Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition

by Elizabeth Knox

  So forbidden.

  Something other than the mundane existence I’d been handed.

  Maybe that was my mistake.

  Maybe it was a sick addiction to sin that had forced me into the position I now found myself.

  Being forced to pay for them.

  We jerked to a stop merely a few feet from the small stage constructed out of old pieces of wood and a base of bricks. It was made to be removed. It was only there to make sure everyone in the procession got a look at the show they were about to put on but could be taken down quickly and disposed of, so they had deniability if anyone came asking questions.

  That kind of disgusting bullshit came with practice.

  Because I wasn’t the first.

  Not by far.

  I was simply the latest.

  Today’s lesson in obedience.

  “My people…” The murmurs of the crowd instantly halted at the sound of Prophet Andrew’s booming voice.

  “You should’ve listened,” my father whispered under his breath, his fingers pinching at my skin. “You should have done what you were told.” There was almost a catch in his voice, a sign of emotion I rarely heard from the man I shared nothing with but my DNA.

  I was number fourteen.

  Fourteenth out of the thirty-seven children he had fathered.

  With seven wives, he spent one night a week in each of their homes.

  Because that was what a man did here. He collected wives like they were trophies, the main aim to produce children in the hopes that one of them will turn out to be ‘the chosen one.’ The one sent to save us—the one who has the key to the gates of Heaven.

  Did I believe it?

  Did I believe our eternal happiness was dependent on some child being born with the perfect cross-shaped birthmark?

  I honestly wasn’t sure what I believed now.

  All I knew was the chosen one wasn’t me.

  “Bring him to me,” Prophet Andrew ordered, his hand reaching for the cloth that covered a large square object on a stand beside him. He tugged it off, a dramatic reveal followed by a wave of gasps moving through the church, echoing in the vast space.

  My body unconsciously jerked away from the slithering knot of snakes crammed into the glass box. It was a natural reaction when seeing a dangerous creature, self-preservation taking over, and screaming “run.”

  But there was no escape.

  My father and uncle tightened their grip, yanking my frightened body forward onto the unsteady stage. “Taylor Noble, you’re here today because you’ve questioned the teachings of The Valley. Not only that, but you’ve been spreading the same lies amongst your siblings and other members.”

  “We obviously have differing opinions on what constitutes a lie—” A sharp blow to the back of my knees forced them out from underneath me, and I landed with a hard, painful thud.

  Gritting my teeth, I refused to let Prophet Andrew see the pain on my face.

  I knew it would give him pleasure.

  It always did.

  He wasn’t the only prophet in The Valley.

  There were seven altogether, but Andrew was the one who always dealt out the punishments. Anytime he could order a beating or some kind of sick ritual that I was almost sure he made up—it was like you could see pure joy fill him.

  “Say what you will, Taylor Noble,” he continued with a scowl, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “We’ll let the snakes decide whether your heart is with The Valley or whether you’re unsavable.”

  He nodded to the tank of deadly serpents, and a man wearing thick gloves stepped up beside it, reaching in and grabbing a snake in each hand, tugging them from the writhing mess.

  Don’t struggle.

  Don’t fight.

  Keep your heart rate low.

  This was the test.

  If the snake bites kill me, I was a sinner. If I somehow miraculously survived, it was God’s will for me to be here.

  Had I ever seen anyone survive?

  No.

  My father and uncle stepped back, leaving me kneeling at the prophet’s feet while the man with the snakes advanced toward me. My heart wanted to race, run, and scream in fear, but I knew the more I panicked, the faster my veins would force the poison through my body, and the quicker I’d die.

  “It’s time.”

  It was almost like the snakes heard Prophet Andrew’s words, like they understood because they both lurched from the handler’s gloves, each with their aim focused on my right arm.

  Their fangs sunk into my skin, and for a second, I felt nothing.

  The shock protecting me for a single moment in time.

  But it couldn’t protect me forever.

  I wasn’t prepared for the scream that burst from my mouth, the pain so excruciating and overwhelming that I had no power over my body’s response to it. My breathing was short and sharp, and my arm felt like it was on fire. The snakes finally withdrew from my skin, failing to make it feel lighter now it had been pumped full of venom.

  Wrapping my fingers around my elbow, I squeezed, trying to keep the poison from pumping into my body, ultimately stopping my heart.

  I was so focused, so determined to fight the odds and win, that it took me a moment to notice the state of chaos that had erupted behind me. Booming voices, doors slamming, and screams from the pews had my head spinning.

  Hysteria.

  Around me.

  Inside me.

  “Enough!” The deep roar of his voice felt like it could have lifted the ceiling. It was otherworldly, and for a second, I wondered whether the poison had already begun to alter my perception of reality. Though, the second time he spoke was much clearer. It’d been a long time, but I knew his voice. I’d heard it before. “I’m taking the kid.”

  “You have no authority here!” Prophet Andrew screamed back, though with a slight shake in his tone.

  My consciousness was fading, whether because of the toxic wave infecting my bloodstream or my body simply going into shock because of the pain—I didn’t care. I welcomed the darkness. The end to a life where I’d spent my days praying to a god I didn’t believe in, watching my sisters be forced into marriages with men twice their age, being forced to work hard labor only to hand over every cent we earned to the prophets.

  A life where I’d been beaten more days than not.

  “I’d like to see you try to stop me,” the godlike voice growled. With the last ounce of strength in me, I looked over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of the wall of bodies filling the open doors of the church, a blur of leather, tattoos, and denim.

  One moved toward me, but my vision was struggling to focus, unable to make out anything but the dark shadow advancing.

  Everything that represented the devil.

  “Come on, kid,” he murmured, scooping my body into his arms and walking out with me as Prophet Andrew screamed something unintelligible.

  “Hang in there, don’t give up yet.”

  Was this him?

  Was this it?

  Was I in Hell?

  Because if it was really Hell, then why did I feel so at home?

  1

  HAWK

  “You’re late.”

  I reached for an empty plate, only to earn a slap on the back of my hand with a bright pink spatula. The sharp sting had me jerking back, crinkling my nose at my baby cousin, Calliope. “I’ve been down at Backroads, helping them finish shit.”

  For extra impact, I scuffed my hand through my hair, letting the dust sprinkle out onto the floor. The club’s new sports bar was still very much under construction. I’d spent the last four hours or so sawing, hammering, and sanding, just so it was ready for the painters to come in a couple of days. Most of the boys were down there helping, only due to the fact the place was meant to be opening in just two fucking weeks.

  Calli huffed loudly and rolled her eyes at me across the table. “You gonna clean that up?”

  “You gonna force your favorite cousin to starve?”
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  “You’re an asshole.”

  “I’ll take that,” I answered, grabbing a clean plate, this time without being assaulted. An asshole was far from the worst thing Calli had ever called me. Though, the way her shoulders sagged and a smile finally formed reminded me that it was all in love. “Now, can I eat? I’m fucking starved.”

  She pointed the pretty pink spatula at me. “You’re late again next week, and I’m feeding your share to the dog next door.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She’d say the same thing again next week when I was late.

  And the week after that too.

  Sunday lunch had been a thing since well before my uncle and Exiled Eight MC President, Bishop, showed up at The Valley and rescued me.

  Bishop’s Old Lady, Lucy, had been doing it since the two of them had what Bishop thought was a one-night stand twenty years ago, only to find her feeding his brothers the next morning. He always said when it came to women, and you knew she was it, you fucking knew.

  And he never let her leave.

  At least, not willingly.

  A heart defect she’d had since she was a baby eventually caught up with her, and ten years ago it finally gave in.

  I watched Bishop almost give in too.

  If it hadn’t been for Calliope, he just might have. The kid was only seven when she watched her mom die. We buried Lucy on a Sunday morning, and Calli was in the kitchen that same day, continuing the legacy her mom left behind.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  Calli pulled another tray of biscuits from the oven, placing them on the counter. “He’s out the back. There are some guys out there I haven’t met before,” she answered, now far more focused on the feast she was preparing, though it didn’t stop the visible shudder that moved down her spine. “The big one creeps me out.”

  I paused with my plate full, a deep frown knotting my brow.

  Calliope grew up with a group of the hardest, scariest fucking men around. It took a fucking lot to rattle her.

  My brothers were scattered through the house, some out front eating on the porch and others in the dining room down the hall. I grabbed a beer from the fridge before heading out through the living room and down the hallway to the back door, the chorus of unfamiliar laughter leading me.

  Several sets of eyes looked up as the screen door slammed shut behind me, silence for just a second before Bishop waved me over. “I was wondering when you’d fucking get here.”

  I eyed the other guys at the table as I slipped onto the end of the long bench. “I wanted to get some shit finished before I left the construction guys to it.”

  “Bishop was saying you’re a bit behind,” the largest guy announced, looking at me like we were good friends. “You want some good work done? I’ve got a cousin who can do it in half the time for half the price.”

  “And I’ve got a cousin who can swallow a whole banana without gagging, but I don’t get him to suck my di—”

  “Hawk, this is Robert,” Bishop interrupted casually, gesturing to the largest of the men with a fork loaded with mashed potato. “He and his boys are going to be doing the security at the bar when we open. Robert, this is Hawk, my VP, and also my nephew.”

  He thrust his hand across the table as if I were going to take it and welcome him to the family with a pat on the back and a high-five. Instead, I looked at it for a second before turning my attention to my food.

  It took him a few seconds, but eventually, he withdrew his handshake offer and played it off with a laugh. “When you’re hungry, you’re hungry, right?”

  I filled my stomach, listening to the bastard rattle on for another ten minutes about the people he knew, the skills he had, and how fucking lucky we were to have him. I kept eyeing Bishop out of the corner of my eye. For a man who didn’t put up with any fucking bullshit, he was surprisingly okay with this loud-mouth asshole and his tall tales.

  “I’ve got shit to do,” Bishop finally announced when Calli stepped outside. If you were a man and not a part of the club, you weren’t allowed within ten feet of Bishop’s baby girl. “I’ll get the club lawyer to write up some contracts, and you can come in and sign them next week.”

  Robert grinned across the table at us, his round face lighting up. “Sounds fucking great,” he responded, thrusting his hand across the table again. Bishop shook it, the men both getting to their feet. “I think this will be the start of a great fucking working relationship.”

  I sat back in my seat, refusing to get up and acknowledge him with more than a narrowed glare.

  “I’m sure it will be,” Bishop answered with a nod, looking up at Robert. The first time I’d seen him ever look up at fucking anyone. At six foot two with a body like a linebacker, Bishop wasn’t a tiny man. Robert, though, dwarfed him by about six inches and two hundred pounds. Hence, the reason he and his team had just been offered the job of security for The Exiled Eight’s new sports bar. “I’ll get someone to call you when the contracts are ready.”

  “I’ll see you both real soon,” Robert responded, his gaze turning to me. “Hawk.”

  I offered him a sharp nod.

  That was all he was getting, much to Bishop’s amusement, my president falling into his seat with a smirk as Robert waddled back through the house.

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “What was there to like?” I threw back with a snort.

  “He’s big—”

  “And fucking stupid,” I finished for Bishop.

  It wasn’t an understatement.

  During his spiel about how fucking awesome he was, he’d rambled on about how he had trained himself to sniff out police officers, just like a fucking drug dog. And I wasn’t even about to relive the way he spoke about how irresistible he was to women because they saw him as this giant teddy bear.

  “Stupid to you might be a negative, but to me, it just means easier to control and too dumb to try and fuck with us,” Bishop explained, reminding me once again why he was the fucking president.

  That was in his blood.

  And I guess mine too.

  It gave me something to be proud of, something to fight and stand for—those things I thought at one point in my life I’d never fucking have. Bishop didn’t just save me from dying that day. He gave me something to fucking live for.

  “Uh, Bishop? Hawk?” We both looked up at the same time. Chase, one of the club prospects, stood in the doorway. I couldn’t tell if he looked nervous or if he was fighting a smile by trying to hide it with the back of his hand. “I think you guys need to come out here.”

  2

  MISSY

  Stones crunched under my heavy boots as I climbed the steep driveway.

  Sweat gathered at my hairline. I blamed the heat of the Michigan summer sun, ignoring the complimentary butterflies stirring in my belly, nervous about the shitstorm I could possibly be about to start.

  Four or five men lazed out on the expansive porch of the three-story house with beer bottles in their hands. Cold ones, with moisture dripping from them as the frosty liquid inside fought against the humidity. The tattoos, piercings, and beards that decorated each of the men screamed, get the fuck out, and don’t come back.

  I’d only been in town a few months, and I already knew this was the one house in the entire place most people should avoid at every cost. The house itself was large and old but was well kept with nice gardens, tended potted plants, and what looked like it could have been a fresh lick of beige paint.

  But it wasn’t the place itself that had my hands shaking, it was what you might find here and whether or not it was worth the beating you’d most likely get for sticking your nose in.

  Yet, here I was, on a fucking mission to let one fucking asshole know that he shouldn’t have fucked with me or mine.

  Consequences be damned.

  One set of eyes after another turned my way, each with their own personal reaction—some confused, some surprised, and even a set that seemed nothing but eager to see what w
as about to happen. Either way, though, their eyes all started low with a show of appreciation, my knee-high black suede boots and Daisy Dukes sure to grab any guy’s attention because I had fucking great legs.

  I worked damn hard for this body, and it was the reason my daughter and I had a roof over our heads.

  “Missy?” Drew was quick to leap from his seat, his brow knotted between his eyes as he raced down the few porch steps, his hand trailing the banister. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Just the motherfucker I was looking for.

  “You should’ve walked away,” I spat, the confused look on his face like an accelerant fueling the fire in my belly.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He threw his hands in the air while continuing to walk forward.

  When he got close enough, I reached over my shoulder, sliding out the baseball bat that I’d tucked back there. In one swift move, I pulled it back and swung at the bastard’s knee. The hard thud mixed with his painful scream as he dropped to the ground were like a symphony, I wished I could record and play on repeat.

  Several clicks came from above me, that unmistakable sound that every gun owner knew.

  The safety was off.

  Those guns were ready to shoot, and they were now aimed at my head.

  “You crazy fucking bitch!” Drew screamed as he rolled around on the ground, clutching his knee.

  Fucking pussy.

  It wasn’t broken.

  Probably not even dislocated.

  I hadn’t swung that hard.

  There would definitely be a bruise on it tomorrow, though.

  Drew and I went way back at least ten years.

  He was my ex, Jared’s best friend when Jared and I had started dating. I got pregnant and walked out on the cheating bastard, raising my little girl basically on my own with her visiting her father one weekend a month and only because it was court-ordered.

  Jared and Drew had a falling out a little over a year ago, and to be honest, I was kind of glad. With Drew joining the MC, it was one less dangerous criminal to have hanging around my child.