fact, it put me on alert how natural it felt to walk in step beside him, with his loping gate that belied an old injury to his left knee. He’d fallen off his bike once, went skidding across an intersection, and his slight limp was all that remained of that incident. I’d been there, in the same hospital, when he’d come out of surgery, bleary and good-humored. He had taken my hand, and the heart monitor had picked up its pace when he touched me. “That machine,” he’d slurred, “is telling you how much I love you.” He’d been eighteen then, three years before he’d patched into the Iron Banshees, five before I’d gotten pregnant with Jamie, six before I’d left him, and Hollybrook, in the dust.

  He guided me to a table in the hospital cafeteria, his hand on the small of my back, and I took a seat while he went to fetch us two Styrofoam cups full of the inky black swill they had the nerve to call coffee. We both drank it anyway, casting furtive smiles at one another over the rising steam.

  “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what have you been doing with yourself lately?”

  “Nothing glamorous,” I replied, shrugging. “I work at a diner. I’m trying to finish up nursing school, but I can only really take one class at a time, so it’s taking me a while. I don’t like to leave Jamie on his own too much, and with work…” Another shrug. I felt like I had to justify my entire life to this man, since he’d offered me one on a silver platter and I’d left it behind.

  “Well, whatever you’re doing, it agrees with you.” He grinned at me then, and I rolled my eyes at his lame attempt at flirtation.

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “You look good, too.” And he did, though he needed a shav
e. I reached out and grazed his stubble with my fingertips, and he caught my hand in his. Something in his demeanor shifted, and he locked his eyes on me with an overwhelming intensity.

  “Come back,” he said. I froze for a moment, but ultimately jerked my hand away.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Come back. I want you close, and my son.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and reaching out for me again. I pulled away.

  “You want me close, or you want me back?” I asked, canting my head to the side, a gesture that sent a few locks of black hair into my line of vision. I swept them aside, my gaze never wavering. He was silent. “Or is there someone else now?”

  “No one serious,” he said. “Come back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. You can, and you should.” He took a sip from his cup, his knee bouncing rapidly up and down. I watched him fidget, and I could tell he was fiending for a cigarette. “That boy needs a father. And, frankly, a mother who is around a little more often than it sounds like you are.”

  “I’m around plenty. We get by just fine, thank you.” And we did. Mostly.

  “You don’t need to be away as much as you are. You don’t need to work at a diner — what do you do with the money I send you every month?”

  “I put it in a college fund for Jamie.”

  “That’s goddamned stupid, Harper,” he said with a shake of his head. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

  “Because I don’t want your blood money, Lucas.” Now I was the one who was raising my voice. “I left because I don’t want to be a part of the drugs and the guns and the fighting and the violence. I left because I don’t want Jamie to be exposed to that shit. I want a better life for him than the ones we had growing up.”

  “We were born into this world, Harper,” he said, his voice free of vitriol but full of a sort of sad resignation. “And, like it or not, so was he. The Banshees? That’s his legacy, too.”

  “Fuck the Banshees,” I said, rising to my feet. “The Banshees are why my father is in the ICU, why my brother has done hard time. The Banshees nearly got you killed once, too, in case you don’t remember, and for what? You have legitimate businesses, but that’s not enough for you, is it? Or do you just prefer the thrill of working outside the confines of the law?”