King (Great Wolves Motorcycle Club Book 10)

by Jayne Blue

  King

  Great Wolves MC - Book Ten

  Jayne Blue

  Nokay Press, LLC

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  A Message from Jayne Blue

  Books by Jayne Blue

  Bonus Excerpt of Marked by Jayne Blue

  Untitled

  Copyright © 2017 by Jayne Blue

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Don’t Miss a Thing!

  For exclusive news, sign up for my Jayne Blue’s Newsletter. You’ll get a FREE BOOK as a welcome gift!

  Chapter One

  KING

  “Holy shit, is that what I think it is?”

  I hadn’t made it past the first traffic light before I got the question this time. I slid my sunglasses down my nose and gave the kid a half-smile. He was gawky, weighing maybe a buck twenty-five with a huge Adam’s apple and a lopsided grin. I pulled the bike to the curb and cut the engine. He stood at the corner wearing a blue sheet and a giant foam Statue of Liberty crown. Right before I pulled up, I’d watched him wave a foam torch skyward as he tried to drum up walk-ins at the tax service place behind him. He took two steps toward me and my hand went instinctively to the hip holster I kept under my leather cut. My fingers played along the hard handle of my nine. Sure, he wasn’t much of a threat in that outfit, but I was traveling alone and instinct kicked in.

  “What do you think it is?” I said.

  “Do you mind?” he asked coming even closer. He didn’t wait for an answer and that made me even more twitchy, but his slack-jawed expression seemed like the real deal. I gave him a nod and swung my leg over the seat. As I rose to my full height, the kid’s eyes went up and up, noticing me for the first time instead of the bike. He clamped his jaw shut when he read the patch over my left breast. His other question, the one he didn’t ask, was written all over his startled face. Holy shit, are you really who I think you are?

  “Oh shit, I’m really sorry, man,” he said, raising his hands and backing away. “I didn’t mean to get in your business. I’ve just never seen one up close. Jesus. How much did that thing cost you? I mean...crap. That’s none of my business either.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “She kind of has that effect on people.”

  The kid’s eyes snapped back to the bike. He nodded, weaving his head a little too wild, reminding me of a bobblehead doll. The Statue of Liberty crown slid off and he let it drop to the ground. I’d been standing with my arms folded but flipped my right palm, gesturing toward the bike. Swallowing hard enough that I could hear him gulp, the kid smiled and reached for the handlebars. He threw his foam torch next to the crown. Sucking in air and letting out a low whistle, he let his fingers play along the domed black gas tank with red trim.

  “A ‘36 Knuck,” he said. “I’ve only ever seen these things online. Did you restore it yourself?”

  “From the frame down,” I answered. My leather creaked as I shifted my weight and put a hand on the seat.

  If I closed my eyes, I could remember the smell of the rotted floorboards and sweetgrass when I walked through that dusty barn a few years ago. My father had the bike parked under a felt blanket with hay sticking out all over it like a porcupine. My hand went to the old scar on the back of my neck from the time I’d tried to peek under that blanket when I was twelve years old. He’d used the buckle end of his belt and I’d nearly staggered to my knees. I didn’t though. Because, fuck him.

  “She’s gorgeous,” the kid said. “How far’d you get with her like that?”

  I gave him a wry smile. “Like what?”

  “I could hear that engine pinging from around the corner.”

  I ran a hand over my chin. “Not bad, kid. What’s your name?”

  He swallowed hard, wiped his hand on his blue robe, and stuck it out to me. “Chaz. Chaz Weller.”

  I shook Chaz’s hand. He had a nice, strong grip. Clearly someone had taught him manners. He had bright gray eyes that studied everything about me. I think I liked him, stupid costume and all.

  “Well, Chaz Weller, so you know something about old Harleys. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find a mechanic to take a look at that pinging. Because you’re right. I’m not gonna get much farther with it like this.”

  I’d made it almost eight hundred miles, and that was a minor miracle. I’d taken the coastal route from my hometown of Emerald Point, Florida. My brothers back at the club wanted me to bring along one of the prospects to drive behind me in one of the pickups, but I wasn’t having it. This trip, on this bike, I needed to ride solo. It was the only way I knew to exorcise the ghost that chased me along the way. Well, that and what I had tucked in the old coffee can inside the leather saddlebag strapped to the bike.

  Chaz wiped a hand over his forehead, stooped to pick up his foam crown and jammed it back on his head. He pointed toward the northeast corner. “Weller Tire & Auto,” he said. “It’s two blocks over. You think you can start her up again? If you can’t, I can help you walk it.”

  I laughed. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for making you leave your post. I think I can manage two blocks. Weller, huh? Like you. Does your dad own the place?”

  Chaz grabbed his torch off the ground. “My uncle. His name’s Mickey. Oh, man, he’s gonna blow a nut when he sees that Knuck. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m almost glad you had a breakdown.”

  I raised a brow and wrapped my fingers around one of the handlebars. “Well, I suppose my shit luck is Uncle Mickey’s windfall. Is he any good, your uncle? You’d tell me straight. I mean, it wouldn’t be very patriotic otherwise.” I made a gesture toward the kid’s ridiculous costume. His cheeks colored and he shot me a smile.

  “Aw, no, man. No way. You ask me, this is fate. Mickey’s the best there is. It’s like God wanted you to break down in Crystal Falls, Texas just so Mickey Weller could set you straight. Seriously, though, a nut. Straight up. He’s gonna blow one.”

  The light changed again. The car behind me honked. I turned around and gave the driver an eye. At the last minute, he saw the cut I wore and his mouth dropped. Chaz was already in action. He pointed his foam torch in the air and did a little two-step to draw the driver’s attention away. I gave Chaz a salute as I walked the bike through the intersection then two blocks down.

  Crystal Falls, Texas. Fate? Sheeit. This place looked more like the land time forgot. I’d pulled off I-10 just outside of San Antonio when I started to hear that ominous rattle in the engine. Crystal Falls was just the closest town. The road sign at the town line read “Population 6,158.” Near as I could figure, the downtown area consisted of three city blocks and two traffic lights. I sure as shit hoped Chaz was right. Uncle Mickey would n
eed to be a bona fide miracle worker to get me on my way. I started to regret waving off a cager back home. If there was something seriously wrong with my engine, I was going to get to know Crystal Falls better than I wanted to.

  The town itself was cleaner than most I’ve seen. I couldn’t find so much as a cigarette butt in the sidewalk cracks as I pushed the bike across the street. Weller Tire & Auto was just where Chaz said it would be. Every storefront bore freshly painted letters and an American flag out front. An art deco-style restored movie theater took up the northwest corner across from Weller’s. Right across the street, Crystal Falls Antiques had a shop painted in bold red. Beneath that, an old Texaco sign stood proudly on the porch.

  I pulled the motorcycle into Weller’s lot, parked it, and walked inside. The chime on the door clanged to announce my entry, but no one came to the front desk. I heard the high-pitched whir of a power drill coming from the garage and wondered whether Uncle Mickey worked alone. I slapped my finger on the metal bell on the counter.

  “Jes hold on!” A voice, I assumed attached to Uncle Mickey, hollered back in a deep Texas drawl.

  A minute later, he came out of the garage, wiping his hands on a dingy towel. Mickey had slicked-back ebony hair and the same gray eyes as his nephew. His eyes widened and he set his jaw to the side when he saw my cut and the Great Wolves M.C. patch sewn over my breast. He had to know me only by reputation. We didn’t have a charter anywhere near Crystal Falls. The closest was up in New Mexico, and as far as I knew, those boys never had cause to come down here. That didn’t mean the M.C.’s reach hadn’t made it all the way to podunk Crystal Falls, Texas. But, if anything, we were closer to Dark Saints territory near Corpus Christi. That could be a problem if too many people saw me here.

  Mickey thrust his hand out. “What can I do for ya?”

  I cocked my head to the side and pointed behind me with my thumb. “You come highly recommended by the Statue of Liberty.”

  Mickey laughed and threw his towel over his shoulder. “I see you met the town welcoming committee. I hope my nephew didn’t talk your ear off.”

  I waved a hand. “He was fine. The kid knows bikes. Does he ride?”

  Mickey snorted. “Chaz? Hell, no. That boy can barely cut a lawn straight with a John Deere. Nah, my brother wouldn’t let him near his Harley.”

  “Well, I’ve got something special outside that needs a look-see.”

  Mickey peered around me. His grin widened when he saw my 1936 Harley El parked at an angle right in front of his window. He slapped me on the shoulder, didn’t wait for an invite, and strode outside to get a better look.

  Mickey gave me the usual shock and awe I got when he saw the bike. When I nodded, he primed the gas line and started her up. He made it halfway across the parking lot before shutting her down. Then, he went to his knees and started checking lines and gauges.

  I walked over to him. “It’s internal,” I said. “It’s been making that noise since San Antonio.”

  “How long a trip you taking her on?” he asked.

  “Emerald Point, Florida. That’s where I’m from. Where my club is. I was heading to El Paso.” I stopped short of telling him why. That was nobody’s business but mine and that coffee can’s.

  “I know a collector up that way. You thinking of selling?” Mickey whistled. “Nice little retirement fund that’ll make.”

  “Not selling. Not yet. I wanted to give her a good road test along the coast.”

  “Well, son, I can’t say I’m not jealous as hell. That’s the dream all right. But, you’ll never make it to El Paso with the knocking around going on in there. I’m going to need to disassemble her to figure out what’s what.”

  I crossed my arms and stood with my legs apart. Mickey looked scared and I wondered just what the hell the Dark Saints M.C. might have been up to around here. They were a good club, they’d helped us out in darker times against some of our main rivals, the Red Brigands and the Devil’s Hawks, but the Saints were still technically one-percenters. They made most of their money off of illegal shit, gun running was the worst of it. The Great Wolves had been legit for almost a decade now. We made our money mostly from our bars and by sponsoring a couple of champion MMA fighters.

  “Yeah, Mickey. I kinda figured that.”

  “Can you hang out in town for a while?” he said. “For a ‘36 Knuck, you bet your ass I can clear my calendar for the rest of the afternoon. You trust me with her?”

  The question made me smile. I was pretty good with basic stuff, but the Knuck’s engine was a little beyond my abilities. Shakes, our club’s Sergeant-at-Arms had helped me rebuild it. Still, it mattered that Mickey Weller showed me the respect to ask.

  “I told you. If you’re okay with Lady Liberty, you’re okay with me.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Mickey said. “Why don’t you head over to Lottie’s Diner? It’s just kitty-corner to the theater. She’s got the best apple pie à la mode you’ve ever tasted. Tell her I sent you. Gimme an hour to run some diagnostics. I can’t promise I’ll have you on your way today, but at least maybe we can see what’s what.”

  I patted Mickey on the back. “Sounds like a plan. That place across the street though, with the Texaco sign. Anything in there worth seeing?”

  “What’s your pick?” Mickey asked.

  “Eh, maybe just a souvenir or two for the clubhouse.”

  “Pete Furhman owns the place. He’s kind of a Harley buff too. If you don’t mind, I might call him over to have a look at your bike. He’d get a kick out of it.”

  Just then, the front door of the antique store opened and the longest, tannest pair of legs I’d ever seen strutted out. I slid my sunglasses back down. She had her back turned to us. Her waist-length black hair fell over her shoulder as she bent down to arrange an antique chess set on a table between two rocking chairs.

  “Fuck me,” I whispered.

  The girl wore faded Daisy Dukes with a frayed hem. When she bent over, both Mickey and I got a good view of the curve of her ass. She brushed a hair out of her eyes and straightened. Not liking the arrangement of the chess pieces, she bent down again and fixed them. I found myself saying a silent prayer that one of them would just fall off the damn table already.

  Mickey caught my eye; he was staring just as hard as I was, cocking his head to the side. When he saw me looking, his face split into a sheepish grin and he gave me a light smack with a towel.

  “I’m a dirty old man, anyway. I didn’t catch your name, son.” He pointed to my patch.

  “King,” I answered.

  Micky pursed his lips and nodded, impressed. “Vice President, huh? Well, Mr. King…”

  I put up a hand. “No, just King. Jackson’s my last name.”

  “Ah. Well, Mr. Jack...er...King...your baby’s in good hands here. Why don’t you get you one of those slices of Lottie’s apple pie? I swear you won’t be disappointed.”

  I squeezed Mickey’s shoulder. “I just might do that. Or I just might sit down for a game of chess.” I shot Mickey a wink as I crossed the street.

  The girl went back inside, tossing her thick, dark hair over her shoulder. She wore a grimy white t-shirt with paint splattered all over it. But, she moved too fast. By the time I made it into the shop, she’d disappeared in the back.

  Crystal Falls Antiques looked like it had mostly toys inside. Tin soldiers, board games, metal lunchboxes with cartoons from the Fifties and Sixties. But, along the back wall, the refinished furniture caught my eye.

  The scar on the back of my neck flared hot as I ran my hands along the rounded edges of a waterfall dresser. My grandmother had one just like this in her bedroom. The matching desk had a hutch on top of it that was just the right size for a young boy of four to hide in. But some days, hiding hadn’t been enough; the old man found me anyway.

  This one had been restored with expert care; the finish gleamed, making the diagonal patterns in the woodwork stand out.

  “That’s a nice one.” A male voice ma
de my back stiffen. I pulled my hand away from the dresser and turned toward him.

  He was easily twice my age with wisps of gray hair waving near his ears like palm fronds.

  “Nice workmanship,” I said. “We had one of these when I was a kid.”

  The man extended his hand, even as his eyes rested on the Great Wolves cut. “Pete Furhman. You just passing through, son?”

  His eyes held his question and something more. Was I here to cause trouble? I smiled. “Mickey Weller’s working on my bike. Ah, in fact, he thinks it’s something you’d like to see. In the meantime, did you do the refinish on all of these pieces? It’s nice work.”

  Pete tried in vain to smooth down his hair. “Nah. My eyes aren’t good enough for that anymore. That would be Thea Clark’s work.”

  “Thea? Is she the girl I saw outside a minute ago? Long hair. Longer legs?”

  Pete blushed a little and part of me wanted to slug him. If we were talking about the same girl, I didn’t like the idea of her boss ogling her on the regular even though I just had.

  “That’s her,” he said. “She’s got a rare talent.”

  “I can see that. I’d like to compliment her on it. Is she still here?”

  Pete pursed his lips. “Yeah. Uh. I can let her know someone’s been asking about her. Thea’s...well...she’s a little eccentric. She doesn’t really like talking to customers.”

  I put up my hands in surrender. “I get it. I’m not trying to cause her any trouble. Besides, I was told I need to head over to someone called Lottie for apple pie while I’m waiting for Mickey to work his mechanical magic.”

  Pete’s face lit up. “Oh, my man.” He put a hand on my chest. “You are in for the treat of your life. You mean to tell me you came into my dusty old shop before heading over to Lottie? I think the town welcoming committee is falling down on the job, then. You head on over there. I was just about to close up shop anyway. Give me a chance to see this mystery bike you’ve got Mickey working on.”