Dirty Deeds Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

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  SLY: The Kings of Carnage (Book 6)

  About the Author

  DIRTY DEEDS

  A Devil Kings MC Story

  By

  Nicole James

  DIRTY DEEDS

  A Devil Kings MC Story

  Nicole James

  Published by Nicole James

  Copyright 2020 Nicole James

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Lori Jackson

  Cover Photography copyright by Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Theo Tapirian

  Editing by CookieLynn Publishing

  CHAPTER ONE

  Reno—

  I lean against the wood-paneled wall of the room the MC uses for meetings. Church, we call it. Smoke rises in curling wisps to the ceiling from half a dozen cigarettes. I can smell the unmistakable aroma of a joint someone in the back has just fired up. I dread the time I spend in this room. Not because I don’t love my brothers and my club—I do—but because of the man who stands at the head of the table. He thinks he’s goddamn king now that our chapter president is awaiting sentencing on serious drug and weapons charges.

  Thirty years is what Prez is facing. That’s got to be a kick in the gut to a man like Growler, a man who up until now has never faced any serious time.

  The feds are after serious penitentiary time on this one, though. Not that Growler isn’t guilty; every damn brother in this room knows the old man was caught red-handed, which just goes to show you how fucking stupid a drug addiction makes a person. I won’t call our president dumb, because after all, the man rose to the gavel of the biggest, baddest MC in the state of Georgia, and he didn’t do that by being stupid. No, he can be as cunning as the next man, but he’s made some bad decisions through the years, taking what once was a club I loved and turning it into one I’ve grown to barely tolerate. Not exactly the kind of shit I’d signed up for when I put the Devil Kings MC patch on my back.

  Now, with Prez a guest of the Fulton County Detention Center, our VP stepped in to fill the void. Rat is devious, and I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. I know I’m supposed to love my brothers—the whole ‘loyalty to the club’ thing—but Rat would shove his own mother down a sewer if he thought it’d get him something he wanted. I don’t trust the son-of-a-bitch, and I never have. For the most part, I try to steer clear of him. Avoidance is often the best solution I’ve found when dealing with some of the assholes in this club. Most I love dearly, but a few I can’t stomach. Funny how that works in life.

  You ain’t always gonna like everybody, and everybody ain’t always gonna like you, my ma used to say. Not the most poetic, but still sage advice. She’s the only living relative I have, and I don’t see her near enough anymore.

  “Quiet down!”

  The gavel slams down several times, calling the room to order. I lift my eyes from the dirty floor, clearing my head of my musings as voices trail off around me.

  “Memorize this face!” Rat holds up a photo I’m too far away to see. He hands it to Quick, seated to his left, ordering with a lift of his chin, “Pass it around.”

  I watch the photo move from one grimy hand to another around the table until it’s passed over Rusty’s shoulder to me.

  “Reno.” He holds the photo out, and his eyes connect with mine briefly as I take it from him.

  Rusty was my sponsor when I became a prospect. Not that he’s that much older than me. Maybe five years, but he’s been in the club a long time—long before I came around.

  He’s smart, too; one of the few men I actually respect around here. I trust him with my life. I can’t honestly say that about everyone at this table.

  I take the photo and gaze down at it.

  A young woman stares back at me with the most beautiful, radiant smile I’ve seen in a long fucking time. Big, trusting brown eyes, long dark hair… Yeah, she’s gorgeous, but that isn’t what grabs me. It’s her resemblance to another girl I once knew—a girl who ripped my heart out years ago. One I haven’t thought about in years. Christ.

  A flash of heat surges through my blood at the reminder of the rejection and humiliation I felt all those years ago. How something that happened back in fucking high school could still have an effect on me pisses me off. As hard as I want to deny the pain, it’s still there, burning a hole the size of a crater in me even now.

  My jaw clenches, and I draw in a deep breath and exhale, telling myself to let it go.

  Besides, this is not that girl.

  Wondering how the hell this beauty fits into anything related to the club and our current fucking problems, I pass the photo on, lifting my eyes to Rat. His name suits him to a tee with his pointed face, scraggly long gray hair, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his long nose, not to mention his Fu Manchu mustache. He’s a rat with the soulless eyes of a snake.

  “McNair won’t make any guarantees on an outcome,” he snaps.

  “That’s because he’s a fucking moron,” Quick adds, and the room breaks out in laughter.

  “And? What’s the plan? What’s this chick got to do with it?” Rusty asks over the noise. He always could cut to the chase.

  Rat glares at him before looking around the table. “McNair says Growler’s case has been assigned to Judge Harbinger. That, my brothers”—he nods to the photo—“is his daughter.”

  Holy fucking shit. I can’t believe he’s thinking what I think he’s thinking.

  “You’ve lost your damn mind,” Rusty snaps, obviously coming to the same conclusion I have. “She’s your leverage?”

  “She’s the only damn thing he cares about,” Rat growls back. “You got a better solution to this? I’m all ears.”

  “Anything would be better than this fucked up plan. You’ll get the entire club sent up for life if you think this goddamn shit will work. Like we don’t have enough problems with the ATF and DEA, now you want to add the fucking FBI to the list?” Rusty’s fist slams down on the scarred wooden table, punctuating his tirade with a boom.

  Even from across the room I can see Rat’s jaw clench and the vein in his temple bulge.

  “Maybe Rusty’s right,” Sleaze dares to agree.

  “Decision’s been made,” Rat says in a deadly tone. “McNair says she’s the only thing that fucking judge gives a shit about. She’s his only Achilles’ heel. We get to her, we can control him and the outcome of the trial.”

  “And how do we get to her?” Reload asks with a filthy grin, and I can already see the wheels spinning in his
sick-as-fuck mind. He’s our resident nymphomaniac and—I suspect—sometime pedophile. He’d love to get his hands on this girl. It turns my stomach.

  Rat puts his palms down on the table, leaning forward, his eyes connecting with Reload. “She just started school at Alabama.”

  “University of Alabama?” someone in the back asks.

  Rat’s head swivels to the voice, and he grins. “Joined a sorority.”

  Crude jokes spew out around the room. I shake my head. Their sophomoric humor isn’t funny to me anymore. It’s just kind of sad. These are grown ass men, most of them old enough to be this girl’s father. Not that there isn’t young pussy around the club; there is… lots of it. But those girls got a choice in bein’ here. I know what Rat’s planning, and so does every brother in here. And it ain’t gonna end pretty for this girl. I grind my teeth.

  I’m a biker, a one-percenter, and I know the score here. I’ve got no problem takin’ out threats to my club whether that comes in the form of a drunk fucker at a bar, mouthing off and disrespecting us, or from another club, pushing into our turf, or one of the other numerous gangs in this city, cutting in on our business.

  But a young innocent girl? That is not what I thought this club was about when I signed up. Unfortunately, it’s no longer that club; it’s a whole different animal, and I’m stuck. I blow out a long-suffering sigh, drawing the attention of my former sponsor.

  Rusty swivels in his seat and glances at me. He knows. He can read me like a book, and I him. He’s aware of my frustrations with the club.

  I’ve always done the dirty work… the shit jobs. I’ve been the club muscle doin’ whatever needed to be done. Wherever, whenever, whatever they asked, I did. Now I stand here wondering when it’ll end and if I even have a line in the sand that I won’t cross anymore.

  Rusty shakes his head slightly. Not now. Not here, bro.

  I get it. Shut up and stand here like a good fucking soldier.

  “So, we’re goin’ into Dead territory to take this girl? How’s that gonna play out?” Quick asks.

  Rat meets his gaze. “We’re gonna set a meet with ‘em. Ask permission to ‘watch over the daughter of one of our brothers’, all nice-like.”

  “Yeah?” Rusty asks. “Who’s makin’ that call?”

  Rat swivels his gaze to Rusty. “Why, you are, my brother.”

  I watch Rusty’s eyes narrow and his mouth tighten, and I know I’m not the only one frustrated with this fucking bullshit. And right then I feel the bond we share tighten.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Reno—

  Not even the roar of our six Harleys can drown out the absolute thunder of the race cars going around the Talladega Short Track. We slow to make the turn under the entrance sign, pulling off Speedway Boulevard.

  The red dust from the dirt oval rises up in the glow of the overhead lights. Ain’t nothin’ better than night racing in the cool Alabama darkness, except maybe rollin’ down a moonlit country road on a Harley.

  We pull into the gravel lot near the back straightaway. A line of metal grandstands gleam under the bright-as-day fluorescent lights. Rolling up behind the line of Evil Dead’s bikes, we drop our kickstands in the gravel and dismount.

  A line of leather-clad men comes to meet us. They move in unison, rising from the metal grandstands and dropping, one-by-one to the dirt on booted feet. They approach, every face hardened and ready to fight—same as us, if it comes to that.

  One small error, one slip up, one temper snaps, and all hell could break loose, setting off a goddamn war between us. Devil Kings and Evil Dead have hated each other for as long as I can remember. We’re the goddamn Hatfields and McCoys. I’ve never been clear on the history of what started the bad blood; never really gave a shit either.

  Now, as I stand here, my arms folded across my chest, I kinda wish I’d cared a little more about those reasons.

  I do remember their VP, Shades.

  My eyes shift to Rusty. He’s tryin’ to play it cool, but I know this meeting has his fucking blood boiling. His ex-ol’ lady ran out on him. What a long fucking story that was—one that ended with her runnin’ to the Dead for protection. Now she’s Shades’ ol’ lady. What kind of fucked up bullshit is that?

  That’s gotta drive Rusty crazy, it sure as fuck would me. I hate double-crossing bitches.

  I know Rusty loved her, and somehow he’s managed to turn the other cheek and move past it. Gotta give him credit for that. More than I’d be capable of.

  I stand silently and play my part, which is to be seen and not heard, not unless it comes to blows. I’m just the muscle, the show of force. That’s all my part in these things ever is.

  But this is different. This is a fucking delicate situation that could blow all to hell. Technically our two clubs are in what one might call a truce. It’s tenuous at best.

  Negotiating with the Evil Dead. What the fuck has the world come to?

  It’s a clear night with a cool breeze, perfect weather actually, and a great night to ride.

  Just not to come all this way for this bullshit.

  Four approach us; three hang back a few yards.

  Rat, Rusty, and I move forward. Out of respect, we leave the other three members standing at the bikes.

  The two MCs meet in the middle.

  Rat extends his hand to Shades. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us.”

  Shades takes his hand, locking eyes with him. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

  Rat nods, and the smile slides from his face. He isn‘t used to being talked to like that. He jerks his head to Rusty, who steps forward with the details.

  “We‘ve got a member with a daughter attending University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa this year. We want to be able to keep an eye on her for him.”

  Shades chin lifts at the unusual request. “Must be an important member for you to go to the trouble of setting this pow-wow up.”

  “She is,” Rat growls.

  Shades eyes cut to him. “What exactly are you asking for?”

  “We want to be able to send a few boys over to check on her when necessary.”

  “And how often is necessary?”

  Rusty shrugs, his eyes flashing to Rat for a moment before continuing. “Hard to say with this girl. She has a mind of her own. Wants to join a sorority of all goddamn things. Who knows what trouble she‘s gonna get into.”

  “That‘s a whole lot of vague.”

  Rusty runs a hand over his jaw. “We‘d be appreciative of your cooperation.”

  “What you‘d be is indebted,” Shades corrects him.

  “What are your terms?” Rusty asks.

  “What do you have to offer?” Shades counters.

  Rusty glances at Rat, who bites out, “Five hundred a month, and you stay out of it.”

  I know this plan won’t take more than one month’s payment, but the Dead don’t know that.

  Shades pins Rat with a glacial stare. “I‘m not throwing my borders open carte blanche for this. And no one tells me what to stay out of in my own goddamn turf. So, here are my terms.” He points at Rusty and me. “You and you. That‘s it. I don‘t want to see another DK patch in my state. I see anyone who isn‘t these two, deal‘s off.”

  Fuck. I don’t want any part of this plan, and now it seems with the point of his goddamn finger, I’m neck deep in it. I can only hope Rat won’t go along with these terms.

  Rat stares at the Evil Dead’s VP a long moment before finally nodding once. He holds his hand out. “Deal.”

  Shades shakes it and lifts his chin at Rusty and me, his eyes still on Rat. “They come by my clubhouse first weekend of the month with the payment.”

  Rat nods once.

  With that my fate is sealed. My eyes slide closed for a moment. I know where this is headed, and it’s not going to end well, and when it doesn’t end well, it’s gonna be me they ask to put a bullet in that sweet girl’s head. I grit my teeth, and all the blood in my veins drops to my boots. Opening my eyes, I stare wi
th almost tunnel vision at the two VPs’ clenched hands. The noise from the track blurs in my head, sounding distorted and far away.

  “Thank you for working with us on this,” Rusty says, and I blink, sucking in a lungful of cool night air. I focus again, but my mouth is dry, and I’m shaky as hell.

  Shades lifts his chin. “Don‘t make me regret it.”

  Rusty gives a short dip of his chin in response. Shades’ eyes slide to me.

  I don‘t nod or show any reaction. I’m an MC soldier who does what I’m ordered with no objections. That’s the part I play, the hand I’ve been dealt.

  “We‘ll be watching you. Understand?”

  “There won‘t be any trouble.” Rusty smirks. “Well, except what the girl stirs up.”

  The corner of Shades‘ mouth lifts at Rusty‘s attempt at a joke. “Find your way home before midnight, or you may turn into a pumpkin.”

  I don’t find any of this funny and stand like a stone statue, hoping they wrap this up before my hands start to shake.

  Rusty grins and lifts his chin. “Say hi to Skylar for me.”

  Shades eyes narrow. Rat turns to the bikes, and we follow.

  I just need to make it to my bike, and I’ll be good. I’ve got the long ride back to Atlanta to think about whether I’ll have the guts to pull that trigger when I receive the order to end that sweet girl’s young life.

  EVIL DEAD MC—

  Hammer pulls a pen out of his inside vest pocket and writes JDLR on his palm.

  Shades sees it and meets his eyes, then nods. All the boys in the club are familiar with the term. It was something cops wrote on a report when something just doesn’t look right.

  The Evil Dead MC stands, arms folded, watching the DKs mount up and roll out.

  When they’re gone, Hammer leans toward Shades. “Somethin‘ about this just doesn‘t add up, VP. There‘s more to it than what they‘re claiming.” He turns to Ghost. “Can you make sense of it?”

  Ghost‘s brow shoots up. “A DK plan make sense? Let‘s not get our hopes up.”

  Shades grins. “One way to keep an eye on them is to have ‘em under our noses.”