Savage Mercy (Savage Saviors MC #1)

by Timothy S. Allen

  I mean, I know why, but… why?

  The man was perfectly fit. He had it all. His hair was pitch black and any sort of styling he had been trying for had completely been forgotten as his hair fell over his face, hanging past his cheeks. His face was traditionally handsome and I admired the square cut jaw he possessed and sculpted cheekbones, visible even underneath that thick beard. He really was way too handsome.

  His eyes were the best part. They were a deep green that reminded me of home. It reminded me of every Christmas I’d spent as a child, before things had gone bad. We had lived near a forest of pine trees and every year, we’d go out and choose a tree together as a family. I’d hardly noticed that those eyes were focused on me, focusing on admiring me as well. Blinking, I looked over, seeing that he was also staring at me.

  So… why are you out with me? A prostitute? Why?

  “Like what you see?” I asked, hoping it didn’t sound too much like I was soliciting him. I was clearly past that stage of thinking he wanted it, at least on a transactional level.

  He raised an eyebrow and chuckled, shaking his head. I fell back on the defensive, almost paranoid level.

  “S-sorry, didn’t mean to stare. Though, to be fair, yes—I do like what I see. Not my fault you’re hot.”

  I’m sorry… what? I thought with a massive grin.

  I blinked at that and let out a sudden bout of laughter.

  I had tried to hold it back for so long. Something about this man calling me “hot” just ended up being the last straw. I lost it.

  I doubled over the booth, laughing heartily, not even noticing the attention I was getting from the waitress. I didn’t care at that point.

  At that moment, I wanted to hug him. Not kiss him. Not fuck him, though my mind went there.

  Just have a pleasant, emotionally rewarding, genuine hug.

  “I’m…” I took a deep breath. “I’m fine. Just… this entire situation is pretty funny, don’t you think?”

  He smiled and nodded, finally tackling his water.

  “If I am being honest, yes. Definitely ranks in my top-fives for interesting situations.”

  “Top three for me,” I said. “That’s coming from a whore.”

  He smirked, although it seemed slightly tinged with some sadness.

  “Well, that is pretty impressive then,” he admitted.

  The food came out, and a funny thing happened.

  We ate in absolute silence, and it didn’t feel awkward at all. I didn’t wonder if he was about to make some awkward comment about me sucking his dick. I didn’t wonder if he’d beat around the bush—both literally and figuratively.

  I just knew I could eat in silence, enjoying an evening in which I didn’t have to do anything other than just talk.

  And not the awkward kind of talk where the man had no friends and wanted to do nothing but ask awkward questions that other girls would laugh at—real, genuine, honest talk.

  When we finished, I looked down at my phone. It was 3:50 a.m. My night had to end—I had to get back to catch the bus. If I didn’t get home in time to see Rock and give him his dues, then I was as good as dead.

  This brought me back down a bit.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice surely reflecting the cold reality of the night. “But I have to get going.”

  “No, I get it,” the man said. He quickly pulled out a twenty from a different pocket, threw it on the table, and grabbed my hand as he led me out.

  It was not forceful. It was just what a gentleman did, recognizing—somehow—the urgency of my situation.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get very aroused from the sensation that followed.

  We kept our talk light, mostly focusing on the meal. I had a feeling we were going to have some unusual conversation when we were set to part—would we hug? Would we shake hands?

  Would we… kiss?

  I found myself blushing and grinning like a little kid who had just discovered her first love.

  Corny?

  Get it together, Eve.

  Lest you forget, you still have to go shopping. You still have to be someone’s gang bang soon.

  “You a whore or not?”

  I still am.

  “I appreciate you coming with me,” the man said. “I would like to see you again, although I will be honest, I don’t know if you will.”

  “What? Why?”

  I found myself surprisingly hurt by the admission. I had men falling for me all the time—more than a couple who had even proposed to me—but I always said no. It wouldn’t be right to drag a man into my life, most notably with the presence of Rock.

  “It’s a long story,” he said. “But thank you.”

  “No,” I said, looking into his eyes. “Thank you.”

  A tense silence filled the air. I found my body leaning toward him without even trying.

  “Anytime,” he said, and just as quickly, he bolted away.

  I felt a tinge of disappointment, and I suppose this was the drop of the other shoe I had so feared was coming. I finally got a good night… and it ended without so much as a hug.

  He began walking away. It couldn’t… no…

  “Hey!”

  He turned suddenly, looking at me, his eyes wide and curious. I moved in closer to him.

  “I never got your name.”

  He smirked, chuckled to himself, shook his head, and mumbled something to himself I didn’t hear. He moved in close enough to kiss me—kiss me?—and smiled.

  “Derek,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Derek, thank you,” I said, and without thinking, I hugged him.

  He seemed to resist it at first, as if the idea of touching a woman made him nervous. That was ridiculous, of course—he was too well-composed to be nervous—but there was definitely something holding him back.

  Eventually, he wrapped his arms around me and gave me a hearty squeeze.

  “My pleasure, Eve.”

  With that, he pulled back, smiled, and walked away, closing the best night I could ever remember having over the last six months.

  11

  Derek

  Eve.

  Eve, the woman.

  Not Eve, the prostitute.

  The woman.

  In some respects, if this was a date, I had failed pretty badly.

  We hadn’t gotten especially deep in our conversations, allowing me to glimpse further into her personality and intelligence. I hadn’t kissed her. I hadn’t gotten laid.

  Honestly, I didn’t even want to call it a date. One, I didn’t want to give Rooster the smug satisfaction of telling him a date had helped me feel better. Two, a date implied I wanted to build to something, which I didn’t—I just wanted to get to know her better.

  But I had, and I was lying my ass off if I didn’t say I was incredibly attracted to her.

  But I was also lying if I said I really would know for sure if I would see her again.

  The Black Falcons had a way of making life a day to day endeavor.

  Ah, well, I thought. It was something.

  And at this point in my life, I would take something compared to the shit days I had.

  I went back to my chopper, always partially relieved to find it still standing, and revved the engine. I thought of heading home, but I had too much energy to fall back asleep for a little bit longer. So, I decided to go to my second home—the shop.

  Though Roost would probably pick up on my mood and undoubtedly figure out my excitement and therefore mock me for it, it was a ribbing I was strangely OK with taking.

  I roared ahead on the roads, taking care not to stop at any point—didn’t need the night ruined by a flashback. At this hour, that was not difficult, given the sparse traffic. I parked in front of the shop, turned off the bike, and waited.

  To my absolute shock, nothing came.

  Miracles of miracles.

  I stepped into the back and, to my surprise, saw Roost sitting inside, checking his phone. He never stayed t
his late—something was gnawing at him.

  And because of that, any pep in my step, any excitement, anything beyond my default aggravation faded in nervousness.

  “Yer up late,” he said, rising with surprise on his face.

  “I prefer to think of it as an early start to the day,” I said, even as I knew I’d be back to going to sleep at this hour within two days. “I’m gonna steal a line of yours and say you look like shit. Anything going on?”

  “Ya mean about business or…?” he trailed off, inviting other options.

  “Of course I mean with business,” I clarified.

  “Not really, no. Yesterday’s delivery was sorted without any issues. We got most of it sent out for distribution couple hours ago. Customers’re quiet, which means they’re happy. Even if they’re not, they’re being quiet—means we don’t need to worry ‘bout refunds, bad blood, or anything like that.”

  I was usually depending upon Rooster to be the one who kept an eye on the shadows for my drunken ass, but this time, with the roles reversed—or at least with me joining him in his corner—I had to present a possibility.

  So much for a pleasant start to the day. Or a hopeful one.

  “Means they’re probably considering doing business with the Falcons,” I pointed out.

  “Ya seem to think that the Falcons got some kinda golden rep goin’ with folks out there. They don’t!” Matty snapped at me. “Most people are fuckin’ terrified of ‘em!”

  “ROCK SENDS HIS CONDOLENCES!”

  The words from that awful day, the genesis of my “career switch” and my “new lifestyle” came to mind just as Matty said that.

  And just like that, the full vision came back.

  “NO!”

  I know I shouted the word, but I didn’t care. It broke me free of the vision before it could play out in full horror.

  God, I fucking hated the Black Falcons, I fucking hated them.

  I hated them so much, in fact, that I wondered if we all wore our hatred for them as a shield against fear.

  Actually…

  The way Matty had said that seemed very out of character. He wasn’t stupid, and he always had a begrudging, healthy “respect” for what the Falcons were capable of, but something in him left him more prone to snapping as he just had.

  Something was going on.

  “So…” Matty said, clearing his throat.

  I noticed he was still nodding. That confirmed it.

  “You know something,” I said. “Something you haven’t discussed yet.”

  “I know a shit-ton, kid,” he said, almost succeeding in sounding offended. “But what I recently found out I’m not so sure I’m eager to share.”

  Now I felt the gut punch of fear. This meant one of two things—either the Black Falcons had plans for a strike that could leave us crippled, or an opening had presented itself that Roost feared I would stupidly fail to take advantage of.

  No wonder he fears telling me. Either we all die or I die.

  “And if I order you to tell me?” I challenged.

  I’m willing to accept at least one of these outcomes. He knows that, no matter how much he doesn’t want to pretend so.

  “Then I’d say ‘fuck ya and yer orders,’ cheese-dick!” he shot back with a laugh. “Watch who ya try draggin’ ‘round with that ‘Leader’ badge of yers. Don’t ferget that, while ya might be captain of this here ship, ye don’t know shit ‘bout steering the ol’ girl and, without my cute ass to do it for ya, yer in the middle of the Shit Ocean with limited fuel and a dwindling crew.”

  I knew Matty would tell me eventually. He was just a nervous wreck—and as I thought about it, I knew this wasn’t something that could get all of the Savage Saviors killed. Even though Roost liked to laugh during moments of nervousness, not even he would have laughed at the prospect of our equivalent of Normandy.

  “Alright,” I said, nodding with respect. “That’s fair. Then what if I politely asked you to overlook your likely valid instincts and tell me anyway? Maybe as a friend?”

  He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. He’d talk, probably sooner rather than later. I just had to be nice about it.

  “Ah fuck!” he groaned, shaking his head. “Then I guess I’d have to tell you that the Falcons got a little get-together going down tomorrow night.”

  A get-together. They’re gathering. So…

  “Call it what ya want—a ‘party,’ a ‘meeting,’ a ‘shindig’… whatever! It’s being called all sorts of things on the street dependin’ on who ya ask, but I guess its formal title is a ‘fundraiser.’”

  “‘A fundraiser,’” I parroted with a scoff.

  But already, my mind was turning. Ideas came to mind that I immediately swatted down, but I was realizing that I had my wish. I had something that I’d yearned for.

  I perhaps had an opportunity.

  “More like a buy-in for rich people wanting to get in on their operation,” Matty said. “But there’s more to it. They’re using it as a means of getting everyone tied to their projects together in one place. As ya already know, they prefer to keep all their cogs separate—far apart as possible to keep from possibly implicating one with the other—but the problem with that approach is that eventually the cogs are too far apart to even operate together. So’s they gotta have events like these every now and again to get the machinery moving together once more.”

  “All the parts…” I said, realizing where he was going with this.

  Matty’s face sank and he nodded again. I think he realized how I would take the news and the opportunity. He knew what this meant, not just for the party, but for me.

  “Yeah, well, I know ya know what that means.”

  “Means that Rock’s gonna have to be there.”

  Means that he’s going to be in sight. Means that I’ll get a chance at vengeance. Means that fucker is going to die.

  Doesn’t matter if we go to hell together.

  Sorry, Eve. But I’m on a mission.

  Matty watched me, cleared his throat, and then sniffled. I knew how this would go—he’d tell me to think with my rational brain, my thinking brain, not the brain lusting for vengeance more than a Vegas stripper.

  Too bad I’d grown impatient. Two years had gnawed at me. Two years had broken me. Two bullets might shatter me at this “fundraiser” but the sharp edges of my remains would cut into Rock’s arteries, bleeding him to death and making him suffer like the fucking prick he was.

  “Like I said: sounds like ye’re feeling particularly confrontational.”

  “When would I not be confrontational if that son of a bitch is the subject?”

  I wasn’t mad, at least not at Roost like I was yesterday. But the very subject was getting on my nerves, most especially because I knew I’d have to “wait” for this damn shindig to go down.

  “Fair enough,” Matty said. “Yer father would hate my guts if I didn’t ask ya this. I take it there’s nothing I can say to convince ya not to go.”

  “Not a goddam thing,” I assured him as seriously as I’d ever said anything.

  “Even though what ye’re likely planning is certain death; basically suicide?”

  I didn’t answer. What did I need to say that hadn’t already been said? Nothing.

  “Look, Derek, I get that this Rock fucker is slippery as a twink’s pecker, but ya can’t possibly think it’s a good idea to go waltzing into a Black Falcon event just to have a shot at him. There’ll be at least a hundred people there who will recognize ya the moment ya step foot inside, an’ they ain’t exactly gonna believe yer there to sign up fer a jacket. Ya want me to double down my efforts in finding where Rock’s hiding himself any other night, I will. Just say the word and I’ll—”

  “Have you not been trying then?” I asked, interrupting him.

  I hated that I said that. Of course we’d been trying to find him. I just didn’t have the self-control to bite my tongue at the immediate implication.

  Which begs the question
of how I’ll have such self-control at this event.

  “Honestly, I’ve been adding more and more manpower to the search since I first heard about what he did. I’ve got folks ain’t even members of the Saviors on the lookout.”

  “And still nothing?”

  “Still nothing,”

  I don’t think “slippery” even begins to describe just how elusive he is then.

  Which means…

  “I definitely can’t miss this opportunity.”

  “But they’ll kill ya, Chase!” Matty said, nearly choking on the words.

  “Then they’ll have to call it a revenge killing, Rooster, ‘cause it’ll be after I’ve killed Rock!”

  My emotions were slipping. I had to be careful.

  Especially because it became apparent, in the face of losing the last living Knight, Rooster was starting to lose control of his own.

  “And how’s that gonna work out?” he demanded. “Walk me through the plan, okay? Ya walk into the joint—either ya on yer own or toting a bunch of our just-as-obvious boys with ya—an’ then ya stroll around all not ninja-like, catching the eyes of Falcons who’ve either—one—personally seen yer face while they was workin’ fer us—two, seen yer mug flashed around in pictures and documents cycled about fer exactly this sort of reason, or—three, yer punk-ass just reeks enough of Knight-born vengeance that somebody thinks to point ya out to somebody who fuckin’ knows better!”

  He looked at his hand and its three raised fingers for each point he’d made, looking like he wanted to slap me with the back of that hand before finally letting it drop and, instead, shaking his head at me.

  Might have done some good. But you know I’d circle back around to doing this anyways.

  “Meanwhile, yer dumb ass, with or without backup, has only just begun to wander about the place in search of one slipperier-than-slippery needle in a five-story haystack. The guest list is already in the hundreds, Derek, an’ ya think that, what, the power of yer anger will be enough to lead ya right to him? Even if ya manage to find the fucker, how ya think yer gonna go ‘bout doin’ a goddam thing about it? Ya gonna pull a piece out in the middle of a scene like that? Hm? Or ya gonna try to sneak ‘im off somewhere private, do it real secret-like? That ain’t happenin’! Or maybe ya think that the guy who’s representin’ the Falcons’ human trafficking and drug income is gonna be waltzin’ ‘round with no security? ‘Cause I got news fer ya, buddy: the Carrion’s might be crazy as an internet conspiracy nut, but they know better than to put their biggest cash crop in the crosshairs without at least a bunch of high-paid cock-knockers shadowing his butt all night prepared to take a bullet, blade, or bad word aimed in his general direction.”