Premo: Siberian MC book one

by Joy Blood

“Looks like this could be replaced,” Nixon says, referring to the front door of the building. The damn thing doesn’t even shut, letting in anyone with a pulse. He scribbles something down in the notebook he’s holding, sliding farther into the building.

  “Yeah,” I agree, my mind still elsewhere. He pulls open the door to an empty hallway. Well, empty in the sense of there isn’t anybody loitering in it. Garbage litters the only walkway to the tenants’ rooms, among other things I’m pretending not to see.

  “Looks like there might be some eviction notices,” Nixon grumbles, kicking over some trash piled up in front of a door. Only…this trash groans. “The fuck?” His brows knit together as he crouches down to inspect the lump of what he thought was garbage. A big black plastic trash bag with something inside it—someone.

  “Is it tied? Shit,” I snap, reaching for my knife, but Nixon beats me to it. The bag slices open easily, and my breath is stolen right from my lungs. “Son of a fucking—”

  “Shit. Who the fuck stuck this bitch in a bag?” Someone who is going to die. She is still, unmoving. The gash is still on her head, a soiled bandage clinging to her stringy hair. “Shit, she smells. If she hadn’t made a noise, I’d think she was dead. Should we call it in?” I’m still frozen to the spot, hardly hearing what Nix is saying. How the fuck did she end up here? And why the hell is she in a bag? Did someone try to kill her…again?

  “Pres!” Nixon breaks through my game of twenty questions, pulling me back to the situation at hand. “What should we do with her?”

  “I’ve got her.” Without a second thought, I swoop down and pick her up, discarding the bag wrapped around her.

  “What do you mean you got her? Taking her to the hospital?”

  I shake my head. No fucking way am I bringing her there again only for her to take off. “My place. Call Wick. He can help you finish up here. And find out who the fuck dumped her. Evict all these motherfuckers too,” I snap, then stomp out of the building to my truck, grateful, for the first time, it was raining today so I didn’t ride my bike.

  I place her in the backseat, not caring about the pungent smell of urine mixed with blood that fills the cab. As I round the truck to get inside, I press send and bring my phone to my ear. I’m going to need some help. “Yeah? What do you got for me, Premo?” Doc, our club medic, asks on a rasp.

  “Meet me at my place. Bring everything you got,” I tell him, not elaborating any further. He doesn’t need to know the details. I end the call and start up the truck, glancing back one last time before taking off down the street to my apartment in town.

  “Shit, where did you find her, the cemetery? I can’t resurrect them, kid,” Doc tells me, looking over the girl on my bed. She looks dead, so I don’t snap at him like I want to. For all I know, she could be dead. She smells like it. Doc gets to work poking her with needles and stringing her up to tubes. When I told him to bring everything, he did. Even a damn defibrillator. I hope to shit he won’t need to use that. Doc is always on call for whatever the club needs. Be it bullet wounds or STDs, he’s the one who treats us. He has even strapped my ass to a banana bag a time or two. “She has a pulse. Weak as hell, but it’s there. You found her in a garbage bag?” I nod, but don’t elaborate any further. “Well, that gash on her head is old, but it ain’t healing because of the drugs in her system. Looks like someone had their fun with her before they decided to toss her body. Fucking animals. She probably didn’t have anything to score a fix with so she—” he stops and backs away from the girl. “I need a minute, Pres. Maybe get her cleaned up? I’ll be back.” I nod, understanding the old man probably sees his daughter lying on my bed right now. Only…he didn’t get the chance to save her like he is with this girl.

  I gather up some towels and a couple bowls of water to wash her up, then sit down next to the bed. I start with her arms. There is dirt everywhere, and each swipe with the washcloth reveals more and more bruises, making me grind my back teeth together. But the thing that makes my anger flare to nearly boiling are the scars, particularly the one on her hand. A burn. It’s old, a few months at least. It isn’t something anyone deserves. Not even my worst enemy. Well, maybe the pricks who did this to her. I go to her face next, stalling because I don’t want to pull the sheet away and see her naked and battered body just yet. When I got her into my place, the first thing I did was take the rags she was wearing off. Her wide, pouty lips are cracked and dry, and those damn long, black eyelashes are surrounded by dark purple skin from the beating she took.

  “You were one hell of a beautiful woman, weren’t you? What happened?” I ask the quiet room, steadying myself to go farther down her body. I do it quick, not wanting to linger on the cuts and scrapes along her too slender torso. When I’m done, I find Doc’s bag and start applying ointment to the scrapes and bandages to the cuts still seeping blood. “I’m going to find them and kill them,” I promise, more to myself than her.

  “Everything good?” Doc’s voice comes in before the sound of his prosthetic limp and cane hitting the floor.

  “Yeah. All clean and bandaged. What do you want to do about her head?”

  “Let’s get it washed up. See how deep the wound is. Looks like it was sewn but got opened back up.” We spend the next twenty minutes maneuvering her head off the bed to wash her dark, waist-length hair, then Doc stitches the gash on her head back up, deciding the reason she hasn’t woken up yet is because she has a concussion. The girl probably has some serious brain trauma and won’t wake up at all. No, don’t think like that, I scold myself. She will wake up. She just needs time. Then, when she does, I’m going to need to get her the hell out of here and back to wherever it is she came from.

  Nine

  Pain washes over me, intense, followed by a sudden wave of nausea. My eyes still clenched shut, I heave my body to the side on instinct and vomit, but nothing comes up. When my stomach gives up the need to purge, I’m left with an aching body and pounding head. Cracking my lids open, I make out a dresser across from the bed I’m lying on, as well as the door with a small sliver of light peeking out from underneath. I’m in someone’s room. And it isn’t the last one I remember being in. What do I remember being in? My mind starts racing, my heart pounding. Vague flashes of hands, bodies, and…where am I?

  I quickly try to sit up, and another wave hits me. I attempt to push past it, bringing my hands to my stomach and mouth as if that will help in some way. It only serves to let me know I have something taped to my right arm. My free hand reaches to feel across the tape, assessing it. It’s an IV. My eyes dart around the room to find two IV bags hanging from a tall, thin stand behind me. I go to pull out the tube stuck in my arm, but stop. The cool liquid pumping into my arm is somewhat of a relief, so I leave it there, then swing my legs to the side of the bed, letting my feet hit the carpeted floor. It’s soft. Not matted down with grime and waste. It’s clean. I push myself from the bed and stand on wobbly legs, gripping the IV bag stand for support as I walk over to the door I hope to find a bathroom behind.

  Turning the knob, I’m all too happy to relieve myself and splash some water on my face before taking in my appearance in the mirror. “Oh my gosh,” I whimper, touching my hollowed-out face. Dark circles have formed under my eyes, and my cheeks, tinged yellow from old bruising, are sunken in. My hair hangs limp down to my waist and is no longer the vibrant dark chocolate it once was. I don’t recognize the person staring back at me.

  I’m a skeleton—something that crawled out of a shallow grave. A white t-shirt and black shorts are tied tight around my hips to stay on my way too thin waist. The person looking back at me right now is a far cry from who I was before.

  Shaking off the image I find myself sick over, I walk from the bathroom, rolling the stand with me, to another door that leads to a hallway. I shuffle toward an open space, but before I get any closer, voices fill my ears. A chill runs down my spine, and my heart speeds up.

  “Not sure what to tell you, Pres. If she don’t wake up soon, she might
not wake up at all. It’s been three days—”

  “Doc…” I step down the short hallway, and my eyes connect with glassy green ones. “I think she’s awake.” A thick, gravelly voice says. The man called Doc eyes me up and down as he gets to his feet with the assistance of a black cane.

  “Well, hello there, darlin’. I’m glad to see you’re awake,” Doc says, and my eyes dart back to the other guy. Pres? What kind of a name is that? He continues to stare at me as Doc takes small, hobbled steps toward me, his free hand out like I’m some kind of wild animal that might take off at any sudden movement. Which is an accurate assessment.

  “Stop,” I snap, clutching the IV pole tighter in my hand. Doc does as told, pausing in his movements. My heart threatens to beat right out of my chest with each breath I take, and my head starts to swim.

  “Pres, might want to get over there and grab her. She’s about to—”

  The room starts to spin, and the ceiling comes into view as a pair of thick, strong arms wrap around me. My world begins to fade, and their voices grow distant as the thumping in my head becomes overwhelming.

  “Get her on the bed.”

  Thump.

  “Think she might wake up again?”

  Thump. Thump.

  “Not sure, Pres. Hopefully. It’s a good sign she did.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Everything goes black.

  Ten

  I saw it in her face, the sudden drop in blood pressure. I rushed past Doc and caught her before she could fall to the floor. She weighed nothing in my arms, much like the night I found her. Placing her on my bed, I ask myself what the hell I’m doing for probably the hundredth time.

  “She will be doing that a lot. She still has a few more days of detox. Probably’ll be violent the next time she wakes up. With her being injured, it might have made it a little easier on her. Being out cold and all that.”

  “You put my clothes on her.”

  “Yeah. She was fuckin’ naked, Pres. I couldn’t stand lookin’ at the bruises on her body, not to mention the ribs poking out of her skin. Girl has been through some shit.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “You think she’ll recover? I mean, waking up is a good sign, isn’t it?” I don’t know why I even care. She’s a nobody to me. Just a junkie I should steer clear of. I’m not a drug addict, but an addict all the same.

  “It is. Her body will heal, but that addiction of hers will be the test. Could take up to two weeks to flush that shit out of her system. I’ll do my damnedest to try. After that, it’s up to her whether she uses again.” He shrugs and goes about changing one of her IV bags. I don’t question what’s inside. He’s been with the club for years; the man has my full respect and trust.

  “Yeah. Keep me posted. I’ll swing by when I can. And thank you. I know it’s pulling all your time, but I do appreciate it.”

  “No worries, Pres. Glad to do it. Girl deserves a chance. Just wish I could have given my Marcy this.” The wistful look in his eyes doesn’t escape my notice when he mentions the daughter he lost seven years ago to an overdose.

  “Thanks, Doc.” I extend my had for him to shake. When he does, I grip just a bit tighter.

  “She cries a lot, but I think she likes me. When I hold her, she stops,” Boyd tells me on the phone, speaking proudly about his new sister.

  “What did your mom name her?” I can’t believe I never asked until now.

  “Abagail. Rico says she looks just like mom. Vin said it’s a good damn thing too.”

  “Don’t say damn!” Ari’s voice rings out from the background, and I laugh.

  “Watch your mouth around your mother, Boyd. Let me talk to her, yeah?”

  “Okay, Dad.” He sounds a little dejected, and it makes me smile. The kid is growing up so fast, and I hate that I’m missing it.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Ari’s sweet voice comes over the line, and like every time I talk to the woman, I force myself to take a breath as if I need a moment to prepare my words.

  “Something came up. It’s going to fuck with the schedule. I won’t be able to take Boyd for my regular weekend. It’s not something I can avoid.” I can’t believe I’m letting a half dead woman interrupt my time with my son, but I’m not letting her go anywhere, and I’m not going to bring Boyd to the clubhouse to stay with me.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Nothing to worry about. Just club shit,” I lie, and it’s so easy to do. I’ve never let her in—not even toward the end when I saw the opportunity to keep her. Sure, I told her about my past, but they were only words. I never let her know the real me. The man who, on a daily basis, battles with an addiction that led to him killing his whole world.

  “He’ll be bummed, but I guess it will give him and Abagail more time to bond. She reminds me so much of Boyd when he was little.” She pauses, sighing wistfully. I can picture her smiling, maybe standing in her kitchen leaning on the counter as she talks about our son. “Why can’t they stay babies forever?”

  I shake the image of her out of my head, like I always do. She might not have been the one, but she was a good one. “’Cause, at some point, you’re going to need to stop wiping their asses.”

  “Oh God, you bikers,” she huffs, but there’s laughter in her voice.

  “Yep. Talk to you soon, Ar.” Hanging up the phone, I stand from my bike and make my way inside the clubhouse, putting all thoughts of Ari and what could have been back into the vault I keep locked away in the darkest parts of my soul.

  Wick, Hank, Badger, and O greet me as I walk inside to take my seat at the head of the table. “Where is Nixon?” I ask, referring to our absent secretary, but only get shrugs and murmurs of, “I don’t know,” in return. “The fuck? I called church over three hours ago. Plenty of time to get here,” I grumble, gripping the gavel. Passed down to me after my father died, it still feels foreign in my hand.

  My father, Anton Petrov, died just shortly after I got out of my seven-year residence in the Idaho penitentiary, right around the time we made an unlikely ally with the Hell’s Riders, an MC based in Cental, South Dakota.

  Before that, our clubs were on the outs. Our paths rarely crossed, but when they did, shit didn’t go well. When I got out of prison, my father was killed during a run-in with the Riders, but it wasn’t the Riders who did it, we eventually came to find out. The Pardaѐ gang led by a man named Flores was after territory—ours and the Riders. They were playing us against each other in hopes we would do their dirty work and take each other out. Almost worked too. During a meeting between our two clubs to bury the hatchet so to speak, Pardaѐ ambushed the place, leaving me and a freshly patched member of the Riders, Jake, their now VP, presumed dead. We took the presumption of being dead to move like ghosts through the gang and pick them off one by one until we reached Flores himself. After that, we gained a strong ally, who later called upon us to vanquish the Pardaѐ gang once and for all when Jake’s now wife, Kimi, was kidnapped by them. It was through Kimi that I met Ari.

  “Pres, might want to take a look at this.” Wick comes to my side, holding out a phone. “Just got this text.” Reaching out, I grab the phone and read the text to myself.

  Wexler’s house. Now.

  “Who is this from?” I don’t recognize the number and toss the phone back to Wick.

  “My brother.”

  “Shit. The fuck is going on?” I mumble more to myself as I shove to my feet, pushing my chair back with enough force to bring it to the floor. “Let’s get on over there. Church can wait.”

  Eleven

  The drive to Wexler’s isn’t long. Badger, Wick, and O right behind me, we pull our bikes in, finding a coroner van out front, along with two police cruisers and the sheriff’s truck. I tell the boys to wait outside while I go in and check it out. Crime scene tape runs along the outside of the house low enough for me to lift my leg over. “Sir, you can’t be here. This is a crime scene,” an officer says, bringing my attention to the bl
oodied mess that was once the kitchen. It’s like I stepped onto the set of a horror film. Blood paints the walls on every side of the room—spatters, smears, some handprints. Wexler’s hands are stretched out in front of her and she’s lying face down in a pool of even more blood. I have seen a lot of dead people and even made some of them that way, but this…this puts a whole new meaning to the word gruesome.

  “What happened?” It’s a stupid question, but it’s all the words I can form in this moment.

  “We can’t discuss the case with you, sir.”

  “Let him by, Nance. He should see this,” the booming voice of the sheriff calls out from farther inside the house. I step around Wexler’s body, getting close enough to notice all her limbs visibly broken. Her face…shit. She is unrecognizable. I almost wouldn’t think this was her on the floor, but her hair is a dead giveaway. Even saturated with brain matter and blood, the distinct auburn color stands out. Whoever did this shit is an evil motherfucker.

  “The fucking hell?” I whisper under my breath.

  “The fucking hell is right. You want to tell me who it is you pissed off this time?” Fergus Wickers, the sheriff and Wick’s brother, asks, squatting down to lift a lock of Wexler’s dark auburn hair with a pen. He inspects it for a moment, then stands once again, facing me.

  “I don’t know shit. Your text is the only reason I’m here. Shit, we haven’t spoken to her in over a month. Been nice and quiet on our end. Didn’t piss off anyone as far as I know.” Reaching to the back of my neck, I squeeze. “This is just…I don’t even know what to say. She was a good girl. Worked primarily in family court. Aside from us, she didn’t take any other cases.”

  “How about that boy who got killed couple weeks ago? What was his name?” he asks, gnawing at my nerves.

  “That ain’t got shit to do with this,” I declare, pissed he would even think so. “She probably had some crazy asshole ex. Look at this. It was personal.” I’m no crime scene expert, but the damage shows someone wanted her to suffer. And she did.