Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Two

Demon

I was furious. Blood pumped around my body, rage creeping to every millimetre of my being. She’d been inches away from knocking me off my bike, a fraction away from denting the metal and damaging the paintwork. I’d wanted to throttle her. If she’d been a bloke, I would have knocked her out. But for all my indiscretions, I didn’t hit women. But God damn it, she’d worked her ticket.

My lips throbbed. The embedded ends of my stubble twitching, irritated from me crushing my face to hers. I don’t know why I kissed her. To stop her talking, maybe? But that Irish purr of her words was every bit as satisfying to my ears as her lips and tongue were to my cock. And now I watched her leave, my heart beating in my groin and anger still flooding my veins.

The shattered glass of her wing mirror lay at my feet and her battered car pulled back onto the road. I’d noted her registration plate. Whether I decided to find her again, I didn’t yet know. But if I did, I could start with the car’s reg and my contact in the police.

My phone vibrated angrily inside my jacket pocket and when I fished it out, the text message was rolling across the screen.

‘Church. Tonight. Dad.’

*****

The car park alongside the Dog on the Tyne was filled with bikes. Not just any bikes. Harleys. Every motorbike there was a Harley Davidson. Some shiny, some matt, but they all bore the brand. It was a club directive. I kicked out the stand, letting the heavy bike lean over till its weight propped against it. The bike had been given to me by my cousin. Not that gifting me his dead father’s motorbike was going to forgive his actions, not by me or the rest of the club. He was exiled. His patches removed. And that’s the way he’d stay. But I’d accepted the gift, anyway.

It was a stunning bike. Two exhausts ran down the length of the offside and every bit of metal was polished, catching even in the dimmest of light. The tank was obsidian black, the only embellishment the Harley badge, and the engine was tuned to shit. When I opened the throttle, the whole thing came alive, loud and fierce. A Lion. King of the bikes.

“You just gonna stand there wanking over that bike, little bro?” Indie called from the doorway of his pub.

The building was old, in need of major refurbishment and a shitload of paint. But it didn’t stop the punters who wanted the accolade of drinking in the Northern King’s bar, despite the manky carpet and mismatched furniture. Tonight though, it was closed to the public, the only people drinking in there club members.

“First on the agenda,” my father and club president started, “Magnet wants a club loan. Present your case, Magnet.”

I nipped my nose, glancing round at the members surrounding the big wooden table, only brought out for church meetings. It was old and scarred, just like the majority of us. Well, not so much old, but I was definitely scarred.

“It’ll be another shit idea,” I grumbled, not under my breath as I should have done.

“Demon!” my father barked, shooting me a look that told me I was already on thin ice, and we’d only been in church two minutes. This day was seriously going to shit.

The wiry biker stood up, lean, toned arms covered in tattoos hanging out of the t-shirt sleeves, his leather cut over the top. We all wore them to church. It was etiquette.

“There’s some gaps in the party drug market at the moment. And with the festival season creeping up, it would be a good idea to get in on the action.”

The men round the table nodded.

“I’ve found a supplier who can get a great new mix for us. It’s coming in off the continent. Nice and easy. We would need to buy a decent batch initially and then agree on a monthly supply. Money up front and then in advance every month. I can shift it easy. I just need the investment money and storage so I can cut the product to get the most profit.”

“How much are we talking?” my father asked.

“￡50k.”

“And what are you offering the club?”

“Thirty percent profits.”

“Forty percent and we’ll put it to the vote.”

Magnet nodded. It wasn’t really a negotiation. If he wanted the loan, he would have to agree to the terms. But it was etiquette to pretend to negotiate. The fifty-thousand-pound investment was a big risk to a member. If they fucked it all up, they’d have to repay the entire amount with interest, and they’d unlikely get another loan from the club. Yet if it worked, they’d get profits and kudos. And no matter what barmy scheme Magnet was running, it always paid off.

“All in favour….”

I scanned the members at the table, watching everyone raise their hands in agreement, my own joining them. And so, business continued. I’d drifted off halfway through, my mind wandering off to fleshy lips and Irish accents. To a shirt pulled tight over good-sized tits and the brown hair that fell loose around her shoulders. She’d had a scar on her right cheek. Still angry. As angry as she had been. But it hadn’t detracted from the big doe eyes with thick lashes and the heart-shaped face.

“Demon! Demon!”

“What?”

I blinked, clearing my vision, twenty odd faces staring at me expectantly.

“You going to Trouble tonight?”

“Aye. We’re due to collect a payment.”

“Well, make sure the club actually gets this one. We’re not taking it in anything other than notes.”

A deep chorus of chuckles vibrated round the room.

*****

Trouble on the Tyne , almost a namesake of our own clubhouse, was packed as full as I had ever seen it. From the outside, the building looked half-dilapidated. An old shop front now bricked up with a patchwork of reds and oranges and terracotta, nothing matching, all reclaimed just to fill the gap. It was a sensible approach. The area had been long earmarked for demolition, but with Council coffers running dry, money had been re-designated and the once thriving shopping area was now revived with pop-up bars and a new sex club. Just what the residents of South Shields really needed. But we weren’t complaining.

The sign was painted crudely on the building, a vertical wall of black and red lettering to read just Trouble . There were no doormen. There was little need. We had a presence there most nights and all the punters knew to be on their best behaviour. The consequences were worn on our cuts.

It was a neighbouring motorcycle association who’d approached us for a loan and our contacts in the licensing department. And now we took fifty percent of their profits. Every night. And I took another ten percent in kind.

The music bounded out the doors and along the road. Heavy tunes and thick bass, but the vibrations of the overly loud music couldn’t dilute the roar of the bikes. We pulled into the car park opposite, lining the bikes up from where we could see them out of one of the upstairs windows. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to steal them.

We walked in from the grey of dusk; the sun setting far away, only the tiny sliver of burnt gold, dying out on the western flank. It was late. But as it was just May, the nights were getting longer, and the days warmer. The street outside the club was dimly lit, some streetlights firing to life, others too dead now to even attempt a dull glow; the council having given up any proper form of maintenance.

Six of us entered the club. I was there to collect and the other five were just there for a whole load of tits and pussy. And there it was before us. On the stage, hanging around the pole in the middle, and then moving between booths. A feel copped here and there, and a handful of pound notes stuffed in snug places.

Fury and the twins evicted the nearest booth. The men in there did not even bother to resist, just glancing at the patches on our backs and moving dutifully out of the way. I edged in beside them, watching their eyes fix on the women wearing little more than a thong. Reap joined us, his usual pained look making me want to buy him a lap dance and a wank just to cheer him the fuck up. He was two weeks out of prison and had never cracked a smile yet. Instead, he was constantly on edge, like a caged animal, desperately trying to figure out what to do with his freedom.

“Mate,” Fury shouted across the table towards him. “Maybe you should chuck some money on a bit of pussy tonight? No one wants sausage constantly.”

Reap frowned, and the twins howled, one of them, although I could never tell which, slapping Fury on the shoulder as if he’d cracked something worthy of an Edinburgh Fringe award. And off to my right, a waitress passed.

I don’t know which part of her caught my attention first. She wore cutoff denim shorts; long slim legs going on and on into lace-up black boots stretching up towards her calves. The white shirt was tied in a knot just under her tits, showing off a stomach of smooth, creamy skin, bulging slightly in the middle and out over fleshy hips. On top of the shirt hung a leather waistcoat. Not dissimilar to ours, but with Trouble on the Tyne embroidered on the two rockers on the back. A fake cut.

She walked past me. A tray of glasses balanced in one hand, striding confidently to a group sitting just to our right where she stopped, plucking the drinks from the black tray, and sliding them across the table. The denim shorts rode up her arse cheeks, a tiny bulge of flesh hanging out the bottom, hinting at something fleshy and full if I were to cup my hands on it.

But it wasn’t my hands that cupped those arse cheeks. The man beside her reached out, his fingers trailing up the back of her thigh, her hands busy balancing the last of the drinks on the tray as she passed a tall pint of lager across the far side of the table. She jumped slightly, stepping away, the hand following, groping, and fondling. Touching something that didn’t belong to him.

“Fuck! Demon!”

I heard Fury’s voice from behind me. But I was already on my feet. Already moving.