Masters of Menace: A Biker Erotic Romance

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Masters of Menace copyright @ 2014 by Sophia Hampton. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

MASTERS OF MENACE

Michael Lawrence. The name resonates in my head with all the intensity of church bells and with all the pain of a gunshot.

Michael Lawrence. I look at the coffin being lowered in the grave and I think about the vow I made early in my eulogy.

Michael Lawrence. I have never met this man, but I will make sure he is ended. I will make sure he knows what he has done, the pain he has caused.

Michael Lawrence. The man who killed the only father I ever knew, the man I swore to put behind bars.

Two
years later

I drove into the empty driveway and stared at the vacant house. Since the house was paid off I let it sit on the block while I finished my journalism degree. I always managed to find internships that would get me out of the state, or spend the summers with friends or boyfriends. Anywhere but here. But now I was back. I was back and Michael Lawrence would pay.

Many people considered my obsession with Michael Lawrence to be misguided. After all, he wasn’t at the crime scene. But he didn’t have to be. Dad had spent most of his life trying to put the vicious members of Michael Lawrence’s gang behind bars. I had spent much of my teenage life leaving in the slight fear of death threats and being used as leverage against Dad. Although the man who pulled the trigger might not have been Lawrence, he had to be behind the crime.

The pain of that sunny day in the graveyard still wracked me and provided me with my motivation. Without that anger and hate I would have never gotten through college, I would have never come back here. But I made a vow to my father that day that I would bring Michael Lawrence to justice.

The police had never been able to prove he was connected to the crime directly. They brought some guy named Charley to court for his murder, but I knew Michael Lawrence was the one behind it. He ran the biggest motorcycle gang in the entire region—they were also criminal bodyguards and ran a security ring. His men were always for hire to make sure whatever your nefarious deed was got done without you being detected. It sickened me. Violence and death followed him everywhere. As, I reflected, it followed me.

Almost all my worldly possessions fit into two suitcases and a duffel bag. I left the suitcases for the morning, slung the duffel over my shoulder, and walked to the front door of the little house. I paused at the front briefly. The porch light wasn’t on—probably didn’t even work anymore—and night was falling quickly. I unlocked the door and went inside.

The house was roasting. Once a month I paid for a housekeeper to come out here and make sure nothing had been stolen and that wild animals weren’t invading, and I came down every summer to give the house a good scrubbing, but for the most part no one had even entered the house since my father’s death. And the A/C had definitely never been turned on in that time. The baking South Carolina heat had turned the house into a furnace.

Praying against all hope the A/C still worked I flipped on the thermostat and, mercifully, the
whoosh
of cool air flooded the ducts. Crisis averted, I turned my attention to the rest of the house. Nothing had even been moved in the past two years. Under the dust and disinfectant I could still smell Dad, his comforting musk. I slung the duffel bag on the couch and unzipped it, pulling out the flag I received at his funeral. Stoney-faced, I put the triangle on the mantle and stepped back. “This will always be your home, Daddy.”

I wandered through the rest of the house, trailing my fingers across surfaces, remembering growing up here. When I stepped into the house for the first time as a scared and lonely seven-year-old; the smell of burnt food and the
ding
of the delivery man at the door; the sounds my dad and his cop friends playing poker and drinking beer while I watched cartoons; where my high school boyfriend broke up with and Dad held me while I cried.

Every good memory I had was in this house, and every good memory was of my dad. And he was gone now. Michael Lawrence took him away from me. I headed up to my bedroom. It was still decorated like it was when I graduated from high school. Hell, there was still a picture of Steve and I tucked into my vanity mirror. I laughed as I remembered the drama that was involved in that relationship, but it was high school. I pulled the picture out of the mirror. Maybe I would call him up and we could get coffee or something. Ask him how his baby is doing. A lot happens in four years.

I paused in front of my dad’s door. The room where the Christmas presents hid, where I would bound every Sunday morning—no matter how old I was—and snuggle under the covers and we would watch classic movies all morning while my dad told me about when he saw all of them when they first came out. I entered the room, curled up in the center of his bed, and pressed his pillow to my face, inhaling his scent. Tears started to leak out of my eyes and before I was aware of what was happening, I was sobbing into his pillow, tears of anger and regret and loss and grief.

Tomorrow I would start work.

Tonight I would grieve.

One year later

The alarm went off at five, but I was already wide-awake. I had barely been able to sleep at all last night. Today was the day. I was sitting at my computer, continually refreshing the page, waiting for the article to go live. I was told it would be any time between five and eight. Three long hours waited for me.

I clicked refresh again, my knees pressed against my chest, my long chestnut hair pulled up in a sloppy bun. I was wearing nothing except one of my dad’s old oversized t-shirts and a pair of boxers—AKA, my typical sleep and work attire. One of the great things about freelancing and working for a web-zine was working in whatever the hell and wherever the hell I felt like. And today that was curled up in the center of my bed in my pajamas, refreshing my screen every four seconds—approximately the amount of time it took for a page to load.

After three years of research, one of which was almost entirely devoted to the subject, I was finally going to be publishing my article on Michael Lawrence. I knew everything I possibly could about the man. I knew he had been active for the past five years after being elected—if one could grant such criminals the decency of democracy—president of the motorcycle gang known as the Confederate Cycles of America. They were often seen with massive Confederate flags flying from the back of their bikes.

The group itself has been active for almost fifty years, but once Lawrence got his disgusting paws on the gang the crime had ratcheted up like this, increasing more every year. I could track almost every murder or unexplained death in the past year back to the CCA. My research and network were thorough, detailed, and unassailable. I made sure every piece clicked together like Legos.

I pushed my black, horn-rimmed glasses up with my knuckle and refreshed the page again and again. I slammed on my keyboard in frustration. It was only 5:11. I still had endless hours to wait for my article to get published.

My mind drifted back to Lawrence, as I found myself doing more and more often. He was the worst humanity had to offer. He was vicious, violent, crude, and a brute. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, and refused to let anything as mundane as morals, ethics, or human decency stop him.

I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, unable to stop myself from constantly reloading the page. What was taking so long? They had my article for almost a week now. They swore it would be up, and it was not up. The squealing noise of the boiling water matched my emotions almost exactly.

***

I was on cup four an hour and a half later before the article was finally posted. I quickly read through it, reminding myself of my shocking claims, re-experiencing all the emotions and turmoil of the past three years of research and grief. I felt a tear run down my cheek and I hurriedly brushed it away.

This was everything I had worked for so tirelessly since Dad’s death—and, I realized, since the death of my mother. I let my mind flit back to that tragic night. The man who contributed so horrifically to my current existence had shown up again at the trailer my mother and I lived in. He wanted money. He started beating my mother, demanding it. I ran out of the house to the neighbor and asked for their phone, but by the time the police arrived he was gone, and so was she. One of the cops on the scene was Dad, and I couldn’t have been a luckier girl for that.

My cell phone rang, shocking me out of reverie. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway. “Hello?”

“Sarah Pruitt?”

“This is she.”

“You better stay away from us, bitch, or you’ll deserve what is coming to you.”

The line disconnected and I pulled the phone away from my face. This wasn’t the first time I’d received threats from the CCA, but this was the first time they had called me. All other threats had been through email. Every once in a while it would be on a social media site, but increased security prevented that from happening again. How in the world did they get my number? Unless one of my little spies spilled on me. I paid them good money to not do that. Next they would know where I lived and… I didn’t want to think about that. I had known for a long time they were tracking my publications and research on them, but they had never been able to track me down to my house.

The threats kept coming after that call. I reported them to the police, but there wasn’t much they could do. After all, they hadn’t been able to get Michael Lawrence yet—how could a couple of anonymous threats change that? Dad had taught me how to defend myself when I was a teenager and I had a gun, but the thought of using it made me sick.

I would be doing exactly what I hated the CCA for doing: needless violence and killing. But no one had made any attempt to find me or contact me in any other way except through the phone threats. So I tried to push the matter from my mind and focus on the more positive results of my article.

I had some major news organizations contact me about doing interviews. I had some publishers ask me about book deals (obviously with some more research). My story was getting nationwide coverage, as it was shared through every single social media outlet. I enjoyed simply tracking the story as it spread. I wasn’t up to speed on all the intricacies of the Internet, but one of my more tech-savvy friends was able to embed some sort of tracker on the post so every time someone shared my article online, it would pop up on a little map.

For a while I enjoyed watching new blips appear, but then the map of the U.S. was so densely covered I couldn’t even tell when a new one appeared.

I was laying in bed one evening, almost two weeks after my article was published, binge-watching some Netflix and eating Chinese takeout—it is the glamorous life I lead—when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I silenced my phone and carried on with my current activities. My phone vibrated against my leg. The same number. I declined the call, annoyed. A few minutes passed on and my phone vibrated again, this time with a text message.

We need to talk – Michael Lawrence.

I paused my show and sat up, staring at the innocent black letters. What could this mean?
How did you get this number?

I have my ways. That’s not important right now. Where can I meet you?

Tonight?

Yes.

Should I meet him? My first thought was that this was a trap, but it could also have been my only chance to actually speak with the man himself. I had never met him or seen a picture of him, so although I knew a lot about his recent activities, I knew almost nothing about him as a person. I didn’t even know his race. His cohorts made sure that no details about him slipped free. Some people didn’t even think he really existed. Those people were, in my opinion, highly uneducated.

Taco Bell on Applewood
, I texted back. I pushed aside my hanging clothes to reveal the wall safe Dad had installed shortly after I came to live with him. He kept all his firearms in there so there wouldn’t be any unfortunate accidents, but as soon as I was old enough he started teaching me how to shoot and defend myself.

I loaded the gun and slipped it into my purse, throwing my cellphone in there as well. Then I pulled on a pair of jeans, a black bra, and a breezy teal blouse. I braided back my brown hair and put in my contacts, then slung my purse over my shoulder, keys jingling in my hand. I paused, looking in the mirror, staring myself in my blue eyes. “You can do this, Sarah. You are strong and capable. You can do this.”