The Biker's Plaything (Straight to Hell MC #1) - Sam Crescent Page 0,5

was no balancing right and wrong, only their unique form of justice. The Straight to Hell MC had a reputation for a reason. It was Lord’s job to ensure they weren’t seen as weak or ripe for extortion. If his men were more like him, lacking complete empathy for their enemies, they’d be stronger. Their human nature kept bringing down the club.

He revved his engine, glared at his enforcer, then led the way out of the club.

The drive out to the cop’s country home was quiet this early. They drove past countless acres of farmland, dotted with the occasional homestead or herd of cattle. He remembered bits and pieces of a broken childhood. The shed out back, the beatings, the bloodied rope. Being reminded he’d never amount to anything.

Lord had spent most of his forty years trying to forget the past.

When he was around twelve, he lost sight in his right eye. His stepfather was to blame. The motherfucker would hurt his mother while he watched, and the day he tried to intervene, he was left scarred and blinded in one eye. His stepfather said not to watch if he didn’t like what he saw. The bastard used a metal rake from the barn, pinned him in the corner where they stored the hay, and thrashed him over and over until he lost consciousness.

He’d been skinny and helpless way back then.

Things were different now.

Lord had learned to turn off his emotions. Permanently. It was better that way. He’d become stronger mentally and physically and would die before he became the victim to any man again.

He snapped back to the present when he nearly lost control on the dirt shoulder of the road. Lord refocused and picked up the pace, only a few more miles until his destination. He couldn’t let old memories toy with his head. It was easy to slip into oblivion—he knew that all too well. He had to black it out, push the pain, guilt, and shame so far fucking down into the abyss that they couldn’t mess with his head.

Bobby’s old farm appeared ahead, and Lord slowed down his bike before turning onto the unpaved drive. The other bikes settled around him, cutting their engines on cue.

“She alive?” asked Reaper.

“Don’t worry about it. She won’t be for long.” Lord headed toward the house, but Bobby Joe Ranger came stumbling off the porch, pulling on a plaid shirt as he neared.

“Good morning,” said Bobby.

Lord nodded toward the cruiser.

“Oh. Yeah, she’s just where you told me to leave her.”

It had been a frigid night. Maybe the girl was already dead.

The cop walked along a beaten path, his keys jangling in one hand. He unlocked the trunk and flung it up, a huge smile on his face. “It was so damn easy. I picked her up as soon as she left work last night.”

His VP stepped forward first, glancing into the open trunk. There was no sound, no movement.

“Boss, how old you say this chick was supposed to be?”

He narrowed his eyes, looking over at Brick. “Why?”

“She looks young.”

Richard Prixman had been older or at least he had some fucking city miles on him. Lord expected a woman in her thirties, but when he joined Brick at the open trunk, those big green eyes staring at him were pure innocence.

He looked over at the cop. “How old is she?”

The cop handed him her license. “Just turned nineteen. Works at a local bar. No record. No location on the mother.”

Lord looked at the license, then back at the girl. “Get her out of there.”

Brick and Stump unceremoniously dragged her out, dropping her down on the dirt by his feet.

“She’s a big bitch. It wasn’t easy getting her in there by myself,” said Bobby.

Lord froze in place, staring at the cop, suddenly feeling the overwhelming urge to punch the smug look off his face.

“Lord?”

He returned to the present, squeezing and releasing his fist to calm himself down. Stump stood next to the girl, a questioning look on his face.

This was the day he’d been waiting for, so why did it feel all wrong?

Lord walked over to his men and the girl sitting on the dirt, the sound of each booted foot distinct in the early morning hush. He crouched down, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned over his knees. He reached out one arm, using a curled finger to tilt her face toward him.

“What’s your name?”

“I told you it’s her, Lord. There’s no mistaking it,” said the cop.

Lord whirled his