Savage Saints MC Series: The Complete Box Set

by Hazel Parker

  I also knew that us being alone, in such an environment, might create some serious problems for us being able to maintain some distance and some respect for each other… but if such a thing was going to seemingly happen anyways…

  No, Amber. You didn’t get to be the best lawyer in the area by just rolling over and panting at the sight of a hot man. It’s not “going to happen anyways.” It’s not going to happen at all. Acknowledge it, accept it, and then don’t let it happen.

  God, just give me the strength to be professional and to let the right thing happen.

  I just had to hope that what I saw as the right thing and what God saw as the right thing were the same thing—and that no one saw what might happen, anyway. Because if things went haywire, if the press got really incriminating photos of a certain kind, if the media had a field day with me taking on a Saint as a client… I’m not sure even God could help me in a spot as bad as that.

  Chapter 7: Splitter

  When I made it into the clubhouse, I should not have been surprised that things remained the same as I had left them.

  After all, the party that we had thrown the night before, by all accounts, had reached a level of insanity that was far beyond anything we had ever expected. I had gotten out of jail, not risen from the dead, and yet, now that I could see the aftereffects unfold without anticipating having to make apologies for appearances to Amber, I could see that we truly had gotten a bit ridiculous.

  There were beer stains and cigarette butts everywhere; that was normal. There were still naked girls and naked guys sprawled out on the couches and on the ground, and I knew there would be more in the bathrooms and in the bedrooms. That was normal. There was even Trace there, hungover. That was normal-ish.

  But there were two things that I did not expect to see.

  One was that around one of the circular tables, so much shattered glass lay on the floor that it made me believe that whoever had broken them had meant to do it on purpose; that the broken glass was meant to suggest that a game of some sort had been played. I had never known us to do anything like that, but then again, I had never known myself to get arrested. Damn, that must have been great!

  And then I saw the other thing that made me go, “Oh, fuck.”

  Sheriff Wiggins walking from one of the back rooms in to meet Trace and Jane.

  “Uh, Trace, Sheriff,” I said, nodding to them. “All due respect, but what the fuck is going on? It’s early for you to be here, right?”

  “Well, I would like to believe so,” Sheriff Wiggins said. “However, Trace here is wanted for public disturbance from the night before.”

  The accusation was beyond stupid; it almost seemed fabricated. All of the nearby businesses were closed during the hours in which we would rage, and even then, the walls were pretty good at preventing noise from getting into the streets. It was the rare party that things got so wild that we had noise complaints, and we were pretty good about self-policing who went outside and for what purposes. Sex was OK, drinking and smoking were OK, and leaving was OK, but making noise and getting into a fight were not OK.

  “So just write it up and say you gave us a warning,” I said. “I don’t see what the big fucking deal is.”

  “Splitter,” Trace said, attempting to calm me down.

  “It’s not me who is investigating this,” Sheriff Wiggins said.

  Oh, fuck. They’re really trying to come down on us, huh? Really trying to bust our ass so we can go bye-bye?

  “I can control what happens in Green Hills, but I cannot control what county and state police do, to say nothing of federal agents.”

  Both of us looked up at Sheriff Wiggins as if he had just said that Diablo had risen from the dead.

  “Is the FBI involved? The ATF?”

  “Sorry, I meant that rhetorically. The feds are not yet involved.”

  Yet.

  I knew full well if we got the feds in here, we’d turn into a mechanic shop and nothing more so fast that it was like we never even owned motorcycles. And that wasn’t because we would deliberately do it to protect ourselves; it was because if the feds came in, that was firepower we’d have a real shitty time dealing with.

  Fucking hell. Just what I needed after such a great morning too. And to make matters even more goddamn worse, my head was starting to pound again, the potent mix of the hangover with the bad news creating the perfect cocktail for skull pressure and destruction.

  “So what can you do?” Trace said. “What can you let us know?”

  Sheriff Wiggins took a seat, leaned back, and sighed. I noticed this whole time Jane paying careful attention; maybe as someone whose father had founded the club, she might have some ideas. But that was Trace’s battle to fight, not mine.

  “I know that the higher ups, the police and the DAs, they want you guys gone and erased. They think you’re a relic of the past and that you don’t belong in this era. Therefore, for the time being, they’re going to do whatever they can to get rid of you. If they can’t wipe you out with one massive charge, they’re going to bleed you to death with these public disturbances and other things.”

  “Shit,” Trace and I said at the same time.

  “You’re not going to win this battle standing up to the cops,” Jane said, drawing all eyes to her, given it was the first thing she said all meeting. “You’re going to have to do it by developing a stronger relationship in the community. The cops want the peace of the community first and foremost; if you make it so that people are upset with you guys leaving, then that’s the best way to get them off your back.”

  “A little PR is what you’re saying,” Trace said.

  “But we’re already liked in this goddamn area,” I said, modulating my words as Jane made the hand gesture to calm myself. “People support us. The press hates us, but who really trusts the press anymore?”

  “People of influence,” Sheriff Wiggins said.

  Damnit. I hate that he’s right. I hate it!

  “And people outside of the community in the nearby neighborhoods,” he said. “You’re going to have to reach higher up to spread your message of… well, whatever the hell you want your message to be.”

  Amber can help with that. She’s connected in Los Angeles. She could get that.

  “Look, we can talk about press relations and writing a book someday or going to some charity or I don’t give a fuck what,” Trace said. “But that’s a story for another day. Right now, as in, over the next few days, Wiggins. What can you do to help?”

  The sheriff grimaced. He had already helped us in one way, though; we weren’t aiming high enough with our influence. Sure, grandma Betty down the street who secretly wished it was still the sixties liked us, but aside from a citizen’s vote every two years or so, she had no impact.

  It was the Green Hills press, the Los Angeles press, and the local mayor and nearby mayors whom we had to reach. Admittedly, part of me wondered if threats were best.

  Actually, no, fuck that, I wouldn’t say “wondered.” I’d say “begged to make some goddamn threats.” These fucking assclowns needed a lesson in who actually protected the city, and as much as I didn’t mind Sheriff Wiggins, it sure as hell wasn’t the goddamn badge that did the job. Criminals didn’t fear the police; they feared us. The cops would arrest them and hope they learned a lesson; we’d beat their ass and know they learned a lesson.

  But…

  That’s why I was fucking vice president. Because Trace had a better grasp on things than I ever did. If he went out again as he had during our fight with Diablos, well, I didn’t want to think about it.

  “Right now, I can tie the process up a bit,” he said. “I can say that I conducted the questioning, that’ll get them all tied up, saying things about standard protocol. But even if I do get this particular case out of the way, even if I do manage to get things dismissed on some technicality, they’re not going to stop coming for you. You’re going to need a bigger strategy than just me.”

  At that, Sheriff Wigg
ins gathered his things and headed for the door. Just before he left, he turned and looked to me.

  “Your lawyer lady friend might be able to help. And before you say anything about me assuming anything, check the news. Hmm?”

  The fuck does that mean?

  But I didn’t have time to think about it, because as soon as the door shut, Trace cleared his throat, demanding my attention.

  “What?” I said.

  “I’m going to need your help with something, Splitter,” he said. “We’re going to have to mandate that the club keep its operations that much more low key.”

  That seemed like the easiest request ever, and it was already something we were doing anyway. I failed to see what the big deal was and just said, “OK, I can do that.”

  “No, I mean, we can’t be doing parties like this right now,” he said.

  “Fuck,” I said, not so much for myself but for all of the passed out guys and girls in this room. People loved getting drunk, getting fucked, and getting into fights; that we’d have to take away all three from them might as well have signaled that we were going to start prohibition all over again. “Well, they ain’t gonna like it.”

  “Tough shit,” Trace said. “It’s part of being president. But right now, we need a strategy.”

  “Yep,” Trace said. “I think Wiggins is right. We might need Amber’s help.”

  “Agreed,” Jane said.

  I stared at the both of them, annoyed that my lawyer was suddenly getting pulled in multiple directions within the club. What the fuck was the point of defending me against a murder charge and God knows what else if the club was just going to use her for other points? What the fuck did it even mean for…

  “Why do you look so pissed?” Trace said.

  Because…

  Because I don’t want to share her. Because I want her with me. Because I’m attracted to her and having her attention on other things means it won’t be on me. Goddamnit.

  “Look… that’s not important right now,” I said. “We can use her as needed, but I’m not sure what help she will be. Here’s my fucking question. Why don’t we have the police turn the heat on the DMs?”

  To me, it was a question that had been hanging over my head since I got indicted. While it was true that we had been the ones to blow up the warehouse and thus had immediately drawn all the attention, it’s not like the Mercs had ever gone without committing a crime. They’d committed so many of them, in fact, that all of their members could share the sentences equally and everyone would be spending life in prison.

  And to be sure, the DMs had a much worse reputation in the Los Angeles area than we did. The press hated both of us, but most people understood we were just a different breed of human. But the DMs? They were just fucking savages and animals. So why the fuck wouldn’t the cops want to end them?

  “Probably because they think the DMs are dead.”

  Well… shit.

  “Right now, the DMs have not yet attacked us. Diablo is dead. If you’re a cop and you see that Diablo has been dead for some time and there hasn’t been any retalition, you probably think the Devil’s Mercenaries are buried and dead. Gone forever. We know that’s not the case, but we aren’t cops. We can play by rules they can’t. Which, unfortunately, means the cops can’t do anything until they see something happen.”

  “OK…” I said, my voice trailing off. There was something in there that Trace had left open, and I wanted to drive it home. “So if we’re going to lay low and we can play defense without casualties, why don’t we wait until they attack? We can record everything, and then we can give it to the police to go after the DMs.”

  “That could work,” Trace said, his mind racing at the same time his mouth moved. “But do we want to be in bed with the cops? That’s the kind of thing that could easily come back to bite us in the ass if we aren’t careful, you know? Like they use us to help them, and they get information on us, pretending to be our close friend, and then they kill us in court.”

  I hated that Trace was right.

  But just as I thought before, that’s why he was the goddamn president and I was the fucking vice president.

  Man, I’m swearing a lot. Amber would not approve. Maybe I do need her here with Trace. Her presence would help calm me down big time. If nothing else, it would get me not to be so up and down.

  “I really think we need Amber here,” Trace said as if reading my mind.

  “Yeah, I’m in agreement on that now,” I said. “Hold on.”

  I reached down to my phone to text her, only to see that she had already texted me. I tried not to show that this development was exciting to me, putting my hand over my mouth so that Jane and Trace couldn’t see me acting like an idiot. I unlocked my phone and read the message.

  “Getting harassed by the pap. Not able to see you in public right now. Fear that the only thing I can do is go to your warehouse and we need guys to fend off media. Are you OK with that?”

  Was I OK with that? What kind of a question was that? Of course I was OK with that! That was the best news I could have gotten right then! The girl I liked, the girl that was easily the most attractive one I had ever met, wanted to come to our place? To our turf?

  Fuck and yes!

  Language, Splitter. Amber would not like it!

  There was, however, one problem.

  This place looked like a fucking orgy fest right now, because it was exactly that. To say Amber was not comfortable when she first walked in here was a massive understatement, and if she came here with the place still looking like this…

  She was too polite ever to say that she needed the place cleaned up before she arrived, but I knew she was expecting it all the same, nor could I refuse such a request on her part. If I did so, the attraction between us was going to fade.

  “So I can have her here in a bit, maybe even tonight,” I said. “But we have to get this place clean. She can help both of our situations out, but if this place is looking like a frat house, there is absolutely zero chance she’s going to stick around. What are the chances that we can get this place cleaned by tonight?”

  I fully expected Trace to laugh, ask me to look around the room, and ask me what I thought the odds were. If he had, I would not have blamed him in the least. Savage Saints weren’t savage because we were pushovers when it came to giving up things we liked. We were savage because of nights like last night.

  “Easy,” he said, leaving me a little surprised, although not in an unpleasant way. “We’ll give everyone here two more hours to wake up. At that point, we start forcing everyone to clean up and get themselves organized. If not, we toss them out the back and let nature wake them up.”

  “Damn, Trace,” I growled with a half-laugh. “Not one for fucking around, huh?”

  “Not when it comes to the fate of the Savage Saints.”

  Oh, he’s more serious than I am. He’s really not going to take any of this shit.

  I suppose everything with Jane helped him shape up. He was a great leader before, but this is much more intense of a leader than he was before.

  “I’m going to go take a nap,” Trace said. “I still feel like death. Jane?”

  “Of course,” she said, smirking.

  I had a feeling “nap” was going to be preluded by something much more exciting than what I was going to be doing—which was actually napping—but what was I going to do, cockblock Trace from his girlfriend? Besides, if luck looked in my favor at all, I wouldn’t be too far behind.

  And given that Amber would be coming over to my place very willingly in almost no time, I might even be on even ground with him soon.

  Chapter 8: Amber

  When I had set the three ground rules for Splitter, he was far from the first client that I had had to establish such rules for. In fact, he was one of the better ones—possibly one of the best, if I was being totally honest—because he listened and picked up so quickly on what I wanted out of my clients. Most clients were either too stubborn or too arroga
nt to listen.

  Tonight, though, as I gathered my possessions, made sure I was dressed as professionally as possible, and headed for my car, I decided that someone needed stricter rules for someone—me.

  After what had happened in the car, I needed some guidance and some hard rules that would prevent me from doing anything stupid or borderline dangerous. Hugging a client, in a vacuum, was not that bad, but in the context of all the looks we had given each other? In the face of everything we had done to each other? It was a bad sign.

  There were perhaps many reasons why: the divorce was unsettling my sense of right and wrong; working with people like the Saints had confused me; my faith had seemed to abandon me at the worst possible time; and on and on and on. But the why did not matter so much as ensuring that the “what” did not happen again.

  So, by the time I reached the highway to head to Green Hills around fifteen minutes before nine o’clock, I set three rules for myself for the two-hour meeting.

  One, I would not touch Splitter in any way, not even a handshake. Obviously, this would prevent me from hugging him, but it would also prevent me from doing anything that might eventually lead to a hug and possibly more. If I never got to touch his arm, if I never got to feel his grip, if I never got to lean my body into him, then there was no way that I could just hug him. It would feel too awkward.

  Granted, not touching him at all might carry some awkwardness as well, but we’d met enough times that I could walk in somewhere and just get right into the issue.

  Second, I would leave at eleven sharp. Aside from just being a good lawyer and making sure I did not “accidentally” add time I could charge for, I felt that this insistence on leaving right at the top of the hour would keep us focused. It would also prevent me from doing anything after our time together professionally ended.