Claiming Crusher (Savage Brothers MC #4)(96)

The peace was comforting.

I showered and dressed quietly, pulling my jeans over my hips, buckling my heavy silver skull belt-buckle, and placing my piece in the gun pocket of my cut. My knife slid smoothly into its leather case on my left hip, and my second knife fit snugly into my black leather harnessed biker boots. I stretched a clean, white t-shirt over my tattooed torso, and shrugged my cut on over my shoulders. I never felt quite right until I had my cut on.

Like I said before, chaos was my life. This vest was a badge of honor, a symbol of respect for everything I chose to do, the very person I chose to be.

It was a part of me just as much as my skin was.

I took one last look at the girls in my bed, looking like angels sleeping with nothing covering them but the pale moonlight streaming in from the window.

Any normal man would not be leaving. Any normal man would not be about to wind his way through the remnants of last night’s party, straddle a dangerous machine, and roar straight into the pitch black danger of the night to meet up with a fellow criminal to plan their weekly agenda of crimes. No. Any normal man wouldn’t have done any of that.

But, like I said before, there’s nothing normal about me.

I walked through spilled beer, side-stepped naked bodies strewn all around, picked up some broken glass, and turned down the stereo behind the bar. When I stepped outside, it felt like only minutes had passed since I had walked in. In truth, it had been several hours, but the night felt young, and as I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, I felt invigorated. Strong.

I pulled on my helmet, started up my bike, and drove slowly, peacefully, down the winding road that would lead me to the main highway that would eventually lead me to the coast, where I was expected in an hour. Plenty of time to go slow and enjoy the stillness of the night.

Unfortunately, that peace was short-lived. As soon as I spotted the headlights, I knew something was wrong. Nobody ever came this far down our road, and if they did, they were on a bike and I knew them well.

At first, I could only make out the shadow of the man. His long, sleek El Camino shimmered in the moonlight like a snake lying behind him, lighting him up. When he turned towards me, I saw the glint of gold in his mouth. Then, I saw the silhouette of his cock in one hand, and a pistol in the other. He froze like a deer in my headlight, to my advantage. Before he could think to take one step towards me, I was on him. As I jumped off my bike, I saw the woman lying at his feet. I saw her bloody face, her skirt hiked up around her hips, her bare legs and feet covered in scratches, and I attacked without any further thought or debate.

Whoever this guy was, he was no good.

I barreled into his chest, knocking him off his feet, his gun skidding through the dirt and resting in the grass ten feet away. Stunned, he stared up at me, locking eyes with me as I grabbed him by the lapels of his filthy white suit jacket. A crumpled pink carnation clung to his front pocket like a dying wish.

“Who the f*ck are you?” I asked.

“Fuck you!” A sickly, evil grin spread across his gaunt face.


Sweet anticipation spread through my veins as I asked one more question before pummeling him.

“Who is she?” I asked, my chin jutting in the direction of the still motionless, bloody woman.

“Just a cunt who deserves what she got.” The sick sneer remained on his face until the first contact of my fist. The rest was a blur. I don’t know how long I hit him. At least until he stopped moving. A shot in his leg, just in case he decided to come back to while I went to check on the girl.

She had a pulse. Gently, I pulled her long blonde hair away from her face. Her eyes were closed and the swelling was already beginning. My eyes trailed up and down her battered body, and rage swelled inside of me again.

My eyes darted over to the man, and he began moaning softly, barely moving, like a dying piece of roadkill. I rose, my stride unflinching, with more purpose than I had ever felt in my life. My gun was heavy in my hand. My bicep twitched as it went off, my hand holding onto my weapon steadily, with ease, with confident intention.

And then he stopped moving. Suddenly. Easily.

And just like that, the stillness returned. But, while the peacefulness I loved had only been interrupted by a few moments, now, everything was different.

That stillness now came with a price.

I stood over her, staring down at this strange woman, and wondering what the hell I had stumbled upon. Who was she? A hooker? His lover?

I rifled through the El Camino, and found nothing but a bottle of lube in the glove compartment and a few condoms under the front seat. Two joints were in the ash tray, which I pocketed. No purse, though. I walked over to the dead guy, taking him in briefly before looking through his pockets. I wasn’t much on fashion, but even I could tell his suit was cheap by the thin, rough fabric and his shoes, while very shiny, weren’t even real leather. His stringy black hair was slicked back away from his ugly, pock-marked face.


I found his wallet, with an ID that said he was Franco Javier Corona and had an address in Gresham. Three hundred and fifty-seven dollars in small bills, and two hotel card keys, and not much else. I pocketed the cash, and tucked his wallet back inside his suit jacket.

I looked at the girl again, and shook my head. Something wasn’t right. She was too healthy, too pretty to be a hooker. Way too f*cking pretty to be the dead guy’s girlfriend. Her skin, while bruised and scratched, was smooth and toned, with a perfect bronze sheen to it. Her curvy hips swelled away from a taut, strong core of perfect ab muscles that I could see a flash of because her black tank top was pushed up against the swell of her full breasts. Every hooker I had ever seen was emaciated and ravaged from drugs and other various abuses, and the girl laying in front of me looked as healthy as a prized horse.