Huntress (OUTLAW Book 2) Read online

  I tried to let slide my father’s comments about the way I dressed and my choice of music. I thought he was jealous. He saw a shadow of his former self emerging from his daughter, and I guess it brought back happy memories, as well as tragic ones. I bet he was itching to jump on a motorbike and take off into the sunset. Instead, he carried on his charade as a respected family man. Didn’t he realize the family he had was breaking apart? Didn’t he care?

  I’d had enough. I packed my suitcase and moved down to London to live with Clay and Beth until I could sort something out.

  I was determined to learn all I could about the Wolves, about a biker’s lifestyle. Beth and Clay never clued into the motives behind my questioning. What better way to get all the dirt than from two actual bikers? The Wolves had taken my uncle and my brother away from me. They’d fucked up my family. I wanted revenge.

  I was sitting at the breakfast table with Clay, sipping my morning coffee when I decided to bring up the subject of the Wolves again.

  “Why did you stay in London, why didn’t you leave town like the rest of the Tyrants?”

  “Clay was adamant the Wolves weren’t going to drive him from his home,” Beth said, as she washed the plates. “When they found out the Tyrants had disbanded and Jade had left town, the Wolves vowed if she or Marcus ever came back to London, they’d be killed.”

  “Shit, they didn’t do anything! The Wolves are the ones that murdered my uncle,” I argued.

  “You don’t know how it was. There were rules. You never testify against another club member, no matter what patch he or she wears. We take care of our own.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” I yelled, and then took a deep breath to calm myself. “Why didn’t Dad get revenge and go after the Wolves?”

  Clay shook his head. “The Tyrants were finished long before the Wolves came onto the scene. We were out of shape, out of practice, and no match for them. The Wolves stayed in the background watching us. They didn’t pounce until they were ready, and by then they knew they would win.”

  “Win?” I asked.

  Clay drank the last of his coffee as he stared at me.

  “If the Wolves were to have any status in London, they had to get rid of the competition, the Tyrants. They weren’t going to give us the opportunity of disbanding and walking quietly away. They wanted to finish it, and do it publicly, which of course they did.”

  “They got what they wanted,” Beth said, “They were number one. The Tyrants were out of the picture. But when your mother testified in court and put a member of their gang behind bars. She became their number one enemy. As far as I know that hasn’t changed.”

  Clay stood up and took his coffee mug over to the sink. “Come on, you’re going to be late for work,” he said.

  I gulped down my warm coffee, bit into a slice of toast, and then gave my cup and plate to Beth.

  “So the word is still out?” I asked, as I put my leather jacket on. “Do you really think that after twenty years, there are any original members left in the gang?”

  “Maybe not,” he answered. “That doesn’t mean the death threat hasn’t been carried down. Last I heard, there’re about forty members in the East chapter, the one Mud Anderson runs, and they’ve got a good drug racket going.”

  I walked to the door with him and then we both reached up to the top shelf above the coat stand and took down our helmets.

  “Have they given you any trouble?” I asked.

  Clay opened the front door, and we walked out to the garage.

  “They know who I am. They jeer, spit, and threaten, but it’s all talk. They haven’t laid a finger on Beth or me.”

  I nodded, and then put my helmet on before climbing onto my second-hand V Rod Harley. It wasn’t a bad machine, just needed a good paint job, which Clay promised he’d do for me.

  “Remind Beth I won’t be home till late. I’ve got that audition with the band tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah. Good luck,” he shouted back.

  The roar of our motorbikes drowned out my reply.

  We took off down the drive and then separated as we rode to our jobs.

  ***

  I didn’t want to meet the Wolves the same way Mum met the Tyrants. I wanted it to be a natural introduction, not look as though I was trying too hard. But I decided to follow her example and go straight for an officer of the pack. Surely, an officer’s woman would receive more respect than the other females in the club. I just hoped the guys were attractive and not too old.

  I guessed the easiest way to announce myself was to run in the same circles; hang out in biker bars, and hopefully be noticed.

  I’ve always had a talent for singing so I came up with a delicious way of combining the two. I would join a rock band.

  Although rock music was never played openly in my parents’ house, I’ve always had the love for it. Singing in a band would get me into known biker bars, earn me respect from the punters, and hopefully I’d run into a Wolf or two. I hadn’t decided where I was going to go from there. I knew it would take a while before I’d make a name for myself and maybe get some followers.

  While riding to London Weekly, the newspaper where I worked, I sang the lyrics of “Love Walked In,” one of my favourite rock tracks by Thunder. It was going to be my audition song.

  A pair of blue jeans and a tight black T-shirt were folded in my satchel, ready to change into after work.

  I’d only been working at the paper for a month when the editor started giving me my own assignments. I loved the challenge of a deadline and my articles never failed to impress. That morning, I was interviewing a woman who had sold her baby over the internet. I knew the article would cause a stir.

  As the day progressed, I became more anxious about the impending audition. What if they’re weren’t impressed? Could I take rejection? I had my heart set on getting this gig, I never thought of the negative side. What if the band was crap and couldn’t play? How would I turn them down?

  I needn’t have worried. When I walked into the church hall, the band was already rocking hard. The three guys in their late twenties certainly looked the part of rockers; long hair, ripped jeans and black T-shirts advertising heavy metal bands. These guys knew how to play too. The moment they saw me, they stopped playing and one of them shouted out “hi.”

  “You guys rock,” I said.

  My anxiety disappeared as the lead guitarist played a riff in response to my comment.

  I introduced myself, and the drummer immediately offered me a can of beer. I turned down the offer. It didn’t matter to me that they liked their drink; I wanted to make a good impression and didn’t want to be known as a drinker. Plus, I preferred whisky.

  The church hall, with no furniture and bare walls, had perfect acoustics. I was itching to sing.

  Standing by the mike with an amp monitor in front of me, I belted out “Love Walked In.” They sat up in their seats and leaned in to whisper to one another. I knew they were impressed. When I finished, Todd, the lead guitarist, asked me if I knew the lyrics to “Sweet Child of Mine.”

  “Who doesn’t,” I answered.

  It felt as though we’d been playing for months. Everything fell together. The rhythm and timing were spot on. Greg, the bass guitarist, sang with me and his vocals harmonized perfectly with mine.

  We were so excited about the electric performance, we went through another four songs before taking a break. Of course I didn’t know all the lyrics, so I made up most of the words. The guys laughed at my crude sense of humour.

  Before I left the hall late that evening, Todd gave me a tape of the songs I had to learn. Our first gig was a week on Saturday and the next practice session in two days. I assured them I would know the lyrics by then.

  We practiced every night, came up with ChainMail as the band name, and Jake, the drummer, suggested Dior as my stage name.

  ***

  I wasn’t sure whether to invite Clay and Beth to my first gig. However once they knew where we were playing there was no stopping them.

  To say I had the jitters before I went on was an understatement. I heard the quiver in my voice when I first started singing and expected the audience to pelt me with rotten fruit. Once I sighted Beth and Clay, I kept my eyes on them until I began to relax and enjoy the experience. Although it was a pub known for its live rock music, there weren’t many bikers in the audience. In fact, there wasn’t much of an audience. The ones that were listening thankfully stayed for the whole set. They didn’t call for an encore, and I was grateful. The adrenalin that had kept me pumped through the performance now left both my body and my vocal cords exhausted.

  After I packed away my equipment, the guys joined me at Clay and Beth’s table. Introductions were made and then Clay gave us his opinion.

  “You should loosen up more,” he told me. “You’re too stiff. You’re not singing slow love songs, you know?”

  Clay had been drinking.

  “Give her a chance,” Beth said. “It was her first live performance, there were bound to be nerves.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Well, we think you did a terrific job,” Todd said. “The crowd loved you. Landlord’s already signed us up for another gig next week.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said, and then yawned. “But Clay’s right. I do need to loosen up on stage. I remember watching other singers and thinking the same thing. The audience isn’t just here to hear us; they’re scrutinizing us as well. We need to give them something to watch.”

  “You know what you need,” Clay slurred. “You need some sort of act; something that will liven up the performance.”

  For days, I thought about what he said. Yes, we needed an act, something that would get audience participation. A reaction from them rather than having them
staring at me with dead eyes, which was so off putting and wasn’t helping my confidence.

  It took a month to perfect my performance.

  I started the show dressed in tight, leather trousers and a black, baggy jumper. I left my long curly hair loose, and my silver gothic make-up sparkled under the stage lights. The first song I sang was a slow but rocky Bon Jovi number. Standing behind the microphone, I swayed to the beat but wouldn’t leave my spot. By the time the first half of the set had finished, the bar room was full. I ran out backstage, re-touched my makeup, adjusted my outfit, and took a quick drink, shared a joint with the guys, and then it was back on stage. One more slow song and it was time to liven things up.

  “So you ready to rock!” I shouted.

  The audience whistled and cheered. Then I took off my jumper and revealed a black, front laced, plastic corset, which left little to the imagination. The place erupted in cheers. Next, I belted out a fast rocky number called “Heart 16.”

  I didn’t just get male attention; the females swayed and clapped as well. I moved around the stage as if I owned it and that just got the crowd going wilder.

  Three months passed, and the act was already getting old. We had quite a following, and I would see the same faces at gigs. The problem was they knew what was coming. I’d have guys shouting “get ‘em out,” even before I’d get to the end of the first set. Still, I think everyone had a good time no matter how many times they’d heard us performing the same songs.

  The night I’d been waiting for finally arrived. I met the president of the Wolves. But it wasn’t how I imagined it would be.

  We were playing a gig in the Two Thorns, a classic bikers’ pub. Dingy, with worn furniture and tough-looking bar staff; one girl had around a dozen piercings in her face and purple hair—not a great look.

  We’d never played there before and the crowd proved hard to please. Half of the male audience looked as though they didn’t want to be there. I even saw someone yawn. I knew I couldn’t keep them waiting. The music had to get heavy. I’d just finished a Pat Benatar number, when I turned to the band and told them to turn up the heat. They nodded and started the intro to “Heart 16.” I took off my jumper and the male bikers in the bar drowned out my voice with whistles.

  I felt lethargic, as though I was coming down with something, but I knew I had to give them a great show. I doubted they would stand for anything less. I gave my all, putting every bit of energy into my performance.

  At half time, I sat in the dressing room with my eyes closed. It wasn’t really a dressing room, more like a large cupboard, but it had hooks, chairs and a closing door, enough to have a little privacy. It was sweltering inside the pub and the small fan I had in the dressing room blew nothing but warm air back on me. My head was throbbing and I felt feverish, but the show had to go on. Todd was concerned and told me I looked faint. I smiled at him weakly and then took the pill Greg offered. I was too tired to recognize if it was an upper or a downer.

  I hoped the drug would keep me going until the end of the set, and that I wouldn’t start freaking out on stage.

  Jake wasn’t fond of popping pills and had a go at Greg for giving me the drug. An argument kicked off, leaving me with a worse headache.

  The night when I needed to be on my toes and give my best performance was turning out to be the worst gig yet.

  To top it all, through the second set, a member of the audience was annoying me. I recognized him from previous shows, but that night he was wasted. I tried to ignore the obscene remarks, he was throwing my way, but his volume kept getting louder. A couple of bikers who were enjoying the show made their annoyance known. I thought a fight was going to break out. However, no one threw any punches.

  I was finishing off the set like I normally did, with a song called “Look But Don’t Touch”. The words were supposed to be taken literally. I had a flirty dance sequence that went with the performance, and although I didn’t feel up to it, I still performed. For some reason, the drunk seemed to think my routine was just for him. He stood licking his lips and rubbing himself and then made the mistake of trying to get onto the stage. He grabbed at my ankle, but I wasn’t having any of it. I kicked him away, adding some verbal remarks as well. The bikers had had enough and showed him the door.

  There was no encore this time. I was relieved to get off the stage. Back in the dressing room, I collapsed onto the chair. Todd told me to go home, and they would pack up the gear. Jake wanted to phone for a taxi, but there was no way I was leaving my Harley in the pub car park all night.

  A few customers remained by the bar finishing off their pints. The rest of the audience had left. I said goodnight to the bar staff and then walked out into the cool night air, hoping it would refresh me, but it just made me feel worse. I felt light-headed and wasn’t sure if I could ride my bike home. I was thinking seriously of taking up Jake’s offer of a taxi.

  A couple of cars and a few motorbikes were still out front. I walked around the back to where Todd’s Transit van and my Harley were parked. I had my helmet in the fold of my arm and the key to my bike in my right hand. I was only a few steps from my bike when someone grabbed me from behind.

  One hand covered my mouth; the other hand grabbed my arm. My helmet fell to the tarmac. Pinning my arm behind my back, the guy dragged me away from my bike and toward a dimly lit lane next to the pub. I kicked, screamed, and bit into his hand, petrified, refusing to think about what he wanted to do with me. He slapped me hard around the mouth and threw me to the ground. I tasted blood again but knew it was my own. My mouth throbbed and I felt sick.

  A low-toned voice growled, “I’ve been waiting for you, you fucking whore! You’ve been teasing me all night, now you’re going to get it.”

  I yelled out for help and cursed, but that seemed to excite him more. All I got was a glimpse of a brown jacket and unshaven face before he brought his fist up and thumped me in the stomach. It felt as though a car had ploughed into me. I couldn’t breathe. Winded and stunned, the guy took the opportunity and started to undo the zip of my jeans.

  “Hey!” Someone yelled.

  The drunk jumped to his feet and took off down the lane. Two guys ran after him while another one knelt down beside me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I nodded but didn’t dare to speak. I was shaking and didn’t want to show my fear in front of him. I recognized him as a customer from the pub. Yes, I’d been checking him out. The guy would have caught my eye in a stadium of bikers. He had medium-length, wavy hair, smooth, dark looking skin, and chocolate coloured eyes.

  Even wearing my leathers, the coldness of shock was biting at my skin. I shivered. He started to take his jacket off.

  “You’re not supposed to give away your colours,” I said.

  Laying the jacket around my shoulders, I felt his body warmth and breathed in the scent of his aftershave; woodland trees and spice; very musky and very male.

  “You know the code?” He questioned.

  “I’ve been around.”

  “Trent’s got your hood,” he said, referring to my helmet. “That’s a mean machine you’ve got there. Who did the paint job?”

  “A friend,” I replied. “Thanks for your help, but please take your colours back before you get into trouble.”

  “Rules are supposed to be broken,” he answered with a smile.

  The two bikers ran back up the lane.

  “We lost him,” one said, as he bent over breathlessly.

  “Did you get a good look at him?” The guy beside me asked.

  “Yeah, it was Leonard,”

  “Take care of it,” he said.

  His friends took off back down the alley.

  I recognize an order when given. The biker had status. I was intrigued.

  Another two of his friends, one male and one female, stood at the top of the alley looking directly at me. I didn’t like them staring, so holding onto my Samaritan’s arm, I pulled myself up.