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Chapter 1
Leviathan
The red neon sign flashed as I parked my Harley outside the Velvet Rooster. The sketchy dive bar was lit up with matching red lights illuminating the entrance. Looked like the goddamn entrance to hell.
Stomping inside, I was on a mission to find Maren, a woman biker who betrayed me and my club. Or rather my ex-club. To be more exact, I was on a mission to find my ex-woman who betrayed my ex-club. Needless to say, I never felt more alone.
I preferred loneliness to my current burden.
Revenge.
The sound of heavy metal music greeted me, pounding in my ears. The air hung thick with the smell of smoke, weed, and worse. I inhaled deeply, welcoming the contact high. The hazily lit room shadowed the leather-clad bikers, their many tattoos and scars giving away their wild pasts. I felt right at home amongst them. Though I felt a twinge of homesickness as I scanned the room for an old timer who might have information for me. These weren’t my bikers.
I knew Merc, short for Mercenary, would help me one way or another. He always had. I would have come looking for him months ago when my mission was fresh, but I had been lying low.
Just being seen here was dangerous.
Making my way through the mob, I could feel the beady eyes of the other outlaws on me. Some gave me a gesture of acknowledgement, while others glowered in my direction. By now, everyone had to have heard about my sins. Some would see me as nothing but a dollar sign. I had a price on my head. But I had to stay focused. Merc had something that I needed, and I wasn’t leaving without it.
I finally spotted him behind the bar, nursing a whiskey. The elderly biker with a thick beard full of gray whiskers glanced up as I approached. The recognition in his cloudy eyes became evident. I had visited him plenty of times while on the road. For good reason. The aged outlaw seemed to know everything about all the motorcycle clubs. After all, I wasn’t the only biker who relied on him for help.
“You might want to watch your back,” he said, as a way of a greeting, his voice hoarse.
I tensed at his warning but remained centered on my task.
“Everyone should watch out for me,” I said, scanning the room.
At six-five, as big as I was otherwise, I was plenty menacing. Even though I had been banned from competing, I still had the body of an Olympic athlete, a swimmer. My arsenal of tentacle tattoos didn’t hurt. Men knew me and my reputation at a glance. If they didn’t want trouble, they would mind their business.
But bikers loved trouble.
Not only were the Asphalt Gods MC after me, but my own brothers in the Royal Bastards MC were, too. My President had grown tired of waiting for me to return with the woman who nearly ruined him.
“Notice you’re not without your colors,” Merc said, his crumpled cheek twitching.
There was that, too. Like I said, Merc knew everything. I wasn’t supposed to be wearing my cut. Once a feared Enforcer for the Royal Bastards MC in Nashville, Tennessee, I had been thrown out of my club. Hurled out until I finished my mission. The lives of my children depended on it if I really deemed my brothers heartless. At this point, I didn’t know where my faith lied. Wearing my motorcycle vest in defiance protected me for the time being.
Because as it was, I was far from home.
“Leviathan,” Merc said, offering me a seat.
“Hey, old timer,” I said, taking the stool across from him.
“What brings the ol’ monster to my neck of the woods?” he asked, scanning the room.
“I need something only you have,” I replied, keeping my voice low. I needed information. “I’ve been told you might have it, at least.”
Merc grunted and took a sip of his whiskey. Old, wrinkled hands quaking, he took his time pouring me one, neat, like I liked it. The man remembered everything.
“Depends on what you’re looking for,” he finally said, sliding me the drink.
Wrapping my fingers around the glass, I came out with it. “I’m looking for a woman called Spooky.”
Merc raised a gray eyebrow. “Spooky, huh? That’s not a name I’ve heard often. Why do you need her?”
Amazed Merc had even heard of her, I questioned it. In the grand scheme of the biker world, Maren, aka Spooky, was a nobody. That alone had made her impossible to track down. I’d searched all over Tennessee and Arkansas for the biker bitch. Even made my way out to Oklahoma and farther. I couldn’t catch wind of her. As much as this old timer knew, he spewed just as much bullshit.
“She’s a prospect who has run off,” I enlightened him.
