HALE: Lords of Carnage MC Read online

  HALE

  Lords of Carnage MC

  Daphne Loveling

  Copyright 2018 Daphne Loveling

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Credits

  Mailing List

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Hale

  2. Kylie

  3. Hale

  4. Kylie

  5. Hale

  6. Kylie

  7. Hale

  8. Kylie

  9. Hale

  10. Kylie

  11. Hale

  12. Kylie

  13. Kylie

  14. Hale

  15. Hale

  16. Kylie

  17. Hale

  18. Kylie

  19. Hale

  20. Kylie

  21. Hale

  22. Kylie

  23. Hale

  24. Kylie

  25. Kylie

  Epilogue

  Daphne talks out her ass about Hale

  Wanted: An Outlaw Anthology

  Other Books in the Series

  Did you like this book?

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  About Daphne Loveling

  Books by Daphne Loveling

  Photo credit: FuriousFotog

  Cover design by Coverlüv

  One of my favorite things about writing is the relationships I build with readers. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offerings, and exclusive bonus material to readers who subscribe to my mailing list.

  See the back of this book for details on how to sign up.

  To Rachelle, a wonderful reader and fan.

  And to Timothy, who inspired a very special character in this book!

  Prologue

  Hale

  A favor will kill you faster than a bullet.

  My dad told me that once.

  Turns out, he was only half right.

  A bullet might kill you faster. But a favor can kill you deader. Even if you live to tell the tale.

  The story I’m about to tell you is my tale. I’m still alive. Physically, at least.

  Every other way?

  Draw your own conclusions.

  1

  Hale

  “Goddamnit, Angel,” I complain, tossing back my third shot in the last ten minutes. “I just fuckin’ got back from a run. I ain’t the only patch holder in this MC. Send someone else.”

  I’d brought the bottle and the shot glass with me into chapel because I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna like what I was about to hear from my prez. I wasn’t wrong. I look from Angel to Beast, his VP, hoping my words will have an effect. But I already know it’s no damn use.

  “I know that,” Angel grunts. “But you’re the best man I got for this job, Hale. I need someone to go down to Ironwood and represent our club with Dos Santos. I need someone to act as my eyes and ears. Someone I can trust.”

  “I’m one of the only men without an old lady or kids, you mean,” I grumble.

  Beside him, Beast gives me a grin. “That, too.”

  Even as I argue with them, I know it’s a lost cause. Angel’s my president. If he says I’m going down to represent him on business with the new Ironwood chapter of the Lords of Carnage MC, I’m going. As much as I want to bitch about it, that was never in question.

  So, swearing a blue streak in my head, I lean back in the chair. I look across at them over the dark carved mahogany table in our chapel. And I listen to Angel tell me what he needs from me.

  “Setting up this pipeline between Ironwood and us is big business for our club,” he explains, drumming his hands on the table. “We need to be sure everything’s running like a well-oiled machine from jump. I’m sending you down to give the Ironwood chapter’s prez a hand. You’re gonna be my eyes and ears down there, like I said.

  “You’ll be helping Axel and his men set up this partnership with the Dos Santos cartel like it should be. Ironwood will be receiving shipments from Dos Santos to the south. Next, Ironwood moves some of that product to the west, to sell to the gangs in that part of the state. They move the rest of it up here, to our chapter. Then we take over, move it north up to Cleveland, and schedule a drop at the ports.”

  “What kind of product we lookin’ at?” I ask.

  “Opioids, mainly. Smack, synthetics… Supply and demand, brother.” Angel snorts, but his tone is grim. “Occasionally guns, if and when they’re needed.”

  “How they movin’ it?”

  Angel looks over at Beast. “The Ironwood chapter set up a garage,” Beast continues. “Car and truck repair. The shop’s a front for moving product. They hoist the vehicles up on the lift, stash the product underneath during the repair, sew it back up.” Beast raps his knuckles on the table. “Good to go.”

  “So, I’m just there to supervise?” I ask skeptically.

  “Yeah, mostly. Supervise, be my rep, make sure it’s set up right. Report back to me with any issues.” Angel leans back. “Take Tank with you, to have another set of eyes on it. The two of you can make sure everything’s going like it should be. Go on the first run with Ironwood down to meet the Dos Santos cartel. Check shit out. You’ll be my goodwill ambassador to smooth shit over between him and Chaco.” Angel shows his teeth. “Make sure their working relationship starts on solid ground.”

  I stifle a sigh. It’s a simple enough job. But my gut sure as hell doesn’t like it. So I tell my gut to shut the fuck up.

  I’m going to Ironwood.

  Goddamnit to hell.

  “Gonna miss you, brothers,” Striker says beside me, clapping me on the back.

  “Don’t forget to write,” Bullet jokes.

  “We ain’t gonna be gone that long,” I growl. “A week, maybe two at the most.”

  Back out in the main room of the clubhouse, I’m two more shots into the bottle of Jack, but I feel sober as a damn judge. Unfortunately.

  I signal to Jude, one of the hang-arounds who’s getting ready to prospect, to bring me a beer. Less than a minute later, it appears in front of me. Jude’s the little brother of Angel’s old lady, Jewel. He and I had a less than auspicious first meeting, to put it mildly. But I have to admit he’s startin’ to grow on me. Not that I’d let him see that, of course.

  “You took long enough,” I growl.

  “I’m worth the wait,” Jude smirks, batting his eyes at me.

  “Fuck you with that shit,” I grunt, disgusted.

  Jude just grins. “You know you love me.”

  I snort as he moves away. “That kid’s mouth is gonna get him in trouble one of these days.” I take a swig of the amber liquid and let Striker and Bullet goad me some more. I make sure not to give them the satisfaction of letting them see they’re riling me even more than I already am.

  They know I’m pissed, but they don’t know the half of it. It ain’t that I’m pissed at Angel. I’m just pissed in general. The last couple months, I’ve been away from Tanner Springs about seventy-five percent of the time. I’m tired as shit, and I was looking forward to spending a weekend swimming in pussy, followed by a few days of fishing by myself at Connegut, a safe house the club owns that’s on a decent trout stream.

  Going down south to the newly formed Ironwood chapter of the MC is ju
st about the last fucking thing I want to do. I have my reasons, and they’re not just that I was lookin’ forward to some down time. But those reasons don’t matter to my club president. And they shouldn’t. They’re mine alone to deal with. My personal problems ain’t the club’s problems.

  Doesn’t mean I gotta be happy about it, though.

  Beside Striker, Tank shrugs. Unlike me, he’s fine with being chosen to go down to Ironwood. “Hell, look at it this way,” he says philosophically. “Think of it as new pussy. A whole new landscape.” He lifts his hand and spans an imaginary scene in front of him. “We got at least a week to sample all the decent tail Ironwood has to offer.”

  Tank’s words are meant to cheer me up, but they don’t. “Pussy’s pussy,” I growl. “I’ve had enough to know there ain’t enough difference to make a change of geography worth my while.”

  “Variety’s the spice of life, brother,” Striker grins. “Besides, with you gone, we got less to compete with up here.”

  “Yeah. Good riddance, motherfucker.” Bullet snorts, and hits his bottle against Striker’s.

  It’s true, I get more than my fair share of the pussy around here. The club girls like me, what can I say? And I’ve turned enough female heads in Tanner Springs that it doesn’t take long to draw a crowd of them at any civilian bar, either. There’s always gonna be women around wanting to take a walk on the wild side with a big bad biker who ain’t hard on the eyes. Even in the club, I’ve got a reputation for liking a nice piece of ass. This is my life, and I conduct it the way I want. I make damn sure the women I bed know the only thing I’m after is a good fuck. They get what they want. I get what I want. Everyone goes away happy.

  Though lately, it’s been gettin’ a little old. Not sure why. I guess too much of a good thing can be… well, too much, sometimes.

  As Striker and Bullet continue to needle me, I tune them out and look around the clubhouse bar. Over to one side, Beast and Thorn are straddling stools at a high top table. Their old ladies, Brooke and Isabel, are there with them. Brooke, a petite blonde, leans into Beast as he talks. Beast’s almost twice as big as she is. Brooke is small, but she’s even more of a badass than some of the men in here. She could probably take down one of the prospects with a single punch. Brooke laughs at something Beast says, and he gives her a smirk that tells everybody in this place that he’s fuckin’ gone for her.

  Not that I can blame him — she is smokin’ hot, and tough as nails.

  On the other side of the table, Thorn murmurs something in Isabel’s ear that makes her blush and slap at his chest. That fucker can turn his Irish brogue on and off like a spigot, and he’s used that fact to melt more than one pair of panties in his day. But ever since he met Isabel, it’s like the rest of the female population doesn’t even fuckin’ exist.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for them both. I’m happy for Angel, too, and his old lady, Jewel. But shit, lately it seems like everyone around here’s put their balls in a sling and handed them over to some woman or other. Except for Striker and Tank and Bullet and me.

  Sounds fuckin’ terrifying, to be honest. Not to mention dangerous. Once you give your heart to a woman, you open yourself up to risk. You’re putting your safety — and hers — on the line. Life in an outlaw MC is dangerous. Loyalty to the club is what keeps us all alive. Knowing your brothers have your back, and you have theirs, is vital. Any extra attachment is a weakness to be exploited. Old ladies can be targeted. So can kids.

  Our fuckin’ club wouldn’t do that, of course. We may not exactly be boy scouts, but we ain’t savages. But the same cannot be said of our enemies. Or hell, even our allies.

  I ain’t saying I don’t trust my brothers who have families. I would trust each and every one of these men with my life. But I know how divided loyalty can fuck with your head. It can make your objectives less clear. Make you hesitate, when you should strike.

  So, I’ll keep my dick and my balls firmly in my own goddamn possession, thank you very much.

  “Say hey to Axel and Rourke,” Bullet tells us, referring to the president and VP of the Ironwood chapter. He reaches for my bottle of whiskey before I can stop him and pours himself a shot. “Hey, ain’t one of the Ironwood guys your cousin, Hale?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter sourly. “Mal. Their Sergeant at Arms.”

  Even as I say it, my lip curls. Fuckin’ Mal of all people, as the one who upholds the laws of the club. The one who keeps order. The irony is pretty damn rich. I’m not sure how Bullet knows Mal and I are related, and I don’t ask. I tell myself I don’t care. The bad blood between my cousin and me is personal. It goes back years. It’s got nothing to do with the club, or the present day.

  I need to remember that. I need to push that shit way down deep. So deep it doesn’t have a chance of resurfacing. Along with everything else in my past that makes this trip down to Ironwood seem like a bad goddamn dream.

  2

  Kylie

  I bite my lip nervously as I stand over the stove, stirring the mess of scrambled eggs and cheese that’s cooking in our formerly non-stick pan.

  The amount of food I’m preparing for my dad is wildly optimistic. I haven’t seen him eat this much at one sitting in months. Still, I tell myself it’s better to give him more than he can eat than to leave him wanting more. Even if some of it goes to waste.

  As the eggs set, I mentally run through the list of the things I always do before leaving my father for any length of time. Food. His cell phone at the ready so he can call me if anything happens. TV is on. Remote is handy. Mrs. Helman’s number on the Post-it on the side table in case of an emergency.

  When I’m satisfied I’ve thought of everything, I turn off the heat and take the pan off the burner. I use the flipper to push the eggs off onto the plate I’ve set beside the stove. “Soup’s on,” I call as I turn and walk into the living room.

  “Thank you, pumpkin,” Dad murmurs, glancing up at me with a wan smile. He’s sitting upright in his recliner now, the TV showing some sports channel on mute. I pull the TV tray over and set the plate in front of him. Then, reaching behind me, I pull the fork and a paper towel that I’ve folded into a napkin from my back pocket.

  “Voilà,” I say with a flourish. “Better service not to be found anywhere.”

  “You look nice.” Dad gives me an appraisal and a nod. “Going out?”

  Truth be told, the only thing that’s different about me is I’ve brushed out my hair and put on a little makeup. But the fact that this apparently makes such a dramatic difference that my father noticed is sort of a sad commentary on the state of my social life.

  It occurs to me that Dad might think I’m going on a date. The realization almost breaks my heart in its sweet, simple fatherly optimism. I don’t have time for dates. Not only that, I don’t have the energy to make flirty small talk and pretend like I’m just some breezy, happy twenty-something girl. And frankly, even if I did feel like putting myself out there like that, there’s no one in this town that would qualify. I’ve only been here a few months, but around here that’s plenty of time to have scanned my entire potential dating pool.

  Let’s just say it’s shallow. Very shallow.

  “I’m just going out to say hi to a friend for a little while,” I reply casually. The anxious flutter in my stomach grows a little stronger. I put on my brightest face. “I’ll be home in just a couple of hours.”

  Dad doesn’t ask for more information. If he notices that I’m looking nervous, he doesn’t say anything. I guess one of the silver linings of his illness is that he doesn’t seem to be as perceptive as he used to be. But I know he’s also careful to try to stay out of my life as much as possible. I think it’s because he feels guilty about being sick, and especially that I have to take care of him. Whatever the reason, right now I’m more than grateful that he’s not grilling me. Because I wouldn’t want to try to explain to him where I’m really going tonight, or why.

  I lean down to kiss the top of my father’s
balding head. Wisps of patchy gray hair, mussed from his leaning back against the recliner pillow, tickle my nose as I do. My throat closes up, a sharp ache making it impossible to talk or swallow for a second as I fight tears. Reaching up, I stroke his scratchy beard and take a moment to breathe deeply and recompose my face.

  “Okay, I’ll be back soon,” I say brightly, giving him a smile. “Your phone’s there; I’ve got my ringer on in case you need me. Just set the plate aside when you’re done. I’ll do the dishes when I get back.”

  “Don’t worry about —” he begins, but a coughing fit stops him.

  My smile goes rigid as I wait for him to compose himself. I fight to keep my emotions in check, and off my face. The fits come countless times a day, but I never get used to them. They’re a constant reminder of how close I am to losing my father. The only family I have.

  Time, we both know, is slipping away from us. The cancer that’s eating away at him has a steady appetite. It’s stage three right now, chugging right along toward stage four. That means it’s already spread, and without aggressive treatments, the prognosis is bleak.