Savage Saints MC Series (Complete Box Set)

by Hazel Parker

  “Ahh, fucking hell,” Trace grumbled. “We save the ass of the hottest lawyer in all of America and all we get for it is a stick up the ass from the news coverage.”

  It was the most accurate description, for both better and worse, that I had ever heard about what Splitter and Amber had gone through.

  “So here’s the deal, BK,” Trace said. “I’ll speak to Sword to confirm the exact numbers, but right now, we can’t afford but a couple thousand dollars in expenditure. I’m not sure what Megan’s rate is, but if she’s as good as you describe and she’s anything like Amber, you’re not going to get more than a couple of hours of time with her. We also are a bit strapped for other forms of cash. Because of the attention on us and the silence of the DM’s, we’ve both had to and are willingly downshifting a bit from other forms of cash generation into legitimate, by-the-book means.”

  In other words, the only way we’re making any money right now is through the mechanic shop. Which probably isn’t making us any money—it’s just ensuring that we bleed out slower.

  “I’ll see if I can get you a couple grand to work with. But that’s all I can give you. I’m trusting you that you want to do this because you think it’s a good idea, but we have got to get the press off our back. I don’t need everyone thinking that we kiss babies and own a Build-a-Bear store somewhere, but if we have all this attention on us, we’re fucked.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So… just be careful and prudent, OK? Flirt with her and pull a Splitter for all I care, if it saves money.”

  I smirked at that notion, again the closest thing I’d give to an actual laugh. Objectively? Yeah, Megan was cute, a little bit youthful-looking, but someone who had a good body and stunningly great brown eyes.

  But the notion that I would seduce anyone, let alone someone whom I needed for a real business reason… well, there was a reason Trace had said his line as a throwaway instead of as a serious suggestion. I was willing to do a lot of things, even that if needed, but… it just wasn’t likely.

  “Got it,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”

  “Perfect,” Trace said. “I’ll meet with Sword to get the money in your hand. In the meantime, let’s all lay low. No runs, no public drinking; we keep to ourselves.”

  Like I said, Trace.

  Whatever it takes.

  Chapter 4: Megan

  One week had passed since my initial meeting with Jose Gonzalez and Sea Sailor Whiskey, and one half of my goal was met.

  As I leaned back in my office chair late on Friday night—not like I had a date or anything to prepare for—I looked over the report that some of my associates had produced regarding breakthroughs in the Santa Monica area. We had managed to get about a dozen local bars to stock their whiskey, and I had an agreement in principle with the largest club in the area to start offering the whiskey—even featuring it—in their club service. It was about as good a start as I could have asked for.

  But that was only fifty percent of the job.

  The other half… was something that I had found myself doing for the first time in my career.

  I was avoiding it.

  Frankly, I was a little bit nervous about going back to the place. As much as it was a growing place, as much as it was going to be the place to be for young people who wanted Nevada prices in California, as much as Jose was a genius for wanting to put things there… it was still biker town. Whenever I thought about going back to the club and talking to the monster of a man known as BK, I felt like sending someone else in.

  I had never wanted to be “above the fray.” I never wanted to ask my employees to do something I wouldn’t do. I never wanted to be that CEO in an ivory tower or on the penthouse floor, refusing to come down to my lower ranking employees, treating them like dirt unless they bowed before me.

  And yet… here I was, doing just that, looking through the list of my male employees whom I could send to Green Hills.

  I wasn’t proud of that in the slightest. Sure, I could frame it as a chance to take on a major challenge. But sending in a man might have made things even worse—what if a fight broke out?

  All of my employees shared the same fatal flaw I did—they were too proud to admit weaknesses to anyone but themselves. If a man in my firm got beat up by another man, he was never, ever going to admit it, even if he had a black eye the size of a baseball.

  Besides, I had told BK to have Trace call me for a business deal. I was the one who had gone there first. I was the one who needed to finish the deal.

  It was just…

  Why was I even thinking in such hesitation? Why was my thought process like this?

  Because you think BK is the kind of guy who could snap you in half. Because you know that someone like you, making what you do and with a job like yours, might look bad going in there. Because for as much as you’ve worked on your professional image, to put yourself in a spot where you would look bad would pretty much be the worst thing you could do to yourself.

  But what if BK wasn’t that guy? What if none of those things happened? What if I could explain it as giving the club—I’m now calling them by their preferred title—a chance to defend itself, the kind of diligence and fairness that a reporter would strive for while covering a story?

  Maybe I was just overthinking it. I was a woman; they weren’t going to hurt me. I needed to go.

  Tomorrow.

  It was too late in the day. They were probably partying their asses off, doing some fucking stupid shit, doing shit I would never—

  My phone rang. I’d buried myself so deep in trying to argue both for and out of my way of working in Green Hills that I’d all but forgotten I was in an office. I jumped in surprise, put my hand on my heart, and told myself to calm the fuck down.

  “Thanks for calling MWM Solutions; this is Megan,” I said.

  “Megan. BK here.”

  BK? The club guy?

  “I thought I told you I wanted to speak to Trace,” I said, trying to maintain a level of confidence. I could just imagine BK’s hand swallowing the phone as if trying to crush me. “Is Trace available?”

  “No,” he said simply. I could hear noise in the background, but unfortunately, given that I didn’t even know what Trace looked like, let alone sounded like, I had no way of telling if he was lying or not. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

  That, I certainly did not expect at any time during the call. I understood he probably wasn’t as hard as I had made him out to be… but to apologize? To say he was sorry for what he had said? That was probably about twentieth on the list of things I would have expected BK to say.

  “For what?” I said, though admittedly I couldn’t bring myself to be as gruff and tough as I wanted.

  “For making you uncomfortable.”

  A long silence came as I wondered if BK might have more to say. But something that I was coming to learn about this man, from the few interactions I’d had with him, was just how reticent he was. To get him to speak was like a miracle in its own right; he was so quiet and so short with his words that sometimes, just getting him to give a complete sentence was like extracting teeth.

  Having the pendulum swing so far to that side probably wasn’t healthy, but, honestly, I had to admit it was kind of refreshing in comparison to the people who just would not ever shut up. The ones who just blabbered for ten minutes when they could have just gotten right to the point within thirty seconds annoyed the shit out of me.

  I wouldn’t call what BK was doing nice, but it was a nice change.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Also,” he said, almost as if he had been waiting for me to accept his apology on his toes, “I wanted to propose a deal.”

  Now, this was quite interesting. This, had my attention.

  “You don’t even know what I came to your shop for,” I said. “I said that I wanted to deal with Trace. Not you.”

  “Yeah,” BK said.

  He didn’t elaborate. I sighed. Now it was back to annoying, him bei
ng so curt.

  “Why won’t you let me speak to Trace? He can’t be gone this much.”

  “My mess to clean up.”

  His mess… but wasn’t it all of the Saints that had come to North Hollywood during that shootout? And for that matter, it wasn’t BK who had gone in first. It was someone else.

  He did say he was the PR guy. I guess maybe he’s the one that wants to make things right for the club. Better him than someone worse, I suppose. If there are people worse than him, though…

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  In any case, I knew I wasn’t getting to Trace. I had to speak to BK at least to get my foot in the door; whatever happened after that would require my years of experience and skill to figure out.

  But first…

  “What’s your deal?”

  “Tell me why you came first.”

  Goddamnit.

  And he’s not going to blink, either. He doesn’t give a fuck. I don’t have much leverage. I could just walk away, but then I’m not getting Sea Sailor Whiskey in stores either. Shit.

  “I’m doing consulting work for a new brand of whiskey called Sea Sailor,” I said begrudgingly, although the words came out much more easily than I had anticipated—almost like I knew BK wasn’t going to do anything bad with the knowledge. “I need to spread it to Green Hills. Sheriff Wiggins said you guys were the influencers around these parts, and so I went to your shop. That’s why I was there.”

  “OK,” BK said.

  I swear, I needed someone who could read people better than me to understand this guy. He was so emotionally steeled.

  Which, again, was refreshingly different, although this far on the other side, it was getting a bit annoying. You’re probably just giving him leeway because of the apology.

  “I think we can help you with your whiskey,” he said. “If you give us a consultation for free.”

  Oof. And they’re going to want to get paid for the whiskey, too. That’s how these clubs work. An eye for an eye, but also a shake for a shake, a hand for a hand, and a breath for a breath.

  This idea, while not without precedent, worried me. For one, I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of working with… bikers, like this. Don’t call them criminals without proof. Give them the benefit of the doubt. For now.

  Second, unfortunately, in marketing, the world’s perception was truly reality, and if the perception was that MWM was in cahoots with a biker club, the Savage Saints, then it was going to be an ugly mark on my firm’s reputation.

  “Nothing more,” BK said.

  I barely noticed he was continuing because I had just assumed he would shut down as soon as he had put down the proposal.

  “Just want people to realize who we are. Not criminals. Not gangsters. We want to do right in Green Hills.”

  It sounded like it was an enormous strain on BK just to get the words out, like he wasn’t comfortable speaking to this extent. I appreciated the effort, but it still didn’t change my concerns. It did, however, make me feel like I wasn’t going to get jumped if I went back over there for whatever reason.

  And hopefully, “whatever reason” is for Sea Sailor Whiskey, not for some work with them. I can pass off a couple of meetings, but I can’t pass off regular work.

  “And when do you want this meeting?” I said.

  “Tonight. Or as soon as possible.”

  Of course. In these guys’ world, they’re probably used to getting whatever they want when they want it. They figure they can just push people around and make things happen. And for the most part, they’re right.

  “Let me look at my calendar.”

  I already knew before I said those words, however, that I had nothing else planned. I had no date. The reports were done and my associates were off for the weekend. I did have some work with the East Coast company tomorrow, but that was a mere check-in call, the kind of thing I could have stepped out of any location for. It was not something that was going to create any issues for me getting to work.

  “I can come tonight,” I said.

  But I wasn’t feeling very confident about it. I still couldn’t shake the image in my head of it leaking out that MWM Solutions was working with the Savage Saints; it was akin to finding out that the United States had funneled money to some terrorists in South America.

  “But we have to keep it a secret. No one else knows.”

  BK muttered “fuck” on the other end of the line.

  “Is that a problem?” I asked directly.

  Silence followed for several seconds, enough that I wondered if BK had hung up. I pulled my phone back to look, but no, he was still on the line. He was just especially short on words right now.

  “No,” he finally said.

  Then why did you swear, BK? What are you hiding? What are you not saying?

  “I just don’t like this being a secret. Like we’re bad.”

  Once again, I came away impressed that BK had opened up a bit. It was more than he had done in our first couple of meetings, and it spoke well to him that he could stretch himself a tad.

  “I understand, but since this is free, I don’t want people thinking we’re doing anything unless it’s official.”

  That was technically a thing that I had made other, less… questionable companies and individuals adhere to in the past. There was no reason to put out a press release about working together with a firm if a deal never materialized—it only made everyone look bad.

  But that wasn’t the real reason, and because of that, I was trying to stay above the fray in a way I didn’t really like. But what choice did I have?

  “Fine.”

  I think he smelled the bullshit but didn’t want to fight it too much. Didn’t see a reason to do so.

  “So you can come now?”

  “Give me an hour. Same place as before?”

  “Yes. See you.”

  And then, before even waiting for me to speak, BK disconnected the call. I’d had a handful of abrupt callers in my day, but this was especially curt. I actually stared at the phone, a little stunned.

  But that was just how BK was. I don’t think he was being rude. In fact, I began to suspect that he was making a real effort to be more open and more honest with me. It was…

  It was nice. I’d severely underestimated BK the person. He was still a giant mystery surrounding an enigma containing a puzzle, but those layers were coming off, one conversation at a time. He was intelligent, direct, and communicated what he needed to quickly and efficiently. What could be more marketing than that?

  It’s almost like he knows how to present himself for whatever purpose he’s trying to accomplish. And most of the time, he’s just had to maintain a certain image. So it makes sense for him to be gruff. But now he’s trying to be softer and more open, and it’s rough. But he’s making the effort.

  Maybe…

  Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I thought.

  Maybe BK was actually a good person.

  Chapter 5: BK

  Lord help me, I think I just sold my soul to the devil.

  I sold out to a goddamn marketer.

  While I had gotten the deal for free in return for promoting some whiskey drink that the boys would easily crush within a matter of minutes, I also had put myself back out there to listen to the advice of a professional marketer, and I had a gross feeling that all I had done was open myself up to an hour-long seminar about the need to be conscious of my public image.

  I didn’t want the meeting to be private. I wanted all of the Saints to hear what she had to say so that we could all follow it—it also would help that the boys would be more likely to listen to a beautiful, hot woman than they were me. But what Megan either didn’t pick up or didn’t know was how desperate we were.

  We were desperate for something good. We were desperate to get the authorities off our backs so we could go back to some of the more questionable activities so we could make more money. We were desperate, in short, for some freedom.

  And so w
hatever Megan threw my way, I had to accept. I could push back a bit, but she had all the leverage.

  Still…

  A fucking marketing professional?

  We didn’t have a goddamn PR machine when I was a Marine. When we had to go in and liberate the citizens of Iraq, we didn’t announce our arrival with a press release. We didn’t hold press conferences as soldiers. We just went in and kicked ass and toppled Saddam Hussein.

  That’s because the president and the generals were the ones doing those things. You don’t think they didn’t have any PR duties?

  Nevertheless, I missed the days when all I got were orders to move in, kill some motherfucking enemies, and bring my troops back safe.

  Back safe…

  I’m in the streets of Iraq. I have a bad feeling about how this is going, but I persist anyway.

  In the flicker of an eye…

  “BK!”

  I literally jumped and kicked the table I was sitting at. I turned just to see Trace there, staring at me in shock.

  “Dude…”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  I didn’t elaborate on what had happened. My battles with PTSD were my own to fight; not anyone in the club’s, not anyone in my family, and certainly not of some strangers. It was my fight and my fight alone. Nothing else mattered.

  “What happened?”

  I just shrugged.

  “Regardless,” Trace said, getting the good sense not to inquire further into what I had done. “What’s the word on the woman? Is she coming?”

  “Yes, and for free,” I said, drawing a smile from Trace. “We’ll promote whiskey in town in exchange for a meeting.”

  “That’s it?” Trace said. “Damn, that’s the easiest deal I ever heard. About the only thing that would be easier is asking the boys to promote a porn studio.”

  I smirked at the thought. There was no way any of us would ever get any work done. That, more than the DM’s or some bad press, would be what sunk the club.

  But, fortunately, our town was small enough and not connected enough that porn just wasn’t something we had to worry about. We had the occasional friend of the club ask to make an amateur video with us, but we always rejected the offer—we didn’t need the funds or the notoriety. Plus, that was the kind of thing that might have sounded hot at the moment but ended in headaches, disasters, and broken men.