by Moxie North
Wounded Wolf
Redemption MC
Moxie North
Last Page Publishing
Contents
About the Author
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Moxie North
Copyright
About the Author
More Moxie North Titles
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Copyright ©2016 Moxie North
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Jacqueline Sweet
@moxienorthbooks
MoxieNorthBooks
www.moxienorth.net
Chapter 1
It’s not what you ride—it’s that you ride.
It’s not about how fast you go—it’s about enjoying the ride.
It’s not when you started riding—but that you continue to ride each day.
Maverick Hale surveyed the room, taking in the noise and smoke that wafted over its occupants. There was a haze and pulse that gave the gathering a surreal feeling, like being in someone else’s dreamscape, or something seen on TV.
His crew was partying at their compound just outside of Port May. The Redemption MC was welcoming their newest probationary member that the guys were currently calling “Rot,” in their typical fashion. The probie was a young pup, only twenty-two and green around the edges. Although he didn’t look that green with his head buried in the cleavage of a laughing woman at that moment.
Mav wasn’t drinking or smoking, and he didn’t have a cute bird with big tits sitting on his lap. There were plenty of willing subjects in the room that had been giving him eyes since he stationed himself near the door, leaning against the edge of a stool. His ability to ignore those distractions was what made him good at his job. He kept the peace so his brothers could have a good time while he watched over them like a scary motherfuckin’ nanny.
He was the enforcer of his club and took his job seriously. Normally an enforcer would step in when there was problems external to the club. With a fluctuating number of around thirty members, he kept busy just keeping his brothers from tearing each other’s throats out. Literally.
It was a full-time job, but one that he was proud to do. His pack needed stability, and he’d bust heads if anyone disturbed the hard-fought balance that he and his Alpha had worked so hard to establish.
The music was loud, too loud, and it had been a number of songs since Mav had paid attention to what was playing. Then the strains of a familiar set of chords pounded over the speakers and grated over his nerves. His animal growled in his head and he agreed.
“Rocket, change that shit or I’ll change it for you,” Mav yelled over the noise.
Their newest full-patched member, Rocket, was manning the music. His immediate reaction was to flinch at Maverick’s tone, even through the din of the music. Mav ranked higher than most members and Rocket was low enough to feel the power in the enforcer’s voice. Pulling himself together, he shrugged at him and gave him a what? look.
“If I hear Foghat one more fuckin’ time I’m gonna put you down,” Mav growled. His voice wasn’t as loud as his first yell, but the vibrations of his tenor caused heads to pop up and all eyes that weren’t human were on him.
“Rocket, just change it. Stop antagonizing him.” The command came from Deacon Kane, the President of the Redemption Motorcycle Club and Alpha of their wolf shifter pack.
That decree from their Alpha had everyone going back to what they were doing, or who they were doing.
“Nah, leave it, Rocket. This is a time-honored song. Don’t let Mav push you around.” This came from Ranger, the club’s Vice President. Ranger looked across the room and ran his hand through his nonexistent hair on the sides of his head. His smile to Maverick was full of laughter and daring. Ranger might be VP in the club, but Maverick ranked higher in the pack. He always was giving him shit and getting away with it.
The music switched over to Steely Dan and Maverick stopped glaring at their pretend DJ. He also gave Ranger the finger for good measure. His plans for the evening had been to sit at home, watch some porn, and maybe let his wolf out. This was what he did most nights, the only variation being what he ate for dinner before watching porn.
Mav looked over to see Rocket bounding up to him. “Sorry, man. You know the old-timers like that stuff. I’m trying to keep them from kicking my ass.”
“They may kick your ass, but I’ll neuter you, pup. If you knew how many times I had to listen to ‘Slow Ride’ you’d understand why I don’t like it.” Maverick’s voice was low.
“Got it. No more Foghat, sir,” the younger man said with a salute.
“Fucker, don’t salute me and don’t call me sir,” Mav growled.
“Sorry, habit,” he said, looking embarrassed. Rocket was fresh out of the Army and was still on autopilot.
Maverick gave him a chin lift that was a dismissal for the man to go back to his music duties. He knew Rocket wouldn’t take him too much to heart. He was younger, but had been around Maverick long enough to know what it meant to really be on his bad side.
No one in the club wanted to be on Maverick’s bad side. Except maybe Ranger, who had a death wish that was hidden by copious amounts of humor. Busted heads, lips, and broken bones weren’t uncommon when Mav decided to intervene in a fight.
A pack of wolves got into fights much more often than any other shifter group. Being all males meant a number of strong dominant males were jockeying for position inside the group. It was basic pack hierarchy. Not that any of them were actual Alphas. That was, without a doubt, Deacon’s position. Still, when wolves were pack-less, without their original family packs, they tended to form their own motley groups. Alphas, betas, omegas and more needed the stability of a cohesive unit. When they found the club, they had to find their place inside an established pack. There was a lot of overlapping in positions and with wolves, those positions could change at any time.
All it took was the wrong word said to the wrong person and the resulting fight shifted some of the placements of those involved. What it didn’t change were those positions that were held in the club. In a human club this would never happen.
Shifters weren’t humans.
One member might hold a higher title in the club, but not in the pack. It complicated things and was the main reason Maverick spent most of his time playing cop, nanny, and teacher to his brothers.
Tonight, the boys seemed happy. The girls that were trusted to be included in functions such as this were flirting and making promises to those that were interested in what they were offering.
Maverick was not one of those guys. He hadn’t been with a woman since Afghanistan. It was the last time he felt like the man he used to be. The last time he felt like the world was full of choices and adventure for him.
He’d entered the Army after bumming around his pack a number of years after graduating college. He wasn’t sure
what he wanted to do. He’d taken a job driving a truck locally, just to keep himself busy. His degree in socioeconomics wasn’t something that was useful where he lived. It did make him good with people, so he was always making friends. He eventually grew restless. The drive inside him wanted him to mate, make babies, and continue his genetic line. But when there were no prospects on the horizon, it led to anger building up. In a pack, young horny wolves tended to fight.
Maverick didn’t want that to be his future, so he joined the Army. He was a little older than most in his squad, but they all looked to him as the leader. Knowing that he had an advantage over them with his extra abilities, Mav took it upon himself to keep an eye out for everyone he served with. Not that you wouldn’t do that anyway, protecting your fellow soldiers, but Mav had the skills to keep them safer than if they were with another human.
Shit, thinking about Afghanistan was something he avoided. He spent three tours keeping his ass out of trouble in the scorching-hot desert. That was unless it was winter, and then he frequently froze his nuts off. It was the past that wouldn’t stay where he was trying so hard to leave it.
Focusing back on the crowd, he tried to ignore Ranger, who was now imitating humping an imaginary bent-over girl. He needed to keep his focus on the younger guys who were eyeing each other and who the girls were paying attention to.
Everything was at a slow boil. Just enough tension to make it interesting, just enough sex and booze to tamp some of it down. He took a sniff and tried to sense if anything had changed or any aggression was building.
It wouldn’t be a Redemption party without a black eye and a few busted noses. Luckily for shifters, it took just a few hours to heal up. But they could make a hell of a mess when they really got into it.
Maverick picked up the scent of a male getting angry. There were some in their club that were a little quick on the shift and had to be watched more closely. Hormones and rage were a dangerous combination.
There was a new girl that was either too dumb or too young to feel the energy surrounding her. A few of the males were interested, all young guns, and she was stupidly teasing the ones she wasn’t interested in. It was a hostile environment with a ticking time bomb. Alcohol plus free pussy never seemed to make the guys think clearly. The wolves were always circling for the juiciest piece of meat. One wrong move and she’d spark a fight that would tear the room apart and potentially harm a human.
Not intentionally. No shifter would hurt a woman on purpose. Their instincts and their animals knew they had so much more strength that it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Shifters knew that humans were frail, and no wolf would feel good about hurting an innocent one. Didn’t mean that when teeth and fur started to fly, animal aggression left any room for rational human thought. That was dangerous and not tolerated in their club.
Unless that human was male and deserved it.
Redemption MC was known amongst the right circles to be a club that would skirt the law to wrong a right, or more often to make a point.
Deacon Kane put the club together over twenty-five years before when he found himself the last remaining member of a small pack that had lived in Wyoming. He became a lone wolf and roamed the country for two years on the back of his motorcycle. He’d once told Maverick the story that he’d come across other wolf packs that would have welcomed him, but he wasn’t over the loss and felt it would be a betrayal to his own family.
Over the years he’d come across a number of other shifters that for dozens of different reasons were alone and wandering. They were like him. Wolves without a pack either by choice, or in some cases had been turned out. Their animals still needed a community—something to belong to. Deacon invited them to join him, a few came, then a few more.
Maverick looked around the room. It truly was a scattered mass of shifters. The age range in their pack was young to ancient. Each member was vetted by Deacon for sometimes unknown reasons. Mav would often give his opinion on a potential new member, and sometimes his Alpha would listen. Sometimes he wouldn’t and would welcome what Mav would consider an unstable wolf into their midst.
When Deacon got tired of being on the road he’d found an abandoned summer camp in Oregon that had barracks, a mess hall, and everything a growing group of wolves could need to establish their base.
Deacon christened the new location by taking down the old busted sign that was built on standing timbers over the entrance. The leaning letters of Honiahaka were weatherworn and tilting when he finally took them down. He replaced it with a metal-cut sign that read REDEMPTION. It was a place for those seeking. Seeking a pack, a purpose, or peace.
The pack remodeled the buildings over the years, making them work for what they needed. All of the pack had a home there if they wanted one. The younger members slept in the common barracks, while the older members had private cabins. To the club it felt like a real pack, with the trees, the space to run their animals, an Alpha to keep the wolves in line, and the community they needed.
The mess hall that they built into a bar was all wood. The walls were either actual logs or fake wood paneling. Maverick liked to see where kids had carved their names into the posts. He could imagine long summers of kids finding ways to amuse themselves after archery and canoeing got old.
Turning a mess hall into a bar wasn’t hard. A few tables, chairs, and found couches and it was biker heaven. The old planks on the floor could absorb the heavy tread of booted feet and the occasional splattering of beer or blood.
He could see why his Alpha picked this place. There had been happiness here at one time. It echoed through the walls. Laughter, smiles, friendships. His Alpha probably thought the good vibes could rub off onto his pack.
Shaking off his memories, Maverick kept his eyes moving over the room. His wolf was on hyper alert to the potential explosion that was always a second away with this group. The adrenaline was something he liked; it reminded him of waiting in the dark in Afghanistan with nothing but the green glow of the landscape through his night vision goggles, not that he needed them. The sand would still be radiating heat even as the temperatures dropped.
There was a tension of not knowing if his night was going to end in gunfire or boredom. It had become an addiction, the hyper awareness, riding on the edge of the chemicals coursing through his body. Ready to act on a moment’s notice. It was one of the reasons he didn’t mind being an enforcer and the club’s Sergeant at Arms. He felt like it was something he was born to do. His animal liked the agitated readiness. Probably meant he was mis-wired in some way, but it was who he was.
There was a haze of smoke that left the room fuzzy and smelly. Maverick’s wolf didn’t like the smell, but the old-timers couldn’t be persuaded to quit. Deacon was a firm believer in not nitpicking the details of the club. He wanted them to do their jobs, back their brothers, and not give him shit when he told them to do something. Redemption MC was simple that way.
He learned that simplicity from Deacon. The first time Maverick met Deacon Kane was in a bar in Apex, Washington. Maverick had been on his own for a few years when he found himself living in a shitty motel and getting drunk every night in a town in the middle of nowhere.
One evening after Mav had woken up from the previous night’s bender and his wolf was riding him hard, he decided more alcohol was a surefire way to quiet his animal. He stumbled back into the bar at the end of the motel building, sat himself at the counter, and proceeded to order his first double-shot.
There was something about a shifter that was like Spanish fly to women. Not that Maverick was interested or could even control the animal attraction that wafted off him. But he could feel the eyes of the females in the bar that were on him. He kept his gaze down, watching the whiskey swirl and coat the edge of his glass as he rolled it in his hand.
The group of men that had ridden up on their Harleys after he’d sat down were just looking for a game of pool and a few pitchers. The vibe coming off them was jovial and relaxed. They were rough and dirty and the
girls they brought with them were clearly not their old ladies, nor did they look like they were in that lifestyle at all. When the women’s eyes started to pull toward the quiet man at the bar, the feeling in the room changed.
If they had known anything about him they would have stayed with the rough bikers. Instead, they started trying to catch his eye. Then the bravest of the group stood up off the old biker’s lap she’d been sitting on and walked over to where he was at the long, scarred bar top.
“Hey sugar, you need some company tonight?” The woman was overly made up, her makeup smeared like she might have put it on yesterday, and she smelled like cigarettes.
Maverick didn’t want to talk to her, but he also wasn’t the type to ignore someone outright. His mother had taught him better. Luckily, his momma wasn’t there.
“Does it look like I need company?” he ground out. He realized he hadn’t talked to anyone but the barkeeper in the last few days. His voice was rough from lack of use.
“You look lonely. I could help you out with that,” she offered, running her hand over his shoulder.
“I don’t believe I asked for help or for you to touch me,” Mav said, flicking her hand off his shoulder.
“You don’t have to be rude,” she hissed at him.
“Woman, go back to the dick you were riding and leave me alone.”
Maverick’s animal was ready to snap, and any sense of pushing her off quietly was erased when she touched him. His wolf didn’t like it and didn’t want any trouble from the men whose agitation level was thickening the air in the room.
“Asshole,” she said, shoving away from the bar.
“Yup, that’s me. Asshole.” Maverick kept his eyes on his drink. He didn’t want any trouble, but his wolf was telling him that it was on its way and he should be prepared.
Sadly, Mav was feeling pretty shitty about life and didn’t want to fight. Not that he wouldn’t defend himself, but he liked to fight when he was in a good mood. Not when he had been on a bender for days and had consumed more alcohol than real food and was not in his best shape.
