Brute’s Property_A Motorcycle Club Romance_The Blazers MC Page 6

  But what dumb shit do I do instead? I go down on her. I took her sweet-smelling puss and devoured that thing like I was the one in need of a last meal. And when I had finished, I hoisted her up on my cock and waited for her to take me.

  Who the fuck am I today? What the hell happened to the guy who was one and done with girls as soon as they served their purpose (which is almost always sooner rather than later?) What did I do to the version of me who refused to mix business with pleasure?

  The drive to Lockport is helping me get that mojo back. Being on the back of the bike always does. It’s like transforming into a werewolf or something mythical like that. I strip away everything holding me back to become the beast I stuff away.

  I quickly count back the years in my mind. I’m coming up on my twelve-year anniversary riding. I was eighteen when I first got on a bike solo. At that time, I’d been out of the house for two years, having run away from my parents when they finally acted on their threat to put me in military school. I never did finish high school, but I got a whole lot of life lessons on the south side streets of Joliet. I saw guys beaten within an inch of their lives and let go. I saw guys get gunned down with absolutely no warning. I even participated in some of the nastiest shit you can imagine.

  When I turned eighteen, a friend of mine’s dad asked if I wanted to take a ride on his Harley for fun. It was a beater he kept in the back of his garage. The little kid wide-eyed with snot running down his nose practically shouted yes. He showed me the basics and made me ride bitch the first few times, but after an hour, I had figured it out enough to take a cruise around some alleyways.

  That was the day I knew I’d never go back. There was no turning around. I couldn’t go back to that home with those crosses and my mom holding the Bible to my chest as she talked about my sins. I couldn’t face my dad who expected obedience and didn’t mind using his fists to get it. I couldn’t be the person they wanted me to be.

  So, I stole a bike—my friend’s dad’s bike, actually—and took it to the chop shop. They made it unrecognizable and rideable. I rode that thing everywhere. It was my only escape until I decided to go solo and make a business doing the one thing motorcycle clubs in this part didn’t want to do—repair work. So, I was a body man.

  I still feel the same electric sensation shoot up my back as the pavement vibrates under my feet and the wind whips my hair backward. The purr of the motor under my legs somehow makes all my problems disappear.

  Except when that problem is resting those long, thin chicken legs up against my thighs and pressing her pointy chin into the back of my shoulder. Jenna’s grip is so tight on me; I can barely take a good breath. Instinctively, I slow, pulling back the speed and hoping she will ease up as well.

  We finally make it to the Hilltop Bar and Grill. A cousin of mine, another Kreiger family reject, has owned this place for years now. It’s the place I go when I’ve got some heat on me. Tommy doesn’t even look up from his ledger book when I lead Jenna through the dim lit room.

  “You lost on the Cubbies yesterday. Five to one, Philadelphia.” He licks his fingers and turns the page of his yellowing book. Finally finding my name, he says, “You owe me seventy-two dollars. You wanna put that on a tab?” He finally peers up at me through those old-style wire-framed glasses. When he finally notices Jenna, he leans in and adds, “What the hell did you drag in here?”

  Tommy was right to be suspicious. Jenna didn’t exactly fit in with the few regulars already stationed at the bar with their eyes fixated on highlights from last night’s basketball game. Each one had a leather jacket or vest draped over the side of their chair with their club’s insignia or colors proudly displayed.

  Two of them were civilian riders—the ones that do no harm. They like the culture of it, the feeling that they’re doing something dangerous, but are too much of pussies to go full-in. The rest are one percenters. They’re like me, where they use their club connections to push the laws to their boundaries. Most don’t make shit doing things like selling or petty thefts. Others make their fortune—if they can find the right club.

  The few women in the bar hang over the sides of the chairs. Their old cleavage hangs low in braless tanks and low-cut t-shirts, and smeared and caked on makeup makes them look even older. One of them sips on her man’s beer as she clearly listens in to our conversation.

  “She’s no one,” I spit out. “Don’t worry about her.” I take a seat at the far end of the bar with Jenna joining me in the busted leather chair. “Just give me a shot of something.”

  “Your girl want anything?”

  “I’m not his girl,” Jenna answers flatly as she stares at the liquor bottles dotting the mirrored wall. I peer over to see her tear stained face and windblown pink cheeks. I thought I’d felt her cry during the ride, but ignored it. I wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely kind of guy who cared about that shit. Crying was pointless, especially when you had death following you around. Then there was the whole thing about getting too attached to someone I’m supposed to kill. I’m not about to forget about that part again.

  “A whiskey for you,” Tommy says, pointing at her as if he knows what kind of shit has happened over the last twenty-four hours. I shake my head in disbelief as he pours the double shots of the golden liquor. Without waiting for her, I tap the glass on the old bar and sink it down with one swallow. There is nothing like the first, fiery taste of whiskey to cure a shitty day. I gesture my cousin for another, but he looks away.

  “Can I talk to you?” I ask Tommy as Jenna nurses her drink like a baby. She avoids looking at anything in the bar but the box-style TV set above her head.

  Tommy nods his head toward one of the back rooms he uses for storage and staging. Leading the way, he props the door open slightly, just enough so we can watch Jenna sit stoned face and salty in her place.

  “You wanna tell me what the hell you’re up to with a girl like that? She looks completely pure, like she could be on a milk carton.”

  “It’s nothing. She’s the sister of one of the guys I’m supposed to track down.”

  “It sure doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ if you’ve got her and not him.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s the fucking issue, isn’t it? She was at his apartment when I got there, not the druggie brother. She doesn’t know where he is, so what the hell was I supposed to do? Just walk away like she didn’t see me? Kill her on the spot? I did what I fucking had to do, Tommy.”

  Tommy steps backward, lowering his voice. “You mean to tell me you kidnapped the girl and brought her to my fucking bar?! What the hell was you thinking, Rev? Bringing that chick out in public is like asking to have the cops on you.”

  I step into the room and lean against one of the giant kegs of beer. “You don’t think I understand that? I’ve got it covered as much as I can. Luckily, no one’s looking for the girl except maybe her coworkers. She doesn’t have any family, and her brother’s too much of a junkie to even know she’s gone. I’m not worried about her showing up on a missing person’s report.”

  He studies me before asking, “So, then what’s the problem? You only come here when you need something.”

  I pause. I haven’t thought this damn plan out. He’s right; I visit him when I need something. Like the night I first stepped into the Hilltop. I was on the run after a botched car robbery. I needed a place to hide out, and he let me sleep in this very stockroom on a sleeping bag from his old lady’s camping set. The next night, I met my first club member who introduced me into the life.

  I kneel down onto the ground, studying a crack in the foundation. It’s a distraction from my confession. In a hushed whisper, I lay it out, “It’s Enrique. He wants me to kill her.”

  “What?”

  I look up at the stunned man. “You heard me. He told me to do it hours ago, and I haven’t even touched her.” I’m not going to admit to banging her just yet.

  “You know I don’t want to hear about this shit. Your business is your business, especially with a p
unk like Enrique Vasquez and the Red Dukes.” He paces a few steps and then walks back to me, “But if it were me, man, I’d have killed her hours ago.”

  I can’t help myself. I fly to my feet, grabbing Tommy by the collar. Though he may be family, he is a dwarf under my grips. He doesn’t even try to fight back. His feet skirt across the floor and towards the wall. With a small crash, I do my best to keep my voice low. “You don’t think I fucking know that, Tommy? I, more than anyone in this goddamn world know what Enrique and the Dukes are capable of. If I could have just killed her, I wouldn’t be here having this con—”

  A blood-curdling, high pitched scream interrupts me. Tommy and I glance at one. I drop him back to the floor as I take a peek out the door, but the view is blocked. Another scream, this time a bit softer, and almost instinctively, both our hands move straight to our pants. He grabs for his Glock stuck tight in his waistband, and I have my switchblade ready to go. We both seem to countdown in silent unison before busting through the storage room doors and back into the bar.

  I run into a bunch of overturned bar chairs. The regulars are standing, some not steadily, against the walls with their arms crossed. They stare, in mixed levels of shock, at two men pinning down a body onto a pool table—Jenna.

  “Rev...” she manages to mutter under their weight.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Jose?” I recognize one of them immediately by the tattoos lining the back of his neck. He’s Enrique’s lackey, the guy who checks in on all of his business outside the club. While I can’t stand the fucking twerp and brown nose bitches like him, I tolerate Jose for the sake of my paydays.

  “You know why we’re here, Rev.” He pushes his hips into Jenna’s backside. “The boss gave you a job to do, and he knew you wouldn’t go through with it. So, we came to get it done the right way.”

  Tommy stands beside me; one hand placed against my heaving chest, while the other has his gun trained on the two men. “Not here!” he shouts. “Not in my bar. You boys may not be regulars, but I know you know the rules.”

  Jose laughs. “You gotta be kidding me, old man. You want to get in it with the Red Dukes. You think I didn’t see you serving these bitches with their Blazers and Dark Star patches? You know my boss doesn’t take too kindly to someone crossing territory lines to make a buck.”

  He was right. Tommy, for all the wisdom he may claim he has, wasn’t making any friends by being a neutral bar in the center of several club-disputed territories. It was like opening the floodgates for shit like this. I’m frankly more surprised he hasn’t been called out on this sooner.

  “This bar ain’t owned by anyone but me. You wanna question me with that little butter knife of yours?” Tommy snarls. With a click, the safety on his gun goes off. It’s two men on two. One with a gun, the rest armed with knives and fists. We’re all dead still, each waiting for the other to attack. Jenna’s cries and the sportscasters going on about some game winning play are the only sounds in the club. The throbbing of the blood coursing through my veins beats like war drums.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Tommy’s finger itch around the trigger. He’s getting anxious, ready to react. But I can’t let him take the fall for me like this. I’ve seen trigger-happy guys go down hard when they fail to calm the fuck down and stand their ground. Tommy’s done too much for me to be another cautionary tale, and since this is the only family I’ve got left that will have me, I won’t let him get on Enrique’s bad side because of my mistakes.

  My feet slide on the concrete floor before I take off, barreling head-first towards the two men holding Jenna in place. Jose charges towards me first. He drops Jenna’s arm, forcing the other one to pick up the slack. He holds his knife above his head like one of those ax-murderers in movies I used to watch as a kid. It’s a rookie mistake. Never hold the knife up to a taller man—it makes it all too easy for me to step back, slowing his motions down. I place my arms together so that they slide on the edge of the blade and to his wrist. Before he knows it, I manage to twist his hand to the side and backward into his charging body.

  It takes him a beat to realize what has happened. With his hips jutted out towards the back of his room and his chest leaning forward, he looks down at my arm holding his knife in place right at the side of the stomach. It isn’t fatal, but damn if it isn’t painful. His hand drops to the side like a ragdoll, and I twist the blade once to pull.

  Jose stumbles at my feet. He watches, speechless, as my boots step over his chest and towards the second man. I heave my chest outwards, more confident than ever. “This is not your fight, kid. Give it up and go home. Ain’t no shame in knowing when you’re beat and about to be gutted like a dead fish.”

  The younger guy is at least four or five inches taller than Jose, but there’s a look of inexperience in his eyes. I haven’t seen him around the scene, and that prickly beard stubble dotting his chin looks as if it took some time and energy to grow. I’ll put him at only twenty, maybe twenty-one years old. He’s a boy among men, and he’s about to get himself in a whole lot of hurt if he doesn’t know what’s good for him.

  “Fuck you, Rev. You heard Jose. We’re just here to finish the job you were supposed to do.” He looks down at Jenna with an uneasy grin. I doubt he’s ever killed a guy in his life, let alone an innocent girl sobbing on a pool table in broad daylight. I’m sure the room feels like it’s closing in on him. It did for me the first time I had to do something like this.

  “I’m going to give you one last fucking warning before I start to get real angry. Don’t get yourself killed,” I urge him. “Just back away and get the hell out of here. I’ve got no beef with you or your boss.”

  “You know what happens here, Rev. Once I go, Enrique ain’t gonna stop until you finish the job, and the more time you waste, the angrier he’s gonna get.”

  For a little wimpy kid, he’s talking some truth. I could take the easy way out here and let him kill Jenna for me. I would be able to walk away from this unscathed and with Enrique still on my side, albeit more suspicious of me.

  But I never do anything the easy way.

  Before he can say another word, I throw my arms in the air and charge directly at him. We tackle hard to the floor, his bowing knife falling to the ground beside my knee. I manage to pin him face down into the hard floor with my knee directly on the back of his head. I watch, almost satisfied, as his face goes from an off-brown to a purple-blue.

  “You done? Ready to give in?” I snarl at him. He pounds his hands into the ground in agony, but I dig a little harder. “Good. I’ve got a message before I let you go. You tell Enrique to stop chasing me. He’ll get his money one way or another. I will do what I have to do and when I want to do it. That’s why I ride alone.”

  I get off of him. The whole room leans in to hear the man gasp—fighting for breaths. He pulls himself to his feet, looking for his knife, but it’s already in my back pocket.

  I scrape Jenna off the table. It’s as if she’s frozen in place. Her arms tremble as she leans into my chest. I take one look back at Tommy, his gun still pointed at bloodied, battered Jose and his goon.

  “Get out of here, Rev,” Tommy says. “I’ve got this taken care of.”

  I nod towards him as I lead Jenna towards the back door. We don’t have much time to lose. The hunt is officially on.

  Chapter Seven

  Jenna

  In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been tackled, pinned, pushed around, and now assaulted. I’ve had my life threatened and been told to surrender myself. I, regrettably, had sex while not fully thinking it through, and I’ve joined up with some freelance motorcyclist who apparently has a ton of vicious enemies.

  All of it happened because I walked into the wrong apartment at the wrong time—because I’m not my brother Mark.

  Rev leads the motorcycle back into the city. I don’t even notice the direction we’re headed or the signs on the highway. My face is buried too deep into the back of his soft leather jacket. It’s
not the best material to sob your eyes out, but at least I don’t have to worry about the tears soaking through.

  About an hour into our drive, he pulls us over to some seedy motel just north of downtown. The Star Motel looks as if it’s out of the 1950’s. There’s still a sign boasting its color TV’s and free coffee—though neither neon sign lights up entirely. Unsurprisingly, it looks all but empty.

  We pull into a parking space next to the large, stacked garbage cans. Rev pulls us so far over that his jet-black bike almost blends into the metal boxes. He throws himself off the front of the bike and pulls out my bag from the storage compartment. I barely register him tossing at me until it smacks me in the face.

  “Let’s move,” he growls as he digs out a baseball hat and a pair of thick aviator sunglasses for himself. I struggle to catch up with him as he strides off towards the front office. Before I can enter the glassed-in room, he warns me, “Stay here. Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk to anyone. Face away from the street and lot. Whatever you do, don’t get yourself noticed.”