Bishop: Dead Legion MC #1

by Krane, Kasey

  Someone had to make an honest buck around here and it sure as shit wasn’t gonna be Ghost.

  * * *

  Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEP!

  With a groan, I rolled over and smacked the alarm clock. It went clattering to the floor, but mercifully shut up. I rubbed my gritty eyes with the heels of my hands as I sat up in bed.

  Goddamn Ghost and his goddamn babysitting job.

  I threw back the sheet and stumbled out of bed. If I was going to survive today, I’d need an assload of coffee. After straightening out the trucking shit, I went back to the clubhouse, only to find the new blonde piece of tail had already left. I stayed into the wee hours of the morning, getting drunk and increasingly more pissed about this shitfest that was dropped onto my lap. Getting wasted seemed like a logical choice to make.

  Now, it didn’t seem like it was such a brilliant idea. The sun was streaming through the bathroom and bedroom window, so I pulled the blinds. The pounding in my brain instantly slowed down to a steady thrumming.

  That’s better.

  I rummaged around in the kitchen and managed to brew a pot of coffee without spilling shit everywhere, which I considered to be nothing less than a goddamn feat. I leaned against the counter and gulped down my first cup. I ignored my burnt tongue and poured a second cup. I’d better mainline this shit if I was going to make it to El Paso on time. I glanced at the clock on the wall.

  Shit!

  I only had 15 minutes to get my ass out the door. I threw on my jeans then laced up my riding boots. Next, a Dead Legion t-shirt, my cut, my gun on my hip, and I began buckling my helmet on as I walked out the door. Not bad - two minutes to spare.

  I slung my leg over my bike—

  Shit, shit, shit, and fucking shit!

  With a sigh, I got back off my bike. Of course, I couldn’t ride my bike to El Paso. Miss New York would have luggage, 13 pounds of makeup and a small Chihuahua named Princess. She’d never be able to ride bitch on my bike.

  I unlocked the passenger-side door to my truck, unbuckled my helmet, and tossed it gently on the seat. Remembering the discussion with Ghost the night before, I unstrapped my gun from my hips and shoved it under the passenger seat. Miss Bitch would just have to hold my helmet in her lap ‘cause I didn’t have time to go put it back in my apartment.

  I tore out of the dilapidated parking lot, past the rows of rundown shitholes, and headed towards the freeway.

  Once I hit the freeway, I reached over and blasted the AC - well, as high as it would go, anyway. Reason #472 not to drive my truck - it had shit AC. Lobos, which was the Mexican version of the Ford F150, was $15,000 cheaper than if I bought the thing in the US but it came with a warranty not worth the paper it was printed on. One of the first things to go south on it was the AC. A definite negative in Deming, New Mexico.

  I ignored this problem for months ‘cause…well, it was easier, cheaper, and a hell of a lot more fun to just ride my bike anyway. I felt sweat start to drip down my sides. Jean were hilariously warm and I never would’ve put them on if I remembered I had to drive my truck.

  Fuuuuccckkk…

  An hour later, I started to enter the snarl of traffic that was El Paso. For someone who hated to drive in traffic as much as I did, I minimized my trips to El Paso to “Only in the Case of Emergency.” I swerved as some asshole cut me off, and laid on the horn. Driving without my gun on my hip was even worse than suffering with shit AC. I was pretty sure someone was going to die today, and it wasn’t gonna be me.

  Fucking finally, I pulled off and headed into the heart of the airport. Which was when I realized that I was seriously failing in the lackey department – I forgot to ask for a name. Or even a description of what she looked like. I doubted she’d answer a page of, “Bitchy Journalist from New York with Small Dog, please report to the Customer Service Counter.” Ghost told me to be here at noon, and I stupidly forgot to ask for any other details. Anger may or may not have clouded my judgment.

  Once I got into the airport and parked, I looked over a list of incoming flights flashing on the reader board. One that was scheduled to land at 12:05 from the JFK Airport caught my eye. That seemed logical. I’d stand by the exit from the gates and hope she found me because of my cut. Better yet, I could do a no-show and I could go back home and forget today ever happened. Surely Ghost couldn’t blame me if Rich Bitch just didn’t show up, right?

  I ignored the stares and fear as I strode through the airport to the arrival gates. People usually freaked out when I wore my cut out in public - yet one more reason I loathed to make day trips to El Paso. At least in La Cruces, everyone knew who I was. There was a certain familiarity that came from being born ’n raised in a smaller town. They either feared you or loved you, but everyone knew your name.

  You know, like a fucked-up version of Cheers, with shootouts and drug running.

  Finally, the JFK flight began streaming past and I watched closely for anyone I thought could fit the bill: Six-inch stilettos, pencil skirt, three-inch waistline, dog tucked inside of her giant-ass purse, and a cell phone stuck to her ear. No one came even close to fitting that description and the panic in my chest was beginning to ease. Maybe she really would be a no-show. What fucking luck would that be!

  “Excuse me, are you from the Dead Legion?” I turned to snap at the person - of fucking course I’m from the Dead Legion, dumbass, they don’t give these cuts out like candy - when two things registered:

  First, the New York accent. Fingernails on a chalkboard. Who the hell talked like that?!

  Second, she was short. And blonde. And curvy. Fucking curves that made my palms itch to reach out and stroke them.

  Oh, and no dog in sight.

  “Hi, I’m Jules,” she said, and stuck out her hand to shake mine. A second too slow, I put my hand out too. My mind and breath and heart went all wonky and I had a hard time thinking. Or breathing. Or really, anything at all. Our hands touched and I felt an electric shock travel up my arm like I just touched a doorknob after doing the shuffle on the carpet. I yanked my hand back.

  This was so not fucking good.

  4

  Jules

  When I disembarked from the plane, I realized that Evan told me “someone” would pick me up at the airport - not necessarily Ghost, though. Why hadn’t I thought to get a name from him? That’s right, I was too busy cursing the heat to think straight. I reached into my purse to grab my phone and call Evan when I saw…him.

  Breathing became temporarily optional. Tall - okay, fine, everyone was tall to me - dark, and stunningly handsome, he was a walking GQ model. But scarier. He had dark chocolate slightly messed up hair, that I ached to run my fingers through; whether it was to straighten the strands or to muss them up even further, I wasn’t sure. If the Dead Legion t-shirt hadn’t given him away, the black leather vest would have done the trick. How many MC gang members were waiting at the airport to pick someone up? I was pretty sure that this was my ride, and the way he held himself, I was also pretty damn sure he was Ghost.

  Deciding that the best idea was to fake confidence until some magically appeared, I strode towards my GQ-model-turned-MC-gang-leader ride to Deming. No wonder Evan had had such a hard-on for him all this time. I had the ridiculous idea that I should check my chin for drool.

  He didn’t seem to have spotted me, so I decided to do the logical thing - ask him if he was my ride.

  “Excuse me, are you from the Dead Legion?” I asked and then could have kicked myself. Of course, he was from the Dead Legion. He was staring down at me like a bug on the sidewalk but I plunged ahead anyway.

  “Hi, I’m Jules,” and stuck out my hand to shake his. I felt a little ridiculous, shaking hands with him like I was meeting him in a boardroom, but I was going to have to work with this guy for the next week, so I ought to introduce myself, right? He hesitated, as if wondering if he could get away with not shaking my hand, but finally reached out and clasped my hand in his. I felt his callouses rub against my soft, pampered hands be
fore he yanked his hand back.

  Dammit, he was a GQ-model-turned-MC-gang-leader who also thought he was too good for me.

  This is going to be a loooonnnngggg week.

  Ghost turned and started walking away without saying a word. I stood staring after him, my mouth gaping open in surprise, before I hoisted my purse farther up onto my shoulder and started after him. He may be an asshole, but he was my ride to Deming.

  The shit I put up with for my writing career…

  He stopped next to the baggage claim area and crossed his arms across his chest. I came to a halt next to him and watched the baggage carousel go-round in front of me, livid as could be. This whole cold-shoulder treatment was going to be hell to live with for a week. Finally, I spotted my bags and grabbed them before they could rotate out of view again. I turned back to him, waiting for him to offer to carry my bags, when he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Where the hell did Evan find this guy - Neanderthals R Us?

  I struggled after him, trying to keep up in my strappy heels that had seemed like such a good idea back in New York. What was my idea - sex appeal never hurt? Yeah, so much for that. This guy barely seemed to realize I was alive. Sex appeal was definitely not going to be an asset here.

  Huffing from the speed-walk pace Ghost had set, I finally called out, “Can — can you help me?” I hated to ask for help, truly I was, especially from this Caveman Special I’d been gifted with, but it was either that or collapse into a heap on the airport carpet. Nothing against Phoenix, of course, but the carpet seemed…questionable. Full body contact didn’t seem like a real good idea.

  He stopped long enough to let me catch up and then grabbed my two bags like they’d been filled with cotton balls and took off walking again. Still huffing, I followed.

  The wall of heat that hit me when we walked outside was palpable. It was like walking into a brick wall. That moved. But was just as real. And hot.

  Oh god, the heat. It was…

  There were no words for it. This was hell. I had landed in hell. My eyes hurt from the sunlight and I hurriedly grabbed my sunglasses out of my purse and slipped them on. There, that was a little better.

  We started walking - no, jogging - across lanes of traffic and then out from under the portico and that’s when the direct sunlight hit my shoulders and face and I thought I was going to die. The perfect ending to the journalist failure that I was - I could hit the news as being the first person to get heat stroke in under 60 seconds, and that’s how I’d be remembered. Not for the investigative journalism I always thought I’d do, not for the brilliant prose I wrote. Nope, I was going to get the World Record for Quickest Heat Stroke Victim Ever.

  Heat waves radiated off the asphalt, distorting the air, making me wonder for a moment if I entered a Fun House without realizing it. My heels sank into the heat-softened asphalt with every step and I had the terrifying thought that the ground was going to suck me in alive.

  Finally, thank God above, we stopped. I was heaving, my lungs not working properly in the furnace I walked into, and I bent over, gasping for air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my Louis Vuitton bags flying through the air. I had saved up since high school for that bag, and seeing it being jostled like it was made my heart almost stop.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” I yelled just as I heard them land with a thump in the bed of the truck. “Those are Louis Vuitton bags, you asshole!”

  “Who?” he said snidely and walked around to the driver’s side. I stood there on the passenger side and watched him get in.

  He really was going to just let me stand there.

  Just as I came to this conclusion, he rolled down the window.

  “You gonna get in or am I leaving you here?” he drawled. I pulled the door handle open and then cursed a blue streak as the pain shot up my hand. Fuck was that door handle hot! Reminding myself not to touch anything metal ever again while in the state of New Mexico, I went to climb inside.

  Which is when I saw a motorcycle helmet on the seat. I debated it for a moment - moving someone else’s stuff without permission was just rude - when he spoke up.

  “You’ll have to carry that on your lap,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. He was totally enjoying this.

  Fucker.

  I picked up the helmet and slid into the truck, careful not to touch the metal latch on the seat belt as I buckled myself in. The heat inside of the truck was even worse than the heat outside of the truck, something I would have sworn three minutes earlier was completely impossible.

  He tore out of the parking lot, swearing and swerving in equal numbers. I gripped the sides of my seat, trying not to panic. Apparently, Ghost was trying to live up to his Dead Legion persona.

  “So!” I said brightly, trying to think of something to say to break the tension hanging over us in the small confines of the truck cab. It seemed as if he wanted to be in close proximity to me about as much as I wanted to be in close proximity to a rattlesnake. I had no idea why he hated my guts so much, considering he agreed to this trip with my boss, but whatever. I wasn’t going to spend the next week absolutely miserable. I would kill him with kindness. And small talk.

  And barring that, a knife.

  “How long have you been the head of the Dead Legion, Ghost?” I asked.

  “What the fuck?!” he yelled, whipping his head around to stare at me until a horn blast forced him to look at the road and slam on the brakes simultaneously. I jerked forward and back again, hitting the seat with an ‘oomph’ that was distinctly unsexy.

  Dammit, now why did I think that? Sexy, unsexy, it didn’t matter. Caveman Special here was not exactly invited into my panties, no matter how hard it was to breathe when I looked at him.

  “How long have you been the head of the Dead Legion?” I asked, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if speaking to a small child. If he was going to act like an ass, I was going to treat him like one.

  “I am not Ghost!” he half yelled. He seemed almost…offended by the assumption. I stared at him, brow wrinkled in confusion. What the hell was going on here?

  “I’m Bishop. I’m the VP of the club. Ghost, lucky son-of-a-bitch that he is, is back in Deming. He dumped you off onto my lap last night.”

  “Hold on, dumped me off?!” I demanded, insulted. “So, do I get the almighty pleasure of following you around for the next week? Or are you just the delivery man and you’ll be able to dump me off,” my words dripping with anger, “onto Ghost’s lap when we get to Deming?” I glared at him, arms crossed. My right hand touched my seat belt buckle on my left hip and I yanked it back with a yip of surprise. My fingertip felt like it’d been branded. I popped it into my mouth without thinking and sucked on it.

  Goddamn that hurt! New Mexico hell with its New Mexico heat and its New Mexico brandings and its New Mexico assholes.

  I felt a wave of homesickness wash over me. I always loved to travel but for real, New Mexico was kicking my ass and I’d only been there an hour. Constructing a voodoo doll with my boss’ face on it suddenly seemed like a logical plan for the evening.

  And another one with Bishop’s face on it.

  “Yeah, you’ll be spending the week with me,” Bishop said, startling me out of my thoughts. I’d forgotten I’d even asked him a question. I stared down at my lap, studying my reddened fingertip as I decided how to answer. Voodoo dolls aside, it would make for a better week (if only because it was easier), if Bishop and I weren’t sniping at each other the whole time. And his last statement, although not filled with warmth and kindness and love, was at least not laced with hostility.

  I decided to give it another try and see if we couldn’t at least be civil to each other.

  “So Bishop, did your parents realize you’d be a part of a motorcycle gang, or was that some lame attempt to get you to be involved with a church?” I had thought I was being pretty clever with my question when I asked it but as soon as it came out of my mouth, I realized that it was a pretty pathetic
joke he’d probably heard a hundred times. Too late to take it back now.

  I turned carefully in my seat to face him, paranoid about touching anything metal, as I felt sweat trickle down my back. The AC picked up enthusiasm as the truck picked up speed, but it was barely making a dent in the temperature in the cab.

  We hit the freeway and he began weaving in and out of traffic like a maniac but I decided to ignore that for the moment. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it except wonder that if I died on assignment, if Blush would spot for a nice casket. I should tell Evan I wanted teak.

  “Just Bishop,” he said, and turned his vest so I could see his patch on his shoulder. I felt my face redden and I could only hope he would attribute it to the heat. The back of my sundress was soaked through, so it was certainly a plausible explanation, even if not very sexy.

  Dammit, enough with the sexy already!

  He went on, ignorant of my internal scolding. “But yeah, my dad knew I’d grow up farm from the church, well real church anyway. He helped start the Dead Legion and was the first president of the chapter. I guess he just thought he’d be a little funny with the name.” He shot me a crooked grin and I felt my heart thump in my chest. Damn, he had a nice smile. I found myself smiling back.

  “What made your dad decide to start a motorcycle club?”

  “Well, you haven’t met Ghost yet,” he said, chuckling, “but his dad and my dad served in ‘Nam together. When they got back to the States, they had a hard time fitting into society. I think the rebel aspect of living free on the road appealed to them. They decided to move to Deming and press the reset button on life. Maybe they couldn’t go back to when they were 19 and innocent, but they could ride the roads year round in New Mexico, something that you just can’t do in slushy, snowy New York City.” He smiled and my heart skipped a beat. I had the almost overwhelming desire to touch him, to run my fingers through his hair, to straighten his folded shirt sleeve.