Lane Read online

  Lane

  Black Reapers MC Book One

  Trent Jordan

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Lane

  2. Angela

  3. Lane

  4. Angela

  5. Lane

  6. Angela

  7. Lane

  8. Angela

  9. Lane

  10. Angela

  11. Lane

  12. Angela

  13. Lane

  14. Angela

  15. Lane

  16. Angela

  17. Lane

  18. Angela

  19. Lane

  20. Angela

  Epilogue

  Preview of “Patriot”

  Prologue

  Patriot

  Read the Free Prequel

  Also by Trent Jordan

  Prologue

  Lane Carter

  It never got any easier.

  Over a full year had passed since I lost my father and my future fiancée in a single night. That night would forever go down as the worst night of my life, and with two very different reactions from those around me as a result.

  My father’s death, though incredibly sad, was foreseeable given his illness and age. Of course, it saddened me, but once a man hit his age, death was more of a fact of life than something too far into the future to seem real. There just wasn’t much in the way to feel especially sad about. The moment it happened upset me, of course, but as the days went by, I became more and more accepting of it.

  Those in the Black Reapers who had accepted me and seemingly embraced me as their sole President after my father’s decree and the aftermath had a similar reaction. Tears were justifiably shed, emotions were displayed, and vows to live up to my father were given, but all in all, we understood the day would come.

  The loss of my fiancée, Shannon Burns, however...

  God, how that fucking hurt even now.

  A full goddamn year later, and every time I thought about it, I wanted to cry and scream. She was young, with hopes and aspirations of being a big shot in the finance world. She was beautiful, way above what anyone thought I deserved. And she was sweet, the first person I went to after my father’s death. I could rely on her in a way I could no one else, certainly not my goddamn “brother.”

  When that “brother,” Cole, killed her, it was like my sibling by blood had decided to remove himself from the family. I could no longer call him just brother, as I did with my closest friends in the club, like Patriot, but instead just referred to him as “brother” or, better yet, not at all. That motherfucking prick. I knew I should never have trusted him around Shannon.

  As soon as Shannon died, it was like the entire world outside the club fell apart. Her father, a local politician, went from silently supporting us to publicly condemning us, making life in our small town a living hell. Her friends all stopped speaking to me, feeling like I had dragged her into a lifestyle she would never escape from. I was never that close to those around her, but it was never good to make more enemies.

  The sickening and cruelly ironic part was that while her friends and family all felt I was a bad influence—which I sure as hell was not—she was such a good influence that she was going to slowly pull me away from the club’s day-to-day activities, making both of our lives safer. Cole and Axle, our Vice President, were going to handle the daily tasks, while I would oversee the big picture. The detachment would let me lead the club better than Cole ever could, and it would give Shannon and me some safety.

  And now?

  The only person who had safety was Shannon. Why? Because nothing bad could happen to her anymore.

  Death had already taken her—what more could happen? It wasn’t like she had a reputation for keeping secrets. Nothing could tarnish her reputation.

  Her death shook me in a way that none ever had before. If I had said before that my father’s death taught me the Grim Reaper was a neighbor at his age, Shannon’s death really taught me that the Grim Reaper was actually a neighbor all the time.

  It also taught me that Cole was a heartless traitor who deserved to die like the fucking scum that he was. But I already knew that—I just had not known the degree of it.

  These thoughts formed the basis of every bike ride from my home to the graveyard in our town. The ride was always the quietest one I had every Monday morning as I deliberately slowed down and kept my engine quiet out of respect for the dead around me. I even left my apartment in a quiet mood, wanting to set the tone for myself.

  Can’t say that about Cole or some of the other bikers in our MC, the Black Reapers.

  When I hopped off my bike that morning, just after sunrise—I was perhaps the only Black Reaper to maintain what society would call a normal schedule, trying to wake up at seven in the morning and go to bed by midnight—I moved forward to my father’s grave. This one just felt like a matter of paying respects. I knelt before the tombstone, which read:

  “Here lies Roger Carter, a great father, a legendary leader, and a kind soul. Born December 18th, 1940 - Died April 3rd, 2018.”

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, smiling. “Just thought you should know how things are going. Club life is a little tough. We’re getting some heat from the local politicians and the state about guns, but, you know, we’ve gotten through that kind of thing before, I think we’ll get through it again. Still... ”

  I laughed, partially to deflect tears.

  “Still trying to get over what happened to Shannon. I think that one’s a long way away. I... I know I need to avenge her death.”

  I just can’t bring myself to do it. Nor can I ever admit to Dad that I need to kill Cole to avenge her.

  If he even killed her.

  He did. He most certainly did.

  “Other than that, though, life is pretty good. I’m not really worried about the politicians. It’s like you said, they’re just people, too. And people can be worked on to make things better.”

  I knelt there for a full minute longer, trying to think if I needed to say anything else. I never felt like I had all the words I needed in moments like these. No matter how many times I came to the graveyard and no matter how much thought I gave to what had gone on, I could never quite muster the right words. I was skilled in many things and growing in many ways, but finding the words for my father...

  It was like speaking to a legend. What the hell could you possibly say?

  Instead, I just ended with, “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

  I kissed the tombstone, patted it a couple times, and returned to my bike. I revved it quietly and moved it forward a bit, dismounting with a bag of flowers. This one was making me a lot more emotional, and as I moved toward Shannon’s grave, I did my best to fight the tears making their return.

  “Hey, baby,” I said. “It’s been a full year.”

  And just like that, the tears came streaming down.

  “Goddamnit,” I said. “Why did Cole have to kill you? Why? I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

  I let myself act like a slobbering mess. It was the only time in my life these days where I got the chance to let the emotion out. The rest of the time, I had to act detached, cool, and calm to effectively lead the Black Reapers.

  “I failed miserably, and I’ll never forgive myself,” I said. “Understand, baby, I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  But that was the shitty part about graves. No matter how often you spoke to them, they never spoke back. There was a grim finality to them, the realization that the person you had once loved and still loved had not remained a human being with a soul trapped six feet under, but a part of the earth, as much one with the soil as the blade of grass that covered part of the gravestone.

  The first time I had that thought, I fucking bawled.

&nb
sp; “I will do you right, baby,” I said, placing the flowers before her grave. “I will do right by you. I will avenge your death. I will let you live in peace.”

  I will kill Cole. I will kill Lucius and every goddamn Fallen Saint out there. And I will free your soul of this burden.

  I slowly rose, my legs wobbly. As much as I wanted to spend all day here, I could not. Club business would pull me away eventually, and with our “church” meeting, where all the officers gathered, at noon, I definitely could not stay here. Church was one of the few times I had to be fully active with the club.

  “Love you,” I said, kissing the tombstone and rubbing it as I would have rubbed her soft hair.

  When I turned, I saw a young woman with brown, curly hair, pale skin, and professional clothing staring at me through sunglasses. She, too, had flowers. She was too far away to engage in conversation, but she was definitely staring at me. The look was anything but compassionate and understanding.

  I didn’t give a fuck what she wanted. I’d come to make my peace. If she had something to say to me, she could come and say it.

  For now, though, I had to get back to the club life I thought I would have left by now.

  Angela Sanders

  Of all people. Lane Carter.

  The name was like a curse to me, and as I stood waiting for him to finish at the grave of my childhood best friend, I had a sickening reminder of what this town needed.

  A good scrubbing. A damn good scrubbing to remove the bad element.

  The Fallen Saints, yes, but also the Black Reapers, who, contrary to the opinion of some, did not help this town so much as they kept it in an era of vigilantism and nineteenth-century laws of justice. It was my job as deputy district attorney to see the elimination of these two clubs.

  The sooner we did that, the sooner society could move forward. And the sooner we moved forward, the sooner deaths like Shannon’s could be prevented.

  Shannon’s death could have been avoided in the first place if Lane had never taken her to a violent showdown between the Reapers and the Saints. That was like taking a mouse to a war between cats. What the hell did he think was going to happen? I’d known Shannon my entire life, and while she was a sweet girl, her overbearing kindness and empathy for others were her downfall. She could rarely say no to Lane, and it had cost her everything.

  If she could not say no to Lane, then I would. I would make sure of it.

  As he stood up and glared at me, I tried to figure out if he recognized me. The arrogant prick probably did not—he never was one for getting to know Shannon’s friends. He had a way of isolating her from the rest of us that was just so damn infuriating. That was Lane’s approach in general—to remain aloof except with a couple of very close associates, to ignore or stay above the rest, and let everyone figure out what they needed to do on their own.

  It might—might—have been a decent strategy for business and for offices, but for friendships, it was a terrible way to be.

  I wasn’t going to go so far as to say Shannon was in a better place without him, as I still would have liked her alive and with him, but I could say him not hurting one of my friends was...

  Well, the slimmest of silver linings.

  After I had made sure he had left on his bike—an incredibly disrespectful gesture, in my mind, to bring a bike somewhere as quiet and somber as a graveyard—I took my own flowers over to Shannon’s grave, moving Lane’s away so mine would be closer. I patted the tombstone and smiled.

  “Guess what happened, girl,” I said with a smile. “I finally finished my law degree at UCLA. I still have to walk for the diploma, but today is my first day as Deputy District Attorney here. I’m going to finally clean up this town.”

  I laughed as my eyes began to well.

  “I’m sorry you’re not here to see this, but I know you’re watching from above,” I said, my voice somewhere between blubbery and emotional. “I know you’re proud of me. We talked about all that we were going to accomplish as little kids. Girls rule the world, and we were going to do it. And now...”

  I’ll carry the cross of duty for both of us, Shannon. I’ll make sure of it.

  “I will clean this town up,” I said. “I will make you proud. Your father has done so much good work for this town, but he’s going to retire in the next couple of years, and I don’t think he can stay around. Too many bad memories. He’s talked about moving to Florida or Arizona. Either way, I’m going to take over his legacy.”

  I wasn’t about to say this to her, but I was also going to be much tougher on the motorcycle clubs than her father had been. Her father had more or less looked the other way on a lot of questionable behavior, so long as the truly atrocious stuff mattered. He believed that if you let the Reapers and Saints have their fun, the dark stuff would never come.

  To say I disagreed was an enormous understatement. Vandalism, prostitution, drugs, guns—to me, they were like gateway drugs to things like murder, rape, and assault. If a man thought he could get away with one thing, what was to prevent him from doing more? And it wasn’t like this town was free of violence. Where I stood was tragic proof of that.

  I loved Shannon’s father and would never say a bad word about him as an individual, but I truly believed the time for fresh blood had come, most especially from a woman who had the courage to stand up to these assholes.

  “Keep praying for me,” I said as I kissed the ground before her. “I promise I’ll live up to your legacy and make you proud.”

  With that, I rose, waved, and headed back toward my car, a quiet Honda Civic.

  Lane

  A few hours later, around the time when the rest of the normal world had begun their lunch breaks—but the Black Reapers had just begun their day—I pulled up to my father’s shop, Carter’s Auto Repairs, with the clubhouse behind it. The outside had begun to dilapidate a bit, with rust appearing all over the walls. I had wanted some of our prospects to take refurbish it, but either they had not gotten to it, or the officers in the club had not pushed them enough.

  I was beginning to think I needed to light a fire under the asses of some of the more veteran club members. I felt like morale had sunk a bit despite profits increasing and our skirmishes with the Fallen Saints. I wasn’t sure why, because what more could the club want other than results? Nevertheless, I did not want to have to impose my will. Extreme measures like that rarely worked out, and the more I put it in the hands of my men, the better.

  I killed the engine and hopped off my bike, popping my jacket with the “President” patch forward. I moved into the shop, watching closely as everyone worked. Few paid attention to me—everyone was either busy fixing up cars, handling paperwork, or managing some other menial task, like talking to customers. This was as I wanted it to be—I was there to make sure things were running well, not to converse with everyone.

  Contrary to what some of the old ones like Butch and Axle liked to say.

  When Butch ever says anything, that is.

  I headed to our clubhouse, a massive open building at the back end of our shop, and saw Butch. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. Butch, looking like he was taking a break from something, almost never spoke. “Can you take care of this, Butch?” “Yes.” That was a very common type of answer. So long as he got shit done, I could’ve cared less how frequently he spoke.

  I then saw Axle in the office. I waved to him, and he gave a wave back. A former member of the Army, I didn’t think I had ever seen Axle smile in my life. Unlike many of the members here, who had to learn the basics of car care beyond enhancing their bikes, Axle actually gave a shit about cars and other vehicles. He subscribed to all the magazines and spent much of his day browsing different websites. If I were to open a mechanic shop with only one employee, he would be the first option I’d hire to oversee the store.

  As Vice President, he did well enough. He wanted me to get more involved, but part of me couldn’t help but wonder how much of that was about him not having to do so much work. He
never complained about it, but that was as much about his military days as it was his demeanor.

  Of course, if the club actually did need help, I never would have hesitated to give it. I just believed that letting people take ownership of their own matters was a better decision.

  I walked to our “church,” a small conference room where we met once a week, sometimes more depending on the circumstances. Just outside, Father Marcellus—who was a real, actual minister and chaplain—greeted me with a smile and a hug.

  “It is good to see you here, my son,” he said. “The team sometimes wonders where you are and would like to see you.”

  Well, today, I was at the graves of the club founder and my former fiancée. But...

  “I’ll make sure the team knows I appreciate them,” I said with a smile. “Is the morale good otherwise?”

  “Not as much as we would all like,” he said. “The men feel a bit lost. It feels as if our purposes are not as clearly defined as they once were under your father.”

  My father had established purposes perhaps a bit too clearly. The Black Reapers existed as a chance to let men be as they were meant to be, free of the rule of law and free of overly restrictive guidelines the government had set on us. The Black Reapers used their choppers as a means to freedom, but the bike was as symbolic as it was practical—it was meant to represent our fast movement through the world, our complete control over it, and our power over others. The Black Reapers also served the community in ways the law could not. We were fully expected to protect our small town of Springsville, as oftentimes, the police and the local agencies could not.