BLOOD: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Evil Dead MC Series Book 7)

by Nicole James

  The cool night air felt good on his face as he crossed over the Pontchartrain. It was peaceful with just the calm water below him and a sky full of stars above. He loved making the trip across this bridge on beautiful nights like this. Just him and his bike rumbling under him as the wind rolled over him. It gave him a few minutes of peace, and his mind wandered back to what Undertaker had said tonight.

  Death Heads poaching across the state line was trouble they didn’t need. But if trouble came, they’d handle it. He’d handle it. No one was going to fuck with his club.

  Reaching the other side, he veered left, picking up Chef Hwy, which took him up through the neighborhoods on the east side. Little Saigon, the boys referred to it as, where thousands of Vietnamese refugees sponsored by the Catholic Church had settled after the fall of Saigon in 1974. They’d taken to the similar climate, many with fishing skills finding work on the shrimp boats.

  Blood rolled up through Chalmette, past the refinery district on his left and on up where it bordered the lower ninth ward on his right. He followed it up through the seventh ward and Marigny. Making the final turn curving around onto N. Rampart Street, rolling into the Quarter at just past midnight.

  A couple more turns and he was almost home.

  Around the corner from his place, he spotted a girl standing on the street corner. She was young, scantily dressed, and obviously working the streets in this section where no tourist ventured. In this part of town, on the outskirts of the Quarter, if you went one block in the wrong direction, you were likely to get robbed, if not worse. The parking garage two blocks down had shootings on a weekly basis.

  Blood was familiar with most of the girls who worked this area; he knew them all on sight. He never made use of their services—Blood had all the women he could want at the snap of his fingers.

  This one was young—too young—and probably a runaway, naïve, and desperate. This city would chew her up and spit her out. A lot of girls like her ended up either strung out on drugs, dead in an alley of an overdose, or used up, their lifeless body dumped out in the swamp somewhere, never to be found.

  Blood eyed the girl and wondered if John and the man he worked for already had their hooks in this one like they did every other girl in this part of town.

  A girl didn’t last long on the streets of this town without a pimp getting a hold of her, and in this part of town there was only one.

  Blood coasted to the curb beside her and watched her eyes skate over him and his bike as she approached, obviously thinking him a customer. He watched her long legs and heels eat up the ten feet between them.

  “You lonely, sugar?” she purred in a sexy voice designed to reel him in as one hand seductively twirled her auburn curls.

  The corner of Blood’s mouth lifted. “You new in town, kitten?”

  She smiled. “Kitten. I like that.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Anything you want it to be, Mister. I’ll be your kitten, if that’s what you want.” Her head dipped, her eyes going over his bike, probably sizing up how much she thought he might be worth and adjusting her price accordingly.

  He reached out and tilted her chin up, bringing her gaze back to his. “Asked you a question. Didn’t hear an answer.”

  She swallowed, her eyes getting big at his no-nonsense tone, and replied softly, “Ivy. It’s Ivy.

  “Ivy.” His eyes moved over her face. “You got a last name, Ivy?”

  “Reynolds.”

  “Where’s home, Ivy Reynolds?”

  “Ninth Street.”

  “No. Where’s home?”

  She sucked her lips in, her eyes searching his before apparently deciding it wouldn’t be smart to lie to him. “Iowa.”

  “Iowa. That’s a long way. What brought you to New Orleans, Ivy from Iowa?”

  “I got sick of cornfields.”

  Blood grinned. “I can understand that. But this isn’t Oz. If you’re looking for over-the-rainbow, you won’t find it in this town. Think you probably already figured that out, didn’t you?”

  She stayed mute, but nodded.

  “This isn’t a safe town for a young girl.” He studied her eyes, then lifted his chin. “Black Jack get a hold of you yet?”

  Black Jack Boudreaux was the local crime boss—he ran all the sex trade in this parish and ran a good portion of the drug trade pouring in through the port as well.

  She shook her head and answered softly, “John.”

  “John.” Blood nodded. Black Jack’s right hand man. Blood knew him well. He kept the girls in line and did all Black Jack’s dirty work. Blood glanced up the street. “He been around tonight?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You should go back to Iowa, Ivy. This isn’t a life you want. You won’t survive it. None of you girls ever do. And I’ve seen a bunch.”

  “I can’t.”

  He nodded. “You only think you can’t.” He paused, studying her. She looked thin, but she didn’t look like she’d fallen into the drug trap yet. “He takin’ all you make?”

  She glanced down the street and then back to him, admitting, “Most of it.”

  “You got money to eat?”

  She looked away, and he knew she didn’t. He dug a twenty out of his hip pocket and held it out to her. “Get yourself some chow.”

  Taking it, she glanced around the street again fearfully.

  Blood’s eyes followed, then on impulse, he dug in his vest and pulled out a pen. Clicking it, he took her hand and yanked it toward him to scribble his number on her palm. He released her, saying, “You get in trouble or change your mind about that bus ticket, call me. I’ll do what I can.”

  She looked at the scrawl, and then those too-innocent green eyes lifted to his as she nodded.

  “Take care, Ivy.” Blood twisted his throttle, gunning his engine before dropping the bike into gear and pulling away, roaring down the street. At the corner, he took a right and rolled down an alleyway barely wider than his handlebars. He turned into a quiet courtyard and climbed from his bike. Then he took the outside staircase to his second floor apartment.

  He let himself in, tossing his helmet and shit on the couch. His place was small, but quaint. He kept it neat—a direct contrast to the homes of some of his brothers. There were no overflowing ashtrays or empty beer cans at Blood’s place. He hated clutter.

  His place was old, with a lot of French Quarter character, and he loved it.

  He grabbed a beer and strode out onto the wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the courtyard, but also had a view through the alleyway to the corner across the street.

  He sat on a metal chair and leaned back, putting his booted feet up on the railing. Then he reached over to the little glass-topped table where he kept a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and he lit one up.

  He blew the smoke toward the starry night sky.

  The sounds of Bourbon Street blues and jazz carried through the streets of the Quarter to his ears. Bougainvillea vines climbed his neighbor’s intricate ironwork, the fuchsia petals blowing in the warm night breeze, carrying with it an intoxicating combination of the pink blossoms as well as jasmine and honeysuckle.

  Blood’s thoughts soon drifted back to the dark haired girl he’d fucked earlier.

  He thought about his life. In some ways he was more than satisfied. He loved his brothers, loved his club and the life it had given him. He ran the pads of his fingers absently over the embroidered patches of the letters that ran down the front of his vest. DFFD. It stood for, Dead Forever, Forever Dead, as in the Evil Dead MC. It represented the commitment he and his brothers had to their club and to each other. That club meant everything to him. It had saved him in so many ways—taught him what it was to be a man. Not the kind his father was, but a man a brother would want to stand beside proudly. That kind of respect was earned; it wasn’t given out of fear of a beating, like his father had always seemed to believe. Yes, he loved his club and the brothers it had given him.

  He thought abo
ut Undertaker’s words. Nothing was going to threaten his club, not while he drew breath. He’d defend it and his brothers with his dying breath. It had become his life’s meaning, his only goal. And if new trouble was stirring, then he’d devote every ounce in him to seeing it was squashed like a bug. He owed Undertaker no less.

  Yes, in many ways, he had everything he’d ever wanted. Brothers at his back, men he could depend on, men he’d die for, and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, they’d die for him.

  His eyes moved around his home. He had a place he loved in a part of the city he loved and a motorcycle parked in the courtyard he’d built from the ground up. It was sleek, mean, and badass. And it was his baby.

  Yes, he had a lot to be grateful for in his life, but something was still missing. He knew it when he saw what some of his brothers had. Shades with Undertaker’s daughter, Skylar, Ghost with Jessie… They’d found that special one, that so-called soul mate, and he was happy for them, but he envied them, too. He wondered if maybe that kind of happiness just wasn’t in the cards for him. A woman you could come home to, murmur in the dark about your day to, cuddle with as the dawn broke. One who’d have your back through the dark times when everything went to shit, laugh with you through the good times… Someone to bring you back to earth when your head got too big. Someone to share memories with, build a life with, start a family with. That had never interested him before.

  He huffed out a laugh. Hell, no.

  For a long time now, he’d thought of women as just things to be used, never trusted. His father had drilled that into him from an early age. Women couldn’t be counted on. They bailed at the first sign of hard times. And one woman in particular from his past had emotionally scarred him so badly he didn’t know if he could ever trust another. That had been his experience, and he’d lived by it all his adult life.

  Until he began to see some truly good women come into the lives of some of his brothers and how those women had made them better men. They didn’t make them weaker; they didn’t tear them down, lie, cheat, and steal from them. No, they made them stronger. They shared a real relationship with some of his brothers; a bond that was rock solid and couldn’t be shaken no matter what life threw at them.

  Blood would never have believed that was possible, not in a fucking million years, until he’d witnessed it, seen it with his own eyes. That unicorn did exist.

  But Blood had a hard time reconciling any of that with the way he’d been brought up. It flew in the face of everything he’d ever been taught by his old man. And yes, he knew the man was a son-of-a-bitch, but he’d been Blood’s only male role model during his formative years. Whether it was right or not, those seeds had been planted, taken root, and grown like a choking vine that consumed everything, pushing out all the good. Blood fought them back daily, trying to contain them like some spreading Kudzu vine that couldn’t be killed.

  He’d watched his brothers closely, seen the way some of them truly had partners in the women they’d found.

  Now that he’d seen it, he realized that as uncharacteristic as it may be, he couldn’t help but admit to himself, if no one else, he wanted it, too.

  But hell, the women he met, the women who hung around his club? While there were some good women, none of them were that special one. Not for him. None of them were anyone he couldn’t live without or who had that something extra that could turn around his way of thinking and make a lie of everything his father had drilled into him. So he took what he needed from them and never looked back.

  Gazing up at the stars now, he wondered if any of it would ever be in the cards for him.

  A sound caught his attention: a woman’s scream. It echoed off the buildings and had him dropping his booted feet from the rail and peering to look between the brick walls framing the alleyway.

  Across the street, on the corner, he spotted two girls—one was Ivy, the other a girl he recognized as Cherry. She’d worked that street for six months now—just another runaway Blood had tried to convince to go home. He was always trying to run them off from the clutches of Black Jack and his men. Because watching that son-of-a-bitch get his hooks in them, use them up, and throw them away like yesterday’s garbage, had eaten at him. It got under his skin like nothing ever had. He’d been unable to sit still for that shit, so he’d made up his mind to do something about it. More times than not he failed, but once in a while he succeeded, and it drove the man crazy.

  Blood enjoyed nothing more. Anything he could do to thwart that bastard was well worth it. He only wished they’d all get on buses back to places like Iowa, Indiana, and Illinois.

  His eyes zeroed in on the commotion taking place on the street corner. A guy was hassling them, twisting Ivy’s arm. When Cherry tried to intercede, the guy pulled a knife.

  Blood stood, flinging his cigarette into the night. Where the hell was their damn pimp, John? He usually watched them like a hawk, especially when he was turning out a fresh one.

  The punk slashed his blade in the air toward Cherry in an effort to keep her back while he tried to drag Ivy to a car. When Ivy tried to fight him off, he slammed the butt of the knife into the side of her face, stunning her into submission, and continued dragging her toward the waiting vehicle.

  Poaching new talent—that’s what this guy was doing. Grabbing girls off the street to work the Ninth Ward or down by the docks or out by the oil refinery. Black Jack and John might not be a girl’s dream boss but they were head and shoulders above what was in store for these girls in the low-income sections this guy probably intended to take them.

  Blood vaulted over his balcony railing to the staircase landing, taking the remaining stairs three at a time. Then he sprinted across the courtyard and down the alleyway. He had his gun drawn as he darted across the street, coming up behind the girl’s attacker.

  Blood brought the butt of his gun down on the guy’s head, dropping him like a ton of bricks. Before the guy realized what was happening, his knife clattered across the sidewalk.

  The girls screamed as a shot rang out from the driver of the vehicle.

  Blood spun and fired back.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  The red Cadillac, with its twenty inch chrome rims, squealed off from the curb with four new bullet holes in the side, compliments of Blood.

  He looked down at the piece of garbage sprawled at his feet, out cold, then his eyes lifted to the girls. Ivy was a trembling wreck, her hand holding her battered face. Cherry was calmer, having been on the streets longer.

  Blood moved to Ivy, brushing the hair off her cheek to reveal the knot already swelling and turning purple, a gash in the center.

  “I’m okay.” Her glassy eyes met his.

  “Where is he?” Blood snapped at Cherry, the tick in his jaw betraying the fury vibrating through him.

  She shrugged nonchalantly, but she knew what he was asking. “John’s been busy with other stuff.”

  “Maybe you need to find yourself a new pimp,” he suggested with a glare.

  “You know Black Jack owns the Quarter.” She moved to Ivy, putting her arm around the shaking girl.

  Blood stepped back and lifted his chin, ordering Cherry, “Take her and get out of here before that Caddy circles back around for this asshole.” He kicked the man at his feet and then looked up at Ivy. “Think about what I said, kitten.”

  He watched them hustle down the street and around the corner, disappearing into the darkness. Then his eyes slid to the right, down the street two blocks over where Black Jack’s compound was located.

  Cherry’s words came back to him. John’s been busy. Blood wondered what he was busy with. What could be more important than taking care of his inventory? Whatever it was, it had something to do with Black Jack. Blood had no doubt about that, and he suddenly felt the need to find out what that could be, because keeping tabs on what Black Jack was up to was never a bad idea.

  Blood strode up the street.

  Two blocks down, he turned and headed down a dark alley that
ran along the back of Black Jack’s compound. Rounding the corner, the sight that met his eyes had him stopping dead in his tracks. There, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see them, were four members of the Death Heads MC standing next to their bikes.

  What the ever-loving fuck?

  Death Heads ran out of Texas. They rarely ever crossed into Louisiana, let alone all the way east to New Orleans. This was Evil Dead territory, and they knew it.

  The four men glanced over at him. Everyone stood frozen in shock for a split second. And then, before he could pull his gun, a shot rang out, and he felt a bullet tear through his side. A split second later, something slammed into his head from behind and everything went dark as he sank to the ground.

  Chapter Two

  The four men stood over the slumped body of the Evil Dead MC patch holder.

  “Holy shit. Greasy, what the fuck is he doing here?” one of them asked, stunned.

  “Stoner, check the street. Maybe he isn’t alone.” Greasy jerked his head toward the corner the man had come around.

  “Didn’t hear no bike,” Stoner replied.

  “That don’t mean shit,” Greasy snapped back, his irritation showing. “Move.”

  Stoner moved off to check.

  “Ratchet, pull his wallet,” Greasy ordered another one of his men.

  The man squatted down and dug through his pockets, coming up with a wallet. He flipped it open, snagging the bills.

  “Who is he?” Greasy growled from where he stood over the prone body.

  Ratchet pulled his license and studied it in the moonlight. Then he passed it to Greasy.