Broken: A Devil's Spawn MC Novel

by Natasha Thomas

  Glancing around I spot Reaper talking animatedly to Cody and Wheels, a few of the club whores, Callie, Mindy and Amanda, (I know it’s not a nice thing to call them, but that’s what they are, and they don’t seem to mind it so I call it like I see it), hanging off some of the guys. Twisting around I take note mom isn’t here and neither is Aunt Lou, but that’s fine by me, I’m not in the mood to be griller, or explain why I’ve been absent for so long.

  On a group of recliners, both of my Grandpa’s, Pipe and Priest, and Uncle Tank are drinking beers and laughing about something inappropriate I’m sure. Making the decision to start acting more like my old self I take a running start and launch myself into Grandpa Pipe’s lap.

  Now, I don’t call him Grandpa Pipe, that’s just how I refer to him when I want to piss him off to the point that steam comes out of his ears, and his face goes red. More often than not I just call him old man, or Pi, which is what I called him from the time I could speak. Landing on his lap he lets out an oof, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes my throat.

  “Jesus kid, you’re gonna break my legs one of these days.”

  “Pshh, not likely old man. You’ve still got a good few years left in you yet,” I scoff. At fifty-five he’s hardly old, but if you were to judge his age based on the amount of whining he does about it you’d think he was a hundred.

  Chuckling he asks,

  “Where’ve you been girl, we’ve missed your pretty face around here lately.” I knew he’d ask, to be honest I’m surprised I haven’t gotten a visit from him yet to find out what’s been going on. Not being at the clubhouse at least three times, if not five times a weeks is unheard of for me.

  Ever since I could drive I’ve made it my job to come out here and make sure the pantries are stocked along with the bar, the women that hang around are doing their jobs, which mind you are apparently part of the privilege of hanging around this group of sweaty, bikers. I ensure the guys have everything they need, and if they don’t I do runs to Boulder, or occasionally Denver to pick up whatever they can’t get in town. I do parts runs from the clubhouse to Chasers, the bike restoration and repair shop my dad part owns with Uncle Tank, and Uncle Arrow. And sometimes I even throw on a load of laundry here or there. I don’t get paid to do it, and I wouldn’t want to be, this is just my way of looking after the guys that mean the world to me.

  That, and mom has enough to do, what with working at Skin Fusion, chauffeuring the boys to school, football, their friends’ houses, and the like. She doesn’t have time to pick up after these guys, and organize all the club gatherings, plus run a house, and look after a family. So at sixteen I took over what I could, she was, and still is grateful, but by taking a good look around I can easily see it wouldn’t have been long before either mom, Aunt Lou, Aunt Sheila, or one of the guys showed up and dragged me back here if the state of this place is anything to go by.

  Holy crap! You’d think they’d had fifty parties, a few hog roasts, and another club staying here with the amount of shit that’s lying around. Beer bottles are laying on their sides, some empty and some still half full. Paper plates, napkins and disposable cutlery are scattered across nearly every surface, and I even think I saw a used condom peeking out from underneath one of the couches, eww, disgusting.

  Turning to Pipe with a stern look I bite out,

  “What in the hell have you guys done, redecorated? Jesus old man, this place looks like shit.”

  Slapping the side of my thigh he replies,

  “Watch your mouth little girl. I can still put you over my knee and give you a good spanking if you keep talking like that. And no, for your information we lost our PA, went AWOL or some shit. She’s back now though, so I’m sure she can get this place back in order in no time.”

  “Are you joking? It’ll take industrial solvents, a tanker full of gas, and a box of matches to fix this place. What did you do, host a party that’s lasted the last month and a half?” I snort. I’m not kidding though, this place will take forever to clean. It’s almost tempting to call a tanker company and find out what it would cost for home delivery.

  Chuckling Priest says,

  “Well hello to you too absent granddaughter of mine. Where’ve you been?” The tone of his voice might be light, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he expects an answer.

  That’s the biggest difference between Grandpa Pipe and Grandpa Priest, and probably the reason why, even though I’ll never admit it, not even if tortured, that I love Pipe the most. When Priest speaks he commands attention. There’s no bullshitting him, no talking around a direct request for information, and to be honest he scares the absolute piss out of me sometimes. He’d never hurt me, no, never that, but his presence alone is frightening. I love them both, dearly, and I have all the time in the world for Priest, but occasionally I wonder how mom didn’t have nightmares daily with how scary her dad can be.

  “I’ve been around. Trying to finish on time to make this latest deadline. You know how it goes when I’m under the pump, I don’t eat or sleep. Hell, I barely breathe until I’m done.” And it’s true, well it would be if I were actually writing at the moment. But if I was I’d be lost to my fictional world of alpha males, and smoking hot sex scenes.

  While dad might not be happy at my choice to skip the whole college thing and give writing a go, my Grandpa’s and Uncles have been supportive on the whole. A few of them didn’t understand why I’d want to take such a risk, because apparently doing something I love is a risk, but they came around after I sold ten thousand copies of my book last year. Since then they’ve been more smartass than usual, asking for autographs, signed books and the like. Most of the time I tell them to fuck off good naturedly, but inside I’m cheering that they’d even take the time or interest to ask.

  When I decided to do this my dad gave me an ultimatum. I had one year exactly to make a go of this writing thing, (as he calls it), and if I couldn’t earn enough doing it to substitute for having a regular job, I would have to promise to give up the lease on my apartment, move home, and enroll in college.

  At first I balked at the idea. I was eighteen, finished high school, had my own licensee, and just signed my very first lease on a cute little apartment that suited me down to the ground. I didn’t want to move home, lose the independence I’d been craving, but I knew if I didn’t agree to his terms he’d keep up his bullying until I did.

  My mom, Kendall, didn’t agree with his demands either. In fact, she smacked him around a little and called him a few choice names I can’t repeat before eventually begging me to consider it at least. That ‘minor disagreement’, that’s what dad prefers to call it, (for some reason saying they had a fight leaves a bitter taste in his mouth), lasted for three weeks before I caved, for my mom’s sake. I didn’t want her at odds with my dad over me, and I suppose deep down it’s because I still associate arguments with divorce. Stupid I know, but I can’t help the way my brain process things. You’d think after fifteen years that I’d have retrained my thought pattern, especially after some of the doozy ‘minor disagreements’ mom and dad have had over the years, but sadly I haven’t.

  Bringing me back to the present Uncle Tank asks,

  “So, you gonna get this place ship shape, or are we gonna have to look into getting a new PA, Lexi?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know,” I say pretending to consider his question.

  “Don’t joke about something so serious, kiddo. I’ve got no idea what we’d do without you around here, the place would fall to shit, and implode or something.” Priest interjects.

  Snorting again I say around a laugh,

  “I highly doubt it, but I’m here now, so why don’t I go and see what those women have been doing, or who they’ve been doing while neglecting their duties.” Levering myself off Pipe I add, “If one of you would go around and ask the guys what they need I’ll make a run today for supplies, and one in the morning to get whatever the guys who are out need. Do any of you have a solid date for the bik
e open day you’re all planning at the shop?”

  A few months ago, dad, Arrow and Tank came up with the bright idea to showcase the restoration work they’ve been doing on some of the vintage bikes, and the customization work on the newer ones. Originally they meant for it to be an expression of interest in their work to see if opening another shop in Boulder was a good idea. Like everything the club does though, it ended up spiraling out of control when the word got out, turning into a huge event that is now taking up the time of all three owners, five patched members, and all six prospects twelve hours a day.

  Not only do they have to complete the bikes they had sitting waiting, they added other projects to their schedule in order to have the best display of their work as possible. Mom asked me to help coordinate the even, work out what they would need supplies wise, merchandise, BBQ’s, the works. It took me a month of solid work, forty plus hours a week to just hammer out the logistics with them, not to mention all the late night texts, phone calls, and drop ins I’ve got since.

  All up I think they are showcasing ten new model bikes with custom paintwork, chroming, decals, add-ons and engine mods, and six vintage Harley’s dating back as far as 1951, the oldest being Uncle Reaper’s shovelhead that just arrived yesterday. Cutting it fine, but that also doesn’t surprise me. Neither does the fact that until now it sounds, they hadn’t set down a date in stone. Don’t worry about little old me needing to print and distribute flyers, make phone calls to other clubs that said they were interested in attending, or arranging for the sheer magnitude of food some hundred plus biker will need to make through a weekend. And all of that doesn’t even take into account Chasers will need to be cleaned, spit polished, and set up to make the flow of bodies moving through it possible. No, don’t stress over that guys, that’s my job.

  “Sure did, Lexi. Your dad and I sat down yesterday, it works out two weekends from tomorrow is the only one that’s gonna work with club business and all. You think you can get this shit done by then,” Tank asks.

  Do I get a choice?

  “Um…Not a lot of notice Uncle Tank, but as long as you loan me a few prospects, and whoever else you can spare I should be able to manage. Just.” I hope he can hear the snipe in my voice because seriously, these guys are killing me here.

  I know he does when he lets out a bark of a laugh,

  “Let me see what I can do, but I can spare Noah, Shifty, Liam, and Goose for sure right now. I’ve gotta check with Arrow and your dad if I can lend you anyone else, but you know Candice is jonesing for something to do seeing as we aren’t taking any more regular work on at the moment. Check with her and see if she wants to chip in and give you a hand. Let her know I’ll pay whatever hours she puts in.” Awesome, Candice, my favorite person ever. Not.

  I won’t go into too much detail with why Candice and I don’t get along, needless to say she doesn’t see eye-to-eye with my friendship with Glock over the years. Mix in her borderline obsessive crush on him, with added stalker upsize value deal, and the recipe is disastrous when we are forced into the same room together. Bastard. Tank knows this, and by the smile on his face I’d say he’s enjoying the scowl plastered on my face way too much.

  Standing across from him, hands on hips I retort in kind.

  “You Uncle Tank are off my Christmas card list, indefinitely.” The cocky bastard laughs at me, laughs. Well I’ll show him. “And just for that,” I say gesturing to the shit eating grin on his face, “You have now done yourself out of that Christmas present you were looking forward to.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he growls.

  “Oh, but I would,” I reply smirking now.

  Uncle Tank has been after the newest Harley Jacket that came out as a limited collectors’ edition. There were only two hundred and fifty made, and I happen to have emailed, called, and showed up in person to the Harley store the mecca of all things metal and chrome in Sturgis to make sure he got one. I know, I’m the best niece ever right? Personally I think they only put my name down on the list to get rid of me and the pain in the ass I was being, but whatever, my Uncle got what he’s been salivating for since it was announced, so that’s all that matters. Well, he would have it if he wasn’t being such an asshat.

  “Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll give you Torrance too, but you have to promise you won’t do anything rash, Lexi.” At my evil grin he adds, “I mean it, Lexi. You better not make me get your dad to kick your ass.”

  Laughing outright at him I wave him off.

  “Pshh, you know he’d never do that, so try again, your threats don’t work with me mister.” And they don’t. Tank wouldn’t lay a hand on my head, and he’d be one of the first in line to kick anyone’s ass that did. Doesn’t mean that I don’t let him have his little delusions that his threats work from time to time though.

  Grunting in response, Tank looks at Priest and Pipe giving them the finger.

  “You two can go fuck yourselves too.”

  “What, you gonna tell on us too?” Pipe asks only fuelling Tank’s anger.

  “Yeah brother, those threats are getting a bit long in the tooth don’t you think?” Priest retorts.

  “Fuck off.” Turning to me he asks, “Can you get me some Beef Jerky while you’re at the store, darlin’?” That’s Tanks guilty pleasure, one Priss thinks is disgusting, and as such she refuses to buy it for him. Enter best niece ever.

  Sweetly I reply,

  “Of course I can. You promise you’re not going to make me work with her though, and in return you’ll still get your super awesome Christmas present, and your gross Jerky.”

  “I said fine, didn’t I?” He’s not angry, he’s trying to be, but he’s failing miserably.

  “That you did. See you later Pi. See you on Sunday Gramps. Don’t forget to get that list together for me before I leave today,” I say moving towards the group of club whores hanging around the main bar.

  Whilst acknowledging their goodbyes with a finger wave, I muse that the whores must have finished servicing the men they were hanging off earlier if they have the time to be standing around doing nothing. I’m not nasty to these women, as a matter of fact I’m probably nicer to them than the guys they get off, but in saying that, I’m not friends with them either.

  At one time or another I’ve walked in on all of them, multiple times, in compromising positions, and their lack of what I view as self-respect by letting themselves be caught in those situations is why I keep my distance from them. That, and they aren’t all that nice to me either. I mean, I know I’m a good deal younger than they are, ten years at least, and I know most of our conversations are me telling them what needs to be done around here, but I don’t talk down to them. I don’t make them feel like pieces of meat. And I don’t disrespect them, ever. In return I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little bit of common decency and respect.

  Approaching them I start handing out orders like usual.

  “This place is like a college frat house after rush weekend, you girls need to get this shit sorted before one of the guys,” I say gesturing toward the group of men I just left, “starts kick ass, and banning you from coming back.”

  "What would you know about college, Alexis, you never went?” Beautiful, so this is the tome we’re going to set for this little talk. Can’t say I’m surprised, this is the nicest thing to come out of her mouth of late that isn’t a cock.

  Mindy is the woman out of the three I dislike the most. Clearly after that comment I don’t need to explain why. The one thing my dad hammered home when I started doing things around the clubhouse was to stand my ground, don’t let anyone belittle me. He told me if I did that they would never treat me with any respect, and they wouldn’t listen either. He wasn’t wrong.

  As of the past six months I’ve been less patient with their bitchy comments, and I’m even less inclined to listen to their endless whining about how unfair it is they’re treated like slave. Puh-lease. If you don’t count the slave costume they probably have hanging in their clos
et at home, they’re the furthest thing from slaves going around. And if they were in fact slaves, they’d do what I was asking them with a whole lot less fuss.

  Deciding it’s time I assert some control over the situation before it deteriorates, because let’s face it, it will, in a heartbeat. I start to speak, but find myself cut off, stunned into muteness.

  “Watch your fucking mouth, Mindy. You’ve been warned more than once about having a mind about what comes out of it, but I’ll repeat it for you because it’s obvious you’re a little fucking slow.”

  Spinning around I come face-to-face with Glock. Oh shit on a shovel. He looks good. As in, he looks good. His face is covered in his usual five o’clock shadow, and it’s probably bordering on time for a shave. He has dark circles under his eyes, leaving me to assume he hasn’t been sleeping well. And if it’s possible it looks like he’s put on ten pounds of muscle in less than two months, but overall he looks good.

  Appearances might be deceiving, and for what it’s worth in this instance I hope they are because I know for a fact I don’t come close to looking as put together as he is. Where Glock is wearing faded denim jeans that hug his muscular thighs and tight ass perfectly, a black t-shirt, scuffed brown biker boots, and his cut; I on the other hand am dressed in yoga pants, a hot pink tank top, which does nothing to hide the fuchsia sports bra underneath, and a pair of running shoes sans socks. Hot right? No, really it’s not, I look like a hot mess, and his scrutiny of my appearance does nothing to convince me differently.