A Season Of Sin (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters #6)

Chapter 1

One

Opening the wood heater door, I shove a couple of logs inside from the messy pile on the floor. This damn thing is ancient. It’s older than this sorry excuse for a cabin. Wind rustles through the single-paned windows as the mounting winter storm heckles me from outside.

Yeah. I get it. I’m stuck here for a while, living in a primitive four-walled box in the middle of the woods our club, the Sacred Sinners, owns.

There’s an outhouse out back and a well pump for water.

This is about as old-timey as it gets. My cell signal is damn near nonexistent.

At least Sunshine, a fellow nomad brother, keeps the place somewhat stocked.

There’s a single bed with clean sheets and a stack of blankets.

A battery-operated lantern rests beside a handful of books on the stand next to the bed.

In the makeshift kitchen, which ain’t nothing more than a bottom cabinet with a steel bowl on top, I kneel to see what kinda food we got—beans and chili.

I push the cans to the side to find more beans and chili.

Dragging a hand down my face, I scratch my week-old scruff and groan.

Guess I’m havin’ chili for dinner.

When I took this job over the holiday season to free up the brothers who have families who give a fuck about them, I figured I’d drop by the store in the morning like I always do when I occasionally stay here during the warmer months. Dumbass me didn’t consider snow.

Figures.

I live out of a duffel bag most days and prefer to ride where it’s warm in the winter.

What can I say? I travel light.

It’s the life of a nomad.

The lone wolf.

Anytime I’ve been here before, I’ve guided my bike through the woods since nothing else will fit down the narrow path. This is the perfect spot for peace, bonfires, and a case of beer.

The fun goes out the window when snow and ice draw the nuts straight into the body. It’s not my idea of a good time. That’s why I haven’t seen weather like this in a decade or more, and I planned to keep it that way, but… club and shit.

Collecting a spoon from the counter, I crack open the can of chili and set it on top of the wood stove. It’s enough to keep this place warm but not too warm, and the iron should get hot enough to heat my meal. Not that I won’t eat it cold, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I kick off my leather boots by the door, strip down to my boxers, and drop my ass in the rocking chair by the window, my only choice besides the bed to sit on.

The floor creaks ominously as I rock and wait for my food to heat.

The fragrant spices fill the air as the stove does its thing. My stomach grumbles.

Let’s hope I can get out of this place in the morning. I had to park my van at the edge of the woods and trek the rest of the way in. It’s not all that far, but with the snow and ice, it’s gonna suck.

Why did I agree to take this job again?

Oh.

Right.

Families and love and shit. All the things I don’t have.

They needed someone running the Midwest for drop-offs, and by drop-offs, I mean people, vile pieces of shit who are used as torture fodder.

Their deaths are livestreamed. People pay good money to watch them die from the comfort of their homes.

There’s nothing sweeter than watching a man get his organs ripped from his body while he’s still able to scream.

Those sounds are fuckin’ delicious.

Hey, don’t judge me.

You have your vices, and I have mine.

I’m part of a nomadic cleaning crew. Only I upgraded from cleaning up the dead fucks to transporting the soon-to-be dead fucks to people who make them pay.

Sure, I’m not keen on doing the torturing myself.

It’s too messy. But watching it, yeah, that’s where the fun is.

Too bad my phone won’t stream Jack or shit out here.

I guess that’s why Sunshine left those books on the nightstand, huh?

Once my chili is piping hot, I slip on my leather gloves to remove it from the heat and set it on the floor by the door to cool off for a bit. Steam billows from the top as the cool air from outside passes through the cracks.

Once the food is palatable, I fill my stomach, then slip my tired body into bed. A yawn slips past my lips as I tuck an arm behind my head and send a half-assed prayer to whoever might be listening that the walls or the roof don’t collapse on me through the night.

See ya in the morning.

Keep warm.

Peace.