Property of Deuce (Kings of Anarchy MC: Atlantic City, NJ #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

DEUCE

When the hot sun blares down from the light blue sky and thick humidity seeps into my bones, I almost bust a nut, it feels so damn good. Five years, three months and sixteen days in the joint will have that effect on a guy who hates to be caged up.

I went from running Atlantic City, to pacing an eight-foot cell.

I fucked up bad, and even though I took the fall for my brothers, they still blame me, and I know why.

Would’ve liked to blame somebody else for my worst fuck-up ever, but that shit laid squarely on my shoulders.

In reality, I could blame my dick and my weakness for leggy blondes with huge tits, but a few sessions with the prison shrink taught me to own my shit. What he called accountability.

Main reason I’m standing alone at the bus stop a mile from Monmouth County Correctional with a prison-issued hundred-dollar debit card in my pocket, waiting for a New Jersey Transit bus to take me to Atlantic City.

In a weird way, I didn’t mind being alone.

I learned at an early age that the only one who would take care of me—was me.

But my fucked-up family life is a story for another day.

The bus pulls up; I swipe my card and head for the back of the bus.

Thankfully, it’s pretty empty, and I nab a window seat, put my small duffel bag at my feet, and lay my head back.

Although all I’ve done today is sign papers and shift from one room to another on my way out of the labyrinth of Monmouth Correctional, I’m fuckin’ exhausted.

I cross my arms over my chest and wriggle into a comfortable position.

I let my mind drift as I look forward to the hour-and-a-half nap.

I wake from my nap about fifteen minutes before the bus pulls into the terminal in Atlantic City. I step off the bus, and the familiar scent of the ocean air brings back a shit-ton of memories, both good and bad.

As much as I dreamed about being released, even had a calendar posted next to my bunk where I checked off the days every night, it was fuckin’ scary being out in the wild again.

On the inside, somebody tells you when to get up, when to shower, when to shit, when to eat, when to go to bed.

As much as the regimen sucks, it’s also calming in some respects.

Especially for a guy like me who can get distracted by the wind.

Prison kept me grounded, kept me focused. The monotony was soothing.

From what I could see, nothing much had changed. A few more hotels closed down, and the outskirts of the casinos and the boardwalk were as shitty as ever.

After a visit to the bank and my safe deposit box, where I stashed my cut and a large chunk of cash I squirreled away before the DEA sting, my next stop would be visiting my beautiful princess—the only one I thought of constantly in the joint.

Her sleek lines and curves in all the right places.

Fuck, she could make me come just thinking about her.

In fact, my dick was getting hard right now at the thought of all her sexy deliciousness.

Wrapping my thighs around her and riding her hard while screaming into the night was my favorite fantasy.

She was every biker’s wet dream, and I couldn’t wait to rev her up and listen to her purr in my ear.

Yeah, she was my first love, my only love, the one who never let me down.

She never shit on me, never gave me heartache, and I’d never find her in bed buck naked with her boss.

And, yeah, that happened with this chick I hung with back in the day.

Came home, and there she was, sucking the life outta her boss’s dick—in our bed, that I paid for.

Then she had the nerve to tell me it was only a blowjob.

Bad news, I was living with a whore. Good news, I grabbed the guy’s money, then knocked the shit out of him.

But none of that matters, ‘cause right now I’m about to run my hand down the softest, supplest body I’ve ever known. The true love of my life.

“She still looks good, right?” Maggie stands next to me as I gently pull the cover off my steel-gray Harley Softail.

“Amazing.” Not to sound like a pussy, but my eyes actually tear up.

“Just the way you left her.” Maggie does a slow circle around the Harley. “I’d come out and start her up and check on her while you were gone, but as you can see, she wore the years well.”

“Yeah,” I choke out, then turn away from Maggie’s gaze. Shit, I’m supposed to be a hard-ass biker, and here I am choking back alligator tears.

Maggie’s firm hand hits my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re finally out.”

“Me the fuck too.” I clear my throat and turn back to face her. “You look good.”

“Ha,” she huffs out a laugh. “Not bad for a fifty-year-old former bad-ass bitch who smokes too much.”

“Nah, you always look good to me.” I pull Maggie in for a hug, and she hugs me back.

“Shit, you must need glasses, boy.” She points to her face. “I got more fuckin’ wrinkles than a California grape.”

Maggie was what people called rawboned, with sinewy muscle wrapped around long legs and arms. She was a dealer at the Borgata with a mind like a steel trap, and a good friend, but I sure wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful. So beautiful I don’t know how you’re still single.”

“That’s easy. ‘Cause I ain’t willing to put up with any man’s bullshit, I like to do my own thing, and there will never be anyone like Storm.”

My lips curve up. “Fuckin’ true.”

She’d ridden with Storm, the prez from a club up in Asbury Park, and word was she was as tough as him in a fight, and I fuckin’ believe it.

Storm was balls out all day, every day, until it caught up with him in a shit bar in Newark.

He got into it with a guy from a local street gang, then proceeded to beat the guy bloody.

An hour later, when he left the bar, the gangbanger’s crew slit his throat in the alley. They said he bled out in minutes.

“That man could piss me off like no one else. He could also be as sweet as sugar when he wanted to be, and when he fucked me with that thick nine-inch dick of his, I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”

“Shit, Mags, you’re talking to a guy who’s been using his fist for the last five years, three months and sixteen days.”

“I ain’t lying. That man could fuck like—”

I throw up my palms. “Stop.”

“I love to watch you squirm.” Maggie barks out a laugh. “C’mon inside and have a beer.”

“Sounds good.”

We settle at her kitchen table, and I take a long swig of the much-needed beer. Way better than the piss water they smuggled into prison. “So, I guess you know what I have planned.”

“I can pretty much guess, but I think it’s a shit-poor idea.”

“Why?”

“You’re asking me why?”

“Yeah, might as well hear what you have to say.”

“Look, nobody loved the outlaw life better than me, but sometimes you have to know when to fold.”

“That’s your advice. Fold?”

“You just spent five years in the joint. You in a rush to go back in?”

“Five years, three months and sixteen days,” I correct with a smirk.

“Whatever.” She shakes her head. “Get a straight job, and stay outta trouble. That’s my advice.”

“You sound like my CO.”

I appreciate Maggie’s opinion, but she’s older now, and without Storm, it’s hard for her to be objective.

“Anyway, what makes you think any of the others are even interested?”

“Only one way to find out.” I pull at the label on the beer bottle. “You ever see any of them?”

“Every once in a while. You know how it is, Atlantic City is a small town, but we don’t talk about the old days much. Nobody’s interested in rehashing all the bad shit that went down.”

“Because of me.”

“It’s never just one person.” Maggie tries to give me an out.

“Except I fucked up big.”

Turned out the leggy blond was with the DEA and set me up big time.

I could twist it any way I wanted, but it was me who let her into the clubhouse.

It was me who shared some club secrets while I was balls deep in her snatch, and it was also me who got drunk and high, then passed out, giving her full access to the laptop in my room.

The same laptop containing all the spreadsheets on every piece of contraband and where we housed it, plus our large supply of counterfeit bills mainly used for and with our underground gambling warehouse.

And, yeah, they did a sweep of that too.

“I guess you could say that.”

“But I’m gonna change that all around. I plan on bringing the Kings back stronger than ever.”

All in all, it was a major fuck-up, and feeling like a piece of shit for letting this all happen ‘cause of my raging dick, I cut a deal with the DA. I took the hit, owned up to all of it, pleaded guilty, and my brothers got off with a few months of probation, but that didn’t soften the blow.

To all of them, including me, the club was home—and I’d lost it.

“But you paid the price.”

Would’ve been nice if one of them came to visit me in all those years, but I get it. I knew plenty of guys who got sent up, and once they’re gone, they’re gone. Nobody gives a shit. Most times, they’re just happy it’s not them behind bars.

“Storm always said it sucks for guys like you and him to be locked up.” She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Fuck knows he knew about getting locked up.”

“It sucked, but I was one of the lucky ones with connections to other clubs and a bad-ass rep.”

I basically picked my cellie, had my choice of jobs, and waited out my time trying not to fuck up. Don’t get me wrong, the place was a shit-hole, but I wrangled a job in the prison library, and by a stroke of luck, I caught one of the guards screwing an inmate in said library.

Keeping my mouth shut earned me unlimited access to the computers any time I wanted. A huge perk since I was able to keep track of my brothers and what they were doing since I got sent up.

“I still don’t understand how a wild ass like you got out early.”