Broken Crescent (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 2)

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.

Broken Crescent copyright @ 2015 by Kathryn Thomas. 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.

Book 2 of the
Devil’s Sons Motorcycle Club
trilogy

CHAPTER 1

Orange dust kicked up by the breeze hung in a haze over the desert landscape. A ribbon of asphalt disappeared on the mountainous horizon, a saturated blue sky above. There were forty or fifty people milling around tents in a makeshift city beside the lonely stretch of highway known as Lucy’s Long Shot. Lucy was short for Lucifer on account of how hot the area tended to get—no matter the time of year. It was the middle of summer. It was hell. And, it was fitting that the Devil’s Sons Motorcycle Club was present for one of the biggest bike racing events of the year. There was a lot at stake.

The heat sucked the oxygen out of the air and leeched the breath out of the lungs. Sweat trickled down his grizzled face and disappeared in the collar of his black leather jacket. Sam “Shank” Elison paid the discomfort no mind. He kicked at a clod of dirt and watched the dry chunk explode in a shower of dust, landing on his black boots like talcum powder. He popped his thick knuckles and surveyed the grounds.

“You got what you need?” Kaleidoscope asked him, her French accent thick with intent. She made a show of checking his helmet and securing it.

Sam chuckled and brushed her off. “Kiddin’ me, doll? I was born for this shit.”

She whipped her fire red hair out of her face and smiled flirtatiously at the leader of the gang. Her blue eyes danced mischievously, and she kissed him on the cheek for luck, leaving a crimson smudge of lipstick that stood out like the vivid tattoos on her pale skin. Sam grinned wryly, as he watched her twitch off to the tent in her itty bitty jean shorts, providing a distraction to the competition.  

His team was assembled. Quentin and Tokyo were going over the bike, making sure the mechanics were sound, while Brick kept an eye on the rowdy crowd of bikers roaming the hilly terrain that was dotted with scrub and cacti. Aside from the wild onlookers and riders, the sable desert looked lifeless.

The city had sprung up overnight—for one day only—with the shifty swiftness of roamers and gypsies, and it would disappear before the sun rose again. The summer Saturday promised to be a good time.  There was excitement and anxiety in the air, as thick as the sweltering heat.  Music vied with the roar of engines, talking voices, laughter, arguments, and fights. Liquor was plenty, as were all the other less than legal vices.

To those inexperienced with the population, the tattooed and pierced men and women walking around probably looked like common criminals or circus freak—with the careless exuberance of the young and the jaded eyes of the timeless. Some were there for a show. Others were there to get in on the action. The experienced, like Brick, actually knew how to spot the real threats. Buxom broads in various degrees of undress sauntered alongside burly bikers in leather. Lifelong connections were probably being made, alongside lifelong rivalries.

“Watch out for Venom Tate. I’ve heard about him. He races dirty,” he muttered to Sam, pulling him aside. “We’ve got fifty-thousand on the line. If you can pull this off, we’ll be rich, baby.” The race was about passing time, and time was money. The Devil’s Sons primary method of padding their bank accounts was by winning races like these. The head-to-head matches were out of the way, but now it was time for the big one.

“He’s already rich. Y’all need to let a hungrier mother fucker ride this one.” Tokyo swiped his arm across his youthful, honey-hued face and left a smudge of oil in its wake. He stood up next to the bike and wiped his hands with a black bandana. At five feet four inches tall, he was wiry and small, but he was fast, especially on a bike. He wanted to take on the main event, but Shank wouldn’t let him. The crew felt it was too dangerous. At twenty-two, Tokyo didn’t have as much experience. He squinted his diamond-shaped eyes and smirked. “You sure you don’t want me to take your place, Shank?”

Sam nodded, his focus on winning. The competition was stiff, and, besides Venom Tate, he knew Reiken Wallace from Widow Makers would definitely give him a run for his money. Not to mention, at any given point, the law might come down on them, but at least they’d be prepared. There wasn’t a cherry top in the county that could keep up with their bikes. It wasn’t a race for a kid still cutting teeth. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he, himself, was ready for it. With the odds of shit getting dirty for the grand prize, Sam preferred to put himself at risk, rather than his men.

“I’m ready,” he muttered. The only thing clouding his thoughts was the situation with Afia, and even that had to be put on the backburner. He hopped on the back of his Victory Cross Roads 8-Ball. Looking like a squat black wasp, the body of the bike was rounded, fat at the back and skinny at the front. The sleek, black paint looked wet, and the shiny black leather seat contoured to his body. It wasn’t a racer by origin, but the bike had been modified.

Being a mechanical engineer had its perks. With an engine tweaked for speed and the framework rebuilt with the lightest material available, the bike could eat up miles easily. Sam was aware his relatively new motorcycle club had a reputation—as some of the best on the road—to protect. Tokyo had taken a few head-to-heads, and Brick had pulled second in his own bout. Kaleidoscope had blazed flames in the all-women’s heat. Q was out with a busted knee. If Sam won the grand, they were golden.

He gunned the engine of his bike, and the sound out-roared his angst. He was longing for a woman he couldn’t have and worried about bringing home the prize money, but he didn’t have any doubts about the road. The road was his.

He wheeled out to the start line, took up his position next to Venom, who smirked at him smugly before flipping down the visor of his helmet. Sam smiled, his expression hidden. He gripped the handlebars and let his body relax, getting tunnel vision as he stared down the road. At the pop of the gun to signal the start, the engines of all five bikes that were in the race sent up a cacophony of growls, tires squealing as they shot forward.

The landscape transformed to a blur, but with his adrenaline in high gear, Sam could see everything—from the vulture circling overhead to the expressions of the manic onlookers screaming encouragement to the riders. He ripped a mile down the asphalt, leaving the jeering crowd behind. It was between him and his opponents, and Sam inhaled the exhaust from the bikes, as he nosed ahead victoriously. The road was a straight shot, but there were pitfalls to avoid, like the damaged asphalt and oil slicks from prior races.

There was no way that many bikes could stay side by side on the narrow strip, and that added danger as well as charm to the race. As predicted, Venom Tate jarred a guy on his opposite side, sending bike and rider swerving off the road in a dusty tumble. Sam frowned fiercely, forcing his bike to go faster, out of Venom’s range.

The wind ripped at his body, and the heat was partially eliminated, but not entirely. He felt like he was driving through the bowels of hell. It was terrifying, but electrifying, to move so fast that the world seemed to move in slow motion around him. Each throb of his heart pumped like a piston in his chest with spikes of excitement racing through his veins faster than the speed of living.

Sam felt himself get into the flow of the race, and he didn’t have to think about his next move. He was neck and neck with Reiken, the chick from Widow Makers. They were tied for first. The finish line shimmered ahead of them in a heat haze.

Sam knew he could do it. He just had to push forward.

Suddenly, from behind him came a familiar war whoop and the sound of Venom’s Yamaha.  There was something like premonition that came with years of riding and racing, and Sam could almost sense what his nemesis would do next. Sam rapidly downshifted and pumped his brakes, forcing Venom to bypass him. The bald biker whipped his head around to see Sam just as quickly accelerate and zip around him, the planned clash gone awry.

Venom jerked his wheel to the right to try to jam into the Sam, but it was too late. Reiken, in her attempt to see what was going on just behind her, had slowed. Sam took the hit from Venom, but it succeeded in pushing him over the finish line.  As the bike slid across the hot asphalt at a forty-five degree angle, Sam’s pulse sprinted with dread, knowing his left leg was about to be mincemeat.

He wrestled the bike with precision and skill he hadn’t known he possessed, coasting until the angle widened and he was able to maneuver the bike back upright. It was only then that he realized that the crowd was yelling triumphantly, yelling for him.

***

“There are worse things than being single,” said Quentin with a lecherous grin. “You could be shackled to a wife you can’t stand. Come on, man. Perk up. We’re celebrating!”

Kaleidoscope handed Sam a beer, French swear words floating off her tongue like a ribbon of silk. “Besides, you’ve always got me, lover boy. That girl was taking up too much of your time and energy anyway.”

“To races won and more to come.” Brick, the Southern Wonder, sat down at the table with a satisfied grunt, muscling the others on the bench out of the way. He held up his beer, and the crew clinked glasses. They had just made it back in town from the desert race, and they were in high spirits. Money in each of their pockets meant the night was sure to become a drunken good time.

But, Sam wasn’t enjoying himself. He was putting on a show. He knew his best friends were right. He should be celebrating; yet, he didn’t feel particularly celebratory. He felt like he was missing out. Like he wasn’t where he needed to be. He toasted with the others and sank into his thoughts as he sipped the brew.

“You want to talk about it?” Q asked. The table had cleared out, and it was just the two of them.  Sam shrugged.

“Really not much to talk about. We had a thing going. I thought it was good. I guess I wasn’t. It’s about her folks, you know. Culture clash.”

“It’s like that sometimes,” Q admitted. “I told you early on leave her alone. This might be a case of the universe stepping in where common sense didn’t.”

“How do you figure?” Sam bristled.

Quentin shrugged and smacked his lips after taking a long gulp of warm beer. He patted Sam on the back, knowing he could be candid with the guy who had grown up in the same trailer park as him, both of them raised by single moms, both of them making it out and making something of themselves one way or another. Quentin crossed his arms and studied his longtime bud. It was time for some hard truths.

“Guys like us, Sam, we don’t have room for sweet little innocent lovers, long as we’re doing this kind of stuff. Think of the shit we get into man. How do you think Afia would’ve felt about you entering that race today? Okay, we ain’t out there running drugs or smuggling hot shit, but we got our share of business dealings that ain’t exactly on the up and up—if you take into account the racing. The way I see it, she did you a favor. You didn’t have to break her heart, and you didn’t have to keep her around and make her worry about what day you’re gonna come home in a body bag.”

“You make it sound like a guarantee.”

“Damn sure might as well be. We’re gettin’ old for this shit, man. I mean, it was a blast in our early twenties, but it’s about that time you either settle down with a normal, Regular Joe life or you marry the road. Some folks are made for this lifestyle, bro. I can tell you I’m starting to feel it ain’t in me.”

“What are you talking about, man? Don’t tell me you’re abandoning me, too.” Sam shook his head and shoved his empty bottle across the table in frustration. “Let me ask you something. What kind of life is getting up, going to work, and coming home to the same predictable shit every day, huh? Biking is the only way I feel alive.”

“Hmph. You ain’t looking too lively ever since your girl left you—in my opinion.” Quentin looked at him pointedly. “Look, all I’m saying is, if it’s racing and riding bikes that you love, then you gotta put that other shit out of the picture.  You’re into a lifestyle that she can’t be a part of, and I guess she’s got a lifestyle that you can’t be a part of. It’s even-steven. Let that shit ride and come on out on this dance floor while you still got me on the team to show you some pointers on how to dance.”

Quentin chuckled and waved him out of the booth of The Wisecrack. For a handful of hours into the endless night, Sam felt more at peace, but when he finally made his way home hours later and threw his exhausted body into a hot bath, he was alone with his thoughts with nobody there to talk him down off the ledge. He rested his head on the lip of the tub and contemplated whether or not he should call her. She hadn’t called him, and she hadn’t answered any of the hundred calls he’d already placed. It had been three days since he had last seen Afia. She had come to his bed one last time and disappeared before the sun rose, but the memory replayed in his mind like a special type of torture.