Savage Saviors: The Complete Boxset (Savage Saviors MC)

by J. C. Allen

  Chuck didn’t utter another word as the sound of the door shutting behind him reached my ears.

  My breathing intensified as I realized that I was alone now. It’s not like Chuck was going to defend me—he put me in this fucking spot; he drugged me at the bar, he got me here; my own goddamn brother!—but, maybe it was sick to say, he was familiar.

  There was nothing familiar here.

  Suddenly, a large hand grabbed my head and ripped the bag off, yanking some hair with it. I whimpered, and I barely got a glimpse of the man speaking to Chuck before he slapped me, dropping me to the ground.

  “My name is Rock,” he said. “And you are mine.”

  He waited until I struggled to my knees. I always kept trying to move my hands, somehow always forgetting they were bound behind my back.

  “Let me explain one thing to you,” he said. “I don’t care what your name is. I don’t care what you wanted to be. I only care that you give me and my men what we want. You are not a woman, but a product for me to sell on the streets. You are disposable, you are worthless, and you are pathetic. If I could carve you up and let me get off of your genitals alone, I would have you dead by now.”

  This man…

  Terror and fear didn’t begin to describe him.

  What had my world come to? Why was I, Eve Kellerman, an aspiring economics and biology major, suddenly reduced to… being an abused victim and soon-to-be hooker?

  Why?!?

  But I knew already to keep my damn mouth shut.

  “We have some rules that we will go over,” he snarled. “But we can start in the easiest way possible.”

  He reached for the duct tape on my face and ripped it off. I screamed in pain, but his boot into my chest ended that quickly. I bit my own lip, drawing blood, so I stopped.

  And then he and his men began unzipping their pants.

  “Satisfy us and show us why we shouldn’t kill you right now.”

  1

  Derek

  Present Day

  The smell of coffee wafted to my nostrils at an hour well past when most people would have awoken to the smell of their favorite caffeinated drink. A single waitress worked the old, 70’s diner, probably a bit of overkill given that I’d come to this place so many times I could cook their dishes blindfolded. She checked in only once to confirm my meal, once to deliver it, and once to bring the check. She knew me enough, and that’s all I cared about.

  I sat against the back of the booth, looking at the empty seat across from me. I sighed.

  Fuck.

  I had barely slept the night before. The truth was, I hadn’t ever truly fallen asleep. No, such a luxury hadn’t come to me in quite some time, and I didn’t just mean last night. I measured the deepness of my sleep by how quickly I could have bolted up and acted in a moment of need, and that quickness never went beyond a split second’s worth of recognition.

  Life had just changed in that regard. Ever since that fateful day…

  Fuck.

  I wanted to groan, to scream, to roar that curse as I lifted my head. Every day that I woke up, every fucking day…

  How some people started their day with a “good morning” or, hell, just one of those two words felt like a mystery I had once had the answer to but now would have had better luck trying to understand the meaning of life or the Bermuda Triangle.

  Instead, I got to “celebrate” the start of my day with what seemed like a cruel joke to myself.

  I went to the same diner that she and I used to go to every Saturday to truly, really, actually celebrate the good life.

  What a sick joke I played on myself.

  “Fuck.”

  Ahh, at least now I could actually verbalize how I felt. At least now my vocal cords were coming to life.

  With a slightly more alert mind, I knew that the hour had approached something between 2 p.m. and 3 p.m. Like I said, most people didn’t need their breakfast and coffee after when most civilized people had already had lunch. But then again, most people also didn’t need to do the kind of shit I’d undertaken in the past two years.

  I tried to wet my mouth, but even with having just eaten enough bacon and eggs to feed a professional athlete, the foul taste of oil, gas, and tobacco infested it instead. It was a common taste to rise to, but that never made it appetizing like pizza or the sweet scent of Mag…

  I stopped my thoughts in my tracks before I thought about her this goddamn early in the day. To be fair, thinking about her was an inevitable part of the day, as much a part of my life as pissing, shitting, and drinking, but at least if I could delay it some, I could say I had a tolerable day. Never a great one, mind you, but at least a tolerable one.

  But that was the problem with trying to suppress thoughts—the more I tried, the harder it got. And the harder it got, the more I’d try to suppress them. To say it was a vicious cycle would be like saying Las Vegas in the summer was hot. No fucking shit, Sherlock.

  Then again, I supposed that coming to the same diner we had always visited was not helping matters.

  But if I did that, what part of her would remain?

  Nothing. That’s what. She’ll be as dead as the day she actually died from that fucking Falcon.

  Today, to get rid of them, I hacked up and shot a wad of spit out of my throat and onto my plate, hoping to clear the pipes some so the next time I said fuck, it wouldn’t sound like a twenty-year smoker on his death bed from lung cancer. I checked the dimple on my left shoulder, the bruises on my inner legs, and the general wear and tear of my body before I stood up to take a piss.

  And, in doing so, stepped on a sticky piece of gum some asshole had left before I’d never noticed.

  Hilariously enough, I didn’t even think fuck at this moment. Life had a funny way of making me appreciate what was worth a fuck and what I knew I had done to myself. The idea of laughing at myself for such a thing was… well, not going to happen, but the depressed and the cursed could still find dark humor in the shadows of life.

  I looked in the mirror in the bathroom and shit, did I look like hell. The lack of sleep, the stress, the constant nightmares and flashbacks… I didn’t give a fuck, at least not if anyone asked me, but damn was this bad.

  It was, I was sure, a sign of what was to come today.

  Today, like yesterday, like two days ago, like every day before that, was going to suck.

  Every day alone, without her, sucked.

  Fuck.

  Shit.

  Damnit!

  Well, at least I’m waking up. My obscenities are evolving bit by bit.

  I headed back to the booth to slowly sip on my cup of coffee, as if someday, somehow, I would have a revelation that would change my life.

  Hahahahahahahahahahahaha you fucking idiot.

  A flashing light in the corner of my room caught my eye, as if something was fighting with the forces of nature to remain on. I lazily grabbed my phone. No one important is calling right now. Probably some bill collector.

  Or…

  I looked at the name on the caller ID and rolled my eyes. Fuck, seriously?

  I would have thought that ignoring the previous half-dozen voicemails would have gotten the hint through, but then again, I thought a lot of things about the world that no one else seemed to agree with. It was just part of the odd balance between abiding by just enough of the rules that I wouldn’t wind up six feet under or in the slammer and also calling a bitch a bitch.

  Then again, some days might be worth going six feet deep…

  Still, bemused curiosity got the better of me. And what was I supposed to do, keep trying to play Jesus and resurrect the dead in my head? I pressed play and mentally prepared to strain my eyes with the amount of ensuring eyerolls.

  “Derek? Gooooood afternoon, it’s George…”

  “Again,” I said, finishing his words.

  I didn’t smirk—it was too damn early for that—but a sense like a smirk washed over me. The guy was just too damn predictable. In a way, it was nice to
have this comedic relief right now.

  “… again,” the message echoed. “Listen, if I’m an honest man, and Lord knows I hope I am, I know you probably won’t respond. I would guess you’re just going to ignore this message like all the others…”

  “Then why the fuck you calling me,” I mumbled as I pulled out some clothes for the day.

  “… but darn it, Derek, no matter how crazy it sounds, I’m still holding onto hope that you’ll come back to us. Call me crazy, but… well…”

  I blurted out a single laugh, something of a miracle for being fully awake only so recently—or, really, my entire life. “Darn it, Derek, I’m still holding out hope,” sounded like exactly the kind of thing George would have felt so uncomfortable saying he would have begged forgiveness from God as soon as he said it.

  “What’s wrong, George” I said, my voice more of a gruff statement than an empathic question. “New guys not worth a shit, huh.”

  “It’s these new guys, Derek,” George said in what was so predictable, I would have bet on that more than on the sun rising the next day. “They’re just not working out. They’ve got half the work ethic and demand twice the pay. It’s so hard and we’re trying our best, but… oh, heavens, we need you back. Lord look favorably upon me please.”

  “And you assume that I just can’t wait to play the part of the chump and come back to work twice as hard for half the pay, that right?” I groused. “That’s your problem, George. Talk nice and think you’re being polite.”

  “My boss is going to think I’m insane, but I can’t help it, Derek. I’m willing to take you back at twice your original salary.”

  I’m sure some how-to book in the self-help section from some guru wearing a mic, a tie, and a fake smile would have stated how such an offer was a sign that you, empowered individual, had finally arrived.

  And I was just as sure that the only thing I had arrived at was the conclusion that I wanted nothing to do with that job ever again. I sincerely had a better chance of sending an olive branch to the Black Falcons than going back to that job—and I had a better chance of begging for Satan’s cock than doing that.

  “Way I see it, if I can get you back by getting rid of two of these lazy, money-grubbing… uhh… guys, then I’m willing to—”

  “Still a dipshit, I see,” I grumbled, turning back and stabbing my finger against the machine, deleting the message.

  The funny thing, deleting that message, was it wasn’t like I had moved on to “bigger and better” things. I didn’t even just mean in the traditional sense. I couldn’t really say that I personally felt like I had moved on to bigger and better things. What part of “widowed, hunted, and hated” was “bigger and better?”

  Granted, my life was a lot more exotic and, I supposed when I wasn’t in the midst of feeling pissed off, “exciting” compared to replacing shingles and yanking out old wiring in houses that should have been demolished instead of trying to power a stereo like mine, let alone an entire system.

  And, to be fair, I also had a lot more horny housewives waiting for me to “catch” them, oh so conveniently standing by their bayside windows with nothing but their bathrobes on, “accidentally” untied and open, their desperate, lonesome fuck-me eyes staring at me, telling me that their husbands, men like George, hadn’t given them a good lay in twenty years.

  But I had really never given a shit about that. Some young buck, some idiot, some fresh meat might have gotten off at just the thought of a woman, not some ditzy co-ed idiot, showing him how to fuck. But I just didn’t have any interest.

  Not when I had had the best a woman could offer. And not just any woman, but…

  Really not helping your cause here, thinking like this, Derek.

  I tossed my phone back to the ground and grabbed my coffee when my phone rang unexpectedly, nearly causing me to capsize the cup and drop the hot, burning drink onto my hands. Cuz that’s what I need, right?

  Startled, I turned suddenly to the still-going device. I shook my head, mumbled “motherfucker” and picked it up. I stared at the name.

  “Matty Rooster Rose.”

  Ah, fuck.

  “What,” I muttered before I’d even brought the phone to my ear, hoping that Roost didn’t have to fill my ears with a soliloquy so early in the day.

  “And a chipper ‘hello’ to you from the rest of the functioning world, as well, ya moody shithead!” Matty’s voice sang back to me, perhaps the starkest contrast I could have asked for at this hour. “What the fuck is goin’ on?!? You actually awake at this normal hour?”

  “Rooster?” I asked, then rolled my eyes at myself. Of course it was fucking Roost, I’d even looked at the damn caller ID before I’d picked up the phone!

  Like I said, I needed something.

  “Heh! The fuck else would it be?” he said. “‘Less ya got some other side fag running the books for ya. And tracking the jobs… and calling the shots… and tracking your transports… and—”

  “I get it, I get it!” I groaned, combing my fingers through my hair. One way or the other, Roost was going to wake me up. “You’re my everything, aww, how cute. You want a fucking raise or something?”

  Every so often, the sole waitress would give me a stern look for swearing, but it wasn’t condescending—it was more like my mother telling me to wash my mouth with soap. I always felt guilty swearing around her, but I’d ingrained myself too much in the life to not do it.

  “Nah,” Roost said with a drawled, drawn-out chuckle. “Just yer word that ya ain’t got any other fags working this hard for yer ungrateful ass. Ya know I couldn’t handle that.”

  I scoffed at that and shook my head even though there was no one there to see it. I was many terrible things, and anyone who wanted anything resembling a normal life stayed far the fuck away, but I swore loyalty above my own health. So long as Roost ran with me, I was monogamously working with him.

  Just not… well, monogamously anything else.

  “No, Roost, you’re the only fag in my life.”

  “Aww, well don’t be so certain, Derek,” he said, dropping his voice to a playful cautionary level. “Ain’t’cha been watching the news? We’s got agendas ‘gainst all arrows. Agendas!”

  I laughed at that, still wondering why he insisted on calling all straight people “arrows.” Wasn’t it just easier…

  Never mind that. Just, fucking…

  “Noted. So what’s up?” I asked, hoping the calm in my voice would steady the storm in my head.

  “Wanted to know when we could expect yer company,” he answered. “But then ya answered the call like an angsty bitch, so now’s I gotta know who put a pricker-bush up yer poop-chute! Who ya seeing, Derek? Who’s the lucky fag? C’mon, tell me the truth!”

  “Nobody,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes at the man’s too-keen senses, although I came as close as I had all morning to giving more than a one-off laugh. If anyone could pull it off, it was Roost.

  That ended, though, when my mind came back to what my eyes saw in that moment—or, rather, what my eyes thought they saw.

  And just like that… whatever glimmer of genuine laughter, whatever real hope I had for some hilarity, disappeared as quickly as she had.

  “I just… well, my stereo croaked this morning. Fucking outage blew a fuse or something, and to make matters worse my CD was still in the damn tray—can’t get it out. Want to know what it’s like? You’d be pissed out of your damn mind if one of your boys had his mouth sewn shut.”

  Matty grunted into the line, and I could practically see him rolling his eyes at me. He always said I needed to learn to talk shit to him like a true fag would, but what in the fuck was that supposed to mean? I wasn’t exactly lacking for verbal wit, anyways.

  I also knew he knew I was full of shit. But he was also smart enough not to press me on the real reasons for my misery. He was also smart enough to play along as needed.

  “Lemme have a whack at the ol’ girl. I’m sure I can get her singin’ again. The very
least, I can prolly get her to give Aero back before she flatlines for good. Then we’ll see ‘bout getting’ ya a new one; a better one!”

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said, although I couldn’t claim to relish that idea at all. It wasn’t as simple as saying “a new one, a better one.” That implied I could just move on from her that easily, and…

  If I could move as easily on from my gals as Roost seemed to imply was possible, would I be in my current state?

  “Any idea what caused the power outage, anyway?” I said, hoping to deflect Roost’s further questions. “I feel like I would’ve woken up if there’d been a storm.”

  “No storm, sadly,” Roost said, his breath coming out a little heavier than before—whatever he was doing, he was moving, and old Roost didn’t have the healthiest of bodies. I loved him for his mind, his wit, and his charm, but the idea of making him run down a Black Falcon was as laughable as me chasing down a real falcon. “Not in the way ya mean, at least.”

  Something passed over the receiver on his end—his hand, I guessed—and his suddenly muffled voice shouted an order to move the latest shipment to the back room for inventory. I didn’t think anything of it.

  Didn’t think much of anything, really.

  “Sorry ‘bout that, boss. Anyways, it’s the goddamn heat. That’s what’s to blame for the power goin’ out. Blackouts ‘cross the whole damn city. It’s like one of them damn solar flares, that’s what the weatherman said. I dunno what in the fuck that means, but yer not gonna get here without some sweat glistening down yer body.”

  “The heat?” I repeated, glancing towards the sun outside and seeing heat waves rise off the black concrete. Riding my girl is gonna be a real bitch today. She’s gonna be packing some heat, alright.

  “Fuckin’ A,” Rooster drawled. “Hot as a parade of greased-up Dwayne Johnson clones out here. And ya know I’d much rather have ‘em…”

  He didn’t dare call the WWE wrestler by his stage name. Not when the leader of the Black Falcons, my biggest fucking nemesis and the biggest pain in my ass, shared it.