Excerpt from Hellbound Hearts
It’d been years since he’d seen the clubhouse—or any of the brothers.
Not one of them came to visit, sent a letter, called. Ten years, four months, six days. He’d counted every one of them. Every minute. Every second. And now, as he stepped through the prison gates, it was supposed to be freedom. But freedom came with strings. Always did for a man like him.
The worst part? He hadn’t even committed the crime. Just did the time for another brother. One who never said thank you, never once owned the debt. Never honored the code they’d all sworn by.
A promise broken.
And now Church wanted payment.
Fuck the code. It was nothing but words to the ones who’d left him behind. Left him to rot in a cage while they lived their lives.
He glanced up and down the road outside the prison gates. No ride. No patch waiting. Not even a familiar face behind a pair of dark sunglasses.
So that’s how they wanted to play it. Fine. He knew the game better than most. And he played by his own set of rules.
A low rumble grabbed his attention. An older model Camaro rolled down the road heading straight for him. When the car pulled up, Church leaned down. Glancing inside he saw Book and smiled. The guy had been stand-up while in the pen.
He watched the window roll down. “You need a ride?” Book called out.
“Yeah. Brother, I could use a lift,” he said with a bigger smile.
Book waved him to get in the car.
“Thanks for the ride. But how did you know I was gettin’ sprung?”
“You said as much when I spoke to you last month,” Book said as he watched Church throw his bag in the backseat.
Sliding into the passenger seat, he closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Standing on the sidewalk had given him the itch. All he kept thinking was they’d come out and scoop him up, saying they'd made a mistake, and he wasn’t paroled.
“Sorry, Book. It’s nothing against you, brother.”
“Church, you’ve nothing to apologize for. I’ve walked out those gates and wondered if anyone remembered me. They had. And I’ll always be here if you need me. We’re brothers.”
Nodding his head, Church understood what the kid was saying. They’d been through some heavy shit in that hellhole of a prison. At one time he’d owed Book his life, then he saved Book’s. It went that way for a while until they got the reputation that you didn’t fuck with either of them.
“How’s life on the outside?”
“It’s good. Still figuring things out, but it’s only been six months.” Book pulled out onto the road.
Church stared out the window thinking about hunting down those who betrayed him. When he found them, he’d do what he did best—burn every lie to the ground and salt the earth behind him. He wasn’t looking for redemption. He wanted a reckoning. And he’d be damned if anyone got in his way.
First stop: his bike.
It’d been stored at a buddy’s place. Or that’s where he’d left it. If it had been stripped or sold while he was locked up, he’d be heading right back to prison—and this time, he’d earn the sentence.
“You've got a place to land?” He heard Book ask him.
“Nope, but I’ll figure it out,” Church said still staring out the window. “But I do need to pick up my ride.”
“Where to?” Book asked.
Church turned his head. “You don’t mind?”
“Nah, man.”
Church gave Book the address and went back to staring out the window.
The ride took hours. The conversation between him and Book was a silent one.
It didn’t bother him…after all the noise in the prison he preferred the quiet.
The stretch of cracked highway, the heat radiating off the asphalt, the weight of a leather jacket that hadn’t fit right since the day he got tossed in a cage.
All of it reminded him of the years that had been stolen from him.
The further he got from the prison, the lighter he felt. The time was still heavy, sure. But not the same bone-deep weight he’d carried for over a decade.
By the time they turned onto the back road where the shop sat—the sky was painted in a deep bruise-purple. The sun was dying slowly behind the trees.
Climbing out of the car he waved Book off. Checking over his shoulder, he saw he wasn’t leaving. “Book. You can roll, brother.”
“Not until I see your good,” Book told Church. “I’ll just lean back and take a nap.”
Church sighed. Book hadn’t changed. The brother was standup as he always had been. “It could be a few hours.”
“Like I said…nap time.” Book smiled cranked the seat back and killed the engine. He heard Church pat the car door with a steady rhythmic thud. Cracking an eye, he watched the man walk off.
The metal fence was still there, still patched together with chain and rust. A familiar yellow mutt barked once before recognizing him and slinking back into the shade.
“Still alive, you ugly bastard,” he muttered as he pushed open the gate. It screeched in protest, like it knew it was letting in a ghost.
The shop hadn’t changed much. The faded sign above the roll-up door read Rick’s Auto & Salvage in barely there red paint. The kind of place you didn’t just stumble on. You had to know it.
He walked around the side where a line of busted cars sat like forgotten bones. Knocked twice on the side door. Waited. Then once more, louder.
The lock clicked. Rotgut appeared in the doorway, a cigarette hanging off his bottom lip and a .38 tucked in his waistband. His eyes widened, then narrowed.
“I’ll be damned,” he rasped. “You look like shit.”
“And you look like you never stopped drinkin’ Rotgut,” Church replied.
Rotgut snorted, stepped back. “Bikes in the shed. Didn’t touch it.”
“You'd better not have.”
“Wouldn’t dare. Keys are inside the saddlebag. Battery’s dead, but I kept the fluids topped up. Figured you’d come lookin’ one day.”
Church didn’t answer. He just walked past him, boots crunching gravel. He rounded the corner, shoved the shed door open and saw it—still covered in the same black tarp he’d thrown over it a decade ago.
He tugged the tarp off. Matte black and mean as hell. Low bars. Wide tires. Still his.
His fingers twitched as he ran his hand along the tank, the custom paint faint but intact. The seat was cracked from age, and the chrome dulled, but it was his. The one constant that hadn’t betrayed him.
He slung his leg over and sat.
Solid.
Home.
Rotgut tossed him a jump box, and with a grunt, Church hooked it up where the battery could get a full charge. “Got anything cold around here, Rotgut?”
“Yeah, but it’s not alcohol. I’ve been sober for four years.”
“No shit. Good for you. After ten years of my own sobriety, I’d probably be piss drunk after one beer.”
Rotgut chuckled as he waved Church to follow him to the house.
An hour later, Church thanked Rotgut for the sandwich and the soda, then walked back to the shed to see if his bike would turn over.
The engine coughed once—twice—then roared to life like a demon dragged from sleep. He grinned. First genuine grin in ten years.
“Where ya headed?” Rotgut called over the noise.
Church revved the throttle and tossed a look over his shoulder. “Montreal.”
Then he took off—leaving dust, exhaust, and the place behind him. As he pulled through the gate, he saw Book still sitting waiting on him. Pulling up next to the car, he thanked him for the ride.
“Where ya headed, Church?” Book asked him.
“Montreal.”
“What’s in Montreal?”
“Payback.”
“If you find yourself needin’ a place to crash, come to the Royal Bastards clubhouse. We’ll put cha up,” Book told him.
Sticking his hand through the window, Church thanked Book. As he shook his hand, he gave Book a smirk. “Thanks, again. And stay out of trouble, kid.”
“Hey, I figured it was the least I could do for my brother.” Book cleared his throat. “Thanks for everything, Church.”
“No problem.”
Pulling away from the car, Church was ready for some wind in his face.