Spark (Ruin Outlaws MC, #2) Read online

  Spark

  Ruin Outlaws MC, Volume 2

  Amy Isan

  Published by Amy Isan, 2014.

  Copyright Information

  ~*~*~

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Spark

  First edition. May 25, 2014.

  Copyright © 2014 Amy Isan.

  Written by Amy Isan.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill / EDHGraphics

  Sign up for her newsletter for prizes, review copies, and new release info here: http://bit.ly/18WuvMU

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1 — LOGAN

  CHAPTER 2 — CASSIE

  CHAPTER 3 — LOGAN

  CHAPTER 4 — CASSIE

  CHAPTER 5 — LOGAN

  CHAPTER 6 — CASSIE

  Further Reading: Bomb

  Also By Amy Isan

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1 — LOGAN

  My alarm blares in my ear and I shudder awake in cold sweat. I swat the stupid, noisy thing away and hear a distinct crack of plastic as it smashes against the wall. Fuck. I don't have time to deal with this. I rouse myself and throw a shirt on. I've slept in my jeans. My mind feels foggy, but I still remember what I have to do today. Get the boys ready to become men.

  I jump on my hog and prime it. After a couple of hard kicks, it springs to life and growls outside my shit apartment. The warmth of the engine is already penetrating my cold denim, and the sound of the motor rubs the sleep from my senses.

  The ride to the bar is a blur. My mind is too distracted to stay sharp and pay attention to the meandering and idiotic cars all over the road. The morning sun is still catching on the ridges of the desert outside the city. I scoff as a driver tries to cut me off, and I throw the engine into overdrive. As I speed past him, I leave a trail of smoke down the road behind me.

  At last, I find the bar the crew calls home. The air is tacky with strange humidity, and it leaves a metallic taste on my tongue. I resist the urge to suck down my spit.

  The men's bikes are all here. Each sports a unique color and band across the fuel tank. I smirk as I spot Driver's and Tank's bikes. They've left room at the front of the pack for the president, Surge. I guess it isn't for him, but me, as acting president... I slide my bike into the space and kick the stand down, before shutting it off.

  Inside, the men have gathered around the ragged pool table and Tank's talking to them about something. I only catch the tail end of it as I walk in, but it sounds like he's trying to get them psyched up for their initiation.

  I frown. If I want them feeling anything, it's fear and anxiety. That's what will keep them alive, and without a doubt, from spouting off bullshit. The worst members in California were cock-sure loudmouths, not nervous rookies. Still, I can't have them cowering either...

  Tank finishes, "... Don't sweat it, Surge will be ready to hear from us as soon as it's all done." I sidle up next to him and he nods to me. I can feel the men's eyes move from Tank to me, indifferent and a bit excited after Tank's little talk. I spread my hands out on the torn velvet and eye each one of them. Rifle is a bit absentminded, but he isn't being an asshole. For once.

  "Listen up," I growl a little louder than necessary, but fuck it. They all seem to perk up a little, but grow a bit leery and defensive. "Tank's words are fine and stuff, but not what I want from you." Tank lowers his head, but I just shake mine. "I can't have a bunch of hot shots out there — I need men. Surge might not have realized that, but I won't let him come back to our club with the same group of boys he left it with; loitering around like it's recess in kindergarten."

  I pause for a moment and shake my head. I can't help but smile a little as I go on. "I don't know what he sees in you all, especially some of you, but we're a crew and we're gonna act like it. We aren't dicking around anymore, and this isn't chess club. Since you all showed up today, I'm sure you remember that I talked to you guys about a new crew initiation, and I'm gonna follow through with that promise."

  The small group of men murmur and a thrill passes over them. Rifle even manages to crack a smile, which is surprising, if a bit unnerving. He looks like a pit bull ready to pounce on a piece of meat.

  "Some of you might think it's bullshit that I'm even talking to you like this, and believe me..." I shoot them a glare. "If it were up to me, I wouldn't be saying shit." I step away from the table and move toward the entrance of the bar again. "Let's get fuckin' moving then."

  The men start to stand, making their wooden stools and chairs scrape against the wood, while their muscled backs make their leather vests creak. I admire my crew of boys, who I know will make fine men.

  After we climb onto our bikes, the machines roar and scream into life. Like a pack of hyenas growling and snarling. Rifle and Tank pull out from their parking spaces before me, and the Arizona sun bathes them in rich fiery light. My mind turns to Cassie, and my mood sours a bit. Being reminded that the crew doesn't know about her, and worse yet, probably doesn't want to know about her.

  Especially since she's the one who put Surge in the hospital and inadvertently made me acting President.

  . . .

  I guide the men to an abandoned warehouse I had scoped out a couple of weeks ago. I knew that if I needed a place to lay low away from the club or my apartment, this would be the place. The last thing I thought I'd use it for was gathering the men together to strengthen our crew's bond. It's funny how things don't seem to ever go according to plan.

  The warehouse is just on the outskirts of town, and it's everything I needed it to be: isolated, dilapidated, and most of all, threatening to collapse at any minute. No crack den here, even the shade is blistering hot.

  After pulling my bike into the shadow of the building, I shut it down and lower it to its kickstand. The men ride in one-by-one behind me, and follow my lead. The large broken windows of the warehouse make it look like it has a mouth full of sharp fangs, and the broken down machines that litter the dusty floor look familiar but are too old to put a purpose to. I walk up to an empty barrel that is standing in the center of the blown open warehouse, and a bit of sunlight falls on the men's faces from the cracked roof. Thick gobs of dust and dirt hang in the air, suspended by spider webs.

  "Come here," I order the men. They gather around me, murmuring and complaining about the heat.

  "Christ, Bomb, what are we doing here?" Six-Shooter says, piping up. He steps forward and I shush him. Tank silently folds his arms across his chest and stands behind the group of men, watching. Ever stoic and formidable. Rifle sneers and slips in between Driver and me. He peers down into the empty husk.

  "A barrel? I hope you're not expecting us to piss in that," Rifle says. "Smells like someone's already done their business." I shoot him an annoyed but fierce glare. He clamps his mouth shut and nods to me.

  "All right, everyone got their two cents in?" I ask. I pull out my pocket knife, and flip it open with a flick of my wrist. The sun casts a beam of light across the blade and it catches on all the men's faces. As it flits from one face to another, I look to each and every one of them. "This will be the first part of my initiation. You won't be crew members who happen to get blitzed at the same bar share a love for bikes and all the joys that come with that." I breathe. "You'll be blood brothers, that's what'll keep our family strong. Our crew."

  "Blood?" Driver says, a bit of anxiety creeping into his voice. I can't help but let out a loud laugh. I remember being as sheepish as him. Maybe more so, if I dare think about it. After his face contorts, I nod and try to calm him by continuing.

  "Blood," I repeat. "We'll all exchange it. Dr
op for drop. Your throttle hand will be the one. I want you to think of your brothers every time you twist your bike. The dull pain will be a reminder of our bond that'll last." I hold up the blade and examine it for any abrasions that would mar the surface. "I'll go first."

  With an aggressive drag of the blade, I slice open my right hand, flaying an old scar that stretches from my index finger to the bottom of my hand. After the blood starts flowing, I hold out my hand and let it dribble into the barrel. A soft patter falls on the trashed newspapers at the bottom, staining them with dull crimson. "Now you all have to do it before my hand stops bleeding."

  I extend the knife. To my surprise, Tank steps forward and takes it from me without a word.

  He pushes the blade against his palm and cuts it open, before extending his hand out and letting it drain as well. Each man takes his turn, with none but a couple hesitating. With five hands extended over the barrel, the newspaper at the bottom is nearly black with red hue, the previously clean knife goes to Driver's hands. His fingers shake as he takes a hold of it.

  Driver and Rifle are the only ones left, and Rifle's arms are firmly crossed. He glares at us, but I can't tell if it's out of annoyance or something else.

  After Driver hesitates, Rifle yells, "Stop being a pussy." Before Driver can react, Rifle tears the knife from his hand and reaches out and grasps Driver's wrist. Driver winces as Rifle drags the knife across Driver's hand, and lets the blood spill from it. I don't even know what to say and I remain speechless as Rifle turns the sharpened edge to his own hand.

  All our members have their hands extended over the barrel: Six-Shooter, Driver, Tank, Petrol, Rifle, Sword, and myself. The flow has ebbed from mine and Tank's hands, and time is running short. "Now shake each other's hands."

  With each firm grip of another's hand, my palm aches a throbbing pain. It feels etched in my mind, a familiar calling to when I was in California and I shook Surge's bloodied hand. It's just like that night in California, with the breeze coming off the ocean. Despite what people might think, a blood bond can't be built over night, but it can be built over about two days.

  As each man finishes shaking the others' hands, I hike back to my motorcycle. I hunch over the saddlebags and peer inside, hoping I brought enough. I snatch up some gauze and bandage wrap and toss it to each man. Tank stares at me, clearly bewildered.

  With a deep exhale, I explain. "I want you all to feel a throbbing pain, not bleed out before we can get back to the bar," I chuckle. "Besides, it looks like Sword is gonna pass out."

  Sword waves my joke away and shakes his head. "If anything is gonna make me hurl, it's the smell of this shit-encrusted place you brought us to." His red mustache clamps over his lips each time he opens his mouth. I swear he looks like a gold-miner in this light.

  Petrol laughs, and I think it's the first time I've actually heard him laugh. It's infectious, but I bite my lip as he reels over and pounds on his knees. After he stands back up, he wipes a tear from his eye and grins. "I can't believe you made us do this shit, Bomb, but I gotta respect it."

  "What did Surge have you all do?" I never even thought about it. I know he followed all the 'rituals' back in California when we were with the Los Devils, but he hadn't tuned me in on any changes since leaving that club.

  "Nothing," Tank answers. "He didn't have us do anything."

  "Strange," I remark. I shake my head but don't say anything more about it. "Let's head back to the bar, and I'll tell you what's next."

  CHAPTER 2 — CASSIE

  "You're a fucking asshole!" Sara screams at the top of her lungs, jerking me out of my sleep. I can't even understand what the fuck she's going on about, but I'm up and out of my bed in a flash. Well, to be honest, I'm on the floor and wrapped in my sheets like they're a noose, but it all feels the same to me. As I move to get up, Sara yells again and I freeze so I don't alert her that I'm listening.

  Mark answers, but he sounds weak. "I told you, I was nervous, I didn't want the tattoo."

  I roll my eyes and tug at my bed sheets. Of course that's what they're arguing about. I climb to my feet and groan as I catch my reflection. Sara sighs with a roar and stomps around the apartment, and I can hear her talking under her breath — through my closed door. This isn't the first time I've heard her like this.

  "You said things would be different! This isn't different, it's the same shit!" she says. A thrill rises up my back and creeps along my scalp. Something different. I bite my lip and remember the night he came over. That biker, Logan. It was like a dream, and not the romantic comedy kind either. Just the sexy kind.

  Mark must have said something, because Sara is talking again. Her voice is shrill. "I don't care. Just fucking get out of here." She throws something at him and it thumps. He says something under his breath and she shrieks back. "What? What the hell did you call me?"

  The front door creaks open. "I said you're a bitch!" The front door slams. She fumes louder and stomps around. Judging by the sound of dishes clattering and possibly breaking, she's in the kitchen. I have to save my dishes and probably my roommate. I slip on a semblance of clothes and step out into the hallway, pretending that I didn't hear anything. I pass into the kitchen.

  Breaking the seal on the fridge, I peer into it and lean over. "What's up?" I try to act cool, but she knows that I heard everything.

  "Mark's an asshole," she says, bitterly. I want to talk to her about the biker guy, but I can't now. I look up at her and her eyes are glazed over. I figure it's probably better this to not mention Logan right now anyway.

  "Yeah, I could tell," I say. "Are you going to stay broken up now? For real?"

  She sniffs a bit, and smiles, reading my expression. "Yeah, I think so."

  "You better." I say. I clasp her hands in mine and grin from ear to ear. "Cause we're gonna go out tonight, and get you drunnnnk."

  Her eyes light up, "Oh my God really? You never want to drink, Cassie."

  I try to pretend that I'm not blushing by pulling a jug of milk from the fridge. She continues, "What's gotten into you?"

  My face burns even more and I shake my head. "Nothing! I just feel like being a little... naughty." I add, "I think." To punctuate my realization, I unscrew the cap from the milk and take a long drag. It sloshes in the jug as I set it back against the counter, and she sticks her tongue out.

  "I hope being naughty doesn't mean being disgusting," she jokes. I laugh, which only makes her burst into laughter, too. For the rest of the morning, we plan out the evening's events and prepare breakfast together. By the time I'm finished making her an omelet, she seems to have completely forgotten about Mark. Good. He is an asshole. A boring asshole.

  My mind wanders to Logan and my heart beats a little faster. I really haven't felt this way about a man before, I don't think. I can't remember any heart-pounding thoughts of my previous lovers or boyfriends. Is it bad? Should I be worried about crushing on a guy so hard? It can't be healthy... can it?

  Sara waves to me as she heads out the door, and I have to shake myself back to reality. "See you tonight!" I call after she's gone, but I know she can't hear me. I was too lost in my own thoughts. How am I supposed to cope if my mind is going to be constantly drifting? I guess I can be a good wing woman tonight... if nothing else.

  It'll be fun.

  . . .

  Sara and I leave our messy apartment and head into the heart of downtown, and I'm actually excited. The sun set hours ago and the glare of the street lights is strong off the moist asphalt. The stale air only smells like a brief memory of the light rain that passed through earlier. My hands are shaking with anticipation, and I can tell that Sara really needs this kind of release tonight.

  The crowd flowing on the sidewalk is like a river, the mass of people moving back and forth between the nestled bars in a way that you can't help but get caught in the stream and get carried in. Even if there is a five dollar cover charge.

  Inside one of the cheaper bars, I drag Sara up to the counter and get the atten
tion of the bartender. It isn't hard, he quickly shoves away from the register and glides up to us, his eyebrow cocked. He's sporting fashionable stubble with some longish hair and his voice is crystal smooth.

  "What can I get you ladies?" he asks. I lean over the bar and meet his eyes, and I get the feeling that he isn't just being nice, that maybe he's a bit more interested in my body than my drink order. The colored lights from the dance floor bounce off the walls, and the pounding bass of the music makes it hard to hear.

  "We'll take two shots of whiskey," I say, leaning closer over the bar, planting a knee on a stool. I elbow Sara in the ribs to get her attention. "Right?"

  She nods enthusiastically and grins. The bartender's eyes move from me to her, and his eyes light up. Good, I didn't want to deal with him tonight anyway. This is for Sara, not me.

  "Coming right up," he says. He fishes two shot glasses from a cooler and pulls down some whiskey from one of the shelves behind him. After pouring the amber liquid into each glass, he pushes them toward us and waits patiently. "On the house."

  I thank him and pick up both glasses. I shove one into Sara's hands, and we down both our drinks.

  Sara leans over the bar this time, "Another," she says, biting her lip and dragging her eyes up and down the bartender's body. The bartender scoops up the shot glasses and tosses them into the sink, before fishing out two fresh glasses and pouring new drinks. He pushes them toward us and we down them again. I hand him a ten and Sara and I walk to the dance floor, just as the liquor slams into my stomach.

  A blur and frenzy of lights engulf our senses. Dizzy and bleary-eyed, the only thing that feels clear are my thoughts. But even they drift in and out of clarity. Wavering between thoughts of Logan and the guys pawing me on the floor. I let them, but only with some hesitation. I've never been clubbing before, unless you count the trashy house parties the fraternities would throw on campus. Even that feels like a lifetime ago.