by SE Jakes
Now, Bram shook off that memory as best he could, went and found Sweet, who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Ready?” Sweet asked, and Bram merely nodded and followed him out the door and into the big black truck parked out front. “The bar’s only a couple of blocks away, but walking this time of night only asks for trouble.”
Bram was surprised Sweet didn’t have MC guards with him at all times and wondered how vulnerable both of them were at the moment. It was surprising. He’d learned, both from the ATF and more so from his insider access, just how much responsibility fell on the president of the MC. Sweet had all of Havoc on his shoulders and the fiscal responsibility alone could be staggering, never mind the juggling necessary to keep the prying eyes of the law away from the MC’s illegal forays—and those that skated along the edge—and instead focus them on the more legitimate, if not illicit, businesses they ran. Keeping Sweet safe equaled keeping Havoc safe—they were one and the same.
Bram tried to think on what he’d really learned about Havoc through the Heathens, and realized it wasn’t much. Havoc was legendary, spoken about in more reverent tones, which rarely happened in the Heathens MC.
Of course, some of the members didn’t think Havoc would live up to the hype, but Bram had noted that none of them had ever wanted to try to prove it. While Havoc didn’t have an angel’s reputation as much as one of “we’re too much trouble to fuck with”—since they helped as opposed to hurt the community—the law steered clear, as did most other MCs. Those who didn’t learned quickly, or felt Havoc’s wrath.
Bram heard firsthand accounts from Heathens, and they weren’t pretty. While they weren’t as completely deranged and vicious as Heathen kills, they were swift and merciless, and necessary. Havoc never retaliated directly against women or children, although they’d be the first to admit that those two groups would be affected if their men were killed.
Basics of surviving an MC? You didn’t fuck with the MC, its members, their bikes, or their money.
“Can I ask about Linc at the bar?” That was, if any of the men actually talked to him.
Sweet maneuvered through the traffic-filled streets. “Let them bring it up first. Word travels fast—they’ll know who you are.”
“I’ll bet,” Bram muttered.
Sweet let that pass, asked instead, “When’s the last time you heard from Linc, exactly?”
Bram met Sweet’s gaze easily, because he was about to tell the truth. “Over a month ago. I was on the job so I couldn’t check in much. When I ended up in the hospital, the docs tried to get in touch with him. He never called. And that’s when I knew something was wrong, because that wasn’t like him at all. But I couldn’t do shit because I was out of it most of the time.”
Sweet nodded as though something had been confirmed for him, and Bram added, “Linc never told you he had a brother, right?”
Sweet nodded. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“It was for protection. I tell Linc not to mention me. It’s safer for both of us.”
“I can see the evidence of why,” Sweet said darkly.
“Comes a time when a guy needs to sit back and reassess,” Bram admitted. Sweet stared at him but didn’t say anything. “Granted, most men don’t find themselves hanging out with a motorcycle gang while looking for their missing brother.”
“Club, Bram, not a gang,” Sweet told him automatically, as Bram caught sight of the bikes lined up diagonally along the length of the street outside the bar and the various other shops on the strip that were now closed, except for the tattoo parlor that was fully lit at the end of the block. Men in leather rockers spilled onto the sidewalks . . . and all of Bram’s demons—both real and imagined—threatened to immediately rise up and revolt.
Sweet parked his truck in the alley next to the bar and looked over at Bram instead of getting out immediately. Tug and Ozzie, his two best enforcers, were under strict orders to stay five minutes behind. They’d wanted to follow him to the bar, but Sweet insisted on not freaking Bram out more than he already was. Hell, the only reason Sweet was in the damned cage and not on his own bike was because of Bram.
Bram, who looked around at the rows of bikes that lined the street outside the Havoc-owned bar, then shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “So no one here gives a shit you fuck men?”
“If they do, they know better than to say anything,” Sweet told him. “I’m not the only gay guy here. Lots are straight, some bi. All that matters is that you’re down for Havoc.”
Bram’s jaw tightened as Tug and Ozzie rode up behind them, bikes louder than hell. “Ride or die,” he said hollowly.
“Something like that, yeah.” He touched Bram’s shoulder. “You’re all right?”
“Fine,” Bram lied, but Sweet didn’t press him further. “Let’s just go in.”
Although Bram was still favoring his right side, Sweet knew that he was playing up the injury and nowhere near as helpless as he made himself appear. Now, Sweet moved his hand up and traced the white slice along Bram’s cheek with his finger, Bram staring at him almost haughtily as he did so.
I need to figure him out—the man was law abiding enough to show up for Linc’s bail . . . but he was also jumpy as fuck, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Linc was no angel, but he’d been open about it. Sweet knew what he was getting with a guy like that when Linc had started hanging around Havoc, but Bram . . . well, Sweet supposed that’s part of what kept him so damned intrigued despite his better sense. And if Bram hadn’t been tense about going inside a biker bar, especially when the bikers were Havoc, it would’ve made Sweet suspicious. Didn’t matter how trained men were. If they weren’t a part of this club, they needed to be goddamned shitting in their pants when they came in, even though the only way to walk through these doors was with a Havoc member.
It was rare for Sweet to bring anyone in who wasn’t from a neighboring Havoc-supported club. Okay, it never happened after Jimmy-Boy, so the stares he got weren’t unexpected.
Bram was practically fucking rigid though.
“Come on, let’s get some whiskey on board.” Sweet urged him forward. Two seats cleared immediately at the bar, and he nodded at Bram to take one.
The mere fact that Bram had waited for Sweet’s approval before doing so spoke volumes, to both Sweet and Havoc. It was noticed. It would be discussed.
It was in Bram’s favor. Linc had shown the club respect from the start, but he’d been far more chill than the ball of stress currently sitting on the stool next to him.
Sweet had always been damned sure of himself, and he made sure he got what he wanted.
What he wanted right here and now was Bram. Simple as that.
The guy intrigued him. Turned him on. He didn’t trust Bram, but he’d be stupid to. With the connection to Linc he’d be stupider still to not keep Bram close to Havoc, and to him. And Bram had to know that.
Sweet was aware of the fact that he had a soft heart toward military men who needed reintroduction to the world beyond the battlefield. That’s what the MC had been built on, but with Jimmy-Boy it’d blown up for him on a personal level. He’d been lucky it hadn’t affected the MC’s businesses or safety, and that was only because he’d sworn—to himself and to Havoc—that the MC came first.
And it always would.
The bar was crowded, a mix of several different MCs. Bram saw Havoc’s rocker a lot, Hangmen MC and a few Kill Devils. Obviously, the clubs were on relatively good terms with one another, evidenced here by the current lack of bloodshed.
He nursed his longneck and listened to the blisteringly loud rock blasting through the speakers. There were some MC old ladies here—a few bartenders and servers and the others? Women who came in looking for a thrill. Or a scare. Or a combination of both.
That part reminded him of the Heathens clubhouse. Heat. Sex. The bar wasn’t nearly as private as a clubhouse, but to Bram it seemed like this was where people Havoc wanted to fuck were vetted.
He had a
feeling most conquests never made it past this bar. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be one of the lucky few, but that was because he knew more than most.
Of course, being a part of the Heathens started off okay. Brotherhood and shit. Family they’d never had. Money. Freedom. And then it got dark and by then, for most, it was too late. He’d known how bad those guys were going in and he’d still gotten caught up in it at first. It was like a drug, especially if you grew up with no adults to depend on.
Clubs like Havoc didn’t take many recruits, so most men looking to get involved in a MC were left with the bottom-of-the-barrel clubs like the Heathens. That wasn’t so much Havoc’s fault as it was the way of the world.
Block the good way, they’ll find the bad.
As the music got louder, Bram tried unsuccessfully not to get drunk, but his old friends Paranoia and PTSD did a tango. He was more worried about giving himself away than being drunk and remained next to Sweet as men and women came up to him, one after the other, shaking his hand, coming in for a hug or just generally wanting a word with the president of Havoc.
Bram accepted his role of the standby because, bottom line, he wasn’t finding Linc tonight. Tonight was just another night in a long line of Bram fighting for his life and so, when one of Sweet’s hands went behind his neck, Bram was already ramped up.
“Hey, relax,” Sweet told him.
Yeah, right. “Trying to.”
“I’m just going to talk to one of our fellow MC reps.” Sweet jerked his head toward the far corner of the bar. “You’ll be all right?”
“I’m not a fucking child,” Bram growled.
Sweet smiled. “Trust me—know that.”
Bram watched him walk away, then turned back toward the bar where the TV was on—some stupid sitcom, but Bram figured staring at that was better than staring at the crowd and having it be misinterpreted.
A beer bottle shattered, cutting through the loudness. For a moment the bar went silent as every man assessed for danger and most seemed to immediately process accident . . . except for Bram, who blinked and saw the scene from months ago as clearly as ever.
A Heathen breaking his beer bottle over an innocent college kid’s head. The kid’s stunned look.
Another bottle breaking over his head. And another and another and then the kid was on the floor, his skull split, his face unrecognizable, bloodied and broken, a soft moan breaking through the now-inhuman-like face—
“You’re with Sweet?” one of the Havoc men asked, and Bram jerked his head toward the biker’s direction, forcing himself to erase any signs of panic.
“Yeah—I’m Bram.” He gulped his beer to try to erase the taste, the smell of blood that wafted through his senses whenever he thought of the college kid’s beatdown.
“You looking to patch in?”
“No,” Bram said truthfully.
The biker looked him up and down, no doubt taking in Bram’s build, the tattoos, the stance. “Military?”
“Army.”
“Pussies in the Army.”
“Guess we learned it from the jarheads,” Bram said easily, sliding back into the military banter that he recalled so well. That was another brotherhood, with a camaraderie that he often missed.
Granted, he was playing with a bit of fire here. He wasn’t part of this brotherhood of bikers, but the military bond would typically transcend that if he stuck to military insults and kept the MC out of it.
Tonight, it thankfully did. It probably helped that he was fucking the president of the MC too but . . .
“Fucking Army,” the biker said with a hard shake of his head as a second biker rounded in on Bram’s other side and leaned an elbow on the bar next to Bram, boxing him in. “Need another beer?”
“Let me get you one.” Bram turned and motioned to the bartender. “A round for these guys on my tab, okay?” He handed them the longneck bottles a second later.
“So, when’d you get out?” the first biker asked. “I’m Mac, by the way.”
“Bram. Been out for a while now.”
The second gave him a rough pat on the shoulder. “I’m Tug. You’re Linc’s brother, right?”
“Guilty as charged. I’ve been looking for him.”
“Not the only one,” Tug said cryptically, and Bram figured he was talking about Gypsy but wasn’t willing to push it.
And then Sweet was back and Tug and Mac were gone. “They say anything about Linc?”
“Not much.” Bram paused. “Are they cool with me because I’m Army, or because of you?”
Sweet laughed. “They’re just testing you. They might seem nice, but that’s because they’re not going to put energy into fucking with you if they don’t know if you’re sticking around.”
Bram figured that was the truth. They saw him as disposable so no reason to waste energy hating him.
Somehow, that made him feel like shit. Which made him realize how completely fucked up he actually was. It’s not like you want their acceptance, dumbass.
Then again . . .
Sweet broke into his thoughts. “You’ve got that look on again.”
“What? No, I’m just tired.”
Sweet seemed like he didn’t quite believe him, but then Tug called, “Pagans outside, boss. Asking for you by name.”
Sweet’s demeanor went from casual to Satan in three seconds flat. Anger radiated off him as he stood, all MC business. “I’ll take care of them.”
“Sweet,” Tug started but Sweet flashed him a look and Tug put his hands up and took a step back.
Interesting. Sweet fought his own battles—literally—and his men were ready and willing to not only back him up but take on the fight for their president, which spoke volumes about Havoc.
Part of Bram wanted to see Sweet fight. Needed to. The law enforcement part of him reminded him that out of sight, out of mind was probably the best way to go here. He couldn’t report what he couldn’t see, couldn’t get in trouble for not reporting what didn’t happen in front of him.
But since Bram and law enforcement weren’t exactly seeing eye to eye these days, he followed Sweet as he strode through the bar and the crowds seemed to break apart ahead of him. He definitely had the commanding-presence thing down pat, but it wasn’t an act. Sweet had the charismatic personality Bram associated with leaders.
It made Bram trust him both more and less, because he’d never had a great track record with authority figures. But he still watched from the sidewalk as Sweet went right toward the three Pagan MC members who hung in the middle of the street. Bram noted that both took a step back as Sweet approached before realizing they looked like pussies and held their ground.
He couldn’t hear what Sweet was saying, but the Pagans clearly weren’t happy about it. One of them reached back to swing, but Sweet caught the man’s fist and twisted his arm behind his back, taking the first Pagan to the ground.
The second stepped in and tried to take Sweet down. Got an elbow to the nose for his troubles and reeled back, howling in pain as blood sprayed everywhere. Sweet let go of the first guy’s arm, grabbed the second by the hair and smashed the Pagan’s face into his knee before lifting his head back up to whisper in his ear.
Bram was caught up in forcing himself to stand still.
Don’t get involved. You’ll bring scrutiny you can’t afford onto you.
But the damned flash of the blade—no one else saw what he’d been trained to. These men had instincts and they could fight, but there was something to be said for being scared enough to fight for your life, which put his situational awareness through the damned roof.
He moved forward, sliding easily past Tug and sneaking up on all of them, including Sweet. Before Sweet—or the Pagans—could react, Bram had the man with the knife in his hand and was dragging the guy’s arm behind his back, forcing the knife to drop. He kicked it away, slammed the guy’s face to the ground and held him there, boot to neck, and Sweet took on the unarmed Pagans.
That was a sight to see. B
ram had no doubt Sweet could’ve handled himself against all of them, hand-to-hand. But the knife was a deal breaker . . . and the man under Bram’s foot had every intention of using it. So he stood there, waiting until the fight was over and the Pagans were reeling, until the police sirens whooped, too close for comfort, and Sweet jerked his head toward Bram. “Go inside. Now.”
Bram did—couldn’t afford an arrest, because then Parisi would be notified. He walked away and Tug closed the door of the bar behind him.
“What’ll happen?” Bram asked, even though he knew they’d all be brought in and none of them would talk.
“Police will take them. Question and release, but not till morning,” Tug said gruffly. “You’ll have to come with us.”
“Me? Why? I’m staying at Gypsy’s place,” Bram said.
“Not now. Sweet wouldn’t want you unprotected—not after this. We’ll grab your stuff and head there.” Tug’s tone left no room for argument.
And Gypsy? He was right there agreeing, saying, “I have to be on call for Sweet in case there’s a miracle bail request. But Havoc’s on lockdown, which means the bond shop’s number forwards to my house. Go with Ozzie and wait at the back for me.”
Ozzie’s head was half-shaved, a longer piece left in a mohawk strip that was tied up at the back of his head. He wore a Havoc rocker, dark stubble, and a hoop in each ear and still somehow looked like the most masculine son of a bitch. His hands fisted, tattoos marking the lower knuckle of each finger, spelling out his MC’s name, and his eyes had sparked fire as he watched the Pagans waiting for Sweet.
Ozzie had a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward the back of the bar. The crowd had resumed partying as if nothing had happened, the music blared, every person in the room willing to provide alibis. Even so, all the MC men were tense, poised to strike if needed.