Chapter One

 

“Heard a rumor the other day.”

Blood straightened from his shot at the pool table to look over at Undertaker. “Yeah, what’s that?”

The President of the Evil Dead MC’s New Orleans Chapter clutched the pool cue in his hands and studied the table. “There’s word circulating around that the Death Heads are looking to patch over one of the smaller clubs near the Texas State Line.”

“Ain’t one of ‘em worth a shit. All they’ll be patching over is a bunch of pussies.” Blood moved to the small high-top table and grabbed his beer. After finishing it off, he looked across the clubhouse to the bar and signaled the Prospect to bring them another round.

Undertaker grinned at Blood’s blunt description, but held back his remark.

Blood pointed at him with the mouth of his empty bottle. “Fuck those Texas bastards. What’s the bug up their ass this time?”

“We’ll deal with them once we have all the information. I don’t like to go off half-cocked.” Undertaker sank the last ball on the table and moved to stand with Blood. He picked up the cigarette in the ashtray and took a drag, his eyes focusing on Blood through the smoke. “The trouble between our clubs goes back a long way. Back twenty years ago when Skeeter ran this club, and a guy named Buckeye ran the Death Heads in Texas.

“A couple of our guys were riding down I-10 with their old ladies on the back. A vehicle pulled alongside and fired a shotgun at them. The bikes went down. One of the girls was killed. We retaliated. They claimed it wasn’t them.”

“I’ve heard the story.”

“Let me make my point. I was the one who handled the retaliation, and I did time for it. Come to find out, it wasn’t the Death Heads that day; it was some hippie-hating rednecks in a pickup truck out for a joyride. I did what I did and paid the price for it. I’ve had to get right with that in my head. Choices I made, they changed everything. I let it eat at me for a long time; it affected everything I did, every decision I made. My point is, if we don’t deal with the past, we can’t move forward.”

Blood nodded, still not sure what Undertaker was getting at, unless he was trying to tell Blood there were things he needed to deal with in his own past.

“You’re a smart man, Blood. The smartest on my crew. You’re quick to pick up on shit, always cut through the bullshit to see the heart of the problem. You can read people like a book. But sometimes its ourselves we have the hardest time seeing clearly.”

“You about to bust my balls for something?”

“Not at all.”

“What then?”

Undertaker shook his head like he wasn’t going to answer… or had decided better of it. “You know you’re like a son to me, right? Have been since the day I pulled you out from under the thumb of that piece-of-shit old man of yours.”

His old man. Most days Blood tried not to think about him. He nodded, his eyes on the green felt of the pool table a long moment before they swung to the man who was so much more than his father had ever been. “You know I know that. You. This club. They’re everything to me. The man I am today—that’s got fuck to do with my shitty childhood. I’m a man because you made me one.”

The corner of Undertaker’s mouth pulled up, his eyes filling with what Blood knew was the love of a father for a son. Maybe Blood wasn’t really his, but it sure felt like it. The man had always treated him like he was, and if he didn’t quite buy Blood’s denial of the effects his childhood had on him, the man let it go.

Undertaker took his right fist and tapped his chest, just over his heart and held out his knuckles to Blood.

Blood did the same, tapping his fist to his heart and bumping fists with his President. It was a sign of love, loyalty, and respect—something every brother in this chapter felt for each other.

“Evil Dead. First, last, and always,” Blood spoke the club’s motto.

“First, last, and always,” Undertaker repeated back in a gravely voice then pulled Blood in for a hug and several pounding back slaps. He said in his ear, “Till I go to my grave, Brother.”

 

***

 

Two beers later, Blood wandered outside the clubhouse where a group of his brothers stood. The air reeked of weed.

Sandman was saying, “Guys, I told you this story…”

Blood grinned as he lit up a cigarette, blew the smoke up toward the starry night sky, and said, “Guys this is your chance to say ‘yes, you did tell us this story.’”

The men all chuckled.

“Fuck off,” Sandman said, giving him a dirty look.

Blood blew him a kiss and asked, “What are we up to boys?”

“Talkin’ about pussy,” Bam-Bam said with a chuckle. “And who was the youngest when they lost their virginity.”

Blood laughed at the joke, knowing full well they weren’t talking about either of those things.

Sandman lit up a joint and took a long toke, then blew the smoke in the air and passed the joint to Easy. “I need to get me a woman.”

“Get hitched,” Easy suggested.

“Tried that. Twice. Bad idea, both times.”

Bam-Bam asked, “What ever happened to that last broad you were with, Sandman?”

“I dumped her ass. She was creepin’ me out.”

“How so?”

“Let’s just say she lives on the corner of Hoodoo and Voodoo.”

Easy choked on the toke he was taking, his eyes watering with laughter. “Well, she sounds like a keeper.”

Blood snorted. “You sure can pick ‘em.”

Sandman continued, “I’m talkin’ potions, voodoo dolls, the whole freakin’ shebang.”

“Bet she’s got a doll with your name on it.” Easy passed the joint on.

Mud took it and observed, “Maybe that’s why your knee’s been bothering you, Sandman. She stuck a pin in it.”

Blood replied with a grin, “Nah, if she stuck a pin, it’d be higher and to the left.”

Sandman looked down at his crotch and paled. “Shit, man, don’t fuckin’ joke about that. Fuck.”

They all burst out laughing at Sandman’s sudden unease.

“Remember that time Sandman brought that chick from Mississippi around?”

“The one he caught Bam-Bam with behind the shed?”

Easy chuckled. “Beat the shit out of him that night.”

“Hey, in my defense, he hadn’t claimed her.”

The men laughed. “Only cost you a broken finger and two front teeth. Was she worth it?”

“Fuck no,” both men said in unison.

Blood shook his head, trying to hide his smile while the rest guffawed.

“Here’s to sweaty sex and bloody brawls!” Bam-Bam held his beer in the air.

“Here, here.” Blood clinked his bottle with his brothers. That’s what this club meant to him. No—it was more than that. Much more. It was brotherhood and family and home.

His gaze strayed over the compound and past the line of bikes parked along the side of the building.

Speaking of sweaty sex, Blood thought as he took a deep drag off his smoke and eyed the dark haired beauty standing over with the girls. Her eyes connected with his as he assessed her. She had thick long hair—perfect for wrapping around his hand—and long legs—perfect for wrapping around his hips. She was dressed in a tank top and shorts that barely covered her ass. He’d seen her at clubhouse parties once or twice—caught her checking him out before, too. Didn’t think she had hooked up with anyone in the club yet. Maybe she was holding out for one brother in particular. Maybe, by the look in her eyes, that brother was him. He slowly blew the smoke toward the sky, his gaze still on her. Hell, he needed a good fuck. Why not take what she was offering? He flung what was left of his smoke into the night and stalked toward her. He didn’t pause to chitchat or return the greetings some of the women gave him.

“Hey, Blood.”

“How’s it goin’, Blood?”

He didn’t say a single word, just clamped his hand around her wrist and tugged her through the parking lot and around the building. She had the good sense not to question him as she quick-stepped behind him. Perhaps she’d been paying attention, perhaps she’d studied him, knew he didn’t like a lot of talk, knew just what she could expect from him. Blood took what he wanted; he didn’t debate it, didn’t negotiate it, and didn’t waste time seducing it.

He kept going, leading her straight to the shed in back where the brothers all did repair work on their bikes. It was a wood building with a concrete floor. He yanked open the door, flicked on the lights, and pulled her inside. Kicking the door shut, his eyes glanced over the interior. There was one bike up on the bike lift, half torn apart. The surrounding walls held several workbenches. There were two bikes waiting for repairs. His gaze locked on the last bike. The Street Bob on the end would suit his needs.

He pulled the girl to him, catching her face in his hands and bringing her mouth up to his. As he drove his tongue inside, he walked her backward toward the bike. When she bumped against it, his hands went to the hem of the Harley tank she wore and, in one smooth movement, pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. It landed on the side mirror, where it dangled. His eyes hit her pushup bra—pretty little rhinestones set in lace. Nice. He appreciated the effort and wondered if she’d dressed with him in mind, but he didn’t waste too much time admiring it, and he didn’t spew any flowery compliments either. With a flick of his fingers the fastening popped free, and he tossed it aside as well. It landed over the handlebars of the Fat Boy one bike over.

Nice rack, pale skin, and pretty pink nipples. He bent, his mouth latching onto one while he took the other between his thumb and fingers and pinched until she moaned and her fingers threaded through his hair to pull his face closer. His mouth moved to the other side, giving it equal attention.

Her tits were nice, but what he really wanted was to sink his dick in her pussy. Wasting little time, his hands went to the waistband of her shorts, and a moment later he was yanking them down her thighs. Then he spun her, sunk his fist into her silky hair, and shoved her down over the seat of the bike.

He undid his pants and pulled out his dick. His fingers found her pussy, sliding inside to find her wet.

“You ready?” he growled. Two short words. That’s all he gave her. He hadn’t come in here to talk, and if she’d come with him for more than a quick fuck, she’d misjudged him.

She nodded under the fist that was still tight in her hair.

He lined up and drove into her with a thrust that had her going up on her toes. Her back arched, but he held her down, keeping her chest pinned to the seat. He smacked one cheek. “Keep that pretty ass in the air.”

He thrust into her, over and over again.

She clung to the bike and melted against it.

He smacked her ass again, harder this time. “Up on your toes. Show me how bad you want me to fuck you.”

She complied, and he felt a tremor in her legs.

“You’re gonna take it as hard as I want to give it, right?” he growled as he released her hair and gripped his big hands around her hipbones. She nodded as his eyes moved over her body. She was thin, but she had a round ass—a spank-able ass—the kind he liked. He could see his handprint standing out in red against her pale skin, and the sight of it spurred him on.

He plowed into her, smacking her ass again, and felt her clench down around him, moaning. The girl liked it a little rough. Good, because that’s how he liked to give it. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted her to come apart, he wanted to feel her come all over his dick as she exploded in orgasm.

His hand dipped between her legs, his fingers searching out that little trigger while his other palm pressed the small of her back down, holding her pinned like a butterfly for him. He played with her, toying until she was bucking like a wild thing, begging him for more.

He adjusted his stroke until he knew by her reaction he was driving into her g-spot. He clenched his jaw, holding himself in tight control, not about to come before the lady. That was one thing he never did, no matter how little the girl meant to him. He always made sure they got theirs.

Slowly, she began to pant. He grinned. He loved hearing that sound—the one a woman made right before she came. He kept at her, driving that spot and stroking that little trigger until she exploded into orgasm, moaning her pleasure.

He let up then, but only to clamp his hands around her hips and drive into her in a frenzy until he felt his own release coming on like a freight train. Just before he spilled into her, he pulled out, took his dick in one hand and came all over her ass and the small of her back, milking it until the very last drop.

His breathing was labored, and his legs were weak as he tucked himself back inside his jeans. He grabbed a red shop rag and wiped the mess from her skin. There would be no little accidents for him. No unwanted babies some bitch could try to pin on him like he’d seen happen to so many of his brothers. He tossed the rag in an old oil drum and stepped back.

The girl stood and turned, pulling her lace panties and shorts up as he tossed her tank back at her.

“Leave the bra here,” he ordered.

She frowned. “What?”

He stared until she slipped her tank on over her naked breasts. He grabbed the bra off the handlebars and, with a swing of his arm, sent it into the rafters of the shed. He watched her eyes lift to the collection already hanging haphazardly up there like leftover Mardi Gras beads.

She was nothing special—just one in a long line. He’d just made that clear to her and hadn’t needed to say a harsh word to do it. That’s the way he liked it. He didn’t need any of these bitches thinking just because he fucked them they owned a piece of him. Not gonna happen, sweetheart. But he didn’t need to be unnecessarily cruel, either.

He led her outside the shed, flicking the light off and closing the door. Then he pulled her close, kissing her. Pulling back, he looked down into her face. “You’ve got a real sweet ass, babe, and I liked playing with you. You want to play with me again, I’m all about it, but that’s all I’m offering. Don’t go setting your sights on me for anything more, understand?”

He studied her eyes as she looked up into his face, and he could tell she didn’t like the boundaries he’d just laid out but nodded anyway, apparently willing to take what she could get.

“Good. Glad we got that cleared up. You want a beer?”

She smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He looped an arm around her shoulders and led her toward the clubhouse.

 

 

The moon was high in the sky when Blood lifted his big black Harley off its kickstand and fired it up. He twisted the throttle, and his tires crunched on the gravel as he rolled slowly across the lot. With a nod to the Prospect standing guard, he pulled out through the wooden gate and headed home.

The clubhouse was located in Slidell, across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans. He headed down Hwy 11 to cross the lake at the old Maestri Bridge or Five Mile Bridge, as most called it. He preferred it to the newer I-10 Twin Span Bridge built just to the east which had been virtually destroyed in 2005 by Hurricane Katrina. The Five Mile Bridge, built back in 1928 was concrete, and its sturdy construction had stood up to the onslaught, leaving it largely undamaged and the only route to New Orleans after the storm until repairs were finally completed on the other.

The cool night air felt good on his face as he crossed over the Pontchartrain. It was peaceful with just the calm water below him and a sky full of stars above. He loved making the trip across this bridge on beautiful nights like this. Just him and his bike rumbling under him as the wind rolled over him. It gave him a few minutes of peace, and his mind wandered back to what Undertaker had said tonight.

Death Heads poaching across the state line was trouble they didn’t need. But if trouble came, they’d handle it. He’d handle it. No one was going to fuck with his club.

Reaching the other side, he veered left, picking up Chef Hwy, which took him up through the neighborhoods on the east side. Little Saigon, the boys referred to it as, where thousands of Vietnamese refugees sponsored by the Catholic Church had settled after the fall of Saigon in 1974. They’d taken to the similar climate, many with fishing skills finding work on the shrimp boats.

Blood rolled up through Chalmette, past the refinery district on his left and on up where it bordered the lower ninth ward on his right. He followed it up through the seventh ward and Marigny. Making the final turn curving around onto N. Rampart Street, rolling into the Quarter at just past midnight.

A couple more turns and he was almost home.

Around the corner from his place, he spotted a girl standing on the street corner. She was young, scantily dressed, and obviously working the streets in this section where no tourist ventured. In this part of town, on the outskirts of the Quarter, if you went one block in the wrong direction, you were likely to get robbed, if not worse. The parking garage two blocks down had shootings on a weekly basis.

Blood was familiar with most of the girls who worked this area; he knew them all on sight. He never made use of their services—Blood had all the women he could want at the snap of his fingers.

This one was young—too young—and probably a runaway, naïve, and desperate. This city would chew her up and spit her out. A lot of girls like her ended up either strung out on drugs, dead in an alley of an overdose, or used up, their lifeless body dumped out in the swamp somewhere, never to be found.

Blood eyed the girl and wondered if John and the man he worked for already had their hooks in this one like they did every other girl in this part of town.

A girl didn’t last long on the streets of this town without a pimp getting a hold of her, and in this part of town there was only one.

Blood coasted to the curb beside her and watched her eyes skate over him and his bike as she approached, obviously thinking him a customer. He watched her long legs and heels eat up the ten feet between them.

“You lonely, sugar?” she purred in a sexy voice designed to reel him in as one hand seductively twirled her auburn curls.

The corner of Blood’s mouth lifted. “You new in town, kitten?”

She smiled. “Kitten. I like that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Anything you want it to be, Mister. I’ll be your kitten, if that’s what you want.” Her head dipped, her eyes going over his bike, probably sizing up how much she thought he might be worth and adjusting her price accordingly.

He reached out and tilted her chin up, bringing her gaze back to his. “Asked you a question. Didn’t hear an answer.”

She swallowed, her eyes getting big at his no-nonsense tone, and replied softly, “Ivy. It’s Ivy.

“Ivy.” His eyes moved over her face. “You got a last name, Ivy?”

“Reynolds.”

“Where’s home, Ivy Reynolds?”

“Ninth Street.”

“No. Where’s home?”

She sucked her lips in, her eyes searching his before apparently deciding it wouldn’t be smart to lie to him. “Iowa.”

“Iowa. That’s a long way. What brought you to New Orleans, Ivy from Iowa?”

“I got sick of cornfields.”

Blood grinned. “I can understand that. But this isn’t Oz. If you’re looking for over-the-rainbow, you won’t find it in this town. Think you probably already figured that out, didn’t you?”

She stayed mute, but nodded.

“This isn’t a safe town for a young girl.” He studied her eyes, then lifted his chin. “Black Jack get a hold of you yet?”

Black Jack Boudreaux was the local crime boss—he ran all the sex trade in this parish and ran a good portion of the drug trade pouring in through the port as well.

She shook her head and answered softly, “John.”

“John.” Blood nodded. Black Jack’s right hand man. Blood knew him well. He kept the girls in line and did all Black Jack’s dirty work. Blood glanced up the street. “He been around tonight?”

“Not yet.”

“You should go back to Iowa, Ivy. This isn’t a life you want. You won’t survive it. None of you girls ever do. And I’ve seen a bunch.”

“I can’t.”

He nodded. “You only think you can’t.” He paused, studying her. She looked thin, but she didn’t look like she’d fallen into the drug trap yet. “He takin’ all you make?”

She glanced down the street and then back to him, admitting, “Most of it.”

“You got money to eat?”

She looked away, and he knew she didn’t. He dug a twenty out of his hip pocket and held it out to her. “Get yourself some chow.”

Taking it, she glanced around the street again fearfully.

Blood’s eyes followed, then on impulse, he dug in his vest and pulled out a pen. Clicking it, he took her hand and yanked it toward him to scribble his number on her palm. He released her, saying, “You get in trouble or change your mind about that bus ticket, call me. I’ll do what I can.”

She looked at the scrawl, and then those too-innocent green eyes lifted to his as she nodded.

“Take care, Ivy.” Blood twisted his throttle, gunning his engine before dropping the bike into gear and pulling away, roaring down the street. At the corner, he took a right and rolled down an alleyway barely wider than his handlebars. He turned into a quiet courtyard and climbed from his bike. Then he took the outside staircase to his second floor apartment.

He let himself in, tossing his helmet and shit on the couch. His place was small, but quaint. He kept it neat—a direct contrast to the homes of some of his brothers. There were no overflowing ashtrays or empty beer cans at Blood’s place. He hated clutter.

His place was old, with a lot of French Quarter character, and he loved it.

He grabbed a beer and strode out onto the wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the courtyard, but also had a view through the alleyway to the corner across the street.

He sat on a metal chair and leaned back, putting his booted feet up on the railing. Then he reached over to the little glass-topped table where he kept a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and he lit one up.

He blew the smoke toward the starry night sky.

The sounds of Bourbon Street blues and jazz carried through the streets of the Quarter to his ears. Bougainvillea vines climbed his neighbor’s intricate ironwork, the fuchsia petals blowing in the warm night breeze, carrying with it an intoxicating combination of the pink blossoms as well as jasmine and honeysuckle.

Blood’s thoughts soon drifted back to the dark haired girl he’d fucked earlier.

He thought about his life. In some ways he was more than satisfied. He loved his brothers, loved his club and the life it had given him. He ran the pads of his fingers absently over the embroidered patches of the letters that ran down the front of his vest. DFFD. It stood for, Dead Forever, Forever Dead, as in the Evil Dead MC. It represented the commitment he and his brothers had to their club and to each other. That club meant everything to him. It had saved him in so many ways—taught him what it was to be a man. Not the kind his father was, but a man a brother would want to stand beside proudly. That kind of respect was earned; it wasn’t given out of fear of a beating, like his father had always seemed to believe. Yes, he loved his club and the brothers it had given him.

He thought about Undertaker’s words. Nothing was going to threaten his club, not while he drew breath. He’d defend it and his brothers with his dying breath. It had become his life’s meaning, his only goal. And if new trouble was stirring, then he’d devote every ounce in him to seeing it was squashed like a bug. He owed Undertaker no less.

Yes, in many ways, he had everything he’d ever wanted. Brothers at his back, men he could depend on, men he’d die for, and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, they’d die for him.

His eyes moved around his home. He had a place he loved in a part of the city he loved and a motorcycle parked in the courtyard he’d built from the ground up. It was sleek, mean, and badass. And it was his baby.

Yes, he had a lot to be grateful for in his life, but something was still missing. He knew it when he saw what some of his brothers had. Shades with Undertaker’s daughter, Skylar, Ghost with Jessie… They’d found that special one, that so-called soul mate, and he was happy for them, but he envied them, too. He wondered if maybe that kind of happiness just wasn’t in the cards for him. A woman you could come home to, murmur in the dark about your day to, cuddle with as the dawn broke. One who’d have your back through the dark times when everything went to shit, laugh with you through the good times… Someone to bring you back to earth when your head got too big. Someone to share memories with, build a life with, start a family with. That had never interested him before.

He huffed out a laugh. Hell, no.

For a long time now, he’d thought of women as just things to be used, never trusted. His father had drilled that into him from an early age. Women couldn’t be counted on. They bailed at the first sign of hard times. And one woman in particular from his past had emotionally scarred him so badly he didn’t know if he could ever trust another. That had been his experience, and he’d lived by it all his adult life.

Until he began to see some truly good women come into the lives of some of his brothers and how those women had made them better men. They didn’t make them weaker; they didn’t tear them down, lie, cheat, and steal from them. No, they made them stronger. They shared a real relationship with some of his brothers; a bond that was rock solid and couldn’t be shaken no matter what life threw at them.

Blood would never have believed that was possible, not in a fucking million years, until he’d witnessed it, seen it with his own eyes. That unicorn did exist.

But Blood had a hard time reconciling any of that with the way he’d been brought up. It flew in the face of everything he’d ever been taught by his old man. And yes, he knew the man was a son-of-a-bitch, but he’d been Blood’s only male role model during his formative years. Whether it was right or not, those seeds had been planted, taken root, and grown like a choking vine that consumed everything, pushing out all the good. Blood fought them back daily, trying to contain them like some spreading Kudzu vine that couldn’t be killed.

He’d watched his brothers closely, seen the way some of them truly had partners in the women they’d found.

Now that he’d seen it, he realized that as uncharacteristic as it may be, he couldn’t help but admit to himself, if no one else, he wanted it, too.

But hell, the women he met, the women who hung around his club? While there were some good women, none of them were that special one. Not for him. None of them were anyone he couldn’t live without or who had that something extra that could turn around his way of thinking and make a lie of everything his father had drilled into him. So he took what he needed from them and never looked back.

Gazing up at the stars now, he wondered if any of it would ever be in the cards for him.

A sound caught his attention: a woman’s scream. It echoed off the buildings and had him dropping his booted feet from the rail and peering to look between the brick walls framing the alleyway.

Across the street, on the corner, he spotted two girls—one was Ivy, the other a girl he recognized as Cherry. She’d worked that street for six months now—just another runaway Blood had tried to convince to go home. He was always trying to run them off from the clutches of Black Jack and his men. Because watching that son-of-a-bitch get his hooks in them, use them up, and throw them away like yesterday’s garbage, had eaten at him. It got under his skin like nothing ever had. He’d been unable to sit still for that shit, so he’d made up his mind to do something about it. More times than not he failed, but once in a while he succeeded, and it drove the man crazy.

Blood enjoyed nothing more. Anything he could do to thwart that bastard was well worth it. He only wished they’d all get on buses back to places like Iowa, Indiana, and Illinois.

His eyes zeroed in on the commotion taking place on the street corner. A guy was hassling them, twisting Ivy’s arm. When Cherry tried to intercede, the guy pulled a knife.

Blood stood, flinging his cigarette into the night. Where the hell was their damn pimp, John? He usually watched them like a hawk, especially when he was turning out a fresh one.

The punk slashed his blade in the air toward Cherry in an effort to keep her back while he tried to drag Ivy to a car. When Ivy tried to fight him off, he slammed the butt of the knife into the side of her face, stunning her into submission, and continued dragging her toward the waiting vehicle.

Poaching new talent—that’s what this guy was doing. Grabbing girls off the street to work the Ninth Ward or down by the docks or out by the oil refinery. Black Jack and John might not be a girl’s dream boss but they were head and shoulders above what was in store for these girls in the low-income sections this guy probably intended to take them.

Blood vaulted over his balcony railing to the staircase landing, taking the remaining stairs three at a time. Then he sprinted across the courtyard and down the alleyway. He had his gun drawn as he darted across the street, coming up behind the girl’s attacker.

Blood brought the butt of his gun down on the guy’s head, dropping him like a ton of bricks. Before the guy realized what was happening, his knife clattered across the sidewalk.

The girls screamed as a shot rang out from the driver of the vehicle.

Blood spun and fired back.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

The red Cadillac, with its twenty inch chrome rims, squealed off from the curb with four new bullet holes in the side, compliments of Blood.

He looked down at the piece of garbage sprawled at his feet, out cold, then his eyes lifted to the girls. Ivy was a trembling wreck, her hand holding her battered face. Cherry was calmer, having been on the streets longer.

Blood moved to Ivy, brushing the hair off her cheek to reveal the knot already swelling and turning purple, a gash in the center.

“I’m okay.” Her glassy eyes met his.

“Where is he?” Blood snapped at Cherry, the tick in his jaw betraying the fury vibrating through him.

She shrugged nonchalantly, but she knew what he was asking. “John’s been busy with other stuff.”

“Maybe you need to find yourself a new pimp,” he suggested with a glare.

“You know Black Jack owns the Quarter.” She moved to Ivy, putting her arm around the shaking girl.

Blood stepped back and lifted his chin, ordering Cherry, “Take her and get out of here before that Caddy circles back around for this asshole.” He kicked the man at his feet and then looked up at Ivy. “Think about what I said, kitten.”

He watched them hustle down the street and around the corner, disappearing into the darkness. Then his eyes slid to the right, down the street two blocks over where Black Jack’s compound was located.

Cherry’s words came back to him. John’s been busy. Blood wondered what he was busy with. What could be more important than taking care of his inventory? Whatever it was, it had something to do with Black Jack. Blood had no doubt about that, and he suddenly felt the need to find out what that could be, because keeping tabs on what Black Jack was up to was never a bad idea.

Blood strode up the street.

Two blocks down, he turned and headed down a dark alley that ran along the back of Black Jack’s compound. Rounding the corner, the sight that met his eyes had him stopping dead in his tracks. There, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see them, were four members of the Death Heads MC standing next to their bikes.

What the ever-loving fuck?

Death Heads ran out of Texas. They rarely ever crossed into Louisiana, let alone all the way east to New Orleans. This was Evil Dead territory, and they knew it.

The four men glanced over at him. Everyone stood frozen in shock for a split second. And then, before he could pull his gun, a shot rang out, and he felt a bullet tear through his side. A split second later, something slammed into his head from behind and everything went dark as he sank to the ground.