Because God didn’t want us.
And Hell would spit us the fuck out.
TWO
CREED
I walked inside the old machine warehouse that was converted into the clubhouse decades ago. The run-down building was in the middle of nowhere, just outside of town with nothing but acres of open fields surrounding it. It was its own organization, governed by its own laws. The exterior was painted black with a massive mural of the club’s logo on the front of the warehouse. Over the large steel door was the club’s plaque that read Devil’s Rejects MC, Southport, NC.
The building also housed several small loft apartments where club members would fuck the whores who were always hanging around, or use them for crashing occasionally. Some members even used them as their homes. Club whores were prevalent in the MC, fucking any brother at any given time. At times, we would get girls passing through town, just looking for a bad boy and a good fucking time. Knowing they’d find it here. There were a couple of girls who were nice, they just had a rough go at life and found shelter in this fucking place. The majority of them, though, were bouncing around from one cock to the next, hoping one of the brothers would be stupid enough to make them their old lady one day.
“You keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Understand me?” Dad threatened in a tone I was all too familiar with. Standing next to my post outside the door.
“Gonna let me in?” I replied, cocking my head to the side, referring to the meeting.
“After what you did for the club today. You fuckin’ earned it.” He patted my back. “You’ll be eighteen soon, we won’t have problems anymore. You’ll stand where you’re meant to be. By me, son. By. Fuckin’. Me,” he stated with pride.
I just nodded.
I took my position outside the door, standing guard, and confiscating our guests’ weapons and phones before they walked into the room, an action necessary when civilians attended meetings. All the patched in brothers took their places at the long rectangle table where brothers sat on the right and guest attendees on the left. My father always sat at the head of the table with his gavel in front of him. Usually these meetings, church as we called them, were always the same.
Alongside him was the Vice President, Striker, who had been with the MC for over two decades. He was more than my father’s right-hand man. They were like blood brothers, having grown up together. I grew up with his son, but really wasn’t a fan of the bastard. Personally, I always thought their friendship was all a crock of shit.
Then there was Diesel, who went from being a nomad to the Sergeant of Arms. Nomads were the Grim Reapers, they worked for the club, killing anyone we said had to go without a second fucking thought, or explanation. He took me to my first titty club when I was fourteen, even bought me a fucking lap dance with a happy ending from the young brunette with pouty lips, a luscious ass and tight pussy. He was the brother I was the closest with.
Below his title was Stone, the Secretary. He transferred over from the Arizona chapter and had been with us since last year. I’m pretty sure he was responsible for “buying my bike,” for Pops. He was in his mid-twenties and never spoke much, but when he did, he would have you laughing your ass off. He was the funniest son of a bitch I ever met. Cracking jokes at the most inappropriate times. He liked pussy as much as he liked making people laugh. The women flocked to him for his sense of humor alone.
Last but not least was Phoenix, the treasurer of Devil’s Rejects. He counted our money as much as he did our goddamn drugs. I got my first tattoo when I was ten years old by that cokehead, acquiring several more pieces of ink from him since. I stopped counting how many a few years ago. It was hard to say no when he offered all the damn time. He was a dope-ass artist, who was high as fuck all the time, but it only made him better at what he did.
Monthly meetings with just the patched-in brothers were less formal, compared to the ones when civilians attended. Pops preferred that church with business associates, be held on our turf, so he could still remain in control. In case shit ever hit the fan, which happened from time to time, the brothers would have direct shots from across the table. Not only were each of them loaded, there were guns rigged under the table where they sat, as well.
No one went in strapped other than the brothers.
No. One.
“Finish up here, there should only be a few more we are expectin’. Gonna start in about fifteen minutes, lock the artillery up, and come in. Stand in the back, pay attention, and keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, ya hear?”
I nodded again, not really listening to a damn word he said, focusing on getting the guns checked. He walked into the meeting room and just as I was about to lock up shop, I saw a black limo with dark tinted windows pulling up to the front on the security screen above the door. I didn’t have to fucking guess who it was, I knew exactly who sat behind the glass. His driver got out and opened the back passenger door, letting out several men including a tall man, with jet-black hair and tan skin. Only confirming what I already knew.
Alejandro Martinez.
He was a corrupt gangster straight out of New York City, who was feared by everyone that had ever crossed paths with him. They called him El Diablo or some shit. I didn’t care for him. I never had. But he was the only man I ever saw my father somewhat cower down to, which probably should have meant something to me.
It didn’t.
He’d show up from time to time unannounced. Stepping out of his chauffeured limo, wearing his fancy fucking suits and designer shoes. Not a hair out of place. Always rolling up deep with several bodyguards at his sides. All of them strapped and ready to kill, or be killed, for him. I couldn’t figure out why my old man was wary of him. To me, he just seemed like a pussy hiding behind an expensive suit and his men. Pops couldn’t figure out that Martinez worked for us, not the other way around. The MC was his supplier for guns and sometimes drugs.
He needed us. Plain and simple.
He buttoned his suit jacket, covering up the guns he had holstered underneath, and signaled for his men to stay put like fucking dogs, heeling behind their goddamn owner.
“Well if it isn’t Creed Jameson,” Martinez announced, walking through the steel door toward me. “Last time I saw you, you were still on your momma’s tit,” he paused, eyeing me up and down with a patronizing regard. “Very nice tits, if I remember correctly,” he baited, standing tall in front of me with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. A smug look plastered on his fucking face. “Do you know who I am, son?”
I didn’t falter. I didn’t give a flying fuck who he was. No one came onto my turf, disrespecting my mother.
“Not your son.” I nodded through a clenched jaw, crossing my arms over my chest, sizing him up.
I’d be lying if I said his solid muscular build, evident through his black three-piece suit, hadn’t taken me back a little. We were the exact same size, 6’3, broad and stalky. Except I had fucking youth on my side, Martinez had to be in his late forties, but still had that pretty boy fucking face.
“I know exactly who you are,” I stated, not backing down. Speaking my goddamn mind. “A pussy who hides behind his expensive fuckin’ suits. Those goons suck your cock too?”
He let out a throaty laugh, his head falling back. “You have a set of real brass balls, son,” he mocked, trying to brush past me, bumping into my shoulder. I stiff-armed him with my good arm right across his chest. Stopping him before he reached the door.
“Gonna need you to hand over all your guns.” I peered down at him. “Includin’ that Glock strapped to your leg.”
“Aren’t you cute.” He grinned. “The fuck I am, you little shit. I’m already going in without my men. I’m not handing over my guns, especially to a hotheaded little Dick, whose fucking balls have barely dropped. You want to step up to me? I won’t hesitate to put a fucking bullet in one of those balls,” he spewed close to my face.
I didn’t waver, grabbing onto the lapels of his suit, getting right up into his face. “Read the sign, motherfucker. N
o weapons beyond this point. You respect the club, or you get the fuck out.” I smiled, releasing him, smoothing out the wrinkles I caused. Looking him straight in the eyes. “Let’s try this again. Hand over your guns,” I repeated in a cocky tone.
“What the fuck is goin’ on out here?” Pops roared, barreling through the double doors, stopping when he was face to face with Martinez.
“I’m disappointed, Jameson. You should really teach your boy here some manners. Or should I teach him some for you?” Martinez snarled, arching an eyebrow, reaching into his suit jacket.
My father looked from him to me and back to him again.
“I suggest you tell this little ankle biter to shut the fuck up and let me pass. I’m your boss. I’m either coming in loaded, or I’m not coming in at all.”
“I apologize for my son’s behavior. I forgot to tell him you’re the only exception. It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right it won’t. He won’t live to talk about it if it does,” Martinez threatened, only glaring at me.
Dad eyed me. “Creed, stand down, boy. Martinez is a guest in this club. He doesn’t need to check his weapons.”
I jerked back. “Are you shittin’ me?” I scoffed out, caught off guard by his response.
“Creed! Enough! I will deal with you later. Martinez, come on in, we were just about to start.” He gestured toward the door.
Martinez walked past, body checking me in the shoulder, causing me to wince from the shooting pain radiating down my arm. I didn't sway, standing tall, resisting the urge to slam him up against the wall and fuck up his pretty boy face. My pissed-off old man, followed close behind him, shooting me a warning with his glare.
I backed away, shaking my head, surprised by the turn of events. I locked up the weapons, and followed them in, closing the door behind me. Taking my place by the far wall, right where I could keep an eye on the motherfucker, from across the room.
Martinez grinned like a fucking fool when he saw me, leaning back into his chair. Crossing his ankle over his leg, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, allowing the entire room to see that he was still locked and loaded. Fueling my anger.
He placed his hand on the table. “Since when do we let children attend the meetings?” he taunted.
“Since old fucks like you—”
Pops cleared his throat, bringing his attention back to him. If looks could kill, I'd be lying in a pool of my own blood at that moment.
Surrendering my hands, I shut my fucking mouth even though I had so much more to say.
The gavel sounded three times, announcing church was now in session. Silencing all the banter going on around the room, bringing everyone’s focus to the Prez. It was the first time I was ever allowed in on church with other associates present, and I watched with a fascinated regard as my father took center stage. His demeanor read nothing but dominance and control, portraying the perfect image of the fearless, powerful, envied leader that he so desperately clung onto.
The older I got, the more my mother loved to remind me how I was the spitting image of him. From our deep-set gray eyes, narrow face, high cheekbones, square jaw, and pointed nose, to our stubborn, bullheaded personalities. With our dark brown hair that was always long on the top and shaved on the sides, reminding me of a military cut. Only Pops head was speckled with grays. We were both tall, slender, and had ripped tattooed bodies. He’d been having me work out with him since my voice changed and I was able to carry my own. Teaching me how to shoot everything from handguns to assault rifles, hitting targets at seventy-five yards out since I was fourteen.
“Let's just cut through the bullshit and get right to the problem at hand. Disagreements have arisen in the past few weeks, which led us to find out a group called Sinners Rejoice has stepped foot onto our territory. Tryin’ to steal our business, our women, and actin’ as if they are one of us. Goin’ as far as usin’ our goddamn name,” he paused, looking around the room until his intense stare fell on Striker. “You wouldn't happen to know anythin’ about these allegations, would you?”
All eyes went to Striker, our VP and probably one of the shadiest son of a bitch in Devil's Rejects.
He stood, adjusting his balls, shoving more chewing tobacco into his mouth, before replying, “Ain't heard shit, Prez, but tell me who I need to find and I will have the fucker in the ground before dawn.”
Pops’ laughter echoed through the room. “I beg to differ, motherfucker.”
The lights dimmed and a picture illuminated on the far wall behind my father. I didn’t have to look at the images to know what they were. I spent the last few weeks trailing his ass, taking those exact pictures. The same reason why my old man was so fucking proud of me.
“So, tell me, Striker, what the fuck do you think you’re doin’ in these pictures? Because you sure as shit ain’t sellin’ Girl Scout cookies.”
“It ain't what it looks like, Prez,” he stated, looking at the images of him with the rival gang members, leaning into each other, exchanging words.
“Is that right?” my father drawled out. “What about this one? It ain’t what it looks like either?”
Another picture clicked over to Striker handing the same man an external USB stick. One picture after another, adding to the incriminating evidence that slowly brought down a trusted member.
Striker put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “No, no, no, this is a misunderstanding. I... I... I—”
My father stood. “You... you... what? Gave the enemy intel? Betrayed every single person in this room? What, Striker?” He walked to the opposite side of the table, closest to me. “Cause to me that’s exactly what it fuckin’ looks like. And now, not only are you a fuckin’ traitor. You’re actin’ like a fuckin’ pussy.” He suddenly slammed his fist down on the table, not making anyone jump, except Striker.
“You have till the count of three to come clean,” Pops warned, never taking his fist off the table. One,” he coaxed in a soft, calm voice.
“I... I...” Striker stammered, running his hands roughly through his silver hair, trying to find the words.
“Two…”
“Prez, please it's not what it looks like. We’re fuckin’ brothers! I love you. I love this fuckin’ club. Please, you’re my family! I... I...”
I looked from Striker back to my father. There was an eerie silence that filled the room. A quiet before the storm.
He narrowed his eyes at Striker, cocking his head to the side, and murmured, “Three.” Before he even finished saying the number, he pulled out the semi-automatic from under the table, aiming directly at Striker’s head. “Bang, bang, motherfucker!” Pops voice bellowed, followed by a deep chuckle. “Made ya flinch, didn't I?”
Striker lowered his hands, placing them on his chest, laughing along with my old man. “You had me there for a second, I'm not going to lie, asshole.”
Pops swung the gun around his trigger finger a few times, stopping every time the barrel was aiming at Striker like a damn game of fucking roulette. Eyeing him with a menacing regard. “On second thought.”
The gun went off, shooting Striker right in the shoulder. Then again in the groin, inches away from his cock, causing his body to jolt back from the unexpected blows. His back hit the wall hard as he shuddered to the ground, groaning in pain. He had one hand holding his shoulder, the other his leg with blood spewing from between his fingers.
I didn’t know what was worse. That no one in the room batted a fucking eye, or that I didn’t either. Not one of us was shocked by my father’s actions. Not one of us was surprised by the consequences of betrayal. But most of all, not one of us stunned by the sight of a man bleeding out in front of us.
In four calculated strides, Pops was over to him, slowly crouching down in front of his wounded body. Getting close to his face, the gun inches away from Striker’s heart.
“You got a cigarette?” he asked out of nowhere.
Striker leaned his head back against the wall, blood seeping from the corner of his chew
ing-tobacco-filled lips. As if he already knew his fate and the only thing he had left to do was to accept it. I always knew my father wasn’t a man you’d ever want to fuck with, Striker knew that too. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to believe that maybe this was all one big misunderstanding. As much as I thought he was a crooked son of a bitch, he did love my father and the club. Proving his loyalty hand over fist, time and time again.
“No, why?” Striker bellowed.
Pop deviously grinned, leaning into his face. “Because I like to have a smoke after I get fucked.”
“Prez, I didn’t—”
He shoved the barrel of the gun into his heart. “Shhh... save your breath for the devil, we all know you're going to fuckin’ Hell.” He got closer, making the sign of the cross as he murmured, “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And all that fucking shit.” With that, he pulled the trigger.
One. Solid. Blow.
Killing his best friend without so much of a blink of an eye. Except this time, his blood was on my hands. I provided the evidence, sold his soul to the Prez, and signed his death certificate all in a matter of hours. My father may have pulled the trigger, but he would never have put him to ground.
If it wasn’t for me.
THREE
CREED
“One down. Now, where were we?” Pops declared, sitting back down at the head of the table. Cracking his knuckles one by one.
Exercising his power and getting off on the fact that he just killed a man point blank. Thriving on the adrenaline that only taking someone’s life always gave him.
No one gave a flying fuck that there was a dead body in the room. This wasn’t the first time I saw someone murdered in cold blood, and it wouldn’t be the last. I wish I could say I wasn’t desensitized to the cruel brutality of the world, here one day and gone the next.
As fucked up as it was, we protected our own.
“Oh yes,” Pops stated, pulling me away from my thoughts. Four faces projected up on the wall. “These cock suckers.”