Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  The phone started ringing again and he answered it quickly.

  “John Boy, get the fuck out here,” Val growled and hung up.

  Thrusting a hand through his hair, Johnnie shook Sabrina awake. She sat up and blinked, her hair rumpled, her makeup smeared and smudged. Last night, after the alcohol and grass, Johnnie had thought her the ideal solution to his demons. In the light of the day and with him sober, he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking.

  “Hey, Johnnie,” she said with a shy smile.

  “Hey, babe,” he returned, getting to his feet. Her gaze dropped to his hard dick and her lips parted, her face and body flushing. Her dark pink nipples hardened. “You have to get going. I have things to do.”

  “What about that?” she said with a giggle, pointing to his cock.

  He shrugged, pretending he didn’t understand her meaning. “What about it?”

  She giggled again and scooted out of bed, dropping to her knees in front of him. Wrapping her hand around his dick, she gripped him and licked his balls while pumping his erection.

  He groaned and closed his eyes, two different women filling his head. Sabrina could definitely be a Bob, instead of just a girl who showed up every now and then to fuck whoever would have her as long as it was a biker. He fisted her hair. “Suck my dick,” he ordered.

  Quite happy to comply, Sabrina sucked half his cock into her mouth. Johnnie pumped in and out of her warm recesses, controlling her pace with his movements, until he stilled her and held her head in place when cum began to shoot out of him.

  He pulled away and she looked up at him, waiting for him to fuck her. Ignoring the invitation in her eyes, he turned on his heel and grabbed his jeans, then put them on.

  “Get dressed,” he told her because she remained on the floor, staring at him in expectation. Spying her black latex jumpsuit, he picked it up and tossed it to her, jerking her to her feet.

  She stuffed herself into the skin tight outfit, which left not one inch of her to the imagination. Even her pussy was outlined. “Can I come back later?”

  “No.”

  She licked her lips. “Can I still come to the clubhouse?”

  “I don’t give a fuck one way or the other, Sabrina,” he snapped, losing his patience. The women he wanted were unattainable and the ones he didn’t have time for stuck to him like Gorilla Glue. “If you come back, don’t think you’re getting in my bed again. Understand?”

  Slipping into her heels, she nodded. “Yes.”

  His phone started ringing again. “I’m fucking coming, Valentine,” he yelled in answer.

  “Would you hurry the fuck up then?”

  Hanging up without responding, he stalked to Sabrina and grabbed her arm, propelling her to the door, down the hallway and into the main room where he stopped short. His veins froze, the shock raising goose bumps on his arms. The old, strangling dread tightened Johnnie’s muscles and constricted his throat.

  He shook his head, refusing to believe the man he both loathed and loved stood before him, watching him with a steady gray gaze. Tufts of white hair fanned from his scalp. Though he was older now, every molecule of space still overflowed with his presence.

  In that frenzied moment of spiraling emotions, Johnnie bristled with foreboding. Because he was back.

  The purest evil left in the world.

  Logan Donavon.

  The man who’d tormented Christopher for his entire childhood.

  Their grandfather.

  And the founder of the Death Dwellers’ MC.

  Johnnie scowled at Val as Sabrina rushed out of the clubhouse, picking up on the sudden tension. “Thanks for the heads up, motherfucker.” He balled his fists to keep from reaching out and strangling his grandfather.

  That last, awful day he’d seen Logan replayed in Johnnie’s head and he staggered back. Angry resentment boiled through him at his lost opportunity to get rid of his grandfather once and for all.

  “I told you to get the fuck out here,” Val barked back, “and that was before this asshole showed up.”

  Logan rocked back on his feet and smiled at Val. “Good seeing you, too, Valentine.”

  Val flipped Logan off.

  “What do you want, old man?” Johnnie fumed, stark with bitterness, his pulse pounding through his body like a call to war. The fury distorting his vision elongated his grandfather’s features. “I’ve been fucking sending you money every fucking month. Unless you want it to stop, get the fuck away from here.”

  Mortician and Stretch strolled from the kitchen, carrying plates heaping with food. Digger barreled behind them, Little Man secure in the baby carrier Christopher always used to keep his hands free, and bouncing against Digger’s chest.

  His dark gaze landing on Logan, Mortician crashed to a halt. “Aww, fuck.” He shoved a piece of fried ham into his mouth and growled a few more curses. “We outta fucking daddies that need fucking up, so we have to move on to granddaddies, huh?”

  Logan drew in a deep breath and craned his neck to glimpse Little Man, Christopher’s son. “I come in peace.”

  Mortician shoveled some eggs and hash browns into his mouth. “You gonna end up pieceful, all right. As in pieces of your fucking ass scattered all over the fucking place. You suddenly turning up undead is the quickest way to get you real dead.”

  “What do you want?” Johnnie snarled. Mortician’s quips brought a semblance of sanity back to him. “If you’re coming to cause trouble because Christopher is gone—“

  “Big Joe summoned me. He said Christopher’s on his honeymoon and it was time I met my great-grandson.”

  A great-grandson who filled the space with a steady stream of babbling, unaware of the currents of hate. Just lost in his baby world, his noise increasing whenever Digger stopped eating to talk to him.

  “What the fuck, Lowman?” Mortician paused to belch. “You getting messages from the fucking grave now?”

  Logan’s gray eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Big Joe’s dead,” Johnnie explained, studying his grandfather’s reactions. The man was all kinds of awful, but he wasn’t a fool. Unless he really thought Big Joe was still alive, he wouldn’t have left Columbia and risk all the money he got every month. “He’s been dead over two years now.”

  “That can’t be.” He held his head and squeezed like he wanted to tear out what little hair he had left. “I have letters in my bag. He paid for the airplane ticket. He—“

  “He is dead,” Val muttered.

  Excellent at tuning out anyone who didn’t say what he wanted to hear, Logan ignored Val and pointed at the patch identifying Johnnie as the vice president. “Who’s running the chapter? This is where it all started. This—“

  “Christopher’s the president,” Johnnie said with a smirk, satisfied when his grandfather lost all his color.

  “Payback’s a motherfucker,” Mortician called, swigging down a beer. “And when a motherfucker is called Christopher, another motherfucker named Logan might be in serious shit.”

  “What do you want?” Johnnie repeated, over his shock enough to move with nonchalance, as he walked to the bar. Digger joined him and sat next to him on the stool.

  “Jo, Jo, Jo,” Little Man chanted before shoving half his fist into his mouth.

  “Give him to me,” Johnnie said, making a face at the little boy. Excited babbling was his reward.

  “You want the carrier?”

  “Nope. Don’t have time to play nanny today.” Johnnie took Little Man and sat him on the bar. “Hi five,” he instructed, holding up his hand.

  Little Man raised his hand—the one dripping with baby spit—and placed it against Johnnie’s.

  “He looks just like Christopher,” Logan commented. He’d moved next to Johnnie.

  No one answered.

  “I swear I got a letter, Johnnie,” he continued. “From Big Joe. He was the one who orchestrated my disappearance ten years ago, so I thought—“

  “You thought wrong,�
�� Johnnie interrupted. “As I recall, the last time Boss saw you he wanted to shoot your ass off because of—“ He paused. None of them had known what had turned Boss against Logan. They’d assumed it was over Christopher since his name had been flung back and forth between the two men so much during the argument.

  The door opened and a brief moment of sunlight glimmered into the room.

  Johnnie glanced over his shoulder and did a double-take as his redhead loped into the room, wearing yoga pants, a long-sleeved Tee-shirt, and running shoes. This morning, she wore no makeup but she was still utterly gorgeous, even though she seemed tired and peaked.

  “Kendall!” Mortician called.

  “You know her fucking name?” Johnnie asked as she halted next to him and smiled. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

  Mortician shrugged and belched again. “Don’t remember you fucking asking, assfuck.”

  She stepped closer, her smile uncertain. “Good morning.” A vacuous expression blanked her face before she squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth moving to silent words. She opened her eyes again and frowned in concentration until Little Man wiggled. She stared at him and her eyes grew misty. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes,” Johnnie agreed, turning his attention to the little boy again to contain his reaction to her and try to make sense of her odd behavior. “What does a cow say?”

  “Foo, foo, foo,” Little Man squealed, raising his hands in the air, like he’d scored a touchdown.

  Johnnie frowned. “Not foo. Moo.”

  Squeals, squeaks and finally, “foo, foo.”

  Digger guffawed. “Yeah, you right. Little Man probably confused. We been trying to teach him to say fuck. I think Prez’ll like that,” he explained.

  Kendall pushed away whatever she grappled with and gasped, her look appalled.

  “No the fuck Prez won’t,” Val growled, pulling prescription bottles from his cut and opening one then the other. After taking a couple pills from each bottle, he grabbed Mortician’s beer and down the medicine. “Meggie won’t like Little Man cursing.”

  “Won’t have a fucking choice,” Mortician reasoned, sucking his teeth before grabbing a toothpick and jabbing it between the spaces. “Fucking ham.” He drank from what had become the community beer bottle and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing it down and burping. “He around us all the time.”

  Kendall cleared her throat. “Erm, maybe, you should stop using foul language in front of him,” she said, low and unsure. She seemed afraid of her own shadow.

  Johnnie nodded, encouraging her to continue. “It’s okay, Kendall,” he whispered, for her ears alone. “You’re amongst friends. As long as you’re friendly.”

  Hope flared in her brown eyes and tension eased from her shoulders. She started to speak, a smile threatening to break free, but Logan shuffled, drawing her attention. Color leeched from her and she reeled back.

  “You know Lowman?” Mortician called.

  Not answering, Kendall shook her head, the blankness returning before horror swept it all away.

  She glanced between all of them, balling her hands at her sides.

  “You know my grandfather?” Johnnie asked.

  “You’re…” Her hand flew to her mouth and tears rushed to her eyes. “He’s your grandfather?”

  “What the fuck’s going on here?” Johnnie growled. “Answer me, Kendall.”

  “That’s Spoon’s stupid cum hole,” Logan said with a shrug.

  A low growl erupted from the back of Johnnie’s throat. “Keep your fucking comments about Kendall to yourself, old man.” Seeing Logan made so many different feelings and memories invade him. Whether he liked it or not, he was Grandda, the man he’d revered as a child, and Logan. And Johnnie despised Logan.

  Needing a moment to allow his temper to cool, Johnnie held Little Man out to Digger. He stared at Kendall. A frantic desperation wrinkled her features and she looked ready to bolt and faint. It was a tossup on which would happen first. Leaning against the bar, he remembered he wore only jeans when he saw her staring at the dagger tat on his bicep. Her gaze dropped to his chest, her vulnerability and longing opening a well of protectiveness towards her.

  Wanting to put her at ease, he gave her a half-smile. She seemed one step away from being catatonic. Every emotion she possessed, besides panic and fear—appeared frozen in her. He intended to discover what became of the woman who’d been present during their lovemaking. She had clearly left the fucking building.

  Because of Spoon?

  Aware of his scrutiny, Kendall drew in a deep breath, her breasts heaving, and the pulse at her throat pounding. Johnnie stepped closer to her, inhaled the scent of her and tipped her chin up. He wanted to touch her and, for now, that spot seemed the least threatening.

  “You’re Spoon’s old lady?”

  Her expression dulled and she wrung her hands together.

  Not a word from her. Horrified silence. Johnnie considered she was unhinging right then. Until Logan cleared his throat and snapped her back to the present. Puppet master extraordinaire. She glanced away.

  Fear. That was her problem. He recognized it because he’d lived it. She’d never trust him as long as she feared him.

  “No,” he commanded. “Look at me.”

  She raised her gaze and dropped it just as fast, unable or unwilling to follow his orders. He’d prefer the latter and not the former.

  “We’re not going to hurt you, Kendall.”

  A quick, telling glance in Logan’s direction. She did it so fast, he doubted it was a conscious action, but a reflex that hinted at recognition. She knew Logan. This wasn’t the case of hearing about someone in passing. No. Kendall fucking knew his grandfather.

  He forced a smile and placed a hand on her shoulder. Her body tensed and all Johnnie could think of was taking her in his arms and soothing away her raging fear. But he couldn’t do that. He had a job to do. Discover how she knew Logan. Find out why the fuck Logan was there. One was as important as the other and, he’d bet, related.

  “What can I do for you, gorgeous?”

  She peeped around, flushing a pretty pink at her captive audience. Even Little Man, still sucking at his hand, stared at her. The kid had taste. She opened her purse and yanked out an envelope. Fingers shaking, she held it out to Johnnie.

  Taking the envelope from her, Johnnie noticed her nails had been chewed down to the quick and winced. His suspicion growing that she was in deep trouble, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter of recommendation. He read over it. A lawyer?

  Her? The mysterious woman who’d arrived as a whore, dropped out of sight, then made an esoteric reappearance? Her? An attorney? Spoon’s…whatever? Logan’s…whatever?

  Johnnie looked over the letter again, intrigued at the Romain, Redding, and Stanley letterhead. Any Doefuck could replicate shit. Her credentials—

  Credentials his fucking ass. This goddamn letter meant fuck all without anything else and she’d brought fuck all else. But her gorgeous face, beautiful body and delicious pussy.

  Right now, she didn’t even appear to have a fucking brain. Two and fucking two added up to three right now. “You’re an attorney?”

  “Yes,” she answered with dignity, ignoring the skepticism he didn’t bother hiding. “I’m a lawyer.”

  In outer fucking space? Because that’s the way she fucking looked. Glassy-eyed, an alien from another fucking universe, dropped amidst reality.

  “And you’re looking for a job?”

  She shifted from foot-to-foot, sidled another furtive-in-her-mind-only glance to Logan. “Yes.”

  Johnnie balled his fists. His fingers twitched, his brain fighting to shrivel the humanity within him and leave behind a man who wanted to kill. A man who thrived on killing.

  Johnnie didn’t want to be that man, anymore. But he was furious. The only fucking thing he wanted to do was keep things from falling to shit. Was it so much to ask that the club not be involved in fuck all but pussy and ridin
g for the remaining days left until Christopher’s arrival?

  If Christopher had to cut his honeymoon short because shit was hitting the fan at the club, they’d all suffer. His cousin would be beyond furious. On the other hand, if he returned in the midst of bullshit, he wouldn’t be too happy either. That meant, Johnnie had five fucking days to figure all this shit out. Besides, if Christopher ever discovered their grandfather was still alive and he was the only one amongst their inner circle who didn’t know…Johnnie didn’t even want to consider the fallout. He glowered, seeing nothing but blood. Logan’s, especially.

  “Yo’, John Boy,” Mortician called. “Sit your motherfucking ass down. No, take several fucking seats.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Johnnie gritted,

  Mortician leaned on the bar. “After you sit the fuck down, assfuck.”

  Dislike slid into Logan’s features and he stiffened. “Stay in your place, boy.”

  Pulsating hatred flared in Mortician’s eyes and he stayed silent a bit. Johnnie saw the man’s mind working, probably imagining a bunch of gruesome ways to end Logan’s life. After a moment, Mortician sauntered from behind the bar and Johnnie moved toward him to prevent him from reaching his grandfather.

  He owed Logan. Not Mortician. Not Christopher.

  Johnnie. And if anyone would fuck up the dirty old bastard, Johnnie would.

  Even if Logan referring to Mortician as a ‘boy’ had nothing to do with the differences in their ages.

  “I saved your ass from this ticky ticky boom boom motherfucker, Lowman. If I was you, I’d shut the fuck up with your sheet-wearing, cross-burning shit. While John Boy take several seats, why the fuck don’t you take several fucking rows?”

  Logan scowled. “You don’t belong here with us. Go back to your own kind.”

  “He belongs wherever the fuck he wants to be,” Johnnie snarled, offended on Mortician’s behalf. “He’s a full patch member. My brother. And, most of all, my fucking friend.”

  “This is Joe’s doing,” Logan protested. “Ruining my club with his strays.”

  K-P slammed through the kitchen door, minus Dinah for a change and screeched to a halt. His one eye blinked and he knuckled it before he blinked again.