Strider’s Misstep (Mayhem Makers: Wretched Soulz MC)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

STRIDER

THREE YEARS LATER…

P lacing a hard kick to his kidneys, I tell the man lying at my feet, “You’re just fuckin’ me off now. Tell me what you know about our missing product.” His agonised yelp, blubbering and bloody face, even coupled with hands held up to ward me off, does nothing to bring forth any sympathy.

“Make it easy on yourself,” my VP, Shotgun, growls from behind me.

“I… I… know nothing.” The words are punctuated with sobs. “You’ve got to believe me,” he cries. An acrid odour fills the air, and the darkening area around his crotch shows he’s just pissed himself.

Oh for fuck’s sake! I’ve had enough of this. Taking out my gun, I gift him with a bullet between the eyes. There. Job done. Now I don’t need to listen to his snivelling excuses anymore.

The sounds of the shot are still echoing as Tequila shouts, “What the fuck, Prez? We could have got decent intel out of him.”

I raise my eyes and give him my best prez stare, the one that makes most men cower and shake in their boots. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have that effect on my enforcer. And Buzz, my sergeant-at-arms, is looking equally unimpressed.

Shotgun regards me sadly and shakes his head. “Teq, call for Butch and Pete to come clean up this mess.”

“Fuckin’ prospects are going to get fed up with cleaning up after Prez soon,” Buzz mumbles.

Lurching forward, I put my hand around his neck, forcing him back to the wall. “You got something you want to say to me?”

Emitting a heavy sigh, Shotgun steps between us, his hands resting on mine, loosening them to stop me from choking my sergeant-at-arms, who, loyal to the fucking bone, is doing nothing to defend himself. “Let’s get out of here. We could all do with some wind therapy and definitely some fresh air.” He glances at the body and wrinkles his nose.

I’m wound up, irate, angry with the world, with them, and especially with myself. What I just did was wrong. How are we ever going to find out who’s dipping into our product if I fly off the handle and shoot any potential witnesses dead? I seem to have lost all the patience I ever had. Recently, when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognise myself. Maybe the VP’s right. A long ride might help clear my head. Trouble is, I’m not sure there are enough miles in the entire United States to achieve that result.

Letting Buzz go, ignoring him coughing and gasping in an effort to restore the air intake through his throat, I stomp toward the stairs and up out of the basement. At this time of day, the nightclub we run is empty of patrons, though there are a couple of cleaners getting things sorted out. Their proximity to my loss of control only moments ago makes me thank fuck that we’ve got a well-soundproofed location hidden away.

I leave via the rear entrance which leads to the parking lot where we left our bikes. Going to mine, I straddle it. Turning the key and pressing the start button, I’m tempted to just hit the road without waiting for anyone else. But even after my assault, Buzz would kill me if I tried to ride out alone, and Tequila would probably help him. The Wretched Soulz have too many enemies for a prez to be on his own on the road, so this time, from somewhere, I manage to tamp down my impatience.

Or at least until my men emerge from the basement. Once they’re in my sight, I kick down into gear and rev the engine, releasing the clutch. As the bike leaps forward, the view in my mirror sends a brief grin to my face when I see my three officers running to their bikes, throwing their legs over their machines, and starting their Harleys in unison.

Making no real effort to outrun them, they catch up with me before I join the freeway. Shotgun pulls up alongside me as I hit a red light.

“Where we going?” he asks, his voice loud enough to be heard over the even-while-idling-thundering Harley engine.

“Fuck knows,” I yell back.

He shoots me a wide grin and slips back to ride alongside Buzz as the green glow gives us permission to proceed.

I hadn’t lied. I’ve no fucking idea where I’m heading, but as the road opens up and I twist the throttle, the tension leaves my head and chest. Seemingly following some internal GPS, I take the route that finds me on Ranch Road 470 and drive through Bandera, which would, ironically, take me to the unlikely named Utopia were we to go that far. Doubtful it would fulfil its promise of bringing anything special into my life, I pull off at a spot where we can park up the bikes, only then realising we’ve been riding for almost two hours, and pleased I’d started off with a fully topped off tank.

Killing my engine, I slide my hand into my cut, take out a pack of cigarettes and light one.

Silence descends as the thundering of the bikes drawing up alongside me comes to a stop, to be replaced by the ticking of cooling engines.

Breathing out the long inhale of nicotine, I put my bike on its stand and get off, stretching with my hands on my hips, bending my back and rolling my shoulders, then shaking my head to get the kinks out of my neck. I release the tie holding my long hair and shrug it down my back.

“You done?” Shotgun comes up beside me.

As normal, a good ride has blown the cobwebs away. For a while, I’d been able to concentrate on nothing but the pavement beneath me and the clarity of air whooshing past me. It’s as if the weight of my direst thoughts has been left back in the city. I smile as I grin back. “For now.”

Buzz has manoeuvred so he’s standing in front of me, his face turned toward the low hills that surround us, his hand shading his eyes from the sun. After he takes his bandanna and wipes sweat from his brow, he turns around and nods toward some rocks. “Seems like a good place to sit and have a talk.”

The eagerness of my companions to show their agreement by immediately walking over and making themselves as comfortable as possible on their impromptu, unyielding seats has me narrowing my eyes.

What have we got to fuckin’ talk about? We discuss anything necessary in church. Sure, right now it’s just me and my top team, but I can think of no pressing business that can’t be discussed in front of all the other members. Suspecting they’re going to berate me for my display of temper, and unwilling to admit that they’d be right to do so, I stay where I am.

“Hey, come join us,” Tequila calls out, indicating a rock in front of him.

“Rather get back on the road,” I object.

Buzz fixes me with a stare. “Take a load off. It’s a nice day.”

“Yeah, when was the last time you just sat and relaxed?” Shotgun leans back on his elbows, stretches out his long legs and, closing his eyes, raises his face to the sun.

I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself any downtime at all. Even sleep evades me most nights. Letting my mind drift means inviting the demons to speak up in my head. “There’s time enough to relax when you’re fuckin’ dead.” To make my point, I walk close enough to kick Shotgun’s feet.

As if it’s a signal, three men move at once, their calm state instantly gone. Instead of stress-free faces, their expressions are set. And, in their hands, guns have appeared.

I might have been an asshole over the last few months, but I’ve not done anything to damage the club. I can’t consider for one moment that it’s my patch or my life that they want. With a sigh and a shrug, holding my lit cigarette between two fingers and taking a last drag before stubbing it out beneath my boot, I take the hard seat they left for me.

“It’s a fuckin’ intervention,” I surmise.

Shotgun grimaces. “I suppose you could call it that.” He nods toward Buzz, who steps closer to me and curls his fingers in a gimme gesture.

“Don’t make me take it from you,” Buzz threatens.

I’ve gone head-to-head with Buzz before in the ring and know he’s a more than competent fighter. Right now, I’d prefer to keep my ribs and jaw intact. Doesn’t stop me from giving him a healthy glare as I surrender my gun. When that doesn’t satisfy him, I also pass over my knife.

“Bit over the top isn’t it?” I spit at Shotgun while Buzz parks his backside on his rocky perch again. When the VP shrugs, I narrow my gaze. “Don’t worry, I’m happy with my revenge served cold.”

He snorts at my threat. “Cold doesn’t worry me. It’s how hot-headed you’ve become that does. I’ll take my chance of payback after we’ve had our say.”

Tapping another cigarette out of my pack, I light up, breathing in deeply. Through the resultant exhale of blue smoke, I rasp, “So what’s this a-fuckin’-bout?”

Tequila leans forward, putting his joined hands on his knees. “How are things going, Prez?” His voice is gentle, full of genuine concern.

These three men aren’t just my most trusted brothers in the club. I’ve been riding with them for years. Long before I got my president’s patch. They know everything about my life, all the parts I keep secret from everyone else—the shame, the sadness, the inevitability of a train wreck coming that I’m unable to stop. Rather than snapping, I say in a voice heavy with deep emotion, “Don’t go there, Teq.”

“You’re a complicated fuckin’ man, Brother,” Shotgun starts. “For a while, I thought you were getting things balanced out.” Confused, I raise an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. “No one… no one could blame you for going with Jasmine, but none of us can understand what’s happening between you now. For the past few months, you’ve been like a bear with a sore paw, and your mood seems to correlate with the distance you’re keeping from her.”

Jasmine. I turn my head, refusing to look my brothers in the eye. She’s the woman who haunts my nights, the one I can’t get out of my mind. She’s been intruding into places where she’s no right to be, inside my head all the time.

“She’s nothing to you anymore? That it?” Buzz asks. “She available now? ’Cause from where I’m sitting, we’re supporting a club whore who doesn’t work on her back.”

“Or laps or any flat surface for that matter,” Tequila interjects.

“You letting her loose, Bro? You going to let her open her legs to the rest of us?”

They might have disarmed me, but that doesn’t stop me from flying at Shotgun, catching him by surprise and throwing him backward off his makeshift seat. I’ve got one heavy punch to his face when a bullet hits the ground far too close to my feet.

“Knock it off!” Buzz growls.

I stand back with my hands raised.

Ruefully rubbing his cheek and checking his nose is still firmly affixed to his face, Shotgun first gives a chin lift of thanks toward Buzz, and then states, “Guess that answers our question. Jasmine is still off-limits.”

“Then we need to discuss what the hell she’s doing in the club other than taking up space.”

I spin around to Tequila but can’t seem to do more than let my mouth open and shut. The words she’s mine have to be swallowed down into my throat. She’s not, and I can’t think of the time when I hope that she would be, as that only acknowledges my upcoming loss.

“You haven’t fucked her for months,” Buzz observes.

Now that I can address. “You keeping a check on how often I get my dick wet?”

Buzz chortles. “Your mood says it all, Prez. As does hers.”

The sun is beating down mercilessly, and their interrogation is making me sweat. I wipe moisture off with my bandanna. Then, in a monotone voice, I remind them, “She got pregnant.” I brush a hand back through my hair, gathering it up and retying it into a ponytail. “She got fuckin’ pregnant.”

“And she sorted it.” Shotgun’s eyes narrow. “Is that what the problem is? She aborted your kid?”

It can’t be. I’m the one who told her there was no way she could have my child. She did exactly what I wanted, and no one but me knew how much it hurt that she did. How my guilt was magnified as I knew how much she regretted it. “She got pregnant,” I repeat, sticking to safe ground.

Buzz snorts his frustration. “Didn’t think this was quite how this talk was going to go, Prez. But seems like you need to know some facts about the birds and bees. It takes two to tango. Jas didn’t get in the family way all by herself.”

She hadn’t. I’d gloved up. Used a condom fresh from a pack. But still, she got pregnant. But for some reason, I can’t stop blaming her more than myself.

Until then, I’d had a willing female partner to let me use her body whenever the urge took me. Hell, I’m no monk. I’m a red-blooded man who gets fed up with only using their hand. She’d offered me everything I needed—no emotions involved, just a joint physical need, itches that needed to be scratched.

Jasmine had walked into the club, a broken woman in need of a home. I’d seen her, taken her, monopolised her time. Pulling the prez card, they all knew she was mine. Not liking to share probably comes from me having grown up as an only child. There had been some murmuring but nothing serious. The brothers had enough other women to keep them satisfied.

Jasmine and I had had a good thing for over two years, both knowing the score and knowing there was never going to be anything real between us until it was interrupted a few months ago by those two little lines.

It was then it all went to shit.

“You know we’re financing her project?”

Buzz’s calmly spoken question takes a moment to compute in my head. What project? Since the fateful day, I’ve maintained distance from Jasmine, which is hard to do when we both spend most of our time in the club. But I go out of my way to avoid her. When she’s out of sight, it’s easier to try to keep her out of my mind. Now I’m starting to wonder what she’s been getting up to and whether I should have kept a closer eye on her.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snap as I rack my brain. “I don’t remember authorising giving her money.”

“We don’t give her any more than we do the other club pussy,” Shotgun points out. “Lodging and food for a start. And the pocket money so they can buy the shit they need.”

“I ask again,” my voice a deep growl, “what the fuck are you talking about? In what way are we financing her, and what fuckin’ project?”

Tequila narrows his eyes as he glances my way. “We provide food and keep to a woman who doesn’t work as a club girl. It’s left her with time on her hands. You truly never see what she’s up to when she’s in the clubroom? When she has that laptop open all the time?”

I might try to avoid looking at her, though I’m always overly aware of her presence when she’s in my proximity, the sense of her being close, that unique perfume that seems to surround her. I don’t let my gaze linger even when she catches my eye. My temptation, my guilt, making me keep my distance.

I tap out another cigarette as I try to imagine what they all know that I don’t. One answer comes to mind. “She running an online business or something?” Jasmine is smart. I know nothing about her level of education, but one of my most poignant memories of her is lying in bed after sex and just talking. Her natural intelligence, her unique insight on things, I’d enjoyed our conversations. But remembering isn’t doing me any good. I can’t have her.

“Well, it’s something, all right.” Tequila laughs as Buzz gets up, goes to his saddlebags and returns carrying an object.

When he hands it to me, I take it and see it’s a paperback book. I glance at the title, Falling for the Club President, and then at the author name, J. Frobisher. Neither tells me a lot. I flick through the pages and words leap out that let me know it’s a romance novel, the type of book I’ve seen Jasmine read before. Motorcycle club romance. Fuck, a glorified, sanitised view of life with bikers. I remember teasing her about it. Disinterested, I start to hand the book back.

Shaking his head, Buzz refuses to take it from me. “There’s more. Falling for the Club Enforcer, Falling for the Sergeant-at-Arms, and Falling for the Road Captain. ”

“So?” Are they going to tell me they’ve caught Jasmine reading books? For fuck’s sake, where’s the crime in that? She’s free to do whatever she wants with the little money she gets from the club. “Jas reads. I already knew that.”

Shotgun barks a laugh. “Not these,” he remarks, then frowns. “Well, I suppose she has to. But these particular books? Well, these are the ones she writes.”

She writes?

I tap on the cover. “Say’s it’s written by a woman, or man, called Frobisher. Jasmine’s surname is Smart.”

Buzz sighs. “Ever heard of pen names, Prez? Apparently, Frobisher was the maiden name of a grandmother she had fond feelings for.”

My eyes open wide that the author really is her. Jasmine has written a book. Several of them, by the sound of it. An unexpected wave of pride washes over me. I always knew she had a spark. “You’ve read them?”

I suppose I’ve addressed my question to them all, but don’t expect them all to nod.

“Had to,” Shotgun states. “Wanted to make sure it was all fiction. Don’t want her giving away secrets about the club.”

“And they’re fuckin’ good!” Tequila remarks. “Good writing for a chick. Full of adventure and suspense.”

“And sex,” Buzz drops in. “Don’t forget the sex.”

Shotgun snorts. “Can’t forget that.”

I glare at them all. Having forgotten my lit cigarette, it’s dripping with ash. I tap it off, and then take a long drag. The wheels in my brain start to turn. “Jasmine’s making an income from this?” Buzz’s nod and accompanying shrug suggest he thinks so but doesn’t know. I breathe deep, then let out a breath. “You want me to cut her loose from the club? You think that’s going to make me feel better?”

It’s an answer, I suppose. Out of sight, out of mind. Wouldn’t need to feel guilty if she’s found a way of supporting herself. My stomach grips tight as though I’ve eaten something I’m allergic to. Let her go? It would be for the best…

“Fuck no,” Shotgun barks. “That book,” he nods at the one in my hand, “is the latest she’s published. Think you better read it, Prez.”

Read it? I’m no reader. Well, not unless it’s a Harley manual or some such. I start to shake my head but notice the intense look in my VP’s eyes.

“There’s something in here I’m not going to be happy about, isn’t there?” My brain automatically goes to the place where Jasmine has unwittingly betrayed us. Maybe disclosed some innermost workings of the club to our enemies. And if so, how much repair work will I have to do, and am I going to have to punish her?

Betrayers of the club end up six feet under.

Hesitantly, I glance at the book, and then my gaze lands on my VP, my sergeant-at-arms, and my enforcer in turn. I swallow hard, then speak when I’m sure there’s no unsteadiness in my voice. “This is serious, isn’t it?”

“As fuck,” Shotgun answers.