This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Taken by Lies copyright @ 2015 by Sophia Hampton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
Part 1 of Black Horsemen MC trilogy
Chapter 1: Under the Lightpost
The drummer clicked his wooden mallets together. The sound was exciting, driven—almost nostalgic. Gloria’s mind instantly switched off. She tuned out the sound of the people around her, the crowd continuing to talk over the sounds of the speakers ticking away waiting for output. She knows the audience. As soon as she opened her cherry-red lips, they would stop. Their eyes and their attention would once again be heard.
Most of the crowd at Jackman’s Tavern was Saturday regulars; the seats full with beer and whiskey drinkers, their cups and pitchers almost overflowing as they took their places like children at their school desks. The strong, vibrating pitch of the guitar strings called them to attention as they turned in their chairs and swiveled on their barstools to catch a glimpse at the act standing on the black wooden platform.
Gloria was center stage. While most singers in a band would hate to admit out loud that they were the star of the group, Gloria had no problem with taking on that role. After all, no one could really deny that she was beyond talented. Some would even say “blessed.” Gloria typically responded to that compliment by saying that she was who she was, and she was a singer.
Her deep, husky voice had made it more or less impossible to be a pop singer, but the way she could bend her notes into a growl or curl her lips to let out a wolf-like howl when the tune required it gave her a style all her own. Half of the time, she didn’t even need a microphone; her voice would boom on its own enough to rise above the rest of her bandmates. It was the voice of pain—of passion—of her soul.
Gloria never sang of love. It was hard to sound genuine when romance was literally the last thing on her mind. Instead, she chose to sing covers of songs about heartbreak, anger, and jealousy. When she was in the mood, when was really hot and bothered, she would sing songs about longing -- the kind that made every inch of your body pulsate and burn. She was insatiable and untamable, but her voice and the way she transformed into a siren leading her motorcycle man to the fray could trick anyone listening into thinking she was worth the effort.
The regulars that came to hear her sing, the ones who demanded she be on stage every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, they ate it up. Her persona, her music choices, and the way she just let it out were food for them. It kept them sated and satisfied. And it drove the bar’s numbers up every single week.
Really, the appeal of her voice made sense to Gloria. Almost everyone in this bar was fighting through, or with, something big. Jackman’s Tavern was not the place you went to celebrate a birthday or to take your kid out for their first drink. It certainly was not the spot you brought a first date, or even a one-night stand. The tavern was the kind of bar that you went because you had nowhere else to go in the world. It was there, it was cheap, and it was dark. That is all that really matters when you decide to walk through the doors.
If you had other, less sinister motives or simply needed some place happy to go, a bar where the bartender would acknowledge you or serve you your frilly drink of choice, you would probably not even notice Jackman’s. It was just another dump, a hole-in-the wall, a dive bar (at best). No one but those in the know would pay it anymore than a passing glance and a sigh of disapproval.
Jackman’s was known for its darkness. It wasn’t just in the way the bartenders addressed their patrons with indifference, if not intolerance, or how Gloria and the other band members never took requests or played anything that sounded like it could be even remotely joyful. It was also in its appearance. Jackman’s Tavern had the kind of darkness that took over the smoky leather decor and red velvet booth chairs. The smoky smell of stale cigarettes and musky men just added to the richness.
Gloria knew how to work the black and red room. She could watch the faces of the men and few women littering the vinyl seats and simply know if she had made an impression. But more so, she could see their pain, their addictions, and occasionally even their pleasures. Standing center stage, decked out in the bright white lights of the simple stage setup, she had the perfect vantage point of the lay of the land. And she knew she could use her physical position and her admiration as just another way to feed into her second naturally given gift -- harboring secrets.
That was Gloria’s second job at Jackman’s Tavern. She didn’t just make her money singing. In this world, that wouldn’t be possible, even with her talent and the following she had made for herself. No, she needed something to pay the bills and her nightly bar tab. So, as Gloria looked out on the familiar faces, she took count of the men and women she knew something about and what was owed to her for not telling.
It was a profitable business, at least tonight. There were cheaters, lots and lots of cheaters. Men with wandering eyes, hands, and other body parts seemed to be the biggest benefactors of her paydays. Once they were caught, they became almost miserable desperate to keep their secrets to the grave, even if that meant paying a monthly “fee” for storage.
On top of the cheaters were the drug users and their salesmen. The drug users were pretty pathetic, at least to Gloria. They never had much, if anything, left for her. She often forgave their debts and let them slide. After all, when it became that bad, there was not a wife or a family member in sight to really pawn that secret off. Eventually, those all fell through. Though, on occasions, she had one or two big name men, men who were committed to sobriety, fall through the cracks. She allowed them to keep up the rouse long enough until they fell down the totem pole once more.
Their dealers, on the other hand, were prime pickings. They were not so easily caught. Most had a system made up of code words, secret drop locations, and meeting spots that were hard to figure out. Plus, they were the more dangerous kind. Their desperation was not that their loving, devoted spouse would find out or that their secret would be revealed. No, they were worried about jail time. And most of the men and women in Jackman’s Tavern knew what to be behind bars for an extended period of time meant. No one ever wanted to go back, and they would do just about anything to keep it that way.
When Gloria turned her first secret, she pulled it out on the wrong man. Carl was a known drug dealer. Everyone in Jackman’s went to him for pills, smokes, needles… you name it. He made big time money off of it, and Gloria was desperate to get into his business and make some profit off of him. But Carl was smarter, more experienced than she was.
One evening, as she packed her guitar up and untangled the mess of microphone and speaker wires, she planted herself next to Carl’s table. He talked to a man next to him about a gal named Jenna. He kept saying her name over and over again. It was, “I’m gonna pick up Jenna next week,” and “I’ll have her by Tuesday.” Gloria caught on quick and quickly determined the details of the who, what, when, where from the rest of his vague clues. The spark was ignited.
She cornered Carl later that evening as he snuck out the backdoor for a smoke. It was just the two of them standing out in the cold, dark winter’s night. The bright yellow light flickered high above them as power lazily pulsed through it. Being new to this, Gloria was not exactly sure how to begin, so she went with the blunt approach. As she l
azily leaned against the light pole, her jacket open just a hair to expose her bronze chest, she spoke boldly, confidently, “It’s a shame you won’t be movin’ much next week.”
He eyed her suspiciously. He had seen her before, but, to him, she was just another tavern slut not worthy of his attention. But, going by the way she talked, she obviously had something she needed to say to him that was more than just a come on or a plea for some of his merchandise. He put out his cigarette and turned towards her, walking closer to where she stood. “The fuck did you say to me?” he bellowed.
Gloria exhaled. There was no turning back for her now. She stared at him bold-facedly and snarled, “I said, it’s a shame you won’t be movin’ much next week. Y’know, bein’ in jail an’ all.”
“Why you think I’d be in jail, little girl?” he sneered.
“‘Cause I know your secret, and I ain’t afraid of sharin’ it—’specially with that cop over there. I’m sure he’d be interested in havin’ a li’l chat with you.” Gloria pointed to an empty white police car that was nearly permanently parked in the abandoned shopping area outside the tavern parking lot. It was always supposed to be some idle threat to the patrons, but it was more of a longstanding joke. She hoped Carl was one of the few who hadn’t caught on to it.
Carl laughed loudly as he took another step closer to her. His hands rested in his baggy jean pockets. “Lady, you must be new ‘round here. Ev’rybody knows I sell. But ain’t gonna do ya no good if you don’t got proof.”
She smiled sardonically. “C’mon, boy. You’re pickin’ up rocks from a quarry worker over by Landcaster’s on Wednesday night. That’s enough to make a cop bust down your business easy.”
His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out her features. She was bold; he couldn’t deny that. But she was also stupid if she thought she would be able to take him down. He backed away a bit from her, contemplating his next moves. As the two waited in silence under the pale flickering light, Gloria knew she could not be alone with this man for too long. He was obviously hesitating, but hesitating was never good when trying to convince a man of what he was to do. A man that would pay was quick and made snap decisions to keep the secret quiet. Carl, on the other hand, looked as if there were more options she had not thought of.
As she began to walk towards the end of the parking lot, she heard him huff behind her. “You fuckin’ bitch,” he called, “where the fuck you think you’re goin’?”
She spun on her high-heeled black boot, turning to face him once more. “Ain’t none of your goddamn business,” she said, trying her best not to sound too aggressive.
“You ain’t got shit on me, do ya?” he chuckled.
“You don’t believe that,” she mused. “If you did, you would’ve walked back into that bar, laughin’ in my face. So, way I see it, you can play my game and keep it quiet, or you just see all that I know when I go talking.”
“I don’t pay snitches—or bitches. Seems t’ me you’re both.”
“I’m not a snitch,” she snarled, “just a girl looking to put some money in my pocket—an’ I know you got plenty.”
She slowly walked towards him as he stood in silence, a look of disbelief coming over his darkened features. As she got within breathing distance, she reached out her tiny hand and bravely touched the lapels of his black button down shirt, pushing her palms against his chest and the weight of her body against his. She lowered her voice into a slight whisper as she made her offer. “I’ll give you two hundred bucks a month, and I’ll let you pick up your stash on Tuesday or whatever day you please. The only ones that have to know are your friends at the quarry, you, and me”
She stood so close to him that she could feel his heartbeat racing under her hands and how his body slightly swayed at her touch. She was danger and he had underestimated her. He placed his hand upon her hip, the other still resting in the pocket as he drew her in closer. His breath reeked of whiskey against her hot skin. She did not dare to breathe just in case he pulled away. The way he rubbed his hands up and down the line of her body told her enough. She was winning.
At least, so she thought. She had not seen the bulge in his pocket or how his right hand never left. Even when he pulled out the small switchblade, she had not noticed the blue handle’s glean in the light or the flash of the blade as it reflected off of the light post. All Gloria felt was his hand, the one that rested on her low hip push her aside as she spun away and on to the ground.
The cool grass and concrete beneath her allowed her to roll over a bit as she watched him walk away, cleaning the knife on his jeans. She moved her hand to a sore spot on her side, right underneath her ribcage. Red liquid trickled out onto her black shirt and dress. She pushed her hand into the wound, hoping it would stop soon as she lifted herself off the ground and headed towards her car.
Luckily for Gloria, the wound wasn’t deep enough to kill her—it had just been a warning shot. It left her with a scar that ran the length of her left side and a healthy fear of getting too close to the fire. But like a moth to a flame, it was not long until she got the courage to start her secret keeping for profit once again. This time, she started small with a couple of dirty cheaters, a pickpocketer, a motorcycle club member. It would be months before she worked herself back up to the men that truly scared her and made her think twice. Now she was practically fearless. It took a real glimpse of death to scare off Gloria from adding a new secret to find to her bank. And tonight, Gloria was on the hunt.
Chapter 2: The Secret Keepers
The music stopped as the band took a quick bow. Gloria, of course, led the way as the men backing her began to quickly pack up their gear into their black cases. Already, her drummer had made a quick exit towards the door to load up the van with anything valuable. The whole band had learned to never leave their gear out at Jackman’s Tavern without it being somewhere locked and relatively safe.
As Gloria took her curtain call, giving the crowd one last wistful wave of acknowledgement, her guitarist, Jordan, offered his hand out to her to assist her as she took the treacherous step down the stage. He was a sweet kid. Totally out of place at a dump like this bar with his clean-shaven face, his dusty blonde hair, and his ever present smile. Gloria loved that about him. He was like the kid brother she never knew instead of just some twenty-one year old with a good ear for rhythm and blues guitar picking.
Gloria, of course, knew that was not really Jordan LaDonna of Dixon. He was Jay Miller of Spokane and he was running from an abusive father. She had heard him talking to his mom on his phone one night after his first solo show at Jackman’s Tavern. He was apologizing for taking his daddy’s wallet and stealing the credit cards before running off. He had left her in a tough spot, he knew. So he did the only thing he thought he could do. He begged her to get out like him.
Gloria listened to the painful conversation from her darkened corner as she put the story together in her head. The way he kept calling her “mama” and promising that life would be much better without the bastard was endearing and sincere, nothing like she had ever heard before. But he was smarter than Gloria had given him credit for. Although he protested and insisted, he stopped short at telling the woman on the other line exactly where he was or what he was doing to stay afloat. That would have been too much information, and after living with that for so long, he knew he could not trust his mom to keep his secret from his irate father.
When Gloria discovered who he was, she did something she had never done before with one of her potential clients: she took pity on him. Instead of blackmailing him for money, she gave him a place to stay in the basement of her apartment. He paid her off by playing in the band at her regular shows and occasionally running errands for her when she needed a bit more information. His innocent good looks had made him invaluable to her.
That night, the both of them had extra work to do. While Gloria did a bit of recon in search of new clients, Jordan was to collect her payments via envelopes. It was their typical Saturday night routin
e, and Jordan was pretty confident in how best to go about playing repo man to her spy games. He had done this plenty of times in the past, and Gloria had total faith in his ability to get the job done safely and efficiently.
As soon as the two finished packing up with the rest of the backing band, Jordan took his place at the corner of the bar, sipping a beer his fake ID had bought him. Gloria, instead, made rounds. Her routine was to sit with a friendly customer or two until, shooting the breeze about whatever was on their mind, while she scanned the room looking for marks.
The first table she sat at was occupied by Prince and Carol. They were a rough and tumble kind of couple. Riding, drinking, and general misbehavior had aged them horribly. But they were kind and always eager to let Gloria join them at their empty seats. After all, no one else was really interested in talking to the two washed-off road junkies. But Gloria took pity. They weren’t worth much to her in terms of secrets or plots, but they did make a good excuse to linger.
Tonight, they were talking about the two rival motorcycle gangs that had seemed to pop up overnight. The Road Devils had always been around, lurking in the shadows. The members were thinning though under new leadership, at least according to Prince who had what he called “connections.” Now Prince was worried about the younger gang, the Black Horsemen, who were creating hell for other riders who were not affiliated or who refused to pledge some kind of loyalty. Carol lamented how long it had been since she was able to ride with Prince out of fear they would come after the couple.
Taken by Lies (Black Horsemen MC Book 1) Page 1
