Wanted: An Outlaw Anthology

by Lane Hart

  She loves homemade cookies, copious amounts of coffee and Diet Coke by the case. You can connect with Geri on her website http://geriglenn.com where you can sign up for her newsletter to find out more about her less than glamorous life, and what she’s working on now.

  Stalk her!

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  Flynn

  Bad Breed MC

  Amanda Heartley

  Prologue

  Flynn

  There’s a lot of rumors around what it is to be a member of a motorcycle ‘gang’ and most of it is complete bullshit. Fake news spouted at dinner parties by self-righteous know-it-alls from the suburbs who have no clue about our culture or the way we choose to live our lives.

  We don’t even use the term ‘gang’ anyway. We belong to a club, and a very exclusive one at that. Gang or club, I guess it’s all the same. Whatever you choose to call it, when you sign up, you accept the fact you could end up dead, or with a bullet in your flesh if you’re lucky, fighting to defend it. Honor is a big thing when you belong. It’s probably the biggest.

  I never made a conscious decision to join. Sometimes shit just happens, and it sure as hell happened to me. It seemed a natural transition from my life on the street after I ran away from the evil woman who ran the foster home, and in a strange way, it gave me direction and a reason to live again.

  “What do you think you’re doing, kid?”

  It all began with that one question on the day I pickpocketed the wrong guy on an L.A. street, Jacob Atwood. But I’d recently received the worst news possible, and the way I felt about myself back then, I didn’t care if he killed me. At least, my miserable existence would finally be over.

  A broken home, beatings from an alcoholic father, drugs and street crime were all I’d known for the longest time before I was taken into care. Looking back now, I was on a self-destructive streak, and even since then, I’ve never really learned how not to be.

  But Jake didn’t kill me that day. In fact, whether he knew it or not at the time, he saved me. He gave me a new life—one I didn’t exactly choose, but I have no regrets.

  We are the Bad Breed MC, and no name was ever more appropriate.

  There’s not one of us who isn’t bad to the bone.

  Chapter One

  Flynn

  Jake rides in front of us now. We’d follow him right into the flames of Hell, and sometimes it feels like that. This was one of those times as we ride toward the City of Angels.

  I still struggle to understand how everything went so wrong back there in what was our town, Hardale. It was a freaky chain of events—a snowball that rolled down the mountainside, turned into an avalanche and almost buried us all. Everyone’s feeling defeated and dejected as we follow Jake along the coastal California highway, and most of us silently disagree with our club president’s plan.

  “We’re just gonna lay low for a while. Regroup. Heal.”

  That’s what Jake had said. He hadn’t even put it up for discussion. He just went ahead and gave the order and I knew why he was doing it. After the fight with the Cobras, he doesn’t want to risk losing any more men. He wants to give us all a chance to lick our wounds, nurse our shattered pride, and start thinking clearly again before we go in for payback…and you can bet we will.

  It was supposed to have been a simple affair. To meet with Ricky Johnston and his most-trusted to tell the Cobra’s to shove their offer of going in together on meth trafficking where the sun doesn’t shine.

  We didn’t want that shit in our town. All we wanted to do was make it clear that the transportation network they’d chosen for their new cargo would have to go through some other place instead. We weren’t the fucking cartel, but they should just get the hell out of Hardale if that’s what they had planned.

  But the Cobras weren’t willing to take no for an answer. As it turned out, they were the cartel, and we got ambushed.

  I guess we should’ve known better. We’re not invincible, no matter how much we like to think we are, and we’d already been doing business with the Cobras for a long time. While rule Number One is to always expect a betrayal, we just didn’t see that one coming.

  In the end, we lost five good men…and our town. Sure, we could’ve stuck it out. We could’ve stayed and fought to the very last man, but what would’ve been the point of that? I didn’t like putting Hardale in the rearview mirrors of my bike any more than the others did, but I understood Jake’s intention. We did need to regroup. We did need to heal. And then, we‘d get our town back.

  The one thing I really don’t like about Jake’s plan is his choice of Los Angeles as our temporary base. He said it’s the best place since we’d blend in much easier than if we went to another town. Los Angeles is a violent city, I know that only too well from my childhood, and we’d just be another bunch of hot needles in a burning haystack.

  I can’t say I agree, but I trust his judgment. Still, that doesn’t mean I have to like it, and I tell him so when we stop at a gas station halfway there, our bikes thirsty, and us even more so. He tells the guys to have a beer at the rundown bar while we stay outside to have a smoke and a private conversation.

  “I know you don’t like this,” Jake says, before I even have a chance to open my mouth.

  I turn to look at him. He flinches as he takes a drag from his cigarette, and I raise an eyebrow at him. “Should you be smoking? You’ve got a couple of bruised ribs and a bullet wound in your side.”

  “The bullet just scraped me,” he replies.

  “I know but sucking on a cigarette probably isn’t a good idea.”

  He shoots me a look that tells me I should stop bugging him about it. Jake’s the kind of guy who’d take a bullet for the people he cares about. He’s done it for me before, and I for him. He’d taken this one the previous night when all hell had broken loose, and the youngest member of our club got gunned down. Jake had broken cover, grabbed the kid by his shoulders, and dragged him back out of the line of fire. A ricocheting bullet had grazed his left side.

  Despite Jake’s bravery, it was too late to save young Matt—something for which the Cobras will undoubtedly pay for in time. He was already dead by the time Jake dragged him behind the crates we were using as cover. When the firefight was over, I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from balling him out for risking his life to bring back the body of a dead man.

  I don’t know why, but I always seem to be over-protective when it comes to Jake. He’s five years older than me and, ironically, he originally founded the club to keep the kids in his neighborhood off the streets and to respond to the violence that plagued his town at the time.

  He succeeded, but you don’t run violence out of town without becoming violent yourself. Somewhere along the way, the lines between right and wrong had gotten blurry, but he’s still the best man I know. Jake is my best friend, and my brother. Seeing him reappear behind those crates covered in blood had really freaked me out.

  “So,” he says, his rough voice bringing me out of my reverie for him. “Aren’t you gonna say anything?”

  I take a deep drag from my cigarette and feign indifference.

  “About what?”

  He smirks and pushes his long hair back with one hand. “You’re hating this, Flynn. I know you are.”

  I hold back a grimace, and pause. “I’m not thrilled, I admit, but I’m not going to question you.”

  “You think I’m making a mistake?” he asks.

  There’s a hint of steel in his blue eyes that tells me he won’t be happy with me if I say yes, but that’s never stopped me from voicing my doubts before. I’ll never try to second guess Jake in front of the others, though. A president and vice-president should always be on the same page in front of the guys, or respect goes out the window.

  “No,” I reply, and that much is true. “We do need time to recuperate. If we’d stayed in Hardale, they would’ve finished the job and slaughtered us. We’re hurt bad, lost a lot of good men, and we’re so outnumbered
now.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at me.

  I can tell he senses there’s something about his idea that I’m not totally on board with. I need to pull my shit together, and fast. If Jake senses it, then no doubt the rest of club can too, and that would be bad news. I shrug, taking one final drag, then let the cigarette fall to the ground, stomping on it with the heel of my boot.

  “There’s no problem, man,” I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.

  “Flynn.”

  I freeze. His voice is hard and commanding, and when I look at him, I’m met with an unwavering stare. It’s clear my president expects a straight answer to his question.

  “Fine.” I sigh, frustrated with myself for being so transparent, for being so fucking weak that my bad memories still got to me after almost two decades. “It’s not the plan, Jake. It’s the place.”

  He blinked. “L.A.?”

  “Yeah, I just wish it was somewhere else. Anywhere else,” I say.

  “We can’t run to some small town. You know that. News travels fast in those places. We’d be found in no time.”

  “Yeah, I do know that, but Los Angeles isn’t the only city in California where we can hole up for a while.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s the closest one to Hardale. Sure, we could ride down to San Diego, but we need to stay around our patch.”

  It is the logical choice, and I know it makes perfect sense, but right now, memories of when I was sixteen come flooding back. Memories of that bitch from hell who ran the foster home, or me sporting the bruises from another of my father’s beatings, and I physically shiver. Jake stares at me, trying to read my thoughts.

  “I know you had it hard there,” he says, trying to reassure me. “But that was a long time ago, Flynn. You’re grown now. You really should forget about it.” That doesn’t make it any easier, I think to myself. But I don’t voice it. I can’t show Jake any weakness.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just being stupid and sensitive. Forget I said anything.”

  Jake frowns. He isn’t fooled, but, thankfully, he doesn’t press the matter further.

  “Good, now let’s get out of here,” he says, reaching out and slapping my back in a show of support. I nod, and ten minutes later we’re all back on the road again.

  There’s something about trauma—time really doesn’t heal anything. No matter how much I’ve tried to distance myself from it and push it to the back of my mind, nearly twenty years later it pains me to admit it still haunts me. Me, a badass biker, and I hate that it still has a hold on me.

  Riding with your brothers should bring freedom. We should feel like we have the world in our hands as we speed along the highway with the wind in our hair and the ocean in our nostrils, but none of us feels free right now. After last night’s mayhem, we all feel crushed.

  And as for me, I feel like I can’t breathe. With each mile that brings us closer to my hometown, I feel like the air is being sucked out of my lungs, and my chest constricted by some huge snake wrapping tight coils around my body. I try to cling to Jake’s words.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  I’m not that kid anymore, and I’ve done and seen things that would keep most men awake at night. I have no business getting so freaked out over this. Hell, last night alone I saw more bloodshed than my dad had ever caused me.

  Still, when we finally pass the city limits of Los Angeles, my stomach cramps up and, for a moment, I worry I’ll have to stop and pull myself together. Instead, I clench my fists tighter around the handlebars, and feel myself grounded by my bike and my brothers who ride with me.

  But I feel anything but grounded in the neighborhood Jake’s picked out for us. It’s nice enough, but not that nice for anyone to freak out when a bunch of bikers suddenly rent a two-story house in their midst. Sure, the locals are a bit suspicious, but no one’s had any reason, or the balls to call the cops on us...so far, at least. I’m thankful it’s nowhere near where I grew up. or that god-awful foster home, but it’s still Los Angeles, and it makes me jumpy.

  The others are on edge too, and I don’t blame them. Now, more than ever, the club needs me and Jake to be firm, strong, and have our wits about us. I’m keeping my anxiety a secret from everyone, burying it deep, but I’m getting a little stir crazy at spending most of the time in our new home.

  For the past few days, I’ve taken a walk outside, looking for somewhere where I can just sit and think, away from the guys. I may have grown up in this city, but Hardale has turned me into a small-town guy. I need to find some peace and quiet, away from the madness we’ve all been through.

  For the third morning in a row, I walk past the Full Moon Diner, one block away from the house. There’s a bike parked outside—a Triumph Street Scrambler—sturdy enough, but nothing like the beast that is my Thunderbird Commander. The scrambler is jet black with dark-orange and chrome detail. It’s been parked outside the diner the previous two mornings, too. It looks stunning, and I stop to admire it again.

  I wonder who rides it, and if there are any other bikers in the area, but quickly dismiss that thought. Jake would have done his research. He wouldn’t have brought us here into another MC’s territory. I reach out to run my fingers along the handlebars but stop myself. Golden rule—never touch another man’s cut, or his bike. Instead, I walk past the chromed beauty and enter the diner.

  The smell of fresh coffee hits me as soon as I step through the doorway and I already feel better than I have in days.

  Chapter Two

  Jo

  I glance nervously outside. No one’s stolen my Triumph yet, but this was L.A., and you can’t be too paranoid. There’s no space for it out the back here, and it makes me a little anxious leaving it out there all on its lonesome.

  And now, one of those bikers who recently rode into town is staring longingly at it, and it makes me smile with pride. Having a real-live biker admire my ride is like painting a picture and having Picasso compliment you on it. I’m satisfied my baby is safe, so I turn my attention back to the order I’m carrying.

  “One of those gangbangers is ogling your bike, sweetie.”

  Mrs. Stevenson has the uncanny ability to look like a harmless little old lady, even while coming out with the bluntest crap. She’s glaring daggers at the man through the window, but even if he’s noticed her, he ignores her attention.

  “That’s all right,” I say, placing an order of eggs and bacon in front of her and a plate stacked full of pancakes in front of Mr. Stevenson.

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Stevenson asks, staring at me through his thick, tortoise-rimmed glasses. “Do you want me to go out there and give him a piece of my mind?”

  I try to stifle my laugh and turn it into a smile as I look at Mr. Stevenson. These two have probably seen it all. They’re fierce and fearless, and they both have that extra spunk that seems to come with old age—where you feel like the world can’t touch you. But the picture of an enraged Mr. Stevenson waving his cane at the biker outside was almost too much to take.

  “Nice of you to offer, but that won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  “But, what if he steals it, dear?” Mrs. Stevenson asks.

  “He’s a biker, Mrs. Stevenson,” I patiently explain. “No one respects other people’s bikes more than they do.”

  Mrs. Stevenson narrows her dark eyes at me and asks, “And how would you know?”

  I grin back at her and say, “Oh, I just know.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, refusing to engage any further. “Fine,” she mumbles. “I guess we’ll leave him alone, then.”

  “For now,” adds Mr. Stevenson.

  “Thank you,” I say. “That’s kind of you to think of me, though.”

  I look across to Dahlia, my boss and long-time friend, and we smile at each other before she goes back to scribbling into a book at the counter. She knows exactly what this couple are like.

  Early-morning shifts at the diner are my favorite. It’s on
ly 6:30 am, and our only customers are the lovely old couple who visit us at the same time every day. Apart from the Stevensons, it’s just me, Dahlia, and Steve in the kitchen. It’s my quiet time before the storm. Give it half-an-hour and it’ll be a whirlwind of table serving before I get to my university classes, and every moment of respite is precious beyond words.

  The bell above the door tinkles, briefly interrupting the indie rock playing in the background. I turn toward the door with a smile on my face, ready to greet another early-morning customer, but I freeze in surprise when I see the biker standing in front of me.

  Now, I’ve grown up in this city and I like to think I embrace the cosmopolitan vibe that is Los Angeles. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old woman who rides a motorcycle, practices Krav Maga, and works two jobs in between studying. I don’t fit into any category. I’m open-minded, and not much surprises me…but even I can’t help but stare at the man.

  I don’t know what it is about him that makes me stop in my tracks. I’m more intrigued than wary. I know bikers recently moved into a house in the neighborhood. I’ve seen them ride by but having one walk into the place where I work has caught me off-guard and I wonder why he’s here.

  He smiles, and says, “Good morning,” then takes a seat at one of the booths and I realize I’m being a little judgmental, despite the fact that he has a skull embroidered on the back of his cut, not to mention the words Bad Breed on the rocker above his patch. Probably all he wants is a decent cup of coffee. The Stevensons both turn around in their seats to glare at him and make their feelings known, but they finally relent and turn back to their breakfast when Dahlia gives them a pointed look. She’s the only one of us who didn’t do a double-take the minute the biker came through the door.