by Aiden Bates
I had shrugged. “I want to help. In any way I can.”
“I know. Ever since you walked into Ballast with Ankh all those years ago you’ve been doing that—trying to help, trying to uplift, always trying to make everyone else a little happier. A little healthier.”
My cheeks had flushed. “Why are we talking about me? That’s not important.”
“It is, though.” Priest had leaned back against the back of the couch. “This club is your family.”
“Of course it is.”
“You’ve been a hell of a member these last ten years. I don’t know how Ankh saw it in you. No offense. But when he pulled you out of that bouncing job you looked like shit. Skinny, matted hair, all red-eyed from the drinking to drown your demons and the coke to stay awake. I thought, oh, boy, Ankh’s brought us another project, gonna be way more trouble than it’s worth.”
In spite of the pain of the memory, I had laughed. “You were right.”
“Was not. Ankh was. Once you had a little bit of structure—just a few people who backed you up, helped you out—you changed. Completely. What Ankh saw in you was a little bit of himself. The need for community. You thrive with others, taking care of them. Without them, you fall apart a little bit.”
“I didn’t know I was like that until this club. It’s the first family I’ve had.”
“You’ve done every role in the club since then,” Priest had said. “The shit jobs of the prospect, the regular member, enforcer, and now sergeant-at-arms.”
My heart had beat hard in my chest. “What are you getting at?”
“You know I can’t do it.”
“Priest.”
From his pocket Priest had withdrawn a Hell’s Ankhor patch: the classic patch, gray background with the anchor seated in red flames, the top of the anchor shaped like an ankh. In the center of the anchor, a P was embroidered in dramatic white.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Just listen. I don’t want the presidency.”
I had searched his face and seen nothing but open honesty.
“I never did. That was our plan when we founded this club. Ankh would lead, and I would run support. I never wanted the leadership role—especially not now. It’ll just remind me of everything I’ve lost. As sergeant-in-arms, you’re next in line.”
I had sat stunned on the couch.
“So,” Priest had said, “I’d like for you to succeed Ankh, with one stipulation.”
“Anything.”
“Let me continue to run support.” Priest had traced his thumb over the patch in his hands. “It’s within your rights to pick a new vice president, but—”
“Jesus, Priest. I wouldn’t even consider doing it without you.”
“Well.” Priest’s face had lightened a tiny amount. “Congrats, Prez.”
Now, a year after Ankh’s death, Priest was beginning to look like his old self again. The loss still snapped at his heels, but we were all healing, together. And Raven, too, could’ve demanded that as Ankh’s son he had a right to the presidency. At twenty-five years old, Raven was the club’s secretary and treasurer. He was pale, dark-haired, a little gangly, and his brain ran about four times as fast as everyone else’s. He wasn’t without leadership experience, but right now, he was a little introverted and preferred to work behind the scenes. Raven wasn’t ready for the presidency. He might change his mind once he got a few more years under his belt. Regardless of what Raven decided, though, I was going to keep Hell’s Ankhor thriving and strong for however long my tenure was.
“Nine o’clock,” Priest said. “Prepare to rescue an unsuspecting patron from Coop.”
A young woman, a citizen, approached the bar for another drink. That’s what we called non-club members in Elkin Lake: citizens. Hell’s Ankhor didn’t own Elkin Lake, but we did own and operate a lot of businesses, and provided some under-the-radar security that the local bureaucrats were happy to overlook. We liked citizens, though, especially when they came to our bars and spent their money.
Coop immediately dropped his spat with Gunnar to swiftly sidle up to the woman and pour her a beer. He practically drooled as he told her this one was on him, trying to smoothly comment on her leather riding gear and keep her conversing with him instead of returning to her table. We got a lot of people like her in our spots. Unaffiliated bikers who rode as a hobby but didn’t want to commit to a club. Weekenders. Nothing wrong with them, but usually lacking the loyalty we looked for in new club prospects. But they made for good date prospects, or at least Coop thought so—though I’d rarely seen him seal the deal. Tonight he was fumbling his words, which was, luckily for him, making her laugh.
“Is that a real laugh or a fake laugh?” I asked Priest.
“Looks real to me,” Priest said. “I can’t believe it. She’s humoring him.”
“Never thought I’d see the day.”
Priest laughed and squeezed the back of my neck affectionately.
Whatever this drug situation was, I didn’t like it, and it’d be eating at me until the enforcers reported back with some intel. I’d never tell anyone in the club this, but I was jealous of Coop’s easy flirtations. That was the other reason I was devoted so deeply to the club. I was gay. No problem. That didn’t matter in Hell’s Ankhor. We judged people by character and action, not by race, sexuality, or any other bullshit. I was proud of my club and its members and the safety of the community we’d established in Elkin Lake.
But being president so young, I had to prove that Priest hadn’t made a mistake when he chose me. The needs of the club outweighed my own needs every time. But, fucking hell, recently I really wanted to find some strong, slender stranger to take home. Maybe then I’d finally be able to get a good night’s sleep. There’d been a few people here and there, sure, but it’d been too long. I worried too much about one-night stands—while I indulged occasionally, I didn’t want to get a reputation for them, and I didn’t want my behavior to reflect poorly on the club. That was my worst nightmare. That I wouldn’t live up to the legacy Ankh had built.
“All right,” I said. “Please make sure Tex doesn’t break his neck. I’m gonna get some fresh air, maybe make some rounds.” I needed to get up, move around, clear my head.
“No promises.” Priest clapped me on the shoulder then moved to sit at the bar.
“Hey, Coop,” I said as I walked toward the front door. Coop was prattling on about the new saddlebags he’d just purchased for his bike, and the girl was beginning to cast desperate looks over her shoulder to her cackling friends. “Why don’t you get a rag and help Tex dust those portraits?”
“Aw, c’mon, Blade, that’ll take forever,” Coop said.
“It’ll take ten minutes. You got something better to do?”
The girl mouthed a thanks at me.
“Seriously, Coop, wipe down the lamps, too.” I was so busy grimacing at the thick layer of dust on the hanging lamps that I didn’t hear the door open, and walked directly into a patron coming into the bar.
The man I ran into was short enough that his bright green eyes blinked dazedly at my chest. His dull brown hair was mussed with sweat, and an oversized sweatshirt hung elegantly on his narrow but muscled shoulders. Just my type: lean like a dancer, or a runner. Maybe my night was looking up after all. When he finally came back to himself, he tried to step back, but he was still unsteady on his feet.
“Whoa, there.” I reached out unthinkingly to steady him, gripping the lean muscle of his biceps, and his full pink lips twisted into a wince of pain. With some visible effort he focused his deep-set eyes. From the bags under his eyes on his pallid, angular face I could tell he hadn’t slept recently. I stepped in a little closer, shielding him from curious eyes from others in the bar. The drugs, my planned ride, the rounds, even my sudden attraction—all of it flew from my mind. My attention narrowed to this stranger who’d just stumbled in like a lost dog seeking shelter from a storm. He looked on the verge of collapse. Concussion? Dehydration? Simple sleep d
eprivation? Something else—something worse?
“You all right?” I asked.
He stared at me.
Gently, I touched a nasty purpling bruise on his jaw. “What’s going on here?”
He closed his eyes and pulled his lower lip in between his teeth. Breathing quick and short, his small, lean body was one long line of tension. Purple bruises bloomed on his throat and the edge of another bruise peeked out from the collar of his oversized sweatshirt. What else was his clothing hiding? Where else was he hurt?
“None of your business,” he snapped. He paled further, and then gathered himself to meet my eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t see you.” Steadier on his feet now, he stepped backward and glanced over his shoulder at the door. “I thought this was someplace else. I’ll just—”
“Not that it’s any of my business, but you look pretty fuckin’ exhausted.”
The man crossed his arms over his narrow chest and tipped his sharp chin down. Challenging me?
“I’m just sayin’,” I said. “Can I get you a beer? Maybe a coffee?”
When I smiled at him, his lips quirked upwards just the slightest bit. But he didn’t uncross his arms, and he didn’t say anything back. A strand of hair fell into his eyes as he surveyed me, and a thrill of heat ran down my spine.
I was used to guys deferring to me and treating me with respect. Came with the presidency. Something about this quiet, defiant stranger piqued my interest. What was hiding beneath that prickly exterior? Something was troubling him, and he didn’t seem too keen on sharing what it was. Still, I had to start somewhere.
“I’m Blade,” I said.
3
Logan
Gang shit was a dealbreaker.
I’d established that personal rule when I was just a teenager. Growing up, I’d watched club guys get hammered and pick up women only to throw them out like trash the next day. The way they talked about their conquests and history disgusted me. And I’d seen how my father treated Mom. Motorcycle clubs were poison—clubs turned you volatile and dangerous. I knew violence well enough already.
Blade’s appointment to the Hell’s Ankhor presidency had caused some serious trash-talk among the Viper’s Nest. He was supposed to be an inexperienced, violent, trigger-happy sergeant-at-arms, in over his head and ripe for the culling. Not this tall, dark-haired man curling his broad shoulders inward slightly as if to shield me from the rest of the world.
But you didn’t get to be the president of a motorcycle club without breaking a few laws, legs, and hearts.
The Viper’s Nest had been direct rivals with Hell’s Ankhor for a few years now. The previous president, Ankh, had refused to work with my father. Held his club to higher standards. But since Ankh had been killed in an accident last year, Dad had started upping the ante, pushing at the borders and trying to drive Hell’s Ankhor out of Elkin Lake. Whoever controlled Elkin Lake controlled a key trafficking point between San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas. Dad was frothing at the mouth to gain that power.
When Blade released his grip on me, the room seemed colder.
His dark eyes gleamed.
“Oh,” I said. Right. This was supposed to be a totally normal interaction. Blade had given me his name. I was then expected to give mine.
But regardless of the heat that curled in my gut under his gaze, he was a damn club president. If Hell’s Ankhor knew who I was, I’d end up at the frigid bottom of the town’s namesake lake for sure. I’d give him a half-truth.
“I’m Logan,” I said.
“Logan,” Blade repeated. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. My stomach flipped. “I haven’t seen you around here before. Come on, grab a seat.”
The sound of my name in his rumbling voice made the back of my neck prickle. I couldn’t risk giving Blade my first name, Patrick, and I never wanted to hear the childish nickname Paddy, the one my father insisted on calling me, ever again. Logan was the middle name my mother had chosen for me, and it was a name I held close to my heart. I didn’t use it in the presence of Vipers. I kept that name locked away. It was a promise to myself that one day I’d be that person, free from my father’s shadow and far from the Viper’s Nest. I’d be the person Mom believed I could be.
When Blade said my name, something inside me slotted into place. Something I hadn’t noticed was missing.
No one had called me Logan since Mom died fifteen years ago when I was ten.
Depressing. But I’d let this man call me Logan if it ensured none of the Hell’s Ankhor’s guys would recognize me as Crave’s son. The warmth it sparked in my stomach when I heard my name in his low voice had nothing to do with it.
“Thanks,” I said. “But I’ve got to get back on the road. This is just a quick pit stop.”
“Road tripping, huh?” Blade asked.
Exhaustion weighed me down like I’d just worked a sixteen-hour shift. If I stood here any longer and let Blade prod me gently for information, I’d crack. The suggestion of his kindness was like a chance of water in the desert – most likely a mirage.
During my time in the Viper’s Nest, I’d learned a few things about how the world works. The only person responsible or accountable for my well-being was myself. I couldn’t depend on anyone else. People only pretended to care about you when they needed something from you. There was always some underlying motivation—no one acted selflessly. I’d seen it play out over and over, and I was sick of it. I was sick of being tricked into thinking someone cared about me, that something would change or improve, only to have it blow up in my face. I was done being hurt. Done being the victim.
Mom had trusted Crave to protect her, but all she got was a life of abuse and an early death. I trusted my brother, and he chose the club over blood. I wasn’t going to trust another club guy again, especially not a Hell’s Ankhor member, not even one with gorgeous dark eyes and a sturdy, strong grip.
“Sorry,” I said. I sidestepped to get around him.
“Hey, wait.” Blade reached out and grabbed my wrist as I moved past. It was my bad arm, the arm that was likely sprained from where my father had wrenched it behind my back. His grip jostled the injury, and sensation exploded in the joint like a knife-wound, so sharp and surprising my vision went black at the edges. A bark of pain escaped me, short and aborted as I clenched my teeth around it.
Blade let me go immediately.
How stupid was I? To even think that a club president would be different than all the Viper’s Nest guys. Of course he would try to control me when I didn’t act the way he wanted. I was used to that. I should have been used to that. Club guys were all the same.
The bar was quiet. Hot with shame from my pathetic cry, I tried to turn away and just leave the bar entirely. This was not how today was supposed to go. I was supposed to be in my beloved car. I was supposed to be far away from here.
Two guys materialized behind me, blocking my path to the exit. I turned to face them, and they stood shoulder-to-shoulder in almost matching leather club jackets. Though they looked different—one a short-haired blond with a large neck tattoo and the other with a long, red beard and a narrow, pinched face—they wore matching don’t-try-me expressions and kept their arms folded across their broad chests. If these were Ankhor enforcers, they weren’t like the booze-stinking, steroid-pumped guys the Nest used.
“Excuse me,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”
The two men disregarded me, instead simultaneously looking straight over my head, where Blade was standing behind me.
They didn’t move.
Slow, deep breaths. Frustration and fear chewed at me. Was it possible one of them recognized me? Or that word had gotten out about Crave’s newest plan? I had to get out of here—fast.
4
Blade
Logan whirled around, bright green eyes flashing and chin jutting out defiantly. His hands dropped to his side and balled into fists. “What the hell is going on here? I have places to be.” He was trying to look tough, but I could tell b
y how his eyes darted around the bar that he was anxiously seeking a way out.
Obviously this was not a great way to introduce myself.
Tex, Gunnar, and I were surrounding him from all sides. We were taller than him, broader, and our leather jackets were well-worn and heavily patched. I'd inadvertently hurt him—or underestimated the extent of his injuries—when I'd tried to get him to stay, and now here we were, cornering him. But I couldn't let him leave. Not yet. Something about him drew me in, and I needed to make sure he was okay.
And his bitten, full lips and bright, smart eyes had absolutely nothing to do with that. At all. If anything I wondered if he’d encountered any Vipers on the edges of our territory, or if he’d had a bad night on some questionable drugs. If whatever had happened to him happened in my territory, I needed to know about it. Some of the guys ribbed me for it, but I felt responsible for the safety of the people of Elkin Lake, club members and citizens alike.
But of course he wanted to leave. I’d hurt him.
Shame knotted tightly in my chest. As president I wanted to be respected, and I wanted a reputation as a protector. But I never wanted to be blindly feared.
“Seriously,” Logan said. “Can you call off your attack dogs, please?” He spoke the pleasantry at the end with not a small amount of sarcasm.
“You’re hurt,” I said. How could I explain I was concerned; that I just wanted to help? How could I not push him away further?
Logan rolled his eyes. “Nice catch.”
My own laugh surprised me. Despite his injuries and caginess, he was fiery. I steeled my face into a serious expression. “Look, just grab a seat, take a load off. Have a beer on the house.”
“Do you always offer drinks to people who say they’re road tripping?”
“We have other drinks, too, if you think one beer will get you shitfaced.”
Logan sneered. “What are you saying?”