by Ashley Munoz
Contents
Dedication
Note from the Author
Prologue
1. Ramsey
2. Ramsey
3. Jimmy
4. Ramsey
5. Jimmy
6. Ramsey
7. Jimmy
8. Ramsey
9. Jimmy
10. Ramsey
11. Jimmy
12. Ramsey
13. Jimmy
14. Ramsey
15. Jimmy
16. Ramsey
17. Ramsey
18. Jimmy
19. Ramsey
20. Jimmy
21. Ramsey
22. Jimmy
23. Ramsey
24. Ramsey
25. Jimmy
26. Ramsey
27. Jimmy
28. Ramsey
29. Jimmy
30. Ramsey
31. Jimmy
32. Ramsey
33. Jimmy
34. Ramsey
35. Jimmy
36. Ramsey
37. Jimmy
38. Ramsey
39. Jimmy
40. Ramsey
41. Jimmy
42. Ramsey
43. Jimmy
44. Ramsey
45. Ramsey
46. Jimmy
47. Ramsey
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Glimmer
Copyright © 2018 by Ashley Munoz & ZetaLife LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book, whether in electronic or physical form, may be reproduced, copied, sold or distributed in any way. That includes electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other form of information sharing, storage or retrieval system without the clear, lawful permission of the author, except for limited, sharable quotes on social media, or for the sake of a review.
This book is a work of total fiction, thought up from the authors curious and thoughtful brain. Any names, places, characters, businesses, events, situations or incidents are all made up. Anything that resembles something real, similar, or duplicated is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-692-16255-2
Cover Design/ Formatting: Decadent Designs by Dee
Editing: Amanda Edens, Jessica Hofherr, & All About The Edits
For my sister Rebecca.
I couldn't' and wouldn't have done this without you.
Before you even begin reading, please know that this is my debut book. My genesis, and whether you love or hate it, I beg you to leave me a constructive review, so that I can continue to grow as a writer. Thank you and enjoy!
**There is adult language used throughout this book- please be advised it is recommended for ages 18+
Five Years Ago…
A streak of reflective light bounced off the wall, indicating that someone else had pulled into the parking lot. My knee bounced as I watched the front door. The anticipation had me jumpy, but it wasn't Davis who entered; it was Tom. I let out a frustrated sigh and continued to watch the front of the bar. Waiting for Davis was testing my patience and if he were anyone else, I would have left by now. But this is what he did; he liked to play with people like they were pawns. I tilted my left wrist and saw that it was just past three p.m.
I let out a sigh and stretched my legs out in front of me. There was classic rock playing from an old jukebox perched in the corner of the room. Travis and Wilkins sat at the bar, as usual. Those two were always in here; they were widowed old men, who lived and breathed for the club. Niles, the bartender, was behind the counter, cleaning glasses, but otherwise, the place was deserted. It would stay that way until five p.m., which was why I requested this meeting before the place filled up.
I picked up my beer to find the bottle empty and set it down with a loud thud. I needed a distraction, but I had to have all my faculties for this meeting. I tapped the table irritably as I thought over my plan. It was risky and probably stupid as hell, but I was out of options. Dad warned me that Davis would have a bigger agenda, and not to get caught off guard. After all, I was nothing but a pathetic game piece to be moved and shoved around as he saw fit. I checked my phone for a distraction and saw that I had a new text.
Jackson: Done?
Jackson was my closest friend, someone I considered a brother. He was anxious for this to work, but I could tell he was also worried. I punched out a reply: Still waiting.
I lifted my head and glanced around. The stale smell of cigarette smoke and empty beer bottles filled the room. The two oldest members of the club still hadn't moved, and the melody of “Dream On” permeated the dark space. The irony of the song wasn’t lost on me. Tom must have gone somewhere in the back because he was nowhere in sight.
I shifted in my chair a fraction and pulled my legs in, dragging the worn-down heels of my boots along the faded wood floor. The chair creaked because it was old, like the tables and everything else in the bar. It was an older joint, so everything inside had nicks of history fixed into it. I peered over my shoulder at the booth near the back, where Lisa and I hung out for the first time. That large, faded American flag was still on the wall above where she sat. I could still see her twirling the ice in her drink with that huge, red straw. Just the memory had my stomach churning. I had to turn my attention back to the entrance and shake my mind free of the past. My phone vibrated with another text.
Jackson: Shit, get out. He must know something is up.
I had considered the same thing after Davis was thirty minutes late, but now that an hour had passed, I was almost positive he knew what I was planning. Anxiety simmered inside me. I stood and shoved the chair behind me just as the front door opened, revealing Charles Davis, leader of the Brass. His silver hair was greasy, with pieces falling on his face, and as usual, he wore his leather vest over a white t-shirt. He was tall and walked with the same cocky gait that I had seen him use my whole life. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, with two other members clad in the same leather vests trailing behind him. I clenched my fist and released it several times as he drew closer. I took a steadying breath, counted to five, and made sure my emotional mask was in place. If I lost my temper now, everything would go to hell, and I’d end up dead. I could hold my own in a fight, but I was vastly outnumbered at the moment. I caught a look from Kendrick, one of the men following Davis. It was an unmistakable look of pity. Everyone in the club had heard about what happened, and now and then I'd catch that look from one of the guys. I didn't want pity; I wanted out.
Davis pulled a chair back and sat down. His eyes were so light they almost looked gray; they sized me up, measured and sifted. Even now, years later, the weight of his stare still had me reconsidering my actions and filled me with fear. No grown man wanted to admit he was afraid of another man but, deep down, Davis scared the shit out me. I sat back down as well, not wanting to give anything away. Davis waited for me to begin. I leaned forward, leveling him with a stare of my own. I wanted to keep my words short. “I need to leave.”
Kendrick and Gables, the two with Davis, gave each other a look. I couldn’t tell if it was worry or surprise, maybe both, I didn’t really care which. Davis didn’t seem fazed. He sat back, pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, and lit it. After he took a long drag, he considered me and leaned in. “How long?”
He hadn't said no, that was good. I held back the urge to relax in the chair. “Not sure. But I need to get out of the city for my kids. Stay away for a while.” My voice was relaxed, steady and sure, almost like I wasn't terrified that he'd tell me no, and I'd have to fight my way out. He took another long drag and looked down at the table. A second went by, maybe two. His gaze made its way back up and he squinted at me like the sun had suddenly inva
ded the room. “We're your family. We can help. You can stay put, and we'll put you on better-paying jobs,” He suggested, with a slightly menacing tilt of his head.
Better-paying jobs meant illegal jobs, something I’d so far avoided since being a part of this particular club. No, I wouldn’t risk getting locked up or killed. I needed him to agree to this; otherwise, I’d be hunted down by the fucking ‘Brass.’ The Brass started a few decades ago, as a small group of men who rode together and worked at the same factory. The factory’s owner thought it would be acceptable to skim a little off everyone’s paychecks, assumed the bikers were too stupid to realize what was going on. They knew, and they responded. What started as a fight for absolution, turned into a movement and grew into something far more superior than any of the original members thought it would. Now it was the largest chapter in Chicago, with over 500 members. They had to split up throughout the city, which caused friction with several other clubs. Eventually, we established a new territory and took what we wanted. Some called us a Biker Gang, others called it a Brotherhood, and some just called us an MC. I didn’t care what the hell people called it; I couldn’t do it anymore, and I needed out.
“You've given special treatment to other members in the past, depending on circumstances. We're family, right? We trust each other and have one another's backs,” I stated firmly. I was hoping to remind him that he once had empathy in that wicked heart of his, even if it was a lifetime ago. Davis tapped his cigarette on the table, letting the ashes fall, and leaned back. He had faded tattoos all down his arms, almost like a second skin. His fingers tapped the table; the word ‘KILL’ was spread out in dark ink, across his knuckles. I remembered seeing that tattoo for the first time when I was eleven. I asked my dad about it, and he merely said it was a code that Davis lived by.
“Look, you're in a rough spot. We all heard about what happened, but I can’t let you just take off. I wouldn’t want you to get any ideas, like your old man.” Davis gave me a crooked smile while he signaled Niles for a beer. My Dad had cut ties with the Brass when my mom died two years ago. He was heartbroken and trying to live out his late wife’s dying wish. She hated this life, hated what it did to him and eventually, what it did to me. So, she asked him to cut ties entirely and leave the group, once and for all. It wasn’t an easy thing to do in a club as large as this one. He managed to disappear for a while, but the Brass was relentless, and you don't leave without getting Davis’ blessings when you’re a blood member. Dad managed six months of peace before they found him, but he was ready. He sent back three members in body bags and left two in a coma. Nobody was sure what would happen after that, but Davis said my dad had fought and won his freedom. He respected him for standing his ground. After all that, no one ever pinned him leaving on me, but that didn't mean there weren't a few guys who tried to get revenge on me over it. I needed to convince Davis that I would never desert them, and that legacy mattered to me. Which was total bullshit. The only legacy that mattered to me were my two children.
“Look, my dad's actions are his own, and we haven't kept in touch since he left. It's not the same thing, but I do need some space to get sorted. I need time. I'm asking for a sabbatical from club business, from meetings, from all of it. Just for a while,” I lied through my fucking teeth. Dad and I were still in touch; he was the one who helped me decide to go through with this. Niles chose that moment to bring more beers for everyone. Davis took a long swig of the cold beer before setting it down across from my empty bottle. Then he drew in a silent, deep breath, and relaxed his shoulders back into the chair. After he waited for what felt like forever, he finally gritted out, “You burn me, and I’ll kill you.”
He sat forward and pointed his finger at me. “I won't hesitate, and if your dad ever sets foot in my city again, I’ll kill him as well. For the time being, I will let you have your sabbatical. Take some time, figure out your shit.”
I nodded my head in acknowledgment. “Understood.”
Relief rushed through me. I stood from the table, not wanting to risk him changing his mind. It wouldn’t do me any good to say thank you to Davis, since he considered gratitude a form of weakness. Before I made it to the door, Davis yelled over his shoulder at me.
“But, Jimmy Boy, remember that we ain’t done. Not by a long shot.” I gave him a quick nod and left the bar. I knew I wasn’t done, but for the time being, I was free.
Shadows danced through the canopy of green and golden leaves above me. It was the perfect day for driving. The sun was peeking through vast, puffy clouds; the air had cooled to a comfortable temperature and all the trees were changing. I ached to pull over and run my fingers along the bark of the large Black Tupelos, or the beautiful Slippery Elms; to try and feel the change in the season or, in some way, connect myself to it. Yeah, that may sound strange, but it was tradition. A lifetime of road trips with my mom had taught me to always pull over, take time to breathe in the air, feel the trees, even take off my shoes and feel the cool ground beneath my toes. She always told me that it would connect me to God in a way that nothing else could. I checked my rearview mirror that was tilted a tad too low and caught a glimpse of the feminine face that stared back. I looked like her and now, every freckle that I had, or smile I cracked, would be a living reminder of what I was going to lose. I blinked, trying to ease out of the memories of my mother sitting next to me with a pair of oversized sunglasses on her face, telling me stories and making me laugh. I focused on the road and the blue jeep in front of me.
I was traveling the stretch of road from Belvidere, Illinois, where I had relocated from Chicago after learning of my mother's diagnosis. The revelation of her condition was oddly synced with the termination notice that I received from my job. I loved my job and my life in Chicago, loved my apartment, and my best friend who still lived there. Then the call came: Stage four liver cancer and less than a year to live. So, I packed my life and moved two and half hours west of Chicago to take care of my mother. Belvidere was a small town, roughly thirty thousand people. It was a mixture of old buildings, historic landmarks, and small-town charm. It was also lacking in employment opportunities. Well, not entirely; it was lacking in any jobs that would appease the rigid line of pride I still held regarding my bachelor's degree from Northwestern University. Begrudgingly, I started looking outside of the small town; being away from my mother was difficult and every mile I was forced to put between us hammered away at what was left of my breaking heart.
The blue jeep in front of me hit its breaks, bringing me back into the moment. I turned the music down in my mom’s ’99 Ford Explorer, the overwhelming tan interior goading me to turn around and go back home. I always hated the interior of this car. Everything was tan. The tan steering wheel was cracked, from the years of sun, and it was practically black now with how much leather had been removed. The tan seats were wrinkled and stretched, and the car was so old I had to use an auxiliary cord converter in the form of a cassette tape just to listen to music from my phone. I was irritated with the car, but not for any of the color or worn-out related reasons. Not really. I was haunted by the memories in this car. Memories of my mom picking me up from school, taking me to soccer practice, memories of sitting in the passenger seat holding a large map, while I charted the course for our impromptu road trips. It was always just the two of us, so we were free to go where we wanted, when we wanted. She’d only ever had this car, and now I was driving it away from her to try and find a job. So, I could live my life, even though she was about to lose hers. I squeezed my eyes together to prevent the onslaught of tears that had been held at bay for the last two weeks.
I was headed to an interview in Rockford, Illinois. My phone's GPS said it was only fifteen miles from Belvidere. Fifteen miles was better than two and half hours, I tried to reassure myself. I needed a job. Six months of turning down those low-paying jobs had finally caught up with me, and if I didn't find something soon, then I wouldn't have a way to buy groceries or pay the bills. Music was what I usually lis
tened to before every interview, specifically music from the 80’s. Nothing pumped me up and got me in the zone like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” However, since I hadn't landed a decent job yet, I decided I should try to be more mature and skip the music today, and instead focus on my skillset. I read somewhere that if you verbally encouraged yourself out loud and reminded yourself of any accomplishments, then it would make you more successful. So, here goes nothing.
“Bachelor's in Business Finance and Accounting from Northwestern University. Where you worked your ass off, Ramsey. Remember those long nights, where you wanted to give up and work on a cruise line? Five freaking rough years as a tax accountant at Dyson and Reed, Inc., where men ogled and belittled you because you were the only accountant who wore lipstick. Tended to multiple company mergers and brand purchases, maintained business relationships with smaller branches and assisted with company buyouts, which wasn’t easy to do when the contact person, Daryl, repeatedly asked you out. Today, will make it all worth it.”
