Demon (The Northern Kings MC #1)

Chapter Five

Ciara

Sunlight seeped through the curtains that didn’t quite meet across the windows. It wasn’t that the windows were giants, just that the curtains weren’t wide enough to cover both of them, and I usually didn’t stay in places long enough to justify spending money on new fucking curtains. The one on the right had pulled away from the rail, drooping sadly at the corner and letting more daylight flood in and sting my eyes.

I blocked out the light with the pillow I held snuggly over my head, knowing that any minute the alarm on my phone was going to go off and any last few minutes of sleep would be stolen. My shift at the coffee shop started in exactly forty-five minutes and I’d achieved little over five hours sleep. I’d not bothered to shower when I got in last night. The threat of cold water doing nothing to entice cleanliness. The water storage tank would have been drained at that time in the small hours, not quite hot enough yet to even offer the usual lukewarm sprinkle from the rusty shower head.

There were eight of us crammed into this Victorian terrace on the neglected Gateshead street, fighting over the hot water every morning. The property needed a bigger tank to accommodate everyone who lived here, but sleazy Stu was as stingy as he was sleazy. And this morning I was too tired to battle for the water at a reasonable time. To make matters worse, I didn’t even have my own bathroom. I slipped down the corridor clutching my wash gear, clothed head to foot in my pyjamas, with the added layer of a dressing gown for extra protection.

I didn’t know many of the other residents. I would recognise them on the stairs or in passing, mostly. But most moved on as quickly as they came, some with accents and limited English, others with limited funds and drug habits. As long as they left me alone, I didn’t care. I didn’t even care that everyone had used up the water this morning. I was in and out of that shower in minutes. The sting from the cold spray had pelted my skin, turning it a blushed, battered pink.

The coffee shop was buzzing. Saturday morning shoppers fuelling and recharging, stuffing their faces with breakfast sandwiches and guzzling hot coffee, ready to tackle the packed shops in Newcastle city centre. A combination of payday weekend and the sun had brought out the crowds, and taken away any chance that I could sneak five minutes with my nose in a textbook, or make notes for an assignment.

And so, like this, the next couple of weeks continued. Get in late, do a shift in the coffee shop, Uni and then head to Trouble . I had money for food and to cover the increase in rent. Happy days.

*****

Trouble was as busy as ever when I turned in that night in the ridiculous cut-off shorts, but instead of the only covering on my top half being a scrap of cloth, I now could wear whatever, as long as it was white, and tight. The white t-shirt went well, clinging over my boobs but covering my stomach. I’d take this over the tied-up shirt any day.

The place was packed out with men and tonight I noticed more and more bikers. It was a biker takeover, and there were at least three different cuts. The one Demon wore, with the three crowned skulls, another with an angel and demon in an embrace which looked much more like they were fucking the good and bad out of each other. And then another. This one had a patch on the front, the back merely a black space. Terry was wearing the same leather waistcoat, the Tyne Bridge with a thunderbolt in the foreground embroidered on the left-hand side.

And from the booth to my right Demon sat watching, His eyes barely leaving me, following me around like some creepy, possessed painting. There wasn’t an ounce of warmth on his face, but no real malice either. He was just stoic; and observing. The men beside him I recognised. They came in intermittently, would stay for a few hours and then go again, wedging a thick envelope of cash inside their padded leather jackets.

Tonight, though, it seemed they were here in their droves. Everywhere I looked there was leather.

“What’s going on?” I asked Stacey as she whizzed back to join me behind the bar, her black tray empty.

“Bike meeting.” She stacked the tray up again. Whiskies and pints. A common theme of the night.

“Really? Don’t they have a clubhouse or something?”

She shrugged, her eyes fixed on the pump in front of her, golden frothy liquid filling the long, tall glass.

“Probably too many of them to fit into one. Plus, this’ll be neutral ground.”

“Thought Terry was a member of Tyneside Thunder?”

“He is. But it’s not an MC. Just an MCC.”

“There’s a difference?”

She nodded, stacking the tray and pulling it onto the flat of her palm.

“MCC just play at being a bike club. Family run clubs, just people out for a good time and a love of riding bikes. MCs are a whole different ball game.”

She wandered off, quickly consumed by the sea of denim and leather. And still Demon’s eyes fixed on me.

So, I wasn’t employed by a bike gang leader. Just a friend of the bike gangs, it would seem. Terry was moving between groups of bikers, shaking hands, smiling carefully, his hand never once resting on the leather cuts they wore. It was noticeable and odd, all at the same time.

A couple of young lads had mustered the courage to push through the throng of bikers, climbing up onto the seats opposite me.

“Hey, sexy,” one of them started, his mouth pulling into a wonky grin.

“What can I get you?”

“A pint and a smile,” he asked, cockiness evident in the harsh Shields accent. It wasn’t quite the same as the Geordies. More of a twang, vowels dragged out more than necessary, consonants spat out like they tasted bad. He was local and probably a regular. There was a familiarity about him.

I pushed the pint towards him.

“Four pounds, please.”

“What about that smile?”

“That’ll cost you double.”

He slid a twenty-pound note across the bar top, smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. He must have been barely eighteen, thin and wiry, a sleeve of colourful tattoos down his arm.

“What will twenty get me?”

“A smack in the chops, mate,” the growl came from behind him, and both of us looked up into the soul-eating dark eyes staring down at him. “You got your drink, now piss off.”

The young man scarpered away, the drink spilling all over the bar top as he snatched at it with shaky hands.

“I can look after myself, thanks,” I grumbled, reaching for the soggy cloth and wiping the spilled lager from where it pooled in a divot.

Demon shrugged. “I was just creating space to get to the bar, darl’, nothing more. I’ll have a diet coke.”

I rolled my eyes. He had to be the only biker that hadn’t had at least one drink tonight. I glanced behind him, watching the young lad wander off, smiling at the leather patched men that he passed, and reaching out and patting a big guy with the sex crazed angel and demon on the back. The big man paused, looked him up and down, and then planted his fist straight into his face. I heard the yowl before the place erupted in a mass of leather chaos.

“Fuck.” Demon shook his head, turning away from me and into the fray.

*****

It had taken ages to empty the club out. The bikers had almost drunk the place dry and then convincing them we were closed had been a challenge in itself. And now it was 3am. An hour later than I was due to finish. My feet ached and my hands were sticky with spilled alcohol that had clung to my skin, refusing to budge no matter how much I had washed them. The white t-shirt was stained with all shades of beige and brown. The last few bikers remained, Demon and the one they called Fury, helping Terry lock up and collect their cut of the takings.

The air was cool outside. May crossing into June. Warm days but not hot enough to heat the evenings. And not at 3am. My car was on the far side of the carpark. The other side of the two Harley Davidson motorbikes waiting for their owners. The night was quiet. Sleepy. How I felt.

I walked round to the driver’s side, pushing my key into the lock and hearing for the inviting clunk of the car opening up. It should take me about fifteen minutes to get home, with the roads being almost deserted. Or it would have. Fuck’s sake. The tyre was as flat as a pancake. There was no way I could even get to the garage with it like that. I rested my forehead against the cool metal of the car.

“Hey, Ciara. What’s up?”

I grumbled into the doorframe, my breath misting the window just underneath. This was all I needed.

“Flat tyre,” I glanced over the car at Demon and the man with the long, dark hair to his shoulders.

Demon moved around beside me, nudging me out of the way while he inspected the rubber squashed into the tarmac.

“Aye. That’s flat.”

“No shit, genius. You don’t think I can’t tell what a flat tyre looks like?”

Fury chuckled from the other side of the car, almost masking the deep sigh from Demon as he nipped the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll change it for you,” Demon muttered, wandering round to the boot of the car and looking at me expectantly.

“I don’t have a spare.”

“You don’t have a spare?”

“Now who’s the parrot?”

“How can you not have a spare?”

“Car didn’t come with one.”

“Fuck’s sake. Don’t suppose you have breakdown?”

I shook my head.

“Fine. Where do you live? I’ll give you a ride back.”

“I’m not telling you that. I don’t even know you.”

“Well, I’m hardly going to be able to take you home if I don’t know where we’re going to,” he grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I’m ok, thanks. I’ll get a local garage to come out in the morning.”

Demon looked confused.

“Everywhere will be open in a few hours. I’ll just stay here till then.” I opened the door, sliding one leg into the footwell. Until fingers tightened around my upper arm, digging into the flesh. Prick.