Chapter One
Eli (Handlebar)
The eerie silence is more unnerving than anything I’ve ever experienced. Stuffed animals are strewn across the floor, the blanket pulled off the bed in disarray. Something is wrong. My gut is telling me nothing will ever be the same again.
Then I hear the singing, a lullaby, so foreign in this house. No one ever sang like that to me as a child. My heart beats an uneven rhythm in my chest. I push back the bedroom door and walk along the hallway, toward a half-open door where the singing comes from.
It was daylight minutes ago, now it’s night, all the dark corners holding something unknown, something sinister. With each step I take, my brain is screaming at me to turn and run. But my feet don’t listen.
What awaits beyond that door is going to destroy me. Still, I keep moving, keep heading towards that voice, so sweet yet the intent behind it drips with pure evil.
When I push the door open, my nightmares greet me. My screams rip through the air, and I grab my head, falling to my knees, totally helpless.
And she continues to sing while my entire world ends…
I jerk awake with a start, almost falling off the chair. My heart is pounding, I was so lost in the nightmare. It takes a few seconds to figure out where the fuck I am.
Sweat trickles down my spine and across my brow. The smell of oil and gasoline, the sound of metal hitting metal, voices shouting back and forth, slowly come back to me.
I’m at the compound. The Devil’s Chaos MC Chapter in Sussex, New Jersey. Not in Talladega, Alabama. Not a frightened child being confronted by my worst nightmare.
Swiping a hand over my face, I drop my legs off the desk. I rarely fall asleep on the job, but I’m tired. Nightmares are plaguing me. Falling asleep at home in my quiet house is getting harder.
Still, I hate falling asleep here. It isn’t like my brothers won’t be sympathetic to the situation. If they knew. I’ve never told a soul about these nightmares, or the reason behind them.
“Hey, boss, that lady is here with the Buick!” A shout comes from below on the shop floor.
I rub a hand over my short dark hair and give my head a shake, trying to brush off the nightmare. It won’t work, it always lingers for a few hours after. The only thing to do is get up, go into the garage and pick up some tools.
This is my solace, working on anything mechanical. I self-taught myself all about engines, mechanics and robotics. Anything unfeeling and uncaring about the world brought me away from the memories of my childhood.
I’m happy here with the MC. Ending up in a motorcycle club was the furthest thing from my mind back then, but I’d found my place. These people are family to me. Not the one I was born into.
Dirt, the Sargent-at-Arms for the club, found me at a traveling carnival when I was nineteen. I’d been with them for about three years. It was the first place I’d felt comfortable enough to stick around longer than a few months.
Plus, I had passed eighteen by then, no longer a missing minor. I was so far from home, I was safe.
It helped that the carnie guys never asked questions. They didn’t care about my past, just what I could do for them. Fixing things likemachinery, rides and vehicles came naturally to me. I was worth my weight in gold, though they paid me less than the minimum wage.
All I cared about was having a place to sleep, regular meals and I got to travel the country. It was perfect.
Dirt’s bike broke down while on a run, and someone recommended he come to the carnival. Dirt eyed the shabby trailers and the old broken-down cars we drove, but he saw something in me and decided to trust me. I didn’t let him down. I took his bike apart and put it back together within a day. He said it had never run so well, even brand new.
The praise didn’t mean anything to me. It was second nature.
The bikers intrigued me with their leather cuts and their gruff attitudes. Not getting into anyone’s business was my way of life. Once I handed off the bike, I got back to my work.
A few days later, on their way back through town, Dirt stopped to make me an offer.
The nomadic lifestyle I’d led meant I wasn’t afraid of change. It pissed off the carnie guys I was leaving, but I had no contract, no ties. I picked up a cheap bike, not knowing what the future held. If it didn’t stick, I’d leave.
It stuck. For sixteen years I’ve been a part of this MC. Living anywhere else is unimaginable. I adjust my overalls, tightening the sleeves around my waist. I rarely wear them all the way up like the others. It isn’t about vanity. I run hot, and thick overalls make me uncomfortable. Not to mention it’s hotter than balls today.
I head for the 1955 Buick Super Convertible parked in my bay, my undivided attention on the car. Touching the hood and examining the fender portholes gets me excited. Ducking, I peer through the driver’s side vent window.
Mentally, I inventory what I’m working with. The car is a soft top, with moss growing on the roof. That will need replacing. The bench seats in the back look fine, but the front one is torn in places. I’ll have to get inside to see if re-covering or replacing is required. One of the tail fins is missing. It has redline tires and, at least on this side, both Buick-branded hubcaps.
I lift the hood and check inside. The engine is shot, the car hasn’t been started in over fifteen years.
