First Ride (The Slayers MC Book 1)

by Tara Oakes

  I breathe in deep, taking in her sweet scent. “I’ll take care of it, baby. I’ll fix it.”

  ~*~

  Leaning against my bike, watching the swarm of uniformed and plain clothes policemen walking in and out of my club is killing me.

  Religious people have their churches, their sanctuaries. The Slayers? Those patches are what we believe in, our religion. That clubhouse is like our church. Watching these pretentious motherfuckers tear it to shreds looking for shit to nab us with is infuriating.

  I know they’re not going to find anything. Angel got rid of the coke that was planted here last night. That’s what they’re looking for, no doubt acting on an anonymous tip called in.

  We’ve been shaken down before. Every once in a while the local PD thinks they can catch us, trip us up. Never in a million years would we be stupid enough to bring anything into this clubhouse.

  No drugs, and no guns, other than the ones we have paperwork for. Even the dancers aren’t allowed to carry on their little side business on premises. They want to make a little extra cash on the side by showing a John an extra good time? Then they do it outside of those walls.

  Doesn’t stop them from tearing our shit up, though. Every time they come up empty handed, it seems to just give them more motivation to find something the next time.

  Judging by the amount of time they’re spending in there, I can guess we’ve got a couple of days and a few thousand dollars worth of damage to clean up.

  A deep roaring engine pulls up behind me, garnering a few looks from the officers.

  “They still at it?” Shooter takes in the scene.

  I spit down on the ground. “Uh-huh.”

  “Found something,” my brother in leather lowers his voice even though we’re not in earshot of the cops investigating. “Got a gang affiliation for the tats.”

  I’d tasked Shooter with finding out who Stitch’s attackers were rolling with.

  “Whatcha got?” I turn to him

  “Los Cuchillos. Texas, Miami, LA, New York. Run drugs for The Conquistadors.” Shooter has the information committed to memory.

  Using my forefinger and my thumb, I pinch the bridge of my nose while clenching my eyes tight. “Fuck!”

  That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. The Conquistadors. This is a whole lot worse than I thought.

  I’ve got the Russians stirring up shit on one end and now The Conquistadors looking for retaliation on the other. Is there anyone else wanting a piece of us who wants to jump in on the action?

  “Stick around, make sure these fuckers don’t get carried away. Some of the boys should be back tonight to help put this place back together. We’re gonna lose a couple of days though, before we’re back in business. Call the girls, let them know.” I give detailed instructions to Shooter.

  I’ve spent enough time watching this shit show. Shooter can watch for a while; I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.

  ~*~

  The Conquistadors.

  That’s a name I hadn’t heard in some time, and frankly, I thought maybe I’d never hear it again.

  They’re one of the lesser-known drug cartels operating in Mexico and Latin America. Until late last year, they’d stuck to their neck of the woods, sometimes venturing into Texas, but that was about it. I’d have had no reason to ever have dealings with them as long as they stayed in their territory.

  If only life were that easy.

  It started with a visit from one of our sometimes rival, the Kingsmen. They’re another club very different than ours with as many, if not more, chapters spread around the eastern coast.

  I’ve got my own reasons for hating the Kingsmen, and, if it were up to me, I’d have let them drown in the trouble that was starting to brew in their own hometown, Chisolm, about forty minutes away.

  The Slayers and the Kingsmen have some real deep rooted shit, stretching back over a decade or so. Shit that touched me personally. Shit I’ll never forget. But it cost us all, cost me, dearly to keep the fighting, the war going.

  We’d reached a truce at some point, agreeing to stay clear of each other. We allow the sorry bastards access to our roads, through our territory, to run the protection motorcades and cargo truck security with which they make most of their income.

  In exchange, the Kingsmen steer clear of our main source of revenue. Drugs. We’re the only ones running the shit in this part of the state. As a courtesy and one of the terms of the truce, we keep those drugs out of their small town, Chisolm.

  We stick to our word, they stick to theirs. Neither one of us wants to go back to the way things were. The bloodshed, the attacks. It was no way to live.

  When Jay, the Kingsmen VP, showed up at my club with some of his men for an impromptu meeting, he clued me in that they were having some trouble on their turf. Now, this wouldn’t normally concern me as we each handle our own. Hell, if they weren’t strong enough to keep hold over their own territory then they deserved to loose it.

  That was my stance.

  Then I heard what the trouble was.

  Someone was bringing drugs into their sleepy little town. Someone was dealing, making money off the shit, and it most definitely wasn’t us. That’s when the Kingsmen’s problem became our problem. The bastard looking to monopolize on an untapped market for his own line of nose candy was unknowingly making himself an enemy of the Slayers as well.

  He was undermining the reputation we had fought so hard for. If people started getting comfortable buying their shit from someone other than us then all hell would break loose. Competition in a tight market like this one could never be good.

  Once they got comfortable in Chisolm, it was only a matter of time before they expanded, encroaching on even more of our territory. It was something that needed to be dealt with quick, fast, and hard, ending it right there and then before it spread like a disease.

  For a short while, the Kingsmen and the Slayers had a common goal. It didn’t help shit at all when the dealer and his partner got spooked and desperate, taking one of the Kingsmen’s own women as hostage.

  We rolled into town just in time to get in on the action, taking them down. The woman was unharmed, the doctor who was the brains behind the small-time drug operation was showered with a shit ton of bullets, and the dealer who was the doctor’s connection to the Conquistadors, the suppliers, was framed as the shooter, being taken out by the cops showing up to control the shootout.

  All was well and good. For the Kingsmen, anyway. Their problems were solved. Not ours, though. Once word had gotten back to the cartel that there was money to be made in this area, I had no doubt that they would be back at some point. I needed to send a message that if they chose to do that, there would be blood; their blood.

  I had taken the bloodied dealer’s own phone and snapped a picture of him hanging from a chain after we’d gotten through questioning him earlier on that night, before the police arrived on the scene and led a full-on barrage of bullets at who they perceived to be the person opening fire on and attacking innocent people inside a house.

  Afterwards I sent that bloodied picture to every single one of the contacts in the Mexican man’s phone. I had made the first move. The Cartel made the next. A random text message appeared on that same phone the next day. The man that had been killed was a nephew of the leader of the Cartel himself.

  He was declaring a vendetta, a war.

  He didn’t know who we were, but I thought there was a good chance he’d find out at some point. Either that or business would resume and he’d forget about his threat.

  Now that we have the information of who was behind the attack against Stitch, it’s safe to say that the Cartel’s ready to collect on their threat.

  I knew it was a strong possibility and I’d made some arrangements, some contingency plans for if and when it happened. Looks like it’s time to get that all rolling, before shit really gets out of hand. I’d already texted Chase to get moving on our backup plan.

  Sometimes the only
way to fight fire is with fire.

  The only way to fight bullets is with bullets.

  The only way to fight the bad guys is to be even worse.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MOLLY

  This isn’t happening.

  Everything was fine, I had talked to the nurse myself.

  The insurance had been cleared and the treatment was being scheduled. How the fuck, then, is mom being told that she’s being discharged? That her insurance is no longer active and she needs to find other arrangements for treatment elsewhere?

  Thank God Sasha’s not here, not seeing me like this as I frantically toss and tear through the stack of paperwork to find something, anything, that could end this all from happening.

  “Angel?” I hear Dawson climbing up the stairs.

  I’m too choked up to answer although part of me doesn’t even want to. I told him I was leaving just as soon as I could. That doesn’t mean it’s easy for me. Every time I look at him, his eyes full of anguish and agony, full of guilt, I feel myself slip and second-guess my decision.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe it will never happen again. Maybe he can keep us safe. I begin to think that I can find a way to look past the shit that happened last night, but it doesn’t take long before images of Baby sobbing in my arms come back to haunt me.

  She’s an Ol’ lady. She’s what I’m supposed to be. Have things gotten better for her? Her husband is laying in a hospital bed, nearly killed, and not to mention serving a sentence that leaves her alone during one of the most trying times of her life when she needs him the most.

  No. I know I’m not making the wrong decision. But that doesn’t mean it’s an easy one. For my own sake, I need to stay away from him, to keep far away from those eyes of his. Those eyes could be the one and only thing that could make me change my mind.

  “What’s wrong?” Dawson sees the rushed frenzy I’m in as I mumble to myself, tossing useless papers aside, unable to find anything useful.

  “Nothing. I got it.” I find a billing statement showing that the premium had been paid, showing that the next due date isn’t for another nine days.

  That’s nine days worth of treatment, nine days worth of hospital stay until I have to worry, until I have to come up with the next payment.

  “Angel,” he bends down to where I’m sitting surrounded by a sea of documents. A couple of tears had managed to slip out and stain the ink on the receipt in my hand. Dawson swipes the next tear with his thumb before it has the chance to fall. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I hold onto the sheet of paper like it is a lifeline. In a way it is, just not for me. For mom. “I’ve got to get to the hospital.” Looking down, to the side, anywhere but in his deep eyes, I give him an answer.

  The thumb resting on my cheek moves slightly, caressing the moist skin. “Let’s go. I’ll take you.”

  ~*~

  “It’s right here. It says right here that she has coverage.”

  Once again, I slide the paper forth over the counter to the insurance coordinator on the other side of the desk.

  “Miss Donovan, I will call the insurance company and submit an appeal. We should be able to straighten it out within a couple of days. Then, we can readmit her as a patient.” The supervisor of the department, Mrs. Beasley, explains to me once again.

  I shake my head. “No, no. You don’t understand. I don’t have a couple of days. She’s in pain. She needs that treatment today. She needs to stay here.”

  The woman seems sympathetic, but helpless. “I’m sorry, Miss Donovan. We have procedures, we have protocols. I have to follow the guidelines.”

  A knock at the door interrupts us just as I’m prepared to beg.

  “Excuse me, Darlene.” The receptionist, who is usually perched outside this office when I visit, steps inside. “We have a development out here.”

  Mrs. Beasley, Darlene, as I’ve just learned, looks up before sharing a curious glance with her subordinate. The receptionist leaves the door open while returning to her tidy little desk.

  Dawson is standing with a clipboard, leaning against the wall as he scribbles on the paper clipped to it. “That should be it. Keep the credit card on file in case you need it again.”

  The receptionist, with her prim and proper cardigan set, graciously takes the clipboard from him.

  “Wha—what’s going on?” I ask both of them, not caring who answers first.

  “You’ll have an insurance card emailed to you by the end of the day, but my guy says you can access her group number through the insurance website. Effective date is yesterday.” He continues informing the receptionist.

  She looks at the form, checks all the boxes. “Okay. This is highly unusual but everything looks in order. I’ll just need you to sign the receipt.”

  I can see that I’m not getting any answers, so I step forward and look around Dawson’s massive form to spy the small credit card receipt placed before him.

  Holy. Shit.

  I do a double take, looking from the paper to Dawson, then the receptionist, and back. That’s so much money!

  Dawson scratches his barely legible signature on the slip before the pen is clicked when he’s finished.

  “Thank you. You have the new address and contact information if you need to reach us.” He reaches for my hand and leads us away from the two women still standing there in shock.

  Once out into the hallway filled with nurses and patients buzzing around, I stop short. “What the fuck was all that about, Dawson? I’m not taking another step until you tell me.”

  We move to the side so a wheelchair can pass. “It’s taken care of. Had your mom added to the group insurance policy for the club. Listed her as an employee, retroactive.”

  My mind is boggled. “Wh--”

  “Because I wanted to, Angel. That’s why.” He cuts me off.

  I process everything. “But the money? The credit card?”

  He lifts his hand to rest on the wall behind me, leaning in. “It’ll take a few days for all the new paperwork to be submitted for the treatments. I took care of the first round so there’s no waiting time, no delay. They can start later today.”

  I lose my breath. My head spins. I hear him but there’s no way it can be true. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t find any words. I finally lift my eyes to meet his, where the deep stormy grey orbs pierce through my disoriented muddled thoughts and speak to me.

  Everything I need to say, everything he’s been trying to say that I haven’t let him, is somehow silently told.

  “Thank. You.” I whisper.

  His soft lips crack a smile. “Anything for you, Angel.”

  I roll my eyes sarcastically, “This doesn’t get you off my shit list, you know.”

  Dawson laughs. “Not why I did it, babe. But I have a feeling I’ll be off that list soon.”

  There it is, that smirky cockiness that he oozes.

  “Oh, yeah?” I counter. “We’ll see about that.”

  He lowers himself, pushing me against the hard wall at my back. “You will see, Angel. Soon as I get you home. Guaranteed.”

  My mouth goes dry. My head feels heavy at his words. No, they’re more than words. They’re promises. So far, Dawson’s kept his promises. I have no reason to doubt he’ll keep this one as well.

  Damn him, damn his promises. Damn his eyes.

  Why’d I look into those eyes?

  ~*~

  “You come back real soon and visit me, you two.” Mom calls out as the nurse wheels her down to the treatment area for her chemo session. “You take good care of my girls, Dawson.”

  Dawson waves to mom as she heads away. She doesn’t know the specifics or the things Dawson’s done for her, for me. The only important thing right now is the smile on her lips. I’d never imagined a reason to have to introduce the two of them but they seemed to hit it off. More than just hit it off, actually.

  Mom would wink at me every once in a while when Dawson would look away. I’m surprised she didn�
�t break out into the goddamned wedding march song. I’m pretty sure she was humming it, though.

  We promise to return tomorrow and Dawson seems to mean it as much as I do.

  “You hungry?” He asks me.

  I think about it. “Sure.”

  Dawson closes the car door and laughs. “Good. Let’s get some grub before we pick Sasha up.”

  We leave the hospital behind and head into town. It doesn’t take long before Dawson’s cell rings. I lower the hard rock playing over the radio so that he can speak.

  “Talk to me,” he greets the caller. “You find her?”

  He nods at the anonymous caller’s response.

  “Good. You tail her. Make it quick, clean.” His one-sided conversation intrigues me. “Text me when it’s done. And Chase … don’t fuck it up.”

  Chase, the club’s enforcer, is given some task that I don’t quite understand. Last I saw him, he was riding off with the rest of the Slayers to check on Stitch. He’s a quiet guy, always watching from the sidelines. Tall, strong build that seems to be a prerequisite for the Slayers, light blonde hair that falls past his ears and deep green eyes that are always watching. Always.

  He and Dawson seem to have a tight bond, different than that of the rest of the club. Whereas Dawson and his VP Gryff seem to bust each other’s balls every chance they get, Chase and Dawson seem to be more serious with each other.

  “What’s Chase up to?” I casually ask.

  Dawson clears his throat. “Club business.”

  I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. “Oh, sorry,” I apologize sarcastically. “Didn’t mean to break the rules.” I shake my fingers in the air for effect. “No club talk.”

  Dawson watches me from the corner of his eye. “Rules are there for a reason, Angel.”

  I huff a deep breath and look out the window. His heavy hand settles on my thigh demanding my attention as it slides up and close to my heat.

  “Rules don’t always have to be a bad thing, Angel.” His eyes have a devilish twinkle to them. It makes me gulp. “Do you like rules, baby?”