TRICK: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Evil Dead MC Series Book 15) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  TRICK

  An Evil Dead MC Story

  By

  Nicole James

  TRICK

  An Evil Dead MC Story

  By

  Nicole James

  Published by Nicole James

  Copyright 2022 Nicole James

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Lori Jackson

  Editing by CookieLynn Publishing

  CHAPTER ONE

  Evil Dead Las Vegas Clubhouse

  Trick—

  Rock music pulses through the clubhouse as I sink the nine ball in the corner pocket, effectively running the table on Lobo.

  “You son of a bitch. You got fuckin’ lucky.” He pulls a twenty from his pocket and slaps it on the felt.

  “Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it, bro. That’s all skill.”

  “Whatever.” He curls two fingers, motioning one of the club girls over. “Get us two more beers, will ya, Tiff?”

  She gives him a wink. “Sure thing, doll.”

  I rack us up another game, hanging my cigarette from my mouth. A bright flash of sun has me squinting as the front door opens. Charlotte’s shapely silhouette fills the doorframe, drawing the eyes of every brother in the clubhouse. Her long legs eat up the distance to the bar, where she greets her ol’ man with a passionate kiss, plastering her lush curves against his side.

  Prez sure snagged a beauty with that one. There’s not a man in here who hasn’t been caught checking her out, something that pisses Daytona off to no end. I can’t deny it myself, but it’s not her beauty that draws me. It’s the way the two of them look at each other, the way she stares into his eyes with adoration, and the way his face lights up like the fucking sun when she walks into the room. Ain’t gonna lie, I wonder what it’d be like to be on the end of a gaze like that.

  Dragging my eyes from the pair of lovebirds so adoring they make me want to puke, I lift my chin at Lobo. “Break.”

  He bends and lines up his cue, eyeing his shot as my gaze drifts back to my prez and his ol’ lady. My hand lifts to my chest, rubbing my breastbone like I can scrub away the ache inside. If only.

  Tiffany returns with two ice-cold bottles as All of Me by John Legend comes over the speakers. Now I really want to puke. I don’t have to look to know Daytona signaled to the prospect behind the bar to put this one on.

  Their song—the one they danced to at their wedding. Jesus Christ, has love turned our hard-as-nails president into a lovesick puppy?

  “What’s the matter with you?” Lobo asks, following my eyes.

  “Just goes to prove what I’ve always said. Love makes you fucking weak.”

  Lobo grins at my muttered pronouncement and slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Nah, brother. You got that all wrong. Love makes you strong.”

  “Bullshit. You saw how he was when shit went sideways with her. He completely lost it.”

  Lobo studies them, and then me. “You’re just green with envy.”

  “Fuck off and take your shot, you damn pussy.”

  Tiffany hands me my beer and presses against me, tilting her head and batting her eyes. “When are you going to give me a ride on your bike, Trick?”

  I take a hit off my cigarette and track Lobo’s next play, watching him sink a tricky bank shot. “I don’t know. Maybe later tonight.” It’s a big maybe. Club girls lost their appeal for me a while ago. Something’s been eating at me for just as long. I just can’t pin it down. Restlessness, maybe.

  “Promise?” she purrs. There’s that word I’ve come to hate. Before I can respond, Lobo twists his head.

  “Trick doesn’t make promises, Tiff, especially to chicks. Why is that, VP?”

  I blow smoke to the ceiling and drill him with a murderous look, warning him off the topic. “There’s no point in it, is there?”

  Lobo’s chuckle as he blows right past my warning has my jaw clenching. “Except you took an oath to the club. That’s technically kind of like a promise, now, isn’t it?”

  “I need some fucking air.” I toss my cue on the felt and stalk toward the door, his laughter following me out.

  “Now who’s the pussy?” he yells after me.

  I slam through the door and down half my beer. My hawk-like gaze takes in the desert landscape and the Spring Mountains on the horizon. It’s mid-July and hot as hell, even at this higher elevation. We’re a little over fifty miles outside of Vegas, nestled near the foothills—off on our own a few miles from the nearest civilization, Cold Creek, where the MC owns a bar called Badlands. That came to us through a deal our president made with his sister-in-law, who’d inherited it when her old man passed away. Charlotte and Scarlett. Identical twins. What a trip those two sisters were that summer. They’d switched fucking places, of all things. When Daytona walked in and tried to buy the bar, turned out he was dealing with the wrong sister. Of course, he fell in love with her, so there’s that.

  The door opens, and I glance over my shoulder. Daytona comes through, holding fucking hands with his ol’ lady like a pussy. I glance back at the horizon and take another hit off my beer while he loads her in her vehicle and kisses her goodbye. She calls out through her open window to me. “Bye, Trick.”

  “See ya, Cherry.” Daytona gave her that nickname, not me. But it fits.

  He comes to stand next to me as we watch the plume of dust that trails after her car until it’s gone from sight.

  Daytona dips his head and lights a smoke. “How’s everything on the block?”

  The block. It’s what we call the three luxury homes on the cul-de-sac in North Las Vegas the club bought to house the women under our employ. There are five to a house, with each girl getting her own suite.

  It’s a nice setup for them as well as for us. Each girl has a landing page on an Internet porn site we created. We split all profits they earn seventy-thirty, and in exchange, we provide them a place to live and security from stalkers.

  The women all have a subscription service, offering whatever they want, and it doesn’t take much. Most don’t even get naked. Shocked the hell out of me when I first researched that.

  A good friend of mine, named Heidi Ballarini, schooled me in all the ins and outs, no pun intended. The woman has a following of over thirty thousand and makes a killing offering a subscription service. She rarely does more than wear tight clothing and shake her ass at the camera, and these guys eat it up. If they want more, they pay more. She rakes it in.

  Heidi helped me get the club’s business set up, helping me to interview the girls the club hired, knowing just what to look for, and who would cause trouble and who would stay loyal. We set them up in a sweet luxury pad, ultra modern with lots of areas for filming, including a killer pool. Considering we started with only six girls and now have fifteen on the payroll, it’s been very lucrative, especially when the average girl has at least ten thousand subscribers. At thirty bucks a pop, the club’s cut is over a million per month. Of course, there’s a lot of overhead, but we’re still rolling in the dough.

  There are problems, though. I look over at Daytona, and give him his answer. “Same old shit.”

  “More catfights?”

  “Is it Sunday?”

  He chuckles. “Well, ya put five women in a house together, it’s bound to be a shit-show. You got it all handled, right? Heard we had an issue with payouts.”

  “System crashed. We got it fixed. You know me, boss. Takin’ care of business. It’s what I do.”

  “Okay, Elvis.”

  I grin at the reference. “TCB. That’s me.”

  “A man who cares about nothing if it isn’t related to club business and club money, that’s you, Trick.”

  “That’s right. And you love me for it.”

  He slaps my shoulder. “That I do, VP. Makes my job easier.”

  I watch him walk inside, then stare at the horizon, Lobo’s words from earlier running through my head. Trick doesn’t make promises. Why is that, VP?

  Why is that? I know all too clearly. My mind drifts to the reason why.

  I was sixteen when my mother lay on her deathbed…

  Her usually wea
k hand has a surprisingly tight grip on my wrist. Her eyes are clearer than they’ve been in a long time. The last surge, the doctor called it. The end-of-life rally, one that comes one to two days prior to death. He said she might be physically stronger, more mentally alert, like maybe she was even improving, but she wasn’t, he warned. It was just the last surge.

  “Promise me, son.”

  I stare at her, my throat closing. I struggle to get the words out. “What, Mama?”

  “Take care of your father. He’s going to need you.”

  I shake my head. I can’t prevent it. I can’t take care of my father. He’s a drunk. No one can take care of him. No one can make him do anything. “Why can’t Lorna?”

  “She’s married now. Your sister needs time with her husband. They’re newlyweds. Your father can’t move in with them. It would destroy their marriage. It has to be you. You’re old enough now, Brent. There’s no one else.”

  “Ma…” Don’t make me do this.

  “Promise me.”

  I stare down at her. What else can I do? “I promise.”

  She smiles then, her face softening, her grip relaxing. “That’s a good boy. I knew I could count on you. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  Oh, but how I had.

  She’d died five hours later, leaving me without a mother when everyone thought, at sixteen and almost six feet tall, that I was already a man. But inside I was just a boy, a boy who needed his mom.

  I learned the hard way that no matter how much you try, you can’t run from your past. I never kept the promise I made to my mother on her deathbed, and the guilt of that has eaten me up. I don’t make promises anymore.

  I fling my cigarette butt into the air and climb on my bike. I need a ride—some wind therapy to clear my head of a past that still haunts me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Trick—

  The long highway into Vegas clears my head of all the bullshit. With the road beneath my wheels and the wind rolling over my body, a calm seeps into my bones. Soon, the tightness in my shoulders melts away, and I relax back and enjoy the ride.

  On the outskirts of town, I roll up to a red light and shift into neutral, my boots dropping to the pavement. Bringing the bike to a stop, I immediately lose the breeze and the heat of the day rises from the scorching pavement like a furnace.

  The engine idles as I wait, and the smell of bacon hits my nose. There’s a diner across the intersection—the only place the addictive aroma could be coming from. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten all day.

  When the light changes, I drop my bike into first gear and roll slowly through the intersection, pulling into the lot and backing my bike into a spot. I dismount and stroll inside. Cool air hits my face when I come through the door, and the sound of Elvis croons from a jukebox in the corner. What is it about Vegas and Elvis?

  The place is small, but being midafternoon, it’s not that busy. Booths line the wall against the windows with a row of tables and then a counter with bar stools and the kitchen beyond with a pass-through window. A couple of checks hang from a spinning wheel. A cook snatches one down and sets it on the ledge next to a plate of food.

  “Order up, Anna,” he calls out.

  I make my way down the aisle. A woman with two rug-rats and one in a highchair occupies the third booth. She looks tired and frazzled, bending to pick up the rattle the toddler just threw on the floor. The little ones sitting across from her get big-eyed when they take me in. Maybe it’s my height or scruffy appearance or maybe it’s the leather cut I wear. I wink at one and walk on past, heading toward the last booth against the wall. Two booths before it, I make eye contact with a man dining alone. He looks like trouble, the kind of man who thinks the world owes him something, and he’s carrying a chip on his shoulder the size of a bowling ball. Yeah, I read all that from the side-eye he gives me, and the way he’s hunched over, his shoulders curling forward as he nurses a cup of coffee.

  I slide across the red vinyl seat. Mr. Chip-on-his-shoulder has his back to me now. I glance out the window, seeing I have a clear view of my bike. That’s the way I like it, my back to the wall and my bike in view.

  My gaze hits the layout on the table. It’s Formica, but spotless. Not a single crumb. Condiments are arranged perfectly in a row against the window according to height. I could take a ruler, and they’d all be flawlessly in line. A paper napkin lies on my right-hand side, with silverware equally lined up. A coffee cup sits upside down in a saucer.

  I grab a plastic coated menu from the caddy and glance at it. Movement draws my eyes to a waitress with a pot of coffee in hand coming down the aisle. She’s young and thin with brown hair pulled up in a messy bun. She stops at the highchair and squats down, picking up the toddler’s rattle. Her face lights up in a radiant smile when she shakes it for the baby, who claps his hands.

  The mother thanks her, and she moves on, stopping at the man two booths in front of me.

  “Refill?” She holds the pot in the air, her words soft and hesitant as if she’s really shy. She’s in the wrong job, if that’s the case.

  He nods, and she begins to pour. The man’s hand comes up and lands on her ass. He gives a squeeze, and she jumps, spilling coffee on the table. Now she’s flustered, stammering she’s sorry as she tries to mop it up with a rag from her apron. Her face flames.

  My jaw clenches seeing how upset the girl is and knowing that asshole is to blame. I don’t know why it bothers me. I don’t give a damn about what goes on around me as long as it doesn’t concern me, but this girl radiates vulnerability to assholes like that guy, ones who’ll take every advantage they can get. The kind I love to set straight.

  She makes her way to me next, but pauses when her eyes catch something on the empty booth between us. At first I assume there’s a tip left, but then she reaches to straighten the silverware lined up on the napkin, adjusting it just so.

  I grin. The girl has OCD. I recognize it from the way my sister behaved growing up, straightening everything just right and getting anxious if it wasn’t. The girl finally comes to stand next to my table.

  “Coffee?” There’s that soft voice again.

  I flip my cup over. “Please.” I watch as she pours, her hand a bit shaky. She won’t even make eye contact with me, but I see her eyes are a dark brown and her lashes are long. Her olive skin is perfection. She’s not wearing much makeup, maybe a touch of mascara, but that’s all. She doesn’t need any. She’s lovely.

  When my cup is filled, she finally meets my gaze, and then her eyes slide to the patches on my cut, specifically the one that reads Vice President.

  “A-are you ready to order, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She sets the carafe down and pulls her order pad and pen out. The point of the pen hovers over the pad, clenched tight in her white knuckles, waiting. I know just the sight of me provokes fear in most women. I get that. But for some reason, it bothers me to see it in this girl’s eyes. When she doesn’t ask what I want, but just stands there as if she’s lost her voice, I clear my throat.

  “What’s good?”

  “Well, um, we serve breakfast all day, and the sunrise special is good.”

  My eyes drop to her nametag just under the name of this joint. PARADISE DINER. ANNA.

  “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll have that.”

  “How do you want your eggs?”

  “Scrambled.”

  “Bacon or sausage?”

  I grin. “Do you have to ask?”

  She finally gives me a hint of a shy smile in return. “Bacon?”

  “Absolutely. I could smell it from the road. It’s what drew me in here.”

  “Oh. Well, welcome.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Toast or an English muffin?”

  “Toast. White.”

  “Last question. Cheesy hash brown casserole or country fried potatoes?”

  I cock my head to the side and ask in a voice that questions if my answer is the right choice. “Cheesy hash brown casserole?”

  “It’s what I’d pick. Would you like orange juice?”

  “Please.”

  Tucking her pad in her apron, she grabs the carafe up. “I’ll be right back with it.”

  I give her a smile, and she blushes again. Her eyes drop to the table, and her brow wrinkles. I glance to see what’s bothering her and see the single drop of coffee. She tugs her cloth out and wipes it clean, scrubbing over the spot at least four times, when any other waitress would have done one swipe, if that.