Preacher (Howlers MC #1)

Chapter One

Trent

“I didn’t take it!” I hollered, but Hammer didn’t care. He shoved me into the brick wall so hard I couldn’t catch my breath then followed with a fist to my chest to make sure my lungs stayed empty. Stars flickered across my vision as I struggled for air.

Perfect. This was how I died—behind a dumpster in a filthy alley, courtesy of some asshole who thought I’d stolen his product.

His hand shot out and squeezed my throat, nails biting in just enough to remind me how quickly things could get worse. “You think you can run from me and I wouldn’t find you?” he snarled. “My boys say you took my shit.”

I croaked out, “It wasn’t me,” but Hammer wasn’t interested in my innocence. He needed someone to blame, and lucky me, I was his fall guy.

“Where. Is. It?” he demanded, yanking a pistol from his waistband and pressing it into my cheek. The cold steel made my knees buckle. I bit back a sob. Begging would’ve been useless, and crying like a bitch would only piss him off.

If it weren’t for my asshole brother, I wouldn’t even be in this mess. He’d given my name to Hammer’s crew and thrown me under the bus without a second thought.

Who said family wasn’t everything?

After Mike had sacrificed me, Hammer and his cronies showed up at my place one night, beat me senseless, then two days later tried to force me to kill some rando leaving the corner store.

Not a chance in hell.

Now I was their little errand boy. Employee of the Month in the getting-your-ass-kicked department. The benefits package? Nonexistent. Not even dental, which was ironic considering how often they threatened to knock my teeth out.

I’d tried to keep a low profile, hold down a normal job, stay drama-free. That plan had blown up the moment my brother opened his mouth.

Hammer pressed the gun harder against my skin. “Tell me where you stashed my shit or your brother’s next.”

Mike was a pain on most days, but I didn’t want him dead.

He and Maria—who’d perfected the art of pretending I didn’t exist—were all the family I had left, shitty as they were.

My mind raced as I tried to think of something, anything that would satisfy Hammer.

Sticking to the truth wasn’t going to save me.

“Deluca’s,” I blurted out, naming the first place that came to mind. Hammer needed an answer. I needed to live.

Whether I’d still be breathing after we got there was another story.

Hammer’s goons at the alley entrance perked up when he called, “Deluca’s, boys.”

The pressure on my throat vanished, but freedom was a joke. Hammer yanked me by the arm to a sedan idling at the curb and tossed me into the back. Gap and Tag were already there, making just enough room for me to wedge between them.

Tag was all awkward angles, like his body had grown six inches overnight and nobody told him. He hunched forward, shoulders permanently curved, a constant bulge of tobacco pushing out his bottom lip.

Gap took up enough space for two people and smelled like he’d used roadkill as deodorant.

His face made children cry, and he had an ego that said he should be on magazine covers.

The dude had never seen action without paying for it first.

I was sure of it. The gap between his front teeth could’ve parked a motorcycle.

Hence the nickname. His parents should have never procreated.

The car door slammed, and a wall of stench hit me like a physical force. My stomach heaved. I clamped my hand over my face, which only made Tag snicker. He flashed brown-speckled teeth.

“Welcome to my daily hell,” Tag muttered, nodding toward Gap. “Dude’s got a medical condition called Never-Touched-Soap.”

Gap didn’t even flinch at the insult. The funk radiating off him had a life of its own—sweat gone toxic, like something had crawled into his clothes and died there months ago.

Hammer took the wheel with Silent Moe riding shotgun. Neither cracked a window. Christ. Maybe their sense of smell had died from prolonged exposure.

As we cruised through town, panic replaced disgust. Deluca’s Auto Repair sat just inside Temptation’s border off County Road 21. I’d driven past it a hundred times but never stopped, not even when my transmission was making those death rattles last winter.

Everyone knew Howlers Motorcycle Club owned it. The town tolerated them because they kept other trouble out, and the cops conveniently ignored whatever went down there. Probably thanks to well-placed envelopes of cash.

And you just accused them of hiding Hammer’s missing product.

Two scenarios played in my head. Either the Howlers would kill Hammer for being an idiot or they’d kill Hammer and me for the false accusation. Hammer was too stupid to understand he was walking into a hornet’s nest thinking his reputation would protect him.

The Plymouth turned onto County Road 21, and my heart wanted to crawl its way out. My mind was blank. No brilliant escape plan. Nothing. Just the certainty that Deluca would shove me into a car trunk and introduce me to the bottom of Temptation River.

Tag’s leg tapped mine. “Hook me up with Maria.”

My sister might’ve slept with plenty of losers, but even she had limits. “How about I hook you up with a dentist instead?”

Gap’s laugh came out as a wheeze. Before I could blink, Tag had a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back until my neck cracked.

“Think you’re funny?” His breath hit my face like a toxic cloud.

Hammer’s eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. “Save it for later,” he said, his tone flat as week-old soda. “Nobody touches him until I get what’s mine.”

The threat barely registered. By the time Tag got his chance, either Deluca’s crew would have already put bullets in my head or Hammer would do the job himself once he figured out I lied. Either way, I had more pressing problems than Tag’s dental hygiene. Like staying alive for the next hour.

Tag released me with a shove. “You and me later,” he promised, eyes narrowed to slits.

I wasn’t sure why, but my mind immediately went to sex and I was dry heaving all over again.

I’d rather let a cactus hump me.

The brakes squealed as we pulled into Deluca’s lot beside a black Nissan. Heads turned our way immediately, conversations dying mid-sentence. The garage stood like a fortress—an L-shaped concrete building set back from the road, surrounded by barbed wire fencing.

Classic Cadillacs and a blood-red Jaguar lined one wall, but what made my mouth go dry was the row of motorcycles along the fence. At least fifteen chrome monsters were gleaming in the sun like weapons on display.

You should’ve told them Blackflower Cemetery and saved everyone the extra trip to dump your body.

Tag was the first one out. Despite my lungs screaming for fresh air, I froze as men in leather cuts emerged from the garage. Not grease monkeys but the kind of men who made violence look like an art form.

Hammer’s crew suddenly seemed like Boy Scouts in comparison.

Only one guy in a faded blue work shirt looked as if he might actually fix cars.

“Drag him out,” Hammer ordered.

Tag reached in with a ruthless grin. I swatted his hand away, but Gap shoved me forward. Then I was yanked out like I weighed nothing.

“Is my stuff inside or out?” Hammer asked with unnerving politeness.

“Outside.” My eyes darted between the strangers sizing us up.

Hammer’s fingers dug into my bicep as he dragged me toward the garage bays, forcing me to keep up. Each step felt like concrete was hardening around my feet, but his grip left me no choice but to scramble forward, his entourage trailing behind us.

For a split second, I considered kicking over the nearest motorcycle. A quick death was preferable to prolonging the inevitable.

Then one of them stepped forward, flicking a lighter to a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, tucked the lighter away, and started walking toward us as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Holy shit. If this was my executioner, at least I’d die with something gorgeous to look at.

Blue bandana, worn jeans hugging all the right places, white tee stretched across a chest that belonged on a billboard. A chain swung from his belt loop, disappearing behind him. Silver rings adorned each finger like brass knuckles with style.

My stomach knotted with a confusing mix of terror and lust that had no business existing in the same moment.

“Something I can help you with?” The guy’s eyes swept over Hammer’s crew before landing on me. I tried to look away from eyes the color of frozen whiskey, but my neck muscles refused to cooperate, as if his stare had short-circuited the connection between my brain and body.

Hammer’s fingers dug deeper into my bicep. Tomorrow I’d have a bracelet of purple bruises. If I lived that long. “My friend here left something valuable at your garage,” he said, his voice smooth as polished steel. “Just need to grab it real quick.”

As Blue Bandana stepped closer, the patches on his leather cut came into focus. “1%” was stitched in the top corner. Below that, “I’m not your fucking brother.” Another declared “It’s not a lifestyle. It’s a way of life.”

But the patch that turned my blood to ice simply read “President.”

Oh god. Preacher Deluca himself.

Everyone in Temptation knew the name, though I’d only been in town long enough to hear whispered stories. Now here he was, gorgeous and terrifying, while I stood in the middle of a lie.

Preacher took a long drag from his cigarette, muscles rippling beneath his shirt. “How about you tell me what exactly you’re looking for and I’ll have one of my guys fetch it.”

The casual offer carried the weight of a loaded gun.

Hammer’s attention swiveled to me. “Where’d you put it?”

Jesus Christ. The moron was actually doing this. Hammer was either suicidal or brain damaged. Probably both.

“I—” The words died in my throat as two pairs of eyes bored into me, waiting for an answer I didn’t have.

Hammer’s face darkened, as if he’d just realized I’d lied to him.

Time slowed as his fist crashed into my jaw.

The impact sent me spinning backward onto the concrete.

My head slammed down moments later with brutal force.