We weren’t in the business of rescuing people. That wasn’t our forte. We were just a bunch of guys looking to survive the streets we called home. Yankovich was out of our lives and it was time to rebuild. I’m not referring to the clubhouse but rather the foundation of who we are and what we stand for. Nothing can survive if it’s built on lies, not relationships and certainly not a motorcycle club.
My father wasn’t a good man. In fact, he was no better than Yankovich. I could lie to myself and say he was misguided and use him being a junkie as an excuse but, at the end of the day, my father knew what he was doing. He knew he had fucked up and like Wolf said, killing himself was an out for his crimes and leaving Jack holding the candle made him the biggest pussy to ever walk the face of the earth.
As I park my bike in front of Pipe’s garage, I realize I don’t regret my decision to be a Knight. What I regret is spending years chasing his ghost and thinking I’d fail him. Instead, I should’ve paid closer attention to the men surrounding me. If only I would’ve followed in their shoes, then maybe I would be half the man they are.
Loyal.
Honorable.
Respectable.
Maybe not to everyone but, to the people that matter most the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn are the definition of those three things. As I make my way into the lit garage, I look around at the original members. Jack, Blackie, Pipe, and Riggs all stand huddled together. The only one missing from their circle is, Wolf. The beast gets a pass while his son is recovering from the gunshot wound. Both from the club and his diet seeing as I just dropped off a salami and mortadella hero to him at the hospital.
Focusing my attention back to Jack, I notice the dark and dangerous look that many fear is affixed to his face. Removing his cut, he hands it off to Blackie. The silent understanding between them fills the room as Jack, takes a seat on a stool in the center of the room. Beside him, Needles slides on a pair of latex gloves.
Pulling his shirt from his head, Jack hands it to Pipe. That’s when he spots me.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says as I walk further inside. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I shrug my shoulders.
“I wanted to show my respect,” I admit.
My eyes dart to the rolling table in front of Needles and the tattoo gun he prepares.
“And, my gratitude,” I add, turning my gaze back to him. “I know I lied to all of you and I know looking at me will always be a reminder you can’t erase,” I say, nodding to the tattoo on his shoulder. “But, in case you doubted me, I wanted to make my intentions clear. I started my journey as a Knight looking to be like my father, hoping wherever he ended up, I was making him proud. The day I stepped foot into your clubhouse was the day that cause died. I am not my father’s son. I am not the spawn of Satan. I’m Lincoln Brandt a man who was lost but now found and I am your brother. My loyalty and respect belong to you,” I say.
Lifting my head, my eyes sweep the room.
“It belongs to all of you.”
“Sounds like you’re telling me something kid,” Jack says as he cocks his head. “You can say it.”
“I’m property of Parrish,” I reply hoarsely.
The words free me from my father’s chains as I watch Jack’s lips quirk.
“That’s a forever kind of thing, don’t you forget that.”
“Never,” I promise as the tattoo gun sounds. Diverting my attention to Needles, I watch as he lifts the gun to Jack’s shoulder and starts to black out Cain’s name.
A poignant moment in the history of the Satan’s Knights.
An end to a tumultuous era.
A hand covers my shoulder, startling me and as I turn my head, I take in the three men who were once as lost as me.
The drifter.
The wanderer.
The roamer.
Standing next to a loner, a band of new brothers.
It’s another poignant moment symbolizing a new beginning for the men in leather.
The future of the Satan’s Knights.
-Bonus Scene-
YANKOVICH
Some people believe nightmares are acts of terror that assault their subconscious while they sleep. Those people don’t know that nightmares are living things that haunt you every second of every day. They wrap their evil hands around your soul and suck you into a world of terror.
Terrified beyond measure, I stood inside a tiny closet and watched my father’s eyes gleam with illicit pleasure.
“Knock, knock,” the monster taunts.
The young boy cries quietly in the closet, wiping the snot from his nose with the sleeve of his best shirt. A gift from his mother before she died.
“Knock, knock,” the villain probes once more.
“Whose there?” the boy croaks.
“Your worst nightmare,” the predator calls.
The closet door opens and the boy stares into his father’s eyes.
I couldn’t understand how my misery, shame and fright could bring him elation. If I only knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have cried myself to sleep pondering the question. I would tell my young self that monsters don’t live under our beds.
They live, thrive and breed inside of you.
If you’re strong you starve the beast. You keep it caged inside of you until it has no choice but to die. If you’re weak, you feed it. You unleash the animal and let it run free. Like any wild creature, it fights to survive and takes no prisoners. Everything it touches turns to dust and it leaves a path of destruction in its wake.
The more you feed the monster, the more it craves and soon it becomes insatiable.
It morphs into a wild predator and reigns over every other animal.
Feared by all, respected by none, the monster becomes the most despicable villain.
He becomes your worst nightmare.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I take in my appearance. My thin lips set into a frown as I eye the dark gray suit regretfully. I should’ve went with the navy colored one instead. It’s more domineering and a better fit for tonight’s feast.
The first course of my meal is always self-served and, I treat myself to the appetizer by lifting a comb to my neatly trimmed hair. The teeth graze my scalp and I close my eyes, reveling in the sharp pricks of pain. It wets my palette and entices me for more. The hunger starts to spread, burning through my veins and in an instant, I’m the starving predator your mother warned you never to feed.
“The Happily Ever After” A Nomad Series Short Story
-One-
Stryker
“How do I look?”
Knotting the laces on my boots, I lift my chin just as Gina struts into our bedroom and my eyes instantly connect with her shoes. You can take the girl out of her designer duds and fit her for a pair of skintight leather pants, but you can’t break her from the obsession she has with the thirty pairs of red-bottom heels that fill our closet.
My gaze wanders away from the sparkly heels that probably cost me a small fortune and moves up her toned legs that never seem to end. If there weren’t five women in the living room waiting for her, I’d wrap those legs around my fucking head and find heaven. A groan rumbles past my lips and I silently remind myself those legs will be wrapped around me for the rest of my life. After tomorrow Gina Spinelli becomes Gina Kincaid.
My wife.
My future.
My home.
A crazy notion for a man who thought he was destined to be nothing more than a drifter. It’s funny how life works out. All the things I never thought I was capable of having are now mine. While I still struggle with my PTSD, I don’t let war define the man I am today. Just because I’m broken doesn’t mean I’m dead and the days of me wandering this cold world, searching for a purpose and trying to find my place are over.
I’m right where I’m supposed to be, living the life I was always meant to live, loving a woman who doesn’t need me to be her hero.
Gina Spinelli is her own hero.
Always has been
and always will be.
And I fucking love that.
She doesn’t need me.
She wants me.
Broken and all.
She. Wants. Me.
My eyes take in the slinky silver dress that starts mid-thigh and hugs every luscious curve. I let my gaze linger on her exposed cleavage before focusing on her beautiful face and the dark waves that frame it. At the risk of sounding like a total pussy, she fucking steals my breath and as I fight to force air into my lungs, I wonder how I’m going to survive seeing her in a wedding gown.
“It’s too much isn’t it?” she murmurs, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. “I told Celeste I shouldn’t wear something like this…I mean… I…” Her voice fades and I watch her wrap her arms around her body, shielding herself.
“You look gorgeous.”
She lifts her head and those soulful eyes of hers find mine. She may not need saving, but every once in a while, she needs a reminder of how strong she is and how much she’s overcome.
Closing the distance between us, I circle one arm around her waist and drag her body against mine. She lifts her chin as she drops her arms away from her chest and I lift my other hand to gently caress her cheek.
My pretty girl.
“Five facts,” I say huskily as I lower my forehead to hers. Her big brown eyes bore into mine and the corners of her lips lift ever so slightly.
“One, this dress was made for you.” A laugh passes her lips and I continue. “Two, I can’t wait to peel it off you later.” I pause, pressing my erection against her belly. Her eyes go dark and a soft moan escapes those perfect lips of hers. “I’m going to make you come harder than you’ve ever come before,” I growl, moving my hand from her cheek. Threading my fingers through her hair, I give the ends a tug, angling her head so I can kiss her neck.
“Such filthy promises,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around my neck. A whimper escapes her lips as I suck the sensitive flesh just below her ear, marking her.
“Lastly, I can’t wait to marry you tomorrow,” I mutter, moving my mouth down the smooth column of her neck. Her cleavage catches my eye and for a moment, I contemplate ripping her dress down and sucking on those pert little nipples poking the material.
“That’s only four,” she pants.
I smile against her throat. My hand slides away from her hip, traveling behind her and I give her ass a squeeze.
Goddamn.
I’m a lucky son of a bitch.
Inching back, I lift my head and bring my eyes to hers.
“Five, I love you.”
A grin spreads across her lips before she grabs my face with both her hands and slams her mouth over mine. For two people on the cusp of spending forever as man and wife, we kiss like it’s the last time our lips will ever touch. The thought I had about ripping the dress of her starts to resurface, but I don’t get the chance because a loud knock sounds on our bedroom door, forcing us apart.
“Hey, you two, save it for the altar! The limo is here, and I’ve never ridden in one. I’m dying to stick my head out of the sunroof.”
Gina worries her lip between her teeth, and I smile as I right her dress, taking my time to let my hands travel up every curve. If it was any other girl on the other side of that door, I wouldn’t have stopped until Gina was slammed against the door, coming around my cock.
But it’s Ally.
And when she says she’s dying to do something, no matter how simple it is or how extravagant, we collectively make it happen because not too long ago we all took a vow. I don’t know if we’ll ever stop making up for the fourteen years she lost, and that’s perfectly fine with me. We all get to relive some of our firsts through Ally’s eyes and that’s a fucking experience none of us would trade.
Especially Celeste and Cobra.
I press another kiss to my future bride’s lips before taking a step back. She smooths a hand over her dress and turns to open the door. As soon as it opens, a parade of girls comes barging through the door and that’s my cue to get the hell out of dodge.
“Don’t go falling in love with anyone tonight,” I tell her.
“You neither, cowboy.”
Never happen.
I got everything I could ever want.
-Two-
Stryker
Killing the engine of my Harley, I drop the kickstand and dismount. Judging by the number of bikes parked in front of Kate’s and the blaring music, it’s safe to say no one adhered to my request for a laid-back night.
Sighing, I smooth a hand over my kutte and climb the steps towards the bar. As I near the door, I hear the boisterous voices of my brothers and a smile ticks the corners of my mouth. I haven’t heard them get this rowdy since we took our charter to Staten Island. Come to think of it, aside from the recent ride we did for Breast Cancer, the only party we’ve had is the one we threw Bishop, a prospect when he got released from prison. I suppose we’re due for a night of shenanigans.
I pull open the door and before I can get both boots planted inside, I’m bombarded by every man with a reaper on his back.
“Well, it’s about time you showed up,” Cobra says, pushing a shot glass into my hand. “You’ve got some catching up to do, brother.”
“It’s the man of the hour,” Pipe cheers, lifting a bottle of Jameson to his lips. He takes a swig straight from the bottle before passing it to Parrish.
“We can afford shot glasses, you know,” he hisses, taking the bottle from him.
“Sorry I’m late,” I tell them. “I wanted to see the girls off.”
“What he means is he wanted to make sure his mobster brother-in-law didn’t show up and spoil all the fun for the women,” Deuce adds.
That’s partly true.
Gina’s brother, Rocco, has been off the grid for a while now. With the help of Rocco and Gina’s cousin-in-law, Anthony Bianci, the man transitioned from nightclub manager to the boss of the Pastore crime family, but not without incident. He was shot outside of Lincoln Center and on the lam for nearly a year, leaving his underboss in charge and Gina a fucking wreck. After everything they went through with their father, my woman feared her brother was destined for the same fate.
To be fair, it’s still a possibility but I’ll never tell her that.
Anyway, Rocco resurfaced not too long ago and just in the nick of time because Gina asked her brother to walk her down the aisle. She’ll never admit it, but I know the only reason we’re having this big wedding is because of him. She didn’t want to get married without her brother present and planning this big hoopla of a circus allowed her to buy Rocco some time to get his affairs in order and by that, I mean the target off his fucking back.
So, yeah he’s back in town, fucking shit up on the streets, trying to keep himself alive and I don’t want any of that touching Gina. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
“Speaking of Rocco,” Parrish chimes in, lowering the bottle of Jameson from his lips. “He paid me a visit last night.”
“Didn’t you get the message to your new brother-in-law that Parrish isn’t in charge anymore?” Pipe questions, narrowing his eyes curiously.
Cobra pushes another shot in front of me before draping an arm around my shoulders.
“Leave the man alone, he’s marrying the mob tomorrow.”
I take the shot from him and look between Pipe and Parrish.
“Joaquin told him Wolf is in charge now,” Parrish supplies. “But with our brother in the state he’s in, I don’t blame Spinelli for reaching out. He’s concerned about tomorrow and while he has men in place, he wanted the club to be on the same page should any unexpected mobsters feel the urge to kill him on his sister’s wedding day.”
“How considerate of the prick,” Pipe mutters.
“Whoa,” Deuce interjects. “Can we not talk about Rocco possibly getting whacked at this guys wedding,” he says, jutting a thumb in my direction. “This is supposed to be a celebration for fucks sake.”
“And this is exactly
why we don’t celebrate shit,” Blackie mutters, chugging a bottle of water. He looks to his father-in-law. “Don’t give me that look. I was never behind the club getting involved with the mob.”
“Yet, you had no problem partnering up with Bianci when your ass was on the line,” Riggs supplies.
“That was different. I needed his lawyer, not a pair of cement shoes.”
“No one is getting whacked,” I insist, throwing back the shot.
Did I really just say that?
“Damn straight no one is getting whacked on my watch,” Parrish agrees.
“Forget Rocco, do you know you’re not in charge anymore?” Linc quips.
“I don’t need a patch to keep you motherfuckers breathing,” Parrish retorts. “So long as I’m living you are all my responsibility.”
“Enough about this,” Riggs orders. “Let’s talk about more pressing issues. Like whether or not the don is bringing cannoli to the wedding.”
“I swear you folks have an obsession with pancakes,” Bash says, his southern twang in full effect. I chuckle as I lift the shot to my lips and down it. The poor prospect is like a fish out of water. When Bash first came to New York there was a lot of talk, everyone thought he was reeling from his mother’s death and figured it was only a matter of time before he went back to Texas and the Charon MC. But Bash proved everyone wrong and stuck it out, reminding us all home is wherever you make it.
Something I first learned from Wolf.
My eyes scan the room for the man who brought me here. Back then he wasn’t the president, he was just a man who loved the patch and didn’t want to see his club go up in flames. He scoured charter after charter until he recruited me, Cobra, Deuce, and Linc, bringing us into the fold. We soon became property of Parrish, but we also became Wolf’s nomads. He took us under his wing and like a father figure he guided us. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 128
