by Juli Valenti
“I’d be cautious, if I were you, Staple,” the man spat in response. “You are in my house. I don’t know you. So, as far as I’m concerned, my questions are the important ones.”
“Jesus Christ!” a female voice sounded, though Mercy refused to turn to face it. Instead she kept her head up, taking in the two large men in front of her, the tips of her nails tapping on the gun at her waistband. The desire to grip it, to hold it up, to be certain of self-defense was strong, but doing so would only cause more problems.
“Unless you are part of the initial conflict, you do not pull.”
Words she didn’t want to hear filtered through her head and she mentally shook herself, ignoring them.
“He’s with us, Tonka; put the gun down.”
Tonka shook his head. “Nope. Motherfucker comes into my home, a fucking intruder, and touches shit that doesn’t belong to him. Has the balls to throw down after getting what’s coming to him. He’s not with me and I’m gonna start counting; if this fucking asshat doesn’t drop the fucking chick Ruger in his hand I’m going to fucking plug him and ask questions later.”
“Staple. Drop it.” Another voice, a different voice than the female, familiar. Curiosity getting the better of her, Mercy turned to find the man who’d originally confronted her in the field clearing as well as the pretty brunette - both had changed out of their wedding clothes.
It was the other man’s turn to shake his head.
“Not fucking happening. I’m sorry, no real disrespect meant - I know I’m new fish around here… but don’t you know who the hell she is?”
“Mercedes Sheridan,” a female answered, confidently, drawing Mercy’s attention to her. She felt her eyes widen as she took in the other woman.
Standing before her was a woman who stood no more than five foot five. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, the ends curled, betraying an elegant style that was no more. But, it was the dress that kept Mercy’s eyes glued to the petite woman. It was stunning, fit for a princess - a white, strapless ball gown made of lace and tulle, with intricate silver angel wings spanning the tulle of the skirt. On top of the wedding dress being beautiful, it was also completely out of place amongst the weapons and angry faces. Except, somehow, it wasn’t.
“Mercedes Sheridan,” the woman repeated again, her head held high, her makeup perfect despite the New Mexico heat. “Skilled mechanic, one of the best in America. Graduated MIT at the top of her class and opened a garage in her hometown of Wyoming. Also proficient in making unique weaponry in her spare time, though not a common fact.
“And, she’s also, essentially, the Princess of the Static Law MC. Daughter of Chucky Sheridan, the founding president.”
“Shit.”
“Are you fucking kidding? Fallen is going to go ape-shit.”
“What the hell is she? A messenger? She needs to fucking leave.”
A chorus of loud epithets and exclamations sounded from the men, and women, she supposed, surrounding Tonka and Staple’s face-off. Mercy could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, but gritted her teeth.
“I haven’t come in any MC capacity,” she said, forcing strength into her words, and enunciating as clearly as she could. It had been a desperate hope that by moving away from her father, from his empire, people wouldn’t know who she was. She’d wanted so badly to start over, to be her own person, rather than chained to the man she’d been forced to endure her entire life.
“If I were you, I’d start talking.”
“I’d like to speak with your pres. I seek Sanctuary.”
“You’re looking at her. Inside, now. Boys, put the guns away. Tonka, come with me. ‘Speare, get your new kid on the block under control while we speak inside,” she spoke with authority, shaking her head. “Can’t have just one day where my only worry is losing my goddamned shoe.”
“Just wait till Chucky finds out, Mercy,” Staple called, using her nickname snidely, mockingly. “He’s going to have your ass.”
Her gun was drawn, two slugs fired before she even realized what she’d done. She watched, satisfied as red bloomed from the large man’s chest, moments before he fell to the ground. Shocked faces turned to meet hers, including Tonka’s, and she shrugged, offering her pistol to the man. Mercy put her hands up in placation and met Poet’s piercing gaze.
“You go by Mercy?” When she nodded, Poet chuckled slightly. “Well, seems fitting since you apparently show none. That should appease Fallen, too… hopefully he didn’t like that one.”
3
Chapter Three
“I must say, it’s not very often that I’m left with little to say,” Poet said wryly, looking like a giant cupcake in her chair, the tulle of her wedding dress puffed up around her.
Rather than speaking, Mercy took in the room. A part of her had expected the Hells Redemption members to cart her off, kicking and screaming, to the Chapel - the most common place business is run. Now that she thought about it, she was never quite sure why they called it that… a word that had so much religious connotation, and yet, there was nothing spiritual or even soul-saving that went on in those rooms. Generally it was quite the opposite; they were large rooms, with a large round or oval table that took up the middle, with chairs that surrounded it. It was in the so-called Chapel where club decisions were made, the majority of them bad for someone.
Instead, though, the bikers had led her into a, for a lack of a better term, living room, or a den. Large, leather couches, with various reclining chairs on each side, took up a good portion of the area, facing a giant flat-screen TV. A bar adorned one of the corners, complete with a kind-looking older biker - though his kindness didn’t fool her. She had no illusions that his hawk eyes would miss anything.
When she turned back to the female president, it was she who was at a loss for words.
A female president? That never happened. And now that they were inside the brightly lit area, she also got a good look at the pretty brunette who’d been in the field earlier. She wore leather leggings and a ripped top, but none of that seemed out of place. No, it was the leather cut completing the ensemble that had her proverbially scratching her head. Her name, Artist, was displayed proudly, the black embroidery stark against the white of the patch. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, the back of it was finished with not only the club logo, but also the top and bottom rockers.
Women in clubs never had the whole kit and caboodle donning the vests they wore, if they wore one at all. The only ones ever allowed in Static Law had been for property-ofs, women who were exactly as the title sounded: Property. Old Ladies weren’t allowed in a cut and had no business in the clubhouse unless it was a special occasion. The Brothers’ ladies were expected to raise the children, to pleasure their men when expected, and help bring income into the house and the club. The latter always seemed like such a shitty deal to Mercy - working your ass off and raising the crotch goblins with very little reward to show for it. Of course, they’d all known what they were getting themselves into before they married, and most seemed more than content with their lives, but it was definitely not a life she wanted.
Poet sure as hell didn’t look or act like she was anyone’s piece of ass. She looked royal and regal, at least when she was standing. Her head remained held high, her tone never wavering. It was as if she was born to lead and did so with no questions. Surely, though, there had to be questions. If she had some, the rest of the biker communities must as well. It was… well… it would have been just wrong if there weren’t.
The hidden feminist in her reveled in the presence of the other woman, though ‘revel’ probably wasn’t the correct term. More, it was like she applauded her, wanted to know her, wanted to be closer to her. That part of her wanted to get all the details; how a five-foot nothing, absolutely beautiful blonde girl could hold the job she did. Biker life was hard, full of men who didn’t give a shit about women, but here was this tiny thing who not only led men, but was clearly respected by them. Even as she sat, the one s
he’d called ‘Speare had entered the room, standing respectively behind her and to the right, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed on her every move. His gaze was filled with curiosity and distrust, and yet he said nothing. Neither did Poet… which reminded her that the other woman had been speaking to her and she’d heard nothing.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
Poet raised an eyebrow. “I asked what the hell you were doing here… though much nicer than that, the first time around. See, all I wanted to do this evening was be with my new husband. Contrary to whatever you may think, a wedding dress is certainly not my usual uniform - we literally just got married. Which leads me to explain the pickle you seem to be in just a little better.
“So, there we were,” Poet continued, her hand lifting in an arch as if to paint a scene, “I just had the princess wedding of my dreams - to the surprise of everyone in attendance. We’d kissed and exchanged rings, we’d been happily in the middle of our receptions. The clubs mingled, everything was going perfect. Until your men came and fucked it all up. Now, my secretary is without his wife, having been taken out by Static Law. The man has a fucking baby and is a mess. And my Sergeant in Arms’ woman was shot too. So you better start talking before I lose my patience entirely and decide to say ‘fuck it all’ and go about my business as best I can.”
Mercy swallowed. It didn’t surprise her that the Law had fucked up such a joyous occasion. From her experience they weren’t ones who followed normal protocols. Most motorcycle clubs had rigid rules, guidelines to be followed with certain laws that were as hard and unyielding as the men who followed them. Static Law never fell into that category. It didn’t matter who was around, who they hurt, what collateral damage they racked up, so long as business was conducted and their goals were met. It was their way, take it or leave it, whether anyone liked it or not. It was one of the cold hard facts about her father’s club and why there was never rest in the mother chapter. There was never peace, never any time without war.
“First… well, I have two things that go into the ‘first’ category, and in equally important order. I am not, and would not, ever be here in a club capacity. I’m also so very sorry about the loss of your brothers’ women.”
Poet inclined her head, her fingernails tapping at the armrest of her chair. “Sorry is just a word, it has no longevity and holds no solutions. It is a placation, a word used when the person has nothing better to say; it’s used when so many other things should be said.”
“I agree, and you’re right. I don’t know what else to say in that regard. My father’s club is notorious for not giving two shits about anyone but themselves. I wish I could change that fact, or go back in time and make it not happen, but that is a power only held by a God or whatever you believe. It would seem that, forgive the pun, redemption has been had, though, judging by the cuts outside.”
Poet nodded but said nothing in return and Mercy shifted, missing the weight of her gun and beginning to second guess the action of handing it over. The only consolation prize she had was, despite whatever mistrust he may be holding against her, that Tonka hadn’t moved to stand with his president as the others had. He didn’t join the congregation of jurors waiting to throw punishment down on her, rather he stood off to her right side - not close enough to touch or feel, but close enough to show a sliver of support.
“I guess I should start at the beginning,” Mercy sighed, lowering herself to the floor and crossing her legs. It wasn’t a short story, no matter how quickly they wanted the information, and she was tired - tired of talking, tired of moving, and most definitely tired of standing. The members of Hells Redemption looked down at her, surprised, but she didn’t care. Besides, if they were going to kill her, they were going to kill her. Standing wouldn’t and couldn’t help her in that regard. There were simply too many of them, and if she was going to go, she’d prefer doing it a bit more comfortably.
“I’m only here by coincidence —” she started, only to be interrupted, this time by ‘Speare, his strong voice soft, but no less intimidating.
“There are no coincidences.”
“Be that as it may,” she continued, holding her palms out, upright, “here I am. I don’t even know where I am, with the exception of knowing it’s somewhere in New Mexico. I left Wyoming two or three, I’m not exactly sure on the hour count, days ago with no plans to ever go back. I honestly had no idea where I was even going to go, so long as it was away from Sheridan and everyone in it, including my father.
“You probably already know this but I have six brothers, all of them patched, the youngest of them still years older than me. I, a girl, didn’t really fit into Chucky’s plans, but he made the best of it for awhile. It wasn’t until at the ripe old age of fifteen I told dear old Pop that I wasn’t interested in being a stay-at-home breeder, and that I refused to be anyone’s Old Lady, that things really started to change. I refused the Static Law way of life; I wanted more. And despite the fact I became a prisoner within my own surroundings, I still went to MIT, still opened my garage, the club be damned.
“Hell, I even paid the club, as every business in the town does for fucking ‘protection.’ Not that I got any, I got it worse. Chucky would send my brothers, my blood brothers, to the garage, trashing the place at least a few times a month - to teach me a lesson and get me to remember what the plan was for me. I’d be brought to heel eventually, or so he thought.”
Mercy paused, swallowing hard. She didn’t want to explain the rest, but there was no other option. Explain, don't elaborate, she reminded herself.
“The last time they ransacked my garage, two weeks ago, my bookkeeper was there and they shot him,” she said, demanding her face to remain neutral. Show no emotion. Give nothing away, it’s not their business. The thoughts were easier said than done, her heart squeezing, the pain of losing Chey like a thousand stab wounds. “They left him where he lay, bleeding out on the ground, spitting on him. They gave him a message for me.
“Anyway,” she said, using the word as if it was an eraser on a chalkboard to change the subject, “I went to Chucky. After all, he was meant to protect local businesses, regardless of who their owners were, so long as SL got paid. Needless to say, that interaction didn’t go well.
“It took me longer than a week to leave. He’s looking for me, and, when he finds me, things aren’t going to be pretty. I’m not looking for club protection - when I stumbled on the field I was literally just looking for a hand because my stupid, beautiful car broke down. I didn’t realize any of you were patched, not until Tonka,” she glanced at him, ignoring the pinched expression on his face, “slipped his cut on before climbing on his Harley. And, even then, I didn’t see the harm in going with him. Again, I’m not here on club business; I didn’t know y’all had any run in with Static Law, or even who you were. At this point I’m sure there’s going to be a situation over the fact I killed Staple, but I won’t apologize for it.”
“You shot him because he threatened to call Chucky,” Poet said, her tone even. The woman’s face was still concentrative, though her words had softened slightly, almost imperceptibly. It gave Mercy a small semblance of hope, though she wished it hadn’t. Hope was a dangerous thing in the life they all led, even for her, with the half-in and half-out life she’d been a part of.
Mercy nodded, though she didn’t need to.
“I will kill anyone who alerts my father of where I am. I will unload clip after clip into everybody sent after me, if I have to.”
“Christ. Why does she remind me of you?” ‘Speare retorted, looking first at Artist and then to Poet.
“Tonka?”
The large, beautiful man turned, no longer facing Mercy, but facing his president, his face shadowed and unreadable. For a heartbeat, she wished they could go back, go back to the devil’s motorcycle ride they’d taken. Go back to when he teased her, throwing his head back and laughing, the playful glint touching a part of her she wished didn’t exist. Solemn colored him, changed his
entire being, even from where she sat and unable to see his entire expression. Gone was the carefree, bantering, rider from Hell. No, this was a completely different Rider from Hell. He was what Revelations spoke of, one of the Horsemen, on a mission to do his duties, regardless the cost. It was both terrifying and sexy as fuck.
“Pres.”
“What is your take on all of this? You brought her here.”
Tonka nodded, the hand holding her Sig raising and the tip of the gun scratching at his forehead. “I’m not at all upset Staple is dead.” The man’s name was spat from his lips. “Far as I’m concerned, that son of a bitch had it coming. As for the rest, I’m sure there’s more to the story but it doesn’t feel far-fetched. She seems like good peeps but that could be wishful thinking, mainly because I want to fuck her.”
Mercy could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and she ducked her head, refusing to allow the group to see how his words affected her. She wasn’t sure how they affected her - whether she was outraged and pissed that he, like all the others, was only out to fuck her. Or if she was flattered, almost honored that he wanted her. Mostly, she was affected by the broad inside her jumping up and down, waving her hand and volunteering as tribute.
“VP?”
‘Speare stepped forward slightly, moving into Poet’s direct line of sight. Ah, that explains it, she thought. It made sense for the VP to be protecting the president, while maintaining his position beside her.
“This is going to be a decision for you, Pres. I would be hesitant to throw her to the wolves alone if she’s telling the truth. Regardless of how many SL Fallen took out, several remained, dispersing between the two clubs. It would be the same as kicking a kitten out of a car on a highway, she’d be helpless —”
“I’m not helpless.” The words escaped her before she could stop them, unbidden and unasked for but nonetheless true. Mercy refused for anyone to think she was weak, less than. She could take care of herself, she always had. She had no need for anyone to think they’d be her knights in shining armor, she rescued herself. Always.