Burning Road (A Devil's Cartel MC Series Book 1) Read online

  Burning

  Road

  A Devil’s Cartel MC novel

  Book One

  BY

  S K Y L A M A D I

  Burning Road

  Copyright © 2019 by Skyla Madi.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: September 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-773-1

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-773-9

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  THE DEVIL’S CARTEL

  HEIRACHY

  PRESIDENT

  DAMON JUDGE

  “JUDGE”

  —

  VICE PRESIDENT

  JAMES CREED

  “CREED”

  —

  ROAD CAPTAIN

  SOREN REYES

  “HAWK”

  —

  SARGEANT AT ARMS

  KYLE WILLIAMS

  “ARMI”

  —

  SECRETARY

  JASON ROTH

  “STOIC”

  —

  TREASURER

  MATTHEW ROYAL

  “CASINO”

  —

  PROPSECT 1

  KACE RYAN

  —

  PROSPECT 2

  IRIS SAITO

  —

  NOTABLE PATCH MEMBERS

  SORA “RAH” KIMURA, AARON “AYR” ST. CROSS, FRANCES “MODO” MACINTYRE, CYRYS “CY” AHMADI, AMANI LEWIS, HARLEI HART, PEARL HART

  —

  OLD LADIES

  NONE

  TERMINOLOGY

  1%ER (ONE PERCENTER): The term was coined when the AMA (American Motorcycle Association) was said to make a statement in response to the 1947 Hollister Riot that 99% of motorcycle riders are law-abiding citizens. The remaining one percent belonged to outlaw clubs/gangs who took the term and wore it proudly on their cuts, usually encompassed by a diamond shape.

  43: The numerals that coincide with the alphabet letter “D” for Devil’s and “C” for Cartel.

  BITCH: Another word for “girlfriend,” a term of endearment.

  BRAIN BUCKET: A small beanie-like helmet not usually approved by the Department of Transport.

  CAGE: A vehicle that isn’t a motorcycle. For example, a car, truck, van, etc.

  CABBAGE: Idiot.

  COLORS: The club emblem/numbers/insignias.

  CUT: Leather vest with club colors. Usually has no sleeves.

  DCMC: Devil’s Cartel Motorcycle Club.

  DRAG BARS: Low, flat, and straight motorcycle handlebars.

  FENDER FLUFF: A female passenger invited for a ride on the back of a motorcycle. Not an old lady.

  FLYING LOW: Speeding.

  MAMA: A woman who is willing to have sex with all members of the gang, usually at the same time (see “Pull a Train”). The term is only used for women who regularly associate with the club and entertain multiple members on a very regular basis.

  NOMAD: An individual who isn’t a member of a motorcycle group and isn’t locked to a certain territory.

  NORMIES: Civilians/townspeople.

  OLD LADY: A wife or long-time girlfriend. It has nothing to do with age and is not a derogatory term.

  PATCHWHORE: A female who has sex with members of a motorcycle club, solely members who have been patched into the club. No one has ownership over these women, and they can have sex with whoever they like. Other variations include: Patchrider, clubslut, and clubwhore.

  PIG: A derogatory term for a police officer.

  PULL A TRAIN: The act of having sex with multiple (if not ALL) of the members.

  RUNNING 66: Riding without wearing club colors.

  SMOKE: Cigarette

  SNOW: Cocaine. Other variations include: Blow.

  “Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get—

  only with what you are expecting to give—which is everything.”

  —Katharine Hepburn

  ONE

  I Z Z Y

  The first time I met James Creed was in my bedroom one year ago. I smelled him before I saw him. Ambrosial wafts of leather, cologne, and burning rubber murdered the gentle fragrance of lavender in my private space, tainting everything with his manly scent. His boots sounded heavy, even against the carpet, and squeaked with stress as he walked further into my room. When he stopped, chains clashed together then fell silent as he cleared his throat. My lips parted. The sound of his approach was as beautiful as any Mozart piece, his presence a symphony that sang to my blood.

  I peered out my bedroom window, staring at the terrifying motorcycle he pulled up on, following his friend. I hadn’t seen his face, but I knew it was him. His shoulders were broad and his ass tight in his dark jeans. No one wore black denim, faded tees, and leather like he did.

  I saw Creed around town a handful of times before tonight. On a rare occasion, when my father loosened the reins, I’d go with friends to the outskirts of town, where the vicious underbelly of Exeter festered. It was off limits to me since my father, the mayor, vowed to clean it up.

  I first made eye contact with James Creed outside a rundown convenience store across from a bar. He was sitting on his motorcycle as my friends and I sauntered by. His presence commanded my attention, and I powerlessly gave it. Creed raked me from head to toe with his whiskey-gold stare, turning my blood to lava, my skin to fireworks. As the mayor’s daughter, I’d always dressed conservatively to avoid negative press. The day Creed noticed me, I wore an innocent and sophisticated honey-colored dress that sat an inch above my knees and a pair of matching flats. My long, blonde hair was pinned back, my soft waves well out of my face. Under his gaze, I felt naked, like I was wearing nothing but a leather thong and a studded collar. I was breathless, aroused, and enraptured. He made me feel all the things a seventeen-year-old girl had no business feeling, and I relished it. I was instantly attracted to him, to the fact he was the opposite of every other man in my life. I was used to elegant men who wore suits and pressed polos with crisp collars, men who were polished and refined. Creed was rugged and rough. His shirts were faded, the collars slightly stretched. His jeans were marked and his shoes scuffed. His tan skin was painted with stunning swirls of ink, his hair a tousled mess, and his face freshly shaven.

  Creed of the Devil’s Cartel MC was an alpha male, a powerful embodiment of masculinity, and that day in the street outside the bar, when he gave me a small flick of his wrist and flashed me a killer smile, he had me hook, line, and sinker. I’d been infatuated with him ever since.

  Three years later, he stood behind me in my bedroom, on the
eve of my twenty-first birthday, stealing all the oxygen from my lungs. My heart pounded in my chest, slamming into my ribs with the force of a sledgehammer behind it. I knew my father was doing dodgy deals with the Devil’s Cartel, but they had never brought it to the house before. Something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Somewhere in the house, my father yelped, and I jumped, gripping the window frame in my manicured hand. What had he got himself into this time? My father was an intelligent man but a tad ambitious. His campaign promise to make Exeter a safer place and lower gang-related crime was what got him elected. It put a target on his back, too. When he realized the roots of gang-related crime went deeper than what was shown on the surface, he had to improvise. He paid big criminals, like the Devil’s Cartel, to be discreet with their crime, so he could pretend gang-related crime was on the decline. The people of the town thought it was safer now my father was in control of things. The people of the town were stupid.

  “Are you…” I croaked, my voice a cracking mess.

  I swallowed hard, but there was no saliva to moisten my tongue to better project the words I wanted to speak.

  “If you’ve got something to say, Blondie, at least show me your pretty face.”

  I gritted my teeth at his gravelly voice. His deep tenor played my spine like a xylophone, sending ripples through my body with every syllable that fell from his lips. I pressed my hand to my bare, flat stomach. Since I was preparing to sleep, I was wearing nothing but a crop top and a pair of bed shorts much too short, much too revealing. I sucked in a breath and slowly turned around. I kept my stare downcast to my beige, pink-tinged shaggy rug.

  His big boots rested on the edge of it, the harsh black leather creating disharmony with the light color scheme of my room. I hesitated to lift my attention to him. I knew what he looked like. I’d seen him in the light of day when the sun turned his hair from a cold black to warm, dark chocolate with ochre highlights. I’d seen sunlight bounce off his high cheekbones and smooth forehead, but still, I was terrified to see him in the dim light of my room. What if he was nothing like I’d built him up in my head?

  “Mm,” he hummed, amused. “Now grace me with those big, blue eyes of yours.”

  Blue? Surprised, I flicked my stare to his, and the corners of his lips twitched. He knew what color my eyes were? Creed stepped forward, and I tensed, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. He was as beautiful as I remembered with his golden eyes and dark hair that was short at the sides but long at the top. He had alluring full lips and smelled of whiskey and asphalt. I’d never smelled anything so lethal, so perfect. I flicked my gaze over his aged leather vest, over patches that clearly held meaning I didn’t understand, and admired his tan skin, the perfect canvas to showcase his intricate ink. What was he doing here? In my room? Another shout from my father pierced the air, and I startled, my pulse pounding rapidly.

  “Please don’t hurt my dad,” I pleaded, my lower lip trembling as I looked him in the eyes. “What do you want? Money?”

  “Money? Nah.” He turned away, something on my vanity catching his eye. “Got plenty of that.”

  I frowned and watched him closely as he reached out and touched the marble top, analyzing the contents that littered its surface—makeup, hair products, jewelry, and photos.

  “So much fucking pink,” he muttered, lifting a set of white and pink cheerleading pom-poms I hadn’t used since high school.

  The way he judged my personal items was humiliating. He plucked lip balms and decorated headbands and surveyed them with a quirk on his lips before setting them down again. Creed lowered his large hand to the handle of the first drawer, and I sucked air between my lips as fierce heat burned up my neck and settled in my cheeks. Creed eased the drawer open, exposing my collection of panties. Without a care, he plucked a baby pink pair off the top and lifted it, letting it hang from his fingers. His amusement made me feel like a child and pathetically inferior. Did his lovers wear black thongs instead of pink? Did they have genital piercings and naughty tattoos? In comparison, maybe I did look like a child to him.

  I pursed my lips against the urge to demand he stop snooping because, tucked into his waistband, I caught a glimpse of his handgun, and ice crystalized in my veins.

  “A-are you…” I swallowed hard, unable to take my eyes off his lower back, where his vest hid his weapon. “Are y-you…”

  Creed dropped my underwear into the drawer and slammed it closed. “Spit it out. Am I what?”

  “Are you going to hurt my father? Are you going to kill him?”

  He leaned against my vanity, folding his thick arms across his chest. A small eternity later, he lifted a shoulder with a half-hearted shrug, like it was no big deal. “Not if he cooperates.”

  “And me? Are you going to hurt me?”

  I folded my own arms, hiding my hardened nipples from view. Creed flicked his gaze to my bare stomach, causing fire to burn at the back of my neck. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because that’s what you people do. You cause pain and destruction—”

  “More so than your selfish, corrupt father?”

  “He’s not cor—”

  “He’s worse than I am,” he snapped, pushing off the vanity. I gulped as he sauntered closer, unfolding his large arms. “I slaughter my enemies in the street, witnesses or not. People know what to expect from me. Your father commits his crimes behind the veil of politics and wears a mask to hide his deceit. He’s a monster, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but you know that already, don’t you?” At my silence, golden rivers of smug, satisfied honey flared in Creed’s irises. “What we do to your father is our business. As for you…you’re safe for now, little girl.”

  I bristled, cutting my eyes at him. “Little girl? I’m a woman.”

  I was. I had credit cards, my own car, and my cup size was well into the Cs. I had no curfew, no sitters, no one to report to so long as I kept a low profile and avoided the press—which wasn’t hard in a town like Exeter. I was a woman—albeit a young one—and I had wants and needs like any other. I wanted Creed to see me in the same light I saw him. He made my muscles tight, my nipples hard, and my panties wet. Did I have a similar effect on him? Had it crossed his mind the things we could do—the things he could make me do—while his friend and my father were preoccupied somewhere else in the house? If he kissed me, I’d kiss him back. If he touched me, I wouldn’t tell a soul. James Creed dominated every thought and fantasy I’d had since I first laid eyes on him. A crush. He was my first crush, and my untapped hormones had become fixated on him.

  He glanced at my braless breasts, barely held inside my crop top. “So you are.”

  I shifted awkwardly on my feet, but it did nothing to expel the lava in my veins. A small eternity later, Creed dragged his attentive gaze to my vanity and flicked his chin. “Who’s that?”

  I followed his line of sight, and my tummy tucked and rolled at the photograph of my boyfriend and me at prom. We’d just won prom king and queen. The photo was taken as he gazed adoringly at me, and I was fake smiling so hard it hurt my cheeks. I liked Pierce, but he wasn’t what I wanted.

  “My boyfriend.” I gulped. “Pierce.”

  “He looks familiar.”

  “His father is the sheriff.”

  Creed kissed his teeth and turned his dark, honey stare on me, unimpressed and a little disgusted. “Exeter’s sweetheart dating a pig’s son, huh?”

  Exeter’s sweetheart? I straightened my spine. “Sheriff Donovan is a good man.”

  He bit out a laugh. “Shows how much you know.”

  “You have so much to say about my father and the sheriff,” I snapped, thrill zapping my bones. “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “What derogatory category do I fall under?”

  Creed ignored me and sauntered to my vanity again. Without a word, he opened my panty drawer and retrieved the same pink underwear he held moments ago. Closing it, he toyed with the fabric and pinned me
with his gaze. It was darker, less playful than before. Reaching into his leather vest and around his waist, he pulled his handgun from his waistband. Adrenaline peaked in my blood, and my chest rose and fell with deep breaths I tried hard to conceal.

  “You said I was safe,” I whispered on exhale, taking a minute step back.

  Desire bubbled inside me as he stalked forward, and it confused me. Even in danger, my body wanted him, so clearly something was wrong with me, with the way I was wired. He short-circuited my system with a smirk and a flash of his eyes. How?

  “And you are.” He flicked his gun to the floor at my feet. “On your knees, pretty woman.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m supposed to be holding you under duress. Prez would kick my ass if he knew I was up here small talking.”

  He pointed the gun at me, and my blood refused to run cold, but I did what he asked. I lowered myself to my knees, and he followed, crouching in front of me. His smell was more potent down here, enticing and unhinging me in the most delightful way.

  “Like this?” I asked, licking my lower lip.

  “Just like that.” Creed’s eyes flared. “Now slap yourself in the face.”

  I frowned, sobering. “You’re not serious…”

  “I can do it for you, if you prefer.”

  “That’s what gets you off, is it? Beating women?”

  “Only when they beg.” Smirking, he scratched his brow with the barrel of his handgun. “If Judge comes up here and you’re not roughed up, we’re both gonna be in shit. He’ll do it himself, and trust me, you don’t want that.”

  If he was ordered to rough me up, why hadn’t he? Could he get into trouble for not doing what he was told? A part of me wanted him to hurt me, to finally feel his touch. Was that psychotic?

  “I’m not slapping myself in the face, Creed.”

  Pleasure flickered across his features as his name fell from my lips. Lowering his gun, he grabbed my wrists and leaned forward, moving them behind my back. My chin grazed his broad shoulder, and I subtly inhaled. Scents of whiskey, oil, and tobacco tickled my nose. I also detected a gentle hint of rose, remnants of a feminine perfume, and it triggered a vicious swirl of jealousy I had no right feeling in my chest. To get away from it, I turned my head to breathe against his neck. Under the collar of his shirt, I caught a glimpse of goosebumps as they prickled along his skin whenever my exhale blew under the fabric. I clenched and unclenched my fists, doing my best to sit still as he bound my wrists. Before long, the lace of my panties bit into my flesh and held me in place. When he pulled back, he touched my face, admiringly, his expression almost sympathetic. I stared back at him, enchanted by his handsome face. He was older than me by a decade at least, and the thought of having his older, muscular body pressed against mine made me shiver. All the things he could do to me…