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

by Marysol James

  “Hey, Sam –”

  “It’s been years and years of it, and I get it. I do. I get that these guys are your brothers, just as much as I am. Maybe more than I am in some ways, because I know that you’ve done some sketchy shit, some awful things, and you’ve had each other’s backs. You keep each other’s secrets. You’re a closed group, bound together by blood and history, and I don’t want you to lose any of that.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Sam was emphatic. “When Wolf took the club legit last year and cut off all ties to Jensen and his operation, it was the best news that I’d heard in my life. I thought that it was over, that the MC was now just like any other group owning a dive bar, and a tattoo place, and a garage. I could breathe again, Vic. I thought you were safe.”

  “It is. I am.”

  “It’s not.” Sam shook his head. “You’re not.”

  “Hey,” Scars began, but Sam made an impatient motion with his hand, as if cutting the words off in the air. It came to Scars now that these were things that his brother had wanted to say to him for a long time, maybe since almost the beginning, and so Scars just shut up. Let Sam have his air time.

  “I thought you were safe,” Sam repeated softly. “I thought you were out of the one-percenter life. All of you. But Kirk Jensen was killed by Ace Cuddy, then Ace was taken by The Fallen Angels, and Matt Kingston swept in to save his informant. And who did King call for help and back-up when the shit hit the fan, and he was putting together an operation to rescue Ace? Your President. He called Wolf, and dragged you guys into his mess, one that King created by blackmailing Ace into ratting out Kirk.”

  “King didn’t force us,” Scars said. “He asked for help with a rival MC, and we chose to give it. Hell, Wolf told me that I could stay out of it, if I wanted to. Told me to stay in the clubhouse and keep an eye out, if that’s what I felt better doing.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No, because those boys were fucking monsters, Sam. You know about The Fallen Angels from what you read in the papers and see in the E.R., but Wolf and me? We know them. We knew what King and his people were walking into, and no way we weren’t going to be there to have his six. We’ll always be there if a friend needs help, and King is a friend of the club. Always has been.”

  Sam sighed. “And there it is.”

  “What is?” Scars snapped. “What’s the goddamn problem with helping a friend?”

  “Nothing… if the help that friend needs is to move house. Or fix his car. Or go for a drunken boys’ night out because his girlfriend just dumped his ass. But your friends? They don’t ask for that kind of help. No. They ask you to load up your guns and bring extra ammo, and storm a warehouse full of MC criminals, and shoot every living thing that moves. Those are your friends, Vic, after two decades of MC life.”

  “Shut the hell up, Sam.”

  “No. I’ve shut up for years.”

  “Then you should have no problem going right back to doing it again.” Scars got to his feet, all thoughts of talking to Sam about Zoe long gone. “Thanks for the coffee and awesome conversation. Say goodbye to Annie and Cindy for me.”

  “Vic…”

  “What?” Scars pivoted, gave his brother his most ferocious glare, the one that had stopped armed men dead in their tracks. “What the fuck now?”

  “I know Wolf is working damn hard to take the club legit. To keep things on the up-and-up. I also know that what happened with Ace and that bloodbath in the warehouse isn’t a daily occurrence. Not anymore. But…”

  Sam hesitated, plowed on:

  “But wanting to do everything in a totally legal and above-board way, and actually being able to pull it off – when we’re talking about a group of men with the club’s history – that isn’t so easy. Wolf can have the best of intentions, and I believe he has them, just for the record… but he’s long been conditioned to deal with things a certain way. You all have. You and your brothers, you speak the language of violence fluently. You think you can all forget that you know it, just because you were told to stop using it? That’s as likely as me telling you to just forget how to speak English, starting tomorrow.”

  “Sam…”

  “And do you really think that your first instinct to turn to violence is going to disappear, just because Wolf says you have to talk things through now?” Sam looked agitated, even a bit afraid, but he kept talking. “Maybe there is no coming back from the one-percenter life, Vic, even if you really, really want to. Maybe – maybe it just runs too deep inside all of you now.”

  Despite the heat of his anger, Scars froze; it was like his private troubled thoughts from the night before were coming out of his brother’s mouth. After all, hadn’t Scars just been thinking that his MC brothers wouldn’t be able to treat Zoe right, because so many of them still believed in secrets and silence? Keeping women at arm’s length and away from club business, even if club business was basic and boring now? And hadn’t he also been pondering the fact that the boys still didn’t fully understand how to live this new, non-violent life?

  Scars had just wondered if it was possible to shake off so much violence and darkness and dirt, wondered if maybe they were all just damned and marked – including himself. He’d spent most of the morning on his front porch, drinking black coffee and asking himself, over and over, if he was a good enough man for Zoe and her little girl.

  In the bitter end, he’d decided that he wasn’t… yet. But he’d be better for her, for them. Because she was the kind of woman who made a man want to be better than he was, better than he ever thought he’d be.

  The truth was that Scars had wanted to change, for a long time. He’d fought damn hard to hang on to the good, pure parts of himself, even in the muddiest and worst moments. He’d failed, sometimes, but he thought that he’d mostly succeeded. But he’d needed that last push, that last reason to really do it. For real and for good and no fucking waffling or half-assing it.

  Zoe was it.

  Yeah, he wanted to change for her – but he also wanted to do it for Sam, for Cindy. For himself.

  But – and this was a goddamn terrifying thought – what if he couldn’t? What if it was too late for him, for Wolf, for Cole and Saint and Arrow, for all of them? Because Sam was right, as much as Scars hated to admit it: it was true that the second he and Wolf had been presented with the choice to help King and drill bullets into those Fallen Angels dickheads, they’d accepted and loaded up.

  Without very much hesitation at all, actually. Without very much remorse after, too.

  The other truth – the one that Scars had denied to himself, but which he’d faced on the porch just a few hours earlier – was that it had all felt so fucking familiar… almost comforting. Like slipping into a well-worn, favorite pair of jeans. Scars had been surprised how good that gun had felt in his hand. How… right.

  I don’t want to want that life anymore.

  I want to be different. Better.

  “Vic?” Sam’s soft voice brought him back to the moment. “You OK?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Good.” Scars pulled himself together, turned for the door with renewed determination. “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait –” Sam stood up too.

  “Look, man. I’m not going to say it isn’t a challenge to change, OK? It is. You’re right about that, I’ll give you that one. But it is possible, if someone really wants it.”

  “You think…” Sam hesitated again. “You really think that you can get past everything? All those things that you did before?”

  “Yes.” Scars’ voice was clipped. “I do.”

  “You know that the past never really stays there, right?” Sam said quietly. “That at some point, it tries to drag you back… it comes calling, because a bill is still due. Karma, Vic. None of us escapes it.”

  “So why the hell should I leave my VP post, then?” Scars demanded. “I
f I’m damned and done and dusted, I’m right where I belong, huh? Down in the shit?”

  “Because,” Sam said, sounding almost defeated. “Because we can always do some things to increase the likelihood of success, or keeping karma at bay just a bit longer. And in your case, I think that the only way to really start again is to leave the MC as a full-time member. I think – I think that if you do, if you make a good, whole life in the civilian world, then you’ll be safe. Safer than you are right now, at least.”

  “Sam…” Scars stopped, not sure what to say after that, but definitely not angry anymore. His brother may not have gone about this conversation in his usual thoughtful, careful, tactful way, but that was probably because he was worried, and so he was making a fucking mess of it. It was all coming from a place of love and concern, though. That much Scars knew for sure. “Sam… I can’t leave. I won’t. I totally understand what’s worrying you, though. I do. I’m sorry that you worry about me, I’m sorry that you’re going to keep worrying. But those men are my friends, my brothers, and I owe them everything and frankly, so do you.”

  “I know,” Sam said in a hollow voice. “And I’m not thrilled about that.”

  “Well, get over it. You got an education and you’re a trauma surgeon because of The Road Devils paying me good money to do bad things. If you’ve got issues with it, or feel any kind of weird guilt about it, that’s your shit to sort out, so don’t take it out on me, OK? But if you’re mostly worried that I’m gonna end up dead in some MC business, well… yeah, it may happen. It’s not as likely now as it was a year ago, but, yeah… maybe. Then again, maybe I’ll get hit by a goddamned bus crossing the street downtown. No guarantees anywhere, man. You work in an E.R. You know what happened to Mom and Dad. You know it, Sam.”

  “Yes. I do.” Sam sighed, rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, those eyes so much like their mother’s. Scars had gotten his piercing blue eyes from their Dad, but Sam was the lucky one, Scars thought, to have those soft, warm, chocolate-brown depths. “I guess I just don’t like to admit it.”

  “Nobody likes to be out of control, man.”

  “True.” Sam sighed again, then smiled. “So… can you stay for cookies? I know Cindy will be happy if you do. She’s baking them for Uncle Vic, you know. To hell with me on this one.”

  “Yeah, for sure.” Scars gave his brother a grin, decided to postpone the Zoe conversation for the moment. Maybe indefinitely, because if he were being honest with himself, he was going to go for it, full-steam ahead. He’d figure it all out as he went along – the feet-first approach had worked in his life so far. Mostly. “The cookies are the whole reason why I came over this afternoon, you know.”

  “Mmm-hmmm. I figured.”

  Chapter Eight

  Zoe accepted a cup of coffee from Willa, set it carefully on the kitchen table, beyond Keira’s reach, then carried on spooning mashed bananas into her daughter’s sweet little rosebud mouth. Zoe hated bananas with a passion, and fervently wished that Keira would develop a love affair with applesauce. So far, no luck, so Zoe breathed through her mouth and avoided looking directly at the bowl.

  “So,” Willa said, plunking herself down at the table with a yawn, smiled at Keira. She sipped her coffee, yawned again and glanced at the clock. “Why the actual heck are you up so early? The place opens at noon, Zee, and you’re the darn boss, and part-time to boot. Nobody to impress on your first day, girl, so why in the name of all that’s holy and right, are you getting ready to roll out of here at seven-oh-four a.m.?”

  Zoe nodded at the stacks of paper on the living room coffee table. “Paperwork.”

  “What about it?”

  “Wolf gave me all that stuff when I took the job. It’s employee records, time tables, client lists, price lists, order forms, suppliers, projections, budgets, expenses… and so on and so on. It’s not impossibly hard, most of it, but it’s all new, and from what I can see, the parlor’s short on tons of stuff. Nobody’s done a proper inventory, either, so I want to get there early and take a look at the stock. Place some rush orders if I have to.”

  “Oh, gotcha.”

  “And I have a client coming at noon, and I haven’t seen the sketch they’ve left of the tattoo they want. I called Saint yesterday, and he said that it’d be in the file cabinet next to the entrance, so I need to go take a look. It could be a tiny fifty-buck job, or a full sleeve that needs eight sessions. No clue. If it’s really complex and has to be free-hand, then I need to get ready.”

  “OK, boss lady.” Willa extended her hand. “Gimme the spoon. You drink your cup of energy, and haul a-s-s.”

  With nothing but joy, Zoe handed the spoon towering with mushy bananas over to her friend, who made a face at Keira as she fed her. The baby giggled, made a cooing sound, lightly slapped the tray on the high chair. Zoe was full-on certain that she’d never stop being grateful for Willa’s love for Keira, for her unflinching friendship and support, for her tireless help. The truth was that if not for Willa, Zoe would have gone under a long time ago, back there in North Dakota… and as much as she hated to think about it, she’d quite possibly have dragged that sweet baby down with her as she’d done so.

  “OK, so.” Zoe drank her coffee like the answer to her salvation was at the bottom of the cup. “I finish work at about three, and in between stuff, I’ll meet a few potential babysitters. Fingers crossed I find an awesome one who can maybe come over tomorrow to meet Keira. You and me can see how they are around each other, see if we trust her.”

  “Huh.” Willa scowled and narrowed her angelic blue eyes. “She’s gonna have to be something amazing, Zee, for me to hand this baby over to her.”

  “You know it, girl.” Zoe scowled herself. “No way I’m giving Keira to some moronic stunted twit who spends all day staring at her phone, taking duck-faced selfies, and dreaming of getting rich and famous quick with a makeup tutorial vlog.”

  “Right?”

  “So, yeah, I’ll keep looking until I find someone great, but it may take a while.” Zoe hesitated. “You sure you can stick around until then? I mean, I know it’s Fargo and all – but you do want to have a job to get back to.”

  “It’s all sorted out.” Deftly, Willa scooped a bit of banana mush that had dribbled down Keira’s face, leaving a slimy trail down her chin. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You keep saying that,” Zoe protested. “But how is it all sorted out? Why shouldn’t I worry?”

  “Because.” Willa popped the last spoonful of bleuch into Keira’s mouth, handed over her sippy cup. “I have a – ummmm – a kinda special relationship with the Costco manager.”

  “No.” Zoe damn near choked on her coffee. “You mean Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long have you had this special relationship?”

  “About – what? Four weeks?” Willa took the bowl over to the sink and rinsed it. “We’re just dating, Zee, nothing to get all excited about.”

  “‘Just dating’?” Zoe echoed. “You haven’t ‘just dated’ anyone in… Jesus, what is it now? Like… two years? Nobody since Randy, right?”

  “Argh,” Willa muttered. “Freaking Randy. And he sure as heck was, wasn’t he? With eight different women, last I heard, the lying, cheating scumbag.”

  “I know, babe. He was the worst.”

  “Hands down,” Willa agreed. “The worst of the worst. The worstest.”

  “No argument from me, and can we get back to Jimmy now?” Zoe wiped Keira’s hands and mouth, then lifted her squirming little ray of sunshine into her arms. “And you can begin by telling me why you didn’t so much as breathe one word about you seeing him.”

  “Well…” Willa fidgeted a bit. “Because – well, you’ve met him.”

  “Uh, yeah. So?”

  “So.” Willa exhaled. “You know he’s not really…
well. I mean, the man isn’t a hot, sexy step class instructor with abs of steel. He’s a forty-eight-year-old supermarket manager with an ex-wife and a beer gut.”

  “Again, I say, ‘so’?”

  “So. I guess he’s just really, really vanilla. Works hard. Saves money. Sees his kid every weekend. Has a sad little straggly ponytail and no hair on top.”

  “Wow.” Zoe danced around a bit and Keira laughed, grabbed at her long hair. “You’re making him sound sooo hawt. Better than I remember, actually.”

  “He’s not drop-dead gorgeous, is my point.”

  “Not the way you’re describing him, though I recall he has some incredible ink on his shoulder and chest, and he has beautiful green eyes.”

  “Well.” Willa’s expression softened, got all wistful and dreamy, maybe even a bit moony. “Yeah.”

  “Hey, sweetie. Is he good to you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Willa’s look got even more moony, crossed pretty firmly over into mushy banana territory. “Zee, he’s great. I mean – the man holds the door for me, you know? Brings me flowers. Shows up when he says he will, no bullshit or playing games or making we wonder. Calls me every night before bed, and asks me how I’m doing. Bakes me double-white-chocolate-chip cookies and slips ‘em into my lunch bag in the staff fridge when nobody’s around.”

  “Aww.” Despite her white-knuckled moratorium on romance, Zoe found that she was kind of crushing on Jimmy herself. “Showing up on time and sneaking you homemade cookies are hawt, and I hope you know it.”