Stitch: Satan's Fury MC
Satan’s Fury MC
L Wilder
Stitch
Satan’s Fury MC
Copyright © 2015 L Wilder
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication or any part of this series may be reproduced without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Some of the places named in the book are actual places. The names, characters, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and owners of various products and locations referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Warning: This book is intended for readers 18 years or older due to bad language, violence, and explicit sex scenes.
Editor – Marci Ponce
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Photographer – Mariusz Jeglinski
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Excerpt from Maverick: Book 1 in the Satan’s Fury MC Series
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“H
ush, little baby,
don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring,” my grandmother sang. Her voice was low and soft, and I finally started to calm down after another one of my nightmares. They started shortly after I moved in with my grandparents. I was eight years old when my parents were killed in a car crash, forcing my sister Emerson, and me to move from the only home we’d ever known to live with my father’s parents. We barely knew them, but they were the only relatives we had. I never knew how good we really had it until it was all ripped away. It had almost been a year, but I was still having a hard time adjusting to the change. That night I’d made the mistake of accidentally wetting the bed. My grandmother held me close, trying to comfort me while she continued to sing. I knew her words were a lie, that my mother was dead and gone, but listening to her soothed me. “If that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass.”
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
His fist slammed against the wall as he walked towards my room. Horror washed over me as I listened to his footsteps coming down the hall. The floorboards creaked under the weight of his body, my dread intensifying with every step he took.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
My head was pressed against my grandmother’s chest, listening to her heart thump rapidly while he started to shout, “Don’t coddle that boy, Louise. Stop lying to him! His mama’s dead. She can’t buy him a damn thing! He’s no fucking baby. We’re not raising him to be a goddamn pussy!” he barked as he stood in the doorway with a scowl on his face.
“George,” she started, but he quickly cut her off, raising his palm up in the air, silently ordering her to shut up. She always tried to get him to stop, but it never worked. Once he got it in his head, there was no changing his mind.
“Don’t,” she pleaded as I curled deeper into her lap when he started stalking towards me. With his finger pointed directly in my face, he growled, “You wet that damn bed again, boy?” Rage vibrated off of him as he spoke, and I knew what was coming. He was furious, and only one thing happened when he got that worked up.
The barn.
My grandfather was a military man, born and bred. He still looked the part too, sporting his buzz cut and the same athletic build he had in all of his army pictures. Every minute of every day was controlled by his orders. He ran a tight ship with impossible expectations. The old man was a force to be reckoned with and he hated any sign of weakness. Which meant he detested me. He hated that I was so weak, that my parents’ death still tormented me. He was determined to make a man out of me, even if that meant killing me in the process. There was a time, when the beatings first started, that he was careful, not wanting to leave any evidence of the abuse. But as I grew older, he made sure to leave the marks. He got some kind of sick satisfaction seeing the whelps on my back, smiling whenever he saw me looking at them. He wanted me to see them, to feel the raised scars on my flesh, so I would always remember. He grabbed my hand, yanking me from my grandmother’s lap and snarled, “Get your ass to the barn. I’ll teach you not to wet the fucking bed, boy.” I could smell the mix of old spice and bourbon swirl around me as my body collided against his side.
“George, it’s late,” Grandmother Louise pleaded.
Ignoring her, he pulled me out of the room and down the hall. As I stumbled behind him, I caught a glimpse of Emerson sitting up in her bed, tears streaming down her chubby little cheeks. She was only four years old, but she knew what happened out in the barn. Even though it sucked that I was his main target, I was thankful that he’d never taken her out there. The old man had a soft spot for her, and she could do no wrong. I wasn’t resentful. I felt the same way about her.
My bare feet dragged along in the dirt and grass as he pulled me into the barn; the large wooden doors slammed behind us, leaving us in the dark. The smell of straw and livestock whirled around me as he jerked me further into the dark. There was a time when I would try to pull away from him, but I quickly learned there was no use fighting him. I was trapped, unable to break free from his grasp. After binding my hands over my head, he reached for his favorite leather strap.
“If your father was still alive, he’d be disgusted with you. Such a fucking disappointment. You’re just like your damn mother. Worthless,” he grumbled as the strap whipped across my back. A searing pain shot through me, like hot coals burning through my thin t-shirt. I forced myself to hold back my cries as he continued to thrash the leather against my back, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. Unfortunately, that only made him angrier causing him to hit even harder. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for me to pass out from the pain, my body falling limp against the restraints.
There were many more nights like that, more than I could even begin to count. At least some were quick, not like the times he’d make me wait for it. I hated those nights the most. I’d spend the whole day tending to the animals and the grounds, praying the entire time that he might forget about punishment he’d promised. He always remembered though. With a wicked smile on his face, he would pull me inside the barn, laughing whenever I pleaded with him to give me another chance. I would beg, promising to try harder… be better, more obedient, but he was completely unaffected. I soon learned it was pointless. He relished in the pain that he inflicted on me; I could see it in the way his eyes would glaze over. It seemed my pleas were just a pre-game warm-up filling him with anticipation for the main event. He was one sick son-of-a-bitch.
Over time I got stronger. I learned to take myself out of the moment, dreaming of the day I might be able to get away – the day I would be free from him. I was almost fifteen before that time finally came. That was the night he almost killed me. The night he decided to trade in his leather strap for a strand of barbed wire. As the metal spikes gouged into my back, he’d yank them free, ripping away my flesh. When he was done, he left me to bleed to death in one of the horse stalls. I had no idea how long I’d been lying there when Emerson managed to sneak out to help me. She tended to the wounds on my back and shoulders, crying the entire time. She pleaded with me to run away, to get away while I still could. I knew she was right. I didn’t have a choice. I took the clothes and food she’d thrown in my backpack and left. I hated that I had to leave Emerson behind. I wanted to take her with me, keep her close. But I knew Grandmother Louise would look after her and keep her safe, something my grandfather would never allow her to do for me.
I thought that living on the streets would be better. I thought I’d be able to free myself from all the abuse, fear and suffering my grandfather inflicted on me, but l was wrong. So fucking wrong. I’d only traded one hell for another. What my grandfather failed to teach me, I learned the hard way while living out on the streets. I was scared all of the time, and starving most of the time. There was no one that I could trust; it seemed like everyone was out to get me. I had to be smarter and meaner than any of the filth that surrounded me. I stole. I fought. I even killed a guy – stabbed the son-of-a-bitch right in the throat when he tried to force himself on me.
The hunger, the fear, and the emptiness almost broke me. When I’d finally had enough, I decided to take the advice of a man who ran a halfway house down on the eastside. He was more decent than most and he seemed to really care about the kids that came to him over and over. He told me that since I had managed to stay out of jail, there was a good chance that I could join the military.
Despite how much I loathed my grandfather, I decided it was something I needed to do. Maybe it was to prove the old man wrong, show him that I could face adversity and thrive. It was probably the same reason my father joined all those years ago, just to prove that bastard wrong. Regardless of the reason, I needed the stability the military could give me. I craved it and being in the service was one of the best things I’d ever done. My troop became my family. We trained together… fought together. We became stronger, more disciplined together. It was the first time I had someone watching my back, caring whether I lived or died and I was actually happy there. I figured I’d spend my life serving my country, but just when things were going well, everything fell apart. My platoon was transporting supplies to one of the neighboring villages when the lead carrier ran over a land mine. Soon after the second carrier was ambushed, leaving most of my troop either dead or dismembered. It was a sight that will be forever burned into my memory. Seeing my brothers either dead or missing limbs broke something inside of me. The old hardness and coldness returned. Whatever weakness or compassion that was left in me was wiped out that day. When I left the service, I was capable of doing unthinkable things, and I could do them without a touch of remorse.
