by V. Theia
LAW MAKER
By V. THEIA
a Renegade Souls MC Novella
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Names and characters are the property of the author and may not be duplicated. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.
LAW MAKER
Cover photo: Depositphotos.com
Cover Design: V. Theia. ©2020
Published by V. Theia 2020.
All Rights Reserved
DEDICATION
There’s a lesson in waiting and no one does it better than Lawless. This is for all those who know how to wait for something worth waiting for…
Table of Content
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
Table of Content
ONE
ACT I
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
ACT II
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
ACT III
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
ACT IV
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Also by V. THEIA
CONNECT WITH ME:
ONE
“Prisoner: 94941. General population, cell 64. K wing.” - Lawless
For a man who valued his freedom—more than a whale loved jizzing in the sea, locked up twenty hours of the day was its own special kind of hell.
A man didn’t know how good he had it until his freedom was gone.
He prepared for it and not at the same time.
It’s not as though Lawless didn’t know what he was doing when he held his hands up to class A drugs. Found at his cabin after a tip off to the cops. Convenient.
Oh, yeah, he wasn’t stupid—far from it. His degrees backed up his claim, despite incompetent appearances saying differently.
He’d learned at a very young age that the world wasn’t made up of black and white. It was dark and murky; it was fucking despicable most of the time.
So he owned this. He did this to himself.
He realized what he’d be giving up, he’d walked into it with his deviant eyes wide open—planned it down to the last second. No room for error.
It didn’t mean he didn’t detest every second of not dictating what he was allowed to do.
Sure, he had more privileges than most of the chumps, he was Lawless after all.
His name alone was enough to put fear and obedience in most of the jailbirds.
But he had a countdown in his head for the next time he breathed clean Colorado air, and it couldn’t come soon enough.
With the run of the gym most days, he worked out every morning until his bones and muscles burned. There was enough money in his commissary account to fund a small country on candy bars and soap so he was good there.
He had people to do his running and fetching thanks to his Souls reputation without having to say a word.
Meat was so fucking obedient when glared at.
Sex was on offer most every day, wherever he walked.
Dirty, little maggots giving him the eye. And if he’d been in the mood he might have entertained one of the criminally insane for a bit. But he had bigger fish to fry and it wasn’t entertaining the masses with his wonder dick.
The animals in this zoo would have to play among themselves for now.
The clang of metal on metal went through him like razor blades in a fresh wound.
Yeah, the special hell kept on giving.
Ah, well. Better things to do than think about his toys on the outside.
He was better not thinking of the outside at all.
Not with a job to do.
He wasn’t on vacation.
Getting himself locked up was always a possibility, one way or another. What with being in the kind of business Lawless was in. He was a down and dirty lawbreaker after all. It was a by-product of a one percenter club, Only, this was no accident.
This wasn’t him fucking up and getting caught.
It was custom made by Lawless. Every T crossed and I dotted.
He’d done all he could on the outside, going back and forth to Mexico for the last year.
That ended several months ago and this was the final stretch.
The longest stretch, but what did it matter?
What did he have after all? No family, no one at home warming his bed and making pancakes every Sunday.
Yeah, no biggy to Lawless.
And it kept his mind off … well no matter.
It wasn’t as though Lawless was having in depth conversations in this shit hole either. He’d yet to meet anyone with a half decent braincell.
Besides that, he didn’t trust a soul here, so he wasn’t flapping his gums to anyone on the daily.
He supposed that added to his don’t mess with me status.
The quiet bald guy who would kill you with a stare.
They got wind of his arrival and knew he was a MC enforcer.
What ya gonna do, a guy had to adhere to his name.
They about threw him a fucking welcoming party.
It was all he had going for him right now.
Lawless, a prison heavy.
Who would’ve guessed it.
They stared at him. Meat searching for a soul, to see a slither of vulnerability, trying to understand what kind of man he was.
Humans were weak. Falling under the weight of all their emotions like anvils around their necks. Always crying out for something that they needed. Broken birds unable to fucking feed themselves, unless someone regurgitated a feeling for them.
Fucking weakness.
Lawless, for want of a better word, was empty.
His vessel floated unoccupied in a sea of human despair, always howling out with their supplicating bowls.
He smiled to himself. The emptiness suited him actually.
Lawless was a survivor, that bitch made sure of it when he was seven and younger.
In comparison to those shit days, prison was a cakewalk.
Only he fucking hated cake. Too sweet. Too thick in his mouth.
That day, Lawless dressed in the clothes they provided. Gray sweatpants and different varieties of white shirts. He was no fashion victim so he wore the long sleeved Henley type.
Time moved glacially slow.
He rested an arm on the jail cell cinderblock wall, his ankles crossed.
Nothing in this place was private. His mail came already open—probably pawed over by a team of overly fed oafs in uniform.
But that didn’t matter.
He’d been in this self-made boredom for one hundred and twenty-one days and he had about the same number of letters, give or take.
They came like clockwork.
None on Sundays, but he always had two on Monday afternoon.
Each envelope was white, simple neat block letters with the address, his prison number and return name on the front.
On the back was always a different cat sticker.
His mouth twitched.
Today’s cat was ginger riding a motorcycle.
Hey, Lawless,
(I like to start it with Hey, like we’re havin
g a conversation rather than Dear. DEAR is for old grannies and while you are old, you’re not my granny)
Are you still being grumpy?
Don’t worry about the cats. I’ve been taking care of them as best as I can between school and college interviews. Zara helps and Rider too, if Zara makes him, she makes him do a lot of stuff, it’s funny. I found a litter last week over by Pike street, stupid asshole boys were kicking a bag, they won’t do it again. Two gray and a black with a white eye patch. I didn’t name them, like you said, but the gray one definitely looks shifty, like he’s up to something. I like him, he reminds me of you. I’ll send a picture in my next letter. They’re eating like greedy monsters. Seriously, it’s an all-day buffet for them. You have a pretty neat set up with all the cat provisions in your room and the pet store deliveries. Snake said you’re the cat whisperer. I told him you care for things that are too small to fight their own battles yet. I rehomed six of the long timers over in Fort Springs, it’s amazing what I can talk people into it. I think it’s a skill, maybe I’ll become a lawyer and get a job with Archie. It helps that you have an account with the vet to have them spayed and inoculated. And I packed them off to their new homes with a brand new bed and cat food. It’s all quite sweet. I cried the first time (don’t laugh) I wanted to keep them all, but as Zara told me, how can we help more kitties if I keep them all? Rider would be pissed if I turn the clubhouse into a cattery. Is that a word? I feel like it should be. Maybe a cat hotel. We can discuss.
Have you been eating?
I miss you.
Will you write me back this time?
I don’t understand how this happened.
No one will tell me.
You’re the least likely person to get caught doing anything.
Please, grumpy, tell me how you are.
Snake said you’re fine, but he wouldn’t tell me if you weren’t.
Why won’t you let me come to see you? They turned me away, Lawless. They said I wasn’t on your list. Why won’t you put my name on your visitors list?
You said you’d read over my college essay; how can you do that if you’re ignoring me?
Anyway, I better go, my foster mom wants to go to the salon for her birthday and then I’m babysitting for the goobers later. You should see Zane; he looks like a chubbier buddha version of Rider.
Please write me back, grumpy.
Miss you.
Angie xoxo
Running his thumb over that last sentence, Lawless didn’t ponder too deeply on the overriding noise between his ears, before he folded it back into three careful pieces and pushed it into the envelope. Then he placed it on top of the others in a box.
The white shoe box was a purchase he’d made recently to store his letters in specifically.
Some motherfucker earned fifty bucks for a cardboard box, talk about daylight robbery, but he’d needed it, hadn’t he?
It was important to Lawless, so rather than hang the guy up by his toenails and take what he wanted, he’d paid.
Nice and calm.
Now, if that fella received a beatdown later that day in the canteen it was nothing to do with Lawless, business was business.
For a man with a 187 IQ he had a habit of ignoring his own voice when it spoke in loud bullshit spews.
There was a purpose to his madness and it didn’t include being a pen pal to a clingy teen.
The cell door opened behind him and the bag of bones startled into a pause pose in the doorway as he always did before advancing. His cellmate was a quiet guy, just as well, Bennie didn’t need to become Lawless’ project through sheer boredom.
Lawless wasn’t a monster.
He didn’t pick on the unsuspecting.
Unless he did.
Always conflicting energy, wasn’t he?
It felt like rust in his blood, making him lethargic most days—too much time to think.
To think. He hated being entombed in his own neurosis; it was so fucking pedestrian.
He preferred to do. But here he had to wait like a dick playing chump.
With too much time to think.
Sighing, he scratched around the base of his neck almost as if his tattoos had come alive to torment him.
Some reminders were more subtle than others.
For a second his head went back decades to a putrid trailer park.
He was itchy lately and not because of any skin disorder.
No, this was the unhealthy itch. While he was behind bars, serving his time like a good convict, he didn’t have the means to see to dark itches.
What was a fella to do?
He and his sexual depravity had a long scary history.
There were no broken birds in this particular block to make bleed.
Oh, they were damaged and fucked up, but what was the point of that when they didn’t give his Johnson a tickle?
How was a predator supposed to survive on a diet of stale air?
No scared pussy to fight.
No terrified pussy to beg for their life.
Depressing.
Not that he wasn’t getting laid but it all had a purpose and it didn’t amuse Lawless in a satisfied way. It was empty air breathed through cloth.
It served his reasons. He got off and then forgot all about it.
Lawless was a lot of things—headstrong, difficult, and precise.
Not someone to mess with.
Not even for fun.
He heard the whispers as he strolled through the block. Head high and a sneer on his lips— oh, he heard. Naughty little maggots licking their chops like they thought he was delivering a six foot four hamper to their cell. Please. Lawless had better things to do with his endless hours of waiting and boredom. With no intention of starting up whatever club they had in mind.
Prison meat was so fucking rude.
But they soon got the message and left Lawless alone.
He was getting closer to his goal.
“Bennie. Run and get me a steak sandwich, no mustard this time, but I’ll take ranch if they have it. Some barbeque chips and a pop.”
It was the first time he’d spoken to his cellie that week.
Five days and not a word exchanged.
No wonder skittish Bennie jumped like he’d been electrocuted.
“I—Sure. Right away, boss.” Tennessee born Bennie exclaimed.
Lawless was in a medium secure prison in Wyoming. Maybe he would have preferred to be in high risk with the serial killers and psychos.
His tribe.
These low crime motherfuckers were boring the shit out of him.
He couldn’t even get a reasonable conversation from Bennie without the guy pissing himself scared. Because Lawless arrived into the prison with an already established fearful reputation which meant everyone gave him a wide berth on sight.
Was that his fault?
It didn’t suck to be an outlaw with that kind of clout; he didn’t even have to flaunt himself on social media.
One hundred and twenty-one days down and only nine hundred and seventy-four to go.
Less for good behavior.
It wasn’t so bad; it could be much worse.
But the confinement was Lawless’ real problem, even as he’d attempted to prepare himself for it.
It chewed at his brain until he thought he was dropping brain cells at an alarming rate. He almost played dominoes with one of the old timers yesterday. If that was not impending stupid knocking on his door, he didn’t know what was.
Only his self-discipline and extraordinary high IQ made it possible to use the stimuli without him going insane. Low latent inhibition was his diagnosis. Lawless called it his super power. Antisocial disorder—not only limited to exploitation, manipulation and a lack of empathy was also in a file somewhere with his name on it.
People did love their labels. It made them feel better to have a name.
He’d say his fanatical focus was his best asset.
Or the way he could murder and then sit down fo
r a pot roast.
It was a toss-up.
Someone with his abilities usually had a strong affliction for empathy too.
That disadvantage bypassed Lawless.
He cultivated his give-a-fuck fields often.
What would his dear bitch of a momma think of him now?
As if he cared for her opinion. The kid blindly loved the neglectful bitch. The man knew different.
Knuckles rapped on the door jamb.
Swerving his neck, he saw one of the guards giving him the cautious eye, checking that he was steady.
Steady, like he thought Lawless was going to explode.
Please, his carnage came in a neater package than that.
Besides which, his fun bag of tricks was being kept safe back home at the club.
No serial killer left home without it. He missed all his fun toys.
Hawk better be double tagging the kills in his name.
“Penn.”
“Yeah?” He replied.
“There’s a card game starting up in the break room.”
“Who’s in?”
Dreyers reeled off five correctional officers names from different parts of the prison.
“What’s the buy in?”
Dreyers smirked. “A C-note.”
Lawless didn’t hesitate. Like taking candy from morons. “Give me twenty minutes.”
They were in charge but they’d wait for Lawless.
He might have sorted out a little infestation problem for them on his arrival.
What could he say, he was a humanitarian.
Plus he hated noise and he shut those fuckers up on principle. It was like corralling overgrown toddlers. Now they knew who the bigger kid in the playground was and they all lived harmoniously in K wing of Gen Pop.
Once alone, he took a seat at the table, pulling out a notebook and a black ball point pen.
His gut eroded from the inside like he’d swallowed a bucket of battery acid right from the source. Flames raced up his throat.
And he let the reason why filter into his gray matter.
Dark hair, darker soulful eyes pleading him was the cause.
Oh, yeah, didn’t he let that flow until it filled all the space. It wasn’t so much realization as it was a permanent reminder of what he wouldn’t allow himself to acknowledge. No way, bud.
