by Vivian Gray
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, 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.
Slash: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Hearts MC) (Outlaw MC Romance Collection Book 6) copyright @ 2018 by Vivian Gray. 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.
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Contents
Slash: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Hearts MC) (Outlaw MC Romance Collection Book 6)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Sneak Preview of SILAS
Silas: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance (Death Knells MC)
Chapter One
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Slash: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Hearts MC) (Outlaw MC Romance Collection Book 6)
By Vivian Gray
I sold him my innocence.
I just never thought he’d claim it like this.
Brutal. Savage. Reckless. Wild.
But there’s no denying the truth:
The bad boy owns me now.
ERIN
I’m in over my head.
It just got out of control.
And before I could stop it, things were happening that I was powerless to stop.
I was on stage, barely dressed, while strange men offered cash bounties that made my jaw drop.
Then a voice came out of the back that cut through the chaos and froze my blood in my veins.
He said he’d own me…
Whatever the cost.
And that’s when this nightmare truly began.
Because the man who bought me is the devil incarnate.
Slash is a bona fide killer, a ruthless biker bad boy with the ink and leather to match.
His motorcycle roars like some demon from below.
And those eyes… So hungry. So cruel.
From the moment the door shut and we were alone together, I knew that this could end only one way:
With me on my knees, begging the bad boy to own me.
SLASH
There are enough bodies in my past to fill a morgue.
Enough blood on my hands that I’ll never truly be rid of it.
I’ve sinned, I’ve killed, I’ve broken people and left them to suffer in the darkness and the silence.
But it was all for the club.
All of it – everything I’ve ever done – was in the name of the Savage Hearts MC.
Until now.
This time, my sins are for me and me alone.
Because when I saw the girl on the stage, I knew I couldn’t rest until I’d made her mine.
Every woman in my past was nothing more than a toy to me.
But Erin…
She lit a fire I didn’t know I had.
It won’t be enough to use her and throw her aside.
I need to take her senseless, then put her on the back of my chopper and ride into the sunset.
F**k all this chaos.
F**k all this war.
I’ll brand this woman and put my baby in her so the whole damn world knows to keep their filthy hands off.
But the underworld where I’ve spent my whole life isn’t so eager to let us escape.
There are men here who would love to see my head on a spike.
Along with the heads of everyone I’ve ever cared about.
And when they find out about the girl I’ve brought into my home…
They know I’m vulnerable now.
That’s when they come for us.
So be it.
Let them.
I’m ready for one final war.
And I’ll slay them all to protect what’s mine.
Chapter One
Erin
“Mom!” I shout through the doorway, struggling to balance the large paper sacks of groceries in my arms and the house keys in the other. “Are you up? I brought some dinner!” There’s no answer, so I try again as I throw the sacks down at my feet. “Come on, Mom! You know what the doctor said about trying to stay awake. It’s hard, I know, but you have to at least try to—”
“I’m up. I’m up.” Mom walks through the hallway slowly, her hands grasping at the walls for support. She can barely lift her bald head up and the pink nightgown she’s wearing is the same one from yesterday, but I’ve never seen her look so beautiful.
I run to her side, grabbing her arm. “I didn’t mean to literally ‘get up’, Mom. You know what the doctors said about—”
“Yes, Erin. I’m in those meetings too. You don’t need to remind me of what the doctors have to say. I know my own body.”
“Then you should know it needs to be laying down somewhere comfortable and warm – not walking around barefoot in a nightgown that’s clearly seen better days.”
She eyes me knowingly. This was the nightgown my dad gave her about seventeen Christmases ago. It was the last gift he gave her before he disappeared on us. If I were her, I would have burned the damn thing the night he called to make it clear he wasn’t coming back to us. But she’s sentimental like that and a complete cheapskate.
The one time I asked why she keeps it, she barked out back, “Why would I want to waste a perfectly good nightgown on my anger towards that man?”
Now, she never takes it off. I’ve tried buying her new ones from Goodwill or offering up a pair of my comfy pajamas, but she scoffs at everything. She wants the one with the pink lace barely holding on at the seams – the one that perhaps still smells like him and his cologne and cigarettes when she closes her eyes tight enough.
And how could I say no to a dying woman? I wash the thing when she lets me, and then I carefully help her put it back on when it’s dried. ‘Careful’ is the keyword around the house these days. Everything bothers my mom’s condition. Too many lights on and she swears she hears the buzzing of the electricity. Close the door too loudly, and she complains about her eardrums bursting. Cry in front of her, and she’ll practically reach over to slap you silly.
I’ve seen her do it a few times before with the few friends that still stop in from time to time to visit her. It’s like watching a living funeral procession. They bring flowers that will bother her sinuses and food she can’t eat anymore, and they pat me gently on the head as they dot their eyes with tissues.
Just out of her earshot or when she’s fallen back asleep, they whisper to me, “Bless your heart, Erin. You’re an amazing daughter. Megan raised you right.”
My mom did. She taught me to love and be loved, and she taught me that family comes first – no matter how many times they break your heart. And now that she’s dying, a status I’ve come to accept, she’s taught me how to say goodbye – slowly and over and over again. There ha
ve been so many times when she’s been strapped to the machines that beep slower and slower. The numbers drop in a blink of an eye, and the doctors and nurses gather to tell me it’s time. I hold her hand tightly and pray to God that it’s painless for both of us. But each and every time, she’s rebounded.
The next morning, she will be sitting up, acting as if nothing has happened and that the cancer that started in her breasts and moved to her stomach and bones only existed in our imagination. I love that about her – she never stops trying to outlast and outlive other’s expectations. Even today, her walking is a surprise.
The doctors said she would be confined to her new hospital bed for the remainder of her short time. The nurses come every six hours to turn her to prevent bed sores and to stretch her wasting muscles. They shake their heads as they look at the veins and tell me that it won’t be long. But here she is today, walking.
“Come on and sit down, Mom. I can make you some tea.”
I move her slowly, taking the majority of her weight on my shoulder, towards the couch. She gingerly sits back on the brown pillows and then leans her head back against the wall.
“No, no, Erin. I’m okay. I’m not thirsty.”
“I know you’re not, but your body is. I’ll make it iced, so you don’t burn your tongue again.”
“I’m really fine, honey. I don’t need you to fuss over me like you do.” She looks towards the bags of groceries. “And those… who are those for?”
“It’s your drinks, Mom. The doctors said that you should try these nutrient shakes so that you can keep your energy up.”
“And what about you? What are you eating? I haven’t seen you eat a thing in a long while. You’re looking as skinny as I am.” She chuckles to herself. She has always loved a horrible, dark joke. She’s spent most of her cancer laughing at it when she can.
I smile awkwardly and say, “I eat at the bar. They feed me there. I know it’s not the healthy stuff you want me to be eating, but we’ve got to be careful with money. The hospice workers cost a lot, and if we can’t afford them, I need to bring you back to the state hospital.”
She groans audibly at the threat. Normally, she would never complain – it’s not in her nature – but the public hospital is not fit for anyone, even for my joking and sunny mom. The doctors don’t care, and the nurses are always in and out before we can learn one of their names. On our last extended stay, she shared a room with another woman who couldn’t handle her medication. The room smelled so badly from the sickness that it took all my powers to not run out of there screaming.
But what are my alternatives? The hospital with the private rooms with the big glass windows looking out over the waterfront comes at a price. My mom’s lucky to have disability insurance. It covers a ton, but it certainly wasn’t hacking at the bills from St. Martha’s like it should. After just a week there, the bill was over $20,000. I had no choice but to ship her off to Rodeo State Hospital and hope for the best.
She deteriorated there until they told me they were at the end of their ropes: bring her home to die in peace and pay for out-of-pocket hospice nurses to manage her pain or have her die in a place less peaceful than a prison. I chose home. My mom’s done so much for me that it only seems right.
I know she doesn’t have long – maybe a few more months to go. Every day she grows weaker, and her needs get bigger. There’s a nurse to give her the pain medications and check her vitals. There’s another to make sure she’s turned over and stretched. One comes at night while I’m working my shifts at the bar to make sure she’s looked after. There’s even another on call for days when I can’t handle the breaks between their work.
As my mom dozes off again on the couch, I take a deep breath and head for the kitchen. In an old cereal box tucked up on the fridge is where I’ve been storing the bills from those nurses and hospital stays. Two more came in this morning. The day nurse laid them out neatly on the table for me.
One of them is pink – third notice. Pay up or shutter up.
I quickly open the document and press the creases down till it lays flat out for me to study. $340 for an MRI that showed the same results as the previous ones. I rummage through the box till I’ve emptied every single letter. With a sharpie marker, I write the total on the side, crossing off the old amount until it’s just another black line: $34,593.
Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.
I know I could let the bills go. They are in my mom’s name, and when she goes, the hospital can’t legally go after me. The only things being charged to me are the private nurses. That’s nearly $14,000 right there (and climbing with every hour). But the thing is that my mom taught me to never leave this earth owing a debt to anyone. It’ll haunt you in the next life – or at least what remains of you. And I’m all that will remain of Megan Greer when she passes.
When we found out it was stage four breast cancer nearly a year and a half ago, she held my hand and promised me I would be cared for. “There’s money, Erin – money for you to go to college and to keep the house.”
I think she thought dying would be quick and cheap, but instead, it’s become long and expensive, like a horror movie you pay for by the minute. We ran through her retirement funds within six months, and then she took a lien on the home she’s owned for the majority of her life.
That day, at the bank, she promised, “I’m not going to let the bank take your home. We’ll figure this out.”
But we never did. I pay the bills around here. I keep the home running and comfortable. The heat’s turned on all year round. I replaced the old buzzing lights and fixed the small leaks in the roof when it flooded back in May. My money from running doubles and triples at the bar covers the utilities and the food she never eats. Even her medication is paid up by my tips from in-the-know regulars who tip me forty percent instead of twenty. It’s all peanuts when it comes to the cereal box of bills I’m storing away.
At the sound of the door, I glance over at the clock. Alyssa, as always, is on time for her shift as the night watch. I listen to her as she coaxes my mom awake and convinces her to carefully make her way into the wheelchair we store by the door.
“Do you need any help?” I ask as my mom sits.
Her eyes glaze over me, not recognizing or remembering. It’s more and more frequent that she gets this way.
“No, no, Ms. Erin,” Alyssa says in her thick Eastern European accent. “Ms. Megan and I are going to have a fine night. Since she’s awake, I think we’ll have a nice, relaxing bath, and I’ll see if I can get her to drink something. Her skin is drying out.”
“Yes. She refused earlier. I bought some protein drinks the doctor recommended. They’re in the bags by the door. I can put them away later after my—”
“Say no more. You go to work. I’ll call you if you’re needed.” She practically pushes me out the front door, but she’s right. I’ll be late for work if I sit around here feeling sorry for myself.
As my mom always said, “If there’s nothing else that can be done, you can always work.”
***
It won’t take much to make money on this shift. For a dreary Thursday evening, the bar’s hopping. I can barely hear the driving classic rock music over the sounds of the men shouting back and forth at one another.
“What the hell is going on here!” I yell over towards the other waitress, a new girl named Monica. She’s the spitting image of all the girls who work here as servers and tenders – long, curling hair, tits, tight ass. For a newbie, she’s more comfortable than most wearing the skimpy black biker shorts and cutoff tank top uniform Frank, the manager, insists on putting us in.
“It’s an MC meeting!” Monica screams back as she hoists a serving tray full of empty beer mugs above her head. “Isn’t this a regular thing here?”
“No. What’s an ‘MC?’”
Her eyes dart towards me and then over to a group of bearded men leaning closely into the server’s area. She places the tray back down and grabs me by the arm. We swing into the
kitchen.
It’s not much quieter in here than out there, but still, she keeps her voice down as she explains, “An ‘MC’ is a motorcycle club.”
“Like a group of guys riding together or something? My grandpa used to do that when he was retired. Saw the Badlands with his friends…”
“No. Those guys are not some recreational drivers, Erin. They’re a club… like a gang. They’re not exactly on the up-and-up if you know what I mean. I recognize one of the guys. I used to date him years ago before he got locked up for robbing a bodega. His name is Marcelo. I think he’s in charge or is at the top. The club’s name is the Tattooed Angels.”
“Tattooed Angels? That’s a silly-ass name for a gang. They can’t be that tough if they—”
“Erin, you gotta shut your mouth. Believe me. Shit talking around those boys, especially about their club, isn’t cute. In fact, it could get you in a ton of trouble. You don’t want to mess around with a motorcycle club. They remember things like a mouthy girl.”
“Really? I still don’t see it. They look harmless.” Half the men in the bar can barely stand. No way those beefy, haggard guys are some street-smart criminal operation.
