STRENGTH & COURAGE
The Night Horde SoCal Series
Book One
Susan Fanetti
THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS
Strength & Courage © 2015 Susan Fanetti
All rights reserved
Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI
The Pagano Family Series:
(Family Saga)
Footsteps, Book 1
Touch, Book 2
Rooted, Book 3
Deep, Book 4
The Signal Bend Series:
(The first Night Horde series)
(MC Romance)
Move the Sun, Book 1
Behold the Stars, Book 2
Into the Storm, Book 3
Alone on Earth, Book 4
In Dark Woods, Book 4.5
All the Sky, Book 5
Show the Fire, Book 6
Leave a Trail, Book 7
Alone, I’m neither strong nor brave,
but with those who love me, and whom I love, I am both.
This book is dedicated to those who give me strength and courage.
I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.
~Anaïs Nin
CHAPTER ONE
The Hall was nearly empty, just before noon on a Thursday—only a couple of girls, looking like they were still trying to get their feet under them from the night before, and the newest Prospect, Peaches, scrubbing out the ice bin. The guys working in the bike shop hadn’t come over for lunch yet.
That was fine; Muse wanted a beer and some quiet. He’d been up before dawn working at a location shoot out at Joshua Tree. He felt like he needed to wash more than the dust off. Movie people—and television people, and commercial people—made his skin crawl.
He’d been working as a technical advisor, a ‘TA,’ for a few years, since he’d given up his Nomad patch and settled with the new Southern California charter of the Night Horde MC. His previous club—to which they never referred by name—had disbanded under a cloud of violence and death, and most of the members of the Night Horde SoCal were orphans from one charter or another of that dead club—including all the officers. The adjustment from his hardcore outlaw Nomad life to his settled, legitimate, Hollywood lackey life rubbed hard. But he was needed here. His Nomad days were over.
“Need a beer, shithead.”
Peaches reared back out of the empty ice bin, cracking his head as he did so. “Ow. Fuck.” He turned around, rubbing his noggin. “Hey, Muse. Sorry. Bottle or tap?”
The kid was too new to know all the members’ preferences yet. “Bottle—but none of that imported bullshit. Just a Bud.”
As the kid turned for a bottle from the cooler, Muse felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Hoosier, the charter President, swung around and sat on the stool next to him. “Muse. Bikes back in one piece?”
“Yeah, Prez. No trouble. Fargo took ‘em back for a wash.”
The club rented bikes to the entertainment industry, and Muse managed that business, as well as providing technical support. He also had his SAG card, but that had been an accident. He’d been working on a movie set and had ended up taking some walk-on role when the signed actor flaked. He’d said two words—‘Stay down’—and pointed a rubber gun at a movie star, and now he was on the books as a fucking actor.
Only in Southern California.
Peaches handed Muse his beer and refilled Hoosier’s coffee.
“You back out there tomorrow?”
“Nah. Gig’s done. Got a bike booked for a commercial next week, just one day, but I got nothing until then.”
“How about a protection run, just out to Barstow and back. Decent cut in it for you. Good money for short work.”
Muse could definitely use money. Working on movie sets was only lucrative for the ‘creatives.’ The technical people were working stiffs just like everybody else. The club did okay, and his cut of its business was fair, but he still had real need for more. The bills on his back weighed him down like concrete blocks. And Hoosier knew it. He was always on the lookout for extra work for him. “Yeah, thanks. When?”
“Tonight. Out at six. Back by ten, easy.”
Goddammit. He couldn’t do it, not tonight. “Fuck, Prez. I can’t. Got a date.”
Hoosier tipped his head back. “Aw, shit. That’s right.” He sighed. “Okay. I’ll hit you up for the next one, then.” He patted Muse on the back and stood, just as the front doors opened, and Keanu, another Prospect, ambled in, balancing a couple of cardboard flats full of sacks from the burger joint around the corner. At the same time, in came the mechanics from the shop: Connor, Demon, Trick, and P.B. Lunch time.
They had standing orders at all the take-out joints around the clubhouse, plenty of food for anyone around. So Muse stood and went to the big table in the middle of the room, where the Prospects were setting out the meal. He grabbed a fried chicken sandwich and a carton of onion rings.
“Where’s Diaz?” He asked the room, no one in particular.
Connor answered around a bite of double bacon cheeseburger. “He and Bart took their old ladies for some charm patrol shit Jesse worked out. I don’t know.”
Muse nodded. The Night Horde SoCal had a lot of Hollywood connections. Unavoidable, he guessed. They had some fame themselves, and Diaz and Bart were both married to hot, celebrity women. They tended to get called in to smile for the cameras on behalf of the club pretty often. It was one of the reasons the Horde, despite their noise and rowdy ways, had been welcomed by the citizens of Madrone, a sleepy little snapshot of a town in the converging foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains and the San Bernardino Mountains, about fifty miles east of L.A.—their famous women and their famous bike shop tended to draw famous faces out their way.
They were a motorcycle club with a Public Relations Officer. Despite the years that had been true, Muse still rolled his eyes when he thought about it.
The guys dug in like starved beasts, and the Hall came to life. Though Muse enjoyed the quiet, and needed some every day, he liked the Hall best when it was like this—just his brothers, not a lot of chicks or hangarounds. This was when it felt most like family.
Demon’s personal went off as he tossed a wrapped sandwich across the table to Hoosier. He answered. Muse wasn’t really paying attention, but he was looking in that general reaction, so he saw Demon’s face go darkly red.
Muse had been something of a mentor for Demon. They’d both started out in the L.A. charter of their old club, several years apart, and when Demon had been transferred into the Nomads, Hoosier had asked Muse, a Nomad by then for several years, to watch out for the wild kid. They’d ridden side by side for years, until Demon had been called back to L.A. They’d been reu
nited when Muse patched into the Horde just a few months later.
The kid was about ten years younger than Muse, but he’d managed to get into about twice the trouble. He had a nasty temper.
He was fair, with light blond hair that he kept so close-cropped he was nearly shaved. When he got angry, his face, his whole head, went shockingly red, and it served as a warning beacon. Nomads were known to be outlaws among outlaws, and Muse had done some bad shit in his time, but bad shit went down when Demon got angry. Seeing him now, Muse put down his sandwich and stood back up.
“Deme. Chill, brother.”
“FUCK!!” Demon threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall and then the floor, breaking apart. “THAT FUCKING JUNKIE GASH!!”
Okay, now Muse knew that it had to do with Demon’s ex. And that meant it probably had to do with their kid. And that meant big trouble unless they could keep a lid on Demon. Muse walked around the table, advancing on him. He saw Hoosier coming from the other direction, and the rest of their brothers getting ready, too, all of them as wary as if a feral beast had been dropped in their midst.
Just about every club, Muse thought, had a brother like Demon: loyal as fuck, strong and true, willing to do anything that was asked of him, no matter the damage to his soul. A great brother. A great friend. And a loose cannon. He’d come by his road name honestly—that red face portended violence that was nothing short of demonic when left unchecked.
Muse put his hand on Demon’s arm, then ducked when he spun and sent his other fist at his head. Muse had been expecting it, so he was out of its way. He grabbed the arm that had flown at his face. “Count beats, Deme. Come on. One…two…three…four…five.”
Demon stared at him, but he was still, and by the time Muse got to five, the red had ebbed back enough that the whole room chilled a couple degrees.
“When you can, tell me what.” Muse kept his voice even.
Nodding, Demon took a long, deep breath. “DCFS took Tucker. Fucking cunt is flying—she knew there was a visit today, and she was wasted when the bitch got there. Goddamn junkie GASH. MOTHERFUCKER.”
He was amping up again, so Muse got him moving. The ex was a problem for later. “Let’s get to Tucker, then, before they put him in the system. Come on.” He grabbed Demon by the neck of his kutte. As he moved him toward the door, he looked back over his shoulder. “We need Bibi or Riley, Prez.”
Hoosier’s phone was at his ear. “Already on it. She’ll meet you. Hey—take one of the vans!”
Muse grabbed a set of keys off a pegboard and led his brother into the California sunshine.
~oOo~
The Central Office of the Department of Children and Family Services for San Bernardino County was as nondescript as it was possible for a building to be: a solid block of white stucco. The main entrance was a set of plain glass double doors. No windows. A solitary palm tree stood watch over the desolate scene.
Muse and Demon made the twenty-mile trip in just more than fifteen minutes. Muse drove one of the club vans while Demon screamed into his burner at his ex, until she stopped picking up.
From listening to the side of the conversation resounding off the van interior, Muse had a fairly clear picture of what had happened: the social worker who’d been assigned to Tucker since he’d been born addicted to meth two years earlier had retired. Dakota, Tucker’s mom, had thought that meant a vacation from her scheduled home visits.
She had apparently been wrong, and the new social worker had found Dakota in a stupor and little Tucker on his own.
Muse had no love for social workers. He and his sister had grown up in the kind of home that got visited often by cops, social workers, any number of people who’d said they were there to help but only ever made things worse. But Dakota was fucking useless. When she was clean, she was a fired-up bitch. When she was using, she was a waste of air. She had no business with custody of that boy.
He parked the van and sat back. Demon reached for the door handle, but Muse pulled him back. “Hold up, Deme. They’re not gonna release him to you. Let’s wait for Bibi or Riley.”
Demon had a colorful record as a violent criminal and had once put Dakota in the hospital. He’d never touched Tucker with anything but love, and Muse was sure he never would. But he’d been denied custody at every turn—in favor of Dakota. Though Demon didn’t even smoke weed and had tried to get Dakota clean, his record and MC affiliation had made him the bad guy in this picture. The bureaucrats saw her as a woman who needed help and him as the man she needed help from. Getting an unsupervised afternoon a week with his son had been a tremendous victory. There was no way these assholes would release Tucker to him, not today.
Now, confronted again with that reality, Demon slammed his fists into the dash, cracking it. “FUCK.”
A dark blue Cadillac sedan pulled up alongside the van. “Bibi’s here.” Muse would have preferred Riley; her fame tended to make people forget their point, but Hoosier’s wife was a force to be reckoned with. Muse turned to Demon. “Brother, you have to be chill. Don’t get in Bibi’s way.”
Demon nodded. “Yeah. I’m good. I can be good.”
“Sure?”
“I said I’m good.” He opened the door and got out, and Muse, though unconvinced that Demon was ‘good,’ did the same.
Bibi was already standing on the sidewalk. She was a fine-looking woman, fit and stylish, appearing at least a decade younger than her sixty years. When they approached her, she pushed her sunglasses up on her head and planted a hand on her hip. “Okay, boys. What gives? Hoosier didn’t give me much to go on.”
Muse started to explain, but Demon cut in and did well giving her a calm, clear accounting of the situation. Bibi listened, her brown eyes intent. When Demon was done, she sighed. “Well, shit.” She was from Mississippi, and the southern lilt in her voice gave the word ‘shit’ an extra syllable. “Okay. So you want Granny Beebs to the rescue, then?”
“That would be great, Bibi. I can’t have him in the system.” Demon had a worse history with the State than Muse did. He’d gone in at about Tucker’s age, and he’d come out when he’d aged out. He hardly talked at all about his childhood in foster care, but anybody who pushed him to was sure to get a mouthful of Demon’s fist. Muse had some ideas about how bad it had been.
“Of course not, darlin’. Okay, let’s see what we can do to get your boy back.”
~oOo~
Nothing, as it turned out. Not on this day.
Dakota had no blood family. Demon had no blood family. The State had deemed neither parent fit at this time. They wouldn’t release Tucker to Bibi because she was neither a relative nor licensed as a foster parent. Tucker was going in the system. Until one of his parents was judged fit, or until Bibi got licensed, Tucker was going with strangers.
As the social worker who’d taken the boy away from Dakota explained all that, Muse kept his hand on Demon’s arm. The tension running through his brother’s muscles had him worried that there would be blood before this meeting was over.
At least the woman had the good grace to look distressed about the situation. In Muse’s experience, social workers were drones who didn’t give a rat’s ass—or, at least, they put on a good automaton act. But this woman spoke like she did care and she really was trying to take care of Tucker. Bibi had worked some southern charm on her, and Muse got the impression that the social worker was sincerely sorry Tucker couldn’t go home with his ‘Granny Beebs.’
As far as Muse was concerned, most social workers looked like drones, too, their appearance as cold and drab as their personalities. But this girl was young and pretty. She was slender and on the tall side, with an exotic, Asian kind of beauty, though her hair was long and golden blonde. She seemed almost dewy fresh, and she was dressed in a pretty, silky top and a snug skirt. With heels. She didn’t look like a bureaucrat at all. Maybe this was her first job.
Demon flexed his arm dangerously, and Muse stopped checking out the chick who’d swiped his brother’s kid. He
tightened his grip. “Easy, brother,” he muttered.
But the social worker—her name was Cindy, or maybe Sidney—heard him, and her eyes went to his, and then to Demon’s. At that same moment, Demon lost the last of his fraying restraint. He picked up the full water cooler, stand and all, and threw it, bellowing a psychotic roar.
The unit crashed to the floor, at about the spot where the social worked had been standing before she’d jumped out of the way, and water began to glug out of the plastic reservoir. While everyone in the office stood stunned, and Muse held Demon back against the wall, Bibi turned on Demon, both hands on her hips, and snarled, “Dammit, Michael! Muse, get him outta here!”
Muse was impressed that she’d thought to use Demon’s given name. Calling him ‘Demon’ in here wouldn’t improve the situation.
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