The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC)

by Daniella Tucci

  BOOK ONE

  by Daniella Tucci

  Copyright © 2014 Daniella Tucci

  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.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE – COLLISION

  TWO – WORLDS COLLIDE

  THREE – MR. GRUBBY PLAYS DOCTOR

  FOUR – LETTERS

  FIVE – TROUBLE

  SIX – WHEN TWO WORLDS COLLIDE

  SEVEN – HAPPY UNBIRTHDAY TO YOU

  EIGHT – FACE OFF

  NINE – CADE’S BETTER HALF

  TEN – THINGS HEAT UP

  ELEVEN – CHAOS AND FAMILY

  TWELVE – TARGET

  THIRTEEN – PLANS AND COMMITTMENTS

  FOURTEEN – DIVORCE

  FIFTEEN – AFTERMATH

  SIXTEEN – PATCH OVER

  SEVENTEEN – MURDER YOUR FAMILY

  EIGHTEEN – FILTHY FEW

  NINETEEN – GIMP

  Prologue…

  A young woman dressed in a severe navy blue Oscar De La Renta suit stepped off the curb and onto Main Street amidst heavy afternoon traffic. Deep in conversation and drinking a Red Bull she never saw the approaching motorcycles or even heard the throaty rumble from their V-Twin engines and straight pipes sans mufflers. Anyone else would have heard and probably felt the oncoming iron tide, but Morgan isn’t just anybody. She’s the up and coming powerhouse trader from the Fortune 500 firm Capital America and she uses her seven figure income much like an ancient Roman gladiator would use his shield in the coliseum; not just to defend but to attack as well.

  For Morgan money is the shield that keeps everyone out of her inner circle save for the few she lets in; like her little brother Jaime. Her seven figure income prevents her from rubbing elbows with her housekeeper, her gardener, the man who works on her Porsche, the man at Starbucks where she gets her three cups of coffee a day. She makes sure she only rubs elbows with the city’s financial elite; a right that she has fought hard to obtain. Her money had never let her down until today.

  She never heard the angry beep of the horn or the squeal of brakes, and she certainly did not hear the sound of metal on pavement as the rider of the Harley Davidson 2010 Wide Glide motorcycle laid his bike down in a valiant effort not to drive down the idiotic woman in front of him. Sparks showered nearby cars and pedestrians as six hundred-fifty pounds of steel ground away an inch of asphalt. Fortunately for the woman the iron horse was only sliding at forty miles per hour and not upright at sixty-five. Nevertheless it was an ugly collision. When the rear tire came spinning around, it struck the woman’s left leg just below the knee, sending her cartwheeling through the air like a 90 pound stuffed bag of flower. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a much better alternative to being dragged under hundreds of pounds of unforgiving, smoldering metal.

  When first responders picked their way through a long stretch of steel, leather, and rubber detritus, they feared there would be no survivors. The motorcycle had pretty much disintegrated when it slid into oncoming traffic and the path of an eighteen wheeler. Fortunately for the rider he wasn’t still attached to the bike when it met its fate. The paramedics were surprised to see the rider sitting up in the middle of the street looking around him. Amidst the debris they also found an unconscious women, cell phone still in hand. Even her injuries were far less serious than they’d expected; both biker and pedestrian would survive.

  ONE

  Collision

  Pain! It hammers into my brain in such a way I cannot begin to escape; despite the warm glow of the morphine they finally give me in the ER. Even then the pain still manages to punch through the layers of medication covering me like a wool blanket.

  They still haven’t told me what I’m doing here strapped to what I can only describe as a bed of nails. I try one more time to sit up but someone has had the foresight to strap me down.

  “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” I shout at the first person who wanders through my field of vision.

  “Ma’am,” begins a man in blue scrubs with endless amounts of patience. “Same as five minutes ago; you’re at Mercy Heights emergency room. You were hit by a motorcycle. If you can just relax it will go a long way in lessening your pain.”

  I try to kick him. I can’t help it. I’m not accustomed to being tied down and fed bullshit. What’s that saying about mushrooms? Kept in the dark and fed bullshit? A second ago I was buying 10,000 shares of Microsoft for my client in Boyle Heights, and now I’m tied up like a crazy person. This is making no sense. I go to turn my head to the side to get a picture of the room I’m in but I can’t seem to move my head at all; not even a millimeter.

  Abruptly another face swims into my vision. It’s a handsome face; one that belongs to a doctor. I can tell. He’s got that smug sense of self-importance that follows him around wherever he goes. I can’t stand people like that. Just because he’s spent fifteen years in college doesn’t make him god’s gift to mankind.

  “Ma’am, If you—”

  “I swear to god, if one more person calls me ma’am I’m going to call my fucking lawyers. I’m not an old lady!”

  “I’m sorry…” He pauses and looks away, presumably at my chart or something. “Again, I’m sorry Morgan, but you were struck by a motorcycle forty minutes ago and you have sustained an open fracture to your tibia, two cracked ribs, and most likely a concussion. Just as soon as the room is ready you’ll be going in for a head scan and following that, surgery to repair your leg.”

  “And the person who hit me?”

  “He’s going to be fine; minor injuries I understand, and I’m sure he appreciates your concern.”

  “Concern? Are you kidding me? What you’re mistaking for concern is my way of finding out if the rider is alive so I can sue his reckless ass!”

  “Well, you might have your work cut out for you then Morgan. This is not—”

  “He ran me down on the sidewalk!” I can’t believe this doctor. “In what world does that not make him responsible?”

  “The fact that you stepped off the curb and walked out in the middle of traffic. He did what he could to avoid killing you and you should be grateful for that. Had he not intentionally crashed his bike you surely would have been killed.”

  “What the hell?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Walked out in the middle of traffic? No fucking way! I was standing on the sidewalk placing an order for Microsoft. No way did I step off the curb and into oncoming traffic and especially not in front of a motorcycle.

  “I’m sorry Morgan, but it’s true. Apparently there’s a recording of the whole thing as well as numerous witnesses. You were in the wrong ma’am.”

  “What did I say about calling me ma’am?”

  “Nothing you can back up with action Morgan so why don’t you just try to relax and you’ll feel a lot better.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Basically yes. Your legs and ribs have been stabilized and we’re just waiting for the radiology department to come get you for your CT scan.”

  “Great, leave please.”

  It’s a good thing my hands are tied. It’s the only thing keeping him safe right now!

  “Fine…I’m leaving. You have a better day now miss.”

  “Yeah, you too mister.”

  “I see you’re in fine form today.” Says a very familiar voice.

  “Stacy?” What the hell is my assistant doing here? She couldn’
t have known about my accident so soon.

  Abruptly Stacy’s pretty face hovers over mine. She doesn’t look too surprised to see me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I was wondering the same about you Morgan. I’m here to see my cousin and I heard this abrasive sand paper like voice down the hall and I said to myself, there can’t be anyone else in this world that self-entitled and that annoying! And guess what, I was right. But here’s the weird thing. I just spoke to one of the doctors... you’re the one who made my cousin lay down his bike in front of a semi- truck.”

  “What the hell? This is too weird. What’s your cousin doing in my neck of the woods?”

  “He was actually coming to see me. Remember I said I had that family thing to attend to this afternoon? Well he was that family thing. We share a place on Webster and Lowell. Not sure what’s up or why he had to show up at my work but…”

  “I see…well I hope everything is fine. Thanks for popping in.”

  “Yeah, well I’ll check on you later.” She finishes.

  “Bye for now then.”

  I’m not usually this abrasive; especially to medical professionals—I know they’re only trying to help me—so the only thing I can figure is that it’s the pain that’s making my fairly short fuse almost non-existent. I usually reserve my abuse to my clients when they don’t do what I tell them to. I can’t believe I stepped out in front of a motorcycle. I’m usually focused…manically so; if there is such a thing. You can’t find anyone more fixated than I am. I would love to see the police report on this, and the supposed video, because it’s just not like me.

  I start to turn my head to look around the room and I’m reminded again that I’m still strapped down head to toe; especially my head. Another thought occurs to me. If I have a concussion does that mean my ability to think is going to be impacted? More than anything I need my thoughts to function on full capacity. I could be paralyzed from the neck down and still do the job I love, but if my brains are in some way scrambled I’m going to suck as a trader; and I live for trading.

  I remember my first day on the job as a new hire at Capital America. I was the firm’s newest stockbroker, and how naïve I was when I first sat down at my new desk. I noticed a couple things. I only had one computer. As I looked around the room at 6:10 in the morning, just about everybody had two if not three computers on their desks. There was a phone with a wireless Plantronics headset. Sitting on my keyboard was a three inch thick study manual for the Series 52 test. I set it to the side and turned on my Compaq computer. In about 90 seconds my screen is full of red and green letters and numbers. I had no idea what the different groupings of letters meant. I had never followed the stock market, didn’t know what a bond or mutual fund was, and the Dow Jones Industrial Average meant nothing to me. I was pathetic.

  Tom, the branch manager who set up my work station gave me brief instructions.

  “Study your ass off Morgan, and answer the fucking phones!”

  Answer the phones? What the hell was I supposed to say? I was in no way prepared for the mayhem that followed when the clock struck 6:30 am. The market was open and suddenly the room was full of about a dozen stockbrokers shouting back and forth as they placed orders and whooped it up as they instantly calculated their commissions.

  And suddenly my phone was ringing and everyone else was already on at least one call. With great trepidation I picked up the phone.

  “Capital America, this is Morgan.”

  “My account number is 57-363-999. What do you think of Microsoft? I have 10,000 shares and it’s down 3 points this morning.”

  What do I think? Who the hell is Microsoft and what’s their trading symbol? I hit the mute button on my phone and ask the room around me.

  “What’s the ticker symbol for Microsoft?” I ask.

  No one answers so I ask again. Still no answer so this time I stand up and shout!

  “What the hell is Microsoft’s trading symbol?”

  And out of the ether comes the answer. “MSFT!”

  I punch in the letters into my computer and like magic I see MSFT in red and then a long string of different numbers. After a couple seconds I manage to figure out that the stock is down three and an eighth. I relay the information to the man on the phone and then I make my very first stock recommendation.

  “Hey, it’s tough to bet against Microsoft, they’re a stellar company. If I liked them yesterday at twenty-eight and change, and I assume you did, given you own so many shares, then why the hell would you not love them when they go on sale. And that’s what we have here, a great company on sale! What a fucking buy opportunity!”

  He bought 2,000 more shares. Sadly I didn’t benefit from that trade as I wasn’t licensed yet. I had to make up an excuse and hand him off to a broker who was licensed. But I had done it and I bullshitted my way through my first day on the job and I’ve been bullshitting ever since. The only difference this time is I’m licensed and I don’t have to call and ask my clients before I place a trade in their accounts. It’s called discretionary trading and yes it is the best thing since sliced bread.

  “Morgan, my name is Ed and I’m going to be taking you to get your CT scan. Then hopefully we can remove that collar from your neck.”

  “I certainly hope so.” I reply.

  Ed seems like a nice guy. He’s an African American orderly and has a cheery disposition and ready smile.

  “I know from personal experience how much a pain those things are.” Ed says. “After my car accident I had to wear one for a week. It felt like months though. Hopefully you won’t have to wear yours nearly as long.”

  “Yeah I’m not so sure I’m that disciplined. I’d probably ditch it in the first couple days.”

  “Well you wouldn’t be the first.”

  We continue to chit chat as we get in the elevator to the second floor radiology department where the CT scan is located. I’m not sure if it’s Ed, or just the medicine finally wearing me down but I can feel my eyelids getting heavy. By the time they’re transferring me onto the table that will whisk me away into the machine for the scan I’ve already started to nod off.

  In fact, I lost a lot of time between that CT scan and the day after my surgery. When I finally wake up the next day after surgery my other assistant Jason is sitting in a chair in the corner of my room.

  TWO

  Worlds Collide

  The first thing I notice is I can actually move my head around. I reach up to my neck just to check. Sure enough, the C-collar is gone.

  “Hey, get your lazy ass out of my chair!”

  He actually jumps he’s so startled, and nearly winds up on the floor. It’s strange to see him outside the office. If it weren’t for him and Stacy I’d go nuts. I already work 80 hours a week even with their help.

  “How do you feel?” He asks me as he stands up and stretches.

  “Better now that I can move my neck.” I reply. “What’s in that bag?”

  I just noticed a bulky plastic hospital bag in the corner by his chair.

  “Yeah…you’re not gonna like it Morgan.”

  Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. “Give it to me!” I demand.

  He clearly doesn’t want me looking into the bag, but he also knows my tone of voice. He knows better than to refuse me when I get like this, so he brings me the bag and sets in on the edge of the bed before retreating to a safe distance. It must be really bad. I hold my breath as I slowly open it.

  “Fuck!” I swear explosively as I see what’s left of my Diane Von Furstenburg navy suit.

  The paramedics, in their infinite wisdom decided to cut off my clothes rather than remove them in the ER like any normal person. That’s $2,000 in ribbons in the hospital bag. Then it hits me again. I haven’t seen my shoes. Frantically I dig through the shredded designer fabric until my index finger curls around a strap. I close my eyes this time as I bring out a solitary pump. It feels okay so I open my eyes. I’m holding in my hand half of my p
air of Christian Louboutin pumps. There’s not a scratch on it! Frantically I dig through the rest of the bag until I get ahold of the other shoe and I bring it out triumphantly. It’s perfection. The other shoe, as they say, did not drop. I hold them up for Jason to see. And the heel falls off!

  “Son of a fucking bitch. If I ever catch that asshole who ran me over I’m going to shove this shoe up his ass and then down his throat!”

  “Wow, I guess this is not a good time to be the asshole who hit you on his motorcycle then.” Says a deep voice, just outside the door. Even before I set eyes on the man who just interrupted my well-deserved tirade, his voice literally has me eating out of his hands. I know subconsciously, even before looking, that I’m about to meet my match.

  As the words slip out of his mouth I instantly picture the man. I imagine he has on a $4,000 suit, $2,000 shoes and a $10,000 Rolex watch. No one who speaks that smooth, whose words have this kind of effect on me, could be anything less. He’s either a CFO, or a CEO, or an investment banker of some stature, or a high priced hedge fund manager, but he’s got to be something out of this world to have this kind of influence on my body and mind. My brain is working a million miles an hour and my body seems to be mired in molasses as I turn to look at the hulking man in the doorway.

  It’s a fucking biker. It’s my fucking biker, and by that I mean it’s the fucking biker who ran me over on the street two days ago. And he’s a grubby mess! How can a man looking like…like that, send waves of longing straight to my core just by uttering a few words? I should say something quick before he starts talking again and grabs the upper hand. Instead I throw fifteen hundred dollars-worth of my $3,000 pair of shoes at him. It’s a good throw. He obviously wasn’t expecting it and it nails him square in the chest.

  “I guess you think I deserved that.” He says.