by Nicole James
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
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
EPILOGUE
PREVIEW OF UNDERTAKER
Also by Nicole James
BLOOD
An Evil Dead MC Story
Nicole James
BLOOD
An Evil Dead MC Story
Nicole James
Published by Nicole James
Copyright 2017 Nicole James
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art by Viola Estrella
Cover Photography: Reggie Deanching / R+M Photography
Cover Model: Connor Smith
Back Photography: Egmont Strigl / Tradebit
Editing by CookieLynn Publishing
PROLOGUE
Blood lay chained to the filthy iron cot, his wounds burning like fire. The room was like an oven in the heat of the humid New Orleans afternoon. He knew it had to be late afternoon by the angle of the sunlight coming through the slats of the louvered shutters covering the windows. But that wasn’t the only reason the sweat was pouring off him; his fever was spiking as the infection took hold.
He heard the lock on the door rattle, and looked toward the sound, trying to focus. A man shoved a woman into the room ahead of him. He remembered the man—a sadistic son of a bitch—but they’d never brought a woman in before.
He tried hard to make sense of what he was seeing, but she was just a pale green blur. Were those hospital scrubs? He knew the fever was starting to mess with his mind. It had to be, because when she hesitantly approached him, her blessedly cool hand pressed to his forehead, and he looked up into the face of an angel.
Was she coming to take him to heaven?
A laugh bubbled up inside him. Heaven? More likely hell is where he’d be going.
Chapter One
“Heard a rumor the other day.”
Blood straightened from his shot at the pool table to look over at Undertaker. “Yeah, what’s that?”
The President of the Evil Dead MC’s New Orleans Chapter clutched the pool cue in his hands and studied the table. “There’s word circulating around that the Death Heads are looking to patch over one of the smaller clubs near the Texas State Line.”
“Ain’t one of ‘em worth a shit. All they’ll be patching over is a bunch of pussies.” Blood moved to the small high-top table and grabbed his beer. After finishing it off, he looked across the clubhouse to the bar and signaled the Prospect to bring them another round.
Undertaker grinned at Blood’s blunt description, but held back his remark.
Blood pointed at him with the mouth of his empty bottle. “Fuck those Texas bastards. What’s the bug up their ass this time?”
“We’ll deal with them once we have all the information. I don’t like to go off half-cocked.” Undertaker sank the last ball on the table and moved to stand with Blood. He picked up the cigarette in the ashtray and took a drag, his eyes focusing on Blood through the smoke. “The trouble between our clubs goes back a long way. Back twenty years ago when Skeeter ran this club, and a guy named Buckeye ran the Death Heads in Texas.
“A couple of our guys were riding down I-10 with their old ladies on the back. A vehicle pulled alongside and fired a shotgun at them. The bikes went down. One of the girls was killed. We retaliated. They claimed it wasn’t them.”
“I’ve heard the story.”
“Let me make my point. I was the one who handled the retaliation, and I did time for it. Come to find out, it wasn’t the Death Heads that day; it was some hippie-hating rednecks in a pickup truck out for a joyride. I did what I did and paid the price for it. I’ve had to get right with that in my head. Choices I made, they changed everything. I let it eat at me for a long time; it affected everything I did, every decision I made. My point is, if we don’t deal with the past, we can’t move forward.”
Blood nodded, still not sure what Undertaker was getting at, unless he was trying to tell Blood there were things he needed to deal with in his own past.
“You’re a smart man, Blood. The smartest on my crew. You’re quick to pick up on shit, always cut through the bullshit to see the heart of the problem. You can read people like a book. But sometimes its ourselves we have the hardest time seeing clearly.”
“You about to bust my balls for something?”
“Not at all.”
“What then?”
Undertaker shook his head like he wasn’t going to answer… or had decided better of it. “You know you’re like a son to me, right? Have been since the day I pulled you out from under the thumb of that piece-of-shit old man of yours.”
His old man. Most days Blood tried not to think about him. He nodded, his eyes on the green felt of the pool table a long moment before they swung to the man who was so much more than his father had ever been. “You know I know that. You. This club. They’re everything to me. The man I am today—that’s got fuck to do with my shitty childhood. I’m a man because you made me one.”
The corner of Undertaker’s mouth pulled up, his eyes filling with what Blood knew was the love of a father for a son. Maybe Blood wasn’t really his, but it sure felt like it. The man had always treated him like he was, and if he didn’t quite buy Blood’s denial of the effects his childhood had on him, the man let it go.
Undertaker took his right fist and tapped his chest, just over his heart and held out his knuckles to Blood.
Blood did the same, tapping his fist to his heart and bumping fists with his President. It was a sign of love, loyalty, and respect—something every brother in this chapter felt for each other.
“Evil Dead. First, last, and always,” Blood spoke the club’s motto.
“First, last, and always,” Undertaker repeated back in a gravely voice then pulled Blood in for a hug and several pounding back slaps. He said in his ear, “Till I go to my grave, Brother.”
***
Two beers later, Blood wandered outside the clubhouse where a group of his brothers stood. The air reeked of weed.
Sandman was saying, “Guys, I told you this story…”
Blood grinned as he lit up a cigarette, blew the smoke up toward the starry night sky, and said, “Guys this is your chance to say ‘yes, you did tell us this story.’”
The men all chuckled.
“Fuck off,” Sandman said, giving him a dirty look.
Blood blew him a kiss and asked, “What are we up to boys?”
“Talkin’ about pussy,” Bam-Bam said with a chuckle. “And who was the youngest when they lost their virginity.”
Blood laughed at the joke, knowing full well they weren’t talkin
g about either of those things.
Sandman lit up a joint and took a long toke, then blew the smoke in the air and passed the joint to Easy. “I need to get me a woman.”
“Get hitched,” Easy suggested.
“Tried that. Twice. Bad idea, both times.”
Bam-Bam asked, “What ever happened to that last broad you were with, Sandman?”
“I dumped her ass. She was creepin’ me out.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say she lives on the corner of Hoodoo and Voodoo.”
Easy choked on the toke he was taking, his eyes watering with laughter. “Well, she sounds like a keeper.”
Blood snorted. “You sure can pick ‘em.”
Sandman continued, “I’m talkin’ potions, voodoo dolls, the whole freakin’ shebang.”
“Bet she’s got a doll with your name on it.” Easy passed the joint on.
Mud took it and observed, “Maybe that’s why your knee’s been bothering you, Sandman. She stuck a pin in it.”
Blood replied with a grin, “Nah, if she stuck a pin, it’d be higher and to the left.”
Sandman looked down at his crotch and paled. “Shit, man, don’t fuckin’ joke about that. Fuck.”
They all burst out laughing at Sandman’s sudden unease.
“Remember that time Sandman brought that chick from Mississippi around?”
“The one he caught Bam-Bam with behind the shed?”
Easy chuckled. “Beat the shit out of him that night.”
“Hey, in my defense, he hadn’t claimed her.”
The men laughed. “Only cost you a broken finger and two front teeth. Was she worth it?”
“Fuck no,” both men said in unison.
Blood shook his head, trying to hide his smile while the rest guffawed.
“Here’s to sweaty sex and bloody brawls!” Bam-Bam held his beer in the air.
“Here, here.” Blood clinked his bottle with his brothers. That’s what this club meant to him. No—it was more than that. Much more. It was brotherhood and family and home.
His gaze strayed over the compound and past the line of bikes parked along the side of the building.
Speaking of sweaty sex, Blood thought as he took a deep drag off his smoke and eyed the dark haired beauty standing over with the girls. Her eyes connected with his as he assessed her. She had thick long hair—perfect for wrapping around his hand—and long legs—perfect for wrapping around his hips. She was dressed in a tank top and shorts that barely covered her ass. He’d seen her at clubhouse parties once or twice—caught her checking him out before, too. Didn’t think she had hooked up with anyone in the club yet. Maybe she was holding out for one brother in particular. Maybe, by the look in her eyes, that brother was him. He slowly blew the smoke toward the sky, his gaze still on her. Hell, he needed a good fuck. Why not take what she was offering? He flung what was left of his smoke into the night and stalked toward her. He didn’t pause to chitchat or return the greetings some of the women gave him.
“Hey, Blood.”
“How’s it goin’, Blood?”
He didn’t say a single word, just clamped his hand around her wrist and tugged her through the parking lot and around the building. She had the good sense not to question him as she quick-stepped behind him. Perhaps she’d been paying attention, perhaps she’d studied him, knew he didn’t like a lot of talk, knew just what she could expect from him. Blood took what he wanted; he didn’t debate it, didn’t negotiate it, and didn’t waste time seducing it.
He kept going, leading her straight to the shed in back where the brothers all did repair work on their bikes. It was a wood building with a concrete floor. He yanked open the door, flicked on the lights, and pulled her inside. Kicking the door shut, his eyes glanced over the interior. There was one bike up on the bike lift, half torn apart. The surrounding walls held several workbenches. There were two bikes waiting for repairs. His gaze locked on the last bike. The Street Bob on the end would suit his needs.
He pulled the girl to him, catching her face in his hands and bringing her mouth up to his. As he drove his tongue inside, he walked her backward toward the bike. When she bumped against it, his hands went to the hem of the Harley tank she wore and, in one smooth movement, pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. It landed on the side mirror, where it dangled. His eyes hit her pushup bra—pretty little rhinestones set in lace. Nice. He appreciated the effort and wondered if she’d dressed with him in mind, but he didn’t waste too much time admiring it, and he didn’t spew any flowery compliments either. With a flick of his fingers the fastening popped free, and he tossed it aside as well. It landed over the handlebars of the Fat Boy one bike over.
Nice rack, pale skin, and pretty pink nipples. He bent, his mouth latching onto one while he took the other between his thumb and fingers and pinched until she moaned and her fingers threaded through his hair to pull his face closer. His mouth moved to the other side, giving it equal attention.
Her tits were nice, but what he really wanted was to sink his dick in her pussy. Wasting little time, his hands went to the waistband of her shorts, and a moment later he was yanking them down her thighs. Then he spun her, sunk his fist into her silky hair, and shoved her down over the seat of the bike.
He undid his pants and pulled out his dick. His fingers found her pussy, sliding inside to find her wet.
“You ready?” he growled. Two short words. That’s all he gave her. He hadn’t come in here to talk, and if she’d come with him for more than a quick fuck, she’d misjudged him.
She nodded under the fist that was still tight in her hair.
He lined up and drove into her with a thrust that had her going up on her toes. Her back arched, but he held her down, keeping her chest pinned to the seat. He smacked one cheek. “Keep that pretty ass in the air.”
He thrust into her, over and over again.
She clung to the bike and melted against it.
He smacked her ass again, harder this time. “Up on your toes. Show me how bad you want me to fuck you.”
She complied, and he felt a tremor in her legs.
“You’re gonna take it as hard as I want to give it, right?” he growled as he released her hair and gripped his big hands around her hipbones. She nodded as his eyes moved over her body. She was thin, but she had a round ass—a spank-able ass—the kind he liked. He could see his handprint standing out in red against her pale skin, and the sight of it spurred him on.
He plowed into her, smacking her ass again, and felt her clench down around him, moaning. The girl liked it a little rough. Good, because that’s how he liked to give it. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted her to come apart, he wanted to feel her come all over his dick as she exploded in orgasm.
His hand dipped between her legs, his fingers searching out that little trigger while his other palm pressed the small of her back down, holding her pinned like a butterfly for him. He played with her, toying until she was bucking like a wild thing, begging him for more.
He adjusted his stroke until he knew by her reaction he was driving into her g-spot. He clenched his jaw, holding himself in tight control, not about to come before the lady. That was one thing he never did, no matter how little the girl meant to him. He always made sure they got theirs.
Slowly, she began to pant. He grinned. He loved hearing that sound—the one a woman made right before she came. He kept at her, driving that spot and stroking that little trigger until she exploded into orgasm, moaning her pleasure.
He let up then, but only to clamp his hands around her hips and drive into her in a frenzy until he felt his own release coming on like a freight train. Just before he spilled into her, he pulled out, took his dick in one hand and came all over her ass and the small of her back, milking it until the very last drop.
His breathing was labored, and his legs were weak as he tucked himself back inside his jeans. He grabbed a red shop rag and wiped the mess from her skin. There would be no little accidents fo
r him. No unwanted babies some bitch could try to pin on him like he’d seen happen to so many of his brothers. He tossed the rag in an old oil drum and stepped back.
The girl stood and turned, pulling her lace panties and shorts up as he tossed her tank back at her.
“Leave the bra here,” he ordered.
She frowned. “What?”
He stared until she slipped her tank on over her naked breasts. He grabbed the bra off the handlebars and, with a swing of his arm, sent it into the rafters of the shed. He watched her eyes lift to the collection already hanging haphazardly up there like leftover Mardi Gras beads.
She was nothing special—just one in a long line. He’d just made that clear to her and hadn’t needed to say a harsh word to do it. That’s the way he liked it. He didn’t need any of these bitches thinking just because he fucked them they owned a piece of him. Not gonna happen, sweetheart. But he didn’t need to be unnecessarily cruel, either.
He led her outside the shed, flicking the light off and closing the door. Then he pulled her close, kissing her. Pulling back, he looked down into her face. “You’ve got a real sweet ass, babe, and I liked playing with you. You want to play with me again, I’m all about it, but that’s all I’m offering. Don’t go setting your sights on me for anything more, understand?”
He studied her eyes as she looked up into his face, and he could tell she didn’t like the boundaries he’d just laid out but nodded anyway, apparently willing to take what she could get.
“Good. Glad we got that cleared up. You want a beer?”
She smiled. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He looped an arm around her shoulders and led her toward the clubhouse.
The moon was high in the sky when Blood lifted his big black Harley off its kickstand and fired it up. He twisted the throttle, and his tires crunched on the gravel as he rolled slowly across the lot. With a nod to the Prospect standing guard, he pulled out through the wooden gate and headed home.
The clubhouse was located in Slidell, across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans. He headed down Hwy 11 to cross the lake at the old Maestri Bridge or Five Mile Bridge, as most called it. He preferred it to the newer I-10 Twin Span Bridge built just to the east which had been virtually destroyed in 2005 by Hurricane Katrina. The Five Mile Bridge, built back in 1928 was concrete, and its sturdy construction had stood up to the onslaught, leaving it largely undamaged and the only route to New Orleans after the storm until repairs were finally completed on the other.
