Sons of War MC

by Jane Slate

  “Joaquín,” she questioned, her voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

  Joaquín taped a steel-toe boot against the ground and laughed, cracking each one of his knuckles. His men stood back, perched against their bikes. All the energy drained from Grace’s body as a sharp kick was delivered to her buttocks. She buckled forward as her vision blurred.

  Joaquín reached for her purse then and opened it, emptying the contents onto the ground. The bag of coke came spilling out and he snatched it up, holding it in front of Grace’s face as he pulled back her head.

  “Tell me sweetheart,” he sneered, his breath ragged and uneven. His tone was laced heavily with condescending politeness. “What made you think you could steal from me?”

  Adrenaline pumped hotly through Grace’s veins as Joaquín delivered another sharp punch to her face. Blood poured from her nose. She thrashed in his grip and tried to explain but there was no use.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about though,” Joaquín continued.

  “What I want to know, is what the fuck you are doing here?”

  He waved a hand at the brick building behind Grace. She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing. But that didn’t make Joaquín very happy. He continued hitting her as he yelled in Spanish, attracting the attention of a few people who were scattered outside the bar, but one of Joaquín’s men waved them away.

  When Grace’s savage beating finally found its end, she was hurled inside the SOW clubhouse. Joaquín held her at a distance by the hair.

  The room fell instantly quiet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  His dark hair hung in his eyes and framed his face. He lit a smoke, pressing the end of it between his lips as he studied the girl. He furrowed his brows and made no effort to contain his disappointment but nothing about him made her feel particularly intimated. She pursed her lips and dared him to stop her as she pressed a finger against her left nostril, bending her head to snort a line of coke off the pool table.

  The girl beside her, a bike warmer he didn’t recognize, pulled Grace’s hair away from her face while she wiped at the excess powder with the back of her hand. She lifted her head to look at Landon, her eyes heavy with contempt. An arrogant half-smirk crawled across her pretty face as she tensed her jaw and casually walked away.

  Landon stood to make his move, to ask her what she thought she was doing messing with that shit, but the catcalls of his brothers pulled him back. He retreated in mid-step, sinking down into an empty barstool.

  Grace rolled her eyes in satisfaction and ran her fingers through her hair, pressing up against a leather clad prospect.

  Landon wanted to tell her how fucking transparent she was being; instead he poured a round of whiskey on the rocks, slamming his fists on the bar and tilting his head to gulp each one down.

  “You sensitive bastard!” Nash said by way of greeting, slapping Landon on the back and taking a seat beside him at the bar. He nodded at Grace.

  “She’s really getting under your skin huh?”

  Landon ashed his cigarette, looking over at the President of the Sons. He had an important rap sheet with Nash. In the midst of air campaigns, civilian deaths, and Taliban rebuttals, the men you met as strangers became your brothers.

  They could get you killed or save your life.

  The bullet lodged a few inches into Landon’s chest was a permanent fixture. A reminder of the selfless choice he made for his brothers. He had earned his place in the Sons fair and square, in the most honorable way possible. It didn’t Matter that he walked with a limp and relied on pain killers to get by.

  Some sacrifices were just worth making.

  Nash swallowed back a shot of whiskey and looked at Landon sideways, waiting for a response.

  “Nah,” Landon finally answered, cracking his knuckles. He wasn’t a stranger to Grace’s antics. She was damaged and so was he, but three long years of duty succeeded by one even longer year of learning to live normally again had left him a desperate man.

  The first time he fell into bed with her had been accidental.

  He blamed it on the liquor. On the way she looked in the moonlight when she arrived at his front door. Like a different version of herself. The second and third times were on purpose. But feelings, emotions, and formalities – all that lovey-dovey shit was never supposed to be part of the equation.

  Friends with benefits. That’s what they were. Nothing more, nothing less. It was all they could be.

  Nash’s old lady Maria approached from across the room, nodding at Landon.

  “Grace is acting up again,” she said evenly, her soft voice strained.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes, taking a seat in Nash’s lap.

  Landon sighed and surveyed the room. Grace had abandoned her spot at the pool table and was nowhere to be found. He turned to Maria, his bushy brows furrowed.

  “Where is she?”

  Maria waved a manicured fingernail at the door, popping her gum. A group of men in cracked leather cuts pushed their way inside the clubhouse, their faces twisted and angry. Landon recognized them as Peligros, a club out of Burdett. They weren’t friends or enemies.

  SOW was on neutral ground with them under the mutual-agreement that neither club would cause trouble with the other.

  Now, for whatever reason, the Peligros had defaulted on their end of the bargain. One of the men who Landon recognized as Joaquín, President of the Peligros, dragged Grace through the door by her hair. She thrashed and kicked, a flood of expletives leaving her mouth.

  What the fuck?

  Landon jumped to his feet but was pulled back by Nash.

  “Easy,” he warned, sliding Maria off his lap. He gave Landon an even look. “We don’t know what she did.”

  Kade was first to greet the Peligros.

  “What’s the trouble here boys?” Kade asked, squaring his shoulders in preparation for a fight.

  Landon took a silent headcount, counting five Peligros, but there was a strong chance that more were outside. They were outnumbered by a few men. Other than himself, Kade, and Nash, the only other Sons patch on hand was Ditzy Richie. He sat nursing a beer, completely oblivious of his surroundings.

  “Jesus Christ,” Landon muttered as his blood began to boil. He nudged Nash on the shoulder, nodding back at him. “Can you believe this?”

  “RICH!” Nash yelled, swatting him on the back of his head. He jumped, spilling beer onto his shirt. “That’s what you get,” Nash whispered hotly.

  “Put that thing down and lend us a fuckin’ hand, will ya?”

  Richie nodded and stood to his feet. He scratched at his forehead and rubbed his bloodshot eyes in an attempt to understand what was going on around him.

  “Incredible.”

  Nash shook his head and turned his attention back to the Peligros. Landon exhaled a deep breath. Grace was staring directly at him, her defiant demeanor muddled down into something far more small and scared.

  “I have to help her,” Landon insisted, stepping forward, but Nash pulled him back again. “Kade is handling it.” His tone was stern and offered no room for disagreement.

  Landon nodded reluctantly, tensing his jaw and squeezing his hands into fists. Kade and Joaquín silently stared each other down, contemplating their next move.

  Joaquín released Grace with a firm shove, his eyes never leaving Kade’s. She fell to the floor with a loud thud and tried to stand but Joaquín lifted a heavy boot and lowered her down.

  All Landon could see was red but Nash had given him an order and come hell or high water, he had to follow it.

  Joaquín lit a smoke and chuckled.

  “This little bitch tried to run off with my product without paying.”

  He pointed a fat finger down at Grace, pressing his boot down harder on her back. She whimpered. Tears and snot ran down her battered face, mixing with blood. Someone had done a number on her and Landon had a pretty good idea who.

  “We followed her here.
She’s one of yours, no?”

  “Yeah,” Landon interrupted, stepping forward. This time Nash didn’t stop him. “She is. Now you let her go and I’ll pay you what she owes.”

  Landon cleared his throat and spit through his teeth, smearing it on the ground with the heel of his boot.

  “No one has to get hurt.”

  Joaquín thought about it and laughed.

  “Hurt?” he looked back at his men, amused. They chuckled, talking to each other in Spanish. The only words Landon could decipher were stupid white man, but that was enough. He shoved his wallet back in his pocket. It was clear that there would be no negotiating. He knew enough to know that when a man came looking for a fight, money wouldn’t suffice.

  In one move, Landon crossed the room and pulled Grace up from the ground. Joaquín’s men started to come forward, hunching their shoulders for a brawl, but he held up a hand to stop them.

  Landon pulled Grace to his chest.

  “It’s alright,” he whispered, wiping her hair away from her face. He nodded at Maria, who understood and scrambled over to escort her away from the commotion.

  "Let’s get you cleaned up," she said, wiping at the blood that ran from Grace’s nostrils with a rag tossed to her by Nash.

  Landon wasn’t sure if the blood was a result of the coke or her beating. He cracked his neck and stared Joaquín down, challenging him to make the first blow. Nash instructed the men to take it outside and fight like men. Joaquín nodded and turned to his boys, instructing them to pile out.

  When Landon stepped out into the humid night he wasn’t surprised to find five more Peligros leaning against their bikes. They grinned at the looming prospect of violence, their dark eyes glazed over and beady. Kade removed his leather cut and t-shirt, tossing both to Nash for safe keeping. Joaquín did the same.

  Nash laid down the law.

  “Alright boys. No hugging. This isn’t a high school dance. Keep your hands where I can see them at all times. And Joaquín—”

  Joaquín jerked his head, cracking his neck.

  “Tell your men we don’t condone the use of those Berettas they have tucked inside the band of their pants, alright? Let’s make this a good clean fight and y’all can be on your way.”

  He nodded and stepped back. Joaquín crossed his arms over his chest. A low growl escaped his throat. It was obvious that he wasn’t used to taking orders, but he and his boys were on SOW soil and had to play by Sons rules. Nash nodded and stepped out of the way, slapping Kade on the back.

  “Make it hurt,” he said, his voice low.

  “Wait a second,” Joaquín interrupted. He pointed a calloused finger at Landon. “He’s the one I want.”

  Landon shrugged and stepped forward, pulling off his cut and shirt without any hesitation, but Kade had gotten himself all juiced up for a fight and wasn’t about to back down that easily.

  “Fuck that,” he interrupted, addressing Joaquín, “I’m VP. You deal with me.”

  Landon stood beside him.

  “Kade,” he turned to look at the SOW VP, gripping him by the shoulders. “Millers old lady was the one who caused all this mess. How about you just let me handle this one since he’s not here to do it himself? You know how things have been with me and her lately.”

  Kade shook his head and cursed under his breath. He relented, kicking sand. Landon spat into the distance and squared his shoulders.

  “We doing this or what?” he asked, nodding at Joaquín.

  Nash was growing impatient.

  “If one of you don’t throw the first punch I will,” he said from behind Landon, lighting a smoke.

  Joaquín turned, addressing his men in Spanish. They stepped out of the way.

  “Well? What will it be?” Landon taunted, spreading his arms. “I’m not paying you a dime, not after what you did to Grace. So if you want your retribution, this is it.”

  Joaquín thought it over for a moment.

  “Five hits,” he ashed his cigarette, giving Landon a tight smile. “Then you invite me and my men in for a round on the house and we forget this ever happened.”

  No fucking way.

  Landon looked back at Nash. He nodded, speaking up.

  “Four hits,” he negotiated. “One round is fine, but you leave right after. We’re not looking for friendship.”

  Joaquín nodded in agreement.

  Landon braced himself for impact, tensing his muscles and bowing his head like a bull going in for a kill. The first blow was a stiff undercut which caught him in the stomach. He didn’t flinch. He took a step back, nodding for the next one. Joaquín was a giant; a good head taller than Landon at six foot three.

  The second punch caught Landon off guard. He stumbled back but didn’t fall and gripped his ribcage. Joaquín delivered the third and fourth hits with more knock and enthusiasm than the first two, making impact with Landon’s nose and jaw, but he tensed his face and bounced them.

  When it was over, Joaquín smiled.

  He slapped Landon on the shoulder and complimented him on his resolve, following Nash and Kade inside the Sons clubhouse. The rest of the Peligros followed close behind. Landon spit blood and hanged back, pulling on his shirt and cut. He lit a smoke, exhaling a ring of smoke into the night.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Landon knew the voice without having to look. He turned around and offered her a smoke but she shook her head. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the brick wall of the clubhouse. Her blue eyes were rimmed red, both from intoxication and crying. Dry mascara stained her cheeks and mixed with her foundation. She wiped at her swollen face. None of her makeup was left to smudge. Only grief.

  Maria had cleaned Grace up as best as she could but there wasn’t much she could do. She was a mess and while Landon almost recognized her as the girl he had spent so much time with growing up, those parts of her were far and in between. She had changed just as much as he had.

  Her lips quivered. It had been months since the last time they were together but if Grace closed her eyes and tried hard enough, she could still feel him kissing her. His full lips grazing against her own.

  Landon shrugged and ashed his cigarette.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that shit,” he said evenly.

  Grace knew he was right but she didn’t say anything. Landon relented and pressed his back against the wall beside her. She needed a lot of things but a lecture wasn’t one of them.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, pressing her fingertips against the swelling on his cheek. She moved closer to him to get a better look, sensing that his tether was nearly burnt.

  How much longer could they do this dance?

  Landon flinched and pulled away from her. A throbbing vein pulsed violently in his face, threading its way along his temple.

  “That was nothing,” he replied confidently, tensing his jaw. He inspected Grace’s face, running his fingertips along the bruising on her jawline. He could feel his blood boiling all over again.

  If Nash had given him the word, Landon would have killed that son of a bitch Joaquín.

  No question.

  “What about you?” he questioned, finishing his smoke. “They didn’t do anything else to you, did they?”

  Grace knew what Landon was getting at and shook her head. She bit down on her bottom lip, tearing her eyes from his.

  “No,” she answered softly.

  Landon didn’t believe her. He pointed at the door.

  “Grace, If that motherfucker or any one of his boys touched you in that way I’ll—” Grace shook her head, holding up a hand up to stop him.

  “They only beat me up,” she insisted, shaking her head. “I promise.”

  Landon furrowed his brows. Promises with Grace could mean one of two things. Either she really was being honest or she wanted to avoid any further confrontation.

  “Besides,” Grace interrupted. “I deserved it. I stole his product. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

  Landon shook
his head and blew a ring of some from between his lips.

  “Don’t do that,” he said to her. “No woman deserves that.”

  Grace was silent and started to relax. She pressed her body against Landon’s, sliding a hand beneath his shirt. His chest was warm and sweaty. She listened to his heart, an erratic thump that slowed as the scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils.

  Landon wondered how long they would be able to continue their charade. Their feelings for each other were as clear as day but neither one of them would be the first to admit it. At least not verbally. Not after everything that had transpired between them.

  They were too stubborn.

  Too much alike.

  Landon grabbed Grace by the chin and tilted her head. He stared at her with an uncharted intensity before bringing his lips crashing down against hers. She clutched him back and moaned into his mouth as their tongues tangled in a dance as old as time.

  Music poured from the clubhouse as the Peligros piled out. A few stopped to hoot and holler while the others started up their bikes. Grace broke the kiss to give them the finger. Landon lifted her up from the ground with ease, pulling her legs around his waist.

  Joaquín whistled and shouted something in Spanish but Landon ignored him. He carried Grace behind the clubhouse to his trailer, a low grown escaping his throat as she nibbled at his neck.

  After the last time, Landon had told himself that he wouldn’t be with her again. She was Miller’s girl. A trouble maker. A pretty liability.

  But the heart wanted what the heart wanted.

  Chapter Twenty

  Landon tore into Grace the second the door to his trailer swung shut. He covered her battered body in kisses, making use of his tongue and teeth. She moaned and collapsed on his Mattress, bringing him down on top of her as she wrapped her legs around his back.

  Passion took over as it always did.

  Landon explored every part of her body as though he wanted to memorize it, taking his time. Grace worked to pull off his shirt and tossed it to the ground.

  There was no talk of protection as he found his way inside of her. He clenched his teeth and gripped the bedframe, tightening his buttocks as he thrusted forward. He brought his lips back to Grace’s, giving her the time she needed to adjust to his girth. She pulled back and pressed a sweaty hand against his chest, grazing her thumb along his flesh.