Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  Despite what his grandfather said, the woman seemed so fragile. Like Caroline had been. He rubbed his brow. The thought of his gorgeous beauty harming herself made him sick to his fucking stomach. He growled. Could anyone say cluster fuck? But he had her now. For at least a day. To fuck. To lick. To discover her secrets.

  By the time he released her, he would’ve also gotten his grandfather back on a plane, the most comforting thought of all.

  Stretch sat at the bar, nursing a beer, eyes bleak and shoulders slumped. He sipped, then pulled at his mop of brown hair. Sip and pull. Sip and pull. The never ending gestures irritated the living fuck out of Johnnie.

  Normally, Mortician served the drinks, but, seeing as how he was otherwise occupied with Kendall, K-P stood behind the long, battered bar. The dull light glinted from his bald head and his silver beard gave him a look of authority. His eye patch, though, frightened anyone who didn’t know him when they saw him for the first time. Dinah sat in the corner, balancing Little Man on the wooden top, buzzing his belly with her nose.

  The next few minutes would be no place for a baby. “Dinah, take Little Man out of here.”

  K-P glowered at Johnnie. “Don’t talk to her like that. Tune down your harsh tone.”

  Dinah was afraid of her own shadow and, although Johnnie understood her reasons and even found it in him to sympathize, she should’ve been attempting to work through her trauma. Get help. Instead, she hung on Meggie’s coattails and, now, K-P’s.

  In between fucking her, K-P needed to sit down and have a serious talk with her and tell her to open her fucking eyes. If not for Meggie’s loyalty—fuck even K-P in this instance—Dinah would’ve been out on her ass months ago.

  Grabbing Little Man and mumbling, Dinah scampered away, holding onto her grandson for dear life.

  “I should beat your fucking ass for talking to her like that,” K-P growled, looming before Johnnie like the Abominable Snow Fuck, his meaty fist balling on the counter top.

  Over her? “Save it,” Johnnie ordered. “You’ll thank me for it later.” He turned to Stretch, the reason he’d sent Dinah away. That unattended gate had to be addressed. “You fucked up.”

  Stretch’s gaze flickered to Johnnie, then darted away, his ears reddening. “I was…I wasn’t far away. If a raid had taken place, I could’ve sounded the alarm.”

  Bullshit. Stretch’s blush coupled with his inability to meet Johnnie’s gaze told him he knew it.

  “You should’ve been at the fucking gate, fucker. Sounding the alarm takes place while the fuckers are locked out not when they’re storming the fucking place, which would’ve happened because I didn’t see your ass. There’s no way you would’ve alerted us in time. And, now, I find you sitting at this fucking bar like you have a right. Like you didn’t shirk your fucking duties.”

  “I’m sorry—“

  Johnnie swiped the man’s beer off the counter and crashed his fist against his face, knocking him off the stool and on his ass on the floor.

  Johnnie’s gaze met K-P’s. “This asswipe fucked up and all he can say is he’s sorry?”

  Chuckling without humor, K-P cocked a brow. “Maybe, we need to make him really sorry.”

  Stretch scrambled to his knees and Johnnie frowned. “What the fuck? Is this fucker getting up without permission?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a trembling voice, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He sucked on his lower lip, resembling a paranoid beaver, who, at any moment, would gnaw the fuck out of something.

  Johnnie punched him again and, this time, blood spurted from Stretch’s nose and he curled up on the floor. Pulling his .38 and wishing he still carried his Glock, he shoved it against Stretch’s temple.

  Stretch trembled and stared at Johnnie, the terror in his blue eyes satisfying. There was a reason his road name had once been Iceman. Like Outlaw, he was Big Joe’s protégé and Megan’s father had been not only lethal, but one remorseless asshole.

  “Please, Johnnie,” Stretch whispered, blood smeared on his cheeks and hands from attempting to clean up his leaking nose. “I’ll do anything to make up how much I fucked up.”

  “Where the fuck were you?”

  Tears filled Stretch’s eyes and he shook his head. “Please.”

  Johnnie cocked the gun.

  “John Boy,” K-P called in warning. “Meggie likes Stretch.”

  Anger and the need for vengeance pounded through Johnnie and his hand shook. But K-P was right, Megs did like Stretch. Still, this was Official Club Business and she knew to stay out of it. Stretch had slacked on the job. There hadn’t even been Probates on duty, which had been Stretch’s job to make sure they were there, doing what was expected of them while they watched over the bikes in the parking lot, Johnnie’s Navigator, Christopher’s pickup, and Megs’s car.

  Stretch swallowed and looked at him with earnest blue eyes. Kind of like the stricken expression in Kendall’s big, brown ones as Mortician carried her off. Thinking of her darkened Johnnie’s mood further and he snatched his gun away from Stretch’s head before he pulled the trigger in reflexive anger.

  He indicated his pocket with the barrel. “I might put my piece away if you answer me.”

  “I…I was getting my dick sucked,” Stretch admitted in a low, frightened voice.

  Johnnie crouched down and studied the man. A couple of conclusions hit him and he glanced at K-P. No fucking way Stretch was implying what it sounded like. He used the barrel of his loaded gun to scratch his temple. “Unless you brought a Bob on premises, the only other motherfuckers who were outside with you were men.”

  Stretch sagged against the floor and closed his eyes.

  Johnnie arched an eyebrow and popped to his feet, staring at the prone, bleeding man. “Get the fuck up, asshole,” he ordered and stalked to the bar. He shoved his pistol back into his cut, grabbed the bottle and drank from it. Deeply.

  On his feet, Stretch looked between Johnnie and K-P, his eyes haunted and frightened.

  He crooked his finger at Stretch, who’d stood up, silent. But that was Stretch. On a good day, he was a quiet man. He hung his head.

  “You fuck bitches,” Johnnie said slowly. “We’ve done trains together with them in my room, so I’ve seen you fuck them with my own two eyes. But I think I know what happened today.” He tapped his hands on the bar. The morning should’ve been quiet and relaxed with nothing scheduled, so Stretch must’ve seen this as an opportunity because…“You have a boyfriend, don’t you?”

  “John Boy—“

  “Yes or no,” Johnnie demanded, not in the mood for fucking explanations.

  Stretch nodded with slow reluctance.

  “And you thought this would be a good time to get with him. Nothing going on.”

  Another slow, reluctant nod.

  “He know how you fuck all these different bitches?” K-P asked.

  “Yes,” Stretch admitted, almost inaudible. “He knows I need to be with girls sometimes.”

  “You’re bullshitting about that or are you serious?” K-P questioned, studying him. “I know you need a dick stand to fuck a woman but some of the shit available nowadays blows my mind. Who knows if some fuck haven’t come up with a way to stick a dick in a plastic cover? You know? A man stick his soft shit in so he can feel like he fucking?”

  Johnnie frowned at K-P. “You hit your fucking head, asshole?”

  “Shut the fuck up, roach,” K-P snapped, and pointed to Stretch. “This runt know what the fuck I’m talking about, so answer me. You really like pussy?”

  “Yes, I-I’m serious,” he admitted. “Y’all gonna kill me for this?”

  K-P scratched the back of his neck. “We live free, Stretch. We ride. We fuck. We party. We live by a certain creed and set of rules. Fear no one and respect everyone. Until the motherfuckers disrespect us, you understand? I might not agree with who the fuck you fuck.” He shrugged. “But I don’t agree with some of the bitches these motherfuckers fuck.”

  “Stretch,” Johnnie b
egan with care. “We’re going to have to explain the situation to Outlaw.”

  Stretch paled and he looked like he’d break out into sobs at any minute.

  Poor bastard. “We at the Death Dwellers believe in the right to choose your lifestyle.” Johnnie rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Whether we agree or not. I get to make the choices on the shit I want to do and we believe everyone should have that same freedom. Doesn’t mean I have to do it or agree with it.”

  Stretch blinked. “For real?”

  K-P nodded. “You should’ve been honest to begin with, you stupid motherfucker, and your man could’ve been sucking your dick—“ He frowned and grimaced at the words. “Let me reword that. You could’ve been with—“ Redness crept into his face and he gestured with his hands—

  “Shut up,” Johnnie ordered, rolling his eyes. “What K-P’s saying is we suggest you keep this shit under wraps. And we understand why you wouldn’t tell us. The whole situation is a mind fuck.” Stretch could have a legion of hard dicks lined up to suck and it still wouldn’t compare to Logan’s reappearance. Caroline’s suicide. Kendall’s betrayal. The thought angered Johnnie all over again. He growled and glared at Stretch. “You do whatever the fuck you want with your dick. If we would’ve known, you could’ve been entertaining your man…men…whoever…whenever it was clear. Then, you wouldn’t have had to sneak a dick suck.” And leave them vulnerable.

  Their hydro grows were cultivated in one of the warehouses and there was no fucking way the shit could be hidden in the event of a raid, so any heat on them wouldn’t be good. “We’ll see about arranging quiet time for you and your…” He rocked back on his heels and rubbed his neck. “Uh, you and your man,” he grunted with a frown.

  Stretch’s eyes widened. “You really are okay with…with me?”

  K-P tossed a wet bar towel to him. “You look horrific with that fucking dried blood on your fucking face and that bruised, fucked-up, swollen nose. I think the shit is broken.”

  “As to us being okay,” Johnnie said, swallowing away his discomfort. “It isn’t like we can change you. When you joined our club and you saw Mortician and Digger, you should’ve known the type of club we were.” Although this definitely wasn’t the type of club his grandfather had founded. “The heart of a man count to the Dwellers. Your loyalty. When we say we’re family, brothers, we mean it.”

  The door opened and Mortician walked in, dangling Johnnie’s car keys in front of him.

  Johnnie stood up and snatched them away. Thoughts of Kendall shoved aside everything else. He told himself it was because she was the next simplest problem to deal with. Once they fucked up Spoon and got her promise she’d never fuck with the Dwellers again, she’d be fine. “Where is she, Mort?”

  Mortician rolled his eyes. “In your fucking Navigator. Where you told me to put her, John Boy.”

  Johnnie turned to the door, anticipation and lust thrumming through him. “I’m headed to Long Beach.”

  He hoped like hell his dick listened to his brain, and not the other way around.

  Chapter 11

  Kendall decided she’d atrophied into the curled up position Mortician had arranged her in. She wondered if her mouth would ever feel moist again. The gag prevented her from screaming and absorbed every bit of moisture in her mouth. She doubted it would ever feel wet again. The cloth was tied just enough to do its job but not enough to cut into the creases of her lips.

  He hadn’t hog-tied her, leaving her one thing to be grateful for. Still, handcuffs around her wrists and ankles left her immobile. Topped off with her legs and feet stuffed into a sack and bound nice and tight with rope made Kendall feel like a pig in a blanket. And the asshole made her strip to her bra and panties, just in case she’d been related to Harry Houdini, she thought bitterly.

  The hysteria that had set in as Mortician carried her away had abated the moment she’d gotten undressed.

  Standing in her underwear, she’d gone still. Then her trembling began and the expectation of being violently assaulted slammed into her.

  Mortician had lit a cigarette, the scent of it removing the god awful odor, some type of rancid, sweet smell that turned Kendall’s stomach.

  He’d stepped toward her and Kendall shrank back.

  “I like my dick and fingers attached to my body.” A drag on the cigarette and another sweeping consideration of her body. “Those motherfuckers happen to enjoy being a part of me, too, so, Red, fucking behave.”

  He hadn’t attempted to move toward her again, allowing her predicament to settle in. She wasn’t tied up nor was she really hurt.

  “What do you want from me?” she’d asked.

  “Answers.”

  “I can give them to you here. Now.” The ones she had. “He doesn’t have to take me anywhere.”

  Not responding right away, Mortician continued smoking as he grabbed a can of Lysol and sprayed. Talking to himself—inventing a few new words—he’d gotten bleach and splashed on the long counter across from her. Something red and disgusting combined with the bleach, and dripped onto the floor.

  “Digger fucking right about fucking work conditions in this motherfucker,” he mumbled and opened the smallest window Kendall had ever seen before cracking the door a little.

  The fresh air swirling in relieved her until he stopped at the foot of the table he’d laid her on and chopped her clothes away with shears.

  “Fuck, man.” He dangled the cigarette from his lips. “Get up.”

  She stayed put, her blood running cold. “What do you want to know?”

  Impatience furrowed his brow and he swept her into his arms. She clutched his neck in reflex. “I’m standing your ass up, Kendall. Unless you want to smush your face, balance yourself.”

  He set her down and allowed her a moment to steady herself. She bowed her head and wrapped her arms around her body, shielding the parts of her he’d left covered in bra and panties. But she couldn’t help herself. He was there to torture information from her. She couldn’t give him any more ammunition and allow him to point out all her defects.

  Like her toe nails. They needed polishing. A chair shoved against the backs of her knees and she squeaked, plopping down and gripping the edges.

  Mortician threw his cigarette on the floor, then stomped it out. He reached for a burlap sack and threw it over his shoulder. What was this place where they had sacks and gloves and plastic bags and all kinds of instruments?

  The meat shack. That’s what Johnnie had called it.

  “Why is it called the meat shack?”

  Mortician glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Red.”

  “Okay. About Johnnie taking me—“

  “We know John Boy don’t need to take you anywhere.” He opened a cabinet and grabbed two pairs of handcuffs. “He knows it, too.” Mortician’s hands were massive. They had the ability to do a lot of damage to her. She gauged the distance to the door while he had his back turned to tie his dreads with a leather strip. “John Boy taking you, though, and there’s a reason.”

  She didn’t have clothes on. If she succeeded in escaping, she’d put herself in danger.

  “What reason—“

  He spun and glared her into silence.

  “I have to get you fucking ready to go.”

  Her brow furrowed and she raised her gaze to his. He jingled the handcuffs, similar to the ones Guard and Goon liked to use on her. She backed against the chair and Mortician gave her an under eyed look.

  “You giving me problems?”

  She shook her head.

  “No arguments?”

  “No.”

  “Cool.” He stepped forward and she slid back, the chair scraping against the concrete floor. “C’mon, Red. Behave.”

  “Do you have to tie me up?”

  Mortician nodded. “You’re the enemy.”

  “I’m not. If anything you’re the enemy,” she snapped, then apologized at his fierce frown. They just made her so comf
ortable. But they were still who they were. Her biker was Logan’s grandson. The man before her was the club enforcer. Instead of seeing what might not be in Johnnie, or any of them, she needed to remain on guard. “I’m sorry. Don’t hit me.”

  “We’re the fucking enemy, huh, Kendall?” Mortician reached for her and she didn’t want to anger him further by fighting back. “Our background check turning up all kinds of bullshit on you and how you in with the Torps. That means you the enemy. A fucking spy. A bitch we supposed to fucking bury. Johnnie knows what we supposed to do. I know what we supposed to do, but you fucking breathing, huh? Worse, I’m his fucking bitch ass accomplice. That mean if you fuck him over, both me and him getting fucked up by Outlaw. As in tiny, little fucking toothpick sized buzzard hor d’oeuvres made of our asses.”

  Kendall licked her lips, unable to stop the tears rushing from her eyes at the images Mortician conjured. “Outlaw’s cruel.”

  “Outlaw got to keep fucking order. That mean keeping motherfuckers in line. We grown ass men, Red. We know what the fuck happens when we don’t follow the rules. So that’s on us. But I feel where he coming from. If a bitch I’m fucking hot for got into trouble with the club, I’d risk my fucking life to protect her, too.”

  Mortician crouched down in front of her and drew her feet together, unfastening the cuffs and hooking them around her ankles.

  She thought about his words and how they were risking their lives on her behalf. She swallowed, nervous for them. “Two Torps are at the corner of the street, waiting for me to leave.”

  “’Preciate the Intel, Red.”

  She ignored the comment and asked “how will I get to Johnnie’s car?” at the same time he said, “Why are they waiting for you?”

  To return her to her prison, shackle her to the bed, and force pills down her throat. “Spoon wants to keep tabs on me.”

  Mortician grunted. “As for how you getting to the Navigator, I’m carrying you. How the fuck you think? That I’d blink us the fuck over there?”

  His comment started a laugh from her and he grinned. “I’m heavy,” she said when she’d shoved her giggles away.