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

by Marysol James

  “Can be,” Maria said quietly. “There have been a few – situations.”

  “OK, doll.” Viking gave her another grin. “I’ll pencil Dillon in, and give him a call later today and confirm. Cool?”

  “Cool,” Maria agreed, then she looked at Zoe. “Oh! I’m sorry! I was supposed to come here to talk to you about your daughter, not schedule a tattoo appointment…”

  “Nah, it’s good.” Zoe waved her hand in a careless movement. “Let’s go do that now, OK?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Zoe nodded at the guys, who resumed whatever they’d been doing, led Maria to her office in the back. She’d liked Maria Torres on paper already: the younger woman was educated, she had years of experience up at Open Skies Ranch, she had glowing recommendations from her former boss up at Open Skies and from several people she’d done childcare work for here in Denver. She’d come across to Zoe as professional, reliable, good with children. After having spoken to every single one of Maria’s former employers, she was far-and-away Zoe’s first choice to take care of Keira.

  But the fact that she was on a first-name basis with Viking Callahan was yet another huge point in Maria’s favor, oddly enough. Zoe loved people with a foot in two vastly different worlds, she found contradictions both fascinating and endearing, and it looked like Maria was as comfortable in the rough, dirty world of bikers and bouncers as she was in the powdered world of babies and mushed bananas. Maria might be a bit shy and conservative, but she clearly had a backbone – and Zoe liked people who could hold their own.

  So, yeah, she’d go through the motions here, ask Maria all the tough questions, work her way down the checklist… and then she’d talk money and availability. And she’d invite Maria Torres into her life with her beautiful, amazing daughter. She’d expand the circle of her new life by one more person.

  It felt good to add people to her world, Zoe was starting to discover. After years of closing herself off to most people – Wolf and Willa being the notable exceptions – it was a bit of a shock to open up, a shock that she’d had to slowly work through these past few days here in Denver. But now she was happy, almost eager to invite people in.

  She’d welcomed in the guys here at Blue Dragon, absolutely, because she’d discovered that they were genuine professionals, passionate about the art of tattooing, respectful and funny as hell. Any concerns that she’d had of being treated like ‘less than’ just because she was a woman had been totally misplaced.

  The guys from the garage had been brought closer too, because they’d done some repair work on her shitty little car, and bought Keira a new carseat as a welcome gift. Silver was turning out to be an incredible landlord, and Rebel in the kitchen over at Satan’s was totally cool with Zoe’s vegetarianism, and was expanding his cooking repertoire by bringing her lunch every day at work.

  Bad-ass Rebel had admitted to her up-front that – not shockingly – he was a meat-man, a carnivore through and through, but for Zoe, he’d scour the internet for veggie recipes. The man had come through too, and in spectacular fashion: just the day before, Arrow had asked Rebel if he had any extra portions of Zoe’s zucchini-and-cheese pasta bake. Rebel had raised his eyebrows, brought his MC brother the vegetarian meal instead of the burgers that he’d made for Saint and Viking. Arrow had declared it ‘awesome’, and admitted that maybe vegetables weren’t ‘fuckin’ boring, after all.” Zoe had high-fived him with a huge grin.

  It was happening, then, this gradual building-up of a new, better life. That aching want that she’d felt that day after the guys had set up Keira’s bedroom, that deep longing to belong somewhere for the first time in a long time… the ache and longing had receded. Not completely, that was true, but Zoe knew that if she kept inviting people past her walls, into her world, then eventually it would fade to nothing more than a pin prick.

  She wasn’t inviting in everyone, of course – she still had the door firmly barricaded against him. Drawbridge up, alligators in the moat, guards manning the towers, Zoe in the highest turret with a goddamn grenade launcher as self-protection.

  Not that Scars had really tried to storm the castle, if Zoe were being honest. In fact, he’d barely noticed the existence of the castle, or her. She’d seen him over the past week, of course, from a distance and across the parking lot, as he’d gone in and out of Satan’s. She’d seen him with Wolf, pretty much daily, and she’d caught a glimpse of the two of them just an hour before, when they’d taken off on their motorcycles and gone who-knows-where.

  It was like he’d totally forgotten her after all his passionate protestations of genuine interest almost a week ago, and promises that this was just the beginning of ‘them’, and she wasn’t at all surprised about the amnesia. After all, guys like Scars were all about the sweet-talk when they were looking to get laid, and they then ignored a woman if sex wasn’t forthcoming – and Scars’ indifference meant that he had clearly found another pair of legs to bury himself between.

  Zoe told herself she didn’t give a single, flying fuck about that. At all. It was what she’d wanted, and she was thrilled that the jerk had actually listened. Definitely. She didn’t even notice that he wasn’t noticing her, because why would she?

  Wrenching her mind away from the way that his large, strong hands had held her face as he’d kissed her, Zoe refocused on Maria. This was what was important, after all, finding the best, safest child care for Keira.

  Scars Innis wasn’t safe, wasn’t sane, wasn’t good for Zoe, sure as hell wasn’t good for her daughter. He wasn’t a man that she could count on, or turn to, or trust.

  Scars Innis was nothing to her: not then, not now.

  Not ever.

  **

  Scars stared across the table at Dawson Kinley, President of The Blood Crew, torn between normal, everyday hate, and bitter, corrosive, gut-churning hate.

  Dawson, his ex-MC-brother, was a man that once upon a time, Scars had risked his own life for, without hesitation or regret. A man who’d betrayed the club, broken away and started his own MC, taken some of the other Road Devils with him. A man who’d picked up all of Kirk Jensen’s dirty contracts, the same ones that Wolf had extricated the Devils from with such pain and precision.

  Dawson was a traitor. A liar. A fucking snake in the grass.

  He was also up to some serious shit-stirring, if the word on the street was right – and that’s what Scars and Wolf were here to find out, if at all possible. Not that they expected Dawson to roll over and level with them… but they had to at least let the man know that they were wise to his games.

  It was diplomacy MC-style – which meant guns on the table in plain sight, while concealing another one in their boot or the waistband of their jeans.

  “I’m telling you,” Dawson repeated, his dark eyes cold as a midnight river. “I’m not doing anything against your interests, Connor.”

  “No?” Wolf’s voice was that low, dangerous growl that made his road name suit him so perfectly. “You ain’t usin’ neutrals against us?”

  “Jesus. No.”

  “What about the Warriors up in Fort Collins?”

  Those black eyes flashed. Just for a second. Then Dawson looked amused.

  “Yeah, you knew damn good and well that Mace Rimes would be on the phone to me,” Wolf said. “You and your boys go on up there and try to pressure his MC to take some of the slack left behind by The Fallen Angels gettin’ wiped out, and you think Mace is thrilled about it? His MC has never done criminal shit, and you know it, man. You knew Mace would turn you down and then bring me into the loop, so my question is, why start the conversation in the first place?”

  “Why do you think?” Dawson asked, shifting his weight a bit in his chair, looking lazy and relaxed. He nodded at Scars. “C’mon, Innis, share your thoughts with the group.”

  “So that this would happen,” Scars replied, his voice like gravel. “This
exact thing. This meeting. You did it to make fucking sure that me and Wolf showed up on your turf, at your clubhouse, to talk to you, which is exactly what we did. Now, answer my President: why did you start this conversation? What do you want to say that you couldn’t say in a goddamn text message?”

  “Ha!” Dawson guffawed, and Scars gritted his teeth. Yeah, Dawson was President of his merry band of traitors, but some respect was due to Wolf as a fellow MC Prez, and to Scars as a Veep. And, frankly, a bit of respect as a small nod to their years of former brotherhood wasn’t a bad idea. Dawson’s disinterested body language and dismissive laugh were all starting to push Scars’ buttons, and he reminded himself to keep his cool.

  No sense starting shit in another MC’s clubhouse – especially when he and Wolf still had no clear idea what their ex-brothers were even really capable of. Or what they wanted. Or if they intended harm. Or if they came in peace. Or anything useful to the decision-making process of ‘Do we start shit, or do we play nice?’. Time to do some probing.

  “That’s your answer?” Scars asked evenly. “You gonna laugh? Nothing to add?”

  “Oooooh, I know that tone,” Dawson said. “It’s Scars Innis playing it calm and collected as his temper starts to rise.”

  “Yeah?” Scars rejoined. “And I know that tone. It’s Dawson Kinley killing time, dancing around the fucking point, because he doesn’t want to say what’s really on his goddamn mind.”

  Dawson laughed again, but it was a far more genuine laugh this time. “Yeah, we can read each other like books huh?”

  “Yeah.” Wolf held Dawson’s flat black gaze. “So drop the bullshit and say what’s what, or we’re out of here. Me and Scars came on the understandin’ that we’d give you one chance to say what the hell you want. You waste our time or dick around, we agreed to walk. And I gotta tell you, man, my feet are pointin’ at the door.”

  “OK, OK.” Dawson held up his large hands. “Same old Wolf Connor.”

  Wolf didn’t even respond to that. He just cocked his dark head, trained his steel-gray eyes on his ex-brother, and waited, utterly still and silent. Not so much a wolf right now, as a snake all coiled up and ready to strike – or not strike, depending on whatever happened next.

  “Lookit,” Dawson said, and that was when Scars knew that, despite all his sneering bravado and ‘who-the-fuck-cares’ blustering, Dawson was nervous. Starting a statement with ‘lookit’ was one of Dawson’s big tells, and Scars felt his own blue gaze sharpen, even as Wolf’s stance became somehow more like stone. “We need to talk about cooperation.”

  Neither man responded to that, which they knew Dawson hated with a passion. The man couldn’t deal with silence at all, and sure enough, he started to talk again.

  “I don’t mean the super, heavy-duty illegal shit, OK, I know your boys are out of that, Wolf. I mean the more… well. The milder illegal shit. Illegal-lite.”

  Wolf and Scars exchanged loaded glances, returned their attention to Dawson. Still said nothing.

  “It’s the Highway Hellions boys out in Utah,” Dawson said. “Crusher Alcott’s people.”

  Right away, Scars tensed. Crusher Alcott. Oh, shit. If Scars had to make a list of people he was thrilled to never have to be in contact with again since Wolf had pulled the plug on the Jensen work, Alcott would go to place number one, with a rocket. Known for his fondness for crushing grown men’s windpipes with his bare hands, Crusher Alcott was a living nightmare, even in the one-percenter world, and Wolf and Scars had both been relieved to be away from him.

  Except maybe not, because here Crusher was, back as a topic for discussion, for some ungodly reason. Scars flashed back to his conversation with Sam, when his brother had said that maybe it was impossible to get away from his old, criminal life, no matter how hard he tried, or how well-intentioned Wolf was.

  The resurrection of Crusher Alcott, no matter how brief or small, showed Scars how right Sam was about the past refusing to stay dead and buried.

  Jesus Christ. Just let me get away from the darkness and the monsters. Please. C’mon, man, old Jesus, old boy. Do me a solid here.

  “Crusher Alcott?” Wolf said, the words a low, menacing growl. “Anythin’ involvin’ that motherfucker ain’t illegal-lite, Dawson, so don’t even start the bullshit with me. What do you want?”

  “It’s not what I want, OK.” Dawson sighed. “It’s what Alcott wants.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You.” He gestured at Wolf. “He wants you.”

  “Why?”

  “Lookit,” Dawson said again. “He – he doesn’t trust me, alright? Doesn’t want me to come near Utah with the drugs that we traffic into Nevada.”

  “Why doesn’t he trust you?” Scars asked, though he already suspected the answer. Turns out, he was right.

  “Because… well.” Dawson shifted again. “Because I screwed you guys over, basically, by leaving and starting The Blood Crew. Alcott doesn’t understand much, but he lives for club loyalty, and he – he told me I can’t cross over into Utah anymore. None of my boys can. I guess we can try to sneak in and through, but it’d just be a matter of time before we got caught, and you know it. Someone would see us, or someone in Nevada would get word back to Crusher. Everyone knows everything, somehow, so no sense even taking the risk, not even once.”

  “So?” Wolf shrugged. “Go through New Mexico and Arizona and avoid Utah altogether. It adds hours to the transport, I know, but if Alcott’s bein’ a blustery prick, just do it. What’s the issue?”

  “There’s another problem.”

  “There always is,” Scars said wryly. “What?”

  “Alcott’s talked to Skulls Montgomery in Nevada, too. Got him on his side. Skulls doesn’t want us making the drops.”

  “Ah,” Wolf said, almost amused now. “So… lemme see if I’m up to speed here, man. You fuck off on your brothers, start a new MC, go lookin’ to grab all the dirty work I’d just dumped – and now some of those dirty contacts doubt you’re a stand-up guy? Is that about right?”

  Dawson nodded tightly.

  “Wow, I do love irony,” Scars said. “So I’ll enjoy all this later. For now, what are you asking? Spell it out, loud and clear.”

  “Yeah, OK.” Dawson ran his hands through his dark hair. “I want to keep the Nevada contract with Skulls, and as much as he appreciates my drug contacts at this end, he doesn’t want to deal with me at that end. Crusher won’t deal with me at all, but he respects that Skulls has the need for the product, so he gets that Skulls will still buy from me, on behalf of both of them. That’s all square between them.”

  He paused, took a breath.

  “So the problem isn’t the demand or the supply… it’s the logistics. I have what Crusher and Skulls want and need, but I can’t take it to them.” Dawson stopped again, then plunged in at last. “I need you guys to do the deliveries. Crusher says if it’s you, you can go through Utah, no problem, and drop off the packages for the Highway Hellions instead of having to wait for Skulls to send the shit from Nevada. You can then cross the state line into Nevada, and Skulls will accept delivery directly from you.”

  “And how much do you get out of this?” Wolf asked.

  “Not anything like as big of a cut as we had with Jensen, of course, because we’d need to split it with you. I’d pay you way above market for delivery services, though, because without you boys on board, that whole contract goes away… huge hit to me financially, so the small cut is worth it.”

  “Huge hit to your rep, too,” Wolf observed. “Losin’ two MC’s as major drug clients is nuclear, man. I mean, they’d have to scramble to find a good replacement supplier, but I’m sure that other groups are already circlin’ them, offerin’ what they got. They ain’t gonna be without a drug store for long.”

  “I know,” Dawson admitted. “That’s why I’m talking to you. You’d drive, Wolf, just dri
ve. Nothing else. Pick up, drop off, take your pile of cash. No stress or mess.” He grinned. “Illegal-lite, see?”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I see.”

  Scars glanced at his President, knowing that tone, knowing that Wolf saw clearly. People made the mistake all the time of thinking that Wolf Connor was stupid; they listened to his crap grammar and blunt speech patterns, and assumed that just because he was uneducated, he was a moron. But were they ever wrong: Wolf was the smartest, sharpest guy that Scars had come across in his life.

  Yeah, his brother Sam was the most intelligent, and that went without saying, but Wolf was smart. Street-smart. Forged in fire, a School Of Hard Knocks graduate with honors, he’d pretty much raised himself on the street from the age of six. He read people like nobody’s business, spotted weaknesses in seconds, and like the primal predator that he was, he had the patience to quietly stalk his prey. Wait for them to fuck up, or relax, or turn their backs.

  That was when Wolf pounced. Went for the jugular, ripping and tearing at the pulse. Left the body bloody and broken under a full moon as he howled in savage victory.

  Wolf might be playing by the rules of society and law for the first time in his entire life, but he hadn’t been tamed. Not anything close to it… and now his ferocious gray gaze was nailed on Dawson. Scars didn’t feel sorry for Dawson, not even a little bit, but he did wonder if the man was starting to appreciate just what he’d done here.

  Oh, shit, man. You made a mistake, bringing the wolf back to your patch and offering it a civilized tea and a cake-walk drug delivery job.

  “So…” Dawson was good and unnerved, but he had to finish this, that much was clear. “What do you think, Wolf? Do you think we can – can cooperate? Set aside our differences and earn some good money for our clubs? Be good, strong Presidents and fatten up the treasuries? I mean, I know your personal bank account has taken a hit since you live exclusively off your legit earnings, I know your boys earn far less, I know not everyone’s happy about that – this arrangement will fix all of that. It’s win-win-win, a great thing for everyone. For all of us.”