Cole

by Trent Jordan

  Cole

  An MC Romance

  Trent Jordan

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Cole

  2. Lilly

  3. Cole

  4. Lilly

  5. Cole

  6. Lilly

  7. Cole

  8. Lilly

  9. Cole

  10. Lilly

  11. Cole

  12. Lilly

  13. Cole

  14. Lilly

  15. Cole

  16. Lilly

  17. Cole

  18. Lilly

  19. Cole

  20. Lilly

  21. Cole

  22. Lilly

  Epilogue

  The Black Reapers MC Future

  Free Prequel

  Also by Trent Jordan

  Season 1 Epilogue

  Prologue

  Cole Carter

  Under one roof sat everyone who had ever been a member of the Black Reapers motorcycle club.

  At the front of the church—in this case, a literal church, not the one that served as the meeting grounds for the Black Reapers—stood the most prominent recent defect from the Black Reapers. The man, once known as Pink Raven and now going by Phoenix, had every reason to hate a good half of the room. His father had died at the hands of a Black Reaper; whether justified or not, one had to imagine that Phoenix would never forgive under normal circumstances.

  But these were no ordinary times.

  “Father Marcellus…”

  His voice trailed off. About six feet behind and to the left of the burly man my age, in an open casket, sat the body of the Black Reapers’ club chaplain, Father Marcellus. Despite having his life ended violently by the Fallen Saints, the chaplain looked as put together as I had ever seen him. And Father Marcellus was not like many of us, who preferred to wear cuts, white shirts, and not much more; he was a man who could easily slip into a wedding at any moment.

  “Father Marcellus is the reason we are all here,” Phoenix said, pausing to take a deep breath. “Father Marcellus is the reason that all of us can be together in one room, standing in unity, rather than glaring at each other across the aisle.”

  I looked down at the far side of the aisle. At the same time, my older brother, Lane Carter, did the same.

  The past few months had changed Lane for the better, but the last week had changed us all for the worse. Lane didn’t look like he’d bothered to shave at any point, and the bags under his eyes looked weighed down by a feeling of sorrow and perhaps regret. He had his somewhat-new girlfriend by his side—I would always see anyone other than Shannon as new for him—but that only provided him someone to hold hands with, not someone to ease his suffering.

  It would have been nice for me to have someone. But I had learned in the last year that the very act of wanting such a person, of hoping and praying that someone like that came around, was precisely what prevented me from having such a person. I would never be as gruff and tough as some of the other guys here, but I had learned a quiet sturdiness that didn’t make me such a yearning person.

  “Father Marcellus showed me the power of forgiveness,” Phoenix said.

  I shifted my gaze from Lane to Axle and Butch. Axle’s girlfriend, seated next to him, was pregnant. I recognized Butch’s girlfriend as one of the Black Reapers’ bunnies; I suppose she had upgraded herself to old lady status. Of course, on my side of the aisle was Jess, Phoenix’s new lady.

  The front row was integrated. But I only needed to tilt my head slightly back to see that the rest of the church was also integrated, with Gray Reapers and Black Reapers seated together. The color of one’s cut did not matter here; it was I, actually, who had suggested we sit split down the middle at the front, the better to convey two sides of the same coin. I was glad to have been overturned.

  “He showed me that holding on to bitter rage and anger…”

  Phoenix paused.

  “He told me that bitter rage and anger would never do me any good,” he said, but the tone of his voice had shifted. “But the fact is, I cannot think of the Fallen Saints and not have bitter rage and anger. I am not here to talk about the death that Father Marcellus helped me with; I am here to talk about the death of Father Marcellus, and I cannot help but feel an unbridled rage that... that…”

  His breathing intensified. I saw Lane trying to decide if he wanted to stand up and cut Phoenix off. I tried to put my hands up and lower them to encourage Phoenix to calm down, breathe, and not lose control.

  The problem with a passionate guy like Phoenix, though, was that he got swept up in his moods. And once that happened, you might as well have been trying to corral an actual phoenix without protecting yourself from its fire.

  “I feel an unbridled rage to annihilate the Fallen Saints, and I think everyone in this room can agree with me on that,” he said, slamming his fist into the lectern. “Father Marcellus preached forgiveness and understanding. But when the devil shows up on your doorstep, he’ll manipulate your beliefs to his advantage. He doesn’t give a damn! He doesn’t!”

  I stood up. I needed to cut Phoenix off before he lost control. We actually had a plan to address this—and it didn’t involve people losing control as Phoenix was.

  I could feel people’s eyes falling upon me. Even I felt like I was taking a bit of a bold step, cutting off a speaker at a funeral. Sure, doing so at a club meeting was one thing: but at a funeral?

  I limited my concern for it. Phoenix had gotten off-topic.

  And when he saw me take just two steps, he seemed to realize what he had done. He took another couple of deep breaths, sighed, and wiped away a tear from his eye.

  “Father Marcellus could not bring my father back, no one could, but he gave me something equally valuable—a sense of acceptance for that,” he said. “And for that, I’ll always love you, Father. Thank you.”

  Phoenix walked away from the lectern. I offered a handshake, and he took it briskly. I could tell he wasn’t mad, just wanting to hurry back to his seat. He could have used that comfort of a woman that I lacked. But it doesn’t matter. The club chaplain’s funeral is not the place to be wishing for a woman to show up.

  I remained standing and looked over to Lane. This was the real test, the real moment to see how much top-down club leadership could get everyone else in line. I had some optimism, but I also had a healthy dose of skepticism that two groups perhaps best described as “antihero outlaws” would not take kindly to any top-down leadership, even from within its own ranks.

  Lane rose. Angela patted him gently on the back. Lane double-checked to make sure he had his notes, and then walked over to me. Together, we walked to the lectern, sharing a cause as closely as we had in a long, long time.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “We stand here together as brothers, yes, but also as Presidents of two related but separated clubs that need to come together,” Lane said.

  However smooth it might have appeared, we were improvising almost the entirety of this moment. We just trusted the fact that we’d grown up with each other for two and a half decades more than the fact that we’d been hating each other for a little under two years now.

  “Ever since the Fallen Saints formed, deaths have followed,” I said. “For what seemed like forever, such deaths were minimal, and we were able to keep the Fallen Saints at bay.”

  “But the past year has undone much of that,” Lane said. “For whatever reason, the Fallen Saints increased their attacks.”

  Not whatever reason. Ever since our father died.

  “The death we mourn today is, for us, the final straw,” Lane continued. “We have lost soldiers and leaders, but when you lose a man like Father Marcellus, the rules change.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “We have let our
squabbles and differences divide us into shades of Reapers,” I said. “At some point, those differences and quarrels will need to be resolved, and when that time comes, we will do so. But now, I say to you all, we must not focus on that.”

  “We must focus on unification.”

  It was a funeral, not a political rally, so people didn’t rise out of their seats to applaud. But when I looked into the eyes of both the officers and the rank-and-file members, of the ones whose personalities made them least likely to be leaders and most likely to be governed by their impulses, I saw determination, properly channeled anger, and a willingness to listen.

  It was the best thing, perhaps the only good thing, that I had seen on an otherwise tragic day.

  “Lane and I are discussing plans to end the Fallen Saints once and for all,” I said. “I…”

  I paused briefly when I saw a woman enter the church—but she looked like she quickly realized that she had come to the wrong place. She gasped, mumbled something inaudible, and left.

  In any other context, she was awfully pretty and young, almost like a Southern belle. But, for painfully obvious reasons, the thought of hitting on a woman, let alone actually doing so, was just awful.

  “I have seen too many friends fall, and I know that Lane can speak to that as well,” I said. “And for that…”

  “We are preparing the run to end all runs,” he said. “If we do this right, we eradicate the Fallen Saints, cut off any allies they have—of which I believe they only have forced partnerships—and bring peace to Springsville. If we do it poorly, then this town falls into their hands.”

  And, left unsaid, we’d all be dead.

  But even if that thought crossed the minds of the audience, no one seemed scared.

  “Regardless of whatever differences we have, regardless of past squabbles, we must now come together for the final battle between the Reapers and the Fallen Saints.”

  With that, both of us returned to our seats. Lane squeezed Angela’s hand. I closed my eyes, took several deep breaths, and silently prayed to my father to give us the strength to win this battle.

  Because if we didn’t, it would literally be hell on Earth.

  Lilly Sartor

  For such a beautiful day in the sky, it seemed like a tragic one on the ground.

  I knew what I had been asked to do. I knew that if I did it, I would be promised a reward. I knew that I didn’t feel comfortable doing it.

  But I did it anyway.

  I walked into the funeral, pretending to be a churchgoer that didn’t realize a funeral was being held.

  And the instant I did it, I regretted it.

  There were just some sacred events on which one should not purposefully intrude, and a funeral topped the list. I didn’t know what else that list included, but it certainly included that.

  The second I stepped inside, the gasp and the quiet apology that followed were not fake. They were very much a real byproduct of how I felt I had violated something holy by doing something very unholy. As soon as the door to the church had shut behind me, I still had my hand over my mouth.

  And the truck that I had arrived in still sat in the back of the parking lot, its engine on, looking like just another parked vehicle to the unsuspecting eye.

  I didn’t want to go back to that truck. I didn’t want to go back home. I didn’t want to go back to anything that related in any way to Springsville.

  I dreamed of moving to New York City, of making my own way. I dreamed of ditching my last name, maybe even also changing my first. I dreamed of becoming a stage actress, the kind whose performance wouldn’t remain permanently on camera for the world to mock and critique.

  But dreams were dreams for a reason.

  I headed to the truck, keeping my head low, ostentatiously so I could better deal with the glare of the sun. I got to the driver’s side, opened the door, and sat down without ever lifting my head.

  “Well?”

  I sighed. I could not ignore the voice behind me. To do so would unearth a level of anger that no one should have to deal with.

  Even if it came from my father.

  “They’re all together.”

  “What?” he snapped, the fury in his voice like a volcano threatening to erupt to the surface. “We did everything we could to drive them apart!”

  I stayed silent. In these moments, it was best just to let my father rant and rave through his anger until he eventually calmed down—or just exhausted himself, like a child throwing a temper tantrum until they lacked the energy to scream any more.

  “How the fuck is this happening?” he growled. “We specifically aimed for their two weakest points. And they’re uniting? I’m going to fucking kill Spike, thought he was so smart and smug for taking credit for those ideas. Fucking idiot.”

  He then muttered something that he thought was silent but that I always heard very loud and clear, almost too loud and too clear.

  “Wish I’d had a son I could’ve made my VP.”

  I had never figured out if my father had said such a thing to antagonize me or play games with me, or if he genuinely believed I couldn’t hear him. On the one hand, well, he said such horrible things. On the other, though, he pampered and spoiled me at home so much that it almost became too much; someone who treated me like a queen and then said the same thing…

  Well, let’s just say it wasn’t the only complicated part of dealing with my father.

  “This is unacceptable, this is fucking unacceptable,” he said, his voice picking back up. “Lilly, my child, did you see if they had weapons?”

  I gulped. I knew why he was asking this—he wanted to launch a strike against these guys at a funeral for one of their own.

  My father liked to pretend that I was just a naïve pawn who had no idea what he did. When I was a child and had asked him what he did for work, he simply said he was an entrepreneur. When I got a little older and had a better understanding, he said he was a businessman who owned motorcycle repair shops.

  Now, I’d learned to stop asking questions. I’d either be lied to or ignored.

  But just because I’d stopped asking questions didn’t mean I’d stopped learning things. And the more I learned about my father, the more I struggled to understand how he could treat me so well and treat the world so cruelly.

  Actually, it wasn’t a struggle. Sadly. He didn’t see me as someone to love; he saw me as something to be used as he saw fit. It just so happened most of the time, I served him well.

  “They did,” I lied.

  “Damn,” my father said. “Would’ve made a golden opportunity.”

  And like this, how he spoke out loud... did he think I wouldn’t have picked up on it?

  I swore my father was just deliberately dense with me. Nothing else made sense.

  “Very well,” he said. “Darling, thank you for checking in on what was happening. We can head home now.”

  I nodded.

  “Good.”

  “Good, indeed,” he said, the words sounding more than a little sinister.

  He laughed to himself as we pulled out of the parking lot just as the funeral congregants had begun to spill out of the chapel. The laugh sent shivers down my spine and only further reinforced what I already knew.

  My father might smile when I looked at him, but even when that happened, he was digging his claws into me, trying to use me for his own nefarious gains.

  I had to get out.

  Cole

  We gathered back at the Black Reapers’ clubhouse in Springsville, and not a soul in the Gray Reapers said a word.

  In fact, none of the Gray Reapers seemed to express any concern. They all understood what I tried to establish through example—we were not here to judge, negotiate, or even reach a compromise. We had gathered to mourn the loss of Father Marcellus, and it just so happened this was taking place at the old clubhouse; it would have made no difference if we had convened at the Gray Reapers’ clubhouse, Bottle Revolution, or even the charred ashes of Brewski
s.

  But it made me realize how, in just the span of a year and a half, so much had changed for members of the club that I had once considered brothers.

  For starters, at the risk of stating the obvious, everyone just looked older under the brightness of the afternoon. Butch had far more gray hairs in his beard than before. Patriot looked like he had aged five years in the last one. Axle, somehow, actually looked lighter and more relaxed than usual, but that was only relative to how he was before.

  And, of course, there were two officers who were no longer alive.

  The Black Reapers’ demeanors had changed, too. I knew Lane had changed, but Patriot seemed quieter. Butch was still Butch, but his silence seemed more natural, not like he was trying to play a role. Axle’s behavior matched his changed appearance.

  And most of all, the thing that I could not have expected, was how all of them seemed to have women—and not just de facto trophy wives, but actual women they cared about.

  I knew about Lane’s girlfriend, Angela, though she had left right after the funeral, perhaps on account of the fact that a public official dating the President of the Black Reapers was not the greatest look to give to the public. Patriot was dating a cute nurse, although she did not look like she wanted to be around the rest of the club members at all. Axle and his girlfriend looked like they had been together for decades, not months. And Butch…

  I will never make sense of Butch having a girlfriend, let alone a former club bunny.

  But really, the biggest surprise was just how much the club had grown up in the last few months. Maybe we still had our skirmishes, and maybe we had our alliances that fell apart, but the expectation I had of the club dissolving into nothingness or becoming a rage-filled party once Lane took over had not come to pass. The complete opposite had, actually.