by Ryan Michele
However, danger is at her door.
Will Dover overcome the history he shares with Emerson in time? Will Emerson lead him to the retribution he has always sought?
Love, hate, anger, and passion collide as the time comes, and the devil demands his due.
Prologue
I HANG MY HEAD and sit in silence. The television blares as strangers move about our house. Some of them are trying to put together a search party, and others are here with food and attempts to comfort. I want them all to go away. I want to scream or break something. I want them all to stop looking at me like I should be beaten within an inch of my life then allowed to heal, only to get beaten again. Do I deserve that?
Hell yes, I do, and more.
There is no reprieve from the hell we are in. I would sell my soul to the Devil himself if I could turn back time. Only, I can’t.
The reporter’s voice breaks through all of the clamor.
“In local news tonight, a nine-year-old girl is missing, and authorities are asking for your help. Raleigh Ragnes was last seen by her seventeen-year-old brother. According to her parents, her brother was watching her afterschool when the child wandered outside and down the street on her pink and white bicycle with streamers on the handlebars.
“She was last known to have her brown hair braided with a yellow ribbon tied at the bottom. She was in a yellow shirt and a black denim dress that went to her knees. She wore white Keds with two different color laces; one is pink, and one is purple.
“There is a reward offered for any information leading to the successful return of Raleigh to her home. Any information is appreciated and can be given by calling the local sheriff’s department.”
The television seems to screech on and on with other reports as if our world hasn’t just crumbled. My mom’s sobs only grow louder.
God, I’m an ass. Raleigh was whining all afternoon about going to Emerson’s house. Those two are practically inseparable. She had made the trip numerous times to the Flint’s home at the end of the cul-de-sac, so I didn’t think twice about her leaving.
Gretchen was here, locked in my room with me. My hand was just making it down her pants when I yelled at Raleigh through the door to just go, not wanting the distraction. My mind was only occupied with getting into Gretchen’s pants.
Only, while I was making my way to home base, my little sister never made it to her friend’s house. None of us knew until dinner time arrived and my sister never came home. The phone call to Emerson’s sent us all into a tailspin.
While other families watch the eleven o’clock news to simply be informed, for my family, my little sister is the news.
~Three weeks later ~
The television screeches once again. I thought the world had crumbled before, but now it’s crushed and beyond repair. The reporter’s tone is not any different than if they were giving the local weather as the words they speak crash through my ears.
“In local news tonight, the body of nine-year-old Raleigh Ragnes was found in a culvert pipe under Old Mill Road. Police are asking for anyone with any information to please come forward. The case is being treated as an open homicide.”
In the matter of a month, my sister went from an innocent little girl to a case number, and in time, she will be nothing more than a file in a box. Everyone else may have called it cold and left it unsolved, but that’s not who I am.
The domino effect of one person’s crime going unpunished is beyond measure.
Chapter One
~Dover~
GIVING UP IS NOT an option for me … It never has been.
“There’s a time and a place to die, brother,” I say, scooping Trapper’s drunk ass up off the dirty floor of the bar with both my hands under his armpits. “This ain’t it.”
It’s a hole in the wall joint, the kind we find in small towns everywhere. It’s a step above a shack on the outside, and the inside isn’t much better: one open room, linoleum floor from the eighties. The bar runs the length of the space with a pair of saloon-style swinging doors closing off the stock room. We have gotten shit-faced in nicer, and we have spent more than our fair share of time in worse.
At the end of a long ride, a cold beer is a cold beer. Really, it doesn’t matter to us where it’s served as long as it has been on ice and is in a bottle.
“I’m nowhere near dying,” he slurs, winking at the girl he has had on his lap for the last hour. She’s another no name come guzzler in a slew of many we find throughout every city, town, and stop we make. “In fact, I’m not far from showing sweet thing here a little piece of heaven.”
“Trapper.” Judge, the calmest of us all, gets in his face. “She rode herself to oblivion until you fell off the stool. She’s done got hers, man. Time to get you outta here so you can have some quality time huggin’ Johnny tonight.”
We all laugh as Trapper tries to shake me off. “Fuck all y’all. That pussy is mine tonight.”
“Shithead, sober up. She’s off to the bathroom to snort another line, and she won’t be coming back for another ride on your thigh. Time to go, brother,” Rowdy says sternly.
Trapper turns to the redheaded, six-foot, six-inch man of muscle and gives him a shit-eating grin. “Aw, Rowdy, are you gonna be my sober sister tonight?”
I wrap my arm around Trapper, pulling him into a tight hold. “Shut your mouth now!”
He holds up his hands in surrender, and we make our way out of the bar.
Another night, another dive. Tomorrow is a new day and a new ride.
Currently, we are in Leed, Alabama for a stop off. The green of the trees, the rough patches of the road—it all does nothing to bring any of us out of the haunting darkness we each carry.
We’re nomads—no place to call home, and that’s how we like it. The six of us have been a club of our own creation for almost two years now. We all have a story to tell. We all have a reason we do what we do. None of us are noble or honorable. We strike in the most unlikely of places and times, all based on our own brand of rules and systems.
Fuck the government. Fuck their laws. And damn sure fuck the judicial system.
Once your name is tainted, no matter how good you are, you will never be clean in the eyes of society. I’m walking, talking, can’t sleep at night proof of it. Well, good fucking deal. I have learned society’s version of clean is everything I don’t ever want to be.
The scum that blends into our communities and with our children, the cons that can run a game, they think they are untouchable. The number of crimes outnumber the crime fighters. The lines between law abiding and law breaking blur every day inside every precinct. I know, because I carried the badge and thought I could be a change in the world. Then I found out everything is just as corrupt for the people upholding the law as those breaking it.
Day in and day out, watching cops run free who deserve to be behind bars more than the criminals they put away takes its toll. Everyone has a line in the sand, and once they cross it, they don’t turn back. I found mine, and I found the brotherhood in the Devil’s Due MC. Six guys who have all seen our own fair share of corruption in the justice system. Six guys who don’t give a fuck about the consequences.
Well, that’s where me and my boys ride in. No one’s above the devil getting his due. We are happy to serve up our own kind of punishments that most certainly fit the crimes committed, and we don’t bother with the current legal system’s view of justice served.
We’re wayward souls, damaged men, who have nothing more than vengeance on our minds.
“Fucking bitch, she got my pants wet,” Trapper says, just realizing she really did get off on his thigh and left him behind. “You see this shit?” He points at his leg.
Trapper mad is good. He will become focused rather than let the alcohol keep him in a haze. He could use some time to dry up. He’s sharp. His attention to detail saves our asses in city after city. However, things get too close to home when we ride to the deep south like this, and he can’t shake the ghosts
in the closets of his mind. At five-foot-ten and a rock solid one eighty-five, he’s a force of controlled power. He uses his brain more than his brawn, but he won’t back down in a brawl, either.
We help him get outside the dive bar we spent the last two hours inside, tossing beer back and playing pool. Outside, the fresh winter air hits him, and he shakes his head.
“It’s not that cold,” X says, slapping Trapper in the face. “Sober up, sucka.”
Trapper smiles as he starts to ready his mind. As drunk as he is, he knows he has to have his head on straight to ride.
“Flank him on either side, but stay behind in case he lays her down. We only have four miles back to the hotel,” I order, swinging my leg over my Harley Softail Slim and cranking it. The rumble soothes all that stays wound tight inside me. The vibration reminds me of the power under me.
Blowing out a breath, I tap the gas tank. “Ride for Raleigh,” I whisper and point to the night sky. Never forget, I remind myself before I move to ride. My hands on the bars, twisting the throttle, I let the bike move me and lift my feet to rest on the pegs. As each of my brother’s mount, I pull out, knowing they will hit the throttle and catch me, so I relax as the road passes under me.
We ride as six with no ties to anyone or anything from one city to the next. We have a bond. We are the only family for each other, and we keep it that way. No attachments, no commitments, and that means no casualties.
We are here by choice. Any man can leave the club and our life behind at any time. I trust these men with my life and with my death. When my time is called, they will move on with the missions as they come.
We don’t often let one another drink and drive, but coming south, Trapper needed to cut loose for a bit. He may be drunk, yet once the wind hits his face, he will be solid. He always is.
At the no-tell motel we are crashing at, X takes Trapper with him to one of the three shit-ass rooms we booked while Judge and Rowdy go to the other. The place has seen better days, probably thirty years ago. It’s a place to shit, shower, and maybe, if I can keep the nightmares away, sleep. I have never needed anything fancy, and tonight is no different.
I give them a half salute as they close their doors and lock down for the night.
Deacon heads on into our room. Always a man of few words and interaction, he doesn’t look back or give me any indication that he cares if I follow or stay behind.
I give myself the same moment I take every night and stand out under the stars to smoke.
I look up. Immediately, I can hear her tiny voice in my mind, making up constellations all her own. Raleigh was once a rambunctious little girl. She was afraid of nothing. She loved the night sky and wishing upon all the stars.
Another city, another life, I wish it was another time, but one thing I know is that there is no turning back time. If I could, I would. Not just for me, but for all five of us.
I light my cigarette and take a deep drag. Inhaling, I hold it in my lungs before I blow out. The burn, the taste, and the touch of it to my lips don’t ease the thoughts in my mind. Another night is upon us, and it’s yet another night Raleigh will never come home.
The receptionist steps out beside me. She isn’t the one who was here when we checked in earlier. When she smiles up at me, I can tell she has been waiting on us. Guess the trailer trash from day shift chatted up her replacement. Well, at least this one has nice teeth. Day shift definitely doesn’t have dental on her benefit plan here.
“Go back inside,” I bark, not really in the mood for company.
“I’m entitled to a break,” she challenges with a southern drawl.
“If you want a night with a biker, I’m not the one,” I try to warn her off.
“Harley, leather, cigarettes, and sexy—yeah, I think you’re the one … for tonight, that is.” She comes over and reaches out for the edges of my cut.
I grab her wrists. “You don’t touch my cut.”
She bites her bottom lip with a sly smile. “Oh, rules. I can play by the rules, big daddy.”
I drop her hands and walk in a circle around her before standing in front of her then backing her to the wall. I take another drag of my cigarette and blow the smoke into her face. “I’m not your fucking daddy.” I take another long drag. Smoke blows out with each word as I let her know. “If you wanna fuck, we’ll fuck. Make no mistake, though, I’m not in the mood to chat, cuddle, or kiss. I’m a man; I’ll fuck, and that’s it.”
She leans her head back, testing me.
“Hands against the wall,” I order, and she slaps her palms against the brick behind her loudly.
Her chest rises and falls dramatically as her breathing increases. She keeps licking and biting her lips.
“You want a ride on the wild side?”
She nods, pushing her tits out at me.
“You wet for me?” I ask, and she giggles while nodding. “If you want me to get hard and stay hard, you don’t fucking make a sound. That giggling shit is annoying as fuck.”
Immediately, she snaps her mouth shut.
I yank her shirt up and pull her bra over her titties without unhooking it. Her nipples point out in the cold night air.
“You cold or is that for me?” I ask, flicking her nipple harshly.
“You,” she whispers breathlessly.
I yank the waistband of her stretchy pants down, pulling her panties with them. Her curls glisten with her arousal under the street light.
With her pants at her ankles, I turn her around to face the wall.
“Bend over, grab your ankles. You don’t speak, don’t touch me, and you don’t move. If you want a wild ride with a biker, I’m gonna give you one you’ll never forget.”
While she positions herself, I grab a condom from my wallet and unbutton my four button jeans enough to release my cock. While stroking myself a few times to get fully erect, part of me considers just walking away. However, I’m a man, and pussy is pussy. No matter what my mood, it’s a place to sink into for a time.
Covering myself carefully, I spread her ass cheeks and slide myself inside her slick cunt.
The little whore is more than ready.
I close my eyes and picture a dark-haired beauty with ink covering her arms and a tight cunt made just for me. I can almost hear the gravelly voice of my dream woman as she moans my name, pushing back to take me deeper, thrust after thrust.
I roll my hips as the receptionist struggles to keep herself in position.
Raising my hand, I come down on the exposed globe of her ass cheek. “Dirty fucking girl.” I spank her again. “I’m not your fucking daddy, but I’ll give you what he obviously didn’t.” I spank her again and thrust. “Head down between your legs. Watch me fuck your pussy.”
She does as instructed and watches as I continue slamming into her. Stilling, I reach down and twist her nipples as she pushes back on me.
Her moans get louder as I move, gripping her hips and pistoning in and out of her.
I slap her ass again. “I said quiet.”
I push deep, my hips hitting her ass, and she shakes as her orgasm overtakes her.
“Fuck me!” she wails.
I slam in and out, in and out, faster and faster, until I explode inside the condom.
She isn’t holding her ankles by the time I’m done. She’s still head down, bent over with her back against the wall as her hands hang limply like the rest of her body, trembling in aftershocks.
Pulling out, I toss the condom on the ground and walk away, buttoning my pants back up.
“Collector,” I hear X yell my road name from his doorway. “You ruined that one.” He is smoking a cigarette. It’s obvious he watched the show.
The noise has Judge coming to his door and giving me a nod of approval.
I look over my shoulder to see the bitch still hasn’t moved. Her pussy is out in the air, ass up, head down, and she’s still moaning. Desperate, needy, it’s not my thing.
“I need a shower,” I say, giving X a two finger sa
lute before going into my own room. Deacon is already in bed and doesn’t move as I go straight back to the shit-ass bathroom to clean up.
I wasn’t lying. I smell like a bar, and now I smell the skank stench of easy pussy. I have needs, but I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have to work for my release just once. It’s not in my cards, though. Just like this town, this ride, and that broad, it’s on to the next for me and my bothers of the Devil’s Due MC.
Available on Amazon Amazon
http://amzn.to/1nGPehJ
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling author Chelsea Camaron is a small town Carolina girl with a big imagination. She is a wife and mom chasing her dreams. She writes contemporary romance, erotic suspense, and psychological thrillers. She loves to write blue-collar men who have real problems with a fictional twist. From mechanics to bikers to oil riggers to smokejumpers, bar owners, and beyond, she loves a strong hero who works hard and plays harder.
Chelsea can be found on social media at:
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorchelseacamaron
Twitter: @chelseacamaron
Email: [email protected]
