Holley Jolly Biker (Thirteen Bikers for Christmas)

Prologue

Saint – 1999

“I’m goin’ to tell you this one time, and one time only. You better go ahead and pray to whatever god you believe in. Cause once I get my hands on you, you won’t be recognizable.” I snarled at the little punk-ass bitch.

The little punk ass bitch who had the audacity to spit in my face because I shoulder-checked him for bumping into a younger boy.

A younger boy whose only misfortune was being born into a family of crackheads who didn’t give a fuck.

Whether it was the look he saw on my face or something else, I couldn’t tell you, but I inwardly smirked when he moved away from me.

And by moved away from me, I meant that he moved to the other side of the room.

The side of the room that housed sixty-four teens for our four-hour period rec time.

Where were we?

We were all in juvenile detention for one reason or another.

I turned on my heel to go sit back down when I saw Kase Richards walking over to me.

I stopped and clenched my fists just in case.

I had no issues with Kase. None. He was a good guy. As far as I was concerned.

The moment he reached me, he held out his hand, and I placed mine in his and shook it, once we released, I let my hand fall to my side, and then he said, “Got somethin’ I want to run by you. You got a minute?”

Seeing as we still had two and a half hours of this rec bullshit, I nodded.

He jerked up his chin, “Seein’ as society has labeled us as troubled youth for failin’ to conform to their standards, I’m thinkin’ about startin’ a motorcycle club.”

He took in a breath, then he said, “There will be a few laws, rules if you will. The first is we don’t hit women or kids. The second is that we don’t cheat when we find our one. Third, you have your brother’s back, always. Unless he fucks up. Fourth, we don’t deal in human traffickin’, fuckin’ ever. Fifth, no drugs. Sick of seeing good men bein’ brought to their knees by it.”

I thought about it.

Anyone who would hit a woman or a kid needed to have their hands cut off and shoved down their throats.

Anyone who cheated needed to have their dicks cut off and shoved up their ass.

It would be alright to have a group of people that I could trust, ones who would go to bat for me, never fucking had that.

And anyone who dealt with sex trafficking needed to be wiped from the fucking map.

And I agreed unless it was pot because pot never caused anyone to kill someone.

I nodded, “Sounds alright to me.”

Kase nodded, “Almost all motorcycle clubs assign road names. Thought about what yours should be. Thinkin’ it ought to be Saint. Cause every single time someone pisses you off, and let’s face it, it doesn’t take much. You tell them they better pray to whoever they believe in. It’s the shit.”

I thought about it. Saint. Benjamin ‘Saint’ Christopher. Yeah, it definitely had a ring to it.

Therefore, I nodded and said, “And I have the perfect name for you. You wanna talk about how easy it is to piss me off? You’re the opposite. You're calm and calculated, but you get even. And when you get even, it’s almost as if a nuclear bomb went off. So, I’m pleased to know you, Nuke.”

He stood there, his face expressionless, and then, in a split second, I watched a slow grin form on his face, he nodded, “Sounds alright to me.”

He jerked up his chin, then he looked to the far corner, my eyes moved to where he was looking and saw Michael Weathermen, “Think his road name should be Grey. Ain’t never met a single soul at the age of sixteen who already has that much grey hair.”

I smirked, then muttered, “Fittin’. And seein’ as he’s smart as all get out.”

Then I said, “Speakin’ of being smart. We need to have someone good with computers.”

Nuke looked at me and asked, “You thinkin’ about the same guy I’m thinkin’?”

Then, at once, we both said, “Merlin.”

“He already has a killer name, no need to give him a road name,” Nuke said.

My eyes moved to the top and to the guy who stood behind a glass door. He wasn’t allowed out with us. Not after he had beaten the shit out of five guys for thinking it was funny to go into detail about what they planned to do to girls the moment they got out of there.

Jenson had his arms crossed, staring at nothing, his eyes barely moving.

I saw Nuke tilt his head in the same direction, and then he sighed, “Seriously?”

I nodded, “Yeah, and his road name should be Kettle.”

Cause once you pissed him off, there was nothing that calmed him down. Unless you took the little bitch that started it away from his line of sight.

Nuke ran his knuckles over his chin and jerked up his head, “Alright.”

And that was how the five of us, the moment we all turned eighteen and aged out, got to work.

It took us six months doing every odd job we could find in order to buy a rundown hotel that sat on ten acres of land, one that had probably seen better days.

A hotel that had four levels to it. It was on the smaller side, however, for what we needed, it worked.

The back of the land held nothing but the bayou.

And there in the makeshift room, in that run-down motel on one of the hottest days that Louisiana has seen in months, Nuke said, “We need to come up with a name.”

Just like that, names were thrown out, however, for one reason or another, none of them sounded right.

It wasn’t until Grey said, “Hear me out. Seein’ as none of us really like to be touched. We only talk when it’s important. Society has failed us. And we only have a few rules. How about Soulless Outlaws Motorcycle Club.”

I sat there in my rusted, used-to-be white folding chair and thought about it. I liked it. It was different. Fitting.

Therefore, I jerked up my chin.

Grey nodded.

Kettle jerked up his chin.

Merlin smiled, “I like it.”

Nuke jerked up his chin.

And like that, SOMC was born.

“We need to select the officers. First up is President,” Nuke said.

I looked at him, Kettle looked at him, along with Grey and Merlin.

Nuke took in all our looks and shook his head, “Really? Me?”

I smirked, “This shit was your idea, after all. Only seems right.”

And that was how Nuke became the president.

Grey became the Vice President.

Merlin became the tech guru.

Kettle became the enforcer.

And I became the Icer.

Nuke spoke then, “I want to add another rule. We will vote on everythin’ going forward, and this is no different. We don’t allow anyone to prospect with the club unless they are like-minded with us.”

I jerked up my chin in agreement, followed by Grey, Kettle, and Merlin.

And over the next five years, thanks to a security guard who used to be a member of a motorcycle club on our side. Any time a guy came through, and he appeared to be like us and society had failed him, he would give them our card and then send them our way.

That was how we allowed Xander to prospect, and then later, he became our treasurer.

Jury, he prospected, and then he became our road captain.

Then came Jasper. He was a real whiz when it came to paperwork; therefore, naturally, he became our secretary.

Unlike most of us, Jasper had already figured out a device that kept his beast caged. He did woodwork.

And over the past five years, thanks to everyone helping, we were able to get the rundown motel into decent fucking shape, if I do say so myself.

Now, in that once make-shift room, we had dubbed church.

And in the center of that room was a long wooden table with the Soulless Outlaws logo carved into the slab of wood by none other than Jasper. Our logo was something simple, but yet, still fucking fitting. It was a skull over a pile of bones.

No longer did we have those rusted-out folding chairs.

We had nice leather office chairs.

We converted the kitchen into something industrial.

And since none of us could cook, Merlin’s sister, Agatha, took over that duty.

Not only did she cook, but she also cleaned.

And by clean, I mean clean.

Everyone square inch of that place was so clean you could fucking eat off it.

I had just stepped out of my room on the third floor when I felt my phone ring.

Pulling it out, seeing Nuke’s name, I flipped it open and brought it to my ear, “Yeah.”

He said one word, “Cellar.”

That meant that Jasper and Jury had gone out and found the two little motherfuckers.

I grinned, hung up, pocketed my phone, and cracked my knuckles.

It was time to get to work.

Nuke

My arms were crossed over my chest as I watched Saint go to work.

When I first approached him five years ago, I had reservations about going to Saint when I decided to start a motorcycle club. However, over the years, those reservations have fled.

Saint was the one man you didn’t want to wind up in a closed off room with. Cause chances were you wouldn’t be leaving that room still breathing.

And that was the exact case for the two men he had strung up by their wrists in an old cellar we had discovered on the property.

They thought it would be a good idea to peddle human flesh in our town.

That shit doesn’t fly.