PROLOGUE
CREED
Mia Ryder.
Mia fuckin’ Ryder.
I sat at the train tracks. Desperately trying not to think about her, but it was easier said than done. She came into my life like a fucking hurricane, destroying everything in her path. A girl from the right side of the tracks, which for some reason I couldn’t ever fucking fathom.
Falling for a man like me.
I had made mistakes, too many to fucking count, but life didn’t give you a do-over. All that was left for me to do was to accept them, even fucking embrace them. They became a part of me, as much as every tattoo that covered my body. Every one of them meant something to me. They were my battle scars. Far worse than the ones I got in war. In the eyes of others, they were just colorful, intricate art.
But to me...
They were my solace and my pain.
Nothing had changed since the last time I fucking lived in this godforsaken town. No welcome home party from family or friends, no thanks or parades from the town residents for serving our country.
Nothing.
Not one fucking thing.
Everything I had done, I had done for my family, for the MC, for her…
I fought for my fucking brothers.
I fought for my goddamn country.
I fought for my girl.
Never realizing…
I might fucking die for them too.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that fucking shit. I once read that every warrior hoped a good death would find him. I always went looking for mine, but not even the Reaper wanted me. I thought fightin
g for something I believed in would make me a good man.
In the end, it never mattered. I would always be on the wrong side of the tracks, and they would always lead me to the wrong station. Changing my people, places, and things throughout the years didn’t help change the outcome of the choices I’d made. Of the things I’d done.
At the end of the day…
I was already nailed to the cross.
I was fucking born on it.
ONE
CREED
“It ain’t gonna suck itself, sweetheart,” I stated with a predatory regard, eyeing the busty blonde up and down.
She was a new club whore with a banging body, huge tits, heart-shaped ass, and way too much fucking makeup on her mousy face. She'd been eye-fucking the shit out of me since she showed up at the clubhouse a few days ago. I was never much for dabbling in the club bunnies that bounced from one cock to another, but that didn’t stop me from letting them suck my cock. After the day I’d had, I fucking earned it.
“Here? On your bike?” she coyly asked, gazing all around her. Trying to pretend like she’d never done this before.
We were tucked behind a row of trees on the club's property. My go-to spot for quickies, and the only place I could ride to on my bike. My pops gave me a sleek Harley Davidson Sportster for my sixteenth birthday almost two years ago. I’m pretty sure he didn’t pay for it, but who was I to complain, it was a sick-looking bike. It had all matte black components, custom fenders, seat, and gas tank with the club logo painted on it. Not to mention the killer engine and exhaust system, visible on the sides. A set of shortened handlebars, and a massive front headlight that completed the badass machine.
The clubhouse was barely visible in the distance, making it impossible for anyone to see us. Not that I gave a flying fuck.
“You said you wanted to hang out.”
“No, sweetheart,” I chuckled. “What I said was I had somethin’ hangin’ for you.” Gesturing to my cock.
Her eyes widened. Dark and dilated. Biting her pouty red lip that I couldn't wait to have wrapped around my dick.
“Can see how you would confuse that, though,” I sarcastically added, grabbing a strand of her fake platinum blonde hair.
Women’s place in an MC’s life was always in the fucking background. The club came first no matter what. We all carried the same principles—honor, respect, and brotherhood. A family made up of ruthless motherfuckers right down to their goddamn bones. All led by the shadiest son of a bitch known to man.
My pops.
He was the president of the mother chapter, Devil’s Rejects, in South Port, North Carolina. The first chapter established, making him the top fucking dog of the MC. Even though every chapter below had a president of their own, they couldn’t make executive decisions without his final approval. Getting a visit from him only ended in death. He would only step in if he was fucking crossed or shit hit the fan in a catastrophic way.
Other than that, the chapters did whatever the fuck they wanted, it was a fucking free-for-all. My old man could do no wrong in everyone's eyes, when in reality that was all he ever fucking did. Cops’ pockets were greased with dirty money to turn a blind eye to all our illegal activities. Everywhere we went, people looked the opposite direction and moved the fuck out of our way. Devil's Rejects were known to all, spread out all over the community, the state, even nation fucking wide.
Everywhere.
The only enemy we had was the law.
She smirked, cocking her head to the side, slowly licking her luscious lips as she casually reached for the front of my vest. Teasingly skimming her long red fingernails down the front of it, never taking her sinful eyes off mine.
“Creed,” I murmured, wanting to hear my name fall from her lips.
“I know your name, Creed. Mine’s—”
“Not fuckin’ important, yeah?”
She arched an eyebrow, looking down at the rugged fabric of my cut.
Our black leather vests or cuts as we called them, were the MC's brand, our signature trademark recognized by everyone, especially women and civilians. They were each chapter’s identification, who we were and what we stood for. On the back of our cuts were the club’s colors, a badass looking tattooed pin-up girl with huge fucking tits sporting devil ears and a tail. Straddling a custom chopper, holding a skull with flames beating out of its eyes in one hand and an AK47 rifle in the other. Above the logo was a crescent-shaped red patch that read “Devil’s Rejects” in black acidy lettering. Below the logo was another crescent-shaped patch with Southport, NC stitched on it.
On the front left of our cut was a “one-percent” patch that was worn with fucking pride, indicating we were outlaws. There were no rules to follow unless it came to the club or our brothers, fucking laws became obsolete. Devil’s Rejects had been around since the forties and had more than proven their loyalty to the MC world. Quickly becoming one of the most feared clubs in society. One of the select few that was branded as a “one-percent” club. We were diehard bikers who would stop at nothing, even murder, to prove ourselves worthy.
Honorable fucking killers.
I’ve seen the brutality firsthand. It’s not a pretty sight. Fucking Neanderthals, not to be fucked with, or else. Nothing happened in Southport without our knowledge or control.
Not one damn thing.
Our cuts were our holy grail.
Her fingers skimmed the right front panel of my cut, over my “MC” patch that only true motorcycle clubs sported. You’d never see this on a HOGS vest because let's face it, they were just a bunch of pussy-ass wannabe riders on expensive bikes, never willing to get their fucking hands dirty.
“Where are the rest of your patches, Creed?” she purred. “All the other bikers have years lined up under this MC patch, here. Haven’t served much time, huh?”
I narrowed my eyes at her, growing more annoyed and irritated as the seconds passed. I was never one for fucking chit chat.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
I pointed to the name “Prospect” stitched on the right of my cut, where my name and rank would be as soon as I turned eighteen. The black leather was a blank canvas for now, but eventually, it would be filled with random duty patches scattered around. All representing what I had done and what I’d fucking do for the club and the brothers.
For now, I was at the bottom of the fucking chain, itching for my day to come. I couldn’t really complain much, though, having my old man as Prez definitely had its fucking perks. Respect was one of them. Anyone fucking crossed me, they’d be crossing Pops, too. A fucking death wish you didn’t want to sign up for.
I spent the last seventeen years of my life watching him rule with an iron fist, annihilating what so many Jameson men built before him. My future was sealed the day my parents found out I had a cock. I would follow in the long line of men in my family, taking over as MC Prez one day.
As of right now, I was just another fucking prospect doing the shit jobs that they didn’t want to do. Making myself available at all hours, whether it was to dig a fucking grave, getting my hands dirty in more ways than one, or going on a fucking food run for the lazy bastards. I’d seen and done more shit than any mother would ever be proud of, but that never mattered. I was thrown in with the wolves too many goddamn times to count, just to see if I would come out alive. I did every fucking time, with a fat ass smile on my motherfucking face, just as ruthless as the rest of the brotherhood.
Always proving myself worthy to the club, but mostly to my father. He wouldn't just let me sign my life away. He wanted my fucking blood on it. Holding the shit I had done for the club over my head. Reminding me, if I ever stepped out of line, just how easy it would be for him to use the leverage he had to make me march right back in line where I belong. Following him, the Prez; his rules, his authority, his final word, once again. One day soon, I would patch in as a brother, whether I wanted to or not.
It wasn’t a lifestyle. It was a way of life.
T
he only one I’d ever known.
I slipped my hand behind her neck, gripping tight and tugging her toward me not moving from the place I sat on my bike. Causing a gasp to escape from her lips at the sudden change in my demeanor. Patience was never one of my fucking virtues. It was a Jameson trait that ran deep in my blood. I determined the who, what, when, and where in life.
Anyone who didn't approve could go fuck themselves.
Bottom line, I lived and breathed for my mother and my baby brothers—Luke, who was fourteen years old, and Noah, who was eleven. Everything else was just a means to an end for me.
“I—”
“Shhh…” Silencing her with my index finger, I brought my mouth inches away from her lips. Her breathing hitched the closer I got, my warm breath assaulting her senses. “Only thing I want from this mouth,” I paused, pecking her lips, “is for it to be wrapped around my cock,” I rasped, emphasizing the last word as I guided my thumb into her pouty mouth.
She sucked it like a goddamn pro, eagerly reaching for my belt and unbuckling it.
“Good girl,” I praised, removing my thumb with a pop. Guiding her closer to me by the nook of her neck. “Now pull out my cock,” I groaned into her ear, causing her skin to immediately warm under my touch. She did as she was told with unsteady hands, never taking her eyes off mine.
I didn’t know her fucking name. I didn’t care to learn it either. None of these girls mattered. Besides, I was never any fucking good with names.
“Stroke it. Harder,” I ordered as I continued to kiss down her neck to her tits that were on full display.
“Like this?” she breathed out.