The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club (2 page)

Raven only wanted to make a point. Instead of an open hand, she could have dragged her nails across his cheek, drawing blood like it was nothing. Even if everything he said was true, which it was, she wasn't about to start burning bridges. Not yet, anyway.

Gunner couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of her firm breasts jiggle when she slapped him. He knew it would do nothing to improve her mood, but didn't give a fuck. He watched her turn and storm out, saving what face she had left.

From the hallway he heard her call back to him, "Fuck you, asshole.”

Gunner sat at his bedside, finishing the cigarette and listening as she pulled on her engineer’s boots, slammed the door, and fired up her Harley to speed away into the night. As the sound of her V-Twin faded into the California darkness, Gunner chuckled. Shaking his head, he crushed the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray and prepared to pass out. His laughter ran dry when he saw that she had left her cut dangling from the corner of his headboard.

As he stared at it, he thought about her. It had itched at him for a while. Since she became a prospect, Gunner had watched Raven with a different eye than the others. He didn't like how her gaze lingered on some of the top-level bikers. He could almost see the thoughts of grandeur in her head, and he didn't like it. After careful consideration, the Rising Sons had only voted her in as a prospect because she was Tanner’s sister, and he was one of the club’s best enforcers.

Reaching over, Gunner dropped her cut the floor with a flick of his finger out of spite, rolled over onto his stomach, and fell asleep naked.

Vegas felt something that had vanished inside him for over a month.

Since getting a knife in his back, he’d lost most of the use of his left foot—the fine motor skills, anyway. With some serious focus he could move it, but it was a slow and painful process. There were other problems, like the slight numbness of his face, but it was his foot that bothered him most. It took something from him that left him feeling empty. He’d lost the ability to ride his motorcycle.

Mike Maldonado had given that back to him. He could now shift with his right foot and he could brake the front and back of the bike with one hand. It took some getting used to, but Vegas had gotten the hang of it, and once he was on the open road, it was like nothing had even happened. He was whole on his motorcycle. He was equal to those around him. Of course, when he pulled his limp leg from the bike, he was just another cripple with a sob story.

He had a plan to change, that, too. The doctors told him he wouldn’t regain his full mobility, but at the very least, he could destroy those who had taken it from him. The Rising Sons-of-Bitches had betrayed him and almost deprived him of the greatest feeling in the world: the open road.

The night they’d back-stabbed him—literally—Vegas had dragged himself nearly a quarter mile before a passing car stopped. The woman was a phlebotomist with a bit of EMT experience, and she was able to stabilize him before the ambulance came. For three weeks, Vegas sat in a dull hospital bed with no visitors. He didn’t tell his blood family what had happened, and since most of his old crew had been killed by the Rising Sons, he was left alone with his thoughts for weeks.

He thought of the man that had given him a chance. Ronald Bezarius had started calling himself Beezer after he had turned criminal, and Vegas understood why. Bounty hunting was exciting, but the pay was all over the place and never anything spectacular. The expenses were high, and for some reason, they were seen as the scum of society. Bounty hunters served an important function in the law enforcement world, but no one respected what they did.

He followed Beezer into the criminal world from a future in law enforcement. In just a few short months, they became wealthy and began carving out a chunk of territory that took some people years to control. When Beezer suggested joining the Rising Sons Motorcycle Club, Vegas understood right away. They were one of the most powerful clubs in California, and if the two organizations could come together, they would be unstoppable.

Vegas had agreed, and three months later, he had passed the initiation tests and was in like Flynn. He knew that bringing the Rising Sons and Ronald Bezarius together would be delicate, but before he got the chance, some stuck-up bitch had thrown a wrench in the gears. The bitch’s brother got himself in deep with Beezer, and the debt had stood for too long. When some of the collectors went to get paid, Trask Rivers had put a bullet into one of them. He was the son of the Rising Sons’ prez. Might as well have declared all-out war.

In the end, Vegas had to take one last stand to try and convince them. It ended with him getting a knife in the back. Figuratively and literally, he’d been stabbed in the back by a brother.
Eye for an eye leaves everyone blind,
Vegas thought,
but raining down hell on one group would teach everyone else to tread lightly.

The doctors had fixed him up, and he was as healed as he was going to get. Step one was complete: he had his bike back. Step two was moving right along. Once he had a meeting with Carlos Maldonado, he’d not only get guns, but with a bit of negotiating, he’d get a crew of mercenaries on his side.

Vegas knew the Sons had nearly half a million dollars in cash stashed somewhere. He’d be able to pay off Maldonado’s men and wipe the Rising Sons off the map, leaving Vegas to take over Bezarius’ old territory. There was no competition, and he was going to take full advantage. Vegas knew all of Beezer’s contacts, and he could be up and distributing in one month. One month after the Sons were completely destroyed.

Vegas called number after number and didn’t get any answers. Seven of Beezer’s best men, gone in one raid from the Rising Sons. It was a shame and a fuckin’ waste. When Vegas tried the eighth number, he got an answer.

“Vegas, holy Hell. Good to know I’m not alone.” Aldo sounded tired. Vegas could sympathize.

He wanted to hide the impediment, so he worked hard to enunciate. “Aldo, you old bastard.” He knew it would sound forced, but neither of them wasted time with pleasantries. “I’m glad you answered. You’re the first one.”

“I can save you some time, Vegas. I’m the only one that’s gonna. They’re all gone. Only reason I survived was I was out of town meeting a client.”

Aldo was in his fifties, but diamond hard and quicker than guys half his age. In that moment, though, Vegas could hear all the years in his voice. Despite that, Vegas smiled. It was good news. If Aldo knew who the enemy was, he’d play ball.

“I got out, but not without a scratch or two.” Vegas wasn’t sure how much Aldo knew. He guessed nearly nothing. Aldo was a man who knew when to cut his losses and go into hiding until the shit-storm blew over.

“You got out, Vegas. That’s the important thing. The Sons?”

“Mhm.”

“I know you, kid. I knew you were already planning some grand gesture. We’ve got no one, man. They’re all gone. One old fart and one young gun ain’t gonna do it.”

Vegas closed his eyes. A small weight was off his shoulders. The old man had implied he was in as long as the circumstances were right. “What if the numbers were higher?”

“How much higher?” Aldo was taking the bait.

Vegas thought of Carlos Maldonado. He knew him by reputation only, but it was a big rep. Protection, bookies, prostitution—Maldonado was the Las Vegas of Las Vegas. Gambling and prostitution may have been legal in Sin City, but there was an underworld that made all the bright lights and dreams sound like a sleepy Bible Belt village. Carlos knew power, and he knew violence. Just the kind of man Vegas wanted.

“I’ll find out for sure in a few days’ time. You keeping this phone?”

Vegas could almost hear Aldo smiling, “I guess I’m keeping it for a few days’ time, at least.”

One Month Earlier

"The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club was started right here more than twenty years ago. It may be a shitty bar, but to us, it’s hallowed ground you’re standin’ on, darlin’.” Bear Rivers looked around the bar at the world he’d created. He was right—to anyone off the street, it didn’t look like much. Los Bandoleros had seen better days, and if you didn’t like beer or whiskey, you were shit out of luck. To the Rising Sons, though, it was home base. It was a safe haven in more ways than one.

Raven stood opposite a semi-circle of fourteen bikers; all men. They ranged in age from twenty-two to nearly sixty. As a prospect, she had learned each of their names and what year they’d joined. She couldn’t help but think that her hazing process was harsher than the other two prospects that had joined at the same time as her. Since they were both standing in the semi-circle facing her, it all but confirmed her thoughts.

Andy and Pitt had passed their initiation tests three months earlier. She hadn’t even been told what the three tests were.
That changes tonight,
she thought with an inward smile.

Bear, the hulking figure and leader, spoke again. “We’ve got a bit of a special case here with you, because, y’see, we ain’t never had a girl go out for the club. Ain’t gonna lie. Most of us honestly didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

A few of the bikers gave a deep laugh. Knowing glances were thrown back and forth between some of them. Raven had been put through hell for nearly six months. Normal hazing for prospects would have been bad enough, but for a woman, it was tenfold.

She tried not to let the memories come back to her. The sexual advances, the near-assaults, the endless work thrust on her. Only two weeks in, one of the stupider brothers had cornered her near the office and tried to tear her t-shirt off. Spit had dripped from his mouth as he trapped her. He was nothing but an animal.

Raven had stabbed him through the hand with a paring knife so hard he had to put a boot on the cutting board to pull the damn thing out. After that, the sexual advances died away, but the hazing ramped up big time.

As she stood listening to the president speak, she found Kenny in the crowd. The white, bulging scar on his left hand was present and would be for life. Meeting his eyes, she smiled at him until he looked away. Especially after the run-in with Kenny, Raven found it increasingly important to establish with the bikers that she was as tough as they were, and at times tougher.

She had shown them each in different ways. Kenny with a knife, her fellow prospects with her determination, one member at a time. Of all of the members, Gunner had been the hardest. Raven's eyes wandered to him.

That boy was one hard nut to crack. He had a face full of mystery, a body full of testosterone, and he picked his words in such a way that she knew there was something going on behind his eyes. He made a real show of seeming dull. Raven hadn’t bought it for a second. She saw the spark he had and knew right away that he was easily the cleverest man in the room.
 

Raven didn’t like Gunner at all.
 
He was too clever.
 
It was easy for her to ignore him during the meeting, even if his body got her fired up in a heartbeat.

The grey-haired president spoke, "As you may know, prospects of this club have three tests they gotta pass before they can be considered for membership. The first test?” Bear looked around. He was a showman from top to bottom, and it was one of the reasons not one Rising Son objected to his indefinite presidency. Bear was a natural leader, and no one could see anyone else wearing a cut with “President” on the patch.

“Anyone? The first test?” Bear rolled his eyes, looking like a disappointed teacher. “For fuck’s sake. It wasn’t rhetorical.” He turned back to Raven with a showy sigh. “Loyalty is the first test.”

A few of the dumbshits nodded, remembering after being told. They exchanged glances, trying to cover up quick.

Raven stared at the group. Unlike some of the dumber members, she did know what the first test was.
Loyalty
. It could've meant one hundred different things. She had probably gone through all one hundred trying to figure out exactly what they'd have her do.

Rob a bank? Take out a narc? She knew it had to be something that would prove to the club that she'd be willing to lay down her life for the other bikers in the room. A bank job or silencing some asshole didn't exactly add up to loyalty.