Savage Biker: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Road Rage MC) (Angels from Hell Book 4)

by Evelyn Glass

  “You’re a dead man,” Grizzly says. “You’re a fuckin’ dead man.”

  Clint just laughs at that. “I fail to see how you came to that conclusion,” he replies. “But you always were slow, weren’t you, Jacob? A big slow fucking oaf that I had to stand beside and watch as you made poor decision after poor decision.”

  “What’s this fuckin’ woman offered you?” Grizzly asks, turning to the men who surround the throne. I recognize many of them, all of them in Rager leathers, many of them recent additions to the club—Clint’s additions. “What could a fuckin’ woman like this offer you to betray your club?”

  “Just a good reason, Jacob,” Clint says, hefting his gun. Even his weapon is stylish, a large silver Desert Eagle to match his outfit. The extent that this man’ll go to make an impression shocks me, even now. “These men here care about profit,” he went on, nodding to the men behind him, “and these poor deluded bastards care about loyalty.” He nodded at the tied up men.

  “You fucked up with the one in the lobby,” I say. “Meant to kill him, did you? Just wounded him, Clint, you fuckin’ asshole.”

  Clint bristles, and then gestures to the men behind him. “Go and get the boy in here.”

  I relax. That was what I wanted. In here, at least I can keep an eye on him. I don’t want him out there bleeding and dying with no one to see it. As the men pass by me and Grizzly, I see Grizzly tense up, like he’s about to jump on one of them. Both of ’em are holding sub-machine guns—Uzis—and both of ’em are new, so new they probably hardly even know Grizzly or me, and’d have no problem killing us. Grizzly must think the same thing, ’cause he settles back. Goddamn, but I’m glad Brat went with Heather, and not here with us. The men bring Spike in. I’m glad to see he’s moaning, still alive. It just seems he’s dazed, is all. He makes to fight, even in his dazed state, but I say, “Just let ’em tie you up, kid. They’ll kill you.”

  Hearing my voice, he slumps in their arms, and lets them carry him to the rest of the men.

  “Smart boy,” Clint says, enjoying himself. I hate how much he’s clearly enjoying himself. Like this is a damn show, like these aren’t men’s lives we’re talking about, like this ain’t the club we’re talking about. Some of the men behind him just look like mercenaries, like bought and paid-for guns, nothing more. These are the kinds of men who’d stand by and watch as whole clubhouses weren’t burnt to the ground and wouldn’t give a damn. It wouldn’t have taken men like these months to take off their leathers and put on the Skulls’ leathers; they would’a done it right off, on principle. But most of them are men I recognize, club men who’ve just been led astray.

  “Let me tell you something,” he says, looking at me. “You little fuck.” The first sign of real rage shows in his face, and I focus on it, getting my plan ready. It’ll be dangerous—Clint is tough, far tougher’n he looks—but it’s the only way I can see getting out of this. But first I’ve gotta let him give his little speech. It’s clear he needs to say it, on some level. “Do you wanna know what really happened in Seattle, Slick? Do you really wanna fuckin’ know?” He flashes a grin, calming himself. “I arranged for those guns to be faulty. I hired men to seal the ammo slots, and I also hired a clever mechanic who knew how to fix your bike so it would work on the way there, but not the way back. It was me.”

  My calm, measured plan goes out the window. Rage grips me, real rage, rage which causes my vision to blur and my head to ache. A throbbing, far back in my head, a throbbing telling me to just run at him and end it now, squeeze his fuckin’ head until it pops like a watermelon. I even step forward, before Grizzly puts his arm out, blocking me.

  “Why?” My voice is hoarse with anger.

  “Why?” Clint laughs. “Because I was fuckin’ tired of seeing that big bastard there treat you like you were anything more than a goddamn courier. Calling you son and all that shit. I was VP, and he brought you into the fold way more than me. So I sent you away—to die, really. But it seems you’re so fuckin’ stupid you don’t even know how to do that.”

  “Enough talkin’!” Grizzly roars. “Do what you’re gonna do, Clint.”

  “Unfortunately,” Clint says, “I can’t do what I would really like to do. You see, some of my men have relatives—stupid relatives, but relatives all the same—in your camp. So I can’t just throw them in a pit and set them on fire.” He smiles, and I know he means it, that he would really do that. “So here’s the deal. All of you are going to leave Colorado, forever. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. If any of you dumb fucks are still here by then, you all die.”

  “You know that won’t work,” Grizzly says. “Course you know that.” Grizzly looks closely at Clint, and I see it at the same time he does; Clint has another plan. “Nah, you’re gonna kill us all the same, just in some way those with family in the club don’t know about, eh? Smart, evil bastard.”

  I shrug Grizzly’s arm away—he’s been holding me back this entire time—and take a step forward. All the men behind Clint aim their weapons at me, but right now, knowing that this is the fuck who’s responsible for having me shot and hacked at, the man who made me the Beast, the man who stole two years with my daughter, I don’t give a damn how many guns they have pointed at me. I look past Clint to his men, arms held in the air, completely defenseless.

  “Look at you,” I say, looking each man in the eye in turn. A couple of ’em stare back, but most of them turn away. A good sign, I reckon. It means there’s some guilt in there. It means Clint hasn’t taken all of their loyalty from them, just a few of them. It means I can get through to them. “Is this the man you wanna follow? Is this the man you’re gonna trust with the fuckin’ club?” I remember reading, back in that icy, frosted cell, that when you’re talkin’ to folks you’ve gotta find a way to talk on their level, gotta find logic which speaks to their logic. It was money that got ’em into this, so I’ve gotta find a way to use money to get them out of it. “Sure, Clint might know some folks with some connections. Maybe he even will make you some cash—in the short run.” I see a few of them really listening to this, really taken into account what I’m saying. “Maybe he’ll even make you more cash than you’ve ever made.” Pulling them in, using their own logic. “But what about when he decides he would rather have your share, eh? What about when this fuck decides that he’d rather take all that’s yours? What’s to protect you, the patch?” I nod at the men, tied up, Slick slumped at the end of the row. “The patch don’t mean shit to him. And if you ain’t got the patch, what’ve you got?”

  I pause, breathing heavily, worked up, angry, desperate in that I want to get the hell out of here and back to Brat and Charlotte in one piece.

  “Words!” Clint laughs, and some of the men laugh with him. But not all. That’s something. “You can’t talk your way out of this, Slick—”

  “Then I’ll fight my way out of it!” I roar, taking another step forward, within a couple of yards of him now. Clint aims his Eagle at me. At any second, my head could be blown off. At any second, I could be sent to the grave, never seeing my woman or my daughter again. And all ’cause this bastard decided to get jealous.

  “Don’t come closer,” Clint says, stroking the trigger. “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m not the fool here,” I say. “No fuckin’ way. That’s you, Clint, you and your merry band of merry fucks. But I don’t blame them, ’cause maybe they think you’re tough. Maybe they’ve heard some stories about you. Well, here I stand.” I lift my arms higher, and then turn on the spot, demonstrating that I don’t have a weapon. “And I wanna challenge you, Clint. Let’s fight, like men. Show your boys just how tough you are. Show your boys they aint’ just followin’ a pack of words. You find words funny—show ’em you’re more than that, then.”

  Clint tries to laugh this off again, but a ginger-haired man with a scar down his face mutters, “Yeah, show him.” Another man, short, with dirty blonde hair and a sliver-capped tooth, says, “Yeah, go on. A fair fight’s a fair fight.” O
ne by one, the men start to echo each other, saying that their boss should be able to fight in a fair match, saying that they should be able to count on a President for that much, at least. All but the few hired goons.

  Clint spits on the floor, stands up straight, and stares at me across the bar. “Clever boy,” he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. “Seems you learned a thing or two in Seattle.”

  “No guns!” I shout. “Just fists. First to give up—or be knocked out—or die—is done!”

  If there’s one thing bikers love, it’s fighting. It’s in their blood, thick, and once you introduce the idea of it, it can’t be so easily ignored. The men start stamping their feet, banging their weapons against their belt buckles to make a clink-clink-clink noise which is like the ding-ding-ding of a boxing match’s bell.

  Clint has no choice. He sees it, and I see it. All he can do is drop his gun and come at me, so that’s what he does.

  Clint is a dandy. Clint is a smart dresser. Clint is a fancy talker. But Clint is also a patched Rager, and that means he knows a thing or two about fighting. He comes at me quick, so quick I don’t have any time to react. His fist catches me in the side of the jaw with immense power, sending me flying to the floor. I feel like my jaw has dislocated. As I fall, blood sprays from my mouth across the room. The men start cheering and shouting. I hear Grizzly shouting at me to get my hands up. Then Clint kicks me in the stomach. I keel over, spitting more blood onto my boots. He kicks me again, and I spit again, gasping. I just manage to stand up before his next hit comes, a brutal upper-cut that would’ve floored me if it hit. I step aside, swaying, dazed, and just barely step aside to avoid a haymaker.

  Then I jump back, jaw throbbing, but my vision clearing. Clint has his fists up, his white suit already flecked red with my blood. His eyes are squinted, focused. It’s like being in a fight with a wildcat, his attention completely on me, his only desire to put me down as quickly possible. Clint ain’t a fancy fighter, never has been. I once saw him stab a man in the neck with a pen and kick him into the dirt and walk away like it was nothin’.

  “Come on, fucker,” I growl through the blood. “Fuckin’ come on.”

  He lurches at me, but it’s a feint. He pulls back at the last moment, leaving my belly exposed, and gives me two swift jabs in the side. I cough, splutter, and he goes to work on my body. He punches me five or six times, fast, before I even have a chance to respond. And when I do, he steps cleanly out of my range. “Get your fuckin’ knees in him!” Grizzly roars, his voice the only one coming through the shouting and the pain. “Get your fuckin’ knees in the bastard, son!”

  I know what he means. When I was a kid, Grizzly said the same thing to me when I used to spar with some of the men. My punches did little to them ’cause they were so much bigger, but I’ve always had damn strong legs on account of all the ridin’, ever since I was a little kid, so my knees did some work, even on full-grown men. Clint charges at me, and I let him, making it look like I’m so tired I don’t have the will to move. I sway on the spot, coughing, and let him charge right into me, wrapping his arms around my waist and trying to lift me off the ground. He wants to slam me to the floor and finish me. But I plant my feet, dig my elbows into his back, trapping him waist-height. Then I start with my knees.

  I work my knees into his face, over and over, putting all the strength of my years of being a courier into it. I feel his nose pop, blood bursting over my leg, and then pop again as it breaks twice. He tries to stand up, but I keep my elbows in his back. I keep kneeing him, my legs starting to ache, and then burn, but I don’t stop. It gets so that the men stop cheering, that Clint’s body goes limp, that Grizzly has to come up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder to try and stop me. But even then I can’t stop. I’m the Beast. Slick has gone. It’s like when you put a soldier in a warzone. He don’t think. And I don’t think. I just knee, knee, knee.

  “Sky!”

  Her voice is the only thing in this whole world which could bring me out of this. Nothing else. No one else.

  “Sky! It’s done!”

  I turn, but it’s difficult to see much with all the blood on my face. I’m vaguely aware of Clint slumping to the floor behind me, moaning like a dying animal. I wipe blood from my face, or try to, but my hand is soaked with the stuff. Bathed in it, just like then, just like back then, but . . . Now I see her, a blur, but there, watching me, hands clutched to her chest, standing in the doorway. Like a bloody mirage, the only point of goodness in all my rotten fuckin’ soul. But I don’t have to be like that no more. I don’t have to be the Beast. Brat is proof enough of that. The Beast is a killer. The Beast don’t have a choice. I have a choice.

  I turn back to Clint, looking down on him to make sure he’s still alive. He is, so I turn to his boys, and shout, “The fight is done and your man lies on the fuckin’ floor, can’t even goddamn speak! But I ain’t gonna kill him. I’m gonna tell him the same he tried to tell us. If he ain’t out of Colorado in twenty-four hours, he’s a dead man! Someone get him on a bike! Get him out of here!”

  I watch, fear in my chest, waiting for one of the men to act. We’re still outnumbered, even if Clint is down. They could still turn on us; maybe one of them wants to become leader. But then I see the respect in their eyes, and the shame, and the guilt, and I know most of ’em just want to put all this shit behind them and get back to outlawing. I watch as the true club members move their guns from me to the real traitors, and as the traitors put their hands up.

  “Damn fuckin’ right,” Grizzly says, standing beside me. “Bring those bastards here, and get them the fuck outta Colorado, too. I’m done with men who don’t respect the patch.” He looks down at Clint. “Listen to the lad, Clint, ’cause what he says is true. If you ever come back here, I’ll kill you myself. You twisted me against Slick for too long. That shit’s over now.” He smiles at me, or as much as he can smile when he’s President, and then nods toward Brat. “Go to her, son. I’ll clean up this mess.”

  Gratefully, I limp toward my woman.

  About halfway there, I collapse, and she comes rushing toward me.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bri

  With Dad’s help, I take Slick through to the dormitory wing and lay him on the bed. He looks up at me through his mask of blood, smiling. “Bastard fuckin’ hit me enough times to shake some cobwebs loose,” he says. “Reckon I know what’s what now.”

  “Is that so?” I say from the bathroom, filling a basin with water and going to him.

  I kneel down beside him and begin cleaning his face, wiping the blood away. There’s a bruise on the side of his head, nasty and yellow, but the skin hasn’t broken. He has a couple of cuts below his eyes, but once they’ve been cleaned, they’re nowhere near as bad as the blood made them look. I leave him and go into the bar—Dad is untying the men, and Clint and the traitors are nowhere to be seen, probably outside being sent on their way—and return with a first-aid kit.

  He winces when I pour the cleaning fluid over the cut. “Don’t be a baby,” I say.

  “Baby.” He smiles again. It looks like it hurts him to smile, but he does it anyway. Maybe he thinks it’s worth it. “Baby. Baby Charlotte. I reckon I’ve earned a meeting with her, ain’t I, Brat?”

  “I reckon you have,” I agree. “But why don’t we get you patched up first?”

  “Alright. Nurse knows best.”

  I stitch one of his cuts, but he won’t let me start on the next before I’ve got him some whisky. The next time I go in the bar, all the men are untied, and Dad is telling the men who were tricked into being on Clint’s side that they need to make it right with the others. They’ll probably agree to some system where half their pay goes to those who were loyal for a few months. The men won’t like it, but this is a club, and in a club if you haven’t got loyalty, you haven’t got anything. When I bring Slick his whisky, he’s sitting up, pillows propped behind him.

  “The pain starting to wear off now?” I ask, returning
to my seat.

  “Not the pain. Just the dazed feelin’. Never get used to that in a fight, no matter how many you’ve been in. Dazed like your head is just gonna spin right off your shoulders and float into the sky. Damn strange.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited,” I say, handing him the bottle. “There’s still another to go, yet.”

  He takes a slug of whisky and I start stitching the other cut. When it’s all done, he looks like a different man to the blood-covered barbarian he was an hour ago. He drinks down half the bottle of whisky, and then asks for a cigarette. I get one from the bar and return to him. He lights up, blowing curling wisps of smoke and smiling tiredly.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “When’d you get here?”

  I tell him I rode here after getting a bad feeling. “Maybe it was our psychic connection,” I joke.

  Slick doesn’t laugh. “Maybe it was,” he says. “Alright, so this is what went down.”

  He tells me about talking Clint into a fight.