Rage (A Thunder Gypsies MC Outlaw Biker Romance) Read online

  About Rage

  Rage

  Callan

  Avery

  Callan

  Avery

  Callan

  Avery

  In the Wind

  Coming Soon - Revenge

  Pesky Legal Stuff

  About Rage

  Every war is fought between brothers

  Knowing outlaw biker Callan Tilley is about to be murdered by another member of the Thunder Gypsies MC, Avery Watkins calls the police. But not all cops in Thunder Valley operate on the right side of the law, and saving Callan could cost Avery her life.

  Callan has had a soft spot for the shy waitress from the first time he set eyes on her back in high school and is certain she was the one who called 911. That means she's as good as dead once the gang traces the call back to the bar where Avery works.

  His plan to save them both? Steal a secret stash of the club's money, grab Avery and get the hell out of town. It might work, too, if the ATF, FBI, DEA and every other alphabet-soup agency in law enforcement were not on the hunt for a Gypsy willing to turn on the MC.

  ********************

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  Rage

  Maybe making the 911 call was stupid, but that’s just me -- stupid Avery Watkins. My dad will tell you it’s true, only he’s more likely to say I’m a dumb cunt, followed by “just like your mother.” Only she’s a dead dumb cunt and has been for ten years. My high school teachers and the guidance counselor, Miss Rawley, will back up his opinion, only they prefer to sugarcoat it with nicer wording like “inattentive” and “doesn’t apply herself.”

  I doubt any of those ladies at Thunder Valley High could have applied themselves any better at school if they had grown up with a drunk dad making them fetch beers and light cigarettes until two in the morning, and then find it impossible to fall asleep because there was no telling if the old man would wake up and light his own smoke before promptly passing out with a burning cigarette hanging from his lips. I’m doubly sure none of them ever applied themselves after emptying puke buckets for the last three months of their mother’s life as the alcohol abuse finally finished her slow suicide of the last two decades.

  But that’s all water under the bridge, more or less. I finished high school on time a good five years ago and I work two jobs in a town were a lot of people can’t even find one. I’m a server three mornings a week at the truck stop by the interstate and I fetch beers and light cigarettes for drunks who aren’t my dad four nights a week at a bar called Freya’s.

  Not a lot to lose, is it? Maybe that’s why I thought nothing about making the call when I overheard that the Thunder Gypsies, the local motorcycle gang, were about to kill one of their own members. It didn’t hurt that the soon-to-be dead Gypsy was Callan Tilley, someone always one grade up from me since I first noticed him when I was in fifth grade.

  I was bringing four beers and a whisky to the back room at Freya’s when I heard the low-voiced execution order.

  “We have to take Callan out. He’s turning into his dad and brothers.”

  I almost dropped my tray of drinks but somehow managed to round the table like I hadn’t heard a word of what they were saying. The speaker was “Little Red,” the club’s vice-president. His father, not one of the four men at the table, was Big Red and had been the Gypsies’ president since Callan’s father was sent to prison for thirty years on some kind of racketeering charge.

  Placing the drinks on the table, I did the mental math. Six years had passed since the cops slapped the cuffs on the elder Tilley. Callan had been a senior in high school and less than three years would pass before he was the last Tilley in Thunder Valley, one brother dead and the other in federal prison for the murder.

  Manslaughter, not murder.

  A waitress, not a lawyer, I didn’t understand the difference or how the prosecutor had made a case against Lincoln Tilley without a body. But everyone in town seemed to agree that Lincoln had killed his older brother Boone. Everyone but Callan -- and maybe me.

  Placing the whisky and beer Little Red had ordered in front of him, I felt the brush of his knuckle against my knee. My stomach lurched to the opposite side of my body. I was damn near invisible to everyone at Freya’s and the rest of Thunder Valley, but Little Red always made a point of touching me. He did it out of sight or in a manner his Gypsy brothers wouldn’t notice, but then he made a point of catching my gaze to let me know the contact had been intentional.

  Little Red downed the whisky then slammed the shot glass against the table. He wrapped one hand around the beer bottle and pointed it at Weaver, so named because everyone thought he was a basket case. Really, he was a crank monkey, the circuits in his brain fried by years of drug abuse. He was the only other Gypsy Callan’s age, but the two men were worlds apart. Callan, like the rest of the Tilley men, treated his body like a temple. Good food, plenty of activity, no drugs, no hard alcohol, and only the occasional beer as best as I could tell.

  “You down with it happening?” Little Red asked Weaver as he continued pointing his bottle at the man.

  I couldn’t believe the Gypsies were continuing the conversation while I was at the table serving their drinks. But if they thought I hadn’t heard the beginning, then they likely figured I wouldn’t put two and two together when Callan wound up dead.

  Weaver offered Little Red a dopey smile, whatever drugs he’d taken earlier and the two rounds of alcohol I’d already delivered to the table clearly having an effect on the muscles of Weaver’s face.

  “Whatever the club needs, brother.” He tried to tap his bottle against Little Red’s and missed.

  Little Red looked at the two other Gypsies at the table. Both men nodded, their gazes more serious than Weaver could manage.

  “Good.” Little Red reached out and snagged my elbow before I could leave. He looked at the men. “Because Bolo is back from Atlanta tonight.”

  My lungs seized in my chest and I had to force myself not to gasp to restart them. Had Red just said Bolo would kill Callan tonight? I wanted to run from the table, find a quiet corner and whip out my cell phone. Only I didn’t have Callan’s number and Red still gripped my arm.

  He brushed his thumb softly against my inner elbow. “Bring us all a round of whiskeys, baby. We’re celebrating.”

  Tears threatened to well in my eyes, but I forced them down. Not only did I have to figure out some way to get a message to Callan before Bolo found him, but I also had to figure out this “baby” shit with Red and the way he had openly caressed me. And I had to do both without Red knowing or feeling insulted. I’d seen more than once what happened to women who crossed him or his dad.

  Skin crawling from the sustained contact with the biker, I nodded and extracted my arm from his grasp. “Four whiskeys coming up.”

  With the Gypsies at one of the backroom’s three tables, the other two tables were empty. I practically ran from the room and ignored my four stations on the south wall of Freya’s main room. I blew past the pool tables, deaf to the slurred “honey, bring me another,” from one of my regulars. Every patron in the bar could have been yelling drink orders at me and I wouldn’t have heard a single word. My heart beat too heavily, the blood it pushed through my veins pulsing too loudly for other sounds to penetrate.

  Down the narrow hall I went to the only refuge a woman could find inside Freya’s -- the restroom. After making sure the door latched properly, I pulled my cheap pre-paid cell phone from my waitressing apron. With no Inte
rnet on the phone, I went old school and dialed information.

  A recorded voice asked me for city and name.

  “Thunder Valley, Callan Tilley,” I whispered, my gaze on the sliver of space between the bottom of the bathroom door and the floor to make sure no one had followed me down the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” the mechanical voice prompted. “I didn’t get that. Please try again.”

  “Thunder Valley, Callan Tilley, ” I said just a little louder.

  “I’m sorry...”

  I waited, eyes closed, blood continuing to rush past my ears in a thick roar, for the machine to tell me whether I wasn’t loud enough or that Callan had an unlisted number.

  “There’s no listing for that number,” the voice finished. “Would you like to try another listing?”

  I hung up. My stomach see-sawed from too many emotions rolling through me and the permanent stink of vomit and piss that no amount of bleach or other disinfectants could wash out of the floor and walls of Freya’s bathrooms. Moving toward the sink, I reached up and pushed at the bottom of the rectangle of glass that served as a window. Like those in any other bar, the bathroom window was built high and was too small to crawl out of unless you were a toddler. But if I stood on my tiptoes, I could just catch a whiff of slightly fresher air.

  The window faced the back of Freya’s but on the opposite side of where the dumpster and recycling bins were placed. There were a few parking spots for the employees who actually had a car. Patrons were supposed to park out front, but the rules didn’t apply to the Gypsies.

  Little Red could have sat bare-assed on Freya’s face and she wouldn’t have whispered a single complaint. Mostly they parked out front like everyone else, kind of like marking their territory. But sometimes one or more of them parked behind the joint. That usually meant they were lying low, either from the cops, another club or their woman.

  So hearing the throttle of a motorcycle behind Freya’s as I stuck my nose to the open window didn’t surprise me. The sputtering cough of that throttle, however, hit me like a knife sinking into my already troubled gut. Only one bike in the Gypsies cavalcade sounded that bad -- Bolo’s. I knew it by heart, just like I knew the sound of Little Red’s and Callan’s bikes. I knew Bolo’s because, as the club’s sergeant-at-arms and thus its enforcer, he scared the living daylights out of me. I knew Red’s because he made my skin crawl in other ways and I knew Callan’s because--

  Well, because I’m stupid for him and have been since my freshman year of high school. Stupid Avery Watkins who can’t keep enough of her tips and wages from her drunken father so that she can move the hell away from Thunder Valley. Stupid Avery Watkins who has one foot on the toilet in Freya’s bathroom so she can peek out at a killer to see if he’s already wiping blood from his hands.

  Arms shaking as I hoisted myself just a little higher, I saw Bolo shut down his bike and climb off. It was too dark where he stood to see the state of his clothes, whether there were any dark spots that weren’t grease from the bike or his last meal.

  I dropped to the floor, my brain running circles inside my skull. I couldn’t call Callan to warn him. I had to find him and do it in person -- but I didn’t have a car. And my dad, if he was sober enough to remember, wouldn’t be at Freya’s to pick me up until midnight. Even then, he wouldn’t hand over the keys to his truck when he’d never taught me to drive.

  If I wanted to find Callan and warn him, it would be on foot. And I couldn’t start with Little Red at Freya’s, especially not now that he seemed ready to ramp up the attention he threw my way.

  Trying to figure out how I was going to make it through the next three hours of my shift, I reached for the door handle. My hand froze as I heard another bike pull in behind the bar. My eyes drifted shut, a tear escaping each as I recognized the smooth running engine of Callan’s bike.

  Flipping the bathroom light off, I grabbed hold of the window ledge once more, put a foot on the toilet and pushed up so that I could see both men. My heart froze when I did.

  Callan was backing his bike into a spot. Bolo appeared to be waiting for him in a good natured way, one buddy standing by so the two could walk into their favorite bar side by side. But I knew that wasn’t the case -- not just because of what I had overheard but by the way Bolo’s hand kept drifting to his back waistband.

  The bottom hem of his black leather vest with its Gypsies patch lifted, showing me the dull silver flash of metal. A knife maybe, or more likely a gun. Bolo wasn’t stupid or crazy enough to go after the taller, stronger Callan with a knife. Bolo would be eating his own steel if he tried.

  “Been looking for you,” Bolo shouted above the open throttle of Callan’s bike. “We need to hit the clubhouse for a talk.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. If Callan went to the clubhouse with Bolo, he was dead.

  Revving the engine on his bike, Callan seemed to study the other Gypsy. “Thirsty, need a drink first.”

  Callan moved to shut off the engine on his bike, but Bolo stepped forward and put his hand over that of the younger man.

  “No drink.” He ordered, his voice taking on the stern tone befitting his rank as the club’s enforcer. “Besides, your girl ain’t in tonight.”

  Blood rushed back to my face. Callan had a girl? Great -- maybe she should be the one spying from the bathroom and trying to figure out how to save his stupid ass from his so-called motorcycle brothers.

  “Don’t have a girl,” Callan said and flung Bolo’s hand off his own to give the bike’s motor another rev.

  Bolo looked over his shoulder, the angle of his head making me feel like he was staring at the bathroom’s small window with me behind it instead of just the back of Freya’s bar. He gave a little shrug but didn’t drop the argument.

  “Not what Little Red says.”

  “Red needs to worry about his own dick.” Callan moved once more to shut off the bike, only to have Bolo stop him again.

  Ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent of the time, Callan looked like he wouldn’t hurt a fly despite the outlaw vest and steel-toed boots that could crack a human skull with one kick. But even in the low light behind the bar, I could see anger slow crawling across his features as Bolo blocked him a second time.

  “Four brothers inside,” Callan said, his voice a tight knot. “If you’re calling Church, seems we’re riding a little light.”

  Bolo dropped his hands to his sides for a second before he turned his open palms toward Callan and gave a full-bodied shrug. Seeing the false gesture of peacefulness, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. Either Bolo was going to sweet talk Callan back to the clubhouse or somewhere along the side of the road where he could kill him without witnesses or a deadly fight was going to erupt before they left Freya’s parking lot.

  I dropped to the floor, pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911 as I crouched down so I wouldn’t be talking near the open window. Cupping my hand around my mouth and the speaker, I waited for dispatch to answer.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “Murder!” The word blurted from me as soon as she finished the question. “Freya’s, out back. The Gypsies--”

  “Calm down, miss.”

  I heard the crackle of the dispatcher reaching one of the patrol units on their radio. She told them a disturbance was in progress at the bar.

  “Murder,” I repeated. “M-U-R-D-E-R, not a fucking disturbance! The Gypsies are going to kill Callan Tilley, you dumb--”

  I sucked in a calming breath. I needed the woman on the other end to be my friend, to send the cops here as fast as their super-charged cruisers would carry them.

  “Please,” I whispered, glad for the throbbing vibrations of Callan’s bike to cover my voice. “If they don’t kill him here, they’ll do it at the clubhouse or on the ride back. But it’s happening tonight.”

  “Who is this?” the operator asked.

  I could tell by her tone that she had filled in the other half of “dumb” and didn’t give a rat’s a
ss that someone was about to die. But, before I could think about answering her question, I heard the patrol car’s response and the excitement in the responding officer’s voice. He gave his coordinates, the location less than half a mile away.

  That was all I needed to know. I snapped the phone shut, ending the call as I opened the bathroom door. If I wanted to live, I had to be back in the thick of the bar, slinging drinks when the sirens started or when Bolo proved he was as stupid as molasses is slow and shot Callan behind Freya’s.

  Halfway down the hall, Little Red stepped into view. His lips did a smirking dance as he walked up to me and put his hands on my shoulders. His head dropped to a conspiratorial angle and he smiled at me, the air issuing past his open lips rank with the smell of beer, whiskey and cigarettes.

  “You’re late with the drinks, darling.” He brought his mouth closer to my ear, making my skin feel like I had a colony of ants crawling along my neck. “Now, what are we going to do about that, hmm?”

  “I’ll bring them right away.” I promised, swallowing hard while I tried my damnedest not to look repulsed or give away the fact that I had just called the cops on him and his gang. Either sin committed against the vice-president of the Thunder Gypsies would earn me at least a beating.

  “That doesn’t fix them being late, does it?” His hands moved halfway down my arms and then he jerked me closer.

  His groin pushed against mine and I was half a heartbeat away from freaking out when I heard the sirens in the distance. Little Red heard them, too. He released me immediately, as if the police were on their way for his sickening, but minor, molestation of my flesh.

  Panic flashed across his face as his hands moved over his belt line and pockets. He bent quickly, his search for contraband continuing as he fingered the inside edge of his boots. Straightening, his gaze raked my body and then he jerked a thumb down the hallway toward the main room and the serving station beyond.

  “Get me those whiskeys.” He turned, his head twisting so he could look back at me. “Teaching you to move faster will have to wait.”