Love, Loyalty & Mayhem: A Motorcycle Club Romance Anthology

by Ryan Michele

  “If Hitch said Trammer was dead, same for Graceless and Pizzaboy, and he’s alive to make a call, I’m not standing around here with my thumb up my ass while you decide what you want to do.” Catfish was our VP, and even after everything that had gone down the first time I met him, had been my sponsor to get my chance to prospect for the club. I trusted him as much as I did Trammer, which meant with my life.

  “Here.” The intended shout was weaker than I expected, so I pulled in another half breath that burned all the way down and pushed it back out on a yell. “I’m here.”

  Bootheels thudded against packed dirt, then cement, and then they were bursting through the door. Rampage came straight to me. Hands on my shoulders, he swept me up and down, then spoke over his shoulder, “Wave Dyno in, then call and tell him no need to dispatch the second van.” He shook his head when he looked at me, brows pulling down in a dark scowl. “He’s ambulatory, at least.”

  “You gonna poke me with that, brother?” When Catfish took the blade, I realized I’d been pointing it towards the door, and unintentionally directly at him. “Lemme have it a minute, yeah? I’ll just hold it for ya.”

  “No, man. They left that in me.” I tried for humor as I gestured towards my side, even knowing it’d fall flat. “I’m attached to it now.”

  Catfish plucked my shirt free from where it’d dried stuck to my skin, and I heard a rip followed by cool air that raised the hair on my arms. “Fuck, man. There’s definitely a hole ain’t supposed to be there.”

  My chuckle turned into a cough that threatened to rip my guts out.

  Rampage asked, “Anything else, Hitch?”

  I shook my head, more an “I don’t know” than a “nope,” and he understood, giving me a quick going-over. His fingers discovered two tender places on my head, one with a knot big enough to make him tsk far back in his throat. Another hole in one arm, something he deemed a through-and-through shot, so I guessed at least a fair amount of the blood I wore was my own.

  The other men had fanned out through the structure, and I knew when they found the abattoir, the shouts and curses louder before dying off as the gravity of what had happened here struck each of my brothers.

  “Where’s Rags?” My words came out in fits and starts, syllables strung together by threads of pain as Rampage and Catfish braced me, my arms over their shoulders. They lifted and let me find my balance, feet flat on the floor instead of toes dragging behind. I’ll thank them later.

  Rags, or Ragman, was our president, a leader like no other. A man who’d been through enough shitty times between drug cartel invasions and club wars to know how best to avoid them in today’s club climate. Until he wasn’t present, I didn’t know how much I’d hoped to see him. If Ragman was here—or Twisted, our national president, and the first man in my life to tell it like it was—I’d know in my bloody gut everything’d be okay.

  “Workin’ the horn.” Catfish dipped to the side, and when he came back up, I saw he’d grabbed the bag with our brothers’ vests. “We got nothin’ in the air on this shit goin’ down, and once we had a lock on your location, Dyno activated the drones and saw the locale, including the lack of company.” He angled his neck, face turned to me. “Thought we’d have to handcuff Rags or some shit. Finally convinced him to call national.” That was his way of tellin’ me Ragman’s absence wasn’t anything to do with me. “Three of our own dead, our enforcer bleedin’ out—he’s got to sort this shit now.”

  Multiple exhausts sounded in the distance, and I swallowed. If my brothers were in here with me, there was only one truth of who could be headed in. “Think you can give me back the sticker? Or better yet, dig through there”—I dipped my head toward the bag in Catfish’s hand—“and find my iron?”

  Strangely calm, he tightened his arm around my shoulders and steadied me against his side. “Nah, brother,” he said with a twist of his lips. “Listen.”

  I did.

  Ride of the Valkyries.

  “Fuck me.”

  He nodded. “Dyno. We made him stay back at the highway with half the men. He’s got the eyes in the sky on his phone, so we waved him in a few minutes ago.”

  Dyno was our tech guru, and he had a thing for some Coppola war movie made in the previous century. The flick had featured Wagner’s epic song in a crucial scene, and he was prone to blasting it when we rode to war.

  Within a minute, the room was filled with a wall of flesh willing to stand between me and whatever might come. Men who followed the code of brotherhood, believing a man was only as good as his word and wrongs were best righted with might. My brothers, members of the Big Bend chapter of the Incoherent MC. Our clubhouse was outside Tallahassee, and our territory stretched for miles along the Gulf Coast. Men I trusted, could count on, and all of which were, at this moment, pissed as fuck about what had happened to me, Trammer, Graceless, and Pizzaboy.

  Dyno came directly to me, brows drawn into a deep frown. He held a tablet aimed in my direction and spoke to the air, either recording or streaming. “Fucking hell, Hitch might be on his feet, but our boy ain’t lookin’ good.”

  I closed my eyes when I heard the voices of two men who weren’t present, telling me Dyno was facilitating a video conference with the leaders of our club.

  Ragman’s hissed, “Jesus,” was overridden by Twisted’s demand, “Tell me what the fuck went down, Hitch.”

  Since I’d woken the first time, coming to surrounded by blood and death, I’d been piecing everything together, knowing the first chance I had to tell it would need to be accurate and as articulate as possible.

  “We were at Hot Lips.”

  A bar owned by the wife of a retired biker from the frozen north, Hot Lips was the local hangout for our club. Houlihan was her official name, but her old man, Hawk, still called her Hot Lips often. He’d been president of the North Chicago chapter of the Rebel Wayfarers MC, moving to Florida when it was time to fly the icy coop. He wore support patches for the RWMC, us, and the Jailbreakers. No conflict there, since our clubs were tightly twined together these days with both blood ties and patchovers.

  “Graceless got a call someone broke into his ole lady’s car.”

  We’d been seated at a booth, discussing an upcoming poker run, when his phone rang. I’d heard every shrill word and had winced on his behalf at how scared she’d sounded. I’d exchanged a glance with Trammer, dug out my wallet, and dropped bills on the table, ready to roll at my brother’s back in an instant. That’s just what we did.

  “She works at that place out on Pommel, the booze warehouse.”

  We’d rolled up loud and proud, no hiding who we were or why we were there. Our bikes had surrounded her car, which had been pushed up close to the back of the building. It had been turned sideways between two columns and wasn’t just broken into—it had been trashed, windows shattered and hood caved in.

  “We thought we heard her call out from inside the loading docks.”

  We’d dismounted, listening to Graceless cussing and shouting at the cost, the waste, the ignorance of it all. The pain in her voice had taken us off guard, and the three of them had rushed inside without utilizing any caution, no matter how I shouted. My role in the club meant I knew better, and my inability to control my brothers had led directly to their deaths.

  Dyno stared at me over the tablet, understanding dawning in his expression.

  “It happened fast. I didn’t really see anything. Darkness and blurs. When I came to, I was here. From there to then, nothin’.” I stiffened my spine, pushing upright and taking my weight off Catfish’s and Rampage’s shoulders. I wished I could see Twisted and Ragman’s faces, wished I could know if they blamed me like I did myself. Wished for clear knowledge of what had happened. “I take responsibility.” A jerk of my head woke the pain in my middle, and it coiled like a snake about to strike. “It’s on me.”

  “Unless you held the blade and gun, our brothers’ deaths ain’t on you. Ambush like that? Wouldn’t have mattered what you said o
r did once you were in their noose. Do not take that shit on, brother.” Twisted’s voice was flat, filled with certainty, and told me he’d brook no argument. “I got a lead on some shit. Ragman, I’ma be rollin’ that way in five. Catfish, you and Ram get Hitch to the Jailbreakers house in Adkins, man. They’re gonna help get him patched up. If at all possible, I want him ready to rock and roll when Rags and I get there, you get me?” Ram grunted his agreement. His outline was wavering, the edges of his face blurring.

  Twisted’s voice echoed through the room, a surreal soundtrack to my loss. “We got you, brother. Be there soon.”

  After a final look at the room where I should have died, I turned my back on the shack and leaned heavily on my brothers as we walked into the hot Florida sunshine.

  The van ride lasted for at least a hundred excruciating days. Not only was the suspension way past needing work, and jounced around at the least provocation, but the cargo laid out in front of me meant I spent the time in dark contemplation. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, my brothers were stretched across the width of the vehicle, heels towards the back doors. We’d left them in the plastic shrouds, figuring it was the cleanest way to transport them.

  We weren’t preserving evidence for the officials. No need. I didn’t worry about how the details would be sorted out; we had enough cops in our pocket that it’d happen however Twisted and Rags wanted it.

  What we were damned sure doing was preserving their dignity, same as we’d do for any fallen brother.

  I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Trammer. I tortured myself imagining his last minutes. Picturing what my mother’s face would look like when I told her he was dead. He had a woman and a little girl, and their coming life’s weight of grief bore down on me.

  Pickle, one of the men who’d ridden in the van, spoke from over my head, “We’ll get ’em.”

  “Yeah,” I gritted out, fingers sliding as I pressed against the bleeding wound in my side. “Yeah, we will.”

  IMC was a club used to violence. We didn’t deal it in regularly, but we wouldn’t shy away when necessary. From the looks on my brothers’ faces back at the grove shack, I wouldn’t be running alone when I tracked down the bastards who’d spilled my blood and taken the breath from our brothers.

  The next bouncing jar nearly shattered my control. The pain was like a fishhook lodged deep inside my chest, anchored in the bedrock of agony and rage. I’d already decided I’d try to not let them sideline me, no matter the consensus on my injuries. Rampage had bandaged my arm before I’d loaded myself into the van, but I hadn’t let him take my cut off to do more. Call me superstitious, but it seemed like retaining it and the breath in my body had to be connected. In my own mind, I’d vowed to not remove it until everything was done and whoever had killed my brothers shared their fate.

  As the van slowed, Dyno called out from behind the wheel, “Bump, brother.” I gritted my teeth through the series of suspension-yawing potholes with only a muffled grunt. “Sorry, man,” Dyno muttered as Pickle’s hand landed on my shoulder. His fingers wrapped in the leather and helped keep me upright as the van lurched around a final corner and rocked to a stop.

  The back doors opened, and Rampage stood there with Catfish, lines of grief etching their features. Unfamiliar faces crowded behind them, men’s gazes cataloging the contents of the van with muttered curses. One man pushed up beside Catfish. Gaze fixed on the bodies, he thrust out his hand towards Catfish and offered us welcome. “Be welcome, IMC. Ain’t gonna lie and say it’s good to see you guys. Sucks the reason.” His nameplate declared him Sparks, and under that, an officer’s plate titled him President, obviously of the Jailbreakers. I hadn’t much contact with them officially, just a few members here and there. Seemed like good men. They were all about the brotherhood and making life better for their members. From what I heard, they followed protocol, and that went a long way to keeping a club from straying too far from its stated mission or motto.

  Catfish took his wrist and gripped, their shake going up and down twice before releasing. “Appreciated, man.”

  “Twisted done called and gave me the rundown. We got a couple of rooms set up with what we thought you’d need.” He lifted his chin to me, and I returned the gesture. “If you wanna climb out that side door, we got an EMT ready for you. You’re Hitch, right?” I dipped my head in a brief nod. “Yeah, let’s get you situated. Then we’ll give honor to your men.”

  The door beside me opened, and Rampage was there. Determined to not show weakness in front of strangers, I took a moment to convince my body to move, and after I slung my legs over the edge, it was an easy transition to standing. Not so easy to keep that position, but thankfully Ram was there to keep me from taking a header. Fuck. A swath of blood smeared from where I’d been propped against the back of the front seat to the door—could have only come from me.

  “Ram,” I said on a grunt. I waited for his muttered response and acknowledged, “I might need some help.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” His arm slipped under mine, shoulder wedging me upright.

  Pickle was on the other side, and it took everything in me to manage it, but I put one foot in front of the other until we got to the back of the van. They paused when I did, and I turned my head to stare at Sparks.

  “All respect.” That was as close to thanks as I would get when talking to an officer of another club, not wanting any chance of obligating my brothers for anything.

  He lifted his chin again and responded, “No worries.”

  The pain was so bad my head hung low by the time Ram and Pickle got me to the door of the Jailbreakers clubhouse, a single-story ranch-style building that had been added to on both sides, creating wide wings. There were dozens of bikes in the front lot, and from the cooling ticks coming from the engines, I deduced most were ours, which meant Jailbreakers probably had a parking lot out back for their own bikes.

  Together, Ram and Pickle lifted me over the threshold and into cool dimness. Walls had been taken out in places, making the space stretch across a good length of the building. It was furnished with couches and chairs, a small bar in one corner, and three TVs mounted to the walls. It was also filled with men and women and children, which told me the Jailbreakers had gone on lockdown, and the fact they still took us in meant a lot. We’d probably be stretching their hospitality thin.

  If the Jailbreakers were on lockdown with families in play, that meant— “Graceless. His ole lady? Is Dottie—”

  Pickle’s head went side to side, and Rampage made a pained sound. “Fuck.”

  I’d sat at their table for many a meal, her softly scolding Roger, Graceless’ government name, about his manners. Dottie was a sweet woman who worked hard and loved the club nearly as much as her ole man had.

  “Where’d they leave her?” I hadn’t seen her at the shack. Only two rooms and both mapped easily even in my state. No way I would have missed seeing her if she were there.

  “Tow driver called it in about thirty minutes ago. He was picking up an abandoned car and found her in the back seat. No doubt they did her after they got what they really wanted.” I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Pickle’s clear pain. “From what was said, it was quick at least.”

  Sometimes a body had to take comfort in the small things.

  Rampage asked the room, “Know where the EMT’s at?”

  Two men pointed towards a hallway, and one said, “Second door on the left.”

  That short pause had settled into my bones, and it turned out starting walking a second time was so much harder than the first. My heavy head dragged at my neck, and I watched my boots stumbling and twisting underneath me until I was walking on air, leather of my soles never striking the floor as my brothers took my weight, lifting me up.

  The room swirled, corners coming close and receding in turn until I was disoriented. A high bed stood central to the space, and along the walls were cabinets with sinks and drawers. It looked like a clinic, and that struck me funny.

  I h
eard Pickle’s muttered question, “What’s he laughing at?”

  “No idea. He’s been in and out of it since we got there.” Ears buzzing, I nearly missed his next words as the bed came up to meet my back. “It’s a goddamned miracle he made it.”

  My gaze stuck on a dark spot on the faraway ceiling, a fleck, a speck, a tiny dot of something that grew until it swallowed me whole.

  2

  Talia

  When Talia’s brother had first called, she’d been annoyed at being woken in the middle of the afternoon. Working third shift on the ambulance meant her days only held the most restless of slumber, and she had been chasing a sweet dream before the jangle of his ringtone dragged her back to consciousness. They had a texting relationship, and she knew he wouldn’t dial unless it was dire, so she’d shoved that irritation down and answered.

  Three minutes later, she’d dashed water in her face and shoved her feet into utility boots on her way out the door.

  Ewell had launched his MC years ago, needing to surround himself with strong men with morals. Their neighborhood growing up hadn’t been the best, and he’d wandered down a bleak path for a very long time, finally dragging his life out of the darkness by strength of will. The club provided the framework to be the man he should have always been, and he saw it as a chance to give others the same opportunity.

  They were the Jailbreakers, and their name didn’t refer to any bent towards busting brothers out of jail but focused on tearing down the prisons men made for themselves. The learned behaviors that conspired to send them behind bars again and again. If Ewell, known as Sparks to his men, could put a stop to the cycle, he could keep more men free—like him.

  As a male-dominated club, they’d had their fair share of altercations. When she’d gained enough knowledge from her studies to be useful, Ewell started calling her for help as needed. For a long time, she had gotten more practice stitching up his men than the pig feet the medical school issued. She gained her EMT license, ready to work the rest of her way through school. With the club’s frequent need for assistance, she’d been doubly glad for the breadth of knowledge since.