Diablo Disciples MC

Chains – Exclusive First Chapter

Only three biker sleeps to go.

“Who’s the dead whore?”

“Not your next girlfriend unless you like ‘em cold and stiff.”

Chains heard a chuckle from the gathered crowd of his brethren, staring at the poor sack of meat that was once a known hooker in the area.

She’s now as dead as dead got.

Her slim, almost skeletal, drug-ruined body was twisted into an awkward, broken shape on the cold concrete. Her once dark hair was matted in blood from whatever caved her skull in; being hit repeatedly had half her head poured out onto the ground.

Fuck. He had a robust steel-like stomach that didn’t get grossed out by much, but this shit was for a True Crime show.

Poor bitch wasted what little of a tragic life she had.

And now she’d landed on their doorstep like a gift no one wanted.

Dropping to his haunches, the coppery tang of blood in his nose, Chains gloved hand gripped the woman’s chin and turned her head to the good side that wasn’t bashed in.

“Anyone recognizes her?”

“Nah, VP, never seen her face before.”

“Reno means he don’t recognize her snatch, boss.” Chortled one of the new probies who’d been with the club a couple of months. Chains rose to his feet and turned a dark stare on the young kid. “Have some fucking respect, shithead. It could be your sister lying on the ground.”

The kid turned red and lowered his head, “sorry, boss.”

“She’s not one of your girls?” Asked Reno, who’d followed behind when he got the call about a body in the alleyway behind his club.

“I hire strippers, not hookers.”

“No disrespect to the corpse, but how can you tell the difference?”

“She has track marks, rotten teeth, smells like she hasn’t bathed in weeks. I don’t let my girls do drugs. The meth look isn’t fucking attractive to paying customers, ya dig? Goddammit, this is the last thing we need now. Reno, call in the cleaner, tell them it’s an asap job. That asshole is gonna charge double. Mouse, go with him.” The probie lumbered after Reno, leaving Chains and a silent Ruin in the alleyway with the foul stench of the dumpster and a dead body. It was a fresh dump because Chains had parked in this alleyway a few hours back to call in for the monthly takings, and he’d have seen a dead hooker littering his alley.

“You fucked any hookers and pissed off her pimp this month?” he asked of his enforcer, standing casually with his foot against the brick wall while he scrolled on his phone. Ruin’s dark head rose, looking bored, and he grunted before looking back at his phone again. “Yeah, yeah, you silent dick, you don’t do hookers. You might as well head back to the club, brother. Nothing to do here until she’s moved.”

Ruin pushed himself off the wall and, without a word, strode down the shadowy side street and around the corner where his bike was parked. Chains had no time to think about the enforcer’s weird demeanor, not when he had a dead whore on his hands.

That made three kills dumped around Laketon, Utah, in the past few weeks.

Serial killer?

Or some perverted weirdo who took his sex games too seriously?

Chains wasn’t a cold-hearted biker.

He could feel sorry for the dead hooker outside of his business but still not give a fuck about her at the same time. But didn’t want this shit on his doorstep. Thanks to the club’s substantial payment to the cleaner, the problem would disappear with no DNA left behind if the cops came sniffing around.

The cleaner arrived shortly, and Chains waited inside nursing a glass of neat scotch, sitting at the bar while they did their thing.

The cleaner always gave him the willies.

She was a weird woman who made death disappear. With a banging body and a face made for fashion, Chains was betting the woman was dead inside if she trudged through blood, puke, and piss regularly and didn’t blink at the disturbing scenes.

The club was fortunate she worked for them, but Chains had never tried to fuck the cleaner; he reckoned it would be like climbing into bed with the grim reaper.

Once the text came through that the problem was gone, he wired the money over, and not a minute later, he laughed as he stepped down off the stool, seeing her recent text saying thanks, with a skull emoji.

“Sicko.” He muttered, amused.

Blowing hot air into his clasped-inked hands, Chains warded off the chilly night air as he lumbered out of his strip club, into the street, and around to where his Harley was parked. No wonder he felt tired, It was closing in on 3 a.m., lunatics didn’t have any manners when they were doing their murdering these days. The bastards could have waited until Chains caught some decent shut-eye.

The club was closer than his house. He’d usually head home, but his tired body wanted to get horizontal before falling over after being in Vegas for a long weekend. Had he known the mess he was coming back to, he might have extended his trip instead of riding all day.

About thirty years ago, the clubhouse was a brewery, until the former Prez scraped together the money to buy the dilapidated building for a song. It took Axel and Chains to make it into the club he saw as he rode through the gates, after two prospects opened them for him. They weren’t always so gate happy. Every vehicle once upon a time could come and go as they pleased, but the Mexican cartel firebombed the Prez’s house in the recent past. Luckily no one was hurt, but they’d put extra security measures in place ever since Axel’s grandkids came along.

The clubhouse stood on its own land, with no other buildings around them, and was about a block in size. Red bricks had long since been painted black, three floors high, the second floor mainly used for bedrooms, and the top floor was storage and extra flop space if they had out-of-towners to host.

Climbing down off his Harley Davidson Sport, Chains’ jaw cracked with a yawn, so fucking tired, he could sleep his ass down on the asphalt. So when he strode into the club doors after thumbing in his code, he was in no mood for the smart mouth of one of the night owls drinking at the bar.

“Look what the cat dragged home. No showgirl on your arm, VP?”

The loudmouth was still soaking wet behind the ears, young but had an old lady at home and two kids. But there was a sweet bottom sitting on his lap. Chains glared at Forger and kept on walking.

“You keep mouthing off, and I’m gonna fuck your mom and give her a kid she actually loves.”

The idiot prospect laughed at Chains’ joke, like he thought he wouldn’t go through with it.

Few knew that Chains always told the truth.

A threat or a promise, they called it his superpower.

Jon ‘Chains’ Shaye wasn’t born in the biker lifestyle; he didn’t have a dad who loved a hog and brought him in as a legacy; he’d had a whole other everyday life before he’d found his deliverance. He came to the MC in his late twenties, and now standing at six-foot-five and age thirty-nine, people would swear he’d always bled the ride or die way of living.

But as he closed the door to his room, glancing at the queen-size bed as he shucked off his pieces of denim and club cut, Chains wasn’t thinking about threats or promises.

He was going to sleep like a dead man.

Not even bothering to pull back the covers, he fell bare-assed onto the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and was out for the count before the first fat sheep jumped over the hedge.

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Manhattan Protector – Exclusive First Chapter

Only three cranky bodyguard sleeps to go!

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Check out the standalone series HERE

Some problems needed patience.

Other challenges required a spanking.

It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet, and I knew which option I was veering toward.

Rounding the corner, my legs ache from exertion, letting me know I’ve probably run more than the usual nine miles, but there’s a little way left to go, so I don’t stop.

Instead, I mull over the dilemma, knowing there’s no solution I can willingly face, or I would have done it at any point during the last two years when the same issues arose. It was as though I enjoyed the tightened noose I’d put around my neck.

Having prided myself on successful assignments for more than a decade of growing my security business, a sought-after firm in New York. The most long-term client we’ve had, is an infuriating nuisance. Though I’ve tried to hand the job off to others many times, it always backfires in my face because she prefers me.

Huffing in the cool morning air as I pound the ground beneath me, the cold sweat clings to the back of my shirt.

Sometimes running helps.

Other times, like today, it’s something to do to keep me steady and in control.

I live a solitary life. Some would accuse I live for my work, and they might be right. Drinking only when I want to, I don’t date, getting what I want from women when the urge takes me. Socializing is kept to a minimum. My family isn’t huge, so there aren’t many gatherings to attend, though I see my nana every week to make sure she’s okay and has everything she needs. Luckily, it’s easy to pay for services to ensure she is taken care of.

I like my life the way it is.

It’s taken me years to get to a place of comfort, unbothered by others.

So what if I’m a workaholic? How can that be a bad thing?

It’s not a disconnect. It’s self-preservation. Or so I thought.

And then this client happened and shot all the shit I knew out of the water.

Having spent my early twenties, as most men do, obsessed with using their dick and getting wasted, chasing pussy and not giving a damn about the future, I’d started my business out small and grew it myself. It centered me, gave me a purpose, and now I’m thirty-seven, it’s hard to recognize that person from a decade ago.

Bodyguarding is a full-time endeavor.

I’d entered Columbus Circle to Central Park more than an hour ago, taking the looped areas most joggers take. But at stupid o’clock, when I prefer to run, it wasn’t so busy that I was tripping over slow bodies.

I’m not fond of mouth breathers being too near when I need quiet to think.

Getting a call at 6 a.m. to let me know she insisted on leaving the apartment. Again. Lying in bed this morning with only enough sleep to stop my brain from malfunctioning, I could feel my blood pressure rising through the fucking roof. Picturing her in those tight pink yoga pants she prances around in each morning. I could only imagine the barista’s eyes bugging out of his young head when he saw her waltzing into the coffee shop, a smile on her face, happy to see everyone and talking like they were old friends.

I put out that fire with one call, but had to come for a run before I knew the next flames would appear.

They always do.

For two years, I’ve been putting out fires left and right.

Not infernos.

Not even raging bonfires.

But flickering flames, every single day.

Every other job I take is a cakewalk.

Senators, celebrities, dignitaries. Nothing goes wrong. I hire only the best ex-military people who know how to handle themselves and protect those we’re paid to keep alive.

Nothing goes wrong.

Not once.

And we’ve all been in dicey situations where our skills came to the forefront. I’ve dealt with enough crazies over the years, and nothing interfered with my professionalism.

She intimidates my people because she’s too nice, too giving, and caring, with no spatial awareness of what personal boundaries she might be crossing.

She wants to know their life story. What makes them tick, laugh, and cry?

She tries to help them, feed them, give advice to better their lives.

I’ve never known anyone to give that much of a shit about another person and not expect a thing in return.

It’s always something, even when I’ve made it known they’re there to do a job, not become her best friend.

If there was a modern-day Pollyanna, then she was it.

And then I feel a vibration at the top of my arm, and a sigh coats out of me as I come to a slow stop, my lungs burning as I rub a hand through my damp hair and yank the phone from the holster sitting on my bicep.

“Yes?” I bark. Expecting what Tony on the other end is going to say.

“Boss, you’re needed.”

Of course, I am.

The groan gusts out of me like a downpour.

I should stop to take a shower first, but I don’t.

It’s as though my feet know where we’re going and take me there against my will. So by the time I was let into the exclusive building in the financial district by the security guards I vetted personally, and took the elevator up to the 10th floor. I’m cold with sweat clinging to the damp, hooded running jacket.

Tony opens the door after checking it is me, and I stride inside, arching a brow at him, silently accusing his pussy-ass of fearing a little girl.

Tony is ex SAS, for fuck’s sake. He’s been to war zones; he guarded the last president and traveled on the tour bus with a one-hit-wonder pop star who caused holy hell with drugs and hookers, but Tony panics around one British woman who likes to chat.

“I should fire you,” I rumble as he scrapes a hand over his dark hair, half-smiling.

Not midday and yet already it has been a long fucking day.

Though, most of them are when your entire job is keeping another person alive.

“Nah, you like me around too much, boss,” he jokes. “You know she prefers you. I’ll be outside,” he adds and makes his escape. It was noted he carried a container of food with him. Pussy.

Advancing into the sprawling three-bed apartment, my gaze clocks on the people already here. Her place is rarely empty of bodies. It gets claustrophobic as fuck, but she likes the company.

Today it’s her assistant, a manager, and a publicist. They call out hellos, but I only jut my chin in greeting. Without coffee, I can’t be responsible for the unfiltered sarcasm to come out of my mouth.

And then there she is.

Strutting out of the bedroom.

Grey yoga shorts, a flowing shirt billowing around her stomach.

And a ready smile when she sees me.

At that moment, I feel every one of my thirty-seven years.

Like an old man looking at a rare diamond.

A twenty-five-year-old British bombshell.

Katarina Young. The it-girl in the modeling world. On every billboard and catwalk. Wanted by men, coveted by thousands.

The bane of my fucking life.

Okay, she’s not.

She’s a good client, hardly whines at all, no matter what I tell her to do for her safety.

But it doesn’t stop my back teeth from clenching together the closer she gets.

This irritation isn’t new.

It bore life the week I started guarding her.

Katarina’s smile brightens, and it changes the atmosphere in the room. It constantly changes the mood, especially within my veins.

My teeth clench harder.

My day of solitude has gone to hell. I at least expected to see her in some form of trouble if I had to come in on my one day off this month.

Instead, she keeps smiling, and I scowl.

“Why am I here?”

Her eyes round but don’t lose any of the twinkle. She sips from a tumbler of whatever smoothie it is today. Katarina is big on smoothies instead of actual chewable food. Some dumb advice from one of her shit-for-brains team who hired a nutritionist that told her it would be the end of the world if she dared to gain a pound.

“Don’t ask me. One minute I was talking to Tony, and then he’s crying on the phone to you.” She shrugs.


Fucking wonderful.

That meant she’d over shared or pushed her little nose into Tony’s business and badgered my elite bodyguard to death.

Turning on my heel, I head for the door.

My shadow is behind me as she slurps on the end part of the smoothie.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I warn. “Tony is outside. Don’t bother him; he’s here to work, not get life advice from a little girl.”

“Hardly little, but I won’t talk to Tony, seeing as he’s so sensitive and needs daddy to hold his hand.” I hear the amusement in her voice. When I shoot a glance over my shoulder, she’s looking at my ass. Her gaze travels up slowly until our eyes meet.

“You’re terribly sweaty, Iceman.”

My nickname on her lips goes through me like an atom bomb detonating, and my jaw cracks from how tight I’m grinding it.

“I’ll be back. Don’t move your ass from this apartment, Katarina.”

She laughs at the silent or else tacked on at the end.

Not the first time I’ve had to threaten the modeling world princess.

She rarely listens.
Copyright© V. Theia 2022.