Devil’s Falling (The Devil’s Chaos MC #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Eli (Handlebar)

The eerie silence is more unnerving than anything I’ve ever experienced. Stuffed animals are strewn across the floor, the blanket pulled off the bed in disarray. Something is wrong. My gut is telling me nothing will ever be the same again.

Then I hear the singing, a lullaby, so foreign in this house. No one ever sang like that to me as a child. My heart beats an uneven rhythm in my chest. I push back the bedroom door and walk along the hallway, toward a half-open door where the singing comes from.

It was daylight minutes ago, now it’s night, all the dark corners holding something unknown, something sinister. With each step I take, my brain is screaming at me to turn and run. But my feet don’t listen.

What awaits beyond that door is going to destroy me. Still, I keep moving, keep heading towards that voice, so sweet yet the intent behind it drips with pure evil.

When I push the door open, my nightmares greet me. My screams rip through the air, and I grab my head, falling to my knees, totally helpless.

And she continues to sing while my entire world ends…

I jerk awake with a start, almost falling off the chair. My heart is pounding, I was so lost in the nightmare. It takes a few seconds to figure out where the fuck I am.

Sweat trickles down my spine and across my brow. The smell of oil and gasoline, the sound of metal hitting metal, voices shouting back and forth, slowly come back to me.

I’m at the compound. The Devil’s Chaos MC Chapter in Sussex, New Jersey. Not in Talladega, Alabama. Not a frightened child being confronted by my worst nightmare.

Swiping a hand over my face, I drop my legs off the desk. I rarely fall asleep on the job, but I’m tired. Nightmares are plaguing me. Falling asleep at home in my quiet house is getting harder.

Still, I hate falling asleep here. It isn’t like my brothers won’t be sympathetic to the situation. If they knew. I’ve never told a soul about these nightmares, or the reason behind them.

“Hey, boss, that lady is here with the Buick!” A shout comes from below on the shop floor.

I rub a hand over my short dark hair and give my head a shake, trying to brush off the nightmare. It won’t work, it always lingers for a few hours after. The only thing to do is get up, go into the garage and pick up some tools.

This is my solace, working on anything mechanical. I self-taught myself all about engines, mechanics and robotics. Anything unfeeling and uncaring about the world brought me away from the memories of my childhood.

I’m happy here with the MC. Ending up in a motorcycle club was the furthest thing from my mind back then, but I’d found my place. These people are family to me. Not the one I was born into.

Dirt, the Sargent-at-Arms for the club, found me at a traveling carnival when I was nineteen. I’d been with them for about three years. It was the first place I’d felt comfortable enough to stick around longer than a few months.

Plus, I had passed eighteen by then, no longer a missing minor. I was so far from home, I was safe.

It helped that the carnie guys never asked questions. They didn’t care about my past, just what I could do for them. Fixing things like machinery, rides and vehicles came naturally to me. I was worth my weight in gold, though they paid me less than the minimum wage.

All I cared about was having a place to sleep, regular meals and I got to travel the country. It was perfect.

Dirt’s bike broke down while on a run, and someone recommended he come to the carnival.

Dirt eyed the shabby trailers and the old broken-down cars we drove, but he saw something in me and decided to trust me.

I didn’t let him down. I took his bike apart and put it back together within a day.

He said it had never run so well, even brand new.

The praise didn’t mean anything to me. It was second nature.

The bikers intrigued me with their leather cuts and their gruff attitudes. Not getting into anyone’s business was my way of life. Once I handed off the bike, I got back to my work.

A few days later, on their way back through town, Dirt stopped to make me an offer.

The nomadic lifestyle I’d led meant I wasn’t afraid of change. It pissed off the carnie guys I was leaving, but I had no contract, no ties. I picked up a cheap bike, not knowing what the future held. If it didn’t stick, I’d leave.

It stuck. For sixteen years I’ve been a part of this MC.

Living anywhere else is unimaginable. I adjust my overalls, tightening the sleeves around my waist. I rarely wear them all the way up like the others.

It isn’t about vanity. I run hot, and thick overalls make me uncomfortable.

Not to mention it’s hotter than balls today.

I head for the 1955 Buick Super Convertible parked in my bay, my undivided attention on the car. Touching the hood and examining the fender portholes gets me excited. Ducking, I peer through the driver’s side vent window.

Mentally, I inventory what I’m working with.

The car is a soft top, with moss growing on the roof.

That will need replacing. The bench seats in the back look fine, but the front one is torn in places.

I’ll have to get inside to see if re-covering or replacing is required.

One of the tail fins is missing. It has redline tires and, at least on this side, both Buick-branded hubcaps.

I lift the hood and check inside. The engine is shot, the car hasn’t been started in over fifteen years.

“You’re gonna fix it, not make love to it.”

I elbow Danny, our townie worker, getting him right in the ribs. He makes an oof sound as he laughs and backs up. It’s common knowledge I love classic cars. Buicks are a wet dream for me.

Shaking out of my reverence for the car, I head over to the owner.

She’s in her late thirties, wearing jeans, a T-shirt with a cat on and a red beret. My mind compares it to the color I want to spray this car, it’s perfect. The woman is attractive, and a few of the guys are eyeing her up, but all I care about is the Buick.

We spoke on the phone a few times. She took photographs of everything I asked and emailed them over. Then we negotiated the price. She’d balked at my suggestion. When I told her what the car would be worth once I completed it, she changed her mind.

The club has given me everything I need, charging extortionate prices isn’t necessary. It’s a pleasure for me to work on the cars, because I don’t get a lot of opportunities to do it. The last time I worked on a restoration was four years ago. I’m looking forward to tackling this.

“Sorry,” I say with a sheepish grin as I head over and introduce myself.

“No problem.” There is a hint of amusement in her eyes.

She gives me the once over. It’s nothing new, the guys give me shit about the way I look all the time. I learned long ago not to let it bother me. My dad is a model and an actor. I inherited his looks and body type. Shit like that doesn’t matter to me. I don’t have time for it.

“Just seeing how you look at it tells me I made the right decision.”

I nod at the car. “Any trouble getting down here?”

“Nope, the transport company you recommended was perfect. I came down just…”

“To make sure you were doing the right thing?” I already explained where my garage is. “And you’re still feeling okay with that, comfortable with the deal?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I’m glad about that. Makes it easier to know the owner trusts me to do a good job. I work on projects like this when the garage is closed. Some might say I spent too much time here. When I’m not helping with club-related business, this is the one place I can switch off my mind.

Until I had a nightmare in the office.

We fill out all the paperwork, and I recommend a hotel, as she is tired from the long journey. I’m not interested in anything else, which she quickly realizes, and she heads out.

I crouch in front of the Buick, touching the badge on the front. The cold metal calls to me. I envision a lot of late nights with this girl.

“Pretty sure you’ve come in your pants at least once since you got that car. Don’t forget the Fatboy. Or I can take that off your hands?”

As much as Danny’s bullshit comment annoys me, he’s right. Not about the nutting in my pants, but I have other jobs on. Until I get the parts in, the Buick has to wait.

I parked the Fatboy in question at the back of my bay. I don’t want to admit I’ve held on to the bike longer than necessary, but everyone here knows what I’m doing. Anything to piss off the owner.

Knowing he’s riding around on a loaner is enough to make me smile. When you’re used to a Fatboy like his, riding an eight-year-old Kawasaki is a fucking travesty.

This isn’t the way I usually behave, but a petty part of me took over. I liked Mace when I first met him, despite being from a rival MC.

The Kingsmen caused all manner of shit for our club. We got on okay considering. I’d spent a lot of time babysitting him while shit got sorted out with the Kingsmen. I’d even been glad he and the few Kingsmen loyal to him joined Devil’s Chaos.

Until I saw him with Cassie Beillo at the welcome party. And that was when things cooled between us. His clubhouse is nowhere near ours. He only comes over when King summons him, or for council meetings. When I saw them together, I’ll never admit it, but jealousy tore through me.

Cassie isn’t mine, she’s free to do whatever she wants. Thinking of them together fucks with my head. It’s been months since the one night we spent together, and I’m struggling to shake it off.

Even though I left the South when I was a kid, manners and etiquette are ingrained. I never think disparagingly of any woman. Especially given where I’ve worked over the years.

The girls who came to the carnival looking for some fun, or the club girls who use their bodies for room and board within the MC, make their choices. I never second-guess or judge why they do it.