Dirty Salvation (Renegade Souls MC Romance Saga Book 1)

by V. Theia

Several laughed. “Fuckin’ huge, but he makes a mean breakfast. Come on, bring your cup, while you wait for the grub I’ma show you around the club.” the gesture took her by surprise when he grabbed hold of her hand.

  Not the lacing fingers kind of hand holding, it was palm to palm, his fingers wrapped around hers gently guiding as if it was nothing for him to do.

  Meanwhile, in another dimension, Zara choked around a mouthful of sweet coffee. Ohhh… She thought through a tsunami of panic filling her head, making breathing choppy. She occupied her mouth by gulping the hot coffee.

  His palm was rough…warm, enveloping hers so gently it was the sweetest sign she'd had in a long time. Her eyes tracked down to their locked hands.

  A handsome man was grasping her hand sweetly in his warm fingers.

  Touching her kindly.

  Rider had been the man of her dreams for such a long time. The man she’d used as a beacon of hope when she’d needed an escape, she’d find him deep in the caverns of her mind where she could hide and wait out whatever was going on at the time.

  And now he was holding her hand.

  Sweet Jiminy Cricket.

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic!

  Certainly, don’t whimper.

  The noise was right there in the back of her throat just waiting to discharge like a fucking loud cannon, confetti paper included.

  Aw hell, who was she kidding? She wanted to squeal and plaster it all over Facebook a handsome man was holding her hand.

  A badass handsome biker man.

  Hand-holding didn’t seem like a typical outlaw move and Zara reacted accordingly, letting her fingers sit within his. It would have been a show of disrespect in front of his boys had she tore her hand back and she didn't want to do that, she knew how to keep a happy medium, to skirt under the radar of pissing someone off.

  But the warmth his much bigger hand offered felt nice and right, another linked thread to her safety shown in the simplest of ways, so she slid her hand deeper into his and squeezed.

  He squeezed back.

  Blinking furiously, holding off the tears that threatened to fall from his kindness, she followed behind when he led them out of the kitchen, each set of eyes on them, she could see them silently cocking brows in wonderment, probably would ask each other soon as she as out of sight what their president was up to with her?

  She had the same thought.

  The beginning of the end.

  And it all began with a badass biker holding her hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Payback IS going to be a bitch, Rider. Just wait for it.” – Anon

  The man was raging with hatred. Surrounded by stagnant water, the ground underneath him was cold, hard, filthy. He was fatigued laid up against the stump of a tree, all around him there was noises of the night, bugs, crickets, howls in the distance. None of it mattered while his veins bulged with hatred and the need to kill one motherfucker in particular.

  He despised Rider Marinos.

  He was going to kill Rider Marinos very, very fucking slowly with as much agony as he could, to make the last moments of that bastard’s life more despondent than he could ever imagine.

  The man surveyed the woods he was stranded in; lost was a better word.

  He hated the woods. Never went into them. Until forced to.

  Cold, his clothes soaked through after the night’s rain fell in hard pelts. He needed to find shelter and quickly.

  The man’s leg burned. Vicious gray eyes stared at his useless limb still attached to his body, he’d managed to dig the bullet out from the top of his thigh hours ago, unimaginable pain made him violently ill all over himself and now he could feel the infection setting in, pus oozing from the wound, swollen and raw, it would be a matter of hours still until sepsis set in and he died out here.

  The man had lost his cell phone somewhere during his climb.

  Unreachable to anyone.

  Hate could achieve a great many things. Granted, he wasn’t running anytime soon, but he could get his fucking ass up off the forest floor at least.

  The huge size of the man, used the tree for balance, shimmying his body up and up. Sweating in agony, pain lancing his leg until he wanted to cut the fucking thing off.

  He held one face in his mind’s eye while he struggled to do the simplest task of rising to his feet.

  Hate boiling his gut, churning his blood into a volcano, he finally was standing on one leg, panting vigorously, exerted sweat pouring down his face, gathering in his beard.

  Those same unfeeling, glacial detached gray eyes surveyed the thick spread of trees and bushes as far as the eye could see.

  Murder his only thought.

  The man was deciding his best course of action, in which direction to head when he caught a noise.

  Alert.

  Deadly still, silent. He listened to it approach closer through the darkness, crisp sounds of one set of light feet.

  He patted his pockets, found them empty of his usual handguns.

  His tattooed fists clenched.

  Ready.

  He’d murdered a bunch with just his bare hands for weapons.

  The man could think on his feet, even as death was knocking on his own door, he was thinking of delivering it to whoever came closer through the forest towards him.

  Hate was a helluva motivator.

  Before he went to Hell, he was going to kill the Renegade Souls president.

  Closer. Closer. Closer.

  Adrenaline spiked the man’s system, pumping energy to his muscles, ready to strike, to kill and steal what he needed.

  Alert, unbreathing, he waited for the noise to draw ever nearer.

  Only the worst survived and today was not the day he died.

  He delved down deep into his psyche where the nasty lived, felt that familiar coldness for the hunt, the kill, the taste of blood dripping down his face sweep over him.

  The man was grinning like the vicious evil murderous sociopath he was when he finally clapped eyes on the dark shadow.

  Good things came to those who waited, he thought with a heaved inhale of cooler night air so crisp it burned his lungs.

  And he’d waited just long enough for divine intervention.

  He laughed internally. The sound a little maniacal.

  “Thank God.” People trusted you when you threw God in there. “Can you help me, please?” he asked the hiker, with the pack full of goodies strapped over their back.

  All sense of normality in his rough voice.

  The man was good at acting as people expected.

  He smiled rueful, even as the fever swept through him with a harsh shiver, pain forgotten, he stood a little taller.

  It was Isaiah who had said, and he shall smite the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips shall he slay the wicked.

  The man felt the same hatred strengthen him, his childhood bible studies lingering in the background noise of his mind, he twisted each one to mean only one thing; Kill. And kill soon.

  Rider would be slain.

  For the man was the Lord, judge, and executioner.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You have to read between the lines with Outlaws, to wade through the bullshit to get at their truth…” - Charlie Timmons

  Cops had been at his club all damn day. Poking their nasty little noses into his business. Asking too many questions Rider was prone to think he was about to be proposed to.

  Snooping fuckers. Just one more thing he had to grin and bear.

  Of course, he’d smiled pleasantly, showed the sheriff into his office, offered him a seat and coffee, answered every damn question calm and helpful.

  Did his club know anything about the unexplained fire recently at the Raging Rebel’s building? Who us? No officer.

  Had he or his club members been near that area in recent memory? Nope, too busy building bikes and organizing a charity ride for the local kid's hospital.

  Rider bullshitted so much in that first thirty minu
tes he almost reached up and brushed a thumb over his mouth to check for skid marks.

  He liked the sheriff. Charlie Timmons was Rider’s age, married with a couple of toddlers, and the least crooked sheriff Armado had seen in recent years. The last one, a fat sweaty oaf of a man who always reeked of cigar smoked and was constantly crunching on sugared almonds, had been so far in his uncle’s pockets, that when he was eventually found out to be the bent fucking cop that he was, with just a nice helpful nudge from Rider and a few whispers in the right ear, namely Charlie-boy here when he'd been a fresh-faced rookie officer, the corruptness uncovered in the then sheriff’s name had reached back decades, such a bad boy, it seemed, he’d taken bribes upon bribes lacing his fat pockets, turned a blind eye to many crimes, falsified documents, gotten rid of evidence.

  Rider had a duty to the community to help his crimes come to light.

  A good citizen with no ulterior motives in mind whatsoever.

  And if it helped pave the way for Rider to take over his club, then all the better. The last thing he’d needed was a cop greedily coveting handouts from him.

  Fuck that.

  He’d gotten shot of his idiot Uncle, taken his gavel and bounced the fat oaf of a cop back to the ground.

  Rider saw him now and then when he rode into town. He’d eaten himself to a fatter state, a giant round gut protruding over too tight jeans and a shirt busting at the seams. He’d always glare at Rider but otherwise kept his mouth shut. Talk was he was a professional gambler now after his disgraced discharge from the force.

  The club had a side business of gambling and loans, lots of dirty money they made clean through the bike shop and other endeavors here and there, not enough money to make the IRS sit up and take notice.

  Rider was smart like that.

  Texas, his treasurer and money wizard, more so.

  There wasn’t a dime of the club’s money Texas didn’t know where it was going at any given time. And it was Texas who was running the whole shebang of the money loans. Just a touch illegal, but fuck if it wasn’t profitable and the club needed all the liquid cash they could lay their hands on right now. It wasn't their main business, but it was a good side bene for the times any chapters struggled.

  Wouldn’t that be amusing for old fat ex-cop to barrel himself up for a loan to pay off his gambling debts? Rider would get a hard-on telling that odious fool how far he could fuck off. Right then, though, he was pouring a fresh black coffee, carrying two cups, he handed one to over to Charlie who was sat in front of Rider’s desk out in the cab office, no way he was letting a cop, even one he liked, get comfortable inside his clubhouse.

  Curious tone in place he asked. “You got any idea what went down over at Westbanks then? Heard there were bodies.”

  He gave the very obvious impression he was fishing when in actual fact he knew more than Charlie did. Sat in his tan uniform with his shiny gold star pinned to his chest, a gun belt slung around his waist the guy took a long sip, arching his brow at Rider.

  “You really gonna play it this way, Rider?” Sharp green eyes looked on. Charlie-boy was a shrewd cop.

  “Not sure what you’re gettin’ at, Sheriff. Just a perturbed citizen wantin’ to know if someone is fire-starting buildings in the neighborhood, get me? I got businesses to protect. Those same businesses that profit the city, I might add.”

  The sheriff glared hard enough to curdle milk before bursting out. “Fifteen dead bodies! All with mysterious stab wounds, bullet holes while they slept in their beds. They didn't stab themselves and set their club on fire, Rider!”

  He rolled a meaty shoulder. “Maybe they had a game of Russian roulette get out of hand.” Rider shrugged. “My heart bleeds, I’ll send flowers. Still not seein’ what this has to do with me.”

  "How long have we known each other now, Rider, a decade, give or take a year?"

  Rider had retaken his seat, cradling his own mug with his frozen fingers, he needed a second space heater in here or risk dying during the winter months.

  He gave the sheriff a brief nod wondering where he was going with the memory lanes, not that he cared, whatever kept the cop off the topic of who fried the Rebels like chicken fingers.

  "Then how 'bout you give me a little credit and don't try to drip feed me any more bullshit. Do I think you have information about those murders? Yes, I do." His words were smoothly good-natured, calm now, but Rider could hear the underlying steel in his tone as he addressed the fire head on.

  "Those boys were asleep, Rider, whoever got in, got in quick and quiet, fires started in various places at the same time, it didn't just spread slowly, it caught like a tsunami of flames, no chance for anyone to get out alive." His jaw tightened.

  Charlie might be a good cop who knew who was criminal in his territory and who didn't deserve to live, didn't mean he approved of murder. Rider watched the play of emotions cross his face. Pity this would be an open and shut case for the sheriff.

  “Do you know something about it, Rider, yes or no?”

  "If I knew anything, that would be incriminating myself in an ongoing investigation, Charlie. So, unless you’re gonna arrest me for a crime I didn’t commit, I think we’re done here" His discerning gaze swept and held the eyes looking right back at him, a flash of irritation from the sheriff.

  Rider's father wasn't good for much, but one thing he always said that rang true was never give them anything to hang you over.

  He sure as hell wasn't pointing the finger at himself or the club for this, not even for the sake of a friendship.

  Taking a long sip, with the cop watching him he went on. "You know as well I do those bastards had enemies a state long, for you to immediately storm my club throwin' around goddamn unfounded accusations, I'm fuckin' insulted, Charlie. This ain't Westside Story. My boys and me got better things to be doin' with life than goin' near their stink."

  "Jesus H Christ. Now I never accused you of anything, did I? I said I think you know something of what happened and why. Nothing goes on in this town without the Souls say so. If you have a clue who did this I'd be mighty appreciative is all, jeez. All jumping to conclusions and shit."

  He might have sounded indignant, but Charlie had a smile in his green eyes.

  Smart sheriff.

  He'd wanted the Rebels out of his hair as much as Rider did. Maybe not with murder.

  Rider had done the guy and his police department a favor and he didn't even know it, would never know it because Rider would go to the electric chair before he put his name to this crime.

  Silence sat between them for a couple of minutes. It was a fine line between saying too much and having the law look at you, and not saying enough implicating you had secrets and then having the law look at you.

  While he and his brothers continued the search for the few straggling Rebels who had gone to the wind, Rider needed the Armado Springs police department to be watching in any other direction other than at his club.

  "Not much I can tell you. As I said, me and my boys been busy. Coulda been anyone."

  "Hmm."

  "We finished here, sheriff? I'd like to get back to work."

  The sheriff sighed, placed the empty mug on the desk and rose on a groan as if his bones hurt from the cold, straightening his gun belt before zipping up the police issue black bomber jacket with the fur around the collar.

  Rider followed suit by standing, he grasped the hand Charlie offered.

  He didn't feel bad for lying to him, what the good cop didn't know couldn't be held against him. This town needed good law upholders, even if Rider and his outlaws weren't among them.

  It was all about balance. Rider did things his own way and Charlie Timmons by the law book but in the end, the results were usually the same. Save for a few unmarked graves nobody needed to know about.

  "You know where to find me if you suddenly have a reawakening of your memory, Rider. And if I were you ... just a word of advice, I might clean my bikes, you know … DNA carries in soil and dirt, and
the Rebel's compound was like a swamp."

  His eyes shrewd held Rider's, who only rose a dark eyebrow, grinned wide and innocent, gently rubbing his face scruff.

  "Told you already, got nothing to do with us." and the fact they'd already hosed the bikes, paying good attention to the wheels, days ago, not a speck of dirt was on the hogs once the prospects were finished, who was to say the Renegade Souls were ever over the Westbank area at all.

  Rider was fucking meticulous with check-lists. He'd already covered every eventuality to their burn party. No blowback, he'd promised.

  The only part of the plan that had deviated was Zara and that other kid who was deep in the child service system now as far as he knew.

  Zara. A tic worked his jaw watching the sheriff leave through the door and signal to two officers over by the shop talking to Capone and Grinder. His entire plan had changed the moment he'd seen her, without a fucking thought he'd endangered all his club, ‘cause if the cops got wind she'd been a part of the Rebels for the last years, and suddenly she was here, wouldn't take long for all those pointed fingers to aim at his chest again.

  And he’d do anything he could for her still if that happened.

  While he wasn't gonna ask his brothers for a vote for what he did with Zara, she fucking stayed, it was the end of it, he did need to have a meeting to fill them in on where he was at and why.

  Likewise, if he didn't fully understand his reasoning’s yet, she stayed.

  He'd never gone above and beyond to get pussy before, it had usually just fallen into his lap and if he'd been horny at the time he'd used it well, abused it long, but discarded it again soon afterward.

  But she wasn’t just pussy. That was the thing. Never was.

  Zara's appearance was fucking with his head, making him do things he'd never think of to do before.

  Like, take care of her.

  Tell her everything was gonna be okay, that he’d make sure of it.

  That meant executing Hades as soon as he caught up with that shithead.

  He thought of the place she'd come from and wished he'd burned it to the ground twice over.