Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books

by Kathryn C. Kelly

  Knox looked at Gabe.

  “I’ll be there in a bit,” Gabe promised. “I need to lock the shop up.”

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Knox said. “You can’t close for business.”

  “Knox! Motherfucker,” Val said in exasperation. “Gabe know what he doing. Stay the fuck out of it.”

  Without another word, Knox followed Val to the end of the hallway. They’d passed two rooms, doors opened, interior darkened. Val walked into the last room and flicked on the light as Knox stepped in. Wooden floors, painted black, gleamed like polished ebony underneath the glare of the bright light. The white paint would’ve given the room a sterile feel if not for the tattoo designs lining the upper perimeters of the four walls. A specialized chair, similar to the one at the station in the front, sat in the center of the room, a rolling stool next to it. Built-in drawers and cabinets framed a sink, while a red leather loveseat stood beneath three wall hooks.

  Val nodded to the chair. “Sit,” he instructed as he went to one of the cabinets and opened it.

  As Knox sat, Val pulled out a fifth of rum, then he dug into the inside pocket of his cut and pulled out a lighter and a joint. Once he opened the alcohol and took a swig from it, he held the bottle out.

  Knox eyed it with suspicion. “What do you want me to do with that?”

  “Drink,” Val said with patience.

  He’d seen the guys do this countless times. He’d shared bottles with Cam before—other friends whom he trusted.

  The thought crossed his mind and he winced. He didn’t have to be told that he didn’t trust any of the Death Dwellers. In turn, they didn’t trust him. But Roxanne trusted them. She trusted him…Well, she had trusted him.

  Instead of overthinking, he grabbed the bottle from Val and drank long and deep from it. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he coughed and sputtered, then handed the bottle back to Val. The rum burned as it slid down Knox’s throat. Certainly not the smooth stuff he was accustomed to. It warmed him, sent the room twirling for a second.

  After taking another pull, Val sat the bottle down, then began flicking the lighter in an effort to light the weed.

  Successful, Val inhaled, held, and released, several times. “Take a hit,” he told Knox, holding the joint out.

  Alcohol was one thing; marijuana another. One was legal; the other was…complicated.

  “This Outlaw own special herb. Cfc. Case Fuckin’ Closed. An Indica strain. Mort came up with Big Roscoe—Br. The name, anyway. Outlaw was the one who grew the plants. Br a sativa.”

  “Outlaw came up with his own marijuana?” Knox asked with skepticism. “Never heard anyone mention that. Neither about Mort’s.”

  “See a reason they got to say anything? That’s not something you advertise. Besides, Outlaw been doing this for so long, he able to sell clones of his original plants. He even grow from clones. It’s not a big deal to him.”

  Knox eyed the weed. “Everything he does is a big deal.”

  “According to you.” Val took another hit from the joint, grabbed the rum, then dropped onto the loveseat. “Outlaw do what he have to, to be the best fucking prez around.”

  The strong scent of the “herb” swirled through Knox’s head. Leaning his head against the chair, he closed his eyes. “Of course you’re not biased at all.”

  “Not a fucking bit.”

  Folding his arms, Knox opened one eye. “Bullshit. He’s indoctrinated all of you into believing he’s the best thing since toasted bread.”

  The tip of the special cigarette sent a little spiral of smoke up, so Knox closed his eye. “You know what I wish a motherfucker came up with?”

  Knox adjusted his position. “Do I have to know?”

  Val sniggered. “Sure the fuck do.”

  “Then what?”

  “Selling a loaf of toast.”

  Knox’s eyes flew open. “That’s called bread, asshole. Buy the bread and make the toast.”

  “Sometimes, a man hungry. After his wife suck his cock for a half hour and that motherfucker raw and red and all out of cum, a motherfucker need to eat. Usually, I’m too tired for much. A piece of toast or two. It’s just so much fucking effort to get the raw bread out—”

  “My God, man! Bread is not raw when you buy it. It’s already baked.”

  “It’s raw until you toast it, Knox,” Val insisted.

  “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  “Don’t give a fuck. It’s what the fuck I want to talk about.”

  Knox growled. “Fine. Talk about bread that’s raw until it’s toasted. Not dough that turns into bread once it’s baked. Talk away. I’m all ears.”

  Grinning, Val took a couple more leisurely hits, before pinching the end of the joint to extinguish it. “You already learning.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t need to learn anything.”

  “That’s not true. Nobody know everything. There’s always room to learn.”

  “Point for you. Yet I’m missing exactly what I need to learn in this situation.”

  “How to stop being such a superior motherfucker. How to respect another motherfucker right to say whatever the fuck he want to, however the fuck he want to. It don’t make you better and me less. It just make us different.” Val swigged from the rum. “Mortician could’ve waited ‘til he was back in town for this, so he could come with you. He sent me with you, though, because he didn’t want your newfound awareness of his wealth to affect how you interacted with him. Now that you know he got money, you wouldn’t have been looking down on him. Mort wouldn’t have liked that, Knox. Around here, we all equal. From me to Mort to Cash…to you.”

  Knox scowled, affronted as a thought occurred to him. “He sent you to teach me what he thinks I need to know?”

  Val eyed him with disapproval. “There you go, acting like a stupid motherfucker again. Our hands tied because of Roxanne. Outlaw want to fuck you up because you…you know…you. Mort not happy with you because of his momma-in-law. Digger might fucking ground you because Mort his big brother. Me? I don’t give a good fuck.”

  “Yet you were going to help them kill me?”

  “Need to stay in practice. We haven’t killed nobody in months.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Knox breathed. “You’re a barbarian, too.”

  Val smirked at him. “You got to have a little barbarianism in you if you joining the fold.” He indicated him with a sweep of his hand. “Getting inked.”

  Knox simply said, “I love her.”

  “Funny what bitches make motherfuckers do. I had to pull a few low-motherfucker moves to get Zoann. I kept fucking up, and she got sick of my ass.”

  Before Val expanded on the statement, Gabe walked in, a joint of his own hanging between his fingers.

  “It’s illegal to smoke in public,” Knox complained.

  “It’s illegal to smoke around the general public,” Gabe corrected, using Val’s lighter on his weed. “This is a public place, currently closed.” He took a few hits, then passed it to Val, who happily indulged again.

  “What are you thinking of getting?” Gabe went to the sink and washed his hands as thoroughly as a surgeon might. “How big and where?”

  Knox had thought long and hard about this. “I want a heart with an arrow through it. Roxanne’s name on one end and my name on the other end. About yea big.” He used his fingers to measure about one or two inches.

  Gabe nodded, gathering prep supplies. “Where? Your ring finger, maybe?”

  “Ring finger?” Knox asked, incredulous. “No, nothing where there’s so much bone. I was thinking my buttocks.”

  “Your ass?” Val said in surprise. “You want a fucking tattoo the size of a mosquito bite on your ass?”

  “It’s my money,” Knox argued. “I can get it where I want to it.”

  “He’s right,” Gabe agreed. He looked at Knox. “You’re right.”

  Knox gave Val an authoritative nod. In response, Val shook his head and took another swig
from the rum. “Make sure you buy Roxanne a magnifying glass, motherfucker,” he said into the silence as Gabe opened another cabinet door and pulled out a shelf that held a laptop and small printer.

  Knox glared at Val, who only grinned.

  “You have a state-of-the-art establishment.”

  “Yeah, Knox,” Gabe said in an off-handed manner, his attention focused on the screen. “It wasn’t always like this. Not until the club invested in it. Digger put up his own money to have it rebuilt from the ground up. I have fifty percent ownership, Bunny has thirty percent, and the club has the rest.”

  “Why does the club have any interest?” Knox asked, his tone peevish. Did Outlaw have to muscle his way into everything?

  “Originally, they invested in my shop,” Gabe answered as the printer spit out a piece of paper. He grabbed it. “Since it was club property, everything needed to be voted on. Outlaw knew Digger wanted Bunny to have a cut and that I wanted renovations. Again, club property so club decision.” He squinted at the paper. The light reflecting on it revealed a very small object had been printed on the other side, too tiny to make out. “Outlaw had Brooks draw up papers that set up percentages that we all owned. He had me draw up plans and run reports on profit and losses. I even had to submit a proposal.” He tapped a couple of keys on the laptop. “The day of the meeting arrived, and I was so nervous. I couldn’t attend because I’m not a member. Digger said there was some wrangling, especially on the renovations. That was the big sticking point. Digger finally decided he’d pay for it himself. After that, it was smooth sailing. The members voted to sell me back half the interest in the shop.”

  “And all of this was Outlaw’s plan?”

  Gabe grabbed another sheet of paper from the printer. “Not the design of this building.”

  “No, I meant how you, Bunny, and the club shared interest.”

  Gabe nodded.

  “Motherfucker brilliant at business,” Val inserted. “I always thought if he would’ve been CEO of the club’s labs, we would have more than just a couple locations.”

  “Then you might be stuck with Johnnie as prez,” Gabe said with a cheeky smile.

  “Fuck off,” Val ordered. “John Boy just fine. Have you heard different?”

  “No,” Gabe said quickly, losing his grin. “Of course not, Val. I didn’t mean any harm.” He handed the paper to Knox. “A design of your tattoo.”

  Knox stared at the heart with the arrow, then squinted. Drew the image closer and still found it hard to read his and Roxanne’s names. Val stood from his seat to peek over Knox’s shoulder.

  “Don’t get none, Knox,” Val said. “Put that on your ass and it’ll just be a fucking blob.”

  Sighing, Knox handed the paper back to Gabe. “I have to,” he insisted. “Roxanne’s family is my family. I’ve disparaged tattoos and motorcycles and everything for so long. I want to show her what’s important to her is important to me.”

  “You don’t have to change to be part of our family,” Val told him. “We not asking for that. Roxanne not asking for that. We just want you to be fucking fair. Give us the chance we always try to give you. You asked me if Mort sent me to teach you. No, he sent me to give you a chance to get to know me. Maybe, if you spend time with each of us, you can see we just motherfuckers like you. He doing this even though he want to slice you in little pieces again because, every time he call to check on shit, he hear how sad Roxanne is and that’s making Bailey sad.”

  A knot dropping into the pit of Knox’s stomach. “Roxanne is sad?”

  “She love you. Mort said the whole time he was on the phone with Bailey last night, she was crying because Roxanne…” Val shrugged.

  “Roxanne what?”

  “I’m not talking for her,” Val said with infuriating vagueness. “If you doubt she love you, seeing that ugly ass ring on her finger should convince you.”

  Knox stiffened. “That is a family heirloom.”

  “Don’t give a fuck,” Val retorted. “The shit ugly. Made for a late nineteenth century or early twentieth century bitch. Not a bitch on wheels like Roxanne. She deserve bling befitting her.”

  Alarm raced through Knox. Every time he thought of something that would put more distance between him and Roxanne, he panicked. “Has she complained about the ring?”

  “Roxanne don’t do shit like that,” Val chastised.

  Knox had seen the way she looked at the ring when he’d slid it on her fingers. She’d even expressed misgivings. Yet, he’d expected her to do just what she had—accept it without complaint because it was a Harrington heirloom.

  No wonder she didn’t want anything to do with him. Desperation crept into him. “I’m getting a tattoo,” he said with determination. “Maybe, I can have the club’s insignia on my back like most of you do, Val.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Knox. That shit’ll get you killed,” Val said calmly. “You don’t wear club nothing unless you in the fucking club.”

  “Of course,” Knox said.

  “I love dragon art,” Gabe said. “The dragon is symbolic for determination, bravery, and physical prowess.” He removed his T-shirt and turned, presenting his back that had a tattoo of a huge red dragon, shooting black fire. It extended the width of his shoulders and the length of his spinal column, although his neck was clean.

  Knox worked with Val and Gabe to come up with a variation of the dragon tattoo. Instead of his back, Knox decided to have it on his chest. Somehow, Val convinced him to also get a tattoo on his arm. Knox filled out and signed a consent to tattoo and waiver and release to all claims. The single form had all types of questions. Though Gabe knew him, he demanded a copy of Knox’s driver’s license. It was both impressive and legitimate.

  Once Knox had his shirt off and was back in the chair, Val held out the same bottle of rum Knox drank from earlier.

  “Put that away,” Gabe said. “Liquor thins the blood, Val. He’ll just bleed more.”

  “Bleed?” Knox echoed. “What do you mean bleed?”

  “I always drank when I got my pieces,” Val pointed out.

  “You always drink,” Gabe shot back with a chuckle.

  Val flipped him off, ignoring Knox’s question just as much as Gabe did.

  “Why am I going to bleed?” Knox demanded, determined to get an answer.

  “You’re going to have a needle plunging into you seventy-five times per second,” Gabe answered with concerning nonchalance, “so, of course, you’re going to bleed. The droplets will be tiny and barely noticeable.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, Knox,” Gabe answered. “Positive.”

  “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

  “I’m still thinking about a cock piercing,” Val announced as Gabe began cleaning Knox’s chest with rubbing alcohol. “You ready to do it yet, Gabriel?”

  “I already told you I’m not touching your cock, even though I’ll be wearing gloves. Let Amanda do it.”

  “No fucking way. Amanda not my wife, first of all. She don’t get to touch my goods. Zoann would divorce me and Outlaw would kill me. Besides, even if Puff would be okay with it, my dick don’t know it wouldn’t be her hands. Motherfucker going to get a cockstand. That’s just the way he is.”

  “It wouldn’t tell the difference between my hands either,” Gabe pointed out.

  “You got big, rough hands,” Val said.

  “That would be gloved, like Amanda’s would be,” Gabe cut in.

  “Don’t give a fuck, Gabe. The motherfucker would still know the difference. My cock smart like that.”

  “At least something on your person is,” Knox grumbled.

  Val scowled at him. “Only Prez get to call me stupid, motherfucker,” he warned, then refocused on Gabe. “I’ll pay you whatever the fuck you want.”

  “I’m not doing it,” Gabe said firmly.

  “Then I guess I don’t get a cock piercing.”

  “I guess you don’t,” Gabe replied.

  During the exchange
, Gabe had shaved Knox’s chest, although he kept it smooth, then washed the area with green soap. Once his skin dried, Gabe sat. He lowered the tattoo chair and raised his rolling stool, then grabbed a long needle from the open drawer.

  The moment the tip pressed against his skin, Knox yelped. “Don’t hurt me,” he begged.

  “Knox, this is only—”

  More pressure on his skin. Tears rushed to his eyes. “Owwww!” he howled.

  Frowning, Gabe pushed away from him.

  “Why the fuck did I consent to this?” Knox demanded, doing his best not to allow tears to slide down his cheeks. “If I don’t have a tattoo that doesn’t mean Roxanne will love me less.”

  “Knox—” Val’s alarmed voice halted when Knox shook his head.

  “No. This shit hurts!” He breathed in deeply. “I’m doing this,” he reasoned more to himself than to either of the other two men. “If I can survive so many ass beatings from Outlaw and Mortician, I can survive needles that will drive into my skin seventy-five thousand times a second.”

  “They don’t even make a needle that goes that fast,” Val said with exasperation.

  Knox closed his eyes and sat rigidly in the chair.

  “It’s seventy-five times a second,” Gabe said. Though he sounded calm, there was a bit of astonishment in his tone, too. “Like seven and a half decades? Ten multiplied by seven, then adding a five to the answer. Seventy-five.”

  Blood poured down Knox’s chest, warm over his skin. He didn’t see it—he refused to open his eyes. But he felt it. It was sticky and wet, draining him of life. “I’m bleeding to death.”

  “You not bleeding at all, pussy,” Val snapped.

  “Of course I am!” Knox insisted, still not opening his eyes. “How many stitches do I need?”

  “How the fuck you were a cop?” Val said. “You ran away from scenes with blood?”

  “I don’t care about anyone else’s blood,” Knox fumed. “It’s my blood being spilled that concerns me.”

  Something long and skinny rubbed against Knox’s nose and his eyes flew open. Val dangled a marker in front of him.

  “What the fuck is that?” Knox demanded, not in the mood for teasing.