HALE: Lords of Carnage MC Read online

  Unfortunately, we can’t afford the treatments. With Dad having to quit work when the symptoms started getting bad, he lost his health insurance. And with me having to quit school to come back and take care of him, my part-time job as a receptionist at Curl Up and Dye Salon doesn’t provide much in the way of money.

  Which is why I’m going where I’m going tonight.

  Because desperate times call for desperate measures.

  On the way into town for my appointment, I try to keep my nerves calm by plugging my phone into the radio of my dad’s truck and singing loudly to some of my favorite girl power songs. It makes my voice a little hoarse, but at least it starts my heart pumping.

  I’m just reaching the city limits when I get a text. It’s from Mal, the person I’m supposed to meet.

  Plans changed. Prez wants you to come directly to the clubhouse instead.

  What the hell? My heart starts to flutter nervously again. I was supposed to meet Mal at the garage. I’ve never been inside the MC’s clubhouse before. I know from what he’s said in previous conversations that the clubhouse is in the building next to the garage, on the same compound. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but… isn’t the clubhouse supposed to be, like, off limits to anyone but the club members themselves? I guess that’s what I thought, anyway. Somehow, going in there all by myself seems a lot more scary and intimidating than just driving the pickup into the garage, like I’ve done in the past.

  By the time I get to the property, my heart is in my throat. I’ve seen the president of the Ironwood Lords of Carnage MC from afar, but I’ve never met him face to face. I didn’t even know he knew who I was. I suppose that he probably wants to check me out, though, given the circumstances. He probably wants to see what I look like, and decide for himself whether I’m to be trusted.

  In spite of myself, I have to laugh at the thought. How exactly does one convince a criminal — the president of an outlaw MC — that you’re trustworthy?

  When I pull into the parking lot of Ironwood Car and Truck Repair, instead of turning right toward the garage, I go left. I park the truck on the far edge of the lot, in front of a smaller building that must be the clubhouse. A row of large, low-slung Harleys in front of the building tells me I’m probably right. I climb out of the truck, not bothering to lock it, and walk up toward the front door.

  When I get there, I hesitate. Do I knock? Do I just walk in? I have no idea. I wish I’d asked Mal what the protocol is. I consider texting him, but that just seems sort of ridiculous since I’m already here. Finally, I take a step forward and timidly rap three times.

  When there’s no answer. I try again, louder this time. When that doesn’t get a response, I decide I need to just get over myself. Grabbing the handle, I wrench it down and push open the heavy door with more force than I intended. It swings open and I go with it, half-stumbling into the open space with a clatter of my boots.

  The commotion draws the attention of two large, tattooed men playing pool at a table in the center of the room. One of them, about to take a shot, lifts his cue and stands. For a long second, he eyes me with a mixture of laziness and outright sexual interest.

  “Well, damn,” he drawls, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Is it Christmas? Cuz Santa just brought exactly what I fuckin’ asked for.”

  I regain my balance and square my shoulders, willing myself not to show my fear. Automatically, my eyes flick down to the patches on the right pec of his leather cut. There’s no officer’s patch.

  “I’m here to see your president,” I say. My voice sounds reedy and thin in the testosterone-laden atmosphere.

  The other pool player starts to laugh — a deep, rich rumble that sounds more sexual than it should. “Is that right, little girl? Did Axel send out to Rent-a-Hummer?”

  Is he seriously implying I’m a prostitute? I look down at my clean but worn jeans and understated white button-down shirt, and decide that’s probably his idea of a joke. And a challenge.

  “Mal sent for me,” I retort, keeping my temper at bay, because the last thing I need is to lose what little control I have of this situation.

  “Kylie,” a voice calls off to one side. I turn with relief to see Mal himself ambling up. He motions with a finger for me to follow him. I shoot the pool players a cool look as I do so, lifting my head with what I hope is haughty dignity.

  “You’re on time,” Mal murmurs as he leads me down a short corridor. “That’s good. Axel doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “What is this about, anyway?” Suddenly, things feel like they’re moving really fast.

  “He wants to meet you. About the new route. Wants to see you for himself.”

  So this is a test of sorts. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  We enter a small back room that looks more like a living room than anything. It has a low couch and coffee table, and four overstuffed chairs arranged on the other side. Sitting in the far chair, like a king, is the man whom I recognize as the president of the MC. Axel. Even seated, it’s obvious that he’s tall and chiseled, with intense deep blue eyes and a stare that could nail you to the spot. He’s leaning back in a relaxed position. But even so, he looks like a man who commands respect. A man who never totally relaxes.

  “This is Kylie,” Mal says simply.

  “Sit.”

  I do as he says, thankful I didn’t wear a skirt so I don’t have to be arranging it to cover my legs.

  “Tell me what you’ve been doing for us,” Axel orders.

  Huh. A man of few words.

  “I’ve been driving product,” I explain, even though I’m pretty sure he already knows this. “Whenever I get the call, I come to the garage and pull my truck in for repairs.” I nod toward the other building. “I drive in. Your mechanics do whatever it is they do. When they’re done, I drive to the drop off — an oil change place in Rush City. I pull into a bay there. They do whatever they need to do. When they’re done, I leave.”

  Since I know I’m being evaluated, I try to sound tough. Unflappable. But damned if this isn’t the weirdest job interview I’ve ever had.

  “How’s she been doing?” Axel asks Mal. Mal nods.

  “She’s good. Reliable.” He glances at me. “She’s got that innocent look. Good at flying under the radar.”

  “You think she’s ready for the Cincy run?”

  I glance between the two men, resisting the urge to point out that they’re talking about me like I’m not here.

  “Yeah,” Mal frowns. “I think she’s up for it.”

  I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  Axel stares at me for a long second, considering. Finally he gives a curt nod. “Okay. We’ll try you out. We’ll double your current take. Trial basis. One run.”

  “I want more than a cut of the money.”

  Axel stops short. “What?”

  “I want a cut of the product, too.”

  The president of the Ironwood Lords of Carnage cuts a sharp look at Mal, then at me. “What the fuck, brother?” he barks. “What did you bring me? You usin’, little girl?”

  I’m scared, but I can’t back down now. “Do I look like a junkie to you?” I challenge.

  Axel untenses a little, but he’s still peering at me. His eyes narrow. “No. You don’t look like a dealer, either. That’s why we fuckin’ hired you.”

  “I’m not a dealer,” I retort. “I’m not a user. Beyond that, do you care?”

  “Why do you want to get into this, sweetheart?” Axel asks. His voice has a strange, almost sad note to it, like he doesn’t believe me. “Dealin’ drugs is a whole other animal. It’s a dangerous fuckin’ game.” His eyes travel down my body. “Especially for a sexy young thing like you. People get hurt. Or worse.”

  In spite of myself, I scoff. “Don’t pretend you care about my well-being. I know I’m just an employee. I’m not a dealer or a user,” I repeat. “I just need regular access to something I can’t get. I have my reasons.”

  Axel leers a
t me. I feel a little bit like a bug under a magnifying glass. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but I manage to stand my ground. I tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. He has no right to know anything about my life.

  “Take it or leave it.” I give him a frank stare. “Do I get the job or not?”

  Axel blows out a breath, but grins. “Fuck. You’re a tough one, ain’t you? How much are you thinkin’?”

  I tell him the amount, which I’ve calculated based on the pain meds my father is currently using and won’t be able to afford for much longer.

  He blinks in surprise. “You’re vouching for her?” Axel asks Mal again.

  Mal says yeah, that I wouldn’t be here otherwise. “She’s smart. She knows how to be invisible.”

  “Okay.” Axel nods. “Trial run. We’ll do Dayton first. Then we’ll see.”

  “Thank you.” I’m trying to keep the relief out of my voice, but instead it comes out prim, reserved. Like a little girl playing at being a grown-up. I hate it.

  Mal stands and opens the door. I follow him back to the corridor and out into the main room. We’ve only been in Axel’s office a few minutes, but in that time the clubhouse has started to fill up. More than a dozen leather-vested men have come in, and someone has started up the music. It looks like the start of a lively evening.

  “Thank you, Mal,” I say, resisting the urge to hold out my hand for a shake.

  “Don’t make me regret it,” he retorts, but his tone is half-teasing.

  “I won’t.”

  “So, what are you gonna do to make the favor up to me?” Mal lifts an arm around my shoulders to pull me close, but I duck under it.

  “Hold on,” I laugh. Unlike the other men in this room, Mal doesn’t scare me. “What about your girlfriend?”

  “What about her?” he shoots back.

  “Don’t you think Cyndi would mind you making a pass at me?”

  Mal chuckles. “Cyndi’d be fine with a threesome. You down?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not my scene, I’m afraid,” I inform him.

  “Suit yourself,” he smirks, looking down pointedly at my ass. “You sure you don’t wanna stick around for a bit, though? The booze is free.”

  I shake my head, my gaze already going toward the front door. “I should be getting…” I begin, but then my words die in my throat as my eyes fall on something — someone — I thought I’d never see again.

  His back is to me, but then he turns to speak to someone else. His profile is one I’d know anywhere.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, as the walls start to close in. “Cameron Hale.”

  3

  Hale

  At least the drive down to Ironwood is good. Instead of taking the straight-shot four-lane highway, I convince Tank to go the scenic route, winding through a patchwork of small Ohio towns.

  The landscape we’re driving through varies a lot from where we are in the northeast to where Ironwood is located at the southern edge of the state. There’s till plains and hills formed by glaciers, and then as you drive further toward the border between Kentucky and West Virginia, you get into the Appalachian plateaus. The roads cut through some of the most beautiful country I’ve seen. It’s part of the reason I ever sat down on a bike in the first place. Highways through landscape this nice are wasted on being cooped up in a cage.

  Ironwood is in the extreme southern tip of Ohio. As the landscape changes, so do the accents. By the time we stop for gas just outside of town, the southern drawl of the lady gas station attendant who takes my card reminds me of Kentucky, where I was born. The memory is good and bad, and I push it away, because I’m not here for a fuckin’ nostalgia-fest.

  Tank is a chatty motherfucker when we stop to refuel about twenty minutes outside of Ironwood. I can tell he’s still getting a kick out of ribbing me for my bad mood, which is getting worse the closer we get. I do my best to shake myself out of it and pretend I’m not pissed, because I hate giving him the satisfaction.

  “You been to their clubhouse before?” he asks me as we straddle our bikes and get ready to drive the last few miles.

  “No. But I know where it is.” I don’t share that this is an area I know well. The less Tank, or anyone, knows about my life down here the better. It ain’t relevant, anyway.

  “All right. Lead the way, brother.” We start our engines, and Tank raises a finger from the throttle to let me know he’s ready to go. I pull out and he follows close behind me.

  An older couple in a refurbished ’68 Corvette convertible pulls into the gas station just as we’re leaving, and stares with a look of disdainful recognition at our cuts. Huh. It appears the local population ain’t all that happy about having a new MC in their midst. Well, they’re gonna have to get used to it, one way or another. The Ironwood chapter is here to stay. Expanding the Lords of Carnage into new territory has been part of Angel’s plan since he took over as prez.

  The Ironwood chapter is gonna be crucial for moving product from Mexico and the southern states up our way. They’re also gonna be selling for us in Columbus, Dayton, and Cincinnati once they get big enough to do so.

  Angel’s got plans for the Lords. A vision. And when he’s finished, we’re gonna be in control of all the territory for contraband moving in and through the state of Ohio.

  So, as pissed as I am to be here, I know it’s important. The stakes are high. The groundwork we’re laying right now is gonna be the basis of our club’s business for years to come.

  Ironwood’s clubhouse is smaller and shittier than ours. It’s on the same lot as their big-ass garage, Ironwood Car and Truck Repair. Unlike our garage, Twisted Pipes — our one legit business — Ironwood started theirs as a front to move the product they buy and sell for us. It’s a good set-up, as long as they’re smart about running it and they don’t get caught by the cops or the feds.

  As we drive up, I’m impressed by the size of the place. They’ve got a lot of capacity. Enough to take care of their unsuspecting legitimate customers, as well as store and move the product as needed, away from any curious eyes.

  Tank and I pull up in front of the clubhouse. We can see the operations for ourselves later. For now, we need to connect with the Ironwood prez, to let him know we’re here. I know from Angel that Axel’s expecting us, so I don’t expect any issues.

  Four men in cuts standing by the door watch as we park the bikes. They look tense for a second, but when they see our colors, they relax. As we walk up to them, I recognize a couple: the VP, whose name is Rourke, and a guy named Ranger.

  “Brothers,” I grunt, lifting my chin.

  Rourke takes a step forward and claps me on the back. “Good to see you, Hale.”

  “This is Tank,” I say, nodding my head towards him.

  Rourke holds out a hand, and Tank shakes it. “Good trip?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Axel around?”

  “He’s here. I know he’s talkin’ to someone right now, but he’ll be free in a bit.”

  I’m not in the mood to wait around. “Good. Let’s go in.”

  Rourke glances at the other men. “Sure thing.” He drops the cigarette he’s been smoking and grinds it out in the dust. “Come on in.”

  We follow Rourke inside. I take a quick look around the clubhouse, which looks like a cross between a log cabin and a small airplane hangar. The floors are cement but the furniture’s rustic. In the middle of the room is a pool table, with a group of Ironwood Lords clustered around it.

  “You want a beer?” Rourke asks us.

  Tank nods. “That’d be good. Road was dusty.”

  Rourke signals to a prospect behind the bar, who comes over with two ice-cold bottles. I accept mine, my eyes scanning the room. No sign yet of my cousin. I take a long pull on my beer, letting the chill of the beverage calm me. A few other Ironwood men come up to greet us. Most of them I know, at least by sight: Matthias, Shooter, King, Blade. A guy named Yoda who reminds me of Tweak. They ask for news about our chapter, and as Tank and I answer them, I sta
rt to loosen up a little. For a couple minutes, I almost forget why I don’t want to be here.

  But that doesn’t last long.

  A commotion down the short corridor behind me catches my attention, making my turn my head. From a room to the side that might be an office comes Axel, the Ironwood prez. With him is my cousin Mal. His eyes scan the room and lock on mine, like he’s been expecting me. My stomach sours as I start to glance away, sneering slightly.

  But what my eyes land on next is even fucking worse. And such a goddamn shock I almost drop my beer.

  Jesus fucking Christ. Kylie Sutton.

  She’s beautiful. That’s the hell of it. Always has been.

  Silky hair the golden brown of a fall sunset, falling straight and loose around her shoulders. Chocolate eyes deep enough that you’d happily drown in them. Lips that look like plump pillows, soft and vulnerable, set below a nose that has just the slightest pug turn to it. Small breasts, a slight waist, and hips that swell out just enough that the jeans she’s wearing hug her curves and make you want to beg to get a glimpse of legs that seem to go on for days.

  She somehow straddles that line between unusually pretty and unearthly beautiful, and you could argue with your dick for days about which one it is. She’s the only girl I’ve ever known who made me want to stare at her for days on end. I could never figure out whether what I wanted most was to fuck her, or just fuckin’ look at her.

  Her face is thinner than I remember it. The baby fat is gone, and her features have refined over the years since I last saw her. But it’s not just that. There’s a spareness, a no-nonsense look to her body. There’s not an ounce of fat on her waist, very little padding on her hips and ass. I can’t decide whether it makes her look tough or fragile. One thing she doesn’t look is relaxed. There’s a lean, hungry expression on her face, and it ain’t from needing a burger. It’s more like a longing for something. I don’t know what.