Fuse (Dark Slayers MC #26)

Chapter 1

Fuse

We rolled into the annual Pacific Alliance of Territory, Clubs, & Highways rally at dusk.

Yeah, it was a mouthful and that’s why everyone just called it PATCH.

I couldn’t believe I was here. This rally was legendary and I’d wanted to come for years.

Bikers from all over talked about all the cool events and the sense of brotherhood there.

Once a year, every outlaw and independent motorcycle club in California converged on neutral ground. Every biker who rode in was equal, no matter their club or rank. Grudges were set aside and for one brief weekend we were all just brothers under the same dark sky.

After the long ride we were hot, dusty, and dying for an ice-cold beer.

I got off my bike, pounded the dust off my clothes, and looked up at a huge banner draped across the airport terminal.

The landing strip was decommissioned almost a decade ago.

The Pacific Steel MC was hosting the event this year.

I waited for Storm, Celt, Breaker, Thunder, and Renegade.

We walked into the terminal and got into line to sign in, pay our patch fee, and get our stamp.

The line was moving along briskly, with three brothers from Pacific Steel running the table.

One was shoving the seventy-five-dollar patch fee for each guest in a cash box.

Another was stamping hands or necks as proof of payment.

We’d already been warned that no weapons were allowed so the third PS brother was waving a metal detector over each guest.

I was dying to get something cold to drink but there was always one in every crowd. I leaned sideways to see a couple of prospects from a small one percent club acting like fools. One wanted his stamp on his fuckin’ forehead.

Storm growled, “Stamp the stupid fucker, so we can get the line moving. We’re burnin’ daylight here.”

I glanced over my shoulder at our club president. Storm might have left the military years ago, but he still did everything like he had the enemy on his heels.

The Pacific Steel brother cursed under his breath and slammed the stamp into the younger man’s forehead so hard it sent him reeling backwards. He just laughed as he steadied himself. Drunk bastard.

Meanwhile his partner in crime was hell bent on outdoing him and went for his zipper.

“I’ve got the perfect place to put the stamp.”

Thunder growled, “The whole point of wearing the mark is so the hosting club can tell who’s paid and who hasn’t. You plannin’ to run around all weekend with your dick hangin’ out?”

Celt shot him an annoyed look before asking in his thick Irish accent, “Where the feck is yer club president?”

That put a damper on his enthusiasm real fast. When he hesitated the man wielding the stamp reached out and stamped his neck so fast the guy didn’t know what hit him. When the two chuckleheads wandered off, the line started moving again.

We moved together. Storm in front with his cousin, Celt, shoulder to shoulder.

Thunder and Renegade behind them. I brought up the rear, looking through the back window for the rock band I could hear playin’ in the background.

The closer we got to the table, the louder the noise inside the terminal got.

Music from some stage at the far end, shouting, bottles clinking, bikes rumbling as more riders pulled in outside.

One of the Pacific Steel guys held out his hand. “Club and chapter?”

Storm answered. “Dark Slayers MC, one and only.”

The brother nodded, holding out his palm for the patch fee. “I thought your club had affiliates.”

Storm dropped cash into his hand. “No. We have allies, not affiliates.”

He just grunted as his partner asked, “Hand or neck?”

“Hand,” Storm said. “We got enough ink every-fuckin’-where else.”

We all took turns shoving seventy-five bucks into their hands and getting our stamp. Their treasurer dropped bills in the cash box, counted fast, then the guy with the stamp jerked his chin for the next person in line.

We were finished in no time. The third brother swept the metal detector over Storm, then Thunder, then the rest of us. It beeped when it passed over Thunder’s belt buckle. They checked to make sure it was just his oversized belt buckle and waved him on.

Once we were cleared, we moved out through the back of the terminal.

Pacific Steel’s club colors were everywhere I looked.

I could finally get a clear view of the rock band and all the banners.

There was one announcing a bare-knuckle boxing match scheduled for tomorrow evening.

And best of all, there was a huge drinks cart with a sign that said, ‘Ice Cold Beer’.

Which seemed fuckin’ redundant, because who’s gonna drink warm hot beer?

I broke off from the pack and made a beeline for it.

Handing them a tenner, I took the large beer and guzzled half of it in one mouthful.

Clubs who would normally have been at each other’s throats were lined up at the same food stalls and eating at the same long rows of folding tables. It was weird as fuck, but everyone was walking around acting like it was totally normal, so I guess that’s just the way things rolled at PATCH.

Renegade walked up and unexpectedly slapped me on the back. “You got the right idea, brother. Beer first, enjoy the sights after.”

Thunder snorted. “Yeah, you forgot food though. Beer, then food, and then take in the sights. That’s the fuckin’ natural order of things.”

I held up my beer in his direction. “I’ll fuckin’ drink to that, brother.”

Storm shot us all a dark look. “Drink all you want. Just stay out of trouble. We aren’t here to gawk like we ain’t never seen a biker rally before. We’ve got important shit to do and only two days to get it done.”

Celt grinned, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Aye, cousin. We’ll be perfect angels fer ya.”

“Celt,” Storm warned.

Celt shot Storm a quick glance. “Calm the feck down, cousin.” Handing Storm a beer, he joked, “We’ve been drinkin’ and gettin’ shite done fer years.”

After his first beer of the day, Storm did manage to relax a bit.

I knew this was the place where he touched base with other club presidents from across the state, some he hadn’t seen for a long time.

They made alliances, carved territory, and settled simmering disputes.

So, yeah this was an important time for him and our club.

I wasn’t about to do anything stupid to get in the way of that.

“I’m gonna check in with Slim’s officers,” Storm said. “Pay respect, make sure there is nothing Pacific Steel MC needs from us. I want you with me, cousin.”

“Copy that,” Celt mumbled before downing the last of his beer.

We ate, walked, and took in the sights, even as Storm and Celt disappeared.

I noticed other brothers from our club were milling about.

Grit, Razer, and Teeny were circled around an impromptu wrestling match between a Sons of Rage brother and someone whose cut I didn’t recognize.

We drifted over to the stage and watched the live rock band for a bit.

Pacific Steel did a righteous job of putting together this rally.

Bikes and tents were strung all down the runway tarmac. It was a fuckin’ glorious sight to see.

We saw Hash and Bones up ahead, waving for us to join them at the main bar setup.

By now it was just me, Renegade, Teeny, and Razer.

Halfway there the crowd shifted sideways, alerting me that something interesting was going on in that direction.

The intercom crackled and then a booming voice said, “Gather around for the auction of a lifetime.”

Glancing at my club brothers, I raised my voice to be heard over the excited chatter.

“I ain’t never heard of a PATCH auction but that don’t mean there ain’t any.”

Razer gestured for Hash and Bones to join us before saying, “I’ve been comin’ here for years and we ain’t auctioned shit in all that time. This is something new.”

I began shuffling my feet in that direction. “We’d best check it out. It could be cool PATCH merch.”

Renegade sucked in a deep breath. “I see something on the stage and it ain’t merch.”

Renegade was the tallest fucker I’d ever seen, so he could see things the rest of us couldn’t. “Whatcha seein’, bro?”

“It’s a woman and she looks scared. Along with what looks like a slimy fucker in a cut with a microphone.”

“The fuck?” I muttered. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

Teeny spoke up, “I’m pretty fuckin’ sure they’re not allowed to do shady shit like that here. I’m gonna go get Storm and the Pacific Steel club president.”

Before any of us could respond, he spun on his heel and took off running, pushing his way through the quickly gathering crowd.

We moved forward with the crowd as I tried to catch a glimpse of what Renegade was seeing. Bones and Hash finally caught up with us.

“Who the hell are they?” I asked.

Bones was the one to answer. “It’s a new club. They call themselves Stolen Oath MC. I’ve seen them before but didn’t know they were into this kind of shit. Ran into the asshole with the microphone once at a gas station. Calls himself, Viper.”

By the time we pushed our way to the front of the crowd, Storm, Celt, Thunder, and a handful of other club brothers were there. They had a heavyset man with them wearing a Pacific Steel cut with a president’s patch. This was the guy Storm went to talk to, Slim.

Slim growled, “What the fuck is it with first timers always doin’ unpredictable, out of pocket shit?”

The Stolen Oath club president just grinned. “I told ya I was bringing a little surprise. And now you know that I always keep my fuckin’ word.”

Slim folded his arms over his chest. “I thought you meant you were bringin’ a shiny fuckin’ red apple to shove into the pig’s mouth at the pig roast or something mundane like that.

” Gesturing to the terrified woman, Slim insisted, “This is a fuckin’ no-go.

You are not auctioning off a woman at my damn rally, shithead. ”

Pointing to the patch on his cut, he said, “My name is Viper. You’d best show some respect and use it.”

“Well, excuse the everlovin’ fuck outta me, Viper. Now get off the damn stage with this shit before I throw you out of the rally.”

“You’ve got no grounds to throw me out or to forbid me from auctioning off my own property,” the young club president shot back.

“I know some clubs traffic women. Pacific Steel ain’t one of them.”

Viper flicked on the microphone again. “You’re telling me I can’t auction off my own damn property?

Then you should have put that in your list of rules.

Your invitation said that outside of the list of attached rules anything goes.

Your rules said no drugs except weed. No killin’ each other.

No fightin’ dirty enough to put someone in the hospital.

You had four dozen rules and not one of them said anything related to auctioning personal property.

That means I can sure as fuck auction off my pretty little virgin.

” His voice reverberated through the crowd.

He paused dramatically before continuing, “My club needs cash and this bitch should fetch a nice price.”

Storm spoke up, “Women are not property and you goddamn well know it.”

“Her daddy sold her to me to settle a gambling bet. That means she once belonged to him. Now, she belongs to me.”

Slim raised his voice to be heard over the mutterings of dissent. “I said no. Don’t do this kind of shit here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let this be your last warning.”

Viper spat out, “Reckon your rally’s gonna get a lot less popular when people realize you discriminate against smaller and newer clubs. I guess we’re not all created equal here after all, right?”

When Slim’s arms dropped to his sides, I already knew who won this fight.

My eyes roamed over to the young woman, as Storm, Celt, and Slim stepped aside to have a whisper argument.

She had her arms wrapped around her waist. It was a pose that makes her look even more vulnerable. She must have been terrified.

I knew the others must have seen the same things that I saw when I looked at her.

She was wearing a skirt, leggings, boots, and a sweater over her prim and proper button-up shirt.

She looked like she just came home from Sunday school.

Her hair was a bit of a mess, but it was easy to see that at one time those blonde curls had probably laid perfectly against her head.

She was staring down at the ground and trembling slightly.

When she glanced up for a second, I saw the bruises running along one delicate cheekbone and her mascara was running, likely from crying.

My jaw tightened so much it hurt when I saw her bottom lip was split at the corner causing that half of her lip to be swollen.

I fuckin’ hated everything about this situation.

This young woman was not from our world at all—but even if she was, then whoever did this to her deserved to be put in the ground.

Thunder swore under his breath. “Aw, hell.”

“She’s not a club girl,” Renegade whispered. “She’s not even a hang-around.”

Storm and Celt broke away from Slim and stalked back over to our group. Storm’s jaw was locked tight.

Slim spoke up, so everyone could hear. “I’ve ruled in favor of Stolen Oath MC on this issue.

Since there were no rules about auctioning personal property, Pacific Steel MC will remain neutral.

That means the fallout is all on Viper and his club.

Nobody is being forced to hang around for this auction.

No matter how you feel about this auction, nobody gets to brawl over it.

You either walk away, stay and watch, or you bid.

If you win the bid, you pay, take your merch, and leave with her.

That’s as much quarter as I’m willing to give on this. ”