Earning the Cut (Riding the Line Series, Prequel) (10 page)

Dax’s hand found the older man’s and he squeezed it hard, feeling a short answering squeeze that immediately began to weaken. Seconds later, the machine began to beep and a team of personnel rushed into the room. Hawk pulled Dax away bodily, even though he fought to maintain physical contact with Crow, as though he could prevent him from going into the light by hanging on to his hand.

“It was his time.” Tears flowed copiously from Hawk’s eyes and he made no move to wipe them away. They stood outside the little room until the doctor called time of death.

“Come on, kid.”

Dax followed numbly, like a lost puppy seeking a new master. Back at the clubhouse, he was taught the crew’s way of dealing with grief as he kicked back shot after shot of brandy. Emotions ran high as the guys told stories of their pasts and of their friendships with Crow. Gray broke down as he relayed tales from Nam, when he and Crow fought side by side. He might have been an outlaw biker, but Crow had a good heart and he followed his own code of honor.

When everyone had lapsed into a sorrowful, silent reverie, Hawk ushered the originals into their private meeting room to conduct his first order of business as president. Fifteen minutes later, Dax was awkwardly accepting handshakes and claps on the back. He had just become the crew’s youngest member. The moment was somber, but meaningful nonetheless. Dax could feel the emotion transmitted by the other members as he slowly donned his leather. When they quit the meeting room, Dax could see the others staring at his cut in surprise. Heads began to nod and then there was a deafening round of applause.

Dax had never been one to attract attention to himself. The alcohol helped him deal with the strange mixture of grief, joy, and camaraderie that was starting to make him feel totally unsettled. He joined the others as they raised their glasses in tribute to Crow and to their newest member, who had risked his life to save their president. Dax kicked back a monster shot of brandy that would leave him passed out under the table for half the night.

You were a good man, Crow.
I’ll wear it well.
I promise.

***

A Month After Crow’s Death

I haven’t written for a while.
Too many things going on, I guess.
I never thought I’d end up here, in a place like this.
With a family.
A real family.
I have learned that blood doesn’t make family. Maybe being in a club is in my blood and maybe I’ll never know.
I used to feel like I was riding through this world all alone.
The club has filled a void in me, made me whole.
I’ll never forget to honor the man who made that possible.
The man who took a chance on a wayward kid.
I am making myself a solid promise, to create my own code of honor and live by it as best I can, like Crow did.
No bird flies a straight line, but I’ve landed here, and here is where I’m gonna stay.
I’m gonna live this life right.
Never forget where I came from. That’s all I can do.
That’s what earning this cut means to me.

End Prequel

Author’s Note

Dear Foxxx Club,

Thank you for your support, interest, and readership. If you have enjoyed this prequel about Dax, please leave a positive review. Good reviews are an author’s personal drug! Reviews also help indie authors like me get their work out there. Thank you for taking the time to write one on Amazon, Goodreads, or your book blog. Please also friend me on Twitter, “like” my Facebook page, or check out my blog for updates regarding my work. I love interacting with readers and I find your feedback very motivating!

The current work is a (long!) prequel to the
Satin and Steel
series, which is loosely inspired by the hit television show,
Sons of Anarchy.
This prequel is meant to give background on Dax due to questions and interest from my loyal readers. The second book in the series,
Leather and Sand
, is due out this summer. I also want to offer a huge thank you to Kurt Sutter and the cast and crew of SOA who inspired me to write this series.

If you enjoy my writing, please check out my FREE series,
The Captive,
which can be found on the Literotica website by searching my name, Jayna Vixen, or by clicking the link below.

Always,

Jayna

About the Author

By day, Jayna Vixen is a doctoral-level consultant, supermom, wife, and freelance writer. When night falls, she transforms into a sultry, sexual seductress with a flair for pole dancing and eroticism. No one knows that beneath the crisp, pressed suit and the many awards and degrees lies a temptress who lures you in with her masterful storytelling. Let Jayna Vixen lure you in too…read on and become addicted to Jayna Vixen Erotica!

Email:
[email protected]

Website:
http://jaynavixenerotica.wordpress.com

Twitter: @jaynavixen

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http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jayna-Vixen/316403285080810

Other Works by Jayna Vixen

Satin and Steel (Rhiannon and Dax, Book One)

Rhee took a deep breath and squared her shoulders before walking into the seedy bar. Ignoring the lewd stares from the rough-looking patrons, she marched a straight line to the bartender, a hairy guy with a big belly. Her hands were shaking slightly as she shoved a flyer at the man, who regarded her with one eyebrow raised.

“Have you seen this girl?” Rhee’s voice came out high but assertive.

The bartender smirked.

“What if I have?”

Rhee drew herself up to her full height, a petite five feet, three inches.

“Then I suggest you tell me where she is. My little sister is only nineteen years old.”

She tried to make her voice sound calm and steady, but inside she was quaking with tension. The bartender suddenly looked more serious.

“Your little sister, you say?”

Rhee nodded. “That’s what I said, sir. She was dating a guy who rode with a motorcycle club that used to stop in here. She’s missing. At least just let me put up this flyer?”

The bartender nodded to someone behind Rhee’s head and then looked back at her.

“Well, missy. You have a lot of nerve coming in here and making demands. But…it turns out that I have a little sister myself. Hand over one of them flyers you got there. You can put one up in the ladies’ room too, if you want,” he held out his beefy hand.

Ten minutes later, Rhee’s breath rushed out in a great
whoosh
as she pushed her way back out onto the street. In her haste to get back to her old Toyota she nearly ran headlong into a tall, blond man who had just parked his impressive-looking bike by the curb.

“Steady there, little girl,” a husky voice rasped with an undertone of mirth.

Little girl?!
Rhee glared up angrily and felt her breath catch in her throat as a pair of twinkling blue eyes met her own fiery green ones.
Damn, he’s tall!
Irritated that she had to crane her neck to see his face, she straightened her spine, flushing under the stranger’s perusal.

He wore a black leather vest over a tight, black tee, and loose jeans that might even conceal a holstered weapon.
Definitely one of those biker gang guys
, Rhiannon thought to herself. It must have been only a few seconds that she stood there, transfixed by the blond hulk’s gaze, but it seemed like an eternity. Rhiannon mumbled an apology and tried to walk slowly back to her vehicle, aware of the man’s eyes on her back. Running would show fear, she reminded herself as she forced herself to take slow, measured steps, willing her hands not to shake as she placed her key in the door.

That was the first place she hit. That week, Rhiannon visited four more biker hangouts, hot on the trail of her little sister, Michaela, or Mickey their father had christened her. Mickey often disappeared for weeks at a time; the girl had been a free spirit since the day she was born. Rhiannon smiled, remembering how her baby sister had scared everyone one cold winter’s morning by crawling behind the Christmas tree and falling asleep, while the family tore the neighborhood apart trying to locate her.

Yep, that was Mickey all right. She had horrified their mother by getting a butterfly tattoo on her sixteenth birthday, and she had rejected traditional college applications in favor of pursing her photography hobby. Mickey marched to her own beat and never stayed in the same place for very long. Her little walkabouts had never worried Rhiannon…until now. This recent disappearance had been preceded by a frantic phone call in the middle of the night. Rhiannon remembered every word out of Mickey’s mouth, even though she had been half asleep.

“Rhee, it’s me! Wait-don’t say anything! I’m in trouble, Rhee. Big trouble. I need you to come and get me…tonight! I’ll be at the corner of West and-oh! Oh, shit…”

The call had been disconnected. Rhiannon had flown from the house in her sweats and raced across town to West Avenue. She drove up and down the street in vain, all night long. Finally, exhausted, she had gone to the police and they had been no help. They all remembered Mickey. Their parents had logged numerous missing persons reports when Mickey was in high school. She always turned up, with a new tattoo or a story about a festival in the desert. It seemed her reputation had followed her to California. Darling was a small town, and the local deputies didn’t bat an eye when Rhiannon begged frantically that this time, a search party really was warranted.

It had been days since she had slept.
Well, years really.
Rhee’s normally bright eyes had dulled, and she was sporting some dark circles.
Thank God the roommates are gone for break. They’d think I was losing it.
Plus, she didn’t want to rehash her crazy past and current life to the bubbly coeds she lived with. They could never understand. Kate and Lisa were sweet, but Rhee knew they thought she was a total drag. She always made up excuses to avoid joining them when they went out to parties or bars, and she didn’t want to explain why. She didn’t need their pity.

Rhee dragged herself from a few hours of desperately needed, dreamless sleep and pulled on a pair of worn, low-slung jeans and a simple tee shirt. Blearily, she made herself a cup of strong coffee and nearly fell into her car. There was one last place that she could think of to hit but she had left it for last for on purpose.
Tu Madre
was a small establishment that an old lady from another hangout had mentioned. It was known to be the den of a particularly nasty Mexican motorcycle crew.

Ignoring the warning tingle that shot down her spine, Rhee shoved her apprehension deep down into her guts. If Mickey was there, or if anyone knew where she was, she had to find out. She pulled up in front of the dilapidated shack that matched the address the biker chick from the last hangout had given her. Rubbing her eyes, Rhiannon stifled a yawn. A metal sign, rusted with weather and age, proclaimed,
Tu Madr-.
Rhee groaned inwardly.
No “e.”
As an aspiring copyeditor, punctuation errors really irritated her. The place looked deserted save for a few bikes parked out front.

Perfect
, Rhee thought to herself.
Fewer scumbags for me to fend off.

***

Dax sat at the table to the left of his president. He sighed as the latest task came to a vote. Dax raised his hand half-heartedly. Even though he had quite a bit of sway in the club, defying Hawk would be like signing his own death warrant. Part of Dax wanted out, but he simply could not justify leaving. His girlfriend was talking marriage and he couldn’t afford her or her medical school bills without the club. The cut he received as vice president of
The Phantoms
trumped any full time job he could think of…by a lot.

A crackle of excitement went through the air as Hawk pounded the gavel.
The Chicos
had overstepped their shit for the last time. Taking the deal for the latest round of guns was the last straw. They would hit them tonight, when they were least expecting it. No doubt the stupid bastards would be partying it up, and they would all be piss drunk and high. It was the perfect time to strike, and take back what was rightfully been theirs.

It was late when the unmarked, black van pulled up outside of
Tu Madre.
Dax and his crew were suited up and packing hard core. Dax adjusted his bulletproof vest and issued some orders to the rest of the crew. Then, they popped the bathroom window and sneaked in, wholly undetected.

***

Rhee was sick with fear. From the moment she entered
Tu Madre,
she knew she had made a grave mistake. A small group of heavily tattooed men graced a table at the rear of the shack. Three whorish girls danced groggily on makeshift poles, cigarette smoke wafting up to caress their fake tits and caked makeup. A group of a dozen or so younger guys barged in and assaulted the bar, whooping and high-fiving. Shots were passed out and the distinct smell of marijuana wafted to her nostrils. Rhee turned on her heel, realizing that these were men who adhered to no rules or laws. A large man stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

“Where do you think you’re going, puta?”

Rhee bristled. “How dare you!” She pushed at the man, but he was like an oak. He laughed at her pathetic struggles and then, to Rhee’s horror the smelly man picked her up and threw her over his swarthy shoulder.

“Fresh meat!” he called, as the other men glanced her way, their eyes widening with lust. A few rubbed their crotches and made lewd gestures. Rhee began to struggle in earnest, employing every one of her self defense class tricks. She stuck her thumb into her captor’s jugular and he grunted with surprise and fury. Rhee screeched in outrage as her bottom was walloped so hard she was sure it would be bruised. Nausea bubbled in her stomach as several of the men at the bar stood up and adjusted their pants. Then, they hauled her, kicking and screaming, into the rear room.