Jaxson: Black Devils MC, #1

Chapter One

(Chloe)

Mmm-mmm-mmm. Damn Girl! a man heckled from across the room with exaggerated cheesiness as I stepped into the biker’s bar.

I jolted, and my breath hitched. There was moment of silence across my side the room as I stood there. Summoning as much dignity as I could, I wiped the tears from my puffy eyes and ran my fingers across my brow to pull the hair out of my face. Soaked through, I was cold, fatigued, and feeling a bit like a shipwreck victim.

I was acutely and uncomfortably aware that I looked a mess. As I stared down at my exposed, pasty body, I discovered to my quiet dismay that my tube-skirt had ridden right up my thighs. When I raised my head, I was hardly reassured to find that - sitting at the two tables ahead of me - at least ten; tattooed, bearded men were eyeing me up and down, approvingly.

Dammit to hell. I just made a total fool of myself.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. A wave of insecurity washed over me leaving me feeling incredibly self-conscious. I half-wondered whether to walk straight back outside and never come back – ever. Tears still running down my cheeks, I took a few deep breaths to try to calm my breathing, and pulled down my skirt. After trying unsuccessfully to compose myself in front of the craning faces, my eyes darted around the room in a mild panic, looking for Jaxson.

A sinking sensation of fear and disappointment overcame me the moment I realized—there were too many damn guys dressed in jeans and motorcycle jackets to find Jax, even if he were around. This thought was followed instantly by a pang of regret. Looking at the drunken people around me, I wondered whether I would find anybody in the place who I could have a sensible conversation with. I shuffled my feet, nervously, not knowing what to do next.

Shit! Just keep it together. Everything is going to be ok.

For some reason, I had it in my head that I would find Jax at the biker’s bar. It was every biker’s second home. However, at this early hour, my odds of finding Jaxson Coltrane – Vice President of the Black Devil MC – kicking back during work hours were slim to none. The rub was, my only alternative was to go to his motorcycle club’s clubhouse; a place which justly terrified me. I’d never been inside of the Black Devil’s fortress, but it was known to be strictly off-limits to outsiders, including the club’s own prospects.

When I had ran out of the house, my only viable option was to head to the club’s bar and hope that I could find or get in touch with Jax there.

Only moments before I arrived, it suddenly occurred to me that the bar might not even be open at this early hour. In which case, I would have been stuck—no money, no phone, stranded outside in a skirt and skimpy top in the pouring rain with nowhere to go. As it was, it’d been quite the miracle to find the place at all. Juanita’s, the bikers bar, was more of a shack tucked away behind the town boulevard than a bar. It had the look of an old electricity substation, and the courtyard looked like a perfect site for covert meetings and illegal drug trade.

I had run the whole five blocks from my mother’s house to the bar practically blinded by the downpour. It had just started to rain when I darted out of the house. Soon, tiny bullets of water were beating down on me so hard and so often that I couldn’t see anything, just blurry expanses of pavement and shops. Several young men had catcalled at me from the lowered windows of their warm and dry cars as they cruised past on the main road. I’d been sure the same bus had passed me twice as though it were mocking me for not having used its service. The bus would have gotten me to my destination comfortably and dry in six minutes or less.

Despite the rain and the fact I was utterly drenched, at least I had made it.

Inside, the place gave the impression it’d been left unkempt for the past ten years; the stale odor of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, dimly-lit with ancient furniture that was suggestive of a time long past. Yet, judging by the vast number of eyes facing me at that moment, it seemed to be doing quite well. Perhaps, there was something sentimental about the place that I would simply never understand. The customers stared at me like I was an exotic zoo animal and felt compelled to inspect every part of with wonder.

Privately, I’d always wondered what it was really like in here, and what it was about the place that could make it a biker’s favorite hangout. By my judgement, it could only be the pull of cheap liquor, or possibly its function as a refuge from the harsh world of a nagging wife at home.

The soles of my shoes stuck to the beer-stained plywood floor. Three-by-twos supported the exposed oak beams of the roof forming the bar’s skeleton. The walls were lined with numerous portraits of Black Devil club members from past to present day. Club logos, plaques, and bumper stickers seemed to fill every vertical, flat surface that could be taken. To my right, just by the entrance, was a cigarette machine which was almost out of stock of every type of cigarette it had to offer. A massive sticker was plastered over the cigarette company logo that ran across the top of the machine, with the tag line: ‘Two Wheels Move The Soul.’

The focal point of the space was the front end of a gleaming black Harley Softail that adorned the wall above the bar. It looked like it had just smashed through the concrete from the other side. A wooden, heavily varnished countertop ran along the length of the back wall ahead of me. The mahogany counter of the bar and the Harley looked to be only things in the place that’d been kept polished, and free of a thick coating dust.

A wooden stage sat to the left of the bar. Live blues instrumentalists played 80’s music on poorly tuned instruments; the trio stood behind a shield of chicken wire that stretched from floor to ceiling surrounding the raised platform area. Beer bellied patrons sat on barstools across the stretch of the scarred countertop, tapping their drinks to the music. Airborne musical sounds echoed through the rafters to overcome the barrage of deafening male voices and phlegmy laughter of the customers.

Thirty or so round tables were spread out over the floor; each sat four to six people. The dive was full, and undeniably more intimidating than I would have expected. I could feel my heart thudding in my ribcage as though I’d just run up several flights of stairs. I also knew myself well enough to recognize when my cheeks had flushed to the colour of raspberries, without the aid of a mirror. My pale skin was indeed unforgiving at the best of times, much less in moments of humiliation. Fear induced adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream and trampled on my plan to ask around for Jaxson. A panic stricken freeze over my body prevailed over my will to move, and I found myself standing frozen, blocking the entrance and exit door like a deer in the headlights.

Fuck me. What the hell am I doing?

I had a painful epiphany about the inherent riskiness of my situation, and snapped out of my standstill seconds later.

I had entered the shark tank. Juanita’s was owned by the formidable Bruno De Luca, head of the De Luca crime family of San Diego. The ancient Italian family were known as the Black De Luca’s on account of the notorious history of murder, suicide and terrible rages that the clan seemed to be pray to. Nearly every man in the place was either a hardened outlaw biker, or one of their prospects who was willing to do anything to get into Bruno’s motorcycle club, the Black Devils MC. It wasn’t in these people’s DNA to welcome or respect outsiders, let alone women. Women didn’t belong in motorcycle clubs unless they wanted to be used and cast aside. It was part of the reason why I’d always stayed well away. I knew, in these profound moments of realization, that I had made a mistake. I was twenty-one years old, half the age of most of the guys in the place, and I was stuck here, alone and without backup.

I moved several paces further into the bar to clear the doorway, and found myself sandwiched between two tables. I was surrounded by several more packs of men; every last one of them ogling me all over. I gave an uncomfortable nod to the six men sitting on my left and the five on my right. To my left, one man’s black leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. The white lettering on the back told me that the man knew Jax. The upper rocker of his jacket read: ‘Black Devils Motorcycle Club’. The lower rocker read, ‘Coronado, San Diego’, followed by the word, ‘Spider.’ I assumed Spider was the man’s street name. In the center, was the same logo that could be found on the many stickers and plaques that decorated the bar’s walls. ‘Spider’ was a large, barrel chested man with heavily inked arms and tattoos of spiders that crawled down his neck. I believed that his appearance and street name was probably a reflection of his inner man. He had a fierce and unapproachable demeanour that caused me to give his table a wide birth.

The table ahead of me sat six younger guys who looked to be in their mid-twenties. All of them wore leather jackets without patches or club lettering. At first glance, their appearance seemed to be a conscious effort to adopt the Marlboro man image – strong, macho, and independent. Though, despite their leather jackets, these men exuded the image of diehard hippies. All of them had a free spirited, nonconformist vibe. All of them clearly appeared stoned out of their minds. They seemed to be fairly harmless, but I was sure I wouldn’t get any sensible answers out of them even if they’d seen Jax. I glanced around the bar a second time in the hope that Jax might appear.

No such luck.

As I surveyed the scene, an entirely different trail of thought crossed my mind—not only had my entrance been far more dramatic than I would have liked, but I had arrived to find that I was the only female in this place. Or rather, the only female barring the two platinum-blonde, heavily made-up, slutish bartenders, whose immaculate appearances hardly eased my anxieties. One stood pretty behind the bar pulling pints. The other was flirting at a table with a couple of guys who’d just come in. Goodness knows, how girls like this find the time and energy to work while being cheery and flawlessly made up 24/7.

In the past, I’d always stayed away from the MC’s bar. It was only really a good place to be if you were one of two kinds of people. One, the bikers and their wannabe prospects, and two, the club whores. To all outward appearances, I looked like the latter in my revealing, barely-there clothes. Later on, I had wondered whether my biker groupie like appearance had done me a favor by making me look less of an outsider. Perhaps, it had kept me out of trouble. But bursting into a place like this soaking wet, wearing stripper-like day clothes I’d been trying on for summer, was hardly any strategy for somebody that didn’t want to draw too much attention to themselves.

From behind the long mahogany bar at the back of the room, the barman gave me a pleasant smile, beckoning me over. Although the bar was crammed with people waiting to get drinks, I had caught his eye. He was a solidly built, middle-aged man, and the only male in there who didn’t wear a damn leather biker jacket. Although he was still reasonably intimidating, the barman seemed like the safest looking guy in the place. And the bar looked like the safest place to sit.

As I approached the bar, I could feel the stares burn into my ass from behind from the dozen or so men who clustered around the tables I had to pass. I suppressed the voice inside of me that told me, this really isn’t a good idea. Get out!

What can I get ya? the barman asked in a thick, Italian accent.

Exhausted, and still reasonably breathless, I rested my forearms on the counter to take some weight off my feet. I looked up at the barman. My vocal chords felt spent and raw as I struggled even to respond to his question.

His eyes widened, and the warm expression on his face dropped – replaced with one of shock and concern.

I did my best to hold onto my tears, but I certainly wasn’t fooling him that I was ok.

Sit down, he said, gesturing with his hand to the free barstool beside me. Like he was reading my mind, he grabbed a tall glass, filled it with water and pushed it toward me.

I sat down on the stool in front of him. My hands shook a little as I picked up the glass and took a large swig. I let out a heavy sigh; my body may have been cold and wet, but the run had left me dehydrated, my throat dry. I put my elbows on the countertop and slumped my chin down on my hands.

The man gazed at me with warm eyes. Don’t take any notice of those guys. I’m here if you need anything, honey. He turned around and walked to the other end of the bar to take orders for drinks.

An instant later, a loud and aggressive voice shouted from a table behind me, I’m gonna fucking kill ya!

I jumped in my seat. Holy fuck! What the hell was that? I turned to see what the commotion was all about.

The high-pitched chink of glass smashing on the floor alerted the barman, and in what felt like seconds he was out from behind the bar and at the table. He grabbed the perpetrator’s collar—just as he had lunged across his table at another customer. Oi! Calm the fuck down, or you’ll be out. Do you understand? the barman shouted as he held the young man up close to his face, in a notably far less warm and friendly tone than he’d shown me a minute ago.

Begrudgingly, the man fell silent and sat back down. As the barman turned and started to walk back to his spot at the bar, the culprit exploded in anger again, as he jumped at his enemy who got swatted into the wall, smashing the plasterboard, and a fierce brawl kicked off...

I don’t know what you’re fucking going on about! the man smashed against the wall shouted.

You owe me two-fucking-grand. That’s what I’m fucking talking about.

The pair couldn’t be any older than I was; they were probably the youngest guys in the bar – and it showed. Baby-faced, slim builds, with scruffy unkempt hair. The angry rebuttal reminded me of why, even before I had so much as crossed the threshold of this place, I always detested and despised it.

What did I fucking tell you? the barman rasped, but the brawl continued.

No, that wasn’t the fucking deal!

Fucking give me my money! the first man barked as he grabbed the other by the collar of his jacket and tossed him onto the pool table behind him with a loud thud.

I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about! the second man insisted.

I want my money now! Because I swear, I’ll rip your mouth off your face! the first man sneered.

You can’t talk to me like that! Fuck off! Fuck off, Zach, the other snarled.

I watched the first man fly into a violent rage. I could kill you right now for giving me the same bullshit answer! I swear to god.

Oh shit, I can’t watch this. Between their violent threats and my dangerously close proximity to them, I was scared-silly.

That’s it. You’re both out. The barman, who was easily twice their size, raised his voice above the both of them and everyone around went quiet. There were two hits ‒ one as the barman’s fist hit the guy in stomach ‒ the other, as the man’s body hit the table.

Oh, Lord. What had I gotten myself into here? I lifted my legs to clear the path in case the guy fell off the table.

The barman dragged the pair of them out of the place, one of the two men’s arms in each hand, as they bellowed with rage at each other.

Holy Fuck! Was this normal? Or a special treat just for me?

The third of the bar that had been watching the action then carried on almost instantly, as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. The barman and the locals had clearly seen plenty of bar fights.

I, however, had been left even more noticeably shaken up by the experience. I had no stomach for violence. One drop of blood and I was done. I became instantly lightheaded and my stomach would turn. And my limits had already been tested enough for one day.

Left in peace with my glass of water, and with one little ray of hope of finding Jaxson, I cast an eye over the faces that I could see in the room. Nothing; just as I had expected.

A very cold feeling came over me....

I stared down at my glass with both hands cupped around it, and my mind began to reflect on the events of past hour. I could feel it all welling up inside me, and I wanted to slap myself across the face for being so ignorant.

How had I not seen this coming? I said, talking to myself like some sort of madwoman.

Stopping, taking a few minutes to think about what had actually happened, allowed my tears to settle and my anger to rise. It was the lies and betrayal of my mother that hit me the hardest. It wasn’t fair. And it was not right. I’d known my mom’s boyfriend, Roy Harris had always liked a drink, but nothing like I’d seen in the past week. The alcohol had to be the cause of his latest fuck up. I could never have imagined that when I left