Splice (Diablo Disciples MC #8)

ONE

Splice

Death and boredom were a match made in heaven.

As Splice circled his fingertip around the rim of the glass of scotch, he’d yet to drink from, he took a deep, weary breath.

The funeral wake had been in full swing for a few hours now, and his Diablo Disciples brotherhood had been doing enough drinking to sink a battleship and the oak coffin.

He remained sober because he intended to ride home and sleep in his bed.

At least he was still getting it up at his age, Splice thought. Any man should be so lucky.

It had been a mark of respect that the club had ridden out of town to pay their last farewells.

Splice tagged along because he’d been bored as fuck hanging out at the clubhouse with not much to do other than business matters, and nothing made him happier than when he could feel the wind whistling through his ears at a breakneck speed.

As he swiveled around on the barstool, bracing his booted feet to observe the room, he reckoned he’d give it another hour, which was his lot.

“How many of these have we done this year?” He asked, and Tomb knocked his ringed knuckle on the bar and reached for his glass, downing the clear liquid in one gulp.

“About five, isn’t it? The old-timers are all dropping like flies. They partied like fucking animals back in the day, but death still comes to us all, eventually.”

“Is that a clue for us to go easy then, so we don’t drop dead at fifty?” smirked Splice, and his closest buddy snickered, fishing around in a bowl of nuts; he tossed a few into his mouth.

“I think that ship has sailed. For me, anyway. You’re still a young buck; you’re not thirty yet, right?”

“At the end of the year, I will be,” answered Splice. He shares his birthday with Jesus. He’d hated it as a kid because everyone always combined gifts, as if it were only one event. Nowadays, he doesn’t give a damn if anyone remembers his birthday; he could have enough fun for himself.

Though Tomb was in his mid-forties, their age gap hadn’t hindered their strong friendship. He was to be the best man at his friend’s wedding tomorrow.

“Then there’s still time for you to keep off the hard stuff and change your ways.”

Splice laughed at Tomb’s joke. “What hard shit? If you mean licorice laces, you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, dead hands.”

Splice had a sweet tooth, and he catered to it daily. He might not be snorting coke anymore like some party animals, but he had regular sugar suppliers.

Speaking of. He scowled and rimmed the glass again. “What the fuck is up with Diamond not baking shit for me anymore?”

Tomb half grinned. “You’re still sour about that?”

“With good reason. I used to get a tray of cinnamon buns with thick frosting at least twice a week. Now I’ve gotta wait until his old lady is in the mood for a treat and I get the dregs of leftovers. It’s just not right.”

The MC bodyguard, who baked like a Michelin chef, was cruising for his face to be punched in if he kept Splice hanging on for a treat much longer.

“The asshole got me hooked on his crack and then cut me off cold turkey.”

Tomb found this hilarious and laughed for a few seconds.

“He’s got the love of a good woman, my man. He used to bake when he had shit on his mind; all that’s on his mind now is his old lady and their kid.” Then Tomb dared to smirk and add on. “Might happen to you one day.”

“And the sun might fall out of the sky and scorch the hairs off my perfect ass. Let’s not put that curse on me, yeah? I have to deal with the old ladies trying to fix me up with all their single cougar friends.”

Relationships were a no-no. Splice would stick to his sugar addiction.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried the relationship thing for himself once upon a time, forever ago.

He loved women more than any other man on Earth.

He enjoyed their company, their smell, and their laughter. He even liked the mood swings they threw randomly for reasons only they understood—probably caused by a man.

But to be with the same woman for the rest of forever seemed far-fetched to Splice, though most of his buddies were loved up and seemed to enjoy it.

He just reckoned that some men weren’t meant for that lifestyle, because if a relationship were ever going to stick, it would have happened already with the number of women he’d casually dated.

There was a time, he remembered, when he’d wanted only one woman, but that ended abruptly.

Splice switched his gaze toward Tomb again, who was draining his glass. Though older than him by a decade, his closest friend had a wise head on his shoulders, and Splice knew the guy would limit his booze, mainly because of what was happening tomorrow.

“You got your fair share of that,” he remarked and watched Tomb’s eyes light up, amused. “Since you’re getting married again.”

“And it was my idea.” He seemed proud of that fact as Tomb flashed a grin. Splice laughed and shook his head.

Right then, a crash was heard, and Splice twisted around on the barstool in time to see two old goats breaking a low coffee table as they landed on it. Grappling, punches were thrown, and a baying crowd laughed at their antics.

It wasn’t a good funeral until someone was bloodied.

After a quick scuffle, the two elderly men swayed, their arms linked, as they made their way to the rear.

Axel and Bash joined the pair.

Their Prez announced. “I’m heading out soon. Don’t wanna leave Scarlett overnight.”

His old lady was expecting their first child.

Chain’s wife was also in the latter stages of pregnancy.

“I’ll go with you, Prez,” Splice told him. “I don’t wanna bed down here.”

Bash nudged him with his shoulder, half-smirking. “You don’t have your eye on any sweet things?”

Splice hadn’t even looked.

He was that far into celibacy, but no one seemed to take him seriously when he told them, so he’d stopped saying it. Instead, he shook his head. “Not enough to give up sleeping in my bed tonight. I need to be prettier than ever to stand with my boy tomorrow.”

The others laughed.

“Second fucking wedding, in this economy.” Said Bash, but Tomb only smiled. Because he was always at Tomb’s place like his second home, Splice knew better than anyone that he’d do anything for her.

“What was that?” Asked Tomb, craning his neck to eyeball Bash, their club secretary. “Didn’t you buy your little nurse a state-of-the-art camper van earlier this year because she got a fancy for traveling around the country? How many days did she last before wanting to come home?”

“Three,” Axel answered, amused, when Bash hesitated.

The teasing went on about who spoiled their old ladies the most.

It was a conversation Splice couldn’t add to, but he enjoyed ribbing the guys about their sappy ways.

As he climbed off the stool, he felt himself being bookended by soft bodies on either side.

He switched his gaze to the woman on his left.

With blonde hair streaked with pink and soft curls cascading over her shoulders, she looked up at him, her pink lips smiling as her fingertips brushed his shoulder.

“Hi, I’m Lyra. Is there anything you need, sugar?

Food? Drinks? Double company?” She smiled and walked her fingertips up his chest. Her friend was pressed against his side, and Splice levered his gaze between the pair.

Sara introduced herself and mentioned they were cousins, then slipped her arm through his flirtatiously.

“We saw you looked lonely and came to change that.”

God, he loved forward women, so Splice grinned at the pair. As beautiful and open as they seemed, his answer would be the same anyway.

“Thanks for the generous offer, ladies, but I’m about to head out.”

They gave him matching pouts. “Aww, really? You don’t wanna change your mind? I promise we can make it worth it.”

He bet they could, but he still untangled himself from the women. It took him another five minutes to escape them, and he met Axel and the others outside. Some of the Diablos were too wasted to drive, so they were staying overnight.

“Didn’t expect to see you, brother,” Axel remarked, straddling his bike as he tied his hair in a tail at his neck before he slipped on a pair of leather gloves.

“I told you already that I wasn’t staying over.”

“Usually, a pretty face can change your mind.”

Maybe in the past they could have, but not recently.

Sweet bottoms had once been his favorite hobby; he could admit that.

Sex had been his sport for a long time, but then Splice had realized that when sex had become mechanical to him, leaving him unsatisfied afterward, he’d needed a change of scene.

But his bed-hopping preceded him, so he couldn’t blame his brothers for not believing him when he said he was resting his dick.

With the funeral left behind them, the Diablos group formed toward the highway.

Splice loved this part of any ride. He felt the wind whipping his face as his shades guarded his eyes.

His leather-gloved hands gripped the handlebars, his speed increasing as his sweet machine ate up the asphalt road, taking him toward Laketon.

It was fair to say many people hated the Diablo Disciples MC, even without knowing them; their reputation for violence, shady dealings, and thuggery, as people saw it, outweighed the truth of who they really were.

But Splice never bent backward to reassure folks that what they thought about them was wrong.

He cared for his family, always had his patched brother’s back, and walked his outlaw path happily. He wasn’t malicious, but he’d step over a dying motherfucker first before he’d soothe their little feelings.

But that was Splice.

People who knew him closely would say he was friendly, approachable, and reliable. Maybe that was true. He thought about it during the long ride home.

Being called a thug wasn’t the worst thing to be accused of. In his lifestyle, some people on the wrong side of Splice had seen what he was capable of.

He hadn’t been given the road name Splice for shits and giggles.

Few knew what it meant, and he wasn’t in the business of explaining himself. He let his name do the talking. That was if folks got on his wrong side, and they were front and center to witness how he’d emotionally split himself in half to become a wrecking machine of destruction.

It happened rarely. He wasn’t known for his peacekeeping or negotiating skills, unlike Denver. They called Ruin for the real dark shit, and Splice was tagged in if someone needed persuading with more than words but still left breathing.

His father had been a bare-knuckle fighter in his day, and his uncle Vince was a loose cannon still to this day, so it stood to reason Splice had inherited the same short-fuse gene.

It wasn’t something he was proud of; it was just something he was—skills he used to better his club life.

Fuck, he bet a psychiatrist would have a field day with him.

Blaming it on his father’s untimely death when Splice was only nineteen.

That wasn’t the reason.

Otherwise, he’d be teetering on being psycho like Ruin, and he was far from the enforcer’s league. Splice was always in control of his actions, like he could flick a switch and become a whole other, darker persona to get the job done. But once it was over, he was back to his nonchalant self again.

Fuck, now he sounded psychotic. Behind his black bandana, he chuckled a little and watched Chains up ahead take a different turn home.

His biker brethren split off one by one until only he and Tomb were left on the road.

Once in his driveway, he lifted a hand and waved to his buddy, who lived only across the street.

His one thought, as his body grew sluggish, was his bed. As soon as he entered the mudroom and took off his boots, he headed for the shower in his two-story house. And once that was seen to, and he was sighing into the mattress, hoping there were no more funerals to attend for a long while.

Given his lifestyle, occurrences like that were frequent.

And then sleep claimed Splice so he could look pretty as fuck tomorrow afternoon to watch his buddy get married again.

There might even be a pretty bridesmaid to sway Splice to the filthy side again.