Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Celia Loren

  “Where the fuck is Dirty,” I grumble, checking my phone.

  Harper is still curled in a ball on the bed. “Is that why you hate me so much?” She asks in a small voice. “Because of Danny? You think I’m like him?”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “About fucking time,” I grumble, jerking it open. Dirty and the Prospect stand there, ready. “Get in here,” I order. I hand my Glock over to Dirty and nod at the Prospect. “Shut the door behind me. Keep her alive and in this room. No one but me comes in or out. Got it?”

  Dirty nods. “Sure thing, Prez.”

  “Yes, Mr. Th-thorne,” stutters the Prospect.

  I turn to go.

  “Dominic?”

  Something in Harper’s voice makes me pause on my way out. I half-turn my head, catching a glimpse of her huddled on the bed in my peripheral vision.

  “At the lake,” she whispers. “My brother wanted to kill you. I should have told you. He would have, then and there, but I begged him. He made me promise to leave you and never go back, or he’d kill you. So that’s what I did. I left. I gave you CPR, and left. I didn’t want to go, Dominic. I never wanted to go, but he would have killed you.”

  My skin goes hot, then cold, and there’s a burning feeling in my throat. I risk a full glance at her, and those big blue eyes stare right back at me without blinking. Deer in the headlights. Just like the Harper I used to know.

  Nope, not going there. Not now.

  Without a backward glance, I spin on my heels and I’m out of the bedroom and into the frying pan, so to speak. I’ve got work to do, dammit.

  Downstairs, Stout has gathered the delegates from all the MC’s into a tensely coiled mass the front room. The air is electric and tastes like sweat and chili. A few of the guys are slurping it out of mugs and bowls and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I’ve skipped a couple meals. But there’s no time for that now.

  Bogie, his Vice Prez Poncho Villa and my crew are perched together on window seats, frowning. The rest of the clubs are bunched together on sofas and chairs and leaning against the pool table or walls with their arms crossed and their danger faces on.

  Stout is wrapping up some sort of welcome speech, and turns to wave me in. “Everyone,” he rumbles, “No more beating around the bush. I’ll let President Dominic Thorne of the Sons of Lucifer Las Vegas charter take the floor.”

  I clear my throat and sweep my eyes around the room, locking glances with the men staring at me. “I’ve never been much for public speaking,” I start, “So I’ll keep this short and sweet. Thanks for being here: Lenny, and the northwest Rebel Riders, Jax, and your delegation of the Midwest Hell Chains, Remington and Babylon’s Horde boys nationwide, Diesel and the Hell Chains, Dead-eye Denim and the Circle of Death boys all the way from New England, Striker from the Dark Demons. And Bogie from our Sons of Lucifer New York City charter. This is one hell of a prayer meeting, folks.”

  The guys chuckle in acknowledgement.

  “Yeah, yeah,” grumbles Diesel. “Whoop-di-freakin-do. It’s a long ride from Maine, girls. I came as a good will ambassador to answer your S.O.S. but my ass hurts and I’ve got a funny feeling you want something expensive from me. So can we just get to the fucking point?”

  “Yeah,” I grunt. “Let’s get to the point. The point is, we wouldn’t all be here if we weren’t all up to our necks in shit creek without a paddle. And that includes you, Diesel. We’re all here because fucking Leviathan Corp’s black market franchise of Depraved Clubs for the billionaire bad boys set is pushing into our territories and starting a war. It’s happening for Sons of Lucifer in New York and Vegas, and I know it’s happening to the rest of you. Slowly but surely. We’re here tonight to stop it in its tracks.”

  There’s a rumble of acknowledgement.

  “I’ve heard of an island off the coast of New England,” announces Dead-Eye Denim, his famous black glass eye reflecting firelight like a Halloween mirror. “One of our brother charters had some trouble with them. Turns out Leviathan Corp’s got a cargo ship route that Depraved Club uses to carry people and drugs down from Canada. They wanted Circle of Death MC to help them take over the interstate routes for distribution stateside. It’s not pretty, or simple. Besides, I don’t like the ocean.”

  There are a few sniggers. “It don’t like you neither,” laughs Jax. “Give me a highway any day.”

  Bogie nods solemnly. “They’re a massive operation, alright. New York City is riddled with them. I’ve seen their Depraved Clubs popping up all over the five boroughs with the help of our kind gone wrong. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Death Layer Motorcycle Club is pussy-whipped by these motherfuckers and run the Manhattan and Jersey Depraved Clubs themselves; they’re nothing but a puppet MC now.”

  “But it’s not just turncoat bikers protecting these assholes,” I say, taking the reigns again. “They’ve got mob connections with the casinos, street gangs, small-time pimps, not to mention their own global infrastructure through Leviathan Corp. That’s why I asked you here. Leviathan thinks they can control us just like they control Death Layer, and I think we’re all here because we know that playing along ultimately means death.”

  “Oh, and fighting back doesn’t?” Diesel’s tone is harsh. “That why you’re here, junior, calling a summit like a big-shot—because you’re so great at beating them at their own game? What the fuck happened to your President Tate? Heard they baked him like a tater-tot, on your watch.”

  Before I know what’s happening I’ve sprung on Diesel, my hands squeezing around his neck. It’s a reflex: I can’t help myself. I’m seeing red, and I slam his body against the stone mantle of the fireplace, stunning him. He’s a big guy but I’ve taken him by surprise. The room falls quiet around us.

  “Don’t say his name with such disrespect, motherfucker,” I bark. “Heath Tate was twice the man any of us will ever be and I’ll gut you like a pig if you disgrace his memory one more time.”

  “Easy, Dominic.” Bogie’s voice is calm. “We’re here on a truce, remember? Let’s not kill each other at a summit. Save the violence for the common enemy.”

  “Sure,” I grumble. “For the enemy.”

  I wait until Diesel’s skin turns a little blue before slamming him against the wall for good measure and shoving him aside. There’s an awkward silence as Diesel gasps for breath and everyone in the room shifts uncomfortably.

  It’s Dead-Eye Denim who pulls the conversational threads together again. “We were all sorry to hear about President Tate, Dominic,” he says. “Our sincerest condolences. You know we all understand any steps you want to take to avenge him. But we’re not here just to talk about Tate, may he rest in peace, or help you with payback. I think we know we’re all here to discuss an even bigger decision facing the Northeast territory, and now Vegas: how do we fight back?”

  “Exactly.” I take a deep breath, burying my anger back down deep until I need it again. “I called you all here so we can figure out how to support each other, fight back and survive the greatest threat free riders have ever faced.”

  “Support each other,” drones Diesel. “What is this kindergarten? Where’s the pony ride and face painting booth?”

  Ignoring him, I raise my voice. “My club has already paid a terrible price and if we don’t work together, it’s only a matter of time until the same happens to all of you. The only way we can survive this threat is if we all work together. So yeah, Diesel, I do want something from you—from all of us. I want us to act like brothers and protect our hard-earned way of life from the devil himself.”

  There’s a long moment of silence.

  “How?” Diesel demands. He’s still sagging on the floor, and glares up at me resentfully. “If what Dead-Eye and Bogie says is true, and Leviathan Corp is backing up these Depraved Clubs, that means they’ve got trillions of dollars and a multinational corporation behind them. How the fuck do you propose we compete with that kind of bankroll? Need I remind you that most of us are humbl
e blue-collar boys with a taste for expensive bikes and guns? I don’t exactly got a million dollars or a fucking drone under my mattress.”

  “Or any pussy on top of your mattress,” mutters Jax.

  Diesel lunges at him, but before the fists can fly, Striker and I manage to separate them.

  “Guys,” Striker shouts. “Knock it off! Jesus Christ it’s like feeding time at the zoo. Wake up! I for one am with Dominic. The whole reason that Depraved Club has become a problem is because we’ve been too busy squabbling like dickwads with each other and sniffing our own assholes. If they could get to Tate, who was as Dominic says twice the man as any one of us here, we’re all definitely next. Act your age, not your damn shoe size.”

  Finally, Diesel throws up his hands in surrender. “Fine,” he bites out. “But I maintain my question: how the fuck are we supposed to band together and take down Leviathan Corp? This isn’t a fucking Robin Hood movie.”

  Bogie runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “Depraved Clubs are like McDonalds—popping up fucking everywhere, every club is run like a franchise restaurant with the same structure but a different manager. It’s impossible to get at the head of the beast. I hate to say it, but Diesel’s got a point—how do you fight the scale and budget and reach of a multinational corporation? Even if we are all on the same page.” Bogie glances with distaste at Diesel before he adds, “And that’s a big if.”

  “We don’t,” I say. “We can’t. Our only chance is to do what we do best: hit them where we live. Tonight we took out the LIC Depraved Club, and we’ve got their club manager running. Colt. He’s the one that killed Tate. We’re on him. I suggest the same strategy to all of you. Turn their own war strategy against them and give them a taste of their own medicine: take out their Clubs, crush their revenue streams, eliminate their leadership. Leviathan Corp will get the message to move on to greener pastures, because above all, this is about profit for them. We disrupt their profit, we disrupt their plans.”

  Diesel is shaking his head. “It won’t work,” he grunts. “It’s like a bee stinging a demon. They’ll just eat us alive and keep coming back.”

  “Maybe,” I shout, my blood boiling. “But maybe I’m not quite prepared to sell my soul and roll over dead just yet like some assholes I know.”

  Diesel lunges at me again and this time the whole room erupts into chaos. Striker is pulverizing Jax. Diesel and I are locked in a wrestling match. Even Bogie and Dead-Eye Denim are shouting. Suddenly, there’s an ear-splitting screeching sound.

  “Jesus!” I shout, throwing my arms over my head. “What the fuck!”

  Everyone groans and turns to stare resentfully at Stout, who is holding an air horn. I open my mouth to try and pop my ears, which are throbbing painfully.

  “God damn it,” Stout bellows. “I don’t want my fucking house torn to pieces. I suggest we pause the proceedings and take this outside to blow off some steam the old-fashioned way.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “Take a night ride.”

  “A night ride?” Diesel’s sardonic confusion is almost comical. “Come on old man, get real.”

  Stout grimaces and whips a Baretta out of his waistband, leveling it at Diesel. “Did I stutter?”

  “Night ride it is,” Diesel’s hands are in the air again, surrendering.

  Jax and Striker laugh and the room starts to clear as everyone leaks out the exits toward the driveway. I linger, quirking an eyebrow at Stout, who looks awful smug.

  “Seems to me I remember that there are traditionally ladies present at night rides,” I say, wiping my bloody knuckles on my jeans.

  Stout quirks an eyebrow right back at me and shoves his Baretta back in his waistband as he turns and clumps back toward the kitchen. “Seems to me I recall seeing a lady here tonight. Somewhere.”

  Chapter Six

  Harper

  Thank god that the pimply-faced teenager and the giant mountain man that Dominic left here to guard me don’t seem to want to talk. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep while the Prospect cleans up the mess I made on the floor. When he finishes and settles into a chair by the window I roll into a miserable ball on the other side of the bed and stare at the wall.

  I can’t tell if we’ve been here for minutes or hours as I mull over the day’s dizzying events; Danny’s shocking behavior and death…the violence at the Depraved Club…Dominic suddenly standing there in front of me, even more handsome and tough than I remembered him…Dominic’s explanations, so dark and painful but somehow sounding so true…Dominic’s eyes, so cold and full of the promise of death or life.

  I just don’t know what to think. Or feel. My brain has gone quiet, like the eye of a hurricane.

  After a short while the bedroom door bursts open and Dominic storms in. God help me, but he’s beautiful. He’s gained a lot of muscle since we were kids and holds himself with the unconscious pride of a leader. The sight of him in the doorway makes my stomach clench, maybe from fear. Or something else.

  Dominic motions the Prospect outside and rubs his face, staring at Dirtbeard.

  “Night ride,” Dominic grunts. “You better head down. We’re coming.”

  Dirtbeard scratches his chin and grins. “Sure thing, Prez.” Then he lumbers out the door.

  I’m beginning to think that’s the only thing my surly bodyguard knows how to say. They’re like automatons; doing anything that Dominic tells them to with monosyllabic assent.

  “What’s a night ride?” I ask, standing.

  Dominic is staring at me with that same inscrutable look as before. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. It used to be so easy for me to read his thoughts, but with a lift of my chin I remind myself that that was a long time ago, a different life. Back then I’d catch his eye across the room and it would feel like we were alone, whispering. But now, we’re worse than strangers.

  And at this moment my best guess would be that he’s trying to decide if he wants to throw me out the window or kick me.

  It hits me that we’re alone together again, but the pins and needles I feel have more to do with suspense than hope. This Dominic, this worse than stranger, seems just as likely to pull out a gun as a rose.

  I’ve seen so much death tonight. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve learned Dominic was behind it all. I don’t know what’s thrown me deeper into shock: the violence, or seeing Dominic again. And on top of everything, he’s made it painfully clear that he loathes me.

  Why does that bother me so much? Why is that the thought spinning in my mind like an obnoxious, desperate echo?

  God, why wouldn’t he loathe me? I’d always known how it must have looked to him, waking up on the shore of the lake alone without so much as a proper goodbye. I’d always consoled myself with the fact that I hadn’t had a choice: Haden would have killed Dominic, and I did the right thing. I protected him. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, but it was the right thing. For years, I’d repeated that to myself like a mantra: I did the right thing, I did the right thing.

  I tell myself that again, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t solve my confusion and hurt. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m here as a hostage in a gang fight, that my life is completely derailed. That Dominic’s life has become a death trap.

  Now, Dominic’s green eyes are hard and intimidating. He sweeps them over me again, as if he hates the sight of me.

  “The council’s on a recess,” he finally answers. Only it’s no answer at all. “Come on.”

  His hand closes around my wrist like iron. It’s so unlike the touch I remember from when we were young and in love, so unlike that soft warm give-and-take of our skin, unlike that intimate feeling of closeness I remember. Now his touch is efficient and cool—and powerful. He uses it to drag me out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house into the free night air again.

  Bright porch lights and tiki torches light the gravel driveway. When we came through here a while ago, the broad gravel mouth of the circular drive loo
ked like a motorcycle parking lot: now, it’s transformed into a hybrid block-party/racetrack. What look like barrels of moonshine have been rolled from under the porch and enormous, leather-clad bikers are scooping giant mugs into them and drinking. Tattooed, bearded men clog the torchlight like an ominous cloud of mosquitoes. Someone has moved some of the motorcycles into a cascading line at the head of the driveway, reminding me of the Las Vegas Park Speedway.

  Maybe it’s just my imagination, but the hubbub of the crowd seems to die down as Dominic drags me through to what seems to be the starting line and takes his seat on his bike, pulling me without ceremony on to the tiny leather seat behind him. I fall on clumsily, landing with a plop. My thighs are pressed around his hips, my breasts crushed against his back. There’s no room to shift away.

  “No fair,” someone grunts at our right. I peek and see the man has a dark glass eye that seems to soak up the torchlight, giving me the jitters. “How come Dominic gets a real girl?”

  “I always travel with a real girl in case of emergencies,” Dominic jokes in return. “Don’t you? Mount your horse, Dead-Eye, and let’s start the damn race already!”

  “Race?” I gulp.

  There are a few lewd laughs and comments and I feel myself turn pink as Dominic revs up the engine. Nervously, I glance to either side of us. Other riders have taken their seats on their motorcycles along the starting line, including the guy with the glass eye.

  The weird part is that every rider has a passenger.

  “What’s this all about?” I shout to Dominic.

  “It’s a two-up drinking game,” Dominic shouts back, as if I know what that means. “President rides out with a passenger, the rest of his club has to do shots until he gets back.”