by Debra Kayn
JETT
A Brikken Motorcycle Club Saga
By
Debra Kayn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
JETT
A Brikken Motorcycle Club saga
1st Digital release: Copyright© 2018 Debra Kayn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART 1 | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part 2 | Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Part 3 | Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Epilogue
Author Bio
Debra Kayn's Backlist
Sneak Peek | ...or something | Ronacks Motorcycle Club series, book 1 | Chapter One
Dedication
To my family
PART 1
Chapter One
THE NOISE DOWNSTAIRS in the Brikken Motorcycle Club's clubhouse muffled Jessica's screams. Jett Stanton held her hips, thrust into her pussy, and blew his load. Holding the woman bent over in front of him, he slapped her ass and pulled out, ripping the condom off him.
He walked to the wastebasket. His mind still raced, not letting go of the feeling that the shipment of chopped motorcycles Brikken sends down to California every three months needed to change.
Jessica wound her arms around his waist from behind. He grabbed her wrist and set her away from him.
"Get dressed." He zipped up his jeans and buckled his belt.
"Baby," purred Jessica. "I could make—"
"You're finished." He lifted his chin and motioned toward the door. "Go downstairs and find someone else to cap your night."
"But—"
"Out." He strode over and opened the door. "Now."
Jessica's pout turned into a snarl, and she snagged her dress off the bed, pulling it over her head and wiggling into the tight material. He gripped the top of the door and waited. It took her two minutes to believe he wasn't going to change his mind, and with a burst of disappointment, sashayed her ass out of his room.
He stepped over and picked up his pistol off the dresser, tucking it at his waist. What a fucking waste of a night.
Walking out of the room, he went downstairs. The party in full swing, bodies meshed and voices raised as the crowd of two hundred or so people celebrated fulfilling the shipment of motorcycles ahead of schedule.
Instead of joining the others, he'd got his nut off with Jessica, who went at fucking like she was sitting in a theater waiting for the movie to start.
He pushed through the door and stepped outside. Standing under the floodlight, he peered into the field. He could go beat some parts off the bikes for the next shipment for a few hours until he felt like sleeping or take a ride.
Halfway to his Harley, he pulled an elastic band out of his pocket and tied back his hair. He hated the nights.
In the daylight, people were forced to face each other. In the dark, people showed their true colors. Enemies came knocking. It was at night that he stayed alert and trusted no man, MC brother or not.
He sat his motorcycle and started the engine. History had taught him to keep his eyes open. Rollo—his grandfather—was shot in the back by a Brikken member. Chief—his father—had served two stints in prison, one of those because of a squealer within the club.
But, it was his personal experience spending eighteen months in prison that nailed the lesson home about the dangers at night and watching his back.
Someday, he'd become president. His gut churned. Brikken would be handed down from grandfather, father, and then him.
At thirty-seven years old, Jett expected Chief to lead the club for many more years. He was in no hurry.
Griff and Tag opened the gate for him. He held his hand low as he rode out onto the county road. He glanced at the group of bikers congregated on the outside of the fence surrounding Brikken Property.
Two hundred yards away, he slowed and made a U-turn. He opened the throttle and braked hard, skidding to a stop beside five Brikken members.
Heads turned in his direction, and everyone kept their position. He shut off the bike.
"What's up?" He remained sitting on his Harley.
Chano broke away from D-Con, Swift, Harrison, and Eddie. "Some chick's taking money for the game on Sunday."
"Betting?" he asked.
"If you want to call it that. Fucking Eddie put in a hundred bucks last week, turned it into five hundred, and those assholes plan to do the same thing." Chano pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped a smoke out. "Higher stakes. A five-spot to play. Too rich for my blood."
He squinted into the darkness, only able to see the Brikken men in the cluster. "Who's the woman?"
"Hey, D-Con." Chano waved his hand out to the side. "Jett wants to meet the woman."
The men stepped back. He studied the area they vacated and could only make out a small dark shape about two feet tall. Getting off his motorcycle, he walked closer until the shape materialized to a woman kneeling on the ground with her hands in a duffle bag.
She flashed him an interested look. "Do you want to play?"
He lifted his brow. "I never pay to play."
"Ah, you're a smart one." Her light laughter floated in the night air. "A big man like you, and lucky, too. Interesting..."
"Lucky...right," he murmured walking closer. "What else are you offering?"
"Sunday's game. Eagles versus the Cowboys," said the woman. "Five hundred to play."
He reached down and hauled her up by her arm, encased in a denim jacket. The woman's hand shot out to grab her bag before Jett put her on her feet.
"Hey, hands off." She slapped
out.
Ignoring her outburst, he hauled her closer. In the dark, all he could make out was the black hair and black makeup around her eyes. The top of her head hit him in the middle of his chest, and she barely weighed anything.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"I can be whoever you want me to be. Chantel, Denise, Rose...do you like flowers? I'm partial to spices, myself. Saffron is my favorite. It's soft sounding."
His hand tightened on her arm. "You're fucking with the wrong man, lady."
"Apparently," she drawled, jerking her arm out of his grasp. "You're either in or out. I don't have time to chitchat about names. I've got a slim window available if you want to play. The game is for serious investors. Those that want to make a ton of money on a sure bet."
He grabbed her jacket and looked around. "Where's her car?"
"I don't know. Keeffe spotted her outside the fence and sent us to see what she wanted." Chano blew smoke into the air. "Last time, she showed up out of the blue and left walking down the road after she finished collecting the money, so maybe she walked here."
"I'm standing right here. Why don't you ask me the questions?" she said.
"No need. You're finished here." He pulled her out to the road and gave her a push. "Start walking and stay away from Brikken property."
She hitched her shoulder, righting her jacket. "I wasn't on the property."
Walking backward away from him, she hugged the duffle. He studied her. The damn bag probably weighed as much as her. He turned to the men.
"Who invited her?"
Everyone shook their head. He looked to Chano. "You know Chief doesn't want any illegal bets taking place outside the fence for anyone to see. Make sure she doesn't come back."
"Right-o, Jett. I'll watch her ass." Chano put his cigarette to his lips and gazed down the road at the retreating figure.
"What about our money?" Eddie stepped toward him. "She's got a total of two thousand dollars on her for the game Sunday."
"Guess you lost. Get inside." Jett stayed beside his Harley.
He watched the woman until he could no longer make out her shadow in the night. Gambling was a pastime for many members. Though they knew not to stand outside the Brikken fence to do their dirty work. They could've taken their fun inside the city limits. Tacoma was a hotspot for ways to make a buck on the games or whatever else sparked a gamble.
Their disrespect to the rules was something else he'd need to keep an eye on. He expected loyalty to the club. What they did away from Brikken landed on their shoulders.
He inhaled the night air. The safety of the club needed to come first. Men swore their life to the patch when voted in. He expected them all to take the pledge to their grave. But, none of them had the history and family obligation to protect what Rollo had built the way he had as the next one in line to be president.
He threw his leg over the seat of the motorcycle and started the engine. He'd make sure the woman never returned.
A quarter mile down the road, he spotted her walking at the edge of the asphalt. She must've run the moment she slipped out of sight to gain such distance. He downshifted and stopped in front of her.
She crossed the road to get away from him and continued walking. Amused, he pulled forward and cut her off again. She zigzagged to the other side of the asphalt.
He'd started the night off with little patience and disappointing sex. The immature game the woman played should've irritated him.
Instead, he roared straight down the middle of the road, thirty feet in front of her, stopped, and got off his Harley.
He expected her to stop. Even turn around and run if she was smart. It was near midnight. A female shouldn't even be out alone on a dark road by herself.
Her step never hesitated, she kept walking at the same pace toward him. When she reached him, she took off running, clutching her duffel bag. It took him three paces to hook her around the waist and haul her off her feet and carry her kicking and struggling back to his motorcycle.
"Let me go, asshole." She reached up and grabbed his hair, pulling his head down.
"Jesus Christ." He lugged her tighter against his body. "If you like it rough, just say the word. I can haul you over my shoulder and take you back to the clubhouse."
A low warble of fear came with her violent outburst. He dropped her, caught her when she darted and held her at arm's length in front of him with his hip turned protecting his balls from her foot.
"Knock that shit off." He shook her. "Nobody is hurting you."
She jerked out of his hold and backed away, watching him carefully. He put his hands out to the sides.
"Where's your ride?" he asked.
Her chin lifted. He squinted, trying to see her better. There was something off about her. Something missing that he normally viewed in the women around the clubhouse. She acted afraid one minute and tough the next. The indecisive way she handled herself reminded him of Johanna, his dad's woman when she was a kid and lived with his mom and brothers.
"If you don't answer, I'm hauling your ass on the back of the motorcycle and taking you where you need to go. I'm not leaving a woman out here alone. Anything could happen to you." He waited.
Several seconds went by, and he got on the motorcycle, turned it on, and motioned for her to sit behind him. He revved the engine, losing patience.
It took her longer than necessary to slide the handles on the duffle bag onto her arms to wear as a backpack and get close enough to step up on the foot peg and slide behind him. Her arms came around him, and maybe it was a slight hesitation or the odd way she slid her fingers across his stomach—he grabbed her wrist as she gained purchase to the butt of his pistol. He lifted her hand and removed his weapon.
Without letting go of her, he put the forty-caliber back in her palm. "If it makes you feel better, hold on to it while we ride, but don't ever grab it from me when the barrel is pointed at my balls. I'm fucking fond of them."
She lowered her arm to her side, aimed the barrel at the ground, and kept her other arm around him. Satisfied that she'd settled on the seat, he rode toward Tacoma.
Going inside the city limits, it was better if she held the weapon. The police frowned on felons being armed.
Chapter Two
At the Jefferson Street intersection, the man turned his head and spoke to Sydney. She only knew because his lips moved inside a bushy beard and she caught herself staring.
"What?" she shouted over the noise of his motorcycle.
"Where do you live?"
She slipped the pistol into her jacket pocket and pointed. "Let me off at the next intersection."
The light changed to green. She held on with both hands. The man looked down and then raised his gaze to the road. She hadn't thought of where the pistol had pointed when she'd grabbed the weapon.
She'd been alone on a seldom-used county road, and he'd been a jerk kicking her off her game. The way the other bikers fled, she suspected the man taking her home was probably the president the way the others listened to him. That was the only reason why she allowed him to take her back to the city.
If Victor would've given her the phone to use tonight, she never would've taken a ride with a stranger. Not that the stranger gave her much choice.
She only acted like she was going to get on the back of the motorcycle to get the gun. That plan had backfired, but at least he gave the pistol to her to hold. He obviously wasn't going to hurt her when she could kill him. The walk to Brikken Motorcycle Club property had worn her out, and she hadn't looked forward to walking the four and a half miles back. Victor really needed to see that punishing her by keeping the cell phone only hurt his business.
Next time, she'd demand the cell so she could call a cab or Uber.
He stopped near the curb. She slid off the motorcycle and jumped up on the sidewalk to face him. When he moved to get off the bike, she looked down and ran, making a snap decision. Knowing the area, she backtracked and cut through the alley.
The
bag bounced against her back interrupting her stride, making her slower than normal. Straining to hear the noise of his motorcycle, she held her breath as she ran. On the back street, her lungs screamed for air, and she sucked in a breath. She cut through someone's front yard and ran up the next street, hoping the disadvantages of being on a motorcycle would slow the man down and she'd be able to get home without him finding out where she lived.
On Thirteenth and Palos Street, she slowed to a jog. Her calves burned from the exertion after already walking miles today.
The closer she got to home, the madder she became at Victor. Sure, the bikers shelled out bets easily enough, but it was more convenient for her to work the bars in Tacoma. As her boss, Victor should understand going outside the city limits put her at a disadvantage—like at a biker club.
Victor's older two-story house came into view. She slowed to a walk and looked behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. The dude on the motorcycle failed to catch up to her.
She opened the three-foot-high cast iron gate, walked the twenty feet to Victor's front door, and knocked. Glancing at the street, she rolled her eyes at the grumblings coming from inside the house.
Victor had already drunken himself into an inebriated state.
The door opened. A waft of alcohol hit her in the face, and she rocked back on the heels of her sneakers.
"How much?" Victor put his cigar in his mouth and held out his hand.
She shrugged off the duffle bag and handed the money she'd collected over to him. "Two thousand. It's their second-time betting with me."
The first time, every gambler made a guaranteed profit to hook them. Smaller amounts meant to make them more confident to bet more. The second time, more money was needed to play, and they always lost. The third time, they'd hand over money in desperation to make up what they'd lost, and their profits would only be enough to entice them the next time.
Gambling was an addiction. It was easy to con people who enjoyed a good bet to play.
Victor unzipped the duffle and dug inside for the pouch where she kept the money. She pulled the edges of her jacket together. Every night, the same thing happened. Victor would go through her bag and make sure she hadn't kept any money for herself. After working for him for six months, she figured he'd trust her by now.
