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CHAPTER ONE
LEGACY
This is as good a place as any to die…
Salty air whips against my face and Betty rumbles between my legs as we fly down the deserted highway. Darting my tongue out, I lick across my lower lip, catching just a taste of the coastal wind.
Fuck it all. Gonna miss this place.
But survival is more important.
Two Harleys roll up beside me and together we thunder down the quiet roads on our way back to the clubhouse after a successful run. Turning my head, I take them in, my brothers, Hunter and Charming. Fuck, I’m gonna miss them too.
Both sit astride their bikes like they live there. More comfortable on two wheels than on their own two legs. And hell, they should be. We all grew up in this club, riding motorcycles before we could fuckin’ walk. We were bred for this, holdin’ guns the second we came out of our mamas’ snatches.
Ride or die.
But are they happy? Is this what they want? It’s sure as fuck not what I want anymore. Our Prez has it out for me, and if I don’t get gone, I’m gonna find myself six feet under.
The inky black pavement in front of me shimmers in the beam of my headlight as the road races below me, faster and faster. The stars wink brightly, but there’s nothing else out here. Only a few more minutes before the turnoff to the clubhouse. Then only a few more hours before I disappear forever.
Raising my left arm, I signal to my brothers, and like a well-trained militia, we turn, roaring up the dusty, unpaved road to our final destination—the Demon Breakers clubhouse—home. Pulling up outside, I flip down my kickstand and sit astride Betty for a moment, taking it all in. The clubhouse looks like shit. Paint peels down the rusty aluminum siding. Windows are all boarded up because their glass has long since broken. Even the front porch has chunks missing.
As always, a steady beat pumps from the huge building, music so loud it could make you deaf, echoing into the distance. People mill around, drinkin’, smokin’, shootin’ up, and, of course, fuckin’. The scent of good weed hits my nose, making it twitch. Yeah, I could go for some of that. Mellow me out, calm the nerves zipping through me.
“Yo, Legacy!” Hunter calls, already off his bike and heading to the door. Time to get this done.
Sweat trickles down my back, my cut stifling. The supple black leather used to feel like a layer of protection, but now it’s an impossible weight holding me down, drowning me beneath the burden of brotherhood. Deftly swinging my leg over the back, I hop off my bike, struggling to keep my face impassive despite the nerves coiled in my gut. Reaching into my saddlebag, I haul out the big duffle that was shoved in there earlier and toss it over my shoulder. For its size, it’s deceptively light, but money just doesn’t weigh all that much.
Broken glass crunches under my boots as I make my way up onto the porch with Hunter and Charming, raising my chin as I reach them. They fall into formation next to me, ready to walk into the lion’s den. Fortunately, this run was a good one. Everyone, even our sadistic fuck of a Prez, should be happy enough to keep the party rolling. But then again, we never know what his reaction will be when it comes to me.
Taking a deep breath, I push forward, entering the gateway to hell. Smoke swirls around us in the dimly lit room, and I’m assaulted by the stench of sex and vomit that permeates the clubhouse, old used pussy, and stale cigarettes. Scantily clad women dance at the front of the room while members of the club recline on couches, chairs, and floors. The bodies are packed in tight tonight, so Hunter and Charming start pushing through the throngs, leading the way to make sure no one touches the bag as we approach the throne.
“Hey, Hunter”
“Welcome back, brothers”
“Prime pussy tonight”; the other members shout and greet us as they realize we’re back from the run. The crowds part completely when they recognize who we are, and why we’re here.
A hush falls over the room. The music is still pumping, but everything else stills. The pool balls stop clacking, the dancers freeze, and even the whores stop fucking and sucking. That’s when he comes into view. Sitting on an enormous iron chair atop a small wooden stage is Pirate, our President. His long salt and pepper hair hangs in crusty, oily chunks that surround his angular face. His nose has been broken so many times that it’s crooked as fuck, and although he’s still pretty fit, he slouches in the chair looking much older than his fifty-two years. Drugs and a hard life will do that to a man.
A bottle-blond is on her hands and knees between his legs while he uses her back as some kind of footstool. Pirate strokes her head absentmindedly as it bobs up and down on his cock while he toys with his favorite dagger, a sharp nasty piece with a large ruby in the hilt. His dark black eyes narrow in on our trio, flicking between Hunter and Charming before zeroing in on me. Icy tendrils slice through me as his gaze slithers down my body—weighing, measuring, plotting—before dropping to the bag. A shiver of foreboding works its way up my spine, and I clench my fists, white-knuckling them all the way.
Stepping forward with a confidence I don’t truly feel, I hold out the duffel, offering it to him and waiting to be acknowledged. There’s a lengthy pause where the entire MC holds its collective breath, but I refuse to squirm under the pressure. We all know better than to show an ounce of weakness.
Finally, he beckons me forward with his filthy fingernails, pointing for me to place the bag atop the woman’s back. Shrugging it off, I allow the bag to slide from my shoulder and drop it on her as softly as possible. She turns to see what’s going on, but Pirate grabs her head, forcing it down onto his cock until she’s gagging and choking. Message received.
Reaching forward with the dagger, he pulls the bag toward him, opening it to reveal stacks upon stacks of carefully counted money. It’s all fucking there. I know because I triple-checked it myself, as did Hunter and Charming. None of us want to deal with the consequences of a fuckup. But I remain quiet… waiting.
“Fuck, that looks like good green,” he says finally, cracking an enormous smile that shows his gold front teeth. “You boys did good. Hit 20k over the requirement.”
The entire MC erupts into thunderous cheers, surging forward to slap our backs and congratulate us.
Prospects no more.
One step closer to death.
CHAPTER TWO
