Sons of Mayhem 3: The Full Force

by Pink, Nikki

  Sons of Mayhem 3: The Full Force

  Nikki Pink

  Nikki Pink Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Mailing List

  1. Ava

  2. Lonnie

  3. Ava

  4. Lonnie

  5. Ava

  6. Lonnie

  7. Ava

  8. Ava

  9. Lonnie

  10. Ava

  11. Ava

  12. RockIt Girl’s Blog

  13. Lonnie

  14. Ava

  15. Lonnie

  16. Untitled

  17. Lonnie

  18. Ava

  19. RockIt Girl’s Blog

  20. Lonnie

  21. Ava

  22. Lonnie

  23. Lonnie

  24. Ava

  25. Ava

  26. Ava

  27. Ava

  28. Ava

  29. Lonnie

  30. Ava

  31. Ava

  32. Ava

  33. Si

  34. RockIt Girl’s Blog

  35. Ava

  36. Ava

  37. Lonnie

  38. Lonnie

  39. Ava

  40. Ava

  41. Lonnie

  42. RockIt Girl’s Blog

  43. Lonnie

  44. Lonnie

  45. Ava

  46. Lonnie

  47. Lonnie

  48. Lonnie

  49. RockIT Girl’s Blog

  50. RockIt Girl’s Blog

  51. Ava

  52. Jase and Nicole

  53. Si

  54. RockIt Girl’s Blog

  55. Ava

  Copyright © 2015 by Nikki Pink

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Mailing List

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  1

  Ava

  God, why did I agree to come with her? I shuffled my feet for the thousandth time and gave Lily a tap on the arm. “They’re obviously not going to show. Let’s get out of here. Steaks and shakes. How ‘bout it?”

  She rolled her heavily made up eyes at me and shook her head. “They’ll show.”

  Typical. She turned away from me to face the back of the guy in front. Stubborn. We’d be here all night if the band didn’t come. I eyed the dusty sidewalk and considered sitting down. Not yet. It’d take a while longer before I’d sit on the dirty sidewalk in my white shorts.

  It was 8pm and we were standing outside a steel-doored club along with 198 other people. I knew it was 198 because there were exactly 200 tickets, and we had two of them. Unfortunately.

  When we had first arrived at 6:30pm (Doors open at 7pm, sharp!) the crowd had been bursting with pent up energy and excitement. There was a real party atmosphere and even I, dragged along unwillingly as I was, felt myself tingling with the contagious energy of the crowd.

  The party vibe was gone now though. People were getting restless. Couples were arguing, insults were being exchanged and arrogant assholes were arguing over who was a bigger fan of The Full Force, the new (at least in the U.S.) British band we were all dying to see. Well, except for me. I was too old for this shit.

  Anyone looking at me wouldn’t have thought it. Hell, I was only twenty-four. But I felt older. Much older. Spending the last six years looking after Lily would do that to anyone. She wasn’t a bad kid, but she was a kid, at least back when I started looking after her anyway. She was nineteen and technically an adult now. But I still hadn’t been able to shake the urge to look after her, to spoil her, to mother her. Despite my attention I’d felt her beginning to grow distant from me over the last year. She’d been spending more time in her room, on her smartphone, lost to the world. I guessed that happened to everyone though.

  I sighed. Again.

  There was a crack as a heavy lock was snapped open. Then a grating sound of metal against metal as a bolt was drawn on the door. At last. The crowd held their breath for a moment, waiting for the door to open. They released it and exploded in excited chatter when the doors flew open and a greaseball in a suit emerged.

  “Can I have your attention!” The man’s voice was slightly higher than average, and if I could have used one word to describe it, I’d probably have gone with annoying.

  I nudged Lily. “Is this one of your rock stars?”

  She didn’t return my grin. This little man with slicked back hair, shiny skin and expensive looking shades was no rockstar. He was a suit of some kind. He was from my world, not hers.

  I worked in the world of marketing, PR, promotion and men like this one were two a penny. Lily on the other hand was just a student, currently going through slightly delayed teenage rebellion which mostly manifested itself through her new-found love for heavy rock and locking herself in her room for hours on end.

  “We’re sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, there’s been a problem with security. I can assure you the band is eager to play for you, but due to regulations we can’t let you in until the security team arrive. Please bear with us.”

  Security team? Not bouncers, or doormen or just security. By adding team onto the end it sounded very grand. Like the black-suited and dark-shades wearing secret service men who protected the president.

  I sighed. Again. More waiting? I cursed my little sister for being so lucky. Why did she have to win the last minute tickets? This show had been announced only that afternoon on the RockIt Girl Blog and after a rapidly Tweeted entry lucky Lily had won a pair.

  A pair. And she’d just broken up with her boyfriend, the first real relationship she’d had. Who else could she go with? It was too last minute for the friends that were close enough, and too far away for the friends that had time. That left me. Big sister and pseudo-mother.

  I heard thunder in the distance. Great. That’s all we need, a goddamned rainstorm on top of it all.

  The thunder grew louder. Louder still. It wasn’t thunder, it was engines. Unmuffled, roaring, screaming, popping Harley Davidson engines. Lily turned to face me and the direction of the noise. I raised my eyebrows at her and she shrugged in response. What was going on?

  “There’s the security team!” yelled the suit by the door, his voice now shrill as he raised it loud enough to be heard over the rapidly approaching bikes.

  I glanced back and saw the man was still yelling, but we couldn’t hear him now. I shook my head and looked back behind. There they were. Ten shiny chromed motorcycles and their muscular, tatted, long-haired riders. Mmm mmm, I thought to myself. In my world I’m surrounded by what I call the gray-Grahams - 9 to 5ers with steady paychecks, decent health insurance, a sensible car but dull as ditchwater. What I wouldn’t give to go out with someone a bit more exciting, something with some energy, some unpredictability, shit, even a hint of danger.

  The blond haired rider at the front gave an appraising glance at the crowd as he crawled slowly past, his speed at a minimum. Leaning back casually on his bike was a good looking young woman. She didn’t look like I imagined a typical biker-babe would look. She seemed too preppy. Almost like a college kid or something, despite the new looking leathers she was wearing.

  Then I caught her eye and caught a hint of steel. I realized she was no typical college kid. She reminded me of myself — someone who’d grown up fast and had been forced to toughen up quick. Some people get to cruise through life, nothing too bad ever happe
ning. But for some of us? Shit happens. You either crack and break, end up in a shelter, or rehab, or a gutter, or a ditch or floating face down in a river. Or you toughen the fuck up and deal the hand you’ve been played. I did the latter, and when I saw her I recognized someone else who’d done the same.

  The lead biker with the dirty blond hair pulled up by the steel door and parked up, front wheel facing back out to the street. He could just hop back on and leave at a moment’s notice if he needed. I found myself wondering whether they did that often.

  He hopped off the bike and then held out a strong hand clad in fingerless leather gloves for his lady. She took it and hopped off beside him. They were a good looking couple and I felt a touch of jealousy seeing that girl, not dissimilar to me in age, standing with the rough but good-looking man beside her. In a different life that could have been me. I sighed.

  The other bikes slowly pulled up and backed in beside him, one after the other, making a line down the street. I did a double-take at the last bike to go by. It wasn’t a bike at all, it was a massive three wheeled trike and it was being driven by what I could only call a monster. A huge slab of meat and fat and muscle and a massive beard to boot. He was a giant. A giant riding a giant trike.

  Lily looked at me wide eyed. “Holy shit!”

  I shook my head in slow awe. “I know right? That guy could handle this crowd on his own.”

  “Looks like he could handle a whole stadium!”

  I laughed. Now that this so-called security team were here we could get this show over with and start the long drive home. It might even be kind of fun.

  “Doors open in five!” yelled the blond biker as he led the pack of men inside. The crowd shuffled in excitement and even I felt a little thrill. Maybe this would be kind of fun after all.

  2

  Lonnie

  Holy shit, there’s an actual crowd waiting to see them. That’s what I first thought when we pulled up, ‘late’. I mean, I’d heard they’d blown up - even caught them on the radio a few times - but shit, to see an actual queue waiting to see the band? That was something else.

  I felt a little swell of pride as I eyed the eager young crowd, a little heavy on young females but a respectable number of male rock enthusiasts too. They hadn’t gone full on teeny-bopper, thank God. Just a bit more mainstream than when they’d started out as young angsty teenagers rebelling against the system - against prime minister Major, against the Conservatives, against the legacy of Maggie. They hadn’t sold out - well not exactly - but they’d definitely steered a little closer to what a mainstream audience would put up with. Less political rage and a little more stadium rock. Not a bad sound though. Not bad at all.

  I parked up beside Jase, leaving about three feet between our bikes as the rest of the guys continued to set their bikes in a row after ours.

  “So this is it, huh? Your buddies pull quite the crowd,” said Jase, eyeing the anxious queue of people waiting to get in.

  I nodded. “They do now apparently. Not like the old days.”

  Jase offered an arm to Nicole, his new old lady who swung her leg over his steed and hopped down as if she’d been doing it all her life.

  “Who’s the weasel?” said Nicole. There was no need for her to lower her voice as there were still half a dozen loud motorcycle engines running.

  I looked over to the door. She was right. The guy standing there was kind of like a weasel. Slick brylcreamed hair, shiny skin, eager, darting eyes flickering over us, full of excitement.

  “Dunno. He’s not in the band anyway. Maybe the manager? Let’s go find out.”

  I wandered over to him, casual like. Jase was beside me. The little man flashed us a grin and held out his hand.

  “Chad Chad Price, so nice they named me twice.”

  I stifled a laugh and turned it into a cough. We have a word for people like this guy, and that word is tosser. T-O-S-S-E-R. Tosser. He looked like the kind of guy who’d try to sell you the worst car on the lot at a ludicrous markup while persuading you he was cutting his own throat in the process.

  Jase grabbed Chad’s hand and gave it a firm shake along with his name. I did the same right after. His hand was cool and slick, seemingly covered in the same crap he’d put all through his greasy hair. At least I hoped that was what was on his hand.

  He had a large gold watch on his wrist. A Rolex, maybe. I dunno. Don’t know much about watches. But it was the kind of watch that made a statement. Of course, the statement it made would depend on who was looking at it. For someone who came from his world it probably said I’m a successful businessman and my watch costs more than your car. Right then, however, I was looking at it. And the statement it made was tosser.

  “We’re here to do security.”

  Chad Chad gave an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, you’d better hurry up. You’re late.”

  Uhoh. Why’d he have to say that?

  Jase arched his eyebrows and bent down, his face just inches from Chad’s. “We’re not fuckin’ late.”

  This could be trouble. The first show was originally supposed to be tomorrow but that afternoon we’d got a hurried call from someone representing the band, quite possibly from this little arsehole himself, saying that a last minute show had been added, here in this buttfuck dusthole of a town somewhere between LA and San Diego. The prick on the other end of the phone didn’t even give us a chance to discuss it before he’d hung up.

  So we’d discussed it anyway and decided fuck it, why not. Let’s do it. But it’d taken time to talk it over, time to put a few things together, and time to get here. We weren’t fuckin’ late. This dipstick hadn’t planned properly.

  “Show was supposed to start at 7, buddy.” Chad tapped the face of his posh watch a few times. “And I don’t know about you, but--”

  Chad gasped as Jase grabbed him by the wrist, hard, and gave it a little twist. I just stood back and watched, a big grin across my face. Jase was president now, and if this is how he wanted to handle little piss-stains like Chad Chad it was fine with me. No need for me to get involved though, not with this. You’d need half a dozen Chad’s before Jase would need backup, and even then I wouldn’t fancy their chances.

  “Say it. Say we’re not late. Say you fucked up.”

  I watched his face, curious. Sweat was beaded on his brow now and he looked a little panicked.

  “Sorry! You’re not late.”

  I watched as Jase glared into the smaller man’s eyes.

  “I said it! You’re not late! It’s our fault!”

  Jase released him and a giant grin flashed across his face.

  “Alright then. Shall we go inside?”

  And so we did.

  The club was a dive. I liked it. Reminded me of a California version of some of the places I used to hang out in as a teen back home in England. Dirty, damp, underground pubs and clubs with moisture on the walls, filth on the floor, cheap drinks, pint bottles of Newcastle Brown for a pound, rough customers in smoke-stained clothes. My kinda place.

  It was empty now though -- the crowd were waiting impatiently outside -- but I knew exactly what the atmosphere would be like once the punters were in, the beer was flowing, the speakers blaring, sweat dripping and the band playing. It’d be good. Dirty, loud, a little bit dangerous, but damn good.

  A little shiver passed through me as we stepped on through toward the stage. I wasn’t cold. I was weirdly nervous. I’m not scared of much - punch me, stick a gun in my face, shake my aeroplane up and down with turbulence like a shake-weight and I’ll be fine and ready with an inappropriate joke and a cheeky grin on my face. But this was different. This was people.

  My people.

  Or, they used to be, anyway.

  I knew these guys way back, before I moved across the pond, before I joined the Sons. And when I left we weren’t on the best of terms. But that was all water under the bridge now and we’d all moved on, grown up, moved our lives forward in our own ways. At least I hoped so.

  “Aboot fuckin�
�� time lad!” It was Rabbie. The redheaded Scottish drummer of the group. He stepped toward me, his arms outstretched. Jase and Nicole stepped to the side to give the tall man some room. He grabbed me in a bearhug and patted me on the back and I knew that it was okay, we were cool. Why the fuck had I been nervous in the first place?

  “Alright?” I said.

  “Oh aye. Not so bad. Look at ye!” He grabbed my cut with the Sons patch and gave me a grin. He approved.

  I introduced Jase and Nicole, the rest of our little security outfit could get acquainted with the band later when there was more time.

  I grinned back at him. “Where’s the rest?”

  He jerked a thumb toward the back of the club where I could see outlines on the low stage moving instruments around. Either this place didn’t have house lights, or they weren’t using them. It was damn dark inside.

  Behind I could hear the rest of the crew coming through. Eight more guys. Four were ours, and four were from the Dawn’s Rage MC who we were working with us for this little tour. I heard a little shriek and a slap. That was Lucy coming down the stairs too, Nicole’s friend and almost a kind of mascot these days. If a hot girl in tiny shorts can be a mascot, anyway.

  “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the boys.”

  “Are they all as fucked as you?” asked Jase.

  I grinned and nodded. “Worse than me mate, much worse.”

  He clapped me on the shoulder and gave a laugh as we headed over to the small stage.

  “Mattie boy!”, “Matt!”, “Matthew!” they called out.

  Jase raised an eyebrow at me.

  “It’s my name, remember?”

  Years ago when I’d first met Jase he’d immediately started to call me London. I don’t know if he ever said my real name even once. I didn’t care. I was after a fresh start anyway then, and a new name seemed like a fine way to begin.

  London hadn’t lasted long though. Brodie, Jase’s late best friend had immediately started calling me Lonnie, and that name had stuck. Of course some smartasses pointed out that Lonnie was just as many syllables as London, but it doesn’t have the same ring, does it?