BOX SET - CHAOS KINGS: Chaos Kings Motorcycle Club BOOKS 1-4 Read online

  SALVATION IN CHAOS

  Copyright 2019 by Linny Lawless

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Some of the places named in the book are actual places found in Virginia. The names, characters, brands, and incidents are either the product of my imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  This book contains mature content and is intended for adults 18+ only.

  Cover Models: Jamie Walker & Ivy Edinger

  Photographer: Reggie Deanching

  Cover Design: Cosmic Letterz Cover Design

  Editor: Darice Gamble

  PA Services: Mikki Thomas

  Personal Assistants: Mikki Thomas

  Interior Design by Clara Stone of Reader Central

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission.

  Purchase only authorized editions. Thank you for respecting the author's work and not supporting or encouraging piracy. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  To Norman. My Biker Man, Best Friend and Husband

  I took a long swig of beer to chase down the third whiskey shot I just shared with my club brother, Gunner. We rode two hundred miles from Stayford County, Virginia to the Eastern Maryland Coastline for the twentieth annual Bike Week event. The other members of our club, Chaos Kings MC, rode in a group earlier that day. Gunner and I needed a quick stop in at a biker bar called Buckhorns Saloon, one of the many bars that opened for the long weekend to host thousands of bikers for the annual event. Raindrops splattered on our gas tanks as we parked the bikes in the lot and planted our kickstands down.

  I sat with Gunner at the bar and scoped out the scene around me. Most bikers were already getting their heavy induced buzzes going, fueled by alcohol and other illegal substances. A red-haired woman with huge paid-for tits rode a mechanical bull next to the stage, as southern rock cover band played the song “Mustang Sally”. The red head moved her hips back and forth to the rhythm of the slow bucking bull while horny bikers hollered and whistled. She pulled her sparkly tank top off and swung it around a few times before throwing it to the crowd.

  The redhead reminded me a little of Mandi back home. She was a sweet butt I’d been bangin’ for a few months. Fuckin’ her was fun and she was a wildcat, likin’ it on the rough side. And that was fine with me cause I only knew good, hard poundin’, rough fuckin’. And that’s all I was gonna get out of it. But I needed a break from her sometimes. Small doses of Wildcat Mandi were enough. The long ride with Gunner to Bike Week was the right prescription for what I needed.

  It was the same crazy biker shit, just a new year. You drank a lot, listen to some live music, get your dick sucked, or get laid.

  I kept my head down and lifted my eyes up to survey the place. I scanned the other side of the horseshoe-shaped bar. A biker waited to be served by one of the bikini wearing bartender girls; two women cackled and talked amongst each other; some were whooping and hollering, wiggling on the barstools to the live music. But the cute petite brunette with some really sexy pouty lips caught my eye. She was sitting by herself, wide-eyed, staring at her beer and peeling the label off the wet bottle with her finger.

  I nudged Gunner, “Twelve o’clock, brother. See her? Brunette, nice lips. Nice dick suckin’ lips?”

  He looked in that direction and saw her, “Yeah… She’s fuckable.”

  Just when I started to imagine those pretty lips wrapped around my hard dick, a bald, middle-aged biker in a jean vest rubbed up against the girl’s back. He leaned in from behind her and whispered something in her ear. She didn’t seem to know the guy and didn’t look as if she liked it either. I tilted my bottle up to my mouth and downed the rest of it.

  “I’m goin’ for it. Try and get my dick wet... I’ll be back.”

  I left the barstool next to Gunner, walked around the bar and stood behind the bald biker. I tapped him on the shoulder. The moment he turned to me, I grabbed the front of his jean vest, “Hey fuck-wad, this one belongs to me. So, get your whiskey dick off my property and walk!” I growled, baring my teeth.

  I released his jacket and he raised his hands up, “Ok, ok, Man. My bad. I’m walkin’.”

  But before I even turned back to the girl, she grabbed a back-pack and jumped off the barstool. She was quick and moved through the sea of drunk bikers, blue jeans and black leather, toward the parking lot outside.

  So, she likes to be chased… And caught, I said to myself and followed her path outside.

  I bumped into a woman, making her spill her drink down front of her shirt. “Hey! Watch it, Bitch!” She yelled, but I was already five steps away. Once I was out in the parking lot, heavy raindrops landed on my face.

  I didn’t know where to go, or what to do next, but I knew not to go back in there. I had to keep a low profile. Not be noticed. Not be seen. Then that perverted biker rubbed up against me and whispered in my ear where on my body he wanted to rub his dick on. The moment the tall biker intervened was my opportunity to make a break for it.

  The lot was full of at least a hundred motorcycles parked under lit up street lamps. There was a dark gravel path that led to the main road toward the ocean’s coastal highway. I wrapped my arms around myself and started to walk in that direction, as the rain fell, soaking through my hair and clothes.

  “You’re not gonna get away that fast!” Big hands captured my arms and spun me back around. I looked up and up, at the tall biker who just called me his property.

  He released me and tilted his head, “You scampered off like a scared little bunny rabbit! And you didn’t look like you were enjoying that dipshit rubbing his whiskey dick on you either.” His voice was low and deep.

  My mouth was suddenly dry and I didn’t know what to say to the hulk size biker. It was dark, but I could make out that his dark hair was a bit long, past the collar of his cut and a bit messy too. I imagined his beard covering a chiseled square jaw. I could make out tattoos that covered both huge muscled arms with intricate designs.

  I mustered up the use of my voice, “I had to get out of there. I. I… can’t go back in there!” I hoped he didn’t take my stuttering as an opening to try and finish what the other biker tried to start with me.

  “Well, you’re not gonna walk out here alone. Not in the dark and not in this rain.”

  “But I can’t go back in there! I can’t –“

  “Ok. You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna… I see you got your own lid there on your pack. Get on my bike and I’ll take you where you wanna go.”

  I stared at him for a moment. So far, he didn’t try anything with me when he could have, or say anything to set me off to run again. He was so much bigger than me, but he seemed safe. I followed two paces behind him, back to the parking lot full of bikes. When he stopped, I didn’t and my face smashed into his broad back. He turned around when I stepped back and chuckled low, “I don’t just let any chick on my bike without even knowing her name… They call me Ratchet.”

  “I’m Sam… And thank you for getting that biker to leave me alone.”

  The side of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He was probably amused at what he was looking at - a soaking wet mess. “Not a problem. Now let’s ride and get you somewhere dry.”

  When I got on his bike, I kept my hands to myself. I leaned back, away from Ratchet.

  “Hold on, Little Rabbit. Don’t want you scampering off again.”

  H
e was thick as a tree and smelled of whiskey, cigarettes, leather and rain. I placed my hands on the sides of his waist. He kicked the stand up with his booted heel, twisted on the throttle in first gear and rode us out of the parking lot onto the main road.

  Ratchet road me twenty blocks up the coastal highway. I didn’t have anywhere to stay or go for that matter. He must have figured that out when he pulled us up to a stoplight.

  He turned his head toward me, “I have a motel room three blocks up. You wanna go there and dry off? Don’t worry. I won’t rub up on you, Little Rabbit.”

  “Ok,” I squeaked out against his ear.

  He had a room at one of the many beach motels along the coastal highway with a queen-size bed. The dresser and nightstands looked about thirty years old, beachy photos with seashells and seagulls hung from sandy colored walls.

  Ratchet handed me a dry towel, I wiped my face and dried my hair with it. I looked down at myself. My nipples were hard as little rocks, as they pressed up against my light blue tank top. I slid the towel down to cover myself. He suddenly looked away as I looked back at him. He took his leather cut off and hung it on the back of a wooden chair. I recognized his club patch – The Chaos Kings MC – a grinning skull, wearing a Viking helmet, on top of two crossed battle axes.

  “Do you know any Chaos?” He asked me as I looked at his colors.

  “No… but I know of your club…”

  Reaching into the side pocket, he pulled out his cigarettes and a flask. He twisted the top open and took a sip of whatever was in it. He offered it to me. “Take a sip. It’ll warm you up some.”

  I took a small sip and coughed a few times from the burning taste. It felt warm sliding down my throat, my chest flushed from cold to warm. I handed the flask back to him and he set it on the nightstand.

  Ratchet took a few steps toward me. I leaned my head back to look up at him. He was well over six feet tall. His messy dark hair was soaked and hung down over his brow. He was so close I could see that his eyes were a pale shade of brown with little tiny specs of amber in the irises. My stomach did a summersault and I felt my neck and cheeks flush again with warmth, but not from the whiskey.

  He stared down at my mouth as I opened it, not knowing what to say with him so close to me. It was different than sitting behind him on his bike. He reached up and lightly grazed his calloused thumb across my lower lip. “I want to taste those lips of yours, Little Rabbit…”

  He leaned in and covered my lips with his. His tongue slid into my mouth slowly at first. He tasted so good that my tongue couldn’t help but swirl around his. I suddenly moaned into his mouth and his huge hands grasped my hips. He squeezed just a little, moving even closer to me.

  I felt him hard against my fluttering stomach. He released me from the slow kiss. “I’m not going to stop, Sam. Unless you want me to,” he grumbled low, his eyes staring so intense with the hunger I had seen in the eyes of other men. Other men who hurt me. Violated me…

  I stepped away from him and my fight or flight mode suddenly kicked in. “Please stop!” I pleaded, “I mean… sorry… just please don’t hurt me… I’ll do whatever you want.”

  He released me and stepped back, “Shhhh… It’s ok, Little Rabbit. I’m not gonna hurt you...”

  He watched me for a few moments then turned and walked over to his duffle bag. He pulled out a dry t-shirt and handed it to me. “I’m gonna go take a piss. You can get out of those wet clothes and wear that t-shirt. It’ll be too big on you, but at least it’s dry.”

  I went to the bathroom and took a piss with a semi-hard on. I didn’t intend on frightening Sam. But I couldn’t resist getting just one kiss from her. I didn’t expect my dick to get hard that quick from just a kiss either. When I came out of the bathroom, Sam was in bed under the covers wearing my t-shirt. She laid on her side, her back to me. She probably needed sleep, I thought. It was clear to me the little rabbit was running away from something or someone and was trying to blend in with the crowd at the Buckhorns Saloon. She didn’t want to attract any attention it seemed. That’s why she shot out of there so fast.

  I went to the nightstand, grabbed the flask and smokes and headed out the door. I leaned up against the wall next to motel room window and took a drink from the flask. I lit a smoke, taking a long drag and watched it drift away as I exhaled. I stood there and kept watch. Was Sam a sweet-butt from a club? She wasn’t wearing any properties, just that tank top, where I could see her perky hard nipples poking through. My dick jumped again.

  The Chaos Kings didn’t treat their women like sheep. They could wear properties signifying they belonged to a club member, but it was a show of respect and high regard. Women were never beaten or used in any way for money, or drugs or anything else for illegal gain. If a woman was mistreated by a member, the Chaos Kings gave him a good beat down and the piece of shit was kicked out of the club.

  My head felt fuzzy when I flicked away my smoke, but I had only taken a few swigs from the flask. I went back into the room. Sam was still asleep, curled up in a ball on her side under the blankets. Then the room started to spin and I felt so fuckin’ sleepy. I stripped off my wet clothes and slid under the covers next to Sam’s small frame. Laying a forearm over my eyes, I was out like a fuckin’ light.

  * * *

  I opened my eyes against the throbbing pain pounding in my head. I let out a groan, sitting up and swinging my legs off the bed. “Fuck….me…,” I grumbled, rubbing my temples.

  Sam must have slipped something into my flask the night before, because I felt the effects of a drug-induced hangover. I opened one eye and looked down to see my wallet lying next to my wet jeans on the floor. Snatching it up, I opened it. Only a one-hundred-dollar bill was there, the other five were gone. I turned toward the side of the bed Sam slept on and saw my t-shirt bunched up in the same spot where Sam had slept. She was gone.

  I shook my head, “Son… of… a … Bitch... The little rabbit got away. And with some of my fuckin’ cash.”

  * * *

  The rest of Bike Week was just a blur. Thousands of bikers swarmed the local bars along the Maryland coastline. The parking lots were jam-packed with motorcycles. It was like spring break for bikers, where all the debauchery, burnouts, loud pipes, live music, alcohol, drugs and women wearing next to nothing congregated once a year. I searched for Sam at every place I stopped in at with my brothers. I surveyed every bar, every crowd, but never found the sly little rabbit.

  “So that pint-sized chick pulled a fast one on ya, huh? Stole your money too… It’s not fuckin’ easy to slip something over you, brother,” Gunner said as I scoped out Shark Fins, one the bars we frequented that week.

  I didn’t respond and the questions kept churning in my fuckin’ head. Did she belong to an MC? Was she someone’s property? Would I ever see her again? I didn’t care about the stolen cash. I only knew her name and that she was on the run. But when I did find her, I was going to get those questions answered. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I should have just fucked her, but I stopped kissing her sweet lips when she got frightened. I couldn’t blame her for running off since I did tell her I wouldn’t try to rub up on her that night.

  * * *

  A week later…

  I noticed three Harleys parked outside the Crow Bar as I pulled in ahead of Gunner and shut the ignition off on my Night Train. They belonged to the Hell Hounds MC.

  “See what I see?” I said to Gunner nodding toward the bikes. He turned the ignition off his Road King after he pulled up alongside me. “This might not be a happy endin’ to a good day’s ride.”

  Gunner shrugged his shoulders, kicking his stand down, “Yeah… Well, hopefully they’re payin’ their bar tab right about now and fuckin’ leavin’.”

  The Hell Hounds were a diamond club, a one percenter club, an outlaw club. They wore a three-piece patch with their top rocker, Hell Hounds, their center patch depicting a black dog with three snarling heads and a bottom rocker “Virginia”. Their chapter resi
ded in the same county as the Chaos Kings. They made their money in dealing meth and prostitution. Every member had a criminal record, from drugs, prostitution, robbery, to assault, rape and even charges of murder, but no convictions. The Steel Cage, a strip club across the county line, was their main hang out. There were rumors about suspicious illegal shit conducted behind closed doors at the club. Sometimes I even heard about ties to the Russian Mafia. Some of my brothers had frequented the club before. Not me. I didn’t want to have to end violent shit that the Hounds would start, especially wearing my colors in a club they claimed was their turf.

  Today was the perfect day to ride out west to the Shenandoah Mountains. Just me and Gunner. Now I had to keep my good mood in check, hoping that nothing ugly would happen inside with the Hounds.

  Greaser, the owner of the fine establishment, popped the tops off a couple of beers as we grabbed some stools at the bar. I took the first long guzzle of nice cold brew and lit a smoke. “How’s it hangin’, Grease?”

  “It’s hangin’, Ratchet. How was Bike Week? I see you and Gunner came back in one piece,” Greaser replied, his graying hair greased up fifties style in a pompadour.

  The Crow Bar was the typical biker bar, dimly lit by Tiffany lamps hanging low and two pool tables in the back along with a digital jukebox. The song “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry was playing at that moment. I took in the scene and found the Hounds through the cloud of cigarette smoke coming from the pool tables. Two Hounds were playing a game of pool. The third Hound sat in a chair, medium build, dark hair. And Sam was sitting on his lap, looking right me.

  I knew it was Ratchet the minute he walked in. He was so tall and wide, taking broad steps as he walked with a confident swagger. Not cocky, just assured. He grabbed a bar stool, lit his cigarette and tilted the beer bottle up to his lips. Then he turned in my direction and his eyes locked on me. Sitting on Sid’s lap.