1. Candy
CHAPTER ONE
CANDY
P ast—A Little Over One Year Ago
It’s difficult being the most misunderstood and hated woman in the Mercy Ravens Motorcycle Club. With how close knit this group of bikers and their women are, it would seem impossible to be on the wrong side of this crew when you’re an insider. But here I am, sticking out like a sore thumb—the most loathed member of the entire MC.
Most people would crumble under the cold, constant scrutiny of the retired Navy SEALs, current mercenary bikers who make up the brotherhood. However, I’m not most people. It takes more than giving me the cold shoulder or a few muttered words of detest to make me turn cheek and cower.
I decline to show others how they affect me. Call it a defense mechanism, or whatever psychological definition you want to label it. Past traumatic experiences have taught me never to let others see the cracks in my armor—they could weaponise my emotions against me. I refuse to fall victim to my own feelings if I can help it. I’ve learned to wear a mask of indifference like a shield, walling up my emotions like an impenetrable fortress. Thus, my lack of showing empathy toward others has earned me a general dislike among the crew .
Granted, I’ve done enough harmful shit aside from being callous to earn the detestation of the club members. From seeing every woman as a threat to my security within the MC and in turn being a bitch to any woman who joins, my list of offenses is long. And let’s not forget I attempted to steal the vice president of the club away from his old lady and gave a mob-owned hacker access to the MC’s internal security database, a few tarnished stars on my disgusting resume.
Yes, some of the resentment I’ve earned. Though the hacker scenario wasn’t entirely my fault. It’s the latest of my blunders on a long list of transgressions, making it hard for most of the MC members to be empathetic toward my black sheep status. After all the disharmony I’ve caused within the crew, I understand their resistance to letting what I did slide.
Lucky Luca—head mobster enforcer and henchman to Lorenzo Bianchi—coerced me into betraying the club. When you force yourself on a woman, you’ll find most women will do anything not to let it happen again, including betraying their family. I’m proof of it. Fear is the only thing that’ll make me submit to anyone—fear of pain, starvation, enslavement are experiences I’m all too familiar with while trafficked under the thumb of the Bianchi Mafia. Submission isn’t natural for me, but survival will always trump my dominant personality.
Instead of trusting my club to protect me from Luca, I did what the mob asked of me. It was cowardly, but understandable, given my history of sexual assault. Most survivors would do anything to avoid going through it again. My betrayal is something I have to live with for the rest of my days, my burden to bear, and mine alone.
I’m lucky Atlas—the MC president and royal alpha-hole extraordinaire—cooled his jets and listened to Jo. His old lady explained I was a victim as much as the club when I was forced to give the mob’s hacker access to our security systems. Atlas agreed, allowing me to stay on the condition I begin regular therapy to deal with my past trauma. He had all the grounds to throw me out of the club on my ass.
Hell, in some biker clubs, what I did would’ve signed my death warrant. Lord knows I’ve done little good in my twenty-five years to deserve a hint of grace from anyone I’ve subjected to my cruelness, but I’m grateful for the chance to redeem myself within my biker family.
Counseling has helped in my healing journey. But my armor remains intact, hiding my feelings from reaching the surface outside of therapy. Some habits are harder to break without lots of management. I hope with time, I’ll be able to express myself healthily, without the fear of others using my emotions against me.
Still doesn’t mean I’m immune to the silent treatment or radiating resentment of most of the brotherhood. No one has been harsh toward me or thrown my betrayal in my face, but I feel their hostility whenever I come into contact with a member. Their hard glares knick my armor, bruising my tender heart I hide from the world. No matter how strong you appear on the outside, no one is impenetrable on the inside.
Every once in a while, I feel the need to flee their silent persecution, shut out everyone. Today is one of those days. Nothing bad, per se. Just an off feeling.
It’s lunchtime. I bring my ham and Swiss sandwich to the oversized banquet table in the mid-century modern dining room to eat. A few of the guys are already here, eating and bullshitting like any other day at headquarters. They stop their conversation as I take my seat at the other end of the table, away from them. I don’t need to see their judgmental faces to feel their eyes assessing me—I can sense it all over my skin as the little hairs covering my body stand at attention.
Ignoring them as best I can, I pick up my sandwich, forcing myself to take a bite.
Eventually, they talk amongst themselves again, censoring their words and hushing their voices. But I know I’m the reason they hesitate at all.
Worse, I don’t blame them. The guys are always talking club or security business, things that could hurt the MC if told to the wrong people. I abused my position in the club once before—they may worry I’ll do it again if put in another compromising position.
With my nerves rising, I abandon my meal, retreating from the room to find refuge.
The alcove underneath the back staircase of the Mercy Ravens’ headquarters provides me with the sanctuary I need. The space is more of a supply closet, housing the cleaning supplies and paper products for headquarters. It may give off the strong antiseptic smell of bleach, but the enclosure is big enough to give me enough room to sit on the floor comfortably. More importantly, it’s private and free of cameras inside—something of a rarity at headquarters.
It’s not like I want to avoid the crew I consider a surrogate family. I need a moment alone to collect myself, a few minutes to build up my composure before facing anyone.
With my legs crossed underneath me, I practice the meditative breathing I’ve learned from therapy. In and out, I breathe a steady rhythm, attempting to settle my frayed nerves.
Hiding in a closet isn’t exactly ideal, but it’s the only place I can be alone. I could go to my suite, but I share the space with Red—another former MC bunny in the club, and the closest person I have to a best friend. As much as I love Red, I need a place where she doesn’t look at me with pity.
Pity is the last thing I want from anyone—it makes me feel weak. Appearing weak is not an option. People like to take advantage of weak people.
Been there. Done that. Never again.
Leaving the property isn’t an option either. Lorenzo Bianchi rots away in a grave, thanks to Atlas’s mother-in-law—Mama Bear Holland—running him over with his own Lamborghini. But Lucky Luca is still unaccounted for, hiding God knows where, waiting for an opportunity to take advantage of someone.
Knowing he could be anywhere makes my anxiety skyrocket.
Breathe in. Breathe out .
As I meditate, I pick apart my emotions and what’s brought me to this point in my life.
Although I’m alone and actively seek to alienate myself from others, it doesn’t mean I enjoy being alone. The opposite is true. I hate feeling obligated to isolate myself when I become overwhelmed. Not to have someone to share my concerns with is painful on a whole other level.
There’s nothing I loathe more than watching someone else’s happily ever after take root, knowing I’ll never have that connection with anyone.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m extremely happy Atlas found his old lady to spend the rest of his days with. Jo’s a good counterbalance for his controlling ass. Same goes for Opal and Gauge. I may have seen Opal as a threat when she first entered the club, due to my warped ideology that my security within the club would be less than that of the old lady of our VP. But I have gained a friend in her.
It’s not necessarily bitterness for other’s happiness. It’s more of a deep sadness for myself—a melancholy for what I don’t have.
Not every woman gets to ride off in the sunset with the biker of her dreams. Some of us just get to wave at the happy couple as they cruise by.
That’s me. The supportive sidekick in everyone else’s story. Or more appropriately, the villain in most stories.
Thankfully, I’m no longer vile toward my MC family. I’m doing what I can to become a better person for the ones I love.
But unfortunately for me, I’m too damaged from my past to have a love story of my own. Too broken to be anyone’s other half. Nobody wants a busted toy when they can have a shiny and new one.
Damage happens when a near decade of your life is stripped away, forcing you into a life of sex work. Some of it was consensual. Most was not.
It’s not something I dwell on for long periods of time. Too much of my life has been stolen—I don’t want to give any more of myself than need be .
My one-hour therapy session a week with the MC’s unofficial psychologist—Brandon—is more than enough time to relive my past pain and face my demons. I’ve come far in a short period. Though my healing journey is nowhere near finished when I have infinite amounts of trauma to unload and sort.
Life dealt me the short end of the stick. Growing up with druggy parents didn’t give me the nurture or security I desperately needed in my early childhood. It’s not fair to ask a kid to fend for themselves in a tiny rundown trailer with empty cupboards. Nor should a child go without proper clothing, heat, or any of the other necessities any human needs to survive in this harsh life.
Neglect was my childhood norm. All I knew was struggle. Staying meant I’d continue to struggle, or worse, become a druggy like my parents.
Looking for freedom, I took my fate into my own hands, leaving my home and parents behind. It’s doubtful my parents missed me, since no one came looking for me. Not that I expect them to either.
From the age of fourteen, I’ve been on my own. Most young teens can’t legally work. The same was true for me. Instead, I turned to illegal work—turning tricks. When you have no work or life skills but still need to feed and shelter yourself, selling your body isn’t out of the question—it’s an unfair necessity.
Life on the streets was painful. I was constantly worried if I’d get jumped while working the corners, if the shelter would have room, and if the soup kitchen would have enough food to go around.
Not to mention the men who paid for my services. Most were feral monsters who took as they pleased.
But what can you do when you’re a sex worker?
No one’s going to believe a John raped you when he threw some bills your way after the deed. You agreed to sex, and to some that somehow translates to accepting all the despicable things that can result during the act. It doesn’t matter if you stated your boundaries or said, “No” when things got too aggressive. Some men take what they want, and the police don’t care if a sex worker got more than she bargained for, even one who’s legally a child.
Honestly, I’m surprised I survived those first four years alone. I needed a way out of that hell.
An opportunity presented itself while I was working my corner along East Colfax in Denver, Colorado—a shabby area in the city known for sex work. A handsome man in an expensive Italian tailored suit approached me. I assumed it was another businessman looking to get his rocks off on some bought pussy. But this businessman was interested in doing business, asking if I’d consider working for him as a high-end call girl.
“High-end” meant higher pay in my mind, and I accepted his deal without asking what my position would entail. Had I known I was contracting myself into sexual slavery, I would’ve stuck to the streets instead.
My situation went from bad to worse when that businessman became my pimp—one arrogant, dickish Italian mafia don by the name of Lorenzo Bianchi.
Lorenzo was the notorious Don of Denver, and I became his dirty little business secret. When the mob boss wanted to sweeten a business deal with a potential partner, he’d send me in to provide them with whatever “services” were needed to sell the deal.
During my years of forced sex service, Lorenzo transformed me into the ultimate sex bomb. Waxed, styled, and manicured to perfection. Forced breasts augmentation, changing my size-A to double-Ds. Rationed meals to keep my waistline snatched. Anything to make me desirable in the eyes of atrocious men. I may have gone from gutter-trash to upscale sex work, but the Johns were all the same—abusive and contemptible, and all eager to force you into submission to appease their selfish needs.
For five years, I was stuck being Lorenzo’s whore, tossed around like a rag doll to advance his illegal business empire. Years of daily abuse and forced sexual slavery with no time off and no pay threatened to crush my will. And since I was the favorite among Bianchi’s clients, I was used more heavily than most.
Lorenzo did all he could to break me, to bend me to his will and all those he subjected me to. Too bad for him. I’m unbreakable. Lorenzo could let his goons rape me. He could force me to my knees and put a collar around my neck to parade me around like a dog on a leash. But I never submitted willingly .
I submit to no one.
Escape was almost futile, and sometimes fatal. Any Bianchi-owned woman caught running was returned to the brothel to be punished or executed in front of the remaining workers. I can still hear their cries for mercy and the echoes of the gunshots ringing in my ears. They haunt me in the recesses of my mind. Though death waited for me on the outside of Bianchi’s walls, I still craved the freedom, even if it would be short-lived.
One night while the guard stationed at the back entrance of the brothel was enjoying himself, balls deep in one of the other sex workers, I stared at the exit he should’ve been guarding. My palms sweat as adrenaline rose in my system, sending my heart into overdrive. There was no time to think—only act. I grabbed what little I had and slipped out of the exit.
I had no clue where I was going, no plan at all. All I knew was, I needed to distance myself from Denver as fast as possible. It wasn’t hard to hitch a ride with a trucker when I was dressed to service. That ride brought me right to Fort Collins, Colorado, at a roadside bar called Mickey’s Pub. It was there I first met the Mercy Ravens MC.
One night, after hiding from Bianchi for a week, the crew had ridden to the bar to celebrate a successful mercenary mission. I cautiously watched them from my corner booth, nursing a glass of water—the only thing free on the menu. A hulk of a man dressed in all black denim and leather with President Atlas written on his leather biker cut caught my attention. Not because he was ridiculously handsome, but because he radiated confidence, strength, and security—all things I wanted.
The MC president must have felt me staring at him. He turned his black eyes on me, a frown pinching his dark brows together as he took in the state of my tattered and scantily–clad body. Normally, when a man scrutinized my appearance, it was to judge my sex appeal. But this dangerous looking man didn’t observe me with anything other than concern.
He ordered two beers and swaggered over to my booth, offering me the drink. I declined the alcohol, explaining I wouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. He took one glance at my lonely water glass and ordered enough appetizers to fill the table of the booth. I wanted to cry, but I fought those tears hard. It had been ages since anyone showed me any kindness, and I was starving.
Still, I kept my guard up, unwilling to accept anything free without being asked for something in return. We made small talk as I ate, Atlas observing my every move like a bird of prey analyzing its surroundings. He introduced himself, explaining he was the president of the biker club—not a gang—and they worked as hired mercenaries, providing security services to customers and specializing in retrieving missing persons.
When he mentioned breaking up human trafficking rings was one of their bigger jobs, I instantly relaxed. I was in the company of safe men—a rarity for me.
Atlas asked where I was from, and where I was going. I didn’t want to divulge who my pimp was, too afraid to admit I had ties to the mob.
Instead, I explained I was an ex-sex worker, wanting to leave my old life behind. When he asked what my next step was, I shrugged. My only goal was to find a safe place to sleep that night and worry about the next step tomorrow.
My lack of a plan didn’t sit right with Atlas. He insisted I stay with his crew. When I asked if I was supposed to “service” his crew as a trade for room and board, he sneered, openly offended.
“I’m not interested in being your pimp…” He motioned for me to fill in the blank.
“Leslie. My name is Leslie Williams,” I answered honestly. It had been a long time since anyone asked for my name. Most men weren’t interested in anything other than what was between my legs. Names were rarely exchanged.
“Leslie,” he continued. “This is not a tit-for-tat kinda deal. I mean, fuck whoever you want to fuck—I’m not stopping you from having fun. Don’t come looking for any from me. I don’t shit where I eat. If you’re staying with us, I’m not interested. Period.
“This is more a solution to give you a safe place to stay until you figure out what you want to do. In the meantime, the crew always needs help with something around headquarters. There are groceries to be bought, food to be made, and laundry to wash. You’d have your hands full, but we’d give you an income to save for whatever future you’re aiming for.”
Hesitant to accept, I mulled his proposition carefully. The last time I took a job that was too good to be true, it was. It had cost me half a decade of my life on my back.
“Leslie,” Atlas whispered in a deep, gentle voice. “I can see you doubt my intentions. Trust isn’t something to come by easily, and you’re smart to be skeptical of strangers. Now, I may be a big, scary stranger with a rough crew, but I’m an honorable man, as are my brothers. We’re well-known around these parts. Ask anyone you want about us, to help you come to your own conclusion. Just let me get you set up at a hotel, get you off the streets for the night. Okay? My conscience will rest a little easier with you being tucked away safely.”
No amount of willpower could stop the floodgates from opening. I burst into tears, burying my face in my hands. Atlas didn’t touch me to comfort me, like he knew I needed the space. He sat across from me, talking soothing words to help me settle down. I accepted his offer to stay the night in a hotel, sleeping peacefully for the first time in my life.
The next day, I set about asking Mickey—the bar owner—and other regulars of the pub their thoughts on the motorcycle club. Everyone came back with how they were heroes, stellar members of the community, and all-around fun guys.
After concluding the Mercy Ravens were safe, I asked Mickey to ring Atlas. I didn’t hesitate accepting again when he made the offer to stay with the crew, especially when the chance of a better offer falling into my lap was unlikely.
Within a month, I was running the domestic end of the Mercy Raven’s MC life. I was coming out of my shell after years of abuse, becoming more of the woman I wanted to be.
Falling into bed with the members of the crew was a choice, and I was eager to show my gratitude. The sex was good but never left me sated—there was always something missing. It may have been different if I felt a connection beyond appreciation for the guys. Though I wasn’t interested in any of them beyond their security.
A lost wager with Punk—the MC’s security specialist and fourth-in-command—on how fast he could piss off Gauge (which apparently doesn’t take much when it’s Punk taunting the VP) had me dyeing my hair from dirty-blond to bubble-gum pink, earning me the club name “Candy.”
Thinking back on that early memory has a tear sneaking out of the corner of my eye, something that happens more since confiding to Atlas about the hacker. I could have sworn I dried up my tear ducts years ago after learning some sick bastards got off on seeing them. However, a few remained and still surface when I least expect it.
A club bunny’s life isn’t all roses, but it beats working in a whorehouse any day. You’ll never hear me complain about the endless amount of work the MC asks for help with. This biker crew took me in when I needed help the most. I’m eternally grateful for the second chance they’ve given me.
That’s probably why it’s hard for me to forgive myself for my transgressions against the club. Remorse is my constant companion.
Honestly, I’m harder on myself for my betrayal than any of the bikers have been with me. Their forgiveness makes it worse, even though they’re still pissed at me.
One day, I hope to show them I’m worthy of being in this family, that I’m worth all the headaches.
I’m wiping my eyes clear of moisture when the door to the supply closet swings open, causing me to freeze in place like a deer in headlights.
What the hell?
Standing in the doorway is a dark silhouette, haloed by the afternoon sun shining in from the patio doors. My eyes don’t need to adjust to the light to recognize who’s standing in front of me. I’d recognize the hard muscled outline of this Adonis biker anywhere.
My heart quickens as I take in the one club member I’ve fantasized about more times than I can count.
“Candy?” Butch husks, his voice gruff from lack of use. “Why are you hiding?”