A Dream of Summer (Bleeding Angels MC Book 3) (5 page)

“Get up, lover boy.” The harsh voice abused by smoking too many cigarettes pierces through my dream of a girl with green eyes.

I peer up to see Elvis, who looks like he’s already high on something despite it only being god knows what time of the morning. I look past him to one of his cronies standing by the door. The guy is built like the broad side of a barn. Any ideas that I had of making a break for it immediately disappear. Besides, where exactly would I go? Back to Aimee? No, I can’t be near her. Not for now at least.

“What are you, deaf?” Elvis spits out. “Get up or am I going to have to get Spike to make you?”

The massive guy that looks like an ex WWF wrestler doesn’t speak, but the name Spike is curiously fitting. Especially when I notice he has a sprawling tattoo of a spike on his forearm.

I don’t say anything. I don’t have anything
to
say, and Elvis is the last person that I want to speak to. Well, maybe not quite the last. That honor belongs to Ryan, but Elvis is way down on the list. I swing my feet out of bed and grab the T-shirt that I’d discarded the night before.

I look around for my jeans and notice Elvis hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

“See something you like?” I ask, unable to help myself. I had always thought Aimee was the one with the “brain to mouth” filter problem, but maybe it was just this little idiot that brought the sarcasm out of me.

“What’d you say to me?” Elvis squares his shoulders and his right hand goes straight to his waistband where I know he’s holding a knife.

I can feel my body tensing up as the fight or flight adrenaline starts rushing through my body. I take a deep breath and do the smart thing. I break eye contact and shrug. “Nothing.” It’s more of a grunt than a word, but it seems to satisfy Elvis that he’s gotten the better of me. I pull my jeans on slowly, taking my time, proving a point. I know it’s immature, but I can’t help it. I want the Angels to know that I’m not just going to dance to their tune. I’m still me, Jake Summers. I still have an identity; I’m not just “theirs.”

“That’s what I thought.” The satisfaction in Elvis’s voice makes me want to wipe off the smile that I know has spread across his face. “You ready to go? Or you need to do your hair?” Elvis snorts at his own joke and I feel the hackles on the back of my neck rise.

“Let’s go,” I grunt, wanting to keep my interaction with this guy to a minimum.

“Ladies first.” Elvis laughs and I’m pretty sure that I even see Spike crack a smile.

I don’t trust myself to say anything, so I keep my mouth shut. Stepping out into the pale morning sun, it takes a little while for my eyes to adjust after leaving the dark box I’ve been in for the past few hours. I try not to think about how this time yesterday, I was lying with Aimee next to me in bed. I was burying my nose in her dark hair and waiting for the moment her incredible green eyes would open and I would see her first smile of the day. I try not to think about how missing her is a physical pain. I try not to think about her at all. But Elvis has other plans.

“Must’ve really cut you up, your woman screwing around on you,” he sighs as he leads me around the Bleeding Angels complex.

I ignore Elvis’s words and instead force myself to concentrate on where we’re going. Seeing it in the light of day makes you appreciate just how massive their base is. Their bar, Wheels, seems to be at the center of the complex with any number of outbuildings spiraling out from there. I figure I’m well on my way to being tatted and then patched. I know that there’ll be an initiation—there always is when you’re patched, I know that much. But what if they want me to hurt someone? I push the thought to the back of my head.
The Angels have had so much heat on them since the shit show with the army truck, they’ll want to keep a low profile
, I reason to myself.

But Elvis is clearly enjoying pushing my buttons way too much to let my silence stop him. “They’re all whores, man. You can’t trust any of them.” His bitterness makes me wonder how many times he’s been burned. But I don’t care enough to ask. We’re not friends and we never will be.

“Aimee isn’t a whore.” I manage to get the words out through gritted teeth. I know that I should probably just have kept quiet. Elvis will exploit anything that he can.

“You hear that, Spike?” Elvis laughs sarcastically. “His girl fucks around on him, sucks Ryan’s cock, but she’s not a whore! Let me guess, she’s just real friendly?”

Spike makes a strangled noise that I guess is as close to a laugh as the big man is going to get.

“Watch yourself, Elvis. Best not talk about things you don’t know anything about.” My voice is low but there’s no mistaking the threat in it. I may not have figured out yet how I feel about Aimee and what I think about what she’s done, but I’ll be damned if I let a piece of crap like Elvis talk about her like that.

Before I know what’s happened, Elvis has rounded on me and swung at the side of my head. I duck, but not fast enough to avoid his fist completely. He knocks me on the chin. The force of the blow throws me off balance and I fall to the floor, eating dirt. Now I’m mad, but I’m also outnumbered. Spike, probably feeling left out, decides now would be a good time to weigh in and he draws his heavy-booted foot back and, before I can move out of the way, literally kicks me when I’m down.

His boot goes into my stomach and it feels like my insides have been beaten with a baseball bat. The wind is completely knocked out of me and I fight for breath, taking greedy gulps of air as I’m face down in the dirt.

“You don’t get to be the big man anymore, Summers.” Elvis’s face is only inches away from mine. “We own you now. You’re an Angel and you’re at the bottom of the ladder. You’re not even patched yet.” I can feel the spittle landing on my cheek as Elvis gets more and more carried away, his anger mixed with whatever today’s drug of choice is. “So you better learn some manners, son. You get me?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer and I don’t think I’d even be able to give one yet. My stomach feels like it’s on fire and the pain is mixed with the anger that’s boiling up inside of me, getting ready to explode. I refuse to let them get the better of me. I won’t let them believe, even for a second, that they’ve won even the smallest of victories. I drag myself up from the floor and draw myself up to my full height, dusting myself off and doing my best to act like this is just another day, like I’m used to having the crap beaten out of me and I don’t care.

“I get you.” My words come out husky as I shake off the shooting pain in my abdomen. “Now can we get the fuck on with whatever it is that we’re doing?”

Elvis and I lock gazes and I think he may be about to decide to teach me another lesson, but for the first time, Spike speaks.

“Let’s go. Scar’s waiting.” His words sound like they’ve come from the bottom of a well and Elvis is clearly as surprised as I am that this big man has spoken.

Spike doesn’t wait for a response; he just trudges off in the direction we’d been heading in before they’d decided to play football with my stomach. Elvis jerks his head after the big man, indicating that I should walk between them. If he was worried about me making a run for it, he really didn’t need to be concerned—it was all I could do just to keep walking at the moment.

We walk in so many twists and turns that I’m not sure I’d be able to re-trace my steps and find where we’d started out. Perhaps that was the point. I’d heard rumors that the Angels made the complex as complicated as possible to make it even harder for law enforcement to find whatever they might go looking for. It was a strategy that seemed to be working out for them pretty well so far.

Eventually we end up in an open area between two buildings with a few upturned beer kegs acting as chairs. The ground is littered with empty beer bottles and metal caps, and in the midst of it all sits Scar. He’s whittling a piece of wood with a huge knife that looks more like a machete. His bare arms are covered in tattoos and there are a number of chains around his neck. He wears his signature black bandana over his head and there on his cheek is the long line of pale skin that gave him his biker name. An ugly scar that stretches from under his right eye down to the line of his jaw.

Abruptly he looks up and catches sight of me staring at his namesake. Instead of looking away and avoiding his gaze, I stand my ground and keep my eyes trained on his. A shadow of something that looks like amusement passes across his face before he goes back to concentrating on the piece of wood he’s sharpening.

“Here he is, boss.” Elvis states the obvious, sounding too pleased with himself.

“I can see that, genius.” Scar doesn’t even look at him as he responds and I steal a look at Elvis’s face, satisfied that he’s embarrassed at being shown up in front of the new guy.

Elvis looks at Spike and Spike looks at Elvis, neither really sure what it is that they’re supposed to do now. It would be funny if it weren’t for the fact that I know these men would as soon cut me a smile as they would crack one themselves.

“Do you want us to...?” Elvis asks Scar, leaving the question open so their illustrious leader can fill in the blank with whatever it is that he may need from them.

“Leave? Yes.” Scar continues to concentrate on his knife-work and his tone demonstrates that he’s used to people taking orders without question. That’s what it means to be the leader of the Angels—obedience without a second thought. It’s not hard to see the appeal. Who doesn’t want to have the power to do what they want, when they want, without fear of anyone telling them otherwise?

“Sure thing, boss.” Elvis almost falls over himself to get out of Scar’s sight. For a moment I wonder if he’s going to bow. But he doesn’t. Instead he fixes me with a look that tells me he’ll be taking full advantage of my being a new patch. “I’ll see you soon, Summers,” he says under his breath as he turns to go, Spike in tow.

“I can hardly wait,” I reply, just loud enough for Scar to hear me. I know that I need to play the game here, and the best way of staying ahead is to make it clear that I’m not someone that can be pushed around. I’m someone that will push back.

When the other men have gone, I turn back to face Scar and stand tall, crossing my arms and wait for whatever’s coming next. Without saying anything, he motions for me to take a seat on the beer keg nearest to him. I think about resisting for a moment and standing on my own two feet, but the truth is, after the little recreational beating Spike and Elvis decided to lay on me, taking a load off sounds pretty good. I walk over slowly and sit myself down gingerly, wincing a little as a shiver of pain radiates out from my lower ribs. I wonder how long I’m going to have Spike’s boot tip imprinted on me.

“Things get a bit rough out there this morning?” Scar asks without looking up. But it’s clear that he hasn’t missed anything. The tension between Elvis and me wasn’t lost on him.

I shrug. I know how this works. The Angels are a brotherhood and you don’t rat out a brother, no matter what he’s done.

Scar doesn’t push any further, but he finally puts down the piece of wood that he’s created into a mini spear. He keeps the knife in his hand and twirls it absently between his fingers as he leans back and assesses me.

“Elvis is a punk,” he says suddenly, and it’s a statement of fact rather than an opinion. “You get them in all MCs. Not everyone is here because of the brotherhood. Some people just like to feel important.”

“Whereas you created the Bleeding Angels for the good of humanity?” I ask, raising my eyebrows as I look at him. I know that I should keep my mouth shut but I’m not an Angel yet and, in the meantime, I’m still going to be me.

Scar does the last thing I would’ve expected from him. He barks out a laugh and his eyes look genuinely fully of mirth. “You’re funny, kid.” His words and tone are appreciative and there’s something more in his expression, but I can’t quite figure it out.

We sit like that for a little while, neither saying anything, just weighing each other up. I notice that we’re both sitting in the same way, with our legs spread out ahead of us. I shift positions—I don’t want anything in common with this guy, even if it’s only the way that we sit.

“In answer to your question—no, the Bleeding Angels aren’t a humanitarian organization. This isn’t our answer to the UN.” He barks out another laugh and there’s a twinkle in his eye as he does. “We’re about freedom,” he confides in me. “The Angels are somewhere that you can be yourself, whoever that may be. You can do what you want to do, say what you want to say, and there’s no one to tell you that you can’t.”

Scar is someone who—if you didn’t know who he is and what he’s done—you’d probably find pretty charming. He’s likable. He comes across as a guy you could have a beer with and shoot the shit. But that’s only if you don’t know him. Still, I have to remind myself that he’s a dangerous man that has damn near destroyed this town.

“That all sounds great, but where do the drugs and the beatings and the killings come into it?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter. I can’t fall into the trap of being charmed by Scar.

Instead of growling at me or putting his knife to use, as I nearly expect him to, he just waves my concerns away like I don’t know what I’m talking about. “Sometimes to make an omelet you gotta break a few eggs. That’s all it is.” He shrugs as if nothing could be simpler.

“And you take the time to give this little pep talk to all the new Patches?” I ask, my dubiousness clear in my tone. “There must be at least three or four other guys that have just turned 20—do they have the honor of a little one-on-one time with you too?”

Scar seems to consider my questions for a little while. I’m still not quite sure why he’s letting me get away with being so challenging. From what I’ve heard of Scar, he’s not a man that hesitates in knocking you down if you do something that doesn’t work for him. “Not all men are born equal,” he says eventually. “Some of the new Patches are just that and some are… more important.”

I wait for him to explain, but at this he falls silent. I’m not really sure what to say or what to make of his words. The memory of Aimee asking why I was so important to the Angels flits across my brain, but I don’t hold onto it—the thought of her is still a little too painful.

“And what? I’m ‘more important,’ is that what you’re saying?” I ask, trying to make sense of what it is that I’m hearing.

“You could be, if you took control for once. You could be more important than a lot of these little punks.” Scar studies me as if he’s searching for something in my face. I’m not sure if he finds it or not.

When I don’t give him the response he’s looking for, or any response at all for that matter, he sighs and starts pacing up and down in the dirt in front of me. He’s restless and almost wolfish in the way that he moves. I know the feeling of needing to move to get the energy out—it’s something I’m pretty familiar with. It would drive my mom crazy when I would do it in the house, and she said she couldn’t stand it. It was one of the few things that really made her mad and I never could quite figure out why.

“You’ve been led around by your dick by this Winters girl. You’ve been all moon-eyed, trailing after her like a little lost puppy. It’s pathetic.” Scar fixes me with a stare to make sure that I’m aware he’s referring to me—that
I’m
pathetic.

“Being in love is pathetic?” I ask, standing up myself. There’s something about being looked down on physically that I’ve never liked. At least on my feet I feel more like an equal rather than a subject.

“Love.” The bitterness in the way that Scar says the word makes me wonder what the hell happened to him. “There’s no such thing as love. There’s sex and there’s hunger and there’s kidding yourself. That’s all. And you, my friend, are kidding yourself.” He shakes his head like I’ve disappointed him somehow and, in spite of myself, I feel a little angry for letting him down.
What are you talking about, Summers? Get your head in the game. This is Scar, not fucking Santa Claus
.

“What does Aimee have to do with any of this?” I manage to say her name without sounding like I’m choking on it. It’s a small victory, but it’s mine.

“It’s not just her; it’s all of them.” Scar makes an expansive motion with his arms as if to gesture toward the whole world. “Your momma, she let you do what you wanted to? Bill, that grease-monkey father of yours, he’s had you working in the body shop since you were old enough to hold a wrench. You don’t think they’re trying to control you? Just like that little piece of ass, Winters, was controlling you. She had your balls in her hand, boy, and when she had the chance she gave them a good squeeze.” At this Scar chuckles to himself, like the idea is the funniest thing he’s heard in a while.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you don’t know anything about my family or Aimee. So I don’t know what ground-breaking point you’re trying to make here, but why don’t you peddle it over to some of the other patches? I’m not interested in buying any bullshit today.” The words come out in a rush of anger and I stand there breathing hard, shoulders squared, ready for whatever Scar is going to throw at me.

But instead he closes the distance between us and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t make a mistake here, Jake. You have all the potential; you could be the next president of this MC. I’m not going to be around forever.”

My head jerks up at this as I process what Scar has just said. “What about Ryan? He’s next in line.”

“Ryan’s too much of a loose cannon. I need someone that I can trust, someone with brains and brawn. You’re someone the boys would look up to. They’d respect you. This could be yours.” Scar holds up his arms to take in the Angels’ complex. “If you want it, that is.” I’m so shocked that I’m not sure how to frame my reply. I don’t even know what it is that I want to say. “You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it.” Scar pats me on the shoulder in an almost fatherly way.

“What if I don’t want it? What if I don’t want any of it?” I ask, the question nearly bursting out of my chest.

This act of insubordination is the one that finally tips Scar over the edge, and he turns towards me as quick as a flash and raises his finger to me as if it were a weapon.

“Whatever you decide, Jakey-boy, you’re an Angel now.” His voice is deceptively low and calm, but I can see the fire brimming in his eyes. We’re almost exactly the same height and I can see that the hardness in my features is mirrored in his. “And no Angel lets a woman castrate him, you got that?”

I don’t respond. I just keep holding Scar’s gaze as if my life depended on it.

“Aren’t you ashamed? Humiliated at what that bitch did to you? How she came running here to fuck Ryan like the whore that she is?” Scar is taunting me and I react without even thinking.

I advance on Scar and grab him round the throat as if I’m about to throttle him. “Never,
never
say that again. You know nothing about it!” I roar into his face. I can feel my free hand shaking as the rage rides through me.

“Good, so there is some life in there.” Scar smiles in satisfaction as I realize that this had been some kind of sick test. I release his throat and he rubs it absently. “Good grip.” He sounds almost proud.

“Are you happy? That’s what you were pushing for, a reaction. That’s right, isn’t it?” I ask as the realization hits me.

Scar shrugs. “I just wanted to see that you had some fight in you. There’s no point in becoming an Angel if you’ve got a bigger pussy than your girlfriend.”

A laugh coming from behind makes me whirl around and I come face to face with the person that sets my teeth on edge.