Burn: Outlaw Romance (Hotter Than Hell Book 3) (2 page)

Savannah and our son died because the other driver decided to drive drunk. The impact caused the sac holding the baby to rupture and amniotic fluid to fill Savannah’s lungs. My wife drowned. And, for no fucking reason, I’m alive.

If you call seven years of prison living.

Nine years later…

Dax

MY DAMAGED HOG RATTLES
between my thighs. Add the hot pavement rising up to sizzle the lower half of my body and the sun cooking my shoulders and I fucking guarantee it’s hotter than hell.

If I manage to survive the next few hours, I’ll need to repair my bike, which will be costly. That’s really the least of my worries right now, and I shake off those thoughts. I should feel some form of redemption for saving the little girl who I just placed in safe arms. Kiley never deserved the drugged out mother who gave her life or what Fox, the president of the Desert Crows MC, had planned for her. The uncaring fog that’s been with me for almost ten years cleared when I looked into Kiley’s eyes. I didn’t think my plan to remove Kiley from the house would succeed, and I expected to die. Sadly, Kiley would have died too, but death was better than the alternative. I made it out alive with the help of unlikely friends and now Kiley has a chance. The truth—it will take much more than one small child to save me after the shit I’ve done since leaving prison. Torture and murder are only half the story. If hell exists, there’s an inferno waiting for me.

I swerve around a pothole on the blacktop. In less than fifteen minutes, all hell will break loose. I survived seven years in prison, but my chances of surviving what’s next are about nil. The men riding behind me know what we’re heading into and, like me, they’re ready to die.

We’re ex-cons and we’ve drawn our line between the wrong we’re willing to live with and the wrong we can’t abide by. Fox making plans to sell Kiley to a child molester was the line we drew in the hot desert sand. The Desert Crows MC is made up of ex-cons like us. I have no idea who will have my back and who won’t. One thing I do know—I’m not going back to prison or standing by and allowing Fox to continue his shit.

The Desert Crows’ clubhouse is a mile off Highway 87 in Peach City, Arizona, an hour northeast of Phoenix. Around a thousand people call Peach City home, and the area is sparse with a temperature about five degrees lower than Phoenix, which means it’s still damn hot.

The dusty dirt road leading up to the club is shit on a Harley and makes cleaning the filters regularly a must. We thump along over the ruts until the twelve inch wood posts supporting an iron script sign with the club’s name comes into view. I stop and idle as the other four bikes pull up beside me.

“Last chance to turn around,” I tell Skull, Johns, Coke, and Vampire. My supporters. The men who are as fed up as I am.

Skull brushes his fingers over his bald head before revving his engine. “We’re with you, Dagger,” he says when the noise fades. Dagger is my club name. “I think Loki and Bear will side with you too. Try not to shoot them,” he adds.

“Got it,” I say and hope I can avoid doing just that. I look at them. Ex-cons trying to find a place just like I am. Sadly, the place we all found is run by a piece of shit who is blood-thirsty, mean, and insane. Fox needs to die.

My wrist throbs. The damn thing is broken because the enforcer for Arizona’s largest crime syndicate had me forced off the road. It’s also the reason my bike is damaged. I wasn’t happy about any of that, but a little girl is safe because those same people helped me. If I survive, I won’t forget what I owe them. I unstrap the Velcro from the wrist support they gave me in the emergency room and toss it into the dirt.

No weakness.

I rev my engine and lead the way. We pass beneath the iron sign and keep going. The clubhouse sits about a hundred feet back from the fenced entrance. The building is a clapboard mess covered here and there with extra sheets of plywood. The roof is rusted tin and echoes like a motherfucker when it rains, which thankfully isn’t often. The place should have been condemned years ago. Rusted out vehicles and bikes are scattered around the yard and mixed with household garbage. No dignity whatsoever, just piles of crap. I’ll admit most of our members drive rat bikes made of a lot of shit from the yard. I’m tired of it. We all know Fox stashes a good portion of money without sharing with the brothers. That and the pigsty out here will change if I survive.

It’s strange that saving Kiley gave me back part of the man I was before Savannah died. The other part died with her and our son. I’m not sure about the new me. I just know I want change for this club or I want to send it to hell.

Fox has connections with the county or he intimidates them, so planning and zoning leave us alone. I’m not privy to those connections. The locals aren’t fond of the club, but they give us exactly what we want—privacy to run our illegal operations. The way I figure it, Fox also gets tips on pending raids. It’s uncanny how he always knows. It’s part of the way he controls us. We’re in the dark, and most of the men, including me, thought of Fox as a savior until a short time ago. No one in the club wants to return to prison and no matter that we break just about every law there is, Fox keeps prison at bay.

I clear my mind of everything but the coming confrontation. I park and lift my leg over the seat. I leave my gun holstered at the back of my waist. I’m known for using a blade and I prefer it. I’m not beyond shooting Fox if it comes down to him or me. There are rules for what’s about to go down. That doesn’t mean Fox will follow them.

With the four guys at my back, I open the front door of the clubhouse. It makes an obnoxious squeak as it swings wide and slams against the wall. I look across the warm, shadowed interior and see Fox sitting on a bar stool. He turns slowly when Rufus, our only prospect, who is tending the bar, freezes. Fox stands slowly. He’s not stupid and knows something is going down. Skull was on guard duty today watching Kiley and so was Metal. Metal isn’t with us because I cut his throat to save the child. His blood is still splattered across the front of my leather cut that displays the Desert Crow colors on the back. I’ll wash it off if I survive.

Fox spits to the side and hikes his jeans up an inch. His gun rests at his hip. It’s an easier draw for him than mine is for me. Fox stands five ten and he’s thick without carrying excess fat. He keeps himself in shape. He’s wearing a black T-shirt I’ve seen many times. The front reads, “Mouths don’t get pregnant.” His oily scalp, deeply inset eyes, and flat nose give him the look of an inbred shit for brains. I don’t let it fool me because Fox didn’t get where he is by being stupid. He’s a crazy mother and has no fear of death and no problem walking up to someone holding a gun on him until the barrel is pushed against his forehead. I saw him do it once. He stabbed the guy without caring that the man’s finger rested on the gun’s trigger. Like I said, he’s crazy.

I keep my hands at my side. The charter rules say I can challenge. Those rules go back thirty-five years to when Fox was a toddler and I wasn’t even a thought to the parents who raised me. This doesn’t mean Fox won’t kill me before I challenge.

“Well, well, fucker. You finally grew a set, because there’s no way you would take Skull away from his duty if this was a Sunday school lesson.” Fox looks me up and down before his steely blue eyes hit the guys behind me. I have no idea if they’re meeting his gaze in challenge or planning to stab me in the back. I’m risking everything on the former.

Two club members rise from chairs at a table to my right. Clutch has his perpetual unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s one of the few members with shaggy hair. It’s naturally bleach blond, so Fox lets it slide. Clutch is Fox’s VP combined with Sergeant at Arms, and I may need to go through him to get to Fox. Is Fox in the mood to kill me himself? That’s the million-dollar question.

Clutch moves closer to Fox without taking his gaze from me. Loki is the other guy who stood from the table. He’s the exact opposite of Fox when it comes to muscle. His bulk is fat and he has a lot of it. He moves slowly. His plus is that very little in the way of physical damage affects him. The fat just jiggles with each punch. I was in a bar fight with him once and three guys attacked him and couldn’t take him down. Right now, he stands still. I watch his eyes shift to someone behind me and I hope it’s a good sign.

Red, Fox’s retired whore, backs away to the far corner of the room. She’s somewhere in her forties but looks older. She’s been around longer than most of the members. That fact gives testament that she’s dangerous even though she doesn’t look it. I’ve fucked a few of the whores at the clubhouse, but she’s not one of them. She managed to kick her meth habit years ago, and I have no idea why she stays in this shit place. She keeps the other whores in line and rules the pussy roost. I consider her in Fox’s back pocket. For some reason, he treats her better than he does the other women.

Very slowly I remove the knife from the sheath at my waist. Once it’s free, I jam it down on the wooden table beside me. I look around at the silent men and then settle my eyes back on Fox. “I challenge for the club.” This leaves no doubt that I want Fox dead.

Things are about to get fuck-all ugly.

Sofia

HER BARE FIST SKIMS
my jaw without causing damage. The woman in the ring with me hasn’t been that lucky. I lost my last fight and have no intention of going down again. I kick my leg out and she moves to the side. Her mistake is dropping her right arm. I take advantage and let my fist fly. The solid blow sends her to the sand. There are no refs and I take advantage of that while she’s down by kicking her in the head and chest.

This is street fighting, though here in Florida we do it on the beach. The people watching and placing bets form the ring. Nothing glamorous about the fight itself or the payout.

Whoever the girl is, she doesn’t get up. She tries to crawl away and I won’t have that. I lean down, grab her ponytail, lift her head, and kick her full in the face. It finishes her and cheers and groans swell from the crowd. Joey Jay, promotor, trainer, and all-around piece of shit, walks over and throws his arm around my shoulder. I shrug him off and grab the water bottle from his other hand. I tip it back and allow the water to wash the sweat and splattered blood from my face before taking a drink.

“Ya did it, girl. I knew you weren’t down after that last fight. You got your mojo back.”

He looks so pleased with himself. It’s not him who takes the abuse. I’m fucking twenty-six years old, barely make a living, and have the shit kicked out of me on a regular basis. No more. This was my last fight. I have bigger fish to fry.

“Fuck you, Joey. I said I was done and I meant it. My ass is out of this city. Get me the money and don’t take any detours.”