Royal Blood Read online

  Royal Blood (#1 Royal Blood) by Amity Cross

  Copyright © 2014 Amity Cross / Nicole R. Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All song titles, song lyrics, products and brand names mentioned in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Cover Design © Amity Cross / Nicole R. Taylor

  Royal Blood Motorcycle Club Logo by Jemina Venter @ #BookNerdFangirlDesigns

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  Contents

  Part One: Royal Blood

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Part Two – Blood Ties

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  About The Author

  One

  Mercy

  Kill or be killed.

  Fuck or be fucked.

  The Gambler's Inn was the kind of establishment you went to when you wanted to disappear. It was also the kind of place you went to work if you didn't want anyone to ask questions. Good girls didn't get jobs behind the bar here. Good thing I was far from prim and proper.

  Mercy Reid was a mistake that had happened the day she was born into this world, screaming and covered in gunk. Mercy Reid wanted to disappear from a lot of things.

  I wiped down the bar, tracking the cloth around the old musty dude who was sitting on a stool, nursing his pint of beer. That there, was just another way of trying to disappear. The mind was a powerful thing. It never actually forgot anything, no matter how hard you tried. The bad things always stuck and got you when you weren't looking.

  “What's a pretty girl like you doing in a shit hole like this?” Musty Old Guy asked through a wheeze.

  “Hard times call for desperate measures,” I replied. No cash, no place to stay. I'd take any job I was offered. My mind went back to that bar job I applied for at the strip joint a few blocks over. Yeah, I'll take that back and amend it to almost any job.

  Working at The Gambler's Inn wasn't much better, but it was better and the boss was slightly less of an ass. It was exactly the low kind of place I was looking to get lost in. They didn’t want any trouble and neither did I.

  The front door opened with a bang that reverberated through the loud garage rock that was blaring out of the speakers above the bar. The old guy in front of me glanced up at the commotion and his eyes widened. He chucked a bill by his half-full pint and scurried away like a startled rat.

  Narrowing my gaze at the fiver he'd tossed at me, I snorted at the ridiculously insignificant tip. Thanks a lot asshole.

  That's when I realized a figure was looming in front of me. Glancing up, my gaze collided with a set of the strangest green eyes I'd ever seen. They were almost clear, only a tinge of color threaded its way from the outside in.

  Shit, and the rest of him. Messy hair just the right length that you could bury your fingers into and tug in the middle of a rip roaring orgasm, a strong chiseled jaw coated with dark stubble and what looked like a hard ripped chest. He wore a black leather biker jacket, the tiniest hint of a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his black T-shirt. He oozed sex. The kind of sex that was sweaty and dirty. All animalistic grunting from behind.

  “Who are you?” he snapped and I realized that the old guy had known what was good for him when he'd bolted. The hottie had a reputation. He was purely fuckable, but even I could tell a dangerous man from a mile off. Didn't stop my pussy from convulsing all on its own though. You couldn't have a body without a mind, but it didn't stop either of them wandering off on their own tangents.

  “Well?”

  My gaze snapped back up to his and it was cold.

  Snorting, I snatched up the fiver and the glass. “Mercy,” I bit right back, dumping the beer down the sink.

  “Mercy, who?”

  “Mercy, none of your business.” I glared at him as my nipples began to ache at the sound of my name on his suckable lips. “Do you want to order?”

  The man leaned over the bar, closing the space between us and I swallowed the urge to lean right back and give him a lick.

  “Weiss hire bitches now?” he growled.

  Holding back the urge to slap the guy and bend him over the bar at the same time, I said, “Listen, buddy. I don't know what kind of asshole you are, maybe you're the dominating prick who likes to own women and put them back into the fuckin' kitchen, but I'm not her. Either you want a drink or you get the fuck out of my face.”

  His fingers curled over the edge of the bar, knuckles turning white, expression unreadable. I was going to take a stab at pissed off. Yeah, well that made two of us.

  His lip curled into a sneer and he straightened up, squaring his wide shoulders. Without a word, he turned on his heel and began striding across the pub. That's when I saw the logo on the back of his jacket and paused. A skull wearing a crown was stitched there in white, with the lettering Royal Blood MC emblazoning the top and bottom.

  Shit. Another motherfucking biker.

  It stunk of trouble with a capital t and it was the thing I needed the least. I couldn't ditch this job. I needed the money too bad. I was totally skint.

  The hottie opened the door to the owner, Weiss', office and slammed it closed behind him with a loud bang.

  Fuck. He had a grabbable ass, too.

  Two

  X

  I was already riled up, but the black haired stunner behind the bar had jacked it up even further.

  Xavier “X” Blood. License to do whatever the fuck I wanted.

  Slamming the door to Weiss' office closed, he stared up at me, raising his eyebrows.

  “I was beginning to think you were dead, you stupid fucker,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Who's the bitch on the bar?” I drawled, shucking off my jacket and tossing it on the sofa.

  Weiss smirked. “Like her?”

  “Bitch needs an attitude adjustment.”

  “I knew you two would hit it off.”

  Sitting on the sofa and kicking my boots up onto the coffee table, I glared at my best mate. I loved the fucker, we'd been through some nasty shit, but he knew what buttons to press and had a great time doing it. We were the same age, late twenties and were both stuck in the same god damned fucked up motorcycle club, Royal Blood. The only difference between us was that I was handsome. Weiss was ugly as fuck.

  He eyed me for a second before saying, “Mercy Reid. Just blew in two weeks ago lookin' to get lost. Wild one, that woman.”

  “Looking to get lost from what?”

  He shrugged. “She does the work, handles the scummy fuckers we get in here better than any man. She’s proved herself
.”

  “In two weeks?”

  He smirked. Ugly fucker.

  “You fucked her?” I asked, my cock tightening.

  “She's not the fucking type, X. She fucks you.”

  “She fuck you then?”

  “In my dreams.”

  Despite my rage being turned on, I couldn't help the sly smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth.

  Mercy Reid.

  Smart mouthed bitch. What I wouldn't do to press her pretty little face into that beer soaked bar top, rip off her tiny denim shorts and fill her pussy with my cock. What I wouldn't give to fuck her so hard she'd scream and moan and milk my dick with her cunt. I'd teach her a lesson in manners with my favorite body part.

  “You're thinking about fucking her right now, aren't you, you dirty prick?”

  “I'm ready to come back,” I said, effectively changing the subject.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I've heard the word on the street, Weiss.” Trouble with the Necromancers MC...again. Rumor had it that someone had tried to put a bullet in their president, Sykes', head.

  Weiss fished around in his desk drawer and pulled out a big orange envelope that had been stuffed full of papers. And hopefully with a photograph or three.

  “Target is unknown-” he began.

  “Unknown?” I scoffed. Fuckin’ amateurs.

  “I thought you were good at this kind of thing? A little challenge scare you?”

  Running hits for Royal Blood wasn't the way I wanted to operate, but I was in too deep to get out now. Getting out entailed getting dead. Besides, I'd lost my soul the moment I’d picked up a gun and let them call me a hitman. Fuckin’ assassin. Having a soul in my line of work was baggage I didn’t need.

  Weiss tossed the envelope at me and I caught it against my chest. “Target is a runner. Six months ago someone tried to kill the president of the Necromancers.”

  I knew it wasn't just a rumor. There were a ton of fucks out there who'd want to do that guy in. I thought Royal Blood was bad when I first got in, but the Necromancers were a nasty piece of work. They defined the word evil. Drugs, guns, those were big enough things, but the Necromancers…their dealings went a lot darker. Rumor had it, they trafficked a lot more than drugs and illegal arms.

  “Nobody knows who?”

  “Nope. There's some leads, but the club hasn't been able to tie any of them up.”

  “Why are they coming to us? Royal Blood and the Necromancers aren't exactly known for being the best of friends.” Both clubs had hit each other so many times no one knew the actual tally or who started it in the first place.

  “They know a good thing when they see it,” Weiss said, nodding at me.

  “Desperation’s more like it.” They wished they had me in their back pocket, but I was sworn to the Blood.

  “You want it or not?”

  Without even cracking open the envelope I asked, “How much?”

  “Don't you want to sit on it for a day or two? You ain't even looked in the envelope.”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How much?”

  “Half a mil.”

  Sneering, I said, “Cut close to home, did it?”

  “If someone tried to put a bullet in your head, wouldn't you want to know who it was to serve some revenge?”

  “I assume Sykes wants to see me,” I said, ignoring his question. “He's not giving a rival club member a free shot, right?”

  “He’ll call you when you accept the contract. No sooner.”

  “Then my price goes up.”

  “X-”

  “If Greggor's handing over my identity in the name of peace,” I air quoted the most ironic word in the sentence, “then I want more compensation.”

  Greggor was the president of Royal Blood. He was the definition of hard ass. He called all the shots and his word was law. Step out of line and you paid the ultimate price. Your cock or your life. I absolutely hated the fucker.

  “I'll see what I can do,” Weiss said through a sigh.

  I narrowed my eyes, peering into the envelope. My first job back in a month and it had to be the big fuckin’ kahuna. Complicated had nothing on it.

  “You know, taking this job would make things a lot easier for everyone,” Weiss said, lighting up a fag.

  No more drive-bys, no more fights over money and women, no more territorial lines. Short story; a lot less fighting and a lot more revenue raising. Nobody wanted an all out MC war and that's what Royal Blood and the Necromancers had been teetering on the edge of for fuck knows how long. An attempt on their President's life was the ultimate tipping point.

  “If it turns out to be one of ours, you know shit's going to get crazy,” Weiss said, smoke streaming from his mouth. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, pointing at the door. That was my cue to get gone.

  If it was a member of Royal Blood, then I'd be fucked for shooting a brother. If it was a Necromancer, I'd be fucked for offing a rival. If it was an outsider, I'd be a hero. Either way, my identity as X would go from being a shadow of death to front page poster boy.

  My life as a hitman would be over.

  “Those things will kill you,” I said, rising to my feet.

  “No they fucking won't,” he said with a chuckle. “You will you motherfucker.”

  Three

  Mercy

  Two Weeks Ago

  Staring into the grotty bathroom mirror, I fluffed up my hair.

  The remnants of black dye stuck to the skin around my hairline and I licked a finger and rubbed at the stubborn spots. When they didn’t budge, I rolled my eyes. Great. With a sigh, I messed my long locks forward a little to try and hide it.

  Black hair kinda suited me. It made me look like a complete stranger, which was the exact statement I was going for.

  Grabbing my phone, a little burner I picked up at a convenience store a few days ago, I shoved it into my pocket and pushed open the door.

  The stage with the sparkling curtains and seedy lighting hadn’t changed in the last ten minutes and nor was it likely to. A woman dressed in nothing but a pair of thigh high stockings, red lacy knickers, six-inch heels and tassels on her nipples passed by me, her hand in that of a slimy looking pervert. She glanced up at me and winked before disappearing out back to a private booth.

  Puke.

  I was desperate for work, but not that desperate. I’d tried to get a job at the bar, but it didn’t pay enough for me to deal with all the fucking gross men who constantly tried to feel me up…and I’d only been in the place for half an hour. I pulled a couple of beers, served some weirdos with wandering eyes and got felt up by the owner. Luckily for him he didn’t follow me into the ladies.

  Working at a strip club wasn’t the kind of lost I was looking for.

  Pushing out of the front door, past the bouncer and ignoring the calls from the owner, I walked down the dark street, pulling my leather jacket closer. I was running out of money and if I didn’t find a job soon, I’d be out on my ass. I couldn’t get a regular job that required tax numbers, ID and names, so I was shit out of luck. If somebody had of told me it was this difficult to disappear, I might’ve planned it out a little better.

  A car zoomed past on the dark street, colliding with a puddle of murky water and it splattered all over me. Gasping, I held my arms out and cursed.

  “Fucking great,” I muttered. I was all on my own, totally skint, desperate, lost and now I could add wet to the list. Fucking great indeed.

  Shaking myself off like a wet dog, I glanced up, my gaze catching on an old school pub across the street. A sign hung over the door, swinging in the breeze, a coat of arms painted onto the 'ye olde' wood. It was very…old world. The coat of arms was a skull with a crown hanging off its head with the pub’s name written in an Old English script, The Gambler’s Inn.

  There were a couple of motorbikes parked out front in a no standing zone, but nobody seemed to care. That right there? That gave me a glaring indicator at the t
ype of clientele that this place attracted. I was running out of options and this one was a lot better than working the bar at the strip club I’d just vacated.

  This was either an omen or a warning, but I was beyond caring.

  Sucking it up, I jogged across the street, giving the bikes a wide berth and shoved the door open. Instantly, my ears were assaulted with some obnoxious grunge music, all guitars and wailing lyrics. It was dark and smoky, but I could make out the shapes of booths and tables, an old jukebox against one wall with a sign on it that read ‘out of order’. A few people lingered in dark corners, all of them men and all of them mean looking. Some wore leathers that marked them as bikers, but others I could pin as crooks just from the way they looked. A different kind of slime to the clientele in the strip club.

  The place reeked of beer that had soaked into the carpet and had never been washed. I wrinkled my nose, beginning to wonder if this was the best idea after all. Maybe I should just turn around and go someplace else…but there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

  The clack of pool balls broke through the music as someone broke the rack on a new game. Realizing that people had started to notice me standing there like an idiot, I narrowed my eyes and made my way to the bar.

  Don’t bring attention to yourself, Mercy. Rule number one. Keep a low profile.

  There was a guy leaning against the bench that housed rows of liquor bottles, most of them looking like they were the hard stuff. No fancy cocktails here. Just straight up or not at all. Simple, no fuss, take it or leave it kinda shit. That, I could work with.

  “Yeah?” the guy asked, tapping the top of the bar.

  Customer service didn’t seem like a high priority here and I wondered if it was a thriving pub or a front for something else. Best not to dwell on it. Sticking my nose in other people’s money laundering would only serve to get it cut off.

  “I’m looking for the owner.” It came out a little more hesitant than I would’ve liked. There went my tough woman card already.

  The guy straightened up, giving me the once over. “Who’s askin’?”

  “Just looking for a job,” I replied.