Biggie: Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Saints MC Book 12)

by Hazel Parker

  Biggie

  Savage Saints MC – New York

  ~

  Hazel Parker

  Biggie – Savage Saints MC Series © 2020 Hazel Parker

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Biggie

  Chapter 2: Lilly

  Chapter 3: Biggie

  Chapter 4: Lilly

  Chapter 5: Biggie

  Chapter 6: Lilly

  Chapter 7: Biggie

  Chapter 8: Lilly

  Chapter 9: Biggie

  Chapter 10: Lilly

  Chapter 11: Biggie

  Chapter 12: Lilly

  Chapter 13: Biggie

  Chapter 14: Lilly

  Chapter 15: Biggie

  Chapter 16: Lilly

  Chapter 17: Biggie

  Chapter 18: Lilly

  Chapter 19: Biggie

  Chapter 20: Lilly

  Epilogue

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  Author Bio

  Prologue

  Jack “Biggie” Stone

  The rain was just minutes away from pouring down on the streets of Brooklyn, but as I sat outside smoking a cigar, I couldn’t help but feel like it was a good day.

  The Savage Saints, Brooklyn chapter had largely become self-sustaining at this point, thanks to word-of-mouth business in the area and support from the Las Vegas and Green Hills Savage Saints. Though we had to deal with a few questions about if we were actually a gang, by and large, Brooklyn loved us, and we loved Brooklyn.

  We had eliminated a rival that had seemingly popped up out of nowhere, the Bloodhounds. Though we all suspected—really, outright knew—that my brother, Kyle, a politician in the area, had secretly funded the club, it was still a victory worth celebrating. That was doubly true when we learned what their leader, Damon, had done throughout his adult life.

  And finally, we were all finding love. Yes, that sounded sappy and silly, but I could see the change in how our club members behaved; we had gone from a bunch of tough, gruff assholes to…well, still tough and still gruff, but with better empathy skills than before.

  Oh, and my older brother, Marcel, the club president, had now fully recovered from the gunshot wound inflicted by the Las Vegas Savage Saints—now that was an interesting story.

  All of this to say that even if a massive storm was set to hit Brooklyn, even if we were warned we might temporarily lose power, even if the ensuing storm caused damage or forced us to close for a few days, what did we really have to worry about? Life was good. Life was really, really good.

  I supposed I could find myself a woman too. I was a little more unashamedly interested in relationships than the rest of the club, which made it a little painful to see them all find someone, but I just figured life was saving the best for life.

  If Marcel were here, he’d tell you to stop being so goddamn optimistic and naive.

  And I’d say right back to him that the club needs someone to believe good things will happen.

  I took another puff of the cigar. The first pellets of rain began to fall.

  I guess before I got a girl, I needed to get an umbrella.

  I hurried to finish the rest of my cigar. I got to the end and turned to head back inside to try to finish the last of our repairs.

  “Brother!”

  I froze. That was not Marcel who had called to me.

  I turned, knowing only one other person could have said that. One other slimy, slender, slick—and probably sick—guy who just couldn’t let us be. One other person who was both a person I wanted to love as my brother and a person I needed to hate as the club rival.

  Kyle Stone.

  Sure enough, no one had tried to punk me by pretending to be him. He walked up in an oversized black suit—though, at his size, practically everything was too big on him—brown shoes, and sunglasses. He had taken to spiking the front of his hair a little bit, perhaps in an attempt to look cool or, I don’t know, differentiate himself from Marcel and me. Understanding Kyle’s rationale was a difficult task, though I had never stopped trying to do so.

  After all, if I had any hope of getting him to stop before we shot him, I had to understand him.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “You look like you’re mighty and fine. Smoking a nice cigar on a Saturday morning here.”

  “I am,” I said, though interactions with Kyle always left me a little nervous. “How can I help you?”

  “Help me?” Kyle said incredulously. “Help me? After all that we’ve been through, you want to help me? How pathetically naive are you, Jack?”

  I stood firm and didn’t say a word. Whatever Kyle had come to say, he wouldn’t be able to resist saying it at some point. And that point usually came sooner rather than later.

  “Well, soon it won’t matter, because you won’t be able to help me. All that you’ve done is prolong the inevitable. You haven’t accomplished shit.”

  “What do you mean, accomplished shit?”

  But Kyle was too good. He wasn’t going to incriminate himself by saying something out loud. Although, I realized as he stood before me, the fact that he was physically present was a telling sign that he was starting to lose control over his behavior. He never would have risked looking so angry and so ominous before us in the past; now, thanks to our efforts to thwart him politically and with power, he had seemingly become desperate.

  “I am about to throw everything in my power at you to make sure that you don’t make it out of the month solvent,” he warned, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that he wasn’t referring to just destroying the company’s finances. “You guys won’t be around to tell anyone about what happened. Think of it as the final battle between us, Jack. The last time the brothers get together.”

  My eyes went wide. That could constitute a legal threat.

  Not that we would push it in the courts. We had easier and quicker means of resolving the issues. It just floored me that Kyle was now willing to say things so explicitly.

  “Why?” I said. It was all I could muster in response because of my shock. “Why are you so hellbent on killing us?”

  Kyle grimaced, but he couldn’t hide the fact that that was his true intent.

  “People are dead because of you. Boyfriends, husbands, fathers, sons—they’re dead because of your actions. You can hate us all you want, but no one deserves that. So why are you insistent on doing this, Kyle?”

  I could only hope that my plea would give me something—even a morsel of hope—for me to use against Kyle. So long as we continued this fight of violence, neither side was going to truly emerge victorious. Even if Kyle fell, the Savage Saints would be a target of the Brooklyn political system. If we fell, well, we’d be dead.


  And for just a split second, I thought I got something. Kyle’s face, I swore, showed some signs of remorse. It wasn’t much; in fact, I only knew it was remorse because I knew Kyle’s expressions in general.

  But there was no context other than what I had said, and the next thing that followed was Kyle scowling at me like I had just called him a skinny shithead.

  “When you and Marcel know what it’s like to be mocked and left for ruin…when you and he know what it’s like to truly go through hell…when you two know that? Then I’ll tell you why I’m insistent on doing this. But until then, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you guys wind up in hell.”

  The door opened behind me. I heard the chuckle of Uncle, but his presence was one of the last things we needed—Uncle was the most abrasive and grating member of the club.

  “Well, well, well,” he began. It’s just like Kyle. We’re all Stones here, I guess. “If it isn’t the little political shithead, coming to cry about all that’s happened to him.”

  “I’ve come to tell you that your time here with your little club is about to be over,” Kyle said, looking much more prone to an outburst than he did with me. “You think just because you’re rich, you’re going to keep getting your way, Uncle?”

  “Yep!” he said with a laugh. “Money takes care of a lot of things, kiddo. Maybe you’d learn that if you hadn’t spent so much time crying about how the world wasn’t fair when you should have been doing more push-ups and less bitching. Hmm? Did you ever think of that? Maybe if you did that, you’d get your way—”

  “Uncle, that’s enough,” I said, but it was more of a plea than a demand.

  I knew Uncle would give me grief as soon as we got inside. You don’t break down the team before the opponent. You stand as one.

  Too bad Uncle’s aggressive nature is hurting the team.

  “You know what?” Kyle said with a smirk, nodding toward Uncle. “You’ll be the first.”

  “The first to what? Kiss you goodbye?”

  Kyle just smirked and looked to me.

  “You all will see soon enough.”

  With that, he turned and walked away. Both Uncle and I stood there, even as the thunder grew louder and the lightning blinded us. The rain would only be minutes away now, if not less than a full minute.

  “He’s so full of shit,” Uncle groused.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I know him better than you do, Uncle. I think he’s serious.”

  “Yeah, and I’m—”

  “Uncle!”

  That seemed to snap some sense into him. Too bad it hadn’t happened before he had made an ass of himself in front of Kyle.

  “We need to tell Marcel and the others. Even Niner.”

  “Niner? Seriously?” Uncle said, although he was far less dismissive than before. “You know that he’s on vacation with his new girlfriend, right?”

  “I’m aware. But Kyle has something up his sleeve. We gotta get the Savage Saints together as quickly as we can. Tell you what—I’ll call Niner now, you reach out to Marcel?”

  I think the only reason Uncle humored me was because he was my literal uncle. If he weren’t family, he probably would have laughed at me and told me to go get a massage.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll give him a call, but don’t oversell it. You make it sound like the apocalypse is about to start, for fuck’s sake.”

  I honestly don’t think I’m that wrong if that’s what I’m conveying.

  Uncle finally headed inside. I pulled out my phone and dialed Niner’s number. I knew he was going to be pissed for me calling him, but I think he’d like it less if he came back to a club in disarray.

  “Biggie.”

  Yep, he sounds so thrilled to hear my voice.

  “Niner, I know you’re on vacation, and there’s no rush—”

  “Then why did you call?”

  Knowing I had to tell him the truth was the easy part. Actually doing it was anything but.

  “Because,” I said with a gulp. “Kyle has promised us that he’s going to fight the ‘final’ battle to take us down. It sounds like he’s going to throw everything at us to destroy us. I think we’ve pushed him too far, Niner. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  The silence that followed unnerved and unsettled me. Niner was an introvert by trade and one of the quietest ones I’d ever heard, but besides his girlfriend, I seemed to be the exception to the rule.

  “If it’s a fight he wants,” he finally said, “it’s a fight he’ll get.”

  Wait, what? He sounded so sure of himself, as if I had told him that he needed to get dinner for himself for the night. After what I’d said, how could he possibly sound so relaxed?

  “Niner?”

  “We’ve got our own resources,” he said. “I suggest you reach out to Marcel. Have him contact our friends out west. Tell him it’s time to call upon the help we were promised.”

  Oh, shit! That’s right.

  He hung up the phone right after, presumably having made his point. And boy, had he. As a club in Brooklyn, we may have had decent strength, but when combined with the forces in Las Vegas and Green Hills, we might actually be indestructible.

  Uncle barged right out and put Marcel on speakerphone.

  “Brother,” I said. “Niner had an idea. Bring—”

  “—all the Savage Saints together,” we said simultaneously.

  “Great minds think alike, eh, brother?” Marcel said with a chuckle.

  “Let’s just hope that I’m right about this,” I said.

  And then it started to rain.

  * * *

  Lilly Robertson

  …for it was not the spirit of the city, but the fires that kept it alive.

  And with that, I finished my latest fantasy novel.

  For about the fifth time in the seemingly unending process.

  “Everything all right?”

  I looked up in surprise at the barista coming by, cleaning the nearby tables. No, I wasn’t all right. I was trying to get my debut novel published while working overtime handling freelance work. I was living in a crappy apartment while holding onto the seemingly fleeting idea that an introvert like me would want to be around other crazy creatives. I was trying like hell to make a dream work as it also drained my finances.

  “Oh, sorry, I’m fine,” I said with a smile. “Just trying to finish this fantasy novel.”

  “Oh, you write? How cool!” she said. “It must be so fun writing!”

  In some ways, it was. I felt blessed to be leading this lifestyle. But it certainly could not be said that I was also saving, rising up in the socio-economic ladder, or doing one of many things that would be helping me improve my life.

  “It’s got its moments, definitely,” I said. “I’m almost at the end, though.”

  “Oh, of course, I didn’t mean to interrupt!”

  No one ever meant to interrupt. But no one ever realized the intense concentration required to write.

  Unfortunately, the barista’s interruption, good natured as it may have been, upset my concentration and flow. I could not bring myself to find the creative juices necessary to check my final chapter and make the edits necessary. With a bit of a sigh, I closed my laptop, pulled out my charger from the outlet, and started to pack up. I figured the time it would take for me to walk home would give me a chance to unwind and recharge my creative juices.

  I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door when I paused. An old classmate had entered, someone whom I hadn’t seen in months.

  “Kyle Stone?”

  The man that I had known as a wiry, nervous teenager looked at me with a gentle smile.

  “Lilly,” he said, his voice rising. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I know, right? Not since, what, two years ago?”

  “Something like that. What are you doing these days? Are you still editing? If you have to go—”

  “No, no, let’s sit,” I said, not wanting to be rude. Besid
es, maybe talking to an old friend would refresh my mind and give it the break it needed. “We should catch up.”

  I ushered Kyle inside and took a seat, waiting for him to order a coffee. It was remarkable to see how much he had grown up, though he still had the same wiry frame that had led to his brothers and the other kids at school picking on him so much. I felt so sorry for him, and yet it also felt like there was little I could do to boost his spirits, knowing that in some ways, his home life was worse than his school life.

  Once he got his coffee, he sat down.

  “So,” I said. “How’s life? I know, I know, broad question, but you know I like to start from the top.”

  “That you do,” he said with a smile. “Well, my brothers are continuing to give me hell, but that’s nothing new.”

  “They always were the bullies, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a bit of a weak smile. “But I’m an adult now. I got into politics, actually. You know, I want to help those who are afraid to speak out or can’t. Like I was.”

  “Really!” I said. I genuinely had no idea. I kept my head buried so I could work most of the time. “That’s awesome. We need more people like you in politics. People who aren’t seeking out power but want to empower others.”

  Kyle just gave his trademark half-laugh that ended with him looking downcast. I always tried to get him to change that, fearing that it gave other people easy ammo to mock him with, but he never seemed to quite agree. He seemed more comfortable just…well, just being himself. I guess it was admirable in some way.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you with?” I said. “Anything to help a re-election campaign? Maybe raise some money?”

  Kyle put his hand on his chin as he appeared to go deep into thought. He was good at that—I always felt when we were in school together that Kyle was going to make a great thinker someday. I think that was part of why he got bullied so much; the other kids knew they couldn’t compete with him intellectually, so they came at him physically.

  “For right now, nah,” he said. “But I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

  “You know I’m always happy to help those who need it.”