Blood of Cupids
Page 1
The Blood of Cupids MC
By Sophia Kenzie
A Hearts Collective Production
Copyright © 2014 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
Other Books by Hearts Collective:
Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC) by Celia Loren
Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC) by Celia Loren
Wrecking Beauty (Devils Reapers MC) by Celia Loren
Impossibly (Dante’s Nine MC) by Colleen Masters
Faster Harder (Take Me... #1) by Colleen Masters
Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters
Faster Longer (Take Me... #3) by Colleen Masters
Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters
Riding Dirty (Ruiners Motorcycle Club) by Abriella Blake
DEDICATION
I'd like to dedicate this book to all the awesome readers :)
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Blood of Cupids
The Blood of Cupids MC
By Sophia Kenzie
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
June 9, 1990
My Dearest J,
Nothing pains me more than to leave this letter in place of myself. I know it is the coward’s way, but in my current state, it will have to suffice. My heart aches as my pen touches this paper, but the words must be written. We cannot continue this passion. I cannot see you any longer. You know you are my world, the greatest love I have ever known, but the secret I have been holding from you is too much to bear. My secret is real, and I must now face its consequences. I pray that you don’t feel hatred toward me as I confess that I am pregnant with my husband’s child. This knowledge makes my body fall limp under its weight. What should be such a joyous time in my life is plagued by the reminder that our perfect love must end, and that I am stuck in this world forever. And it must be so. There is no mistaking this path.
I beg of you: please do not fight me on this matter, or we both know my family will see to it we end up in early graves. I will ask of you to forget me, to find your place in this world without the warmth of my touch, but I know that will be an impossible task for myself, and I cannot expect you to wipe your memories of the time we have spent together. So keep the memories, as I will never let them go, but live your life. For me, J, live your life. I will love you today, tomorrow, and past the light.
Deep Breaths,
E
Grace – Present Day
I’ve always hated motorcycles - the sound, the smell, the riders. And yes, I’ll admit that I’ve had a few of those daydreams, the ones every girl has at some point in her life, but when you’ve been surrounded by bad boy bikers since your birth, they tend to lose their appeal. You’re privy to the hatred, violence, and grime that are a part of their everyday. It’s almost unbearable.
Almost.
Behind the dirt and the oil and the blood, there’s a family. It’s a family unlike any you could ever imagine. You hear other people casually say that they are willing to die for someone else, but are they serious? If the situation stood in front of them, would they take action? I know my family is willing to die for me.
I know firsthand.
Ryan – Present Day
I told him not to. I actually took my father aside and begged him not to, but I guess once the president of a motorcycle club makes a decision about something, he refuses to listen to reason.
I sat outside the clubhouse, waiting for the decision. It was surprisingly warm for early October in Philadelphia, and I wanted to enjoy the sun on my skin before heading in to secure my fate. What I actually wanted to do was go for a ride. I looked at the line of motorcycles; mine clearly stood out from the rest. The guys are all great at scouring the Boneyard and patching up their bikes when they need maintenance, but eventually the patches are obvious. They think it’s the mark of a great MC veteran. The rougher your bike looks, the more rides you’ve been on, the more trouble you’ve caused. Isn’t that what we all want?
My bike, on the other hand, is my baby. She’s a deep maroon Harley-Davidson FLHTC with leather bags and straight drag pipes, and she is pure perfection. If she falls ill on a long ride, I’ll put every bit of money I have into making her brand new again. The guys tease me, saying I give the impression that I’m a Waxer. I’m not. I don’t just sit around waxing my bike all day. I’m a full-fledged member of this club, I do the work, and I have the patches to prove it. But my bike, she’s my everything, my only, and my one escape plan—if I ever need it.
“Ryan Cassidy, get your ass in this clubhouse!”
That seemed pretty chipper for my Pops; the vote must have gone in his favor. We don’t do any of that ‘majority rules’ shit in our club. It’s either everyone is for it, or it doesn’t happen. It’s that simple. Still, I couldn’t imagine my Uncle Sean, our tattoo sleeved Sergeant-at-Arms, would let this vote slide past him. Something had to have happened in there. Or maybe Sean had something in mind for later on down the figurative road.
I stepped into the dimly lit meeting room where we held church, our weekly (and often more than once a week) meetings, and greeted my fellow MC members. We were a small club; there were only sixteen of us all together, now that our prospect had been voted in. Shit. Who was going to do my laundry now?
My father stood at the end of the table, leaning over my cut. In the one-percenter life, you never hand over your colors to anyone, but Pops had this ceremonial fetish and I didn’t mind placating him. When he became president, the club turned into something like a frat house. The “hazing” rituals were a little more extreme, but for the most part, we’re just a bunch of guys who find pleasure in our family bond. We also gamble and move guns,
which could possibly set us apart, but nowadays I’m not promising some fraternities don’t follow that same path.
Pops nodded to the table, impatiently waiting for my reaction. My eyes lowered to the thick leather, and I noticed a new patch lying over the right chest pocket. I studied the words, not wanting to grasp their meaning, but there was nothing I could do now. The vote was cast. It had happened. I was the new Vice President of The Blood of Cupids MC.
Grace
Class felt long today. I know you need a master’s degree to be a teacher, but sometimes I just want to forget it all. I mean, why bother? Let’s be honest, who would hire me to teach in their school system anyway? My blood literally began the most feared motorcycle club on the east coast. My family is The Walking Shadows. That’s the only life I know. I am the granddaughter of the creator, and the daughter of the president of the mother chapter. Within the last fifteen years, eleven charters have formed under my father’s rule. With about twenty members in each chapter, The Walking Shadows were close to 250 members strong. There are 250 violent people performing acts of crime at the call of my father. Is that the kind of person you’d want teaching your kids?
Still, I try to tell myself it’s not me. I stand on the outside of that life, only allowing it to reach my surface. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I fall victim to the acts of my surface, but deep down, I am different. I am only a daughter and a granddaughter. The club does not define me. Instead, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t follow in my mother’s footsteps, that I wouldn’t let this life I was born into dictate who I was to become.
My mother. She was a teacher. I never understood what drew her to the MC life. At least from my memories, and the stories I’d been told about her, she seemed…different. She didn’t wear the normal ol’ lady clothes, she stayed away from drugs, and mostly, she paid attention to me. That’s not the case for many club parents. There’s so much shit to deal with otherwise that the kids become neglected. But my mother, she saw to it that we were all taken care of, at least until I was four. That’s when she died. I don’t remember her very well, but the memories I do have are spectacular—well, most of them are. She taught English. I would just watch her lips move as she spoke. Her words were beautiful. Everything she said had meaning.
My father would tell me stories about her when I was little. Every night I would learn something new, something that made me love her even more. Then the stories stopped. I think once I lost my freckles, I reminded him too much of her. I wish I had gotten to know her better. I wish I still had the stories to sing me to sleep at night.
I paced the length of my room. Why was I thinking about my family? Hadn’t I moved here to get away from it all? Hadn’t I set my foot down and said that, unlike undergrad, I’d be going away for grad school whether he liked it or not? My father is quite protective and likes everyone I interact with to know he’s watching. Everyone. Any boyfriend I almost had was scared away within the first week. Prospects escorted me to class, and my car was surrounded by a motorcade of bikes to and from the campus. Not only that, but my dad had installed a remote start in my car, because he was certain that one day someone would try to use an ignition triggered bomb to kill me.
I was not one of those girls whose friends shaped their teenage years, because my only friends were the girls who worked at my father’s club. But because he didn’t want me ending up like his strippers, he even put a limit on the amount of time I was allowed to spend with them. With all that being said, I don’t think I’m too harsh when I say that I hate motorcycles. The sounds of the engines still haunt me in my sleep. Then again, maybe it’s just another prospect checking up on me.
I couldn’t think about them anymore. I needed to get out of my apartment, clear my head. Sure, it was spacious for city living, but the walls still felt as though they were about to close in on me. I guess no matter how much I tried to fight it, I would always be a country girl. I peeked out my window and put faces to the college kids I heard hitting up the bars. Okay. It was time to get out and meet people my own age without my family here to get in the way. Maybe I would have a few drinks. Maybe I would get drunk. Maybe I would kiss a boy. The possibilities were endless. I stopped myself. I couldn’t believe how juvenile I sounded. I was acting like a high school kid who was going to their first party. But I never was that kid. I was never invited to anything, because everyone knew that if they pissed off my dad, there would be consequences. Well, I wasn’t that lonely kid anymore. It was time to leave my apartment on a Friday night.
Why was I so nervous? From my window, I could see a quaint Old City dive bar catty-cornered from my apartment. That would at least be a little safer. If I happened to get drunk for the first time in my life, it wouldn’t be hard to find my way home. I grabbed my sweater off the hook and made my way toward the door.
My phone began to ring. Speak of the devil.
“Hi Dad.”
“Hi Gracie.”
“What’s up?”
“Just checking in.”
“Dad, I’ve been here for six weeks now. Nothing bad has happened. Nothing bad will happen. You can stop checking in.”
“You know how I feel about Philadelphia.”
“Okay. Next semester I’ll transfer to Stanford.”
He sat silent, knowing I’d defeated him. The only thing worse than me being in Philadelphia was if I was so far away that he couldn’t keep an eye on me. Sometimes it feels really good to beat someone that powerful. Two hundred and fifty men might answer to him, but I just made him answer to me.
“Message received. Bye kid.”
“Love you, Dad.”
Yes, I knew how he felt about Philly. He hated it. Aside from the noise and lack of privacy compared to my cushy Central Pennsylvania upbringing, Philadelphia happened to be the home of The Blood of Cupids MC. They were our club’s biggest rivals. I always thought it seemed silly. They had a good amount of alliance MC’s, but the club itself was very tiny, maybe fifteen or so members in all. From what I understood, it started as a turf war. Our club is much older, and, while never setting foot in the city, it was an unwritten rule that we had the Philadelphia area. When The Blood of Cupids staked claim, my grandfather was furious, vowing to one day wipe them off the map. He died not long after, still with that promise at his helm.
Maybe that is why my father always had a personal vendetta against them. If my father hated any single motorcycle club, it would be The Blood of Cupids. If he could see one club burn up in flames, it would be The Blood of Cupids. Of course, it didn’t help that The Blood of Cupids killed my mother.
Ryan
They started chanting for a speech.
“I don’t know what universe you think you’re living in, but you can go on dreaming.”
My Pops stood there, all six feet and three inches of him, looking so proud. It was damn gross. “Come on, Ryan, don’t you have something you want to say to the guys?”
Of course I did. I wanted to tell them they were all a bunch of idiots for voting a twenty-five year old kid into such a coveted role only because his father signed their paychecks, so to speak. What the hell did they expect me to say?
“You guys are my family. I won’t let you down.” That was the extent of my speech giving skills.
Pop started the applause, and everyone followed suit—everyone but Uncle Sean. He was leaning back in his chair with his inked arms crossed, eyes glued to me. A small smile spread across his scarred face. I don’t care if he’s blood, I don’t trust him.
An arm circled my shoulder and led me to the corner. My Pops knew of this unspoken competition between his older brother and me, and he was trying to break it up before it began.
“How should we celebrate, Son?”
“You know, I think I’m going to be celebrating alone tonight.”
He chuckled to himself. “You expect a Mama to drop her panties when you bring her back to your shit hole apartment? Stay here. I still have some girls that haven’t yet showed you a good t
ime. Not many, but some.” It was always weird for my Pops to speak to me in such a way, because I never saw him partake. I guess I didn’t notice it at first—I was too involved in “the scene”, but when my honeymoon phase in the club ended, I started to notice that Pops was always putting on a show. He spent his time making sure everyone else was happy while his heart seemed to be somewhere else.
“Well the one you sent over last night had no problem with my shit hole apartment. And I hope you didn’t think for a second that I didn’t know it was you.”
“I’m just trying to keep you confident. What else are fathers for?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’m good though, believe me. See you later Pops.”
I turned my back, ready to get the hell out of that stuffy room.
“Hey, forgetting something?”
I looked over my shoulder, knowing full well what he wanted. His muscled arms were open, asking for mine in return. I stepped into his hold. We were the same height with the same build. Had it not been for the flour dusting of grey in his hair, you might not have been able to tell the difference between us in that embrace.
“Thanks Pops.” I had to say it. He thought he had done a great thing for me. And maybe a year ago, I would’ve agreed with him, but it seemed that lately I looked around and didn’t understand anything. Was this really the life I wanted?
“I’d do anything for you, Ryan.”
I knew he meant it, yet I hated him for it. It was my hatred that seemed to keep me going. I grabbed my cut off the table, saluted the group of men, and headed toward my shit hole apartment.
Pops had a point: it really was a shit hole. I didn’t care about my room; I only cared about my bike. I remembered when Pops first started running with the club I was about five or six, and I would watch the swarm of bikes pass by our house. How I wanted to join them. I wanted to wear the glasses, the helmet, and the bandana, but most of all I wanted a bike. When I finally bought her, I swore I’d never let any wrong come to her. And so my space took a back seat. Why waste money on a couch that could go toward repairing my bike? Why waste time cleaning when I could use that time to work on my bike? My priorities were straight. I knew what I wanted.