Angels Don't Cry: A Biker Erotic Romance

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Angels Don't Cry copyright @ 2014 by Kay Perry. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

ANGELS DON'T CRY

For only the second time in its history, the Eagle's Roost Tavern
was closed for a private party—members only, that being members of the Road Knights motorcycle club. The occasion was the wake for Jim Walker, who the members knew as
Pres
—as in “President.” Their leader. Lizzie Walker knew him as Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim owed the tavern and ran the club. Now he was gone.

Eagle's Roost was now Lizzie's, and she was behind the bar, serving drinks and chatting with members. The air was filled with stories of Jim and his wild life’s antics. Laughter was the general mood, followed closely by drunkenness.

For Lizzie, taking over the tavern wasn't going to be much of a change. She ran the place when Uncle Jim was alive, while he spent most of his energy running the club.

"Now that you're running the place Lizzie, how about wearing something that shows a little leg?" Buster asked her from across the bar.

"You'll see plenty of leg with my boot cracking your nuts, Buster," she told him as she set down his beer and scooped up the bills.

Lizzie was five foot ten, a fit, muscular, 140lbs, with long legs, red hair, and a fire in her that could weld steel. She considered her breasts “
not bad
.” They weren't so large that they got in the way, but large enough to turn a head if she decided she wanted heads to turn.

Generally she wore blue jeans, boots, a black t-shirt of some sort, and her leather club vest. She was the only female patch holder. Her bike was a three-year-old V-rod, which she considered adequate. Occasionally she took a lover, but never a man who was looking to be a husband or her
ol' man.
She had no desire to ride on the back of anything, for anyone. She accepted love's existence, but not its usefulness. Lizzie considered the word “
ruthless
” to be much more useful as a guide, and an emotion.

While the wake was carrying on with laughter and revelry, Lizzie knew there was a question on everyone's mind. It was the same question on her mind.

Who is going to run the club now?

The answer was the wake's true purpose. Jim passed on five days ago and was in the ground for three. Yet no leader had filled his shoes. If no one was chosen during this wake, it could mean the end of the club. Since the club was Lizzie's only remaining family, this possibility weighed heavy on her.

Liam James would have been the obvious choice, since he was Uncle Jim's right hand. While everyone respected, feared, and recognized Liam's position, however, no one thought of him as a leader. Liam was hot tempered and violent. He got things done. He was the perfect choice to give a task to, which had to be taken care of, no matter what. He wasn't known, however, for planning out what needed to be done.

No one would say that Liam was stupid, especially to his face. He wasn't. He had good instincts, was impressively cunning, and surprisingly well informed. At six feet, three inches, he packed serious muscle across his shoulders and mounted on his chest like plate iron. His arms were roped with even more power. His hands—and therefore his fists—were exceptionally large, and when he grabbed a hold of something, something usually moved. As a second in command, Liam was formidable. But as a leader, he failed to impress.

So far, Liam appeared to recognize this generally accepted fact because he had not made a bid for the position of president. Others whispered about making a move, and Liam listened, but said nothing. Liam's silence was becoming disturbingly loud since he was not making his own bid and failing to back anyone else.

Just after two, as if the timing was agreed upon, the din of the gathering quieted. Shortly after this lowering of voices, Bear's voice called out, "I nominate Roady!"

Roady's voice called back a moment later, "I decline."

The nominations had begun and Lizzie's gut turned into a knot.

"Nominate Clark", called Bob Turner's voice.

"I decline," returned Clark's voice.

Five more nominations, followed quickly by declines, were called out. The tension was heavy in the room as this trend continued. Then someone called out a nomination for Buster. Sixty-seven-year-old Buster, whose sole goal in life appeared to be making sure the Eagle's Roost was never empty, spit out a mouth of beer in surprise and yelled "Fuck that!" followed by general laughter.

After three more failed nominations, Lizzie stood on a crate behind the bar and called out into the room, "Look, we got a busy week coming up, and some serious shit to attend to." The voices calmed even more as attentions were shifted to her. "We need someone that knows the business, knows the club, and knows the members. We got two guys coming out of prison this month, and both need to be set up. The Strip is getting out of hand with freelancers. So, with all of this in mind, I nominate myself."

The silence that followed was palpable. Everyone knew Lizzie was Jim's niece, that she had been raised by the club since she was nine. No one would argue that she didn't understand the position either. Nothing happened in the business or the membership that Lizzie wasn't aware of, one way or the other. But...

"Second," Liam's deep commanding voice called into the room.

The quiet of doubt turned into the quiet of disbelief as people registered that the second in command, who had been silent about this from the beginning, threw in with Lizzie. But Bear, Master at Arms for the club, didn't wait it out: "All those in favor?" he called, his voice clear with no hint of surprise or doubt.

It took a beat, and then a roar of
Aye
filled the room.

Bear called back, "Opposed?"

Nothing.

"Motion carried," Bear informed the club.

Stunned, figuring that all she was really doing was forcing someone like Bear or Roady to accept their nomination, Lizzie stepped down from the crate, snatched up a long-neck, and walked out from behind the bar, the new president of the Road Knights. Her stunned state didn't last long. She wasn't raised by Uncle Jim to be ambushed.

Her mind was clicking quickly over the required tasks to finish up the day, when a prospect, named Bill, yelled out, "Are you fucking shitting me?"

He was only three steps away from Lizzie. She changed her heading and walked casually toward him.

Bill seemed not to notice or care about her change of direction, continuing with, "We're going to have some cock-sucking cunt..."

Lizzie hit him right in the jaw. Bill's head snapped back. His body went stiff, lifted slightly off his toes, and then he fell back like a plank and hit the floor, out cold.

Lizzie looked him over as if he were an interesting bug, and then turned to Roady. "Roady? This one was yours, wasn't he?"

Roady stood from his bar stool and nodded. "Yeah." His disappointment at being Bill's sponsor weighed heavy in his voice.

"I want his vest. Then put him on his bike and make sure he understands that if I see his bike again in our territory, he'll be walking seconds later."

"Right," replied Roady with a nod.

She scanned the assembled membership. "I need an officer's meet, tomorrow at five," she said, her voice carrying across the tavern without having to yell.

She was about to continue when another prospect, Andy, stepped away from the front door. "Liz..." he began and then corrected, "Pres? We have three Mexs outside requesting a business meeting."

Cartel,
Lizzie thought to herself.
Damn, that was close.

She nodded to Andy and then directed her gaze pointedly. "Roady? Liam? We'll meet them in the office. Bear? Show them in." She scanned the room again, looking into faces as she passed them. She knew every one of them by name, as well as their wives, girlfriends, kids, and their bikes. "As for the rest of you, I'm up on the current business, but if there is something you think I need to know about, I'll be in the office after this meeting for the rest of the day and most of tomorrow. Kathy? Take the bar please." Then she took the top off the long-neck in her left hand, and lifted it into the air, declaring, "To Jim!"

"Safe wind!"

***

Ramirez Pagan was dressed casually for a cartel member. Gray dress slacks, polished black leather shoes, and a gray striped short sleeved dress shirt with no tie or jacket. He was tall for a Mexican, standing slightly higher than Lizzie. The two men with him were dressed in similar fashion.

Lizzie knew Ramirez from previous meetings. His position appeared to be slightly above an enforcer, putting him roughly in the center of middle management. She understood the dress code was on purpose, to show they were unarmed and to project an informal visitation. The timing told her that there was nothing informal about the visit. They were checking up on the club, inquiring about changes in the leadership, and making sure that business would not be interrupted.

Lizzie sat behind the desk in the office. The office was actually a room intended for private parties, but it was from here that Uncle Jim ran his world, and now Lizzie would run it from here. Liam leaded easily against the wall to her left. Roady sat in a padded chair against the wall to her right. Both appeared to be bored, except in the eyes.

She gave Ramirez, sitting in one of the visitor chairs across the desk from her, a nod and a hint of a smile. "You were offered a drink?"

Ramirez nodded. "We can't stay long. We only came by to give our condolences and to introduce ourselves to the new leader."

"Lucky I'm here then," she answered.

There was a glimmer of doubt in his eyes, but before he could respond Lizzie asked, "How is Isabella?"

Isabella Casas, after her husband was killed in a firefight, ran the Tijuana cartel for three years, with grand success, until she determined that her son was ready to take the reins. The reference was not lost on Ramirez.

He replied, "She is good. Still enjoying her retirement, but is busy as usual."

"I'm happy to hear that," she said in return.

"I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with the Señora."

"I met her briefly three years ago. I doubt that she would remember, but she made an impression on me," Lizzie told him.

"She tends to do that," Ramirez answered with a slight grin. "She makes lasting impressions."

So do I, if you fuck with me,
Lizzie thought to herself. "So, what can I help you with?"

Ramirez studied her for a moment and then came to a decision. "You are, of course, aware of our business next week?"

"Of course, and there will be no delays or problems on our end," Lizzie said, referring to the drug drop that was coming in on Wednesday. "Have there been any changes on your end I should be aware of?"

Ramirez expressed a casual denial with a slight shake of his head and a purse of his lips. "Nothing. Nothing has been hindered."

"Well, I'm grateful you found my Uncle's passing important enough to attend to personally. I'm sure he would have been pleased as well."

"Jim Walker was a very interesting and formidable man. I enjoyed working with him a great deal. I had great respect for him," Ramirez said with a level of honesty that Lizzie found intriguing. The Road Knights were not a large club, boasting just over a hundred members. Their territory, while kept secure and unchallenged, was small when compared to the rest of the cartel's distribution network in this area of the state. Uncle Jim was a minor king—actually more like a land baron. A big fish in a small pond.

Ramirez seemed to see her thoughts and inquired, "Did you know that he and I played chess?"

Lizzie lifted an eyebrow. "No, I didn't realize you spent that kind of time with him."

"Across the Internet of course. We had a running game going most of the week," Ramirez explained. "Do you happen to play?"