Dread (Scorned Devils MC 1)

Dread (Scorned Devils MC 1)
J. Hali Steele
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 J. Hali Steele

Dread

“Nicholas, about the two prospects.”

Dread hated these damn open-air parties. The park was jammed with bodies. Giving back to the community was necessary now and again. They deserved something, because unless things really got out of hand, the two small local police forces turned a blind eye to most of the Scorned Devils motorcycle club’s bullshit.

More importantly, he hated being called Nicholas. Nicholas Derickson had ceased to exist a long time ago. His death had occurred the first time Dread killed a man. The culprit had missed being on the Scorned Devils MC’s radar, but he should have been. That body had never been found. Never will be, either.

There had been two others. Members who’d become disruptive and had to be dealt with outside the law. Dread felt no guilt, as they understood the rules when they prospected. There had been one more. Club president Barton “Battle” Graves hadn’t been sure of the last death. Even after finding the man’s cut in the clubhouse chest only he and Dread had access to, Battle left it alone at first, ignoring the incident for a time because Dread was Scorned Devils inside out, and Bat knew beyond a doubt he intended to protect his club and anyone they vowed allegiance until Dread took his last breath.

Hell, the man had screwed around with Bat’s older and only sister, Glory Graves. Treated her like shit. She’d been abused, then abandoned after the bastard fathered the pres’ niece, Belinda. He’d occasionally turn up when he was down on his luck, to demand money, or a room for a few days. If it was easier for Bat to believe the man walked away for good, so be it.

Bat had asked about the disappearance once. Dread never responded. And that skull never got painted on Dread’s bikes. However, if he delayed answering Battle now, the jackass would never shut up.

“Nicholas, you hear me?”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Dread had not taken his gaze off the stranger who’d arrived accompanied by Bat’s niece, Belinda. Jesus, he’s hot! The thought surprised Dread. The man was lean, clean shaven and, fuck, downright pretty -- and those types never excited him. Something about the way the man carried himself, how he returned Dread’s scrutiny without blinking, excited him, though. Bastard exuded confidence.

Nodding in their direction, Dread asked, “Who’s that with Belinda?” Dread had no interest in diving back into the same pond he swam in for the last six months. His sex life had drifted into no man’s land, but the youngster he eyed was a bright spot on the horizon. I will fuck him until he can’t walk.

“How the hell would I know? Ask Belinda. No matter how much I bitch, she cozies up to some man. Shit, she calls you uncle more often than me.” Attempting to imitate his niece, Bat mocked, “Why can’t you call me Bell, like Uncle Dread?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“My sister’s crap’s the big deal. She’s biting my ass. Doesn’t like her daughter anywhere near me. Hell, I don’t either.”

“Barton, grab your balls and tell your sister to fuck off.” Dread’s attention remained on the newcomer.

“Kiss my ass. Anyway, he likely works with Belinda at one of your establishments.” Kicking the dirt, Bat added, “All the strangers here, you’re concerned by my niece’s latest conquest?”

Holding eye contact, Dread smiled at the fucker. He knew the sexy young man slinking behind Belinda wasn’t a lady’s man. “He’s not her type.” There would be no complaint from Dread about her dragging this one along, yet Dread made note to talk with his managers, keep better tabs on who they hired. “You asked me to give her a job, Battle. It was Cutters or Hell’s Lair.”

“She’s not to be in any part of the Lair, Dread. Bar, clubhouse, nothing. I mean it.”

Dread observed Bell’s friend laughing at something a member’s old lady had said. He is not Hell’s Lair material, either. Dread owned both Cutters, a nice restaurant featuring live music on weekends, and Hell’s Lair, a straight up hole-in-the-wall biker’s bar. He received nice compensation monthly from the Scorned Devils MC treasury for renting them the large, wide-open storage area behind the bar. It doubled as the clubhouse.

The spot had had another name before Dread changed it to Hell’s Lair. Paid pennies on the dollar when he violently wrestled ownership from a man who didn’t deserve it. Jackass mistreated his employees and fired anyone he discovered was gay. For a moment Dread wondered where that bastard had ended up after being beaten to within an inch of his life and chased out the city. One thing Dread was sure of, the son of a bitch would never open his mouth about what had occurred.

Subsequently, the bar made enough for Dread to snatch Cutters up when it came on the market. Only a handful of his crew were aware who owned Cutters, and none ever set foot inside. Too fancy for their liking. Even he couldn’t buy respectability, but Dread liked having one thing in his life that felt decent.

“Too much talk in the Lair’s bar area. That shit must be addressed and I don’t trust Belinda to follow my rule about visiting the club.”

“I’ll handle the loose lips. Anyway, our guys know not to permit your niece inside. If she sneaks in, you or I will get a call. If they ever touch a hair on her head, they’ll see me sooner than later.” Angling toward Battle, Dread slapped the pres’ shoulder. “That’s what you have me for.”

“And sometimes you worry me.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Dread was the only one who dared speak to the club president like that. “What were you saying about prospects?”

“A vote on patching is necessary. They’ve both proved themselves.” Bat’s sigh filled the air. “We got to watch those five hellions out of Philadelphia. Shit, been too long since I had a sit-down with the pres of Bayside Specters. Sons of bitches didn’t even have the courage or respect to announce themselves. Still, I’d like to avoid trouble. Devils have grown. We established ourselves in the county and Coatesville is home. It’s a small city and trouble of any sort marring our MC’s reputation will not be tolerated.”

Growth was important. Thirty-four members strong, Scorned Devils had become a club to be reckoned with in Pennsylvania but Bat was right. “We’ll take it up at the next meeting. This isn’t the time or place.”

Over the last couple months, several instances had developed that Dread wished the president had allowed him to handle. He understood Bat’s caution, yet appearing weak wasn’t suitable. Dread had turned down running the Devils, or becoming vice president as Battle had hoped, as they moved up through club ranks. Dread liked his position of sergeant at arms. Trusting anyone else to ensure club rules would be followed and appropriate punishment doled out when necessary didn’t suit Dread, either.

“Don’t know how you can tell, but you’re probably right about that young man. Anyway, I know I’m not getting anything useful out of you until you make yourself known to him.” Turning serious, Bat added, “Be careful.”

“Careful?” Bat knew who Dread was and he also understood some things would never change. “That shit flew out the window twenty years ago when I screwed the fourth prospect who patched for the Devils. I can handle members who scoff at what I am.” A few hard cases, kept under Dread’s scrutiny, disdained gay activity, but not one of the Devils would dare say a word about his or any other member’s sexual inclination. “Terror’s not here to protect the fuckers, and they like having their teeth.”

The Scorned Devils vice president was near the end of a three-year sentence for assault. Nineteen years younger than Dread, Terror was fucking nuts, and Dread didn’t relish the time he would return. Made him wish, sometimes, he had accepted vice president under Battle. Luckily, Bat had succeeded in keeping them from tearing each other apart. At least for now. But the day would come.

“You know what the fuck I mean. He’s not one of us. He’s too clean cut for the likes of us, and he reeks of decency. Hell, the kid isn’t even your usual hairy type.” Bat’s eyes shuttered. “Not as if… Look, Dread, club culture doesn’t favor settling down.”

“What? Fuck that, man, I’m not looking for anything permanent. Scorned Devils requires my attention, I’m here, Battle. That shit will never change.” Jerking away, Dread made his way through the crowd to lay claim to his next conquest.