The Devil's Scars (The Road Devils MC Book 1)

by Marysol James

  “OK.” Wolf headed to the back office. “Gimme twenty minutes to sort it all out. The coffee’s fresh, so help yourself. And I’ll get Rebel to make you some breakfast, OK?”

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

  Zoe poured a large cup of Wolf’s usual industrial-strength coffee, and took a grateful sip. Sleep was a hard-to-come-by luxury in her life, and caffeine was her fuel. She’d almost decided that she liked it black by now, though she suspected that sleep-deprivation may just have dulled her taste buds.

  She wandered over to the large front window of Blue Dragon Ink, and stared out at the parking lot. It was still pretty empty, and no big surprise: the only other businesses around here were Satan’s Bar and The Garage, both owned by The Road Devils. The garage was doing a full inventory and was closed that day, and the bar was open at noon to the general public. Of course, it was open 24/7 for Road Devils members, but she doubted that many of them would be around at ten a.m. on a Friday.

  She sighed, wondering just what the hell had possessed her to let Wolf talk her into this insanity. Because if Zoe was being honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she was really, truly considering coming back; even after it all and what she’d gone through to get away, she wanted to come back. Wolf Connor was the only man from the group of asshole MC members that she’d even listen to about coming back.

  Yeah, he was a lot of things, and she knew just how many bodies he’d put in the ground. But he was like her brother, for all of that, and despite the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in years, and he’d never put her in the line of fire. He’d die before he’d let her get hurt again. She’d never forget the rage on his face when he saw her tied up on that table – or how tenderly he’d wrapped his own shirt around her shaking body, and held her as she’d wept. If he was telling her that Blue Dragon Ink was legit and she was safe, it was, and she was.

  And so standing in the blazing sunlight, clutching her coffee, Zoe finally faced facts: she needed this. She needed what Wolf was offering her. Life in North Dakota wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything close to great, either.

  Her current job at the tattoo parlor barely covered her expenses, and now that she had Keira, she was struggling. Like, really struggling. The money she’d earn in Denver was more than double what she was making in Fargo, and even though the cost of living was higher here, she’d easily be able to afford a small apartment, and her car payments, and food and clothes for a growing baby. She could make a go of it, for real. Life could and would be better, and she owed it to Keira to give her this. Fuck, Zoe deserved a break too, didn’t she? Just a little one?

  And she could handle being around The Road Devils again, couldn’t she? Besides Wolf, she’d limit contact with them almost completely – stay at the tattoo studio most of the time and deal with her employees, maybe drop by the bar for a quick drink once a month, just to say hi to the guys. Be friendly, be polite, but be unavailable for anything more than tattoos, and the occasional game of pool. No need to become best buddies with any of them; definitely no need to get involved with any of them. No good ever came from that, God knows.

  So basically she was acting like a bratty kid sister, and just fucking with Wolf, asking for the papers and playing coy. The truth was that her mind was almost made up.

  Oh, who the hell am I kidding, huh? I’m coming back to Denver. This is home, and it always has been.

  Chapter Two

  Scars Innis groaned as his cell vibrated on the hotel bedside table. He cracked one eye open, grimaced at the time.

  Fucking ten o’clock. Really?

  He stretched out one hand, and fumbled with the phone, cursing at the dull, dusty pounding in his head. Yeah, he was hungover. Again.

  “What?” he ground out, his voice rough. “What?”

  “Vic?”

  Scars fell back on the bed, his muscular forearm covering his blue eyes against the bright late-spring sun. “Sam.”

  “You OK?”

  “I’m fucking sleeping, man.”

  “It’s ten o’clock.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’ve been up since five, right, Doctor Innis? Saving lives, and being generally awesome?”

  “Actually, I haven’t been to bed yet. I’m just leaving the hospital. There was a bad car accident last night, and I pulled a double shift. Nine people died.” Sam paused. “Including a family. Two young kids.”

  Scars sighed. “Fuck, Sam. I’m sorry. You doing alright?”

  His brother gave a shaky laugh, and right away, Scars’ body tightened up. He knew that laugh: it was Sam’s poor attempt to cover up bottomless pits of hurt and helplessness. The accident would have thrown Sam back almost twenty-three years, to that horrible icy night when their parents were killed. Watching those people die right in front of him would have just ripped scabs off old wounds; Scars was certain that his brother had fought like hell to keep those people alive, and the fact that he’d lost them would pierce him deep.

  He imagined Sam in his scrubs, his dark eyes deceptively calm behind his glasses, his hands covered with the blood of strangers. He’d have intubated, and sliced, and sewn, and done CPR, and performed surgeries… and in the end, nobody had lived to see the sunrise. Talk about fucking devastating.

  “Sam?” Scars’ voice was gentler now. “You alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m OK. I’m just – I’ll be better after I get some sleep, and a hug from Annie and Cindy.” He paused again. “I’m sorry I woke you up… I just needed to talk to you. To hear your voice.”

  “It’s fine, man. I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

  “Where are you, Vic?”

  Scars flinched at the use of his civilian name, but then again, nobody on the whole planet called him that except his kid brother and his niece, so he’d take it from Sam now.

  “Not in Denver.” Scars shifted his large body on the bed, winced as his stomach heaved a bit. “Club business.”

  “I see.” Sam’s voice was flat. “You’ll be back soon?”

  “By tomorrow afternoon. You want to meet up on Sunday? Hang out a bit?”

  “Coffee sounds good.”

  Scars wished that Sam had said ‘beer’, but for his brother, he’d do coffee. Not before noon, though. Lines had to be drawn somewhere.

  “Yeah, OK. Coffee it is.” Scars sat up carefully, wondering if he could handle coffee now, decided to go for it. “Sunday afternoon about three-ish?”

  “Yeah. Call me when you get back.”

  “I will.”

  “Vic?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re being careful, right?”

  “Sam, I’ve told you a thousand times: the club’s out of all that shady shit now.”

  Scars paused, and both men passed silent words between them. Sam knew about the bloodbath with The Fallen Angels and Kirk Jensen’s people, knew that Scars and Wolf had been part of the rescue mission to get Ace Cuddy, knew that Wolf had broken his creed to stick to the legal high road, just that once. But Sam had understood that decision – he’d even stood by Scars on that one. The brothers had agreed to never talk about it again – and so they hadn’t and they weren’t. Not out loud, at least. Scars took a breath, got the conversation back on track:

  “I’m not doing anything that any other businessman wouldn’t do, Sam. Everything’s on the up-and-up on this one.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “I’m meeting with alcohol suppliers for the bar.”

  Sam was silent again. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Wolf’s unhappy with some of our current suppliers’ delivery times, and he asked me to find a few alternatives.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Scars swung his legs over the side of the bed, waited for his head to stop spinning. “It’s all above-board, I swear to you. Wolf has completely changed the club, and we’re all better off for i
t.”

  “OK.” Sam sighed. “I’m at my car now, so I’ve got to go. Call me, alright? And be safe?”

  “I will. To both things. Go get some rest.”

  “I will.”

  Scars disconnected and threw the phone on the mattress. He knew he should get some more sleep, but he was one of those people that when he was awake, he was awake. Still, though – he hadn’t hit the bed until five o’clock, and he could definitely use another three hours.

  He got to his feet, ambled over to the coffee machine. He puzzled over the fucking knobs and buttons for a while – fancy-ass shit in this hotel, man – and after consulting the goddamn instructions, he finally figured out that the capsule thing went inside the top. He shut the lid, gingerly pressed a few buttons, remembered to actually stick the damn cup under the spout just in time. He was gratified when the coffee started to pour and he inhaled, starting to feel semi-human again.

  As he waited for the coffee to finish, he hit the bathroom. He used the toilet, stared at himself in the mirror. Yeah, he looked pretty bad: his brown hair was standing up on end, his blue eyes were tired and bloodshot. And that was all before you considered the long, shiny scars on his face, hands, forearms and chest.

  He went back into the main area, and grabbed the cup of coffee. He took a huge gulp, then another, wondered if he was up to opening the blinds. He knew it was another clear and bright late-April day out there, sunny and cool. Perfect weather for riding his motorcycle – but with sunglasses, of course. His hangover needed to be placated by shades.

  His mind wandered back to the night before. He’d ended up in some dive bar on the side of the highway that reminded him of his second-favorite Denver bar, Dangerous Curves, in some ways. It had been full of questionable types, which he liked just fine, seeing as he was one such type himself, and easy women, which he didn’t like nearly as much.

  The problem was that easy women liked him plenty. He got the attraction, he really did. The ladies went for large, muscular, scowling bikers with big hands, and lots of tattoos. If they weren’t repulsed by his scars, then they found them a turn-on. They usually imagined that he’d gotten them in some badass MC-related event, and Scars never bothered to correct them. It was none of their fucking business, anyway.

  No, one-nighters had never been his thing, surprisingly. Scars was a one-woman kind of man, and the trouble was that his sort-of-chosen lifestyle made it hard to find a one-man kind of woman. Oh, sure, he’d had some girlfriends. Even serious ones. But there had been nobody since Rachel, and she’d dumped him more than a year ago.

  Scars thought about Rachel for a few seconds, wondered if she’d found what she’d wanted with her new guy. Scars had tried hard to be everything that she’d needed, but he just couldn’t go all the way… hell was going to freeze over before he strung up a woman to the ceiling and hit her with a belt in the bedroom, or anywhere else. Even if Rachel had begged him to do it.

  But he hadn’t hurt a woman in his forty-two years on the planet, and he wasn’t going to start now. Rough sex was one thing (and he had a thing for a bit of rough). Slapping a woman around until she bled and bruised and cried for mercy was something else entirely.

  He shook his head, drank some more coffee. Maybe it was time to give it another shot on the woman front. God knows, he was ready to get laid again, and he also wouldn’t mind having someone around in the mornings. He liked making more than one cup of coffee, liked showering with a woman, liked having someone to call during the day. Now that all this shit with Dawson and the new club had started to settle down, maybe Scars would focus on his personal life once more.

  Now the fun part: finding a woman with hot looks, and a razor-sharp brain, and a good heart, and an awesome sense of humor. Yeah, like a woman like that is just gonna waltz on in to Satan’s Bar. Dream on, man.

  Chapter Three

  Zoe glanced up as Wolf set a beer in front of her. He sat on the sofa, his arms stretched along its back, long legs spread wide. He regarded her.

  “So,” he said, gesturing at the stacks of paperwork strewn across the table. “We celebratin’ or what?”

  She leaned back, took a tiny sip of beer. “Yeah, we are.”

  A grin split his gorgeous face right in half. “For real?”

  “Uh-huh.” The smile that she gave him just knocked the breath out of him with its shining sweetness. Yeah, that was the Zoe that he knew and loved. “I’ll do it, Wolf. I’ll take over the studio for you. I’ll start on Monday. Just part-time, OK, until I sort some things out with Keira in terms of babysitting.”

  He whooped, and jumped up. He pulled her into a hug, lifted her right off her feet.

  She laughed, clung to his broad shoulders. “Jesus, Wolf! Put me down!”

  In response, he spun in a circle, and she laughed again. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so lighthearted, and she flashed back to when they were kids, living in the same rough Denver neighborhood, playing hide-and-seek under Wolf’s front porch.

  “OK, OK.” Carefully, he set her back on her feet, still beaming. “Fuckin’ awesome, Zee. I’m so happy you’re gonna do this.”

  “Yeah, me too.” She straightened her clothes. “I’ve already called Willa, and she’ll bring Keira here the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pay for their plane tickets, and all your moving expenses.”

  “Oh, no,” Zoe protested. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know, baby girl. I want to.” His gray eyes were warm. “Call it a signin’ bonus, OK?”

  She hesitated. “You – you sure?”

  “Totally.” He scowled at her. “I’m still pissed at you that you wouldn’t let me fly you out here to see me today. You should have let me pay for your plane ticket, it would have saved you megatons of hassle and time.”

  “I don’t do planes, Wolf. You know that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. But your kid sure will… I’m gonna see to that.”

  “Better for a baby, for sure. Thanks, Wolf.”

  “It’s all good.” He drank some beer, relaxed now. “So. We’re havin’ a big club party tomorrow night at Satan’s. You want to come? Meet some of the guys? Most of them joined after you left town, you know.”

  A small, tense silence fell between them now, and it was full of things best left unsaid. What Wolf hadn’t mentioned – and Zoe wasn’t even close to insane enough to bring up – was that about five years back, pretty much the entire Road Devils crew had been wiped out in a huge raid on their clubhouse by The Fallen Angels MC.

  Those had been dark days in the club’s history. She’d been long gone by then, of course, but she’d lived every second of the crisis by phone long-distance, and in absolute terror that Wolf was going to end up dead – that the life was going to get him at last and after all.

  Whatever the hell it said about her, Zoe hadn’t been sorry to hear that The Road Devils club membership had been razed to the ground in a hail of bullets. No, if she were telling the truth, then she’d have to say that she’d been savagely glad that those sons-of-bitches had died. She knew that Wolf had been torn up about it, and she felt bad about that… but she hadn’t wished those guys alive. Not even to spare Wolf pain.

  She hadn’t wished it even once.

  Rebuilding the club had taken time and dedication, and Kirk Jensen’s contracts and contacts, and the money that had come with all of that kind work, had helped to attract some pretty hardcore and hungry guys. Guys who were now Wolf’s brothers, guys who had rejected Dawson’s offer and who had opted to stay under Wolf’s kinder, gentler, more-legal Presidency.

  Guys that she’d have to suss out, and figure out how to work with and deal with.

  She knew it had to be done, of course, but she ached to put it all off. Just a bit longer.

  “Uh.” She scrambled now to think of a way out of attending a drunken, rowdy biker gathering. “
Well, I think I’d better find someplace to live before I think about partying with The Road Devils.”

  “No problem,” Wolf said. “I got a place for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure I do. One of the guys owns two houses, and he rents one out. It’s standin’ empty now.”

  Zoe paused, unsure about renting from a Road Devils member. She pictured mirrors above the bed, yellow walls that reeked of cigarette smoke, a mattress on the floor. On top of that, it was a definite step in the wrong direction if she wanted to limit her contact with the MC. Then again, maybe the guy would cut her a break on the rent and God knows, she needed any financial help she could get at this point.

  “Is it a nice house?” she said cautiously.

  Wolf grinned. “You expectin’ a fuck pad?”

  “Yep. Totally.”

  “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but Silver’s place is awesome. Nicer than my place, actually.”

  “Tell.”

  “Two bedrooms, an open-plan living room and kitchen,” he rattled off, sounding like a property agent on commission. “Furnished, decorated, cuttin’-edge security system. Safe neighborhood, decent-sized yard with a big old apple tree.”

  “It sounds… OK.”

  “It is.” He shrugged. “Give that pretty head a shake, Zee… you think I’d send you to some fuckin’ hovel in the ghetto?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So I’ll tell Silver to meet you there this afternoon, if you want.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She figured it couldn’t hurt to look at the place, and if this guy Silver had a creeper vibe, she’d just politely decline to rent from him. “That’d be great.”

  “And?” Wolf pushed. “The party tomorrow?”

  “Um.”

  “Come on, Zee.” He was gentle now. “These guys are my guys… my brothers. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

  “The other guys were your brothers too,” she said, before she could stop herself. “He was.”

  His eyes flared. “No, they weren’t, and he sure as shit wasn’t. We may have all been Road Devils, but no way I’d ever call a woman-beater or rapist my brother. You know that, baby girl.”