Copyright ©2018 – Trixie Publishing, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States

18+ for language and sexual situations...

Burning Saints MC outcast, “Minus” Vincent, has been summoned out of exile by the Club’s President for reasons unknown. Upon his return, he finds himself tempted by forbidden fruit of the past that has only gotten sweeter with time.

Christina "Cricket" Wallace knows exactly what kind of life she wants, and it's far from the chaos and mayhem of an outlaw motorcycle club. She’s worked hard to get where she is, and she won’t let anyone keep her from getting there...especially her over-protective biker brother, or the sexy as hell Club rival she thought she’d never see again.

As Minus and Cricket pursue their own roads, they find their paths intersecting in a violent and passionate collision that will forever change their futures.

Minus

Don’t pass out.

This was easier said than done, considering the crippling pain in my head. I couldn’t focus on anything in the room, and began to drift into darkness.

Don’t... pass out.

I forced my eyes open just as I felt another blow from the phonebook. My vision was blurred, and a wave of nausea hit me. I tried to stay as lucid as possible, focusing on anything around me that may help me escape. I had to stay sharp if I was going to find a way out of this. My host had been letting his fingers do the walking upside my head for some time now, and I wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer.

Don’t fucking pass out.

“Come on, hero, don’t make me beat you to death. We could wrap all this up right now if you just tell me what I need to know.” His words swam in my head, barely cutting through the ringing in my ears.

It took every ounce of strength I had to form the necessary response and I almost lost my breath as I said, “All you need to know...is that...you hit...like a bitch.” I spit blood and bits of my fractured molar onto his boots.

Another blow, this time to the back of my head, and it felt like he’d taken a running start this time. My chin connected with my sternum and every muscle in my neck burned from the whiplash.

“He said you’d be tough, and he was right,” my torturer said. “He also said you’d be mouthy.”

I’m sure... he did.

“I’d agree with him there,” he continued, wiping sweat from his brow. “But he also said, you were smart, and that I’m just not buyin’ that. You see, if you were smart, you’d tell me where the girl and the book are.”

“It seems you... have me at a disadvantage, sir,” I said, my words slurred. “You seem to know so much about me, but I know... so little about you.” I paused and then smiled wide. “Other than the obvious fact that you’re a dickless rodent that can only get off when you’re torturing people while fantasizing about having sex with your sister.”

He must really have a sister because I felt the full impact of the phonebook, from AAA Carpet Cleaners to the Zywicki family. The chair I was tied to toppled over, and the zip ties that bound me cut deep into my wrists with searing pain. The side of my already pummeled head hit the floor, and within seconds I was out like a light.

I’m not sure how long I remained unconscious, but for a moment, I remember wondering if I was dead.

When I came to, I was once again sitting upright, but was no longer tied to the chair. In fact, I wasn’t in a chair at all. I was in the passenger seat of a car that was hauling ass through the Portland night.

“Hang on! Stay with me!”

As soon as I heard her voice, I smiled. It probably looked more like a deranged grin given the current state of my face, but I couldn’t help it.

Once again, she’d found me, and once again she’d saved my life.

Minus

One month earlier...

“This is bad news, man.”

“Well, hello to you, too,” I said as I shoved my tattered duffel bag into the back of Clutch’s ’71 Barracuda.

“Hey, watch the interior, or I’ll leave your ass on the curb,” he said.

“Still in a relationship with your car, I see. It’s nice to see that a committed couple in this day and age can make it after all.”

Clutch flipped me the bird. “Fuck you, Minus. What are you driving these days, a tractor? Hey, if you’ve got any of that cowboy shit tucked in your bottom lip, you’d better spit it out before you get in.”

“Why? You hopin’ to kiss me later?” I asked as I slid into my seat.

“See! You’re even starting to sound like one of them good ol’ boys,” Clutch said.

“Yeah, well I’m still smarter, taller, and better looking than you.”

“You checkin’ me out, Minus? You make some other big change while you were gone that I should know about?”

I smirked. “Sorry, Clutch you’re just not my type.”

“Hey, man, how am I supposed to know what you’re into these days? Just look at you! You’re wearing fucking cowboy boots. For all I know, you’re carrying pearl handled six shooters under your jacket,” he said, pulling away from the curb and into the flow of airport traffic.

“From what I’ve heard, all of Portland is in beards and cowboy boots these days,” I replied.

“Yeah, a lot has changed since you’ve been gone. Then again,” he paused, “a lot of shit is exactly the same,” he said, throwing me sideways glance.

I said nothing, but we both knew very well what he meant. When I left town six years ago it wasn’t under the best circumstances, to say the least.

“Don’t get me wrong, brother, it’s great to see you back home—”

“This isn’t home,” I interrupted.

“Which leads me back to my original point,” he replied. “It can only be bad news that the not-so-prodigal son is back in town.”

“Please, brother, this warm welcome is all just a little too much. You’re gonna embarrass me.”

“Don’t get cute with me, motherfucker, you know exactly what I’m saying,” he replied.

“Oh, believe me, I know all too well. Back in Savannah I’m a Yankee, and here I’m a redneck. I’m a man without a fuckin’ country, but here I am, nonetheless.”

“Yeah, but why are you here?” Clutch asked.

“Because Cutter asked me to be here.”

“See. Bad fuckin’ news.” Clutch exclaimed.

“How is that bad news?”

“Since when is it not bad news when the Prez sends for you?”

I laughed. “Sends for you? What are we, wiseguys? He called me, and asked me to get on the next plane to Portland, so here I am. To be honest, I thought you’d know what’s going on.” I paused dramatically, and sweetened my tone. “What with you being the new Sargent—”

“I knew it. I fucking knew you’d hear about it, and that you’d bust my balls.”

“Sargent Clutch. Ooooh, that does have a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll kick you right the fuck out, and you can walk the rest of the way in those shit kickers,” he deadpanned.

“Hey man, in all seriousness, congratulations. It’s a big deal, you making Sargent at Arms, and I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, man. We all miss Rusty, but after he died the club needed someone to step up, and I guess Cutter thought it should be me.”

“I’m sure he was right,” I said.

“Bullshit. You know goddamned well if you were still in town, it’d be you wearing the Sargent patch.”

“Well, then it’s a good for you I’m not still in town.”

Clutch and I grew up together in Portland, back when I still went by my given name, he was known as Nicky, and together we were known as nothing but trouble. We were both orphans who had been taken in, and educated by the Catholic church. A handful of us kids were fortunate to receive scholarships to private schools in the Portland area, and Nicky and I attended St. Mary’s Academy together; that is, until he was kicked out during our sophomore year of high school.

I loved school, especially anything to do with reading. I inhaled novels, biographies, textbooks, anything I could get my hands on. I was a straight A student, and didn’t hassle the nuns or the administrators too much, but I was also a very angry kid with a smart mouth, and a profound (perhaps overly sensitive) sense of justice. Seeing anyone bullied or treated unfairly threw me into fits of pure rage. This, coupled with my size (I was already pushing six feet), made me the perfect candidate to serve as the unofficial school bodyguard. Because of this, I found it easy to make friends, and (more or less) fit in with whatever crowd I found myself in.

Nikolai Christakos, not so much.

Coming up in Portland in the “Naughties,” Nicky had two things going against him. First off, he was Greek. These days Portland is more of a melting pot; with a sort-of ‘college town’ vibe where just about anybody can do their thing without being hassled, but this was not the case back in the days when we were coming up. It wasn’t uncommon back then to see a pickup truck flying a rebel flag, or walk several blocks before seeing a face that was neither Anglo nor Saxon. Portland was still pretty dominated by a culture of white boy, blue collar types. The Pacific Northwest was, after all, built on logging, shipping, and paper mills, and the dot com bomb had yet to drop, so the good ol’ boys would readily come to town lookin’ for trouble.

Nicky was dark skinned, but not black, tough, but not into sports, anti-social, but not a loner. To put it mildly, he didn’t fit in anywhere, and him being Greek somehow seemed to be the central cause of this. Secondly, Nicky would fight anybody, and mean anybody; Teachers, students, cops, hell, I saw him take a swing at a priest once. Unfortunately for Nicky, that priest was a former golden gloves boxing champ. He’d also apparently not read the “turn the other cheek” part of the Bible in seminary and hit Nicky with a stiff jab, causing blood to pour from his nose, which is still just a little crooked.

This kind of thing was simply commonplace where we came up. Since I got along with just about everybody in the neighborhood, I always looked out for Nicky. I made sure he came with me to parties and football games. The kinds of places where young people meet other young people. I thought it would be good for him, but without fail, some jackass would mouth off to him, or he’d hit on someone’s girl, and then it was on. Bloody lips, loose teeth and black eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went, so eventually the school kicked him out, the church had enough by that time as well, so he was out on the street. I was his only friend, and I knew that if he was out on his own, he’d get himself arrested, beat up or killed within weeks, so I left school, and he and I moved to downtown Portland together.

Being broke, we bought old, beater bikes to get around town, which lead to fixing those bikes, which lead to fixing bikes for other people, which eventually lead us to the Burning Saints Motorcycle Club, and our current lives as Minus and Clutch.

“Hey man...ah, we’ve got a quick stop to make before we go to the clubhouse,” Clutch said. I could tell by the shift in his tone that I wasn’t going to like where we were headed, and I was right.

* * *

Cricket

“Don’t Even think about it, asshole!” I yelled out to the motorist attempting to merge into our lane. My Uber driver flinched and reflexively cupped his right ear. “Don’t take your hand off the wheel, you’re gonna let him in! Don’t let him in!”

I was a fraction of a second away from grabbing the steering wheel, and literally attempting to back-seat drive, when my long-suffering coachman shot me a look, and said sternly, “Lady, if you’re going to do that again, I’m going to have to let you out at the nearest safe stopping place.”

“I’m sorry,” I grumbled. “I really am, I’m just very—”

“Late,” he finished my sentence. “Yes, I know. You’ve explained this many times since I picked you up.”

He’d clearly lost patience with me, and I couldn’t blame him. This poor guy was just trying to do his job and I was sucking him into my vortex of chaos.

“I’m so sorry, it’s just that I’m meeting with someone I haven’t seen in a really long time, and I’m not even sure why I agreed to meet with him, and I know it’s going to get me into trouble with my brother who’s being a big jerk, but I know he’s just trying to protect me. The problem is, I don’t want his protection, and I hate being late,” I said, sheepishly pausing to take a deep breath, now embarrassed by my outburst.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got a brother and he’s an asshole, too, what can you do?”

“My brother’s as far from an asshole as you can get,” I snapped.

“Sorry.”

I sighed. “No, it’s okay. I sound like a bitch...or a lunatic. Omigod, I sound like a lunatic bitch. I’m so sorry.”

I was even more nervous than I thought. I hated that my older brother, Hatch, could still make me feel like a little girl. I knew he was going to be furious with me, and I suppose he’d have good reason, but I still didn’t like the fact that soon he’d likely be sitting me down and scolding me for making decisions that were mine to make. I’m an adult and I didn’t need his permission or blessing to visit a family member if I wanted to. It’s true that he’s had to act more like a father than a brother to me, and the fact that he’s seventeen years older makes it worse, but I really wondered if there was ever going to be a time when he’d start treating me like an adult; like his equal.

But what the hell does my uncle want?

When I was a little girl, my dad, my uncle, and their buddy Crow used to ride with the Dogs of Fire motorcycle club in San Diego. They’d been asked by the club’s president to start a new chapter in Portland and we were all going to move, but then my mother got sick and everything changed overnight. When she died, my dad was never the same again. She was his heart and soul, and once she was gone, he went off the rails; eventually ending up in prison.

My uncle and Crow went to Portland as planned, but it seems they had very different ideas of what a motorcycle club should look like. Crow stayed with the Dogs of Fire, and over time, became the club’s national president, and my older brother Hatch currently serves under him. For the most part, the Dogs have always been clean club, consisting of ex-military types, with few local troubles, and a good relationship with law enforcement.

My uncle Cutter, however, along with a group of dirt bags and petty criminals, started the Burning Saints, and they blazed a much more violent trail. Since then, I’d seen very little of my uncle over the years, so why in God’s name I’ve been asked to meet with him is anyone’s guess.

“Okay, here we are,” my driver said as we reached our destination. I could swear he was trying to hide the sound of relief in his voice.

“Thank you again, and sorry for the... um... backseat driving. I promise I’ll leave you a glowing review,” I said, slinking out of car.

Moments later I found myself standing in front of a place I never thought I’d be, and took a deep breath before pushing the talkback button on the security box in front of me.

Minus

“What the fuck is in this coffee, Phil?”

“I’m sorry, Clutch, I would have made a fresh pot if I knew you and Minus were...stopping by. Here let me make...”

Phil tried to stand, but the barrel of Clutch’s gun pointed at his head convinced him to remain seated. The grease-stained office chair seemed to groan in agony from underneath his bulky frame.

“You’re good right there, Phil. I’m just going sit here and sip my delicious cup of motor oil, while my good friend Minus looks for Cutter’s money.”

I shot a cold stare back at Clutch, who was now in full on ‘Sargent at Arms Mode.’ He was clearly the perfect choice for the position. I’ve certainly never backed down from a fight, and I’ve even started my fair share, but Clutch actually looked forward to violence.

“Really, it’s no trouble, Clutch. I’m happy to do it.” Heavy beads of sweat formed on Phil’s stubbled upper lip, which was frozen in a permanent nervous grin.

“You see, that’s always been your problem, Phil, you don’t listen very well. For instance, you didn’t listen when I told you not to bother with the coffee. We won’t be here for very long, and highly I doubt the next cup could possibly be any better than this swill.” Clutch dumped the remainder of his cup on Phil’s trash littered desk. “You also failed to hear me when I asked you where Cutter’s money is, and now my associate, Minus, is probably going to get his shitty cowboy boots even dirtier rooting around your filthy shop looking for it.

I flipped Clutch off and began casually tossing Phil’s rat hole of an office. It wasn’t as his place was some sort of secured facility. His shitty garage was on par with who he was, a low-level guy that Cutter used only when needed.

“I doubt even Phil would be stupid enough to keep that much money here,” I said.

“Are you, Phil?” Clutch asked.

“What?” Phil asked.

“Are you that stupid?”

“What?”

“You keep saying what. Are you having trouble with your hearing, Phil? Maybe I can help you with that.”

Clutch holstered his gun and pulled out a blade. He walked behind Phil and grabbed his head, his knife to his ear. He tried to squirm, but Clutch’s hold was firm.

“This is a chop-shop after all; a place where very large things get cut up into very small pieces, so this should work out pretty well. I’m going to ask you one more time to point us in the direction of Cutter’s three million dollars. If you fail to hear me this time, I’m going to be forced to improve your hearing.”

I chuckled. “Wouldn’t cutting his ear off make his hearing worse?”

“I’m not a doctor, Minus. I’m pretty sure Phil here understands that I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances, don’t you, Phil?”

Phil’s bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets, as he grunted out, “Sure Clutch.”

“I’m just doing the best I can to help my good buddy Phil hear my question as clearly as possible. So here it goes, one more time. Where is Cutter’s fucking money?”

“It’s not here...”

The first drops of blood appeared as the blade pressed into the soft flesh where his earlobe connected to his head.

“I’ll tell you where it is!” he screamed. “I swear to God I’ll tell you where it is.”

Clutch stopped, straightened up, and he looked at me smiling. “See, it worked! He can hear just fine now.

“I think you missed your calling, Doctor Clutch,” I said.

“You asshole, you almost cut my fucking ear off!” Phil snapped.

“Almost being the operative word, Philly Cheese Steak. Now, where is the money?” Clutch asked, once again leveling his pistol to Phil’s head.

“A dude named Viper hired my crew to steal a car. That’s it!” he squeaked. “I swear I didn’t know there was money in the trunk until the car got here, and they opened it up.”

“But once you saw the money, you didn’t think to call Cutter?”

“How was I supposed to know the money was his?”

“Don’t make me shoot you just for being stupid, Phil. The Saints are your business partners. Three mil shouldn’t just be able to roll through here without alarm. You should have called Cutter as soon as you saw the cash.”

“You’re right, Clutch. You’re absolutely right.” Blood ran down the rolls of pink flesh that were his neck as his hands applied pressure to the wound.

I cocked my head. “Now tell me, who the fuck is Viper and where can I find him?”

“He’s the head of Los Psychos, the Mexican club. They hang out at the Nine Ball.”

“Leo’s old place?”

“That’s the place! I swear that’s all I know. It was just supposed to be a simple job; snatch the Caddy, and bring it back here for pickup. I didn’t know anything about Cutter’s money being in the trunk, or that you were involved Minus.” Phil’s attention turned to me. “Last I heard you moved to Texas or something.”

“Savannah, Georgia,” I replied dryly. “And I’m not involved, so leave me the fuck out of this.”

I’d always hated Phil. He was a piece of shit and I couldn’t wait to get out of his garage. Besides being a car thief, Phil was also a loan shark and meth dealer. The exact sort of bottom feeder I was trying to protect my club from years ago.

Phil continued, “I know Cutter and I have had our disagreements lately...and that mistakes have been made. Like I said, I didn’t know it was his money and I will personally apologize to Cutter myself.”

“Don’t worry, Phil, I’ll let him know how sorry you were.”

Phil’s body, now two holes greater, lie on his office floor in a heap, a pool of blood rapidly forming underneath his lumpy frame.

Clutch simply holstered his gun and shrugged.

“What the fuck, man?” I shouted

“Cutter wanted him gone,” Clutch said flatly. “He’s got plans for this place, and Phil was getting sloppier and sloppier.”

“You didn’t want to clue me in? What the fuck are we gonna do with the body?”

“You worry too much Minus, you always did. I’ve got a cleaning crew on standby. Cutter wants this all taken care of right away. We’ve got to get to the Sanctuary. Plus, we still have to find out more about this Viper prick, and I’d like to be in bed before three a.m.”

“No, you need to find out more about Viper,” I snapped back. “I’m only here for a meeting with Cutter and that’s it. I’m here for twenty-four hours and then I’m headed back to Savannah. As a matter of fact, I’m not even here.”

“Yeah, well plans may have just changed,” he said as he dialed the number for the cleaning crew.

“Yes, I called earlier about a bad stain in my carpet,” Clutch said. “That’s correct, the one located in my hallway. I’d like to have a crew come out right away please. Thank you.”

He hung up and we and I made our way out through the back entrance, to his Barracuda which was parked in the rear lot. As we got in, Clutch said, “Ya know, you still haven’t told me exactly why you’re back in town.”

“Yes, I did. Cutter called me and asked me to meet with him, so here I am.”

“I understand that, but why?” he asked as we peeled off into the night. “Everyone here thought you were swallowed up by some swamp, as the late great Phil so astutely pointed out.”

“Astutely?” I choked out in surprise.

“Hey, motherfucker, I read some of those books you sent me when I was in the joint. Anyways, don’t change the subject.”

“I told you I have no idea, and I wouldn’t lie to you, now slowdown, will ya? The last thing we need is for your dumb ass to be get pulled over fleeing a murder scene.”

Clutch, ignoring my request, continued his interrogation. “Don’t get cute with me, bro. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems a little odd that you’re so casual about meeting with a guy that you haven’t spoken directly to in six years, exiled you to Hicksville USA, and that...Oh yeah, once tried to kill you!

“Look, you know Cutter as well as I do. He never does anything without good reason. He has his reasons for asking me here, and I have my reasons for saying yes.”

“Is one of those reasons her?” he challenged.

“Fuck you, Nicky.”

“That’s not a no.”

“You’re right, it’s a fuck you, Nicky. I haven’t seen her, or talked to her since I left, and she has no idea that I’m in town. In fact, no one knows I’m in town and that’s exactly the way I want to keep it.”

“Well, Phil sure as fuck knows,” Clutch said laughing. “I’ve gotta feeling Viper’s gonna know pretty soon as well.”

“I told you you’re on your own with this bullshit. I don’t know anything about Cutter’s three million dollars, or who this Viper guy is, but this all definitely sounds like more of a you problem, than a me problem,” I said.

Clutch finally slowed down, and his expression turned deadly serious. “It’s a club problem, Minus, and last I checked, you still wear a Saints patch.”

I nodded, but said nothing. We drove on through the ever-present Portland drizzle until we reached the Sanctuary, the Burning Saint’s compound. The cluster of buildings used to belong to a paper company that went out of business years ago, and were now owned outright, by the club.

Clutch pulled out a remote control and punched in a code which opened a rolling security gate.

“Trust me, pal, as important as you may think you are to Cutter, the club’s three million in cash is more important,” Clutch said as he parked. “I’m gonna have to sniff around a little and see what we can find out about Viper and his crew. For all we know, Phil was lying through his rotten teeth, but Cutter’s gonna want me to make sure, and honestly, I could use some trustworthy backup, so are you gonna help me with this or not?”

I paused for few moments then asked, “Who’s the pile of cash from?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Cutter’s been cagey lately; secretive and shit. He’s been keeping everyone at arm’s length. Look man, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that you’ve been summoned here, at the same time this payment was scheduled to be delivered.”

Clutch’s tone shifted. “I also don’t believe that you haven’t thought about what you might say if you see... her.”

“You can say her name ya know. Regardless of what you may believe, Cutter is not omniscient,” I said.

“I can say her name, but you can’t, my friend. According to Cutter you can’t even think about her.”

“Yeah, he made that pretty clear the night he hung me over the Burnside bridge, so why the fuck do you keep bringing her up?” I asked.

We got out of the car and made our way to the entrance of the Chapel, the Sanctuary’s main building, and our meeting hall.

“Just making sure you’ve got your head on straight should you run into her, that’s all,” Clutch replied.

“Being as she and Cutter don’t talk, she and I don’t talk, and Cutter and I don’t talk, I can’t imagine why or how I could possibly run into Cricket Wallace,” I said.

As we approached the clubhouse I could hear what sounded like a pretty big party going on inside. Clutch opened the door and it took me a moment to believe what I was seeing.

Standing amongst a sea of leather, denim, beer bottles and beards was a stunning Strawberry blonde, with long legs that supported the sexiest body ever created, and a face that was so beautiful that it made me forget what any other woman I’d ever seen looked like.

Cricket Wallace was standing ten feet away from me, in the middle of the Chapel.

“Hi, Jase, it’s good to see you again.”

* * *

You can order Minus .