Angels from Hell: A Biker Erotic Romance

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

  Angels from Hell copyright @ 2014 by A. L. Summers. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

  ANGELS FROM HELL

  I follow the slow moving U-Haul down the narrow streets, tired and strung out. It has been a long day and a tough year. All I can say is, “Thank God for Charlie.” I goose my Honda Accord. Technically, I run the red light; but, if I lose the truck now I won’t have a clue where to go.

  Charlie brings the truck to a stop at the next light. As I wait for the light to turn green, I rub my tired eyes. Fifteen hours in a car is just too damn long. At least we are almost home. Well, to Charlie’s home anyway. While I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, I reflect on the unfairness of life.

  I was always the responsible one. I was the one who went to school, got good grades, and stayed out of trouble. That is the past. Now, here I sit, depending on the charity of my little brother.

  Life had been going so well, too. I had a good job, a nice place to live, and a new car. At least I still have the car. Six months ago, the diagnostic lab that I managed was bought out by a larger company and I was out. They gave me a generous severance, but that was no substitute for a good job.

  Still reeling from that, three months ago I received notice from my landlord that the apartment complex where I have been a good and faithful tenant for six years was being converted into luxury condominiums. Because I was a current tenant, I had first dibs on available units. Unfortunately, since two apartments were to be combined to form one condo, I had ninety days to move out. I was in a jam. I had no job and no place to live. I couldn’t even go home, since Mom and Dad sold the farm before they passed away.

  I hear the grumble of the truck engine and put my hands on the wheel, blinking away the spots. Here I am. Everything I own is in the back of that truck and I’m heading to my brother’s house.

  Charlie had ridden up yesterday on his bike to drive the truck back today. I snort at the unfairness of it all. The wild and carefree little brother bailing out the conservative and careful big sister.

  Charlie turns the truck into the parking lot of a grocery store and parks the truck at the end of the lot. I wheel the Honda into the spot next to it and kill the engine. I have to get out of the car, if only for a few minutes.

  “Welcome to Asheville, North Carolina, Claire. Oh, and by the way, happy birthday,” Charlie says with a grin. “The big three-five today. Woo!” he says, waving his hands about with mock excitement.

  My sour mood lightens and I can feel my face break into a smile. It’s not Charlie’s fault I’m in this mess. “Thank you, Charlie,” I say. “For everything.”

  “Nah,” Charlie says, as he begins to unstrap his bike from the trailer attached to the U-Haul. “If you can’t abuse your family, who can you abuse?” he asks with a grin.

  “I’ll try to make it up to you,” I say. He had found me a job and is putting me up for a few weeks, until I can get moved into my new apartment. I can’t help but feel like I owe him something more than just my gratitude.

  “Are you kidding?” Charlie exclaims. “I’m glad you’re here. Brings a little respectability to the Decker name, Ms. Head of Mission Hospital Laboratory.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I say, feeling my eyes tear up in appreciation.

  “Bah,” Charlie says. “When I told Doctor Webber about you, I couldn’t write the contact information down fast enough for him. The rest? Well, that’s what brothers are for, right?”

  As Charlie undoes the last strap, I give him a hug. I would have never guessed that the bratty kid who was always tearing around the farm on one beat up motorcycle or another would turn into the man I see in front of me. I release Charlie and smile. “You’ve come a long way since Green Bay.”

  “Yeah…and I feel it in my ass, too,” he says with a grin.

  ***

  We leave the truck locked up in the grocery store parking lot for the night. Tomorrow a group of his motorcycle friends will unload the truck into a storage unit I’m renting until my apartment is ready. All for the price of pizza and beer, too.

  I follow Charlie as he putt-putts through town on his bike, wondering yet again how anyone can depend solely on a motorcycle for transportation. But then, that’s Charlie. He has always been fascinated with the things. It nearly broke Mom’s heart when he announced he was leaving the family farm outside of Green Bay to move to Asheville to work as a mechanic at a Harley-Davidson dealership.

  I haven’t seen Charlie in five years, not since Mom and Dad’s funeral. At the time, I thought it was scandalous when he arrived on a motorcycle. He wore riding leathers with Kings of Chaos burned into the back. The next morning, he was as neatly dressed in a suit and tie. He looked like any of the mourners. I assumed that the day of the funeral was the exception for his attire. When he arrived to help me move, I knew I would see his true self. I expected Dennis Hopper from Easy Rider, but Charlie arrived just as clean cut and even more handsome than the last time I saw him.

  I pull into the drive of his townhouse as he backs his bike into the one car garage. He parks it next to another motorcycle. I assume that one must belong to Shep, Charlie’s roommate. As I walk through the garage, I look at the array of tools and the other two bikes. One is a Harley, similar to Charlie’s but not as fancy. The other, turned sideways at the back, is what Charlie calls a crotch rocket. “Whose bikes are these?” I ask as carry my overnight bag through the garage.

  Charlie slaps the remote on the wall before taking my case from me. He says, “The other Harley is Shep’s. The CBR1000RR is mine.”

  I haven’t the first idea what a CBR1000RR is, other than a Honda. I only know that much because it says so on the tank. It looks like it is doing a 100 mph just sitting there. “You have no car, but two motorcycles?” I query.

  “Yep. Cages are for losers,” Charlie says with a grin. “Present company excluded of course.” Charlie swings the door wide and steps into the house. “Come on in,” he says brightly. “Sounds like Shep is home. Let me introduce you.”

  I step into the house that looks like a typical bachelor's pad. While reasonably neat, I notice that it could use a good dusting and vacuuming. The house is small with a kitchen, eating area, and family room on the first floor. On the large leather couch sits a good looking man. He is about Charlie’s age with long blonde hair. He is sporting no shirt, dirty jeans, and a plethora of tattoos. He is engrossed in some shoot-em-up video game, playing the game at an ear shattering volume on the largest television I have ever seen.

  “Shep!” Charlie shouts.

  Shep either doesn’t hear Charlie's shout or ignores him. “It’s okay,” I say, not wanting to start trouble.

  Charlie grimaces. “No, it’s not okay! The neighbors are going to complain again.” Charlie strides over and picks up the remote. He turns the volume down to something less than the roar of a passing jet. “Damn it, Shep! Do you want the cops to show up again?”

  Shep doesn’t flinch. In fact, he doesn’t even look away from the game. “Fuck ‘em. They’re not home anyway.”

  “Shep, let me introduce you to Claire,” Charlie says.

  Shep ignores him, twisting and turning with the motion on the screen until the screen suddenly turns a blood red. “Fuck!” Shep snaps in annoyanc
e. “Goddamn it Charlie, you bollixed up my game.”

  Charlie ignores his comment. “Jason Shepherd, I would like to introduce you to my sister, Claire Decker. Claire, Shep.”

  “Nice to meet you, Shep,” I say, as I extend my hand.

  At first I think Shep isn’t going to take my hand, but then he smiles and rises off the couch. “Yeah. Nice to meet you,” he says in a rich Australian accent, taking my hand. “Sorry about the game. I sometimes get kinda involved. Nothing like killing Zombies on a Saturday night to pass the time.”

  “Where’s Gwen? Don’t you have a date?” Charlie asks.

  “Naw,” Shep says. “She kicked my ass to the curb last night. That’s cool though. She’d stopped putting out anyway.”

  I can feel my face heat in annoyance. It’s going to be a long four weeks.

  ***

  When I agreed to stay with Charlie, I thought it was understood that I would be sleeping on the couch, but Charlie insists that I take his bed. We argue about it. When he states it is the bed or a motel, I relent.

  I turn in early because I am exhausted, but something jerks me from sleep. As I lie in bed, I recognize the rumble of the garage door going up under my bed. Squinting, I look at the clock on the side table. I hear a heavy rumble of a Harley starting, then a shriek of another motor, the Honda I guess. I wonder where the hell they are going at one a.m., but I am too tired to care. I roll over and instantly fall back asleep.

  ***

  As I pad down the steps the next morning, Charlie is awake, but still sprawled on the couch. Shep’s door is closed and he is nowhere to be seen. He must still be sleeping. “What time did you get home last night, or rather, this morning?” I ask with a yawn.

  “What?” Charlie asks, clearly surprised at the question.

  “I heard the door go up last night when you left. I must have been dead to the world when you came back because I didn’t hear a thing. I was just wondering what time you got back.”

  “Oh, uhhh, about three,” Charlie says.

  “What is there to do at three in the morning?” I ask, as I head into the kitchen to look for coffee, tea, anything to get the blood flowing.

  “Oh. Nothing actually. Shep and I, we just go out and ride late at night sometimes. Enjoy the roads when there isn’t any traffic on them.”

  “Whatever. What’s the temperature outside?” I ask as I start the coffee brewing.

  Charlie looks at his phone. “About fifty,” he says.

  “Not the high, I mean right now.”

  Charlie begins to laugh. “Claire, you’re not in Green Bay anymore. Fifty is what it is right now. The high is supposed to be seventy-five.”

  “Damn. I thought it would be cooler in the mountains,” I say, mentally reviewing what clothes I have with me that might be cool enough. I’ll have to break out the summer gear when we get the truck unpacked.

  Charlie begins to snicker. “You’ll be in shorts and the rest of us will be wearing coats.”

  ***

  Two hours later, that is exactly what happens. Charlie drives the truck to the storage unit with Shep following on his bike and me in my car. When we arrive, six other bikes are parked along the fence. Shep joins them while I follow the truck through the gate with my car. As Charlie unlocks and opens the storage unit’s big roll up door, I see all seven guys walking towards us. All are wearing the same dark brown leather jacket that Charlie is wearing, probably with the same big Kings of Chaos logo burned on the back. “Looks like your gang is here,” I say as Charlie opens the truck.

  “It’s a club, not a gang,” Charlie says mildly. “We’re just a group of guys and gals that all happen to like to ride motorcycles. No different than Mom’s bridge club was.”

  “Uh-huh,” I grunt.

  “No, seriously,” Charlie says. “There are about thirty of us in the club. Last year, we raised nearly $50,000 for charity. We hang out together, go on weekend rides, stuff like that. There are lots of roads around that are great motorcycle roads. You should go with us sometime.”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. There’s a lot going on right now.”

  “I know, but think about it.”

  “I will,” I say as I help Charlie get the ramp hooked on the truck.

  It only takes an hour for the guys to unload the truck. I am surprised that none of them are what I expect. Well, except Shep. He’s the same as he was last night, which is to say, annoying. As we are finishing up, I step around the side of the truck to throw the clothes I’d dug out storage into my car. That’s when I hear one of the men say, “She’s staying in your house?”

  “That’s right,” Shep responds before noticing me. “Hey, babe,” Shep says when our eyes meet. I see the first man staring openly at me for a moment. Then, he turns away with a shake of his head.

  Charlie and I leave to return the truck. Next, we head to some pizza joint the members of his club like, so I can settle my tab. As Charlie drives, I bitch about Shep and what I suspect I overheard.

  Charlie finds it considerably funnier than I do. “Well, what do you expect?” Charlie asks.

  “What do you mean?” I demand. I have no idea what he is talking about.

  “Oh, come on, Claire. Don’t play dumb,” Charlie scolds. “You know what you look like. Shep is pretty good with the ladies. Everyone knows it. Everyone assumes you two are eventually going to sleep together, if you’re not already.” Charlie grins at me, mischief in his eyes. “You didn’t sleep with him last night, did you?”

  “You can bite my ass,” I snap, not enjoying Charlie’s teasing at all. “I’ll sleep in the garage first.”

  We spend the next two hours shooting the bull around a half-dozen large pizzas, a couple orders of breadsticks, and several pitchers of beer. At first I am a quiet, intimidated by the group, but everyone works to draw me out. After I tell my story, the Kings, as they call themselves, fill me in on their club.

  The Kings of Chaos was founded about thirty years ago by Robert King, owner of the Harley-Davidson dealership where Charlie, Shep, and two of the other men work. Though most members ride Harleys, they are open to any man or woman who ride any type of bike. I am surprised to find that the Mayor of Asheville is a member.

  Membership dues are $1,500 per year. Of that amount, $1,000 is donated to the charity of your choice. The rest entitles you to wear the Kings of Chaos jacket. As a member of the Kings, if you happen to ride a Harley, you can receive discounts on parts and service at the dealership. The Kings spend most of their “working” time raising money for local charities. They often visit schools to encourage kids to stay in school and out of trouble.

  My opinion of the Kings steadily rises as they talk. It is obvious that Charlie and Shep are well liked and respected in the group. Everyone agrees that Charlie is one of the best wrenches in the country. As one guy put it, “If Charlie can’t fix it, you might as well buy a new bike because nobody can fix it.”

  I look at Charlie and grin. I begin to see Charlie in an entirely new light. It appears that my baby brother has done okay.

  ***

  I have a week before I start my new position at the hospital. So, Monday I give the house a thorough scrubbing. It makes me feel better, since I live there. It gives me something to do and helps me earn my keep.

  I look through the pantry and ‘fridge. I make a list of items we need from the market. I open a mayonnaise jar in the door, checking the contents. As I put the nearly empty jar back, I notice another jar way in the back. I pull it out and open it to see if it is a forgotten empty jar or a full one. Instead of mayo, I find cash. A lot of cash. I pull the wad of money out of the jar and count out nearly $15,000 in cash. Most of the bills are $100s. I run my finger along the inside of the jar and discover that what looks like mayonnaise is actually white paint. Clever. I put the cash back and return the jar to its former location. As I close the door, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Late night trips, large sums of cash. Something is going on.

&nbs
p; ***

  I say nothing about the cash when the Charlie and Shep return from work, but it’s hard to pretend I’m not worried. As we eat dinner, I say very little. I just focus on my food.

  “Claire, everything okay?” Charlie asks, clearly picking up on my mood.

  “I’m fine. Just tired I guess,” I say. “It’s been a busy couple of weeks.”

  Before Charlie can answer, Shep’s phone rings with a jaunty little ditty. He glances at the screen then quickly excuses himself, walking into the garage before answering.

  “Claire, I’m sorry about Shep,” Charlie says. “He’s really a good guy when you get to know him. Give him a chance.”

  “It’s not Shep that I’m worried about,” I say.

  “Then what’s bothering you? You haven’t said ten words all night.”

  “I…” I begin, but Shep sticks his head in from the garage.