Fearing The Biker

  By

  Cassie Alexandra

  smashwords.com edition

  Copyright ©2015 by Cassie Alexandra/K.L

  Middleton

  Cover Design by – Book Cover By Design

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the author.

  This book is purely fiction. Any resemblances to names, characters, and places are coincidental. The reproduction of this work is forbidden without written consent from the author.

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  Prologue

  “Which one is your old man?” asked the other kid, Flint. We were at the clubhouse, playing video games in the back room. He was thirteen, a year older than me, and I was whipping his ass in the football game we were playing.

  “Acid,” I said, pushing the buttons on the controller rapidly.

  “That’s what I thought. Wouldn’t it be easier if you weren’t wearing those?”

  I glanced down at the fingerless, leather gloves I was wearing. “Maybe, but my hands are cold. Yes! Another touchdown!”

  “This is boring,” said Flint, throwing down the controller. He stood up and stretched. “I say we do something else.”

  I leaned forward and turned off the game system. “Like what?”

  He was silent for a few seconds. “You want to go to the park?”

  It was winter time and cold as shit, but I was just happy to be hanging out with someone other than my younger cousin, Tommy. He was only nine and liked to play with action figures, which got old. “Sure,” I replied, grabbing my jacket.

  Flint picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. “What was your name again?”

  “It’s Jordan.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, which one is your old man?” I asked, as we walked down the hallway toward the front door.

  “Butch.” He stopped abruptly and smirked. “You hear that?” he whispered.

  We were standing outside of one of the bedrooms. The door was closed but you could hear two people having sex.

  I grinned. “Yeah.”

  He put his ear against the door. “It sounds like Schmitty and Gena.”

  I knew who Schmitty was. He was the V.P. for the Demon Rebels, which was our dads’ motorcycle club. “Who’s Gena?”

  “She’s a Sweet-butt.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  From what I’d heard, a Sweet-butt was another name for most of the chicks who hung around the clubhouse. They had a thing for bikers and loved to party. Acid would bring one home, once in a while, and they’d disappear into his bedroom for a few hours. Sometimes they’d come out with frightened looks on their faces, never to return; those were the days he usually left me alone. Otherwise, if Acid was having a bad day, he’d almost always take his aggressions out on me. Unfortunately, he had more bad ones than good.

  “You ever feel up a girl before?” asked Flint.

  “Yeah,” I lied, not wanting to sound like a punk. The truth was, I’d never even kissed a girl, let alone touched one. “Sure.”

  “You did not,” said Flint, watching my face closely.

  “I did so,” I argued. “You weren’t there, so you wouldn’t know.”

  “What was her name?”

  I quickly made one up. “Lisa. Her name was Lisa.”

  “Lisa, huh? What was her cup-size?”

  “Cup-size?”

  He held his hands up to his chest. “You know, how big where her titties?”

  I laughed nervously. “Oh, yeah. Right. Well, they both fit in the palms of my hands. All I needed,” I said, repeating something I’d heard Acid say before.

  “You’re so full of shit,” he said, chuckling. He put his arm around my neck and pulled me away from the door. “Come on. Let’s go and make a man out of you.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but it sounded interesting. “Uh, sure.”

  As we were leaving the clubhouse, we told one of the Old Ladies, Carla Jean, that we were going to the park up the road. She was up at the bar, drinking a Bloody Mary and talking to one of the Prospects.

  “It’s cold outside. You sure?” she asked, flicking her cigarette into the ashtray.

  “We need some fresh air,” said Flint, as we reached the front door. “And, we’re fucking bored.”

  Carla Jean frowned. “Watch your mouth, Flint.”

  “Sorry,” he replied with a smirk.

  Noticing it, she grunted. “I’ll let them know. Stay out of trouble.”

  The park was less than two blocks away. When we arrived, I followed Flint up to the top of the triple-slide and we sat down under the canopy with our legs crossed.

  “Check this out,” he said, pulling out a girly magazine and a pack of smokes from his backpack. “Here,” he said, handing me a cigarette.

  My dad smoked, so I didn’t really think he’d mind. I shoved the cigarette between my lips and waited.

  Flint took out a lighter and lit our smokes.

  “You have to inhale it,” he said, after watching me puff on the end of mine for a while. “You’re not doing it right. Check this out.”

  I watched as he inhaled the smoke and then blew it out, making a grayish-white ring.

  I smiled. “Sweet.”

  “Try it,” he said, doing it again.

  I tried inhaling but it only burned my lungs and made me cough.

  He chuckled. “Just keep practicing. You’ll get the hang out of it.”

  “Okay,” I said, clearing my throat as he opened up the magazine.

  “Nice, huh?” he said, nodding to a picture of a nude girl, spread-eagle.

  I felt myself getting excited and pulled my jacket down over my lap. “Shit yeah.”

  “I’d love to bang her. Or her,” he said, showing me another naked chick.

  “Me, too.”

  “The only thing missing is a beer,” said Flint. “Your old man ever let you drink?”

  “Once in a while,” I said, lying again.

  He held up the magazine and showed me the centerfold. Both of us agreed that the model had more than a handful on her chest.

  “How come Acid doesn’t bring you around, much?” he asked, turning to the next page.

  I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t want to tell him that it was because I couldn’t stand to be around the asshole. Normally, I avoided him at all costs, spending most of my time at Aunt Peggy’s. That was his sister and although she could be a real bitch, she didn’t enjoy tormenting me like Acid. When he wasn’t preaching to me about respect, he was whipping me with his belt. Fortunately, he’d been taking a lot of road trips with the club lately and leaving me alone.

  “Is it true what they say about him?”

  “What’s that?”

  Flint exhaled another cloud of smoke. “He really uses acid on people? That’s why they call him that.”

  I stared at the hand holding the cigarette, remembering the last time he’d used it on me. It had been about three months ago. Acid had come home from the bar, drunk and angry because of some chick that wouldn’t go home with him. He’d started in on me right away about the house being a mess and I’d given him a dirty look. Unfortunately, he’d caught it and I’d caught h
ell.

  “No,” I said, remembering his warning. That if I told anyone, he’d use some on my tongue. “At least he doesn’t on me.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” said Flint, watching me closely.

  Before I could answer, we heard someone calling our names, from below.

  “Shit,” I whispered, recognizing Acid’s voice. “My dad’s going to kill me if he sees this.”

  We quickly put our cigarettes out and Flint shoved the magazine back into his backpack.

  “What the fuck you two doing?” asked my old man, climbing the tall ladder. When he reached the top, he frowned. “It smells like cigarettes up here. Are you two smoking?”

  “No,” said Flint, looking nervous.

  “No, sir,” I said, trying to stay calm.

  He spotted some ashes in the corner and his face darkened. “What did I tell you about lying, Boy?”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  “You think I can’t see what’s going on up here?” he snapped.

  Neither of us said anything.

  Acid pointed to Flint. “Get your ass back to the clubhouse. Church is over and your dad is looking for you.”

  Without another word, Flint slid down the slide and took off running with his backpack.

  Acid glared at me. “You never fucking learn, do you?”

  I fought back tears, knowing that I was in deep shit.

  He grinned coldly. “So, what do you got to say about yourself, boy?”

  “I’m sorry for lying,” I said hoarsely.

  His hand snaked out and he grabbed my wrist. “And you’ll be even sorrier when we get home. Looks like I’m going to have to show you again what happens to kids who lie to their parents. Now, get off this fucking thing.”

  I quickly slid down the slide, while he took the ladder, and we walked in silence back to the clubhouse. When he began to whistle, I stole a glance at him and noticed the expression on his face. It was almost euphoric. He was already anticipating my punishment.

  Someday, I’m going to show you what happens to parents who get off on beating their kids, I vowed, hating him more than ever.

  Chapter One

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  Twenty-one years later

  Popping the tab on my energy drink, I stared at the warehouse in front of me. The one I had rigged with explosives. The owner of the building, a degenerate by the name of Gerald Piper, was due to arrive at any minute. The man was a sick bastard, involved with human trafficking and illegal porn. I’d been hired to not only take him out, but blow up his newly acquired warehouse in Salt Lake City. Although my knuckles itched to do some collateral damage to the prick’s face, before ending his miserable life, he wasn’t my only target. There were other individuals that Gerald was scheduled to meet with. Two bikers from a club called “The Devil’s Sons”. The President, Bam, and his V.P., Digger. Apparently, they were silent partners who’d pissed off a rivaling club, one too many times. Because the Feds were watching my clients closely, they had to keep a low profile but wanted Gerald, Bam, and Digger wiped from the grid. Honestly, after learning about their history involving the exploitation of women, children, and farm animals, I’d have done the job for nothing. The world was pretty much fucked already, but it would definitely be a little more tolerable without those three scumbags. They deserved to suffer and my only regret on this job was that their deaths would be swift and painless, unlike the unspeakable crimes committed by them.

  Catching my reflection in the window of a nearby liquor store, I almost did a double-take. Currently, with the long, gray beard, bulbous nose, craggily skin, and a beat-up trench coat, I looked and smelled like a ripe transient. The kind that people went out of their way to avoid on the streets. It was one of many disguises that I’d used for jobs and probably the most effective. Even my own mother wouldn’t recognize me. Of course, she had no idea what I looked like anyway. Not after bolting when I was an infant. She’d been scared shitless of my old man, Acid, and had taken off, leaving me at the mercy of the sadist. But, it’s just like that old saying – “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Surviving a childhood with Acid had undoubtedly made me a tougher and more resilient person. It also made me cynical. I had no problem looking in the mirror every day. There were far worse assholes roaming the streets. If I could eliminate some of them and earn a fat paycheck at the end of the day, I had no trouble sleeping.

  The sound of Hogs in the distance got my heart thumping faster. Knowing that shit was about to go down, I finished the energy drink and threw the can into the grocery cart I was pushing. Then I headed to the back of the warehouse, watching as two bikers rolled into the parking lot. As they parked their bikes, I pushed the cart slowly, pretending to look for more aluminum cans.

  Ignoring me, the bikers got off their motorcycles, climbed the steps leading to the building’s Employee entrance and pounded on the door. After not getting a response, they turned around and scanned the parking lot, obviously looking for Gerald. When their eyes landed on me, I leaned down and picked up an empty soda can I’d planted earlier and tossed it into my cart. Then I began pushing it again, this time, talking to myself like a lunatic.

  “Fucking crazy bum,” I overheard one of them say as a Caddy pulled into the parking lot. “He’s talking to himself. Next, he’ll be singing.”

  “Hey you, get the fuck out of here,” said the other guy, glaring at me. “Go on. Beat it before we beat you.”

  Smiling, I took my cue and began to sing.

  “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time. I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you're mine… I walk the line...”

  “Can you believe this piece of shit, Bam?” laughed the other biker. “He’s singing Johnny Cash.”

  “Funny thing is, the fucker doesn’t have that bad of a voice,” remarked Bam, pulling out a cigarette.

  I went on.

  “I find it very, very easy to be true, I find myself alone when each day's through, Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you. Because you're mine…I walk the line…”

  The Caddy rolled up next to the motorcycles and the engine shut down.

  “What do you know, he showed,” mumbled Digger, staring at the car.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  He shrugged. “Never know with that asshole.”

  A short, squat man carrying a briefcase got out of the car. He walked up the staircase and unlocked the door, not saying much to the bikers, who were still eyeing me.

  “What, no encore?” asked Digger, when he noticed that I was no longer singing.

  “Really? An encore? Get the fuck inside,” said Bam, pushing him into the building.

  When the door shut behind them, I turned my cart around and walked away.

  “As sure as night is dark and day is light,

  I keep you on my mind both day and night.

  And happiness I've known proves that it's right.

  Because you're mine… I walk the line...”

  Behind me I heard a loud explosion, as one of the men inside tripped a detonator. This was followed by another violent blast, one that made the asphalt under my feet tremble.

  I smiled in satisfaction, knowing that three guys I’d just killed would be walking their own line… straight to Hell.

  It was days like this that I truly loved my job…

  Chapter Two

  “I’m so proud of you,” said my mother, Frannie, who was sitting across from me at Jake’s Steak House. After receiving a BSN Certificate, from The University of Iowa’s Nursing School, I’d recently passed the state licensing test and we were celebrating quietly together over dinner. “I know that I keep telling you that, but I can’t help myself.”

  I smiled at her teary eyes. “It’s okay. It still makes me feel good to hear it, Mom.”

  “Oh, before I forget.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small gift-wrapped box. “This is from me and Slammer. He wante
d to be here tonight, but…” she sighed, “unfortunately, he’s still in California with Tank.”

  Slammer, my stepfather, was the president of a motorcycle club called the Gold Vipers, and his son Tank was the V.P. They were exactly what you’d imagine them to be like, too – rugged, cocky, and stubborn as all hell. I had to admit, they were also pretty bad-assed, which sometimes worked in my favor. Especially Tank, who stood well over six feet, had muscles the size of cantaloupe, and was covered in tattoos. Nobody messed with our family. Not recently, anyway.

  “Are they still at that biker rally?”

  “Yeah. He wanted to bring me with, so that I could meet someone named ‘Bastard’,” she said, chuckling. “These men and some of their silly road-names.”

  “He’s the founder of the Gold Vipers,” I said, remembering Tank talking about it.

  Personally, I would never understand the club way of life. At least, what the benefits were for the women involved. It made me angry when I saw some of the wives and girlfriends wearing cuts that said, “Property Of”. If that wasn’t bad enough, many of their men had no problem cheating on these same women with club whores. Those non-profit sluts hung out at the clubhouse just to party and get laid. I thought it was deplorable but kept my feelings to myself. I wouldn’t dare debate about it with Slammer or Tank. They were too set in their ways and I was obviously an outsider.

  What happens in the clubhouse, stays in the clubhouse - was one of their mottos.

  My only solace in all of this was that Slammer claimed that he didn’t fraternize with the whores and from what I could tell, appeared to be deeply in love with my mother.

  “That’s right. Slammer mentioned that he’s a decorated vet. He really looks up to Bastard,” she said, nodding toward the box. “Anyway, open it.”

  “Thanks, Mom. You really didn’t have to do this.”

  She waved her hand. “Oh, you deserve it. Heck, you deserve more than this. I just wish I could do more for you.”