by Hazel Parker
Savage Saints MC
New York
MC Romance Collection
~
Hazel Parker
Savage Saints MC Series © 2020 Hazel Parker
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Contents
STONE
Prologue
Chapter 1: Marcel
Chapter 2: Christine
Chapter 3: Marcel
Chapter 4: Christine
Chapter 5: Marcel
Chapter 6: Christine
Chapter 7: Marcel
Chapter 8: Christine
Chapter 9: Marcel
Chapter 10: Christine
Chapter 11: Marcel
Chapter 12: Christine
Chapter 13: Marcel
Chapter 14: Christine
Chapter 15: Marcel
Chapter 16: Christine
Chapter 17: Marcel
Chapter 18: Christine
Chapter 19: Marcel
Chapter 20: Christine
Epilogue
FITZ
Prologue
Chapter 1: Fitz
Chapter 2: Amelia
Chapter 3: Fitz
Chapter 4: Amelia
Chapter 5: Fitz
Chapter 6: Amelia
Chapter 7: Fitz
Chapter 8: Amelia
Chapter 9: Fitz
Chapter 10: Amelia
Chapter 11: Fitz
Chapter 12: Amelia
Chapter 13: Fitz
Chapter 14: Amelia
Chapter 15: Fitz
Chapter 16: Amelia
Chapter 17: Fitz
Chapter 18: Amelia
Chapter 19: Fitz
Chapter 20: Amelia
Epilogue
NINER
Prologue
Chapter 1: Niner
Chapter 2: Carrie
Chapter 3: Niner
Chapter 4: Carrie
Chapter 5: Niner
Chapter 6: Carrie
Chapter 7: Niner
Chapter 8: Carrie
Chapter 9: Niner
Chapter 10: Carrie
Chapter 11: Niner
Chapter 12: Carrie
Chapter 13: Niner
Chapter 14: Carrie
Chapter 15: Niner
Chapter 16: Carrie
Chapter 17: Niner
Chapter 18: Carrie
Chapter 19: Niner
Chapter 20: Carrie
Chapter 21: Niner
Chapter 22: Carrie
Epilogue
BIGGIE
Prologue
Chapter 1: Biggie
Chapter 2: Lilly
Chapter 3: Biggie
Chapter 4: Lilly
Chapter 5: Biggie
Chapter 6: Lilly
Chapter 7: Biggie
Chapter 8: Lilly
Chapter 9: Biggie
Chapter 10: Lilly
Chapter 11: Biggie
Chapter 12: Lilly
Chapter 13: Biggie
Chapter 14: Lilly
Chapter 15: Biggie
Chapter 16: Lilly
Chapter 17: Biggie
Chapter 18: Lilly
Chapter 19: Biggie
Chapter 20: Lilly
Epilogue
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Author Bio
STONE
Prologue
Marcel Stone
You know what the best part about being out of prison was?
It wasn’t the sunrises and the sunsets. I could see those any day.
It wasn’t the freedom of movement. I didn’t have many places I’d want to go, much less fit in.
It wasn’t seeing my family and friends again. Most of the former disliked me, and I had none of the latter.
No, it was the ability to eat breakfast and drink coffee whenever I goddamn wanted.
My days in jail had had the schedule of a military unit. Meals were only served at specified times; if we misbehaved, we had to sit separate from other groups; and we had lights out at a given time. I didn’t mind the bedtimes—it wasn’t like I had pussy to chase or drinks to down. I didn’t mind sitting separate from other groups—sometimes, a more peaceful approach was better than a violent one.
But goddamn, having to eat at certain times? Having my caloric intake determined not by my stomach, but by the schedule some fucking white-collar administrator had set? For a big guy like me, that shit fucking sucked. Like, it really, really fucking sucked.
On my first morning outside of jail? I got to determine when, what, and how fast I ate. And I was going to take advantage as much as I could.
I sat down at a restaurant in Brooklyn called Egg, staring at a menu—a fucking menu! That was another thing I missed. And being in a comfortable booth, not having people stare at me—OK, a few did that, but what can you expect when a bald, beefy guy with multiple tattoos sits down in a hipster parlor full of kids who look like they think iron is something you eat, and anything even remotely resembling an animal product is a capital offense?
Not that I cared. It just all felt so good. Wearing my own clothes. Spreading out my legs. Taking up an entire booth. I didn’t want to sound like a stereotypical Buddhist monk and say I had gratitude for everything because there was a lot still fucked up about my life, but boy, did things feel a lot better.
“Hello there, how are you?”
I looked up at the cute little waitress coming my way. She had on black pants, a tie-dye shirt that looked like it had come from Woodstock, and green hair. She had a great fucking rack, too, but at this point, having been out of jail for not even twenty-four hours, I didn’t care about pussy. I just needed some goddamn eggs and bacon.
“Good,” I gruffed.
“What can I get—”
“Everything,” I said.
She chuckled.
“Sir—”
“Everything on the breakfast menu,” I clarified. “I’ll take it home if I don’t eat it.”
Which I will. I’m not about to allow Jack to steal all of my food as rent payment.
“OK then, you must be quite hungry.”
The poor gal must have been wondering if a homeless person had just stumbled into her restaurant. She wasn’t entirely wrong, but as if to prove a point, I flashed the credit card my brother had given me the night before. His only request? Don’t go on a shopping spree.
Well, technically, I wasn’t. Did Egg look like a goddamn Neiman Marcus? I didn’t think so.
The woman left a short time later, and I pulled out an old—as in, a 5SE old—iPhone Jack had also gotten for me. I began scrolling through the news and different sports sites, though my mind didn’t really focus on what was on the screen in front of me. It was tough to do that when still experiencing freedom like it was a novelty.
F
reedom, I knew, that I only had this chance at.
By this point, the judicial system probably knew me on a first-name basis. I’d been in and out of jail since I was fourteen years old, and upon my release this most recent time, they warned me additional offenses would land me a much, much longer sentence. If I fucked up, I wouldn’t get the chance to fuck up again.
Well, that was simple—avoid drugs. I didn’t know if it’d be easy, though. The prison counsellor had suggested to me to get a job that satisfied me, but the one before my most recent punishment, car mechanic, had not exactly provided me enlightenment. I didn’t really have much else, though. People said I was smarter than the typical mechanic, but that was like saying I was skinny compared to NFL players. Congrats: compared to the freaks, I wasn’t so bad.
I guessed I could have gone and worked with Jack at his store. I wasn’t opposed to it; it just seemed like too easy an option. So long as you’re not working with Kyle. That fucking bastard…
I aimlessly scrolled, ignoring the quieting din of the crowd. I was perhaps one of two customers in the place at this point, but that was just fine. It would let me hear the clattering of plates announcing the arrival of my food.
And then I saw something curious.
“Are Motorcycles the New Menace?” read the CNN headline. Well, hell, more pussy shit. Let’s see what they have to say.
The article was meant to scare the living shit out of the suburban Mom and church-going Dad. It discussed the rise of a group known as the Savage Saints in Southern California and Nevada who, according to the article, were nothing but a gang of outlaws who just were too good to be caught. The journalist suggested that they represented hate, a rise in all that was wrong with America, and a menace to society that needed to be stopped.
Unfortunately, I was not the group’s target audience. I was someone who found more in common with the tattooed gangster than I did the soccer mom driving a Honda Odyssey. And when I read that article, I was intrigued.
If motorcycles were the new menace, then I had to change my name to Dennis so I could be the menace.
I started looking into as much as I could about the Savage Saints in California and Nevada. Though they shared the same name, the most recent article suggested that they were separate organizations with some minor family connections. The one in Southern California was in a small town called Green Hills and was more blue-collar in its approach; it operated out of an auto repair shop named after the founder, mostly kept to itself, and had a ton of former military members. The one in Las Vegas operated a secret club that was rumored to host famous celebrities and athletes, was much smaller in size, and had members that, though they loved motorcycles, were slightly more “presentable” than the California version.
Two groups, two very distinct approaches, but each sporting some common themes I found myself drawn to—a blatant fuck you to authority, a love of each other, a complete lack of fear, and a certain level of protection for those they deemed worthy. Rumors abounded of the group all dating women of some superstar stature in their respective cities, but with my current, uh, situation, that wasn’t going to happen for me anytime soon. Regardless, though, the groups certainly had much more going for them than they had against me, and the fact that some bitch-ass reporter thought they were scared only further encouraged my interest.
Wonder if they got any shit like that here in New York. It’s not like we’re lacking for anything else.
The waitress brought out my next cup of coffee, to which I gave a slight grunt of acknowledgment. I sipped on it, hoping to get a little more clarity of mind this early in the morning. I didn’t know it then, but I’d already just had the most important thought of my life.
I pulled up Google and started searching for MCs in the New York area. There were a few, which wasn’t that surprising, but there didn’t seem to be anyone with the notoriety of the Savage Saints. A few chapters of other well-known organizations were out there, sure, but for the most part, they seemed like watered-down versions of the real fucking deal.
If I ever started something like that, I would never let it turn into a bunch of pussies on bikes.
If…
Why the fuck not when?
I laughed at the thought at first. I didn’t have money to rent a place, let alone run an entire biker’s club. I’d never had a job above car mechanic.
But you know what?
I was feeling fucking energized like I, well, really never had. The prospect of leading a bunch of like-minded brothers, running the city, and having some fucking fun along the way wasn’t something that came along every day. And if it brought in more money for my situation…
I just needed the capital to start. And fortunately, I had at least a general idea where to get it.
I dialed a number from memory and waved the waitress away. Better fucking pick up. Better—
“Reggie Stone,” a voice on the other end of the line answered.
It sounded about as thrilled as a college student woken up before eight on a Sunday.
“Uncle, what’s good?”
A pause came on the other end of the line.
“The fuck is this?”
“You really need me to clarify?” I said with a snort.
“You’re fucking with me, whoever you are. Marcel is in jail.”
“Seriously, Uncle?” I said, giving a laugh. “I got out last night.”
Another beat came before Uncle let out the trademark Stone laugh. My brother had it in fucking spades, like he had to laugh every hour or else he’d die. Well, my good brother. Uncle had it once you warmed up to him. I had it, but I didn’t like to use it. It didn’t reflect how I felt all that often.
“Fuckin’ Marcel,” he said, stunned. “Can’t believe your ass is out of jail. Whose dick did you suck to get early release?”
“Funny, man. But no one. I just did good behavior.”
“’Bout damn time you learned how to be nice.”
“You say it like I’m from fuckin’ Boston or something. But listen, Uncle, I got a request for you. Ya ever heard of the Savage Saints?”
Uncle went very quiet on the other end of the line.
“Course I’ve fuckin’ heard of ‘em,” he said, but it was like I was asking him to describe my other younger brother. “Why?”
“I want to start a chapter out here. And I need help. Of the financial kind.”
Uncle sighed. I could practically see him folding his beefy arms on his belly, snorting, and then shaking his head, his thick skull looking more like a bowling ball shifting on a pair of shoulders than an actual human head.
“You’re serious.”
“Yep.”
“Fuck, Marcel, you just got out of jail, now you’re trying to get your ass back into it? Look, this ain’t the place to discuss it. You get your ass to me, and we’ll talk. But Marcel?”
I let the silence answer him.
“You are on your last chance to do something right. You had better convince me that you can fuckin’ do this right. You know I can help you. But you gotta fuckin’ prove I oughta.”
He hung up right then, a well-timed disconnect considering that the bulk of my food came out right then. When I saw the portion sizes, even I wondered if maybe I had ordered too much food. But that was a fleeting thought compared to what Uncle had said.
He was absolutely right. I was on my last chance to do something right. And he didn’t just mean for my sake.
After all, I had yet to see my little girl.
* * *
Christine Gathers
I woke up sober for the fifty-ninth day in a row.
To most of the world, if they went sober for fifty-nine days straight, they either didn’t notice, made a joke about it, or were too young to drink.
For me, it was part of the reason I was still alive.
It was also a personal record since, shit, sixteen years old?
I kicked the sheets off my bed to force myself awake, grabbed my calendar, and marked the
day off. I smiled when I grabbed my blue, thick highlighter and circled the date. Fifty-nine days. That felt nice.
I grabbed my journal and started my morning gratitude. I then turned the page and started sketching out whatever came to mind: the inspiration for further painting. On this particular day—maybe it was because of the bikes I’d heard going by late in the night, maybe it was because I was feeling particularly contemplative, maybe it was because I just had a random spark of creativity—I started to sketch out a view about forty-five degrees off the rear of a man on a bike, looking at downtown Manhattan, toward the sunrise. He had a girl on his back whose face was buried into his shoulder. He looked… serene.
It also wasn’t that particularly good.
The reality of being sober, one that I never admitted in my AA meetings or to anyone except the closest of confidants, was that my art wasn’t as great as when I was going through hell. Being in a much happier place emotionally was great for my daily life. For the creative works I produced, though?
Maybe it was just the curse of art. To be creative with my work, I had to be destructive with my life. To be successful with my life, I had to be dull with my creativity.
Not fair to make a judgment like that on yourself so soon, Christine. It’s been, what, fifty-nine days? You’ve never worked sober.
Just relax. Give it time. You still have work you can sell off now.
Still. It wasn’t a great sign. And while today’s work at least had an interesting idea—there weren’t a ton of bikers in Manhattan, and I liked the idea of something as socially rebellious as a motorcycle in an area as suit-and-tie as Manhattan—the execution of it left a little something to be desired. Or maybe I’m just conflating sadness and grim emotion with good art.
At least I had work to get to. It was nine-forty a.m. My shift started in twenty minutes, but I only lived an eight-minute walk from the actual restaurant, Egg. And since this was Williamsburg, not Wall Street, I didn’t have to whore myself out with a ton of makeup. I could just dress normal.
Well, normal was relative at a place like this. I might have looked like a stereotypical All-American girl with my blonde hair, pale skin, and lack of visible tattoos, but I at least had some piercings to put myself in the same ballpark as some of the other girls. But most of the staff, especially Lacy, really liked me.
