Age: 26

Place: Pittsburgh Pennsylvania

My destiny had been mapped out way before I was born. It was decided upon the moment the washed up junkie who bore me peed on a stick and two pink lines appeared. Sue Ellen Barker was just a club whore trolling the Arlington chapter of the Bastards of Mayhem MC, looking for someone, anyone, to claim her. The selfish bitch just happened to strike it lucky when she got knocked up by the president of the club.

Yeah, you heard me right. Dante West, the president of the Bastards of Mayhem MC who also went by the road name of Stone, knocked up a whore, and not just any whore, but one who was hooked on crack.

Born addicted to crack cocaine, I spent the first three months of my life in the hospital NICU. If this was a fairy tale or some shit like that, I’d tell you my mother got clean and sat vigil alongside my incubator, but that bitch skipped the minute she was discharged. Matter of fact, the ink wasn’t even dry on her release papers before she took to the streets looking for a fix.

If it wasn’t for my old man, well, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. He may not have been seasoned for fatherhood, it may not have even been something he ever wanted, but like anything else in his life, he took what God gave him and made it work.

I was raised a Bastard and groomed to take my father’s place at the head of the table. While other kids played with Legos and Matchbox cars, I played with zip ties and Harley Davidson parts. At the age of eight, I knew how to rebuild a motorcycle. By twelve, I had expertly mastered the art of tying someone to a radiator. Kids my age were gearing up for their first kiss while I was getting my first blowjob at a patch party—not mine, I didn’t get my colors until I turned eighteen.

I may not have had a mother, but I had a family. The Bastards of Mayhem were my family and the men my father called his brothers became mine too. I learned at a young age there isn’t anything a man with a patch won’t do out of respect for the brotherhood. A Bastard of Mayhem will fight, cheat, steal and kill for the sake of the patch, for his men and his club. A Bastard will sacrifice himself on the cross for his leader.

Yeah, fucking right.

Bullshit.

Lies.

There isn’t anyone who has your back in this miserable world. Your only ally is yourself. Everyone you thought you knew; everyone you banked on being there for you when shit got deep, well, in times of despair, those motherfuckers show their true colors. They don’t lay down and die for anyone; they walk right over your body and sit in your fucking seat.

At least that’s how it worked in Arlington. My father’s body wasn’t even cold before the vice president called church. Instead of deciding on the details of his funeral, they took a vote on who would rule the Bastards next. At the time, I wasn’t prepared to take my rightful place at the head of the table and I was relieved when they voted me out. They elected King, the vice president, as our new leader and he eagerly took my father’s place. I reasoned that it was the best decision for the club since I was too distraught over my father’s death to properly command my brothers.

Grief fucks with you. It makes you weak and sometimes it puts blinders over your eyes. Then time goes on and you start to heal. You open your eyes and the harsh truth becomes clear. I realized the Bastards were nothing more than a bunch of lowlifes waiting patiently for my pops to die. I toyed with the idea that his death was a setup, that they planned for him to be on the road and even hired the trucker to fucking plow him down. Some people will work and climb the ladder, others will saw down the pegs.

I sat back and watched King pick apart everything my father worked hard to create. I watched him and the rest of the Bastards turn deal after deal. They polluted the land my pops protected and revoked partnerships with other clubs. They ruined his legacy and turned the Arlington chapter into chaos.

A man can only sit back for so long before he explodes. Before he stands the fuck up for what he believes. Before he loses his shit and turns his whole world upside down. Before his conscience tells him he’s had enough and he listens to the voice of dread, the only voice he’s ever known.

When Satan calls, you don’t hesitate, you do as he says.

So I listened when he called.

I fucked King’s old lady.

I meant to take something he treasured, the only fucking thing he valued, and I meant to corrupt it. I meant to corrupt her, to turn her inside out so all she knew, all she craved, was me. Taking her, getting her hooked on me and making her forget about him—it seemed like a solid plan.

Until I fell for her.

Until I realized Chelsea was already hooked on something and it wasn’t a man. It wasn’t King and it would never be me. She loved the junk in her veins more than anyone or anything.

Until she turned my world upside down.

Until he caught us and killed her in front of my eyes.

Until I killed him and ran from my club.

That was over two years ago.

A weaker man, a stupider man would think King and his club had moved on. An ignorant motherfucker would stop looking over his shoulder waiting for the ambush. But I know better. I know they’ll come for me. As long as I’m breathing there’s a price tag on my head and Bastards from Arlington all the way to Maine will keep on gunning for me.

They want Caleb West dead or alive. The man who once went by the road name Roamer, the guy I was before I put the Satan’s Knights cut on and became a nomad.

Him—they want that motherfucker buried deep in the earth.

After that shit went down in Arlington, I took to my bike and wound up in Kansas. That’s where I found the Satan’s Knights MC. The president there had heard of me, he once knew my father and wasn’t surprised by my suspicions that his club caused his death. The Satan’s Knights of Kansas had bad blood with the Bastards and helping me out became a way to stick it to them. He gave me a patch and warned me never to stick anywhere longer than a few weeks. Being a nomad kept me moving and my enemies guessing. I was a phantom, untraceable…still a roamer, but one who wore a reaper on his leathers and went by the name of Deuce.

Changing my name and swapping clubs didn’t change the core of who I was. Who I am. I’ll always be a thrill-seeking asshole. I’ll always be the guy who makes reckless decisions and is weak to his desire to fuck his way through life. It doesn’t matter how many fucking times my dick gets me in trouble, I’ll die the cowboy addicted to pussy and the devil’s nectar will eventually be my demise. Blonde, brunette or ginger—it doesn’t matter. I’m not picky, as long as she’s willing and not a clinger, we can make it happen.

Just ask the blonde kneeling between my legs getting frisky with my dick, she’ll vouch for me. She draws the zipper down my jeans and I lift my lukewarm beer to my lips, taking a long sip as I glance around the darkened bar. Needing a reprieve from the politics circling the club I’m passing through, I took my ass over to Shooters, a local biker friendly bar. A haven for all who ride despite the colors on their back or the religion in their soul.

A few stragglers sit at the bar watching a game on the shoddy TV on the wall, a lone man resembling Johnny Cash sits at a table in the middle of the room while another group surrounds the pool table. Metallica blasts through the speakers and smoke fills the dingy bar. No one seems to notice I’m about to get my dick sucked in the back corner, and if they do, they don’t give a fuck.

Diverting my eyes back to the blonde, I thread my fingers through her hair as she pulls my dick out and gets acquainted with it. Guiding her hot, willing mouth to my head, she opens wide and takes me deep. There is no warm up, no teasing—this bitch is all business. Like a wild animal she sucks, slurps and moans right out of the gate, painting my shaft with her lipstick.

I’m about to fist her hair and take control of this beast when a gunshot goes off. Instinct washes over me and I spring into action, kicking the washed up cunt aside. She tumbles backward as I shove my dick back in my jeans and reach down. Lifting the denim up my legs, I pull out the piece tucked into my boot and spin around.

Shit.

Five guns are pointed directly between my eyes.

Figuring they’re Bastards, I search for their colors, but these fuckers aren’t wearing cuts.

Fucking civilians.

“Get off the fucking floor, Marie,” the leader of the pack of morons calls to the blonde behind me.

Double shit.

Drawing out a breath, I cock my gun and offer a sarcastic grin to the men standing before me.

“Darlin’, you failed to mention you were taken,” I hiss, rolling my neck as I decide which fucker to take out first.

“You didn’t ask,” she reminds me.

“Shut the fuck up,” the jerk leading the parade of pansies orders. “Boots, grab the filthy cunt and take her outside,” he demands before turning his beady eyes back to me and raising his gun an inch higher. “Got me some garbage I need to take out,” he sneers, pulling back the safety.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I fight back the chuckle as I take a step closer.

“Garbage, yeah?” I taunt.

“Did I stutter?”

“No, motherfucker, you didn’t,” growls a baritone voice from behind him. Before I can divert my eyes to see who it belongs to, the man looking to shoot me drops to his knees. I lift my eyes to the Johnny Cash wannabe, the dude who was sitting all by himself, and I watch him turn and blow on the silencer attached to his gun. Shocked, I quickly drop my gaze to the guy bleeding out in front of me before I snap out of it and join forces with the man dressed in black. Together, we spray the pack of assholes with bullets and watch them drop like dominos.

Good times.

“You two better clean that shit up,” the bartender calls. Completely unfazed, he continues to dry the glasses and stock the bar.

“Yeah, yeah,” Johnny Cash mutters. “You got a tarp lying around here?”

Setting a glass on top of the bar, the bartender drapes his rag over his shoulder and crosses his arms. Walking around the bar, he steps closer and eyes the mutts on the floor.

“Shit,” he grunts, running a hand over his bald head. “You couldn’t just rough them up a bit?” he questions, eying the man standing beside me.

“How long have you known me?” Cash barks.

“Too long,” the bartender hisses. “Parrish is going to owe me for this one.”

“Yeah, yeah, add it to the list,” Cash says as he pushes aside his leather vest, revealing a holster. He slides his gun into its rightful spot and that’s when I catch a glimpse of the reaper.

Well I’ll be damned.

Johnny Cash is a Satan’s Knight.

“I might have something in my saddlebags,” I offer, tucking my own gun away as I offer my hand. “I’m Deuce.”

“I know who you are, boy,” he growls. “Think I’d put a life on my conscience for a fool who can’t keep his dick in his pants?”

Well then.

“Ya know, where I come from when one brother introduces himself to another, they usually shake and exchange names,” I mumble. “It’s respect.”

Something I’m not sure these people up north know anything about.

Fucking manners, man—they go a long way.

“Respect,” Johnny Cash repeats. “You want to know what respect is? It’s having your brother’s back without hesitation. Not asking questions or giving a damn about names before you lay yourself on the line for a brother—that’s respect, Cowboy.”

Speechless, I watch as he takes a knee and unfolds the tarp the bartender handed to him. Fascinated by the stranger and his ethics, I kneel beside him. He spreads the tarp over one body, pausing when he reaches the man’s face to make the sign of the cross.

Ah, so Johnny Cash is a believer.

He spits on the dead guy's face before covering it with the tarp.

“See you in Hell, motherfucker,” he sneers.

Or maybe not.

“Well, don’t just fucking sit there, grab the other end,” he orders.

“Who are you?” I mutter.

“The big bad Wolf,” he seethes. “Now let’s move it, Cowboy, you and I got somewhere we need to be.”

“You and I?”

“To quote a very stupid man,” he begins, kicking the corpse at his feet. “Did I stutter?” he mocks, flashing me a grin before he laughs in my face. “Shit, man, you should see your face,” he continues to snicker.

This guy is fucking nuts.

Deciding I need to get the fuck away from this guy and the sweet fucking mess my dick ultimately created, I grab the other tarp. Quietly we work together, two strangers with the reaper on our backs. While mine reads nomad and his reads Brooklyn, we are both Satan’s Knights and together we wrap the tarp around the bloodied bodies. It’s not long before we haul the corpses into a van parked behind the bar.

“Now what?” I ask as he slams the back doors of the van. This isn’t my first rodeo. These bodies will be added to the long list I’ve already collected. If it was up to me I’d drive that van off a pier. I’d light a joint, sit back and watch nature finish the job, but clearly I’m not running this show and the man who is has a screw loose somewhere.

Ignoring me, he flicks his Zippo open and lights a thick cigar as he leans against the back of the van. After he draws out a big cloud of smoke, he turns to me.

“Now you pay up,” he says pointedly.

“Excuse me?”

“Did you a favor, didn’t I? Now, you pay me.”

Kicking off the rear bumper, he stands tall as he fixes me with a look. Ready to throw my manners to hell and tell this guy to go fuck himself, I lift my eyes to his and match his stare. That’s when I notice the intensity, the spark of life behind his cold gray eyes.

“Get the fuck in the cage, Cowboy,” he orders.

Squaring back my shoulders, I slowly turn around and cross my arms so the leather stretches across my back and my patch glares back at him.

Nomad.

I glance over my shoulder and wait for him to cast his eyes down and take in the word that separates me from all the other Knights. The word that separates me and him.

He doesn’t look at the patch.

Hell, he doesn’t even blink.

“I take my orders from the wind,” I clarify, dropping my arms as I turn.

“Not no more,” he amends. “I saved your ass and killed for you, that makes you indebted to me. So, one more time, Cowboy. Get your ass in the van, you’re coming back to Brooklyn.”

“The fuck I am,” I growl.

He laughs.

He fucking laughs in my face.

Again.

“Kiss the wind goodbye, Cowboy. You’re about to become property of Parrish.”

Fuck my life.