Page 13 of Savage Devotion
“Riot, man. Look at me.”
He does. His crew is behind him, but they don’t look as concerned as I feel about brain matter spilling all over the road.Cops or not, that shit needs to be done in a more private setting. Murder isn’t my bag in this version of my life but I’m not against cleaning filth off the streets. I have a few of my own demons I’d like to put down permanently.
But I’m done with bloodshed and bullets. I left that a while back. I don’t pick up a gun unless it is necessary. And in this case, I’m not the one looking to put bodies in the ground, like my brother Riot.
“Reaper, brother. Just the man I needed to see.”
I spent a few years on the road as a nomad after leaving the Marines with an honorable discharge. Shrapnel and the death of my closest buddies made it clear I needed a new line of work sooner rather than later. But like most dumbass men, it took me a while to realize burying my grief with more death wasn’t the answer.
Not until a night in New Orleans and my time with Arabelle did I see how far down the dark rabbit hole of grief I’d fallen. Her touch, her kisses, and her fire brought me back to life. And then I woke to find my bed empty for all but a red kiss left on my pillow.
And a missing ring.
I rub at the pain stabbing through my heart. I have no business thinking of a one-night stand from months back right now but the memory of Arabelle chases me through the streets every damn day for more than one reason.
“Can you believe this asshole thinks he can blackmail me?”
Riot clocking a poor bastard on the back of the head pulls me out of my thoughts.
I might not want to be here leading my family’s biker motorcycle gang, but here the fuck I am doing just that. With a slightly different rule book than what my father and grandfather used in their day.
“I can believe a lot of shit,” I answer. “But that’s a hard one to swallow, brother.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I’ve met a lot of people in my travels. The Bratva Savages sit at the top of that list and all its brothers. I’ve bled for them and they’ve done the same. We exchange business and watch each other’s backs. That boils down to one thing. If they call, I ride because they would do the same for me and my crew of the Savage Reign any day of the week.
“He looks like a fucking man possessed, Prez. You sure this dude deserves that slug?”
Silas “Ash” Draven, my best friend and VP of the Savage Reign crew, throws the edge of his chin toward Riot.
“He’s going through some shit, but he’s ’bout as stable as you or me.” Which isn’t saying much considering we run guns, own underground gambling joints, and fight clubs along with a few other enterprises only the inner circle of the crew knows about.
“Huh, that’s not really comforting.”
I throw a hand out and clap Ash on the chest, my hand striking the leather of our club’s cut with a thump.
“I know, man, but I can’t leave the SOB in the middle of the road with his gun pulled. One of our asses might get shot. Besides, the Savages have our backs here.”
Across the road, five men with grim faces stand beside their bikes. I catch the eye of Ares, their president and we exchange a knowing look. He doesn’t like this any more than I do, but stopping Riot from getting his answers won’t be done without shooting him between the eyes first.
I like the man so I would rather it not come to that. It’s safer for all of us to let him get what he needs.
“Looks to me like it’s the other way around. We’re here to give them back up. But why?”
Good question.
“You could be right. But they didn’t ask us to ride hours in the pouring fucking rain for nothing. Let’s see what this shit is about so we can get back home.”
“Copy that, Prez.”
I cringe at being called Prez. It’s not a position I stepped into willingly. But I’m trying.
I swing my leg over the seat of my bike and pound cement to the middle of the abandoned two-lane road in an isolated area I’m unfamiliar with. Ten sets of bike lights illuminate the otherwise pitch-black night. This far out of the city there isn’t any other set of headlights to be seen in either direction. At least that’s one good thing.
I don’t stop until the tips of my shit-kickers hit the knees of the scum Riot has pinned to the ground with a loaded gun pointed at his temple.
I keep my hands at my side demonstrating I have no intentions of pulling my weapons. My Desert Eagle 44 magnums tucked under my cut are mere inches from my hands, but this calls fora little more finesse. “You sure you wanna do this? This can go two ways and only one of them is about to get ugly if you pull the trigger. You know I’m right.”
