Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1)

by Bink Cummings

  To keep a very long story short—I joined those men that I’d met for one race, got hooked on the rush, and now I’ve been running this circuit for almost three years. Just like I get off on fucking a roomful of bikers, I get off on this, too. I’ve won a few races, and those I haven’t, didn’t lose much money on. The best part about it is that it’s one of the few things I can say is actually mine. Since nobody knows about it, aside from Trish, who I’ve sworn to secrecy. I couldn’t be driving a couple hundred miles on a weekend without telling her what’s going on. That’s irresponsible parenting. Trish has never seemed to mind, though. As long as I text her while I’m gone. Then again, now that she’s out of the house and taking summer classes, I’m sure she’ll care even less if I contact her. She’ll be too busy with her boyfriend, working with my mom, and hitting the books.

  Which is precisely what she should be doing. She should be living her life and having fun with it. Being young is a beautiful thing. I just never got to enjoy it. I was a mom then—worked part-time and even went to school. I didn’t get to have boyfriends when I had a baby at home to raise. I’m just thrilled that my daughter gets to experience the life that I never did. I’m beyond grateful for that.

  Slamming my car door shut, I grab the bucket of fried chicken out of the backseat before traipsing up the front steps of Nowhere. The air is cooler now that the sun is just dipping below the horizon. A gust of wind blows through my ponytail, and it slaps me in the face. I thought I’d noticed when I parked that the beer signs weren’t illuminated. They’re not. And what’s even stranger is when I hit the porch and see Meatball, the club’s prospect, guarding the front door.

  With the bag of food in one hand and my purse in the other, I stop in front of him. He’s a beast of a man with wild brown hair that lays haphazardly atop his head, as tattoos of naked women dance down the lengths of his arms. Which are now tucked over his obscenely large chest. He could easily give professional wrestlers a run for their money.

  “Gwen,” he greets in that deep bass, eyebrows furrowed.

  “Meatball,” I return.

  Pausing for a beat, his gaze roams my form, up and down then back again. “There’s business goin’ on inside. You need to go home.”

  If he thinks I’m going to comply, he’s got another thing comin’.

  After I had finished working my last day on the job, I drove to this local chain to order some of the best fried chicken in existence. It’s Nash’s favorite. Since I’ll be gone all weekend, I figured now was as good a time as ever to try and mend fences with my stubborn brother. Even if I’m still nursing some hurt feelings from weeks ago. Chicken should do the trick to help repair our problems, or I hope it will.

  Slinging my purse onto my shoulder, I use my free hand to pat Meatball on one of his pecs. It makes my hand look like a Barbie dolls. “No can do, amigo. Nash will want to see me…” At least, I think so.

  Taking a step back, I return my arm to my side, not wanting to crowd him.

  Meatball shakes his head defiantly. “I was told to keep everyone out. You know the rules.”

  Boy-oh-boy, do I. Club business—it’s a secretive thing, like FBI, Area 54, hush-hush. This isn’t the first time I’ve arrived to see one of the brothers manning the front door. The back door is a giant metal one, so it’s not like I could try to sneak in there. However, what’s the point of having rules if they can’t be broken? That takes out all the fun. Don’t you agree?

  Plastering on a sweet smile, I reply, “Yeah, I know the rules, but none of them say you can’t call Toa to ask permission.” If anyone is going to allow me to enter the premises, it’s him. We're kind of tight.

  “Fine,” Meatball grumbles as he withdraws his phone from the inside pocket of his cut to ring Toa.

  Unable to hear the other side of the line, I eavesdrop on the one-sided conversation. “Yeah, I know you’re busy.” His peeved eyes bore into me as he says this. “Gwen is standing on the porch,” he adds. “Looks like she’s brought Nash some dinner … Yup … No …Yes…” A few more words are exchanged, and just as Meatball hangs up, the front door flies open. On the opposite side of the screen stands Toa, and he doesn’t seem pissed. Thank Christ.

  “Come on, little one. Get your ass in here,” Toa invites, and Meatball steps to the side as the rickety screen door is shoved wide.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” I praise Meatball before seeing myself indoors. The main room is empty aside from Toa and me.

  Not wasting any time, I set my stuff on the bar top and turn around to find a suddenly irate Toa pacing in a small circle, his eyes glued to his feet, hands fisted at his sides. Without pause, I shift into mothering mode and approach him. Grazing my hand along his forearm, trying not to spook him, I attempt to garner his attention.

  Toa flinches away, then looks up to realize it’s me. “Sorry, Gwen. We’ve got some shit goin’ on, and I needed a fuckin’ breather.”

  From the looks of it, he needs more than a breather. He needs a stiff drink. Wordlessly grabbing his bicep, I guide Toa over to one of the ten bar stools, and he climbs on, resting his elbows on the top. Shuffling behind the bar, I take this opportunity to play Nash’s roll as I locate the expensive tequila and pour two shots.

  Sliding them in front of Toa, he gulps them down, then slams the glasses on the counter while releasing a weighted sigh.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” I ask softly.

  Toa taps the top of his shot glasses for me to fill ‘em up, so I do. He downs those just as quickly as the last. “It’s in confidence,” he notes, meeting my eyes. They’re as serious as a heart attack. I know their rules—club business stays club business. I’ve grown up around these men long enough to know what I’m allowed or not allowed to share.

  “Always is.”

  Toa nods, accepting my words. “There’s a fucker in the cellar that just won’t squeal. We’ve beat him. Left him to starve for two days. And we’ve even unleashed Price on the asshole, to fuck with his head. So far, the bastard won’t break.”

  “What are you lookin’ to get?” I tuck the tequila back into the shelf and pull out the coconut rum. I fill up the two glasses once again. Coconut rum is Toa’s favorite. The man’s got a severe coconut fetish. That’s one of the reasons he smells like it all the time. Just like now. I can smell him from here.

  “Thanks.” He winks before swallowing the contents and licking his lips with a smile. Expelling another sigh, this time a relaxed one, he continues on. “We’re lookin’ to get dates, times, and some dirty shit on this guy’s prez. They’re a small-time club who wanted to fuck with the big boys. So we got called to assist.”

  “Assist?”

  “Yeah. We’re doin’ a favor for one of the clubs we support. The national prez’s old lady is pregnant, and he doesn't have the time to handle shit this small, so he sent one of his men here to help us handle biz. But so far, we’ve got nothin’.”

  Interesting…

  “Why didn’t he just call one of his other chapters?”

  If the man is a national prez, doesn’t that mean there are other chapters? I remember Nash mentioning they’re a support club for one of the bigger clubs. Something about keeping themselves protected since the Crimson Outlaws only have two chapters. The one here is called C.O.C.K—Crimson Outlaws of Charlotteton Kentucky—and I’m not sure about the other. It’s on the West Coast. I try to stay a good arm’s length from most club related stuff unless Nash or Toa confides in me—like he’s doing right now.

  “We were the closest for pick up,” he replies. “And we’re gettin’ a cut of the shipment, so it’s fine for us to do the grunt work.”

  “Is that what Nash is doin’? The grunt work.”

  Toa jerks a nod, skimming a hand over his short, black hair, one elbow perched on the bar top. “Nash and Steel, the VP from the other club, were talkin’ strategy when I decided to step out. It sounded like they wanted to bleed the fucker.”

  Now that sounds disgusting. I’
ve already seen what damage Nash’s wallet chain can do to a hang-around who wouldn’t leave the bar. And I’m sure this is gonna be much worse than that. Shit, the guy couldn’t even walk by the time Nash beat him all the way to his car. The poor man had to army crawl, blood trailing behind him on the gravel lot, soaking into the stones. It was painful to watch.

  Blinking, I wash that image from my mind. “And now you’re mad?”

  “No. I’m sick and tired of dealin’ with the asshole. He’s got one helluva mouth on him, and won’t shut the fuck up. Unfortunately, we can’t gag him if we want him to talk. So we’re stuck listenin’ to the idiot rattle on and fuckin’ on about bullshit. He’s got a screw loose or somethin’, because he’s talkin’ to us like we’re his new best friends. Tellin’ us nonsense shit about chicks he’s banged and parties his club has had. He’s a bragger. It’s un-fuckin-real.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Kinda surprised I haven’t broken his jaw, yet.”

  “Me, too,” I muse. “So do you have any idea how long Nash might be? I brought him dinner.” Reaching over the bar, I tap the side of the bag, and Toa lifts his chin in acknowledgment.

  “Do you wanna head down to the cellar with me to check on the progress? Maybe we can get Nash to break away for a few so you can eat.” He raises a challenging brow.

  Now, why doesn’t this shock me that he’s offering me to see this man? When Nash joined the club, Toa was the VP then and only twenty-three. Five years later, he was patched in as president when their other stepped down. That was when he brought Nash in as his VP. And I’ve grown up around him and the rest of the brothers since. They’re an extension of our small family. My dad invites them all over each year for a few summer cookouts. My mom mends their leathers. It’s a real sense of comradery and respect here. Even if I’m just a chick and not a club whore or someone’s old lady. Most of the brothers don’t have women. And those that do don’t have a female who’s been around as long as I have. Sometimes, it’s not rank that gives you seniority; it’s time invested. And I’ve got over fifteen years.

  “Are you sure you don’t care if I see? I don’t want to interfere. I know the rules.” I have to ask just to be certain he’s thinking clearly and not allowing alcohol to cloud his judgment. He’s not a lightweight—thankfully.

  “Haven’t you seen plenty of violence here before?”

  My head bobs. This is true. A lot of it. It comes with the territory.

  “So how’s this gonna be any different?” he tacks on.

  Shrugging, I return the coconut rum to the shelf at the back of the bar. It sits in front of a massive mirror that runs the entire length of the wall. It’s used as a backdrop as it rests behind three staggered rows of liquor. The top shelf alcohol goes on the top, and as you go down, the cheaper the poison gets. Etched into the middle of the mirror is the club's emblem. It’s pretty badass with its muscled rooster crossing his arms over his big chest as he glares at you. The same design is sewn into the patch on the back of their cuts.

  After I finish tidying up, I walk around the bar and join Toa on the other side. “Let’s see what those men are up to,” I comment as he slides rather deliciously off his stool.

  I’ve gotta hand it to him; he’s a damn fine man. All those tribal tats, dark hair, hazel eyes, and caramel skin is enough to make a nun's mouth water. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that he knows how to fuck, and has a big dick to boot. Too bad nobody has snagged him up. He’s never even had a girlfriend that I know of. Nash said something about being burned when he was a teenager. I never did ask what happened since it’s none of my business.

  Right on his tail, I follow Toa down the western styled hallway that houses the public restrooms. Then to the left, we turn down another corridor. At the very end, we’re met with a steel door. He raps on it three times and a slot slides open at eye level. “Hey, Prez,” one of his brothers greet, peeking through the rectangular hole. “And Gwen.” The man’s gaze shifts to me, and I offer him a small wave.

  Without pause, a heavy lock is slid free, and the door is opened. I notice it's Johnny manning the entrance as we pass by to descend a flight of old, concrete stairs. Another door just like the one previously is at the bottom, and Toa has to go about the same knocking routine for a second time before we’re welcomed inside.

  It’s a good twenty degrees colder down here when I cross the cellar’s threshold, suppressing a shiver. Immediately my nostrils are assaulted with the unmistakable tang of blood and mildew. I cover my mouth, trying not to gag. This is so nasty!

  “What the fuck is Gwen doing here?” Nash barks, stepping away from the naked man hanging from a set of chains that are screwed into the concrete ceiling. His arms are pulled tight, exposing a patch of hair in his pits. Below his colorless feet is a rusted drain, which has already collected a number of vile liquids. Dried blood covers his skin. His nose is unquestionably broken. One eye nearly swollen shut. Lip busted. From head to toe, dark purple bruises deface his ghostly flesh. He’s a sad mess.

  Shuffling away from the scene, I press my back against the wall closest to the door. The coolness of the surface seeps through the cotton of my shirt. This time, I can’t throttle a shiver. It takes over as goosebumps break out down my arms and legs. Toa slides up next to me, and Price takes my other side, acting as if they’re my guard dogs. I kind of like it. Their radiant heat is most welcome.

  A low, degrading whistle is blown, ringing in the small room “Ooh, look what we have here,” the hostage coos. “I knew I was starting to grow on you guys if you bring me that hot a bitch. Mmm … Mmm … Mmm … I think you need to take off that shirt of yours, baby, and show me those tits.”

  I go stiff at his abhorrent words, my stomach curdling. The room’s air suddenly changes, filling with throat clogging fury as Nash takes a step toward the prisoner, his body coiled tight, fist shaking at his sides, jaw grinding. I can hear it from here. Can’t you?

  “Don’t fuckin’ talk to her, asshole,” he growls, then cuts his eyes my way. They’re liquid fire. “Why are you down here? You’re not supposed to be around this shit.” He’s pissed.

  I should’ve known this would happen. But I wanted to see him. I want him to have dinner with me. I’m tired of us being distant, and since I’m leaving this weekend, I don’t want to drive a hundred miles away on bad terms. It’s not good for me to race if my mind is focused elsewhere. It could mean disaster, and I could end up hurt.

  I chew my bottom lip, not knowing how to reply. He’s their VP right now. Not my brother. Not my best friend. Not the man who centers my world. He’s the man who handles business. I know my place. It’s to keep my mouth shut.

  “I let her,” Toa clarifies in my stead. “She brought you dinner, and I knew your ass wouldn’t come upstairs unless you had to. So I brought her down here. Figured if ya saw her, you’d take a fuckin’ break.”

  “I would have,” Nash snarls at his prez, “if she’d have asked.”

  Beside me, Toa shakes his head, emitting a sound of skepticism in his throat. Not knowing what to do with my hands, I tuck them into my front jean pockets. “No, you wouldn’t have. You’ve been a fucking dick to deal with the past two weeks, and you haven’t slept since this stupid fuck was brought in.” Toa inclines his head toward their detainee.

  “Ooooo, pretty boy has been a dick the past two weeks,” the shackled dumbass mocks.

  A biker I’ve never met before steps behind him, grabbing a fistful of the man’s brown hair. He jerks his head back. “Shut up, shithead,” he rumbles lowly.

  You’d think the idiot would heed his words, but he doesn’t as he continues talking out of turn. “Oh, come on, boys. You know your VP has been a little hormonal the past two weeks. It probably has something to do with that baby over there, don’t it? Now, don’t hold out on me, brothers. I want all the dirty details. Did he stuff his cock in another hole? I’ve done that before. Pissed my last girl off. Made her break up with me. I really—”

  Tired of listening to him prattle
on, Nash slams his forehead into the man’s face. There’s a deafening crack that echoes, and I cover my ears to keep them from bleeding. The man’s head snaps back, and he groans in pain. I watch on as Nash yanks the knife out of his boot and doesn’t hesitate a second to slice across the man’s chest. He screams in agony as his life-force drips from the shallow cut, which runs diagonally from his right armpit to left hip.

  “That’s what you get, fucker!” Nash spits on the guy’s chest. “You don’t wanna tell us shit. That’s your choice. You’ll give up the goods sooner or later. But you won’t be talkin’ about my Gwen like that.” To drive his point home, Nash flicks the man’s broken nose, and he winces, tears streaming down his cheeks. I want to feel sorry for him. I really do. Yet, I feel nothing but respect for Nash and his job as club VP. He’s amazing. And he called me his Gwen. My stomach takes notice as it does a little somersault.

  Shit! Now is not the time for warm and fuzzies.

  The same man I’ve never met before, who’s wearing a different cut than Nash’s, gives him a nod of approval. Then he steps behind the prisoner for a second time. He’s busy crying like a baby as bright red blood oozes down the front of his body. Without warning, the older man stabs a knife through the hostage’s bicep from behind.

  Holy fuck! I can see the tip of his blade from here, poking out of flesh. A flash of shock covers the captive’s face but a second before he howls from the pain. The knife is ripped from the wound, and the river runs red. My stomach rolls at the sight, and I choke down rising bile. This is too much. A little punching, a nose break, maybe even a butt to the forehead. I can handle that. But this … this is beyond that. They are draining him.

  “You ready to talk now?” the biker who stabbed him seethes. Nothing but a sobbing mess is his reply. “No?” he tests, pausing a second before inflicting the same damage to the other bicep. This time, instead of watching, I turn my head away and glue my eyes shut as I hear the unmistakable shriek of torture. This is too gruesome. Toa shouldn’t have let me down here to see this. Nash is going to kick his ass. And mine, too, for agreeing to it.