Dragon's Burn Read online

  For a split second, when she’d turned to look at me, I was frozen in place. Her blonde hair framing her round face made her look like an angel. But then I remembered who I was, and what I might represent to her.

  I’ve found that most of the women around here are spun tight do-gooders who secretly want to be fucked by a guy whose life has been tainted in nefarious ways. Even though guys like me, the outcasts of society, are publicly looked down on and should remain hidden in the shadows. After they’ve had a taste, their God-fearing conscious kicks in, and they run straight to their pastor asking for forgiveness in order to face their neighbors in church on Sundays.

  Don’t get me wrong, there’s a high I get from corrupting a goody two-shoes woman, but it requires more effort on my part to land between their thighs. None of them care to find out who the real person is behind the bad boy image. That’s why I stick to the club groupies, but even that is becoming rare. Now that I’m older and no longer allow my dick to do the thinking, screwing the same chick who’s been with everyone else in the club skeeves me out.

  All too soon, a large brick warehouse comes into view. It’s the newest headquarters for Legion's Fallen Motorcycle Club. The make-shift bike shop in the back is its main use, but it’s also where meetings are held and the primary spot for members to hang out. Lucky for us, the nearest bike shop is two towns over, so business is good from what I hear, not that I pay much attention. The less involved with shit I can be, the better off I am.

  I turn on the gravel road and ease my way to the back of the big building. Most people in the club don't ride street bikes like mine, opting for either a Harley or a chopper. There’s no denying the illegal shit going on within the club, because half these people can’t afford the bikes they have, or the upgrades they install on them. But to those on the outside, we make our money repairing bikes—all legal and shit.

  Releasing the kickstand, I hop off and head inside. My father, Daniel, a.k.a. Ghost, sent a text earlier wanting to meet with me. The only time he ever talks to me is when he needs me to do something that he can't get anyone else to do. It’s one of the reasons I work outside the club, and as far from the area as I can, but still close enough that I can return in a hurry if shit goes down.

  Doesn’t that make me look like a walking contradiction. I try and stay out of club business, but I leave myself available. It really fucking sucks feeling like I’m being pulled apart from the inside out. The constant battle of being loyal to the club versus preserving my own life and dignity.

  I’ve run through the possible options, but fail to come up with a reason he’s calling me in. I can only imagine what bullshit unpaid job he wants me to do for him this time. My usual choices are pick up parts, clean up the shop, or my favorite, babysit the drunks to make sure shit doesn't get out of hand. These jobs are how I earn my keep, but also show the other members that I don’t get special treatment just because my dad’s sitting at the head of the table.

  Yeah, it's easier to do it than deal with the backlash that comes from saying ‘no.’ Ghost is known for his temper. People generally don't fuck with him, and I've learned over the years, after a few punches, to just do what he asks. Make no mistake, we’ve brawled before, been a while, but I wouldn’t put it past him to take it one step further and kill me, accident or not.

  I nod at Sloan and TJ, who are working on a couple bikes, as I make my way through the shop. The place back here isn't huge, but it’s large enough to work on six bikes at a time. There’s a makeshift office for the shop that divides the building. I head through another door and into the main area. It's a mostly open space with seating areas spread around, consisting of worn-down couches of various colors, and cheap plastic chairs. There are a few flat screens bolted onto the beams, coming up from the concrete slab, a small makeshift stage for strippers or groupies to dance on, and a bar that runs the length of the back wall.

  What biker club doesn't have its own bar?

  I nod to a few members lounging around on my way up to the office sitting at the top of the stairs. I throw open the door and step inside. Ghost made this his office for a reason. It has windows on three sides overlooking the entire building, allowing him to better keep an eye on things.

  And I don't care what anyone else says, I know damn well he got rid of Bash—the old president of the Fallen—so he could take his spot. There’s no proof, but I know my father well enough to know he’d screw anyone over if it meant getting ahead or saving his own ass—like he did to me.

  I never expected to be screwed over by my own flesh and blood, but looking back on it now, it's clear the man never gave a shit about me. Ever since we got kicked out of Legion MC, Florida Chapter, and sent to the Fallen, my father has had only one goal in mind—getting back in.

  Dear ol’ dad sits behind his desk chatting it up with Ace, the vice president, Garvyn, the road captain, and Riggs, the sergeant-at-arms—his officers. I walk in, and their conversation dies. Garvyn and Riggs were already officers before Ghost took over. Ace was appointed after. If there’s anyone in the club sketchier than my father, it’s Ace.

  "Ah, Dragon. Nice of you to finally show up."

  My name in Japanese means Dragon. Ever since we joined Legion MC, my father has only called me by my nickname. Not sure why. At first, it annoyed me, now I just go with it. Most people here have nicknames, so I fit right in. According to him, when I was born, I came out fighting and wailing with strong lungs. He thought the name was fitting for a warrior. Guess the joke's on him—I didn't turn out the way he hoped. Even now, the tightness around his brown eyes tells me I’m a disappointment and will never live up to his expectations.

  Sometimes, I wonder if he would’ve been different if my mother was still alive. He doesn't talk about her, or what happened. The most I’ve ever been able to piece together is that she died from bad drugs or a drug overdose. I’ve no doubt that when he looks at me, a younger version of himself, I’m a reminder of her and how his life changed by having me.

  Hell, I don't know if he even truly loved my mother. Some of the ol’ ladies in Dark Waters MC, where I spent most of my childhood, used to tell me stories of how much fun my mother was, and how my father was wrapped around her finger. The older I got, the more I realized they were just that—stories.

  "I'm here, what now?" I want this conversation over with. Pulling out my pack of smokes, I light one up, hoping it will relieve some of the tension already creeping back into my muscles. It makes me want to hop back on my bike and go for another ride—and never return. Soon.

  He leans forward in his chair, brows pulling together. There's no way he missed my irritation, and I brace for the impact of his snap back. But to my surprise, he dismisses it altogether, a small hum the only retort.

  I take another drag while keeping my face stoic, but inside I'm scrambling to figure out what alternate universe I walked into where my father doesn't have something to say.

  "You're going to do a job for me. It's time you start pulling more weight."

  I wait to see if he’s joking, but as the seconds tick by, his face doesn't change. He must be crazy to think I’ll do a job for him. I've already gone down once because of him. Now he demands I do something for him? He must be fucked in the head.

  "What, need me to go back to jail?” I sneer. “I've got a job and do what I can, which is more than I can say for half the people around here."

  My time behind bars was an awakening. I spent days and nights trying to figure out why he set me up to take a fall. My final theory was he couldn't stand the thought of his son being in the Legion MC without him, and possibly climbing his ranks, getting the status he felt he deserved. What better way to keep that from happening than to throw your son under the bus, after you get caught fucking up a deal?

  Now, he’s been trying to regain his status for three years. Me? I couldn’t care less. He puts all his time and energy into it; I don't even think he knows he has a son half the time.

  I don’t know of any o
ther motorcycle club that operates like this, but my understanding is that it's easier this way because it keeps law enforcement from snooping around if too many bodies up and go ‘missing’ with all fingers pointing back to Legion. Whoever thought of putting a bunch of criminals together in one group was freaking nuts, but somehow they’ve been able to make it work. So much so that Legion is now considered one of the fastest-growing outlaw clubs in the US.

  But if you’ve been downgraded to the Fallen, you’re considered a ‘degenerate’ of Legion, someone who fucked up and got caught trying to screw over the club. Want back into Legion with your status returned? Better be prepared to do shady-as-fuck jobs for them and hope they notice you trying to squeeze back into their good graces.

  “This isn't a choice." His words are laced with venom, twisting in my gut. “You will do this.”

  My jaw clenches, and the anger simmering inside me dances at the prospect of being set free. I can see out of the corner of my eye Ace smirk, and it takes everything in me not to deck his tattooed face. I don't give a shit if he’s an officer. These guys can kiss my ass. Clubs are supposed to represent family; this group is far from it. Most of the time there’s an ‘every man for himself’ mentality, until someone needs help getting bailed out of jail.

  Ghost is sporting a smug grin, happy with my lack of response to his demand.

  “I’m going to start you off small. You pull this off, I’ve got another job coming up soon. These will be paid.”

  Paid?

  Fuck, that magic word has my interest. I could use the money. I haven't told anyone about my plan, don't trust anyone enough to confide in, but I want out. I need to figure out who I am and what I want to do with the rest of my life. That’s why I’m saving up to move away, maybe go to college and get a degree in something. All I know is I’m not staying with the Fallen, or any other club for that matter. And the faster I can make money, the faster I can get the fuck out of here.

  “What’s it this time? Drugs, guns, settling beef with another club?”

  “You got jokes today, don’t cha? How ‘bout you shut your fucking mouth before I do it for you.” I grit my teeth, wishing he’d make a move, anything to give me a reason to knock his ass out. Shit’s been building up for a long time. I’m older now, bigger than him, and I won’t back down the next time we go for blows. “You and JD are to escort Mr. Barns’ daughter to a party tonight.”

  I raise a brow, trying to figure out his angle. “A party? Are you fucking joking? She’s in high school. Hell, is she even eighteen yet? And you want me to go and hang out with a bunch of minors?”

  “The prick’s an important figure in Reaversville, and we could use some friends in important places ‘round here, especially ones with deep pockets. Spoke to him a few days ago, and it seems his daughter has taken a liking to you. Told him you could watch over her tonight. Oh, and she graduated high school today, make sure you congratulate her. Give her well wishes from us.” A grin spreads across his face. It’s hard to read the meaning behind it, but whatever it is has me shifting uncomfortably.

  Brittney Barns, the annoying chick who seeks me out every time her father pays the club a visit. If I’m not here, she manages to bother other members by asking about me. I’ve tried to let her know I'm not interested—by ignoring her or brushing her off when she tries to touch me. I want to tell her to fuck off, but since our fathers are doing business together, I’ve been informed it would be in my best interest not to do that.

  I tilt my head. This can’t be it. Too easy. “What about JD?” My father has to be putting him up to something.

  “Not your concern. You have one job. Pays $500 for the night. Do that and I’ll see about getting you in on the next one.”

  Nothing better than feeling like a cheap club whore. There’s more going on here, but pushing for answers will get me nowhere, and I can’t take the chance of him changing his mind. “Time and place?”

  “Show up to this address around 9 p.m.”

  He extends his hand, and I grab the piece of paper between his fingers with an address and telephone number on it. My need for money wins the argument going on in my head. It looks like I’m going to a high school party. Shit. Tonight is gonna fucking suck.

  Poppy

  Three hours later, Deb and I walk out with four pairs of shoes, three of them mine, and a new outfit each for tonight’s shindig. The early summer heat blasts me in the face on the way to her car. I can feel the beads of sweat forming on the back of my neck. Summer has just started and it’s already scorching hot outside.

  Making our way to the car, I already have a new outlook on tonight, it's going to be amazing—because of my shoes, of course. Some may judge me and say I have an unhealthy obsession with them; I see them as a confidence booster. With an awesome pair of shoes on my feet, I walk with my back straighter and head held higher. It helps keep the little demons of insecurity at bay. Like a mask I can easily slip on and off.

  “Ok, what’s the game plan for tonight? Your house or mine?” I toss the bags into the back seat.

  “Let’s do your house. I just need to stop by mine first and grab a few things.”

  We head over to Mullburry Road, where Deb lives. It’s on the outskirts of town where each neighbor has at least two acres between them. If I had my choice, I’d still pick living within city limits. I couldn’t imagine driving twenty minutes to get to the nearest gas station or fast-food restaurant. I need to be around the living, preferably different ones than this place holds. Soon, I remind myself.

  Deb pulls onto the unmarked gravel driveway, easing her way down the long stretch to where her house sits. If I had to guess, I’d say her house is about a half-mile off the road. She parks her car and hops out.

  “Be right back.”

  She knows better than to ask me to come inside. I love Deb, but her mother is not my favorite person to be around, and everyone knows it. I’ve kept no opinions to myself. Her mother tries to live a lavish lifestyle despite the lack of money needed to pull it off. This has led to years of random men rotating their way through the house. Gold digger would be the best term to describe her mother, and the effects haven’t been good on Deb.

  Her mother’s spent more time on her back than giving a crap about her own daughter. Our moms have a lot in common. I think my grandmother has raised Deb more than her own mother. But that’s the effects this town can have on you. She is the perfect example of how a prom queen can go from ruling the school and at the top of her game to a washed-up housewife wannabe. This place will suck everything out of you if you don’t run out fast enough.

  Deb darts back out the front door, her mother hot on her heels. Her outfit today reminds me of Peg Bundy from Married with Children, and her bleach-blonde hair makes her look ten years older.

  “So, what, you think because you graduated, now you can just run off whenever you feel like it? Too good to spend time with your mother?”

  “Mom, I’m not doing this with you. I’m going to Poppy’s. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  Irritation sparks inside like kindling. Deb’s mouth is pulled into a thin line, eyes marred with hurt. I can't stand when her mother tries to make her feel guilty. Douchebag of the week must have already left, and now her mother is lonely and wants someone to give her attention. Same cycle that’s been going on for years.

  Deb falls into the driver's seat. “I hate her.”

  “Hate is a strong word. You don't hate your mother. Extreme dislike, yeah.”

  It hurts seeing Deb deflated. The day Deb told me she got accepted into North Carolina State, I’d never been so relieved. It’s six hours away from here, making it difficult for her or her mother to see each other. She’s got to get away from her mother, and I made a promise to myself that if Deb didn't get accepted into a school, I’d find a way for her to come with me.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Man, this is going to be one long summer. I can't wait to get the hell out of this place.” She sighs and pulls back onto the
road.

  “You and me both. I’m counting down the weeks, days, hours, and minutes. Well, my phone is,” I chuckle. “I downloaded one of those countdown timers. I may or may not look at it several times a day.”

  The excitement from earlier has fizzled out, both of us silent on the drive back to my house. I know Deb is mulling over her mother’s words. I learned a long time ago that when she gets quiet, I let her be. She needs time to process things in order to move on. She pulls into my yard and we head inside. Time to get ready.

  Parties around here generally start at dusk and go until dawn. That’s one perk of living in the middle of nowhere. Plenty of land to raise hell on and not have to worry about neighbors. Cops in the area will generally roll through a couple times throughout the night to make sure nothing is on fire, but for the most part, they leave us alone.

  “Granny, we’re home.” The smell of pasta and tomatoes has my stomach talking to me. I’m famished.

  I mosey into the kitchen and find Granny standing over the sink, draining the pasta. “Hello, darlin’.”

  “Hey. Dinner almost done?”

  “‘Bout ten minutes. Did you get some new shoes?”

  This is one reason I love my grandmother so much. I probably have about twenty pairs of shoes upstairs, half of them I hardly wear anymore, but she never discourages me from buying more. She’s all for me indulging my shoe fetish.

  “Yup. Three new pairs. I think I’ll need a few more, and then I’ll be good to go for college.”

  It really sucks I’m leaving her behind, but I’ll never land my dream job staying here. I want to take her with me to Boston, but it’s not feasible. Once I become a big-time investigative reporter, Granny will be packing her bags and moving into my swanky house or condo, depending on where I’m living.

  “You’ll have to show me them later. Deb staying for dinner?”

  “Yeah. We’re going out tonight, too. There’s an end of school party at the Tiller’s house.”