Chapter One
Cooper
The echo of the hammer hitting bone crackles through the air in the small, dank room. The man’s screams fill the space with pain, anger, and contempt. He doesn’t want us here anymore than we want to be in this dump. Unfortunately for us both, he fucked up and it isn’t an option. No, it’s a necessity.
Fucking Stu.
Ravage Motorcycle Club, my family, we run a tight ship, so to speak. There is a code, rules of sorts that must be followed. Fall out of line, there will be punishment. Stu fell out of line.
Ryker laughs off to the side, pulling me away from my thoughts as I let go of the man’s wrist, hammer still clenched in the other hand. The asshole, Stu, falls to his knees on the dirt floor, holding his broken finger.
That’s not the only one he’s going to get today for his stupidity.
He knows better. Everyone in Sumner, Georgia knows better. Hell, make that anyone who has ever heard of Ravage knows better.
“You’ve got a hell of a blow with that thing,” Ryker calls out. The man is twisted and warped. He does this shit for fun and entertainment. Part of me thinks he gets off on it, but to each their own. Me, I do this shit out of duty and responsibility. Regardless, he’s been by my side for years, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
When no response comes from me, Ryker walks up to the man and gives him a savage kick to the gut, making the man curl into a ball to protect himself. Green and Jacks stand off to the side of the small space.
We brought Stu to one of our outbuildings. It’s more like a rundown shack, but it has what we need to get the job done.
“I’m thinkin’ we need to take off some piggies,” Ryker eggs on, and a chuckle escapes me. He does have a way with words, saying exactly what he thinks with not an ounce of filter.
“Give me a shot,” Jacks, another one of my brothers and a friend from high school, says as he holds his hand out to me, waiting for the hammer.
Handing it to him, I then take a step back and cross my arms. It’s not me being a pussy. It’s me wanting to get this shit done so we can get the fuck out of here.
“Money,” I bark out to Stu as Ryker gives him another hard kick, this one to his thigh.
Stu owes our club fifty thousand seven hundred dollars and some change for merchandise he purchased. We gave him a week after the initial payment of fifty grand went smooth. Ravage and Stu have a history, and in that time, this is the first instance when Stu hasn’t paid up in full. It’ll be the last time as well.
“I-I can have it b-by the weekend,” Stu stammers out as Jacks swings the hammer, hitting Stu in the ankle. Another crunching sound reverberates throughout the room.
Ryker smirks, coming to stand next to me and giving me a slight bump on the shoulder with his elbow. “Believe this fucker? Weekend?” He shakes his head and spits down at Stu. “Motherfucker, you have twenty-four hours to come up with the cash.”
“If we don’t have it by then, you’re done,” I add as Jacks takes another swing.
His cries of fear fill the air.
After an hour of making sure Stu gets the picture by using our fists and hammer, we ride.
***
Fresh air. The freedom of feeling the elements surround me. The delicate balance of navigating a road or eating asphalt.
It’s the best part of every day.
The ride.
My bike is a beauty. A Heritage Softtail Harley painted black and red—Ravage MC colors. Working on her has been my pastime for years, tuning and cleaning. I take care of her, and she takes care of me. Wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s something about taking garbage and turning it into something you love. That’s my bike. She began as a pile of shit and turned out to be absolutely perfect.
Life ties us down. Materials hold people back. The open road is about freedom. Ravage is freedom. We live to our code, our standards, and we take care of our own.
My mind clears on the open road awaiting me, nothing but blacktop and paint ahead. Riding allows me the peaceful time to think. Sometimes my rides last hours, while others only last minutes. Normally, whenever my mind figures out what it needs to, that’s the time I pull my bike to a stop.
Lately, the Ravage MC has been bringing in some serious money with all the deals that Pops has worked out over the years. Some of them bring more than others, but it’s becoming more difficult to filter the money. Especially with the amount of cash. There’s only so much we can put through the garage and Studio X, the strip club. Even Stu owes us, and when that cash shows up … Well, it’s got to go somewhere.
It’s been working well, but we had to stock pile cash in several of our vaults in the clubhouse basement. Having cash on hand is great in the times we need it, but it will continually increase over time if we keep at this pace. That being said, we need something else to funnel the money.
The thing is, I’ve been around the club my whole life. I prospected in early. Just turning twenty-two, I’ve held my place for four years now. I’m ready to step up anywhere needed. More so, I’m ready to give a fresh mindset and view to the way we do business. It’s all for family.
My Ravage family.
My top idea is a car wash. It’s an all-cash business, unless you let the customers use credit cards, which I would advise against. If we keep it all cash, we could put some of the money through there. I even searched the internet about all the working parts of one of the machines and how much it would take to build and maintain it. Ravage could easily do it, but the downside is all the moving pieces. Sure, we can go and fix the shit, but I want to work smarter, not harder.
There’s a way, and I will damn well find it.
My parents taught me many things. The first and foremost is to be my own man. If that means carving a new path for the Ravage MC, I’m up to the task.
***
Pulling up to the clubhouse, we park in the lot, all next to each other, turning off the engines and taking off our helmets.
This building is home.
My memory is damn good, which is both a blessing and a curse. My father doesn’t know, but I remember living with my biological mother and seeing stuff as a young child that was flat-out wrong. It’s not that he doesn’t care to know; we just don’t talk about it.
Besides, remembering those times only pisses me off. Seeing men come in and out of the small apartment, going into that woman’s bedroom then coming out a while later. She was always doped up on something. Back then, I thought she just wasn’t feeling well.
When she started hitting me, that was when I knew what fear was. A woman is supposed to love their kid, at least somewhat. Mine didn’t. Not at all.
The moment my father told that woman—my incubator, as we call her now—I was staying with him, that’s what I consider my rebirth. It was a new start. Not only that, but I had a new mother, as well. One who loved me, took care of me, and put all my needs above anyone else’s, not giving two shits what anyone thought about it.
When I started living, this ugly-as-fuck, cement-blocked building became home. Don’t get me wrong, we had a house, as well, but the clubhouse is where it all started for me.
“How’d it go?” Pops, the president of Ravage MC and my grandfather, asks upon us entering the building as I get chin lifts from the guys.
Pops has been the president since I came to Ravage—at least eighteen years. He’s done a great job building the Ravage Motorcycle Club into very profitable entities. Not only that, after the bullshit that went down when I was a kid, Pops keeps a tight leash on any and all our friends and enemies. One doesn’t do what we do and not have a huge basket of both, but Pops has kept it all in line.
“Ryker got a little too happy, so the guy won’t be having kids, probably ever, but the message was sent. If he doesn’t have it by the weekend, then we’ll take care of it.”
Pops chuckles.
“Hey, the fucker was tryin’ to stand up. If he would’ve stayed down, his nuts wouldn’t have cracked.”
Laughter is heard throughout the clubhouse.
Pops slaps his hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. The look he gives me is different, but he says nothing as he walks to one of the tables and has a seat.
I’ve noticed things about him these last few months. The looks that come across his face when he thinks no one is looking, as if he’s tired and the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s true.
Running an entire MC is a shit-ton of work. Even doing it for years and having it down pat, there comes a time when it could be too much. I kept my mouth shut about it, though, not wanting to overstep my boundaries. When Pops is ready to tell us what’s going on, he will.
Heading toward the bar, I grasp the cold beer sitting on it then join the guys at the table. Blood means nothing to any of us. We are a family of our own choosing. Each one of us couldn’t be more different if we tried. It’s as if we were put together in this clubhouse for a reason.
Take Becs. He’s the vice president and has recently told us that he’d like to step down and let one of the younger guys take his role. That decision is huge and one of the highest topics at our next church. Becs is quiet. Silent but deadly. He’s never up in your face, but one wrong move, and he will tear you down.
Then there’s Rhys. He’s silent, but his face, body—hell, even the air around him—screams “breath my air, and I’ll end you.”
My dad, Cruz, he’s middle road between the two. He has no problem getting in someone’s face, yet he’ll only do it when necessary. His face isn’t scary like Rhys’, but he has his own badass vibe he puts off.
Me, I’m more of a thinker, a planner if you will. I like to look at all the possibilities and facts before coming up with a strategy.
Somehow, all our crazy asses fit together, and we are bound by family.
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