Satan's Devils MC Boxset 1

by Manda Mellett

  Oh, I was asked out, often by customers, but my mom had impressed on me the importance of choosing wisely. Time and time again, she’d explain that while she never regretted me being born, being pregnant and alone had rewritten her life. Her lesson learned, she became wary of the opposite sex until the day she died. A lesson she’d passed on to me.

  These bikers don’t frighten me, not when I’ve been surrounded by their kind all my life. No, if I can believe the book I’ve been reading, it’s the sweet butts and old lady’s who’d worry me more. I’m not sure how to hold a conversation with a woman, unless she’s got a good knowledge of bikes or how to strip down an engine.

  I don’t much mind having to stay in the shop. I just wish it wasn’t quite so damn hot! I’m dog-tired, but the heat is keeping me awake. I throw off the sheet and turn over, doing so, I spot something over my head. It’s a freaking air conditioning unit! But they didn’t even use them during the day. Why not? Is it broken? Hmm, I’ll have to take a look at that in the morning.

  Eventually I fall into a fitful sleep, but wake at dawn, sweat sticking to me, my tank and shorts fused to my skin. Oh freaking hell, I can’t take another night like this. The first thing on my agenda has to be checking out the dust and cobweb-covered unit hanging on the wall.

  It takes a few moments to get the rusty screws to turn, but once I’ve got the cover off, I study it for a moment, tracing the wires, imaging the circuit in my head. It’s old and mechanical… Ah, yes, there’s the problem. I find what I need by rummaging around in the metal cabinets, and there we go. I’ve even found the remote that works it and switch it on. Blissful cool air sweeps over me. Great!

  Looking around, I spy, as I’d suspected, another unit on the opposite wall. Repeating everything I did with the first, I soon have that one fixed and working again too.

  Once I’m down from the ladder with my feet back on the floor, I turn to see a beautiful woman with a slight limp coming in carrying a tray. After looking around to find a surface to place it on, she stands back and looks at me. At first I think her expression’s critical, but then her face splits into a welcoming smile.

  “So, you’re Wench,” she says with a grin.

  “The name’s Sam,” I correct her. I brush the dirt off my hands and then reach one out for her to shake.

  “If they’ve named you, you’re stuck with it.” She laughs, and glancing across to a bench, leans herself up against it, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes seem to be assessing me. “I was called Wheels for months. All because I was in a wheelchair when I got here.”

  My mouth opens. “That’s cruel.” Then I comprehend what she’s said and that it might explain the limp. “You okay now? Must have been serious if you couldn’t walk.”

  “Oh, I’ll never be better as such.” She pauses and rolls up one leg of her jeans, allowing me to see her leg ends below her knee, and that she’s wearing a prosthesis. “It’s thanks to Peg and the rest of them that I’m walking again. The buggers’ have got a rough side, but underneath, they’re the kindest men you’d want to meet.”

  Hmm, I think I need to be convinced of that. “So, what’s your name?”

  “Sophie. Wraith, the VP, is my old man.”

  Oh, so this is a real-life old lady.

  She pushes away from the bench and points at the tray she’s brought. “Hey, you might want to get that down you. It will get cold otherwise.”

  As I thank her, something about her strikes me. “Are you English?” I ask, suddenly picking up on her accent.

  “Yes. I’ve only been here since February. It’s a long story, but perhaps I’ll tell you one day.”

  It sounds intriguing. “Sure.”

  “Well, better be getting on. See you around, Wench.” She giggles as she mentions my new name and goes off. This time I’m watching how she walks, she carefully chooses how she places each foot. Yeah, perhaps I’d like to hear her story, though I doubt I’ll be sticking around long enough to get to know her better. Which is a shame, despite my concerns about being able to talk to the women here, she seemed easy enough to get along with.

  It’s a workday, but the guys don’t seem to be hurrying in to start work. One of the first to arrive is wearing a cut with the word “Prospect” on it. He comes over to inspect a dirt bike that has been relegated to a back corner of the garage. He wheels it out front and fires it up, I grimace, not able to help myself. Try as I might, the words just start spilling out, even though I suspect he might not welcome what I’m going to say.

  Stepping outside, I point to it. “That has a problem.”

  “It’s why it’s here.” The obvious comment is said without malice. “I’m supposed to race next weekend, but I’m not happy with it. I took it out the other day and it just wasn’t right. I’m Roadrunner by the way.”

  “Sam.” Once again I brush off my hand and reach out to shake his.

  He throws me a grin. “Wench,” he corrects. “I’ve already heard about you.” He ignores my scowl and continues, “What d’you reckon is wrong with it?”

  “The timing’s off. You can hear it.”

  He revs the engine.

  “Sounds alright to me.”

  Sounds freaking dreadful to me. “Hang on a minute.” I go back into the garage, grabbing the tool I need. When I return, he’s staring at me in horror, but ignoring him, I crouch down and make the tiniest of adjustments. “There, try it now.”

  This time it purrs, and I give a satisfied smile. Even he can tell the difference.

  “May I?” I walk around the bike, examining all the wires and pipes, checking the fittings. I find something a bit slack and tighten it. His throttle’s sticking, so I loosen it a fraction. “Want to give it a test run?”

  By this time, we’ve drawn an audience; Blade’s standing watching me with Slick. Slick laughs at the prospect. Coming over, he slaps him on the back. “Rather you than me letting a fuckin’ bitch near my bike. Fuckin’ thing might fall apart.”

  Blade, however, has a different expression on his face—he’s not laughing, he’s looking thoughtful. Nodding toward the prospect he suggests, “Why don’t you take it for a spin?”

  Slick chuckles, “Just watch yourself. Wench could have fucked it up good and proper. You didn’t let her near the brakes, did you?”

  Roadrunner’s pulling on his brain bucket and getting ready to roll. “I’ll let you know when I come back,” he grins at them. “Assuming I come back, that is.”

  I shoot him the finger, well, I’ve been around mechanics a long time. Then he’s zooming off out of the compound. That engine sounds sweet to me.

  Taking the couple of steps which closes the distance between us, Blade puts his arms around my shoulder and starts steering me into the garage. As we enter through the doorway, he stops, looks around, and holds his hand up in the air. Finally, his eyes settle on first one, then the other of the fully functioning air conditioning units making the inside of the garage at least tolerable.

  “Fuck me!” He walks over and stands underneath it, staring up with disbelieving eyes.

  “How the fuck?” Slick comes in and stands next to him.

  Tongue appears and comes across to see what the other two are looking at. Like Blade, he holds his hand up to test the now cool airflow.

  Finally, all three turn to me. I shrug. “A fuse had gone, and I replaced a corroded wire and cleaned up the terminals. The other needed much the same treatment.”

  “Thought that thing was a complete goner.” Blade approaches me. “Fuck, you’re a useful bitch to have around, Wench!” He pulls me into his arms and swings me around.

  “Put her the fuck down! What did I tell you fuckers?” The roaring voice can only belong to one person, and Blade almost drops me in his rush to obey. As I stagger to get my balance, only slightly more quietly, Drummer yells out, “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Slick points upwards. “Fuckin’ bitch fixed it.”

  “Fixed what?” Drummer presumably doesn’t
spend enough time in the shop to immediately notice the difference.

  “The fuckin’ air conditioner,” Blade enlightens him.

  Now Drummer’s looking up, noticing the vent on the units moving slowly up and down in the way they’re supposed to do. Slowly, his eyes seem to widen. “That right?” He’s moved closer now, and the tone of his voice sends tingles zapping through me. That my nipples are hardening and poking at the material of my t-shirt is down to the cold air, right? But as I turn around, I catch his eyes on me, there, on my breasts. His steely gaze is almost caressing me, causing the nubs to peak even more. I’m not sure I’m fooling anyone.

  Covering myself with my overalls before answering and giving an exaggerated shiver as though the cool air’s making me cold, I respond, “Yeah, it was simple enough to do.”

  He’s smirking as if recognising the effect he has on me, and for the life of me, I don’t know what it is about this man that magnetises me. No one’s ever made me embarrass myself like this before.

  “Where did you learn that?”

  Shrugging, I tell him, “We had a similar unit often going wrong at the shop back home. I’ve got smaller fingers than the men, so they were always getting me to fix it.”

  There’s a tinge of admiration in his eyes, and then he spoils it, leaning forward to whisper into my ear and asking with a leer, “And just what else are you good at with your hands?”

  His intentionally crude comment, delivered in a tone that leaves me in no doubt I’m not mistaken, stumps me, and I don’t know how to respond. Am I expected to flirt? Or say something to try to shut down further suggestive comments? While I understand engines, I have no clue where to start with a man. In the end, I pretend to misunderstand. “I can show you my certificates if you want. I’m a qualified mechanic.”

  Stepping back, he shakes his head and gives me a curious look. Did he expect me to hit on him or something?

  We stand, in an awkward silence. Blade and the others have wandered away and have started getting on with their jobs for the day. I shift uncomfortably, not knowing what to say, not used to having any man’s attention focused on me. Part of me wants to encourage his interest, but I don’t have the first clue how to do that. Another part of me wants to run. Fast. As far away from him as I can. He seems to sense my conflicting emotions, raising an eyebrow, as though expecting me to say more. Then, to my immense relief, I’m saved by a roar.

  Roadrunner pulls up, dismounts and shouts through the doorway, “Fuckin’ ace! Now I might have a chance in the race on Sunday. She’s running fuckin’ sweet!”

  He runs in and, not noticing his prez standing in the shadows, pulls me in for a hug. “Fuck, girl. You know what you’re doing, don’t cha? Never known her to go so smoothly before.”

  Then he’s on the ground, his hand nursing his cheek as he looks up in surprise at Drummer standing over him. “Hands fuckin’ off the woman! How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you fuckers?”

  His eyes rolling, still stunned from the blow, Roadrunner tries to explain, stammering out, “Sorry, Prez, but she fixed my bike—”

  “She isn’t supposed to be fixing bikes!” Drummer roars. “And you!” He turns to me. “You keep your hands off anything until I give you precise instructions that you can touch it. Are we understood?”

  I was just trying to help. But for once in my life, I have the sense to know when it’s best not to speak. I jerk my head to show I understand. Drummer lets out a snort of disgust, turns on his heel and leaves.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, Slick calls out, “What the fuck’s all that about?”

  Blade throws me a knowing look. “Reckon I’ve got a good idea. Just remember Brothers, Drummer wants us to keep our hands off his woman.”

  Now they’re all laughing, and I’m standing there with my mouth hanging open. What Blade’s just said makes no sense at all. I’m not Drummer’s woman. No way. Hang on, he can’t be insinuating that Drummer’s attracted to me? Just no freaking way. It’s not possible. No, it’s just that the president knows my relationship to Viper, even if the man himself doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Getting tangled up with any of his fellow members would be a complication he’d want to avoid.

  I crush the bubble of excitement rising inside me, putting it down to a touch of indigestion, and get on with my work.

  Chapter Nine

  Drummer…

  I think it’s safe to say I have never, ever, met another woman like her. Not only does she know her way around bikes and cars and can fix a fucking air conditioning unit, but she’s a beautiful woman and doesn’t seem to know it. She doesn’t doll herself up like the sweet butts do. No, she doesn’t dress for attention nor adorn herself with makeup. But somehow, in those oversized overalls and grubby t-shirt with oil smears on her face, she’s as gorgeous as any woman I’ve ever seen, and I’m unable to deny she’s captured my interest. Well, if my cock being at least at half-mast every time I’m around her is anything to go by.

  I hadn’t missed the way her nipples had hardened when she was speaking to me, and I know for damn sure it wasn’t the cold air causing them to peak. No, whatever attraction I feel for her is reciprocated, even if only in a small way, but she’s got more sense than me. I couldn’t resist giving her an opportunity to show it, a few suggestive words which would have had any other woman fluttering her eyelids and responding, but she ignored me entirely, though that betraying red flush to her cheeks showed me she wasn’t unaffected. Her refusal to flirt hadn’t been any deterrent to my throbbing dick.

  Isn’t that a fuckup of a situation? Whether Viper wants to admit it or not, she’s the daughter of one of my brothers. And that, there alone, is a more than sufficient reason for me to keep away, but the swelling against my thigh tries to argue it doesn’t matter. She’s a grown woman and knows her own mind. We’re both adults. We should be able to fuck who we want. I can’t go there. I wish I could. What would it be like, thrusting into her warm wet hole? Oh, for fuck’s sake!

  I pause before walking into the clubhouse, again needing to adjust myself before seeing any of my brothers. Once under control, I pop my head around the door to Mouse’s cave. Waving away the inevitable smoke wafting toward me, I see him hunched over his computer as normal, his eyes flicking from screen to screen.

  “Hey, Mouse!” The fucker’s so intent on what he’s doing, it takes a moment before he looks up and acknowledges me. At last, he notices he’s no longer alone. “You managed to find anything out about Grade A Security yet?”

  “I’ve looked. They’re one of the most respected security companies in the UK. Squeaky clean, they often work with the government. They have satellite offices in a few other countries—none in the US, though—and provide bodyguard services for the sheikhs of Amahad, as we already know.”

  I hope Mouse isn’t going to use the mention of the Arab state as an opportunity to boast of his prowess in showing the said sheikhs exactly how to ride a horse again. It’s a story he retells at every opportunity. “What about Jason Deville?” I ask, partly to distract him.

  Sitting back, he picks up his joint and lights it. After a long drag, he glances at the glowing tip. “Now he’s a strange one.” He puts the blunt to his mouth, his cheeks hollow and then he exhales, causing the scented smoke to drift my way again. “He seems to be a silent partner. For the past few years, he hasn’t even been back to the UK, and I can’t find any cases he’s been assigned to. I presume he works for them, as he draws down a salary, but as to what he does?” He shrugs.

  Leaning against the doorjamb, I fold my arms. “Could he be working with the feds?”

  “If he is, I can’t find any mention of it. He’s like a ghost. Can’t find him anywhere. If it wasn’t for his name as a partner of Grade A in their official papers, he almost doesn’t exist.”

  Hmm. Well, that’s fuck all use to me. A ping shows Mouse has got some info coming in. As he turns back to his screens, I leave him to it. My attempt at distracting myself from thinking a
bout Sam hasn’t helped one bit, except to give me one more headache and puzzle to solve. Should we take the chance and meet with the man? But if Mouse is right, and he’s rarely wrong, and if Grade A has such a stellar reputation, and is completely above board, they’re far more likely to be working with law enforcement than with us on the other side of the tracks. Hmm.

  For the rest of that day and the next I successfully avoid going down to the shop, hoping keeping Sam out of sight is putting her out of mind as I try to occupy myself with other matters, including the elusive Jason Deville, who I’ve yet to hear from. I start to wonder whether he’s actually going to get in contact. Maybe the delay’s because he’s putting his final touches to the sting before arranging to meet us. Fuck, we can’t be too careful.

  I sit through meetings with Dollar and Wraith, concentrating hard on processing what they're saying, with thoughts of a certain woman distracting me. I haven’t seen her for two days, but it doesn’t stop me thinking about her. As I busy myself in my work, I congratulate myself—I’ve only thought of Sam twice in this past hour. And doesn’t she have nice tits? Not too big, my hands would cover them easily. Christ, get out of my head, woman!

  That’s it, I need something to take my mind off her. Heading out to the clubroom, I find Blade tunelessly whistling as he waits for Marsh to serve him a beer. When the prospect glances over toward me, I shake my head. It’s only just past noon, and I want to keep a clear head.

  Blade jerks his chin toward me. “Wench’s parts arrived.”

  The words make me go cold, especially when he continues, “She’s gonna be stripping down the engine and putting on the new gasket later. She could be gone tomorrow.” He looks morosely down at his beer. He doesn’t seem to be much happier about it than I am.

  I force myself to be distant. “Good.”

  “Good?” He raises an eyebrow. “She’s one of the best fuckin’ mechanics I’ve worked with. I’d like her to stay on for a while. She’s been pulling her weight; we’re almost on top of the backlog. It’ll be a fuckin’ loss when she goes.”