Deadline to Damnation: Sons of Templar #7 Read online

  Things that told me someone smart was hiding under a cliché.

  The security, for a start. There were cameras covering every single angle of the entrance, and the gate was manned and guarded by a man wearing a cut with no patch and the bottom rocker reading ‘Prospect.’

  The man in question had given me a long look as I approached. And there was the healthy male hunger that my outfit was designed to awaken. But there was something else. A wary glint that told me he wasn’t going to let me in because I was showing off a lot of skin, my makeup was heavy, and my tits were decent.

  And he didn’t.

  He checked my purse.

  It was small. Tacky. Cheap. Worn in. It went perfectly with the persona I’d slipped into for the story.

  “Pretty as you are, doesn’t mean you’re not a killer. Pretty will get you a lot of places, but not into the wrong ones,” he drawled, flashing his phone light into my purse.

  I hadn’t thought they’d be doing this, but I didn’t have anything to hide in there.

  He picked up my gun with a raised eyebrow.

  I didn’t carry a gun regularly, but the woman I was pretending to be did.

  “Pretty as I am doesn’t mean ugly things can’t happen to me,” I said calmly.

  I swallowed the rock that was the truth of that statement.

  Maybe he saw something in my eyes before I could hide it. Men like this lived in violence and ugliness, so I guessed it was easier to spot in someone trying to hide it. But then again, I needed to utilize all my ugliness if I was going to get the story.

  He put the gun back in my purse. “Gonna let you keep this, because you’re not wrong. Ugly things happen to everyone.” His eyes went up and down my body that didn’t feel sexual, merely inquisitive. “Even the prettiest.” He handed me my purse, I took it, but he didn’t let go for a beat. “I’ll also tell you something different, to paraphrase Sonny Barger ‘you treat me good, I’ll treat you better. You treat me bad, I’ll treat you worse.’” He nodded his head to the clubhouse. “Somethin’ to remember in there. Pretty means some, but not everything. And it means nothin’ if you mean the club harm.”

  A cold blade of dread trailed down my spine.

  Did he know who I was? Did he know what I was doing? Was he giving me one last warning before I strode into the Gates of Hell?

  But I was beyond warnings at this point. Hell wasn’t a place. No, it was a feeling.

  I didn’t hesitate to walk into the building once he stepped aside.

  For better or for worse, I was committed to the story.

  “Yeah, I just moved here,” I said, replying to the slurring man.

  ‘Moved’ was a stretch. I was renting the shittiest, cheapest apartment in town. And though the town was small, it was big enough to have a ‘good’ side and a ‘bad’ side. I was living in a place with a dried-out pool and paper-thin walls to keep up my backstory and to keep myself afloat financially. I was still paying rent on my apartment in Castle Springs and though I had some good chunks of money coming in from some freelance work I did, I had to make it last. The life of a journalist was not glamorous, and the pay was shit. Even when you’re good—which I was—and getting paid more than what most of your colleagues are—which I also was—there was no way to get rich from the job.

  I didn’t want riches. I just wanted to tell people’s stories. Live their pain. For no moral reason other than to use it to insulate me from my own.

  “Well, if you’re new, then you definitely need someone to take care of you,” the man said, getting in my personal space so I could smell the whisky and smoke on his breath.

  It wasn’t displeasing, nor was the inebriated man. He was relatively good looking, the muscles, menace, and tattoos adding to it all. In a time before this, a life before this, I didn’t like men that radiated danger. Scarred by the truths and trials of the world.

  Because before all this, I had a man. One who was safe, who didn’t have hulking muscles, scars, tattoos and that radiating air of menace. And who hurt me worse than any outlaw could.

  I smiled a smile that was venom and syrup. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, I can do that for myself.” I glanced around pointedly. “And if I was looking for someone to take care of me, do you think that I’d be here?”

  The low thump of rock music was loud enough so we almost had to shout, and so the man in front of me had to lean right into my personal space to make himself heard.

  But I didn’t really have personal space anymore. Life had ripped away that illusion. I stiffened but made sure to keep my persona, it fit me as well as the tight dress I was wearing.

  He grinned, revealing white, slightly crooked teeth. “I’m Claw.”

  I raised my brow at the name.

  He shrugged and it was an oddly boyish gesture for the man wearing a knife strapped to his belt and a Glock on a shoulder holster.

  Every single man here was armed.

  And somewhat inebriated.

  But I didn’t think they were the kind to accidentally and drunkenly discharge their weapon. Nor did I think they were too inebriated to spring into action if a threat presented itself.

  Claw furrowed his brows, observing me in a way that made me feel more uncomfortable than his previous leer. “Sure you haven’t been here before? You look familiar.”

  I did my best not to react. I had gone to great pains to change my appearance on the off chance the men here regularly watched news coverage. I got recognized, not often, since people were more likely to recognize reality TV stars than conflict reporters. But enough to know it was a risk—a big one—coming in here without changing the face that would make me a target.

  Journalists were not welcome here.

  For obvious reasons.

  So I’d died my blonde hair a dark brown, had my ringlets chemically straightened, put on heavy makeup to hide the freckles I’d gained from hours in unyielding sunlight in the Middle East. My trademark red lipstick was gone, replaced by a bright pink gloss that made my lips full and sexy.

  Funny, considering how little clothing I was wearing, it was the absence of that red lipstick that made me feel almost naked.

  “Trust me, I’m one of a kind, if I’d been here before, you’d remember me,” I replied, winking, shaking off the feeling that he recognized me. He couldn’t. And me acting anything but confident would make me a target.

  He grinned again.

  I exhaled.

  I’d dodged a bullet.

  And I had a feeling there were plenty more to come.

  Chapter Two

  Three Weeks Later

  It was my third Friday here.

  As I sauntered in, now used to the huge heels I wore every time I was here, I was met with chin lifts, ass slaps, and grins.

  They knew me now.

  Because I made sure they did. I flirted with the right guys, kissed the wrong ones, and slept with none of them.

  And that was probably why they knew me here, because if I’d slept with one—or all—of them, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of remembering my name.

  That didn’t mean I wasn’t memorable in bed.

  I totally was.

  But these men lived a hard and dangerous life. They forgot what was easy, women being at the top of that list.

  I wasn’t easy.

  Which was why I was remembered.

  Why three different men had tried to haul me onto their laps as I sauntered through the party on platform heels that I knew where tacky and would never wear in the real world.

  My real world.

  I wasn’t even sure about what was real to me. I traded warzones as one would change offices, was only at ‘home’ long enough to throw out plants I’d killed and buy new ones. I didn’t have time to keep and maintain friendships, coffee dates or get addicted to a show on Netflix. My personal style for the past handful of years had been whatever was practical, culturally appropriate and usually topped off with a bulletproof vest for good measure.

&
nbsp; This was yet another protective outfit—a leather mini skirt with a bright red cropped top that showed off my ample assets and my flat mid-section. I was wearing far less than I would on any battlefield in the Middle East. But in this current situation, it protected me more than a bulletproof vest would.

  My job was to blend in, and if I wore something I was more comfortable in—like jeans and a plaid shirt with discounted Gucci sneakers, I’d stand out. And not in a good way.

  So I dressed similar to the other women who were peppered around the room. They did not remember my name. Mainly because there were only a small handful of regulars these past three Fridays—the rest banished from beds in the early hours with a story and maybe an STD.

  It had only been a few months since all the club girls had been murdered along with most of the club, so these were new. None of them seeming to be permanent. I wondered if they were scared of being gunned down or if the men were hesitant to have the blood of more women on their hands.

  The club girls weren’t as friendly as the men, they viewed me as competition, and the ones that didn’t only managed to get in a few pleasantries before they were dragged off by a man in a cut.

  That all changed with a blonde knockout who I hadn’t seen before.

  She sauntered up to me with a sober gaze and probing eyes.

  Fuck.

  This was a woman who saw through bullshit, I could tell that already. If I wasn’t careful, it wasn’t going to be a man that brought me down.

  “Caroline, is it?” she said in greeting, making the prospect on the stool beside me scutter off with nothing but a sharp look.

  I raised my brow in appreciation. “It is.” Keeping with my real name was a calculated risk. Well, my real first name at least. I hoped that no one got curious enough about me to do a Google image search, and if they did, I hoped my appearance held up.

  I’d gone as far as making a fake Instagram for ‘Caroline Woods’ months ago, peppering a lot of sexy selfies, various quotes and images of life on the road. Cheap motels, cheaper bars, sunsets with stupid quotes attached to them.

  “Scarlett,” the blonde said, taking a beer from the bartender.

  I nodded in response.

  She was definitely a Scarlett from her platinum blonde hair to her hourglass body, to her blood red nails.

  “I’ve heard you’ve been here the last three weeks, and that’s all well and good, we throw a good party,” she said, sipping on her beer. She paused, probing eyes settling on me. “But you haven’t fucked any of the men, you don’t have one of your own, because if you did, you wouldn’t be going to a biker party alone for three Fridays in a row. And though there are surely a few duds in the mix, none of these men are exactly ugly.” She glanced around the room pointedly before moving back to me. “You don’t come to a Sons’ party to be chaste. What’s your deal?”

  Her arched brow and lack of polite smile were calmly hostile.

  I liked her immediately.

  “I like a party,” I said, shrugging, downing my own beer.

  She was an Old Lady. I knew this because I recognized her from my research. She’d been a ‘club girl’ for years. Which meant that she was pretty much passed around every member like property. The idea in itself was repulsive, but the woman in front of me told me she was no one’s property, and no way had she been some kind of docile victim in her life here. None of the club girls I’d witnessed had.

  It wasn’t a prison.

  It was an alternate lifestyle.

  A life beyond the bounds, rules, and laws of society, but somehow still wrapped up in classic patriarchy. Women were only attached to the club if they were wives, girlfriends, or whores.

  The beautiful blonde knockout looked me up and down with an expert eye. She had a hardness about her that I had come to recognize on soldiers who’d seen some of the worst things humans could see. Photojournalists forced to document suffering instead of help. Shit, I saw it in the mirror when I really looked, which wasn’t often.

  “You’re not going to find Prince Charming here, darlin’,” she continued.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “My world isn’t driven by the search for Prince Charming, trust me,” I said honestly. That tender part of my heart that even war couldn’t harden convulsed at a memory. “I’m just here because I like to party. Like to be somewhere that is real. Wrong.” I shrugged. “Not pretending to be something it isn’t.”

  I knew I couldn’t hang out indefinitely without sleeping with someone. It would make me stand out, and when you were a journalist looking to break a story on one of the most notorious MCs in the country, you didn’t want to stand out.

  Not if you wanted to live.

  I wanted to live.

  But I also wanted the story.

  So I had a choice to make. As Scarlett had said, it wasn’t exactly a hardship to sleep with one—or many—of the muscled, tattooed and menacing bikers. I wasn’t a virgin. Nor was I a prude. I learned to separate sex from emotions right after I attached far too many emotions to it.

  I used it as a stress reliever.

  When you’re in the middle of the battle zone, sex is more of a reminder that you’re alive than anything else, a base human interaction that your body craves after seeing, breathing and touching death.

  I had a regular thing going with a photojournalist from Sweden.

  We both knew the score.

  I hadn’t heard from him since I’d been back.

  He could be dead for all I knew.

  It was better not to know.

  So using sex for a story wasn’t something that was beyond my journalistic morals or ethics. Morals had little place in the real world. And if I wasn’t going to use sex, then I’d have to find something more creative and a heck of a lot less legal as a reason to find myself in the clubhouse.

  And Scarlett seemed to be my guardian angel in that respect. If angels wore tight red dresses with a neckline that plunged almost to her belly button and hemline barely covering her ass.

  “Can you tend a bar?” she asked after a beat, after assessing me with those hard, sharp eyes and coming to some kind of conclusion about me.

  I was outwardly calm, forcing myself not to think she’d recognized me. Even if the men had seen me on the news, I doubt they’d connect the woman on screen in the bulletproof vest and dirty helmet labeled ‘Press’ with the brunette who had blowjob lips and half her tits out.

  Women, on the other hand, were more observant. More dangerous.

  I regarded her for a long second, sipping my beer. “Slinging cocktails put me through college,” I said. It was the truth. Because when working with big lies, it was important to tell as many small truths as possible.

  She grinned and it made me relax. It wasn’t an easy smile, something told me this woman didn’t smile easily, it wasn’t exactly warm either, but it was genuine. “Can’t say this job will be slinging many cocktails, unless Gwen or fuckin’ Amy find themselves up here, in that case, you better know how to make a Cosmo. Or at least surrender the bar so they can make them themselves.”

  “Gwen and Amy?” I repeated, though I knew exactly who they were. Though the club had tried to keep the events of the past few years in Amber quiet, it didn’t completely escape notice, considering Amy Abrams was the daughter of a prominent New York family. Both her and Gwen Alexandra—now Fletcher—were regulars on Page Six before they both moved to Amber.

  Both of them going through various traumas throughout their courtships with the now president and vice of the Sons of Templar MC.

  “Old Ladies,” Scarlett continued. “Amber chapter.” She paused. “Fuck, I guess I’m one of them now too,” she muttered as an afterthought. Then her heavily black-rimmed eyes went to a man in the corner who had had his eyes on her since she approached me. I knew this because I knew how to read the room. Especially the danger in it. Especially dangerous men who were hot as anything and bore a striking resemblance to WWE wrestlers.

  �
��Your Old Man, I’m guessing?” I nodded my head in the direction of the man who was staring at Scarlett’s ass.

  She grinned, turning to give him a heated look. “Yeah, still getting used to that title.” She turned back to me. “I’m not exactly in this chapter anymore, but Hansen mentioned the club finally bit the bullet—so to speak—and bought The Rock. Cheaper than paying for damages whenever there are brawls or shootouts every weekend. Need a bartender.” She looked me up and down. “You scare easily? Squeamish with blood?”

  I thought about the explosions that had rocked me to sleep, about the bodies strewn on the side of the road, rogue limbs after a car bomb. “No and no.”

  She nodded once. “Didn’t think so. Reckon you can handle yourself with this lot too. I’m not gonna say that their bark is worse than their bite, ‘cause they don’t bite as much as rip your fucking head off if you cross them.” She didn’t smile as she said this.

  Another warning.

  That strange feeling hit me again. That certainty that Scarlett knew what I was doing and was giving me another out.

  If I said no, then I might be able to walk out of here with a tame story that might sell as a back-page interest story. Or it would become a memory.

  I nodded once. “So noted.”

  “You start tomorrow.”

  * * *

  One Week Later

  “Caroline, when are you gonna finally realize you’re in love with me and get your fine ass on the back of my bike?” Claw asked as I handed him his beer.

  I flashed him a genuine smile—him, and many of the men had grown on me in the past week since I’d started at the bar. Now that the club owned it, they were here almost every night. Which was perfect for me. I’d met every member, even the club’s recently patched president, Hansen. He’d been friendly and told me to let him know if anyone gave me any trouble.

  It almost made me feel bad about what I was doing.

  But there was no room for emotions in stories. I had practice at emotionally distancing myself from humanity when I was writing about it.

  “When are you finally gonna realize that just because you haven’t slept with me doesn’t mean you’re in love with me?” I countered, pouring a whisky for Sven, a blond-haired, tanned Norse fricking god of a man.