Honor and Redemption

by A. C. Bextor

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © A.C. Bextor 2019

  Title: Honor and Redemption Saint’s Justice Book Two

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at acbextor@gmail.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning:

  The unauthorized or reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Other Books

  Breathe

  Pearl Jam

  For Crying Out Loud

  Meat Loaf

  Uninvited

  Alanis Morissette

  The Show Must Go On

  Queen

  The Sound of Silence

  Disturbed

  Thistle and Weeds

  Mumford & Sons

  Mercy

  Brett Young

  Sign of the Times

  Harry Styles

  Wasted Time

  The Eagles

  Editing By: Dana Hook—Rebel Edit & Design

  Proofreading By: Julie Deaton—Deaton Author Services

  Formatting By: Stacy Blake—Champagne Formats

  Cover By: Margreet Asselbergs—Rebel Edit & Design

  Special Mentions:

  Tara S.—Is it really finished? Are you sure? Thanks for sticking with this for so long! I promise Leglas won’t drive you as crazy.

  Joni F. and Jackie S.—I’m not sure how to accurately thank you for pushing me so hard to finish Gypsy and Cricket, clearing the way for Leglas to get his word in. It’s not over yet. Love you both!

  LaChelle F.—Thank you for reading, correcting my errors, and offering your valuable input. So happy I’ve met you!

  Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.

  —Norman Cousins.

  Twelve years earlier…

  “Call this a partnership. Call it an arrangement. I don’t give a fuck what you wanna call it,” the vile man sitting across from me grumbles.

  Breathing heavily through his cracked lips, he holds a rolled up, one-hundred-dollar bill in one hand, and straightens a long, thick, sloppy line of cocaine with the other.

  Stupid bastard. Fat, stupid bastard.

  Tyler “Steel Toe” Roberts is a menace to all kinds. Not only does he have a large stomach that moves when he talks, he has rotten teeth, greasy hair, and grimy skin. He hasn’t washed in what could be weeks. Roberts appears to be in his mid-forties, leading a life that hasn’t been kind to him in any way.

  Rumor has it, he got the name “Steel Toe” while serving a few years inside a motorcycle club. I’ve never asked, nor cared, how or why he’s no longer part of it.

  Roberts is an evil-minded thug who has his hands in every suspicious act in and around Chicago. His criminal resume reads like that of a serial wanna-be. He’s well-known for pushing product, accepting payments to protect lowlifes, and collecting debts for loan sharks. From the offer he just put on the table for my club to consider, he’s stretched his business to selling skin as well.

  Saint’s Justice’s only interest in Roberts’ operation is that of a supplier. Not because he, as the head of his own broken and weak empire, is savvy or knowledgeable, or that anyone in my club considers him a valued ally, because we don’t. He and his organization are none of those things.

  However, the product he pushes is quality. The transactions between our organizations are typically quick and clean. We buy what we need, sell what we can, and he leaves us alone to do it. Once the transactions are complete, there are no favors, markers, or paybacks of any kind expected in return.

  I’ve never approved of the way the Saint’s make their money to keep the club afloat. To be honest, I don’t agree with a lot of details and goings-on inside the club. I’ve voiced my distrust and concerns not once, not twice, but repeatedly. Of course, being as I’m a new member, my thoughts and ideas have gone unheard.

  In the years of this life, I’ve done enough, avoided enough, and seen enough to know I want out. I want a future with stability, earned with honest to God hard work. A family. A home to call my own. But, this is a dream I’ll never have the chance to live out. Two weeks ago, I was patched in as a full-fledged member of Saint’s Justice.

  My father, whom every brother refers to as Pop, is the president, and has been for as many years as I can remember.

  Pop isn’t ignorant that a lot of what we do is wrong, blurring the lines between morally sound and rightly fucked-up. He’s planning to change how the club runs, promising its members the future we all want, need, and deserve. The proposed ideas he’s suggested won’t make us rich men, and sure as hell won’t make us popular among our comrades in cuts of other colors. Yet, the longer we go on as we are, the harder it’ll be to ever get back a shred of dignity within ourselves.

  Narrowing my eyes at the scum across from me, I sneer as a bead of sweat drips from his temple. Not noticing my disgust, he bends over his big belly, snorts the line of toxic filth, then sits back to revel in the hit. His eyes close, and his crusty, dry lips form a fucked up smile.

  “We won’t make any other deals other than the one we’re discussing right now,” I relay. “The answer is no.”

  “You haven’t heard the offer,” he counters.

  “Bein’ that we won’t accept anything from you, there’s no offer to hear.”

  If Roberts was smart, he’d relent his objective. He’d get back to why I’m sitting in this shithole in the first place. He’d stop wasting my time, along with Saint’s, in having me wait in the first place.

  The abandoned warehouse he and his men deal their business from s
mells of sewage and crime. The outer brick walls and inner cement floors are covered in mold, soot, and disdain. Its makeshift drywall dividers are wobbly and worn with age. Those employed within this prison of chaos are the worst of the worst. The sickest of the sick. Evil dwells at every core.

  By all rights, Roberts should consider Saint’s Justice MC his rival. In some ways, we could be considered his enemy. We’re bigger in numbers, stronger in skills, and sure as fuck smarter than his crew of idiots. He should accept my answer as stated and move the fuck on.

  But he doesn’t. Stupid men, full of greed and hungry for supremacy, rarely do as they should.

  Leaning the bulk of his weight against the metal table, he rests his arms on its dirty surface while using the outer edge of his beefy hand to brush away the remnants of his high.

  Once finished, he glances up, taking in my determination. “If your president would agree, this arrangement could be lucrative for all.” Pointing, he closes one eye, as though aiming for a target. “For you especially.”

  I scoff. “How do you figure that?”

  “You get your club partner with us, I might consider that a personal favor.”

  A favor from an idiot. This would be funny if he wasn’t wasting my goddamn time.

  “I don’t do personal favors. For anyone.”

  “No?” he mocks, a graying eyebrow cocked.

  “No.”

  As if he doubts my position, his smile turns mocking. “This offer could make you a rich man.”

  Sitting back in my chair, I reiterate, “I speak for the club and its president. The answer is still no.”

  Suspicious of my claim, he gathers the balls to press, “You speak for the president?”

  “I do.”

  Sucks for me that this ended up being my first official task while wearing the Saint’s Justice cut. I’d hope for a different kind of call out; a run on my bike, creating a plan to seek out more members—anything with more importance. Hell, I’d settle to go collect a debt from some lowlife who owes Saint’s money.

  Yet, here I am—anxious, agitated, and tired of the club drama already.

  Fuck this.

  Leaning forward, I press the tip of my finger into the table to emphasize my point. “I’m here to confirm details of what Pop said you agreed to—no more, no less.”

  “No more, no less,” the fat bitch repeats, wrapping his hands around the edge of the table. “So be it.”

  Snapping his fingers in the air, he beckons one of his henchmen. A gaunt, dirty-faced, gray-haired has-been, wearing a plain black tee and worn-out dark jeans, steps forward. The holster at his back holds a small hand gun. I’m not armed, as per one of the many demands made before any meeting with Roberts.

  The two of them converse amongst themselves, the henchman’s gaze hitting mine with a rotten, toothy grin.

  Jesus Christ.

  Mentally latching hold of my patience, I blindly ask for fate to intervene so I can leave this dump.

  Before I start to stand, effectively telling these idiots any deal between our organizations is off, the world as I know it stops mid-motion, tilting further on its already unstable axis. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a small glimpse of long, curly blonde hair, peeping out from the other side of the wall.

  “Seems we have a deal,” Roberts prompts, bringing my attention back to him.

  My narrowed eyes dart to his as I bite out, “The original deal I came here for.”

  Roberts nods. “We’ll move your shipment tonight. Send one of your men here with full payment tomorrow morning at five a.m.”

  Following another motion around the corner, my gaze locks on the target. This time, it’s not only hair peeking out, but a pair of startling, cornflower blue eyes.

  Not the gaze of a grown man or woman. The expressionless face I’m staring into is that of a kid.

  A fucking child.

  At first, her eyes worry, darting to and fro between the three men in the room.

  Maybe she’s fearing she’s been caught. Then, as if she has no regard for her safety, she smiles wide, giving me a full view of her small, straight white teeth. I succeed in not giving away her position when she rolls her tongue out between her pale lips in play.

  Shaking my head, I wordlessly convey for her to step back. Her face pales as heavy footsteps come traipsing behind the thinly-built wall separating these men and her. She slaps her hand over her mouth, and her features turn from playful to frightened.

  “What the fuck?” the henchman behind Roberts hisses.

  Shit.

  The angelic face of the girl pales further when she looks up to see he’s thundering toward her in quick, long strides. She steps back, landing against another man I heard coming but hadn’t yet seen. This henchman stands over six feet tall, with long strands of thinning hair hanging down his back. His face is marked and bruised, as if he’s just been in a brawl. He’s shirtless, revealing more scars on his fat, hairy chest. His jeans are zipped, but not buttoned, and he’s moving to put his fucking hands on her.

  “Jesus Christ!” Roberts roars, standing fast and hard. With his force, the metal table skids in my direction. The legs scrape against the concrete floor, sending an ear-piercing screech to course through the room.

  “I’m sorry!” she cries out in terror. “I’m so, so sorry!”

  Hearing her plea, I stand. My chair flies back, tilting on its back legs and hitting the floor with a loud bang. In quick steps, I make my way to her faster than Roberts does.

  I glare toward the struggling girl whose face is framed with terror. She’s wearing only a man’s plain white, ratty T-shirt, the size too large. The front droops, revealing hints of a growing chest. Her bare legs shift with an uncontrolled urge to run. Once she gives up the fight and settles with her fate, she frowns.

  Pointing to her, my fury escalates. “Someone wanna tell me why the fuck I’m staring at a kid right now?”

  “Get her the fuck out of here!” Roberts ignores my demand and points past the door, into the area I’d entered through thirty minutes before. “Get her back to her room, and don’t let her out again.”

  What the fuck?

  Fuck me. Not only is this kid in a place where bad business is being openly discussed, she has her own goddamn room in this shit-infested hole.

  The shirtless, burly man who entered last grunts, reaching down to grab her by the arm. He yanks her hard and she yelps in pain. I step forward, and a heavy hand slams against my chest. Roberts is pinning me in place.

  His expression, mirroring mine, is furious.

  “No one touches the merchandise,” he seethes, his lips twisting with disgust. All signs of a partnership are lost, and in its place is utter hostility. “You wanna play, you gotta pay like anyone else.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  Another terrified shriek of pain rips from the little girl, echoing off the walls, blasting my chest, slapping me in the face as if her cries were physical.

  “Pay?” I curl my lip and ball my hands into fists.

  “Pay to play,” he confirms. “By the hour.”

  “You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

  Smiling sickly, Roberts resembles every toxic and inhumane disgrace known to man. “You should’ve listened to my offer.”

  “Fuck your offer.”

  He has the balls to shake his head and tsk.

  Christ.

  I can’t leave the girl behind. He labeled her merchandise, as in to be used or sold.

  “This is done,” I tell him, grasping for self-control. “We’re finished.”

  Dropping his hand from my chest, he takes a step back. A stark but passing relief runs over his expression.

  “Yeah,” he declares, his voice low. “We’re done. You can go. One of the other errand boys will finish the deal.”

  Yes, they fucking will. But equal amounts of crack and heroine won’t be any part of the exchange. And there sure as fuck won’t be any payments made.

  We’ll pick up the �
��merchandise’, though. And the little girl with sunny blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and a smile unworthy of any person here—including myself—will be lost to its sewer for good.

  Ten years earlier…

  “Jesus Christ, would you fuckin’ give me that?” Gypsy yanks the old and tarnished ring from my grasp and tosses the dull silver back on his dresser, where it batters against the wood. I listen as it hits the edge of a small, empty picture frame with a soft clink.

  Realizing he just cursed, and in the worst way, Gypsy’s anger lessens. I giggle as he falters, and adds a mumbled, “Shit. Sorry.”

  Gypsy considers me a kid. It doesn’t matter that I’m thirteen years old, and act far from juvenile. I’ve been living amongst this club with the Saint’s family for almost two years now. Growing accustom to these brawling men and their catty women has made every day an adventure.

  Before this, I survived a life inside a dirty warehouse that my biological father was in charge of.

  Gypsy also thinks I’m a pain in the ass. I’ve heard him tell the others that I exist only to pester him. He claims I work hard perfecting my already maddening skill with daily visits to his room whether he’s in it or not. Many times, he’s argued with me to stay out, citing it’s no place for a girl my age.

  I’ve never listened, though. And really, why would I? I love Gypsy. He’s my favorite person.

  Not to mention, my favorite place to be is in his room and around his stuff. Gypsy’s the only biker in this club who keeps his space so clean. He doesn’t have much furniture, only a small bed and a long, beat-up wooden dresser. His walls are mostly bare, other than a few posters of girls: one with a huge chest washing a car, the other in a small bikini, sitting on the seat of a big black Harley motorcycle.

  Gross.

  Gypsy’s the only boy, the only person, in my entire life who I trust above all others. Of course, I love Mom and Pop and the life they’ve given me, but neither of them make me feel as if I belong the way Gypsy does.