Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1
Page 1
Satan’s Devils MC - Utah Chapter #1
Contents
Production Acknowledgments
Satan’s Devils
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Other Works by Manda Mellett
Acknowledgments
Stay in Touch
About the Author
Copyright
Published 2020 by Trish Haill Associates
Copyright © Manda Mellett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book reviews.
www.mandamellett.com
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning
This book is dark in places and contains content of a sexual, abusive and violent nature. It may not be suitable for persons under the age of 18.
Production Acknowledgments
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
Edited and formatted by Maggie Kern @ Ms.K Edits
Proof reading by Martin Williams
Photographer: Golden Czermak of Furious Fotog
Model: Tyler Bland
1
Road…
If I was able to, I’d stomp my way across the clubroom as I answer a summons from my prez. Instead, I have to pick my way carefully, concentrating on every step.
“Hey,” a sharp voice interrupts. “Where’s your fuckin’ stick?”
“Don’t need it.” I round on Peg. “Stay out of my fuckin’ business.”
He holds up his hands, palms facing outward. “You should use the stick or strap your leg up. You fuckin’ fall, you’ve only yourself to blame. But why should I give a damn about you making it worse and setting yourself back?”
Nothing could make things much worse than they already are. Tossing him a glare, I continue, carefully, trying to walk straight, putting my weight equally on both legs. Which is okay until I step on something and stumble. Luckily, there’s a nearby chair that my hand catches hold of to break my fall. Looking down to see what I’d stepped on, I find it’s one of the kid’s fucking toys. Could be Eli’s, Olivia’s, Noah’s—the list goes on. Too many fuckin’ kids in this clubhouse. My brothers seem to be breeding like rabbits, but between the club and my sport, I’ve no time or inclination to find a woman of my own, yet alone a desire to procreate.
Hearing a noise as I catch my breath, I see Peg half out of his seat. I shake my head at him, then righting myself, proceed in the direction I was going with even more care, staring carefully to avoid stepping on half made Lego models or toy motorbikes and cars.
I’m in no better mood when I reach Drummer’s office, but why the fuck should I be? A few weeks back, I was all set to take the champion’s cup. Pride comes before a fall, they say, and my fall had been quite spectacular.
I knock. When Drummer barks out permission to enter, I do and sigh with relief as I make it to the seat he points at without further incident.
That his eyes soften with sympathy really does nothing to improve my mood. “What do you want, Prez?”
Now his gaze changes, hardens, and I’m subjected to his full-on stare. “Should be using the stick,” he tells me.
I heft a sigh. “Not you as well. I’ve just had this from Peg.”
“Who knows what he’s talking about.” He doesn’t. Nobody does. Drummer’s steel-grey eyes seem to see right down into my soul, then soften as he states, “It was a shame about the championship.”
Shame? Something that I’ve been striving for all my adult life? Is that all it is, a fucking shame? It’s a shame when you go to the store and the part you want is out of stock. A shame when you find a stain on your favourite shirt. It’s too insignificant a word to use when what you thought impossible a few years back had been so close you could almost touch it, and then to have it snatched out of your grasp. Shame doesn’t begin to describe it.
“Have you heard back?”
I don’t ask who from. “I’m not allowed to race again.”
“This year, or…?”
There’s no point lying to Drummer. I tap my head. “Two concussions now. No one wants me to risk a third.”
“Then there’s your leg.”
My anger seeps away, being replaced by a deep sadness. There is, indeed, my leg. The surgeons had done their best to put it back together, but I’m left with a knee that won’t always cooperate, the muscles around it being too weak to hold it in place. If I step down on it wrong, it’s likely to dislocate. Trial bikes have been developed over the years to handle rough terrain and fast. They are lightweight and are completely stripped of any luxuries or comforts. There’s no way in hell I could ride one now.
Drummer nods as though I’d answered a question he hadn’t asked. “Wanted to talk to you about your future, Road.”
“I can still ride,” I spit out, my eyes widening. Drummer can’t be talking about throwing me out of the club. No fucking way. I’ve been on my Harley since my crash, have ridden it with no problem. He’s even seen me. Sure, my still-healing leg starts to ache after a while, but I can fulfil the requirements of the club. I can ride.
“Huh,” Drummer barks, laughing. “Nothing to stop you still being a member, Road. You’ve been around this club long enough to know we’d give a man all the time that he needs to come right. Hell, you could lose a limb and we’d wait until you were able to ride again.”
“In that case, what do you mean, talk about my future?”
Drummer leans back, linking his hands behind his head. “I can understand what it’s like to lose something so important to you, Road. You’ve been competing in off-road Enduro competitions for years and did fuckin’ well. Now, suddenly, you’ve lost that. I can well understand your frustration. It’s turning you into a man I’ve not seen before. You’re on a short fuse, liable to blow if someone looks at you wrong. When you do, it’s ugly.”
I can’t dispute that. Take Peg’s observation back in the clubroom and Drummer’s opening comment, they’d both been correct. It’s easier, and safer walking with a stick, but hell, I could have punched them for just suggesting it, throwing their concern back in their faces. Since I’d returned to the clubhouse after my too long stay in the hospital and rehab, I can’t settle. My loss is fucking with my head.
“Brothers, old ladies, even the fuckin’ kids are wary of speaking to you, Road.”
His pointing it out makes me feel contrite. “I’m sorry. I’ll try and do better.”
Again his eyes settle on me, and I can’t read what he’s thinking. Does he want me to leave, after all? I know I’ve become an ogre to live with, but I’ve got a good excuse. Surely, they’d cut me some slack? Then, perhaps they don’t think the loss of everything I ever wanted accounts to much.
Drummer makes me wait until I start fidgeting before he speaks again. “I think you could do with a change of scenery.”
What? He is sending me away? “Drum, look, I’m sorry. This has been hard to get my head around, okay? I’ll watch what I say, try to keep my temper. Hell if I can’t, I’ll stay in my room. But please…” I break off, not wanting to beg to my prez, but how else can I plead for him not to send me away? I’ve gotten used to living at the compound, love my brothers, love the whole damn extended network of old ladies and kids. They’re my family. And family should make allowances, shouldn’t they?
I suppose I’ve taken too much for granted—that everyone will have my back when needed. That’s unfair, they have had my back. It’s more that I’ve not shown I’ve appreciated it. That my prez is talking to me this way means I’ve overextended, stretched their compassion to the limits. Drummer never proposes anything lightly. If he’s suggested something, he means it. Maybe the best I can hope for is that if he sends me away, he’ll let me come back.
Deliberately, I make my voice less combative and calmer. “Do you mean like Heart?” A few years back, after his wife had been killed, Heart’s grief had made him obnoxious and a liability to the club. Drummer had sent him out on the road for six months. He was the proof of such a solution working. He’d used that time to get his head on straight and had returned a changed and better version of himself. In part that might have been down to the woman he’d come back with. Perhaps Drummer thinks he’s hit on a winning formula and wants to repeat that experiment.
“No, not like Heart. Nothing of the sort.” Unlinking his hands, Drummer now props his elbows on the desk. “I need something sorted, you’ve got an unease inside you. You need something, a purpose. Am I right?”
I’m not sure where he’s going with this, or if the destination is something I’m going to welcome. But I’ll play along. “I lost something, Prez. Two things make me get up in the morning. The club, and my racing. Now half of my reason to live has been taken away.”
“Can’t replace that, Road. Wouldn’t know how. But a few weeks off doing work for the club might be just what you need to settle that emptiness inside you.”
I can’t tell him he’s wrong. “What are you thinking, Prez?”
“I’ve got a problem,” he starts, sitting back once again and stroking his beard.
There’s not been anything he’s raised at church that I can think of. Businesses are running smoothly right now, and there are no known enemies on the horizon. As far as I know, things are relatively quiet. So, I’m intrigued. “What problem?” I prompt.
“Utah.”
“Utah?” I scrunch up my face. I know nothing at all about that state, and can’t remember it being mentioned.
Drummer strokes his beard, and his eyes narrow. “The Utah chapter to be precise.”
My brow furrows further. I don’t know much at all about that part of our club. Tucson is the mother chapter of the Satan’s Devils MC and Drummer the national president. It’s not uncommon that the prezes of the other chapters turn up for official club meetings, hence I’ve met Utah’s prez, Snatcher, and his VP, Thor, on a few occasions and have exchanged pleasantries, but that’s about the extent of it. Oh, I also recall they lost a member a year or so back. Utah had been helping the Colorado chapter out and sadly had ridden home without a member called Thumper. He was killed by the mafia, if I recall right. The loss of one of our own, from whatever chapter, is the loss of a brother for any of us, even if we don’t know them personally.
Utah doesn’t cause trouble and gives support when another club needs it. I have no idea what Drummer’s talking about. I ask for clarification. “What’s your problem with Utah?”
Drummer rolls his head, then rubs the back of his neck. He looks tired. “I don’t know,” he replies after a moment. “Gut feel.” He gives a quick grin. “Could be an upset stomach, of course.”
You don’t get to be, and stay, the prez of the mother chapter without having some kind of sixth sense. If Drummer’s got an inkling that something is wrong, then he’s probably right. I start to run through possibilities.
“Anything like the trouble with San Diego when Dart left to join them? What was it, two, three years ago, now?”
Drummer shakes his head. “More than three. Time flies, doesn’t it? Nah, I’m pretty certain it’s nothing like that. Snatcher isn’t like Snake; he’d never betray the club. He’s straight as a die.” I don’t understand and feel the lines on my brow deepening as Drummer continues, “I can’t express it. On the face of it, they’re the perfect club. They don’t cause trouble, don’t seem to go looking for it, and don’t hesitate to come to the aid of others. I don’t know, Road. Huh, I’ve a feeling inside me that they’re too textbook. They keep themselves to themselves, and I can’t get a handle on them. They’re doing alright, have money in their coffers, but, fuck. It’s hard putting it into words. Something tells me something isn’t right.” He breaks off, tugs his beard again. “They maybe as flawless as they appear, but I’d sleep better at night if I could be assured of it. I’d like someone to go and check it out.”
“You want me to go and set your mind at ease that there’s nothing untoward you don’t know about?” Seems simple enough. Part of me thinks it’s just an excuse to get me away from the club. If Drummer was really worried, wouldn’t he send Blade, the enforcer, or Peg the sergeant-at-arms?
He stares at me, contemplating. “Yeah. There’s no hurry, Road. It’s a long way to ride. Thought perhaps you could take your time, do the journey in easy stages so you don’t overdo it and hurt your leg. Stop off, see the sights on the way if you like. Nothing urgent about this.”
I’d need to take it slow. My leg plays up if I ride long distances. It sure would be a change of scenery and sounds better than spending the next week or so in the club snapping at everybody. Space and distance might well help me get my head on right, and I can decide what I can do to fill the new gap in my life, or just start to learn how to live with it. Yeah, perhaps it’s something I need.
“Sounds like a vacation on the club’s dime.” I start to grin, feeling the first genuine spark of pleasure for the first time in weeks, and already anticipating the wind on my face. Then I frown. “You sure you’re not just getting me out of your hair?”
Drummer snorts a laugh. “Suspicious, ain’t ya? No, Road, I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. I do want to find out how that club ticks. I’ll tell you now, I won’t be warning Snatcher you’re on your way.”
My eyes narrow. That’s unusual. Sending a brother into the territory of another chapter would normally require a courtesy call, one prez to another. Reading between the lines, Drummer thinks there’s something Snatcher might try to cover up. “So I what, just turn up and ask him to show me around?”
Drummer grins. “Yeah. You’re just passing and thought you’d be friendly, stop in and say hi.”
“You sending me as a nomad?”
He raises his chin toward me. “No official role. Just a brother taking it slow as he heals up. While you’re there, you listen, learn and report back.”
“Prez,” I choose my words carefully. “Are you sure I’m the right person? I know my limitations. Give me a bike and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. Show me a puzzle, and I’ll not see what part’s out of place. Can you give me a clue as to the kind of shit you want me to look out for?”
His eyes pierce me again. “Don’t put yourself down, Road,” he snaps. “When you were a bouncer at the strip club, you showed initiative. Wouldn’t have made you the manager if you hadn’t done that. Since
then, you’ve increased the takings, got the books straight so Dollar has no complaints. You might not have a fancy degree or much schooling, but life has shaped you well. I have no problem sending you out to be my eyes and ears.”
I reckon it’s more that most other brothers have old ladies and children, and wouldn’t want to go. But I’ll take his words at face value. Maybe others have already turned him down.
“As to what to look out for, I can’t help you there. But you know how this club runs. Just look out for anything different to the ordinary. Sometimes,” he shrugs, “it’s hard to say. But when I speak to Snatcher, it almost seems too rosy in that part of the woods.”
“You think they might be into something illegal?”
Another rise and fall of his shoulders. “I’d say no and feel it’s unlikely. But that’s for you to find out, and then, for me to know.”
This is not just going to be a simple visit to another chapter, such as when I’ve visited Red’s chapter in Vegas, or Demon’s in Colorado when I’d ridden up to see Beef. It might be a chance to socialise and have a drink with a new set of brothers, but it looks like my role is more of a spy. Hmm.
“Road?” Drummer gets my attention. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Snatcher doesn’t give me that vibe. Not questioning his loyalty. Not going to forget he lost Thumper in Colorado. I just want something to put my gut at rest. If I thought it was going to be dangerous, I’d not send you on your own.”