The Rush: The Hell's Disciples MC (The Hell's Disciples MC Series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Rush

  Copyright

  The Hell’s Disciples MC books series!

  Play List

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Author Jaci J

  The Rush 2019 Jaci J

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below

  [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any place, event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any clubs, names, organizations, or groups of people are one hundred perfect fictitious and made up by the author and in no way, represent or reflect any actual real person or group of persons.

  Everything is used in fun, and the author does not own any music or pop culture references, or feel any type of negative way toward any group of people.

  Cover Image: BigstockImages.com

  Photo of man: Big Stock Images – DMPhoto (37248007)

  Cover Design: Rebel Edit & Design (Margreet Asselbergs)

  Edit: Rebel Edit & Design (Dana Hook)

  Formatting: CP Smith

  THE HELL’S DISCIPLES MC BOOKS SERIES!

  All books but The Ride and Crash & Burn can be read as standalones.

  Washington Chapter

  The Ride (1)

  Crash & Burn (2)

  The Rage (3)

  Oregon Chapter

  The Run

  The Riot

  The Risk

  The Ruthless

  PLAY LIST

  “Pulling Away” – Sinead Harnett ft. Gallant

  “Big Ole Freak” – Megan Thee Stallion

  “Goodbyes” – Post Malone ft. Young Thug

  “Poledancer” – Wale ft. Megan Thee Stallion

  “Woah” – Rich the Kid ft. Miguel and Ty Dolla $ign

  “Spoil My Night” – Post Malone ft. Swae Lee

  “Will He” – Joji

  “Reckless” – Arin Ray

  BillieJean – T is all yours.

  PROLOGUE

  “THE FUCK YOU doin’?”

  “The fuck does it look like I’m doin’?”

  “What the fuck, man?”

  In the middle of nowhere, standing in a field between an old-ass farmhouse and a barn full of The Devil’s Run MC, I do something I haven’t done in a long goddamn time.

  I pull off my cut and leave it on my bike.

  This is club business. We wear our colors, always.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, we do shit my way, under the radar.

  “You think he’s gonna make it in and back out with no bullet holes?” Rock chuckles, the only brother not questioning me. He knows me, and he knows I’ve got this shit handled, since it seems no one else does. “Anyone wanna place a bet?”

  “Fuck you,” I grumble, digging out the ski mask from my saddlebag.

  Rock only laughs. “Only bitch I let fuck me is my old lady.”

  “Yeah, with a big ol’ strap on,” I toss back, tucking my .45 in the waistband of my jeans.

  “Only on Sundays, fuckface.”

  “Sounds romantic,” Poncho huffs, chucking his smoke onto the dirt road.

  “Doesn’t it? You jealous?”

  “You’re about to go in there with no one at your back?” Buck questions, head shaking like I’m the stupidest motherfucker alive when I roll up my cut and stuff it in my bag.

  I might be.

  I’ve always been impulsive as fuck. I act first, and ask questions later.

  “Yeah, I really fucking am. Want me to stand out here with you and hold your hand instead?”

  Buck growls, his lip curled. “Your old man wanted us out here scopin’ shit out, not acting on impulse.”

  Looking around dramatically, I throw my arms out. “My old man here?”

  “The fuck is goin’ on with you? You goin’ rogue on us? You’ve been acting careless as fuck lately.”

  “There’s four bikes here. In the last two weeks, have you seen it this dead?” When Buck doesn’t respond, it’s all the answer I need. “Yeah, didn’t fucking think so. Stay the fuck out here and keep an eye out, yeah?”

  “You’re one dumb motherfucker,” he scowls as he walks away, back toward the road.

  “Probably,” I chuckle, walking through the field, away from my brothers. “But when I get those keys, you assholes can thank me with fourteen bitches.”

  “Fourteen?” Rock hollers back.

  “Two a day for the next seven days. You know I don’t like to sample the same shit twice,” I retort, heading for the club.

  Rock just laughs.

  I might be impulsive and careless. I might be crazy. Hell, I might even be stupid. But at least I get shit done.

  There’s a set of keys in that club with my goddamn name on them to a warehouse full of guns that belong to us.

  I make it through the field and toward the back of the club before pulling down my mask to cover my face. Bringing my foot up, I kick the fuck out of their door, snapping it from its frame.

  Too easy.

  Inside, four bodies swing around, ready to blow me into next week when they see me. Not a single one of them gets a chance.

  Gun aimed, I smirk. “On the ground, motherfuckers!”

  1

  T

  Six Months Later …

  “THE RUSSIANS NEED our help,” my old man tells me from the seat to my right.

  He’s smoking like a chimney, the clouds billowing out of his mouth and into my face. It’s making me want one.

  Bad.

  I quit, but I’m wondering how long I’ll last with the tantalizing aroma surrounding me in the most hypnotic way.

  “That’s why we’re here?” I ask him while reaching for my glass, needing the drink now more than the smoke after hearing the bullshit that just came out of his mouth.

  “They reached out. Need some help.”

  We’re at the Pink Cat, a local strip joint at a table near the back of the stage. It’s my place, but the fucking Russians own it.

  I knew we weren’t here just for the show and conversation, and now that I know the real reason, I’m not happy. I’m pissed.

  His old ass is going to ruin this place for me with this shit.

 
“The fuck you mean by help? What kind of help do they need?”

  This is bullshit. The last time we helped them, I spent two weeks in county on some false charges I got caught up in because they’re so goddamn dumb, they don’t know their heads from their asses.

  “Protection.”

  “From…?”

  “Does it fucking matter?”

  Funny.

  “Hell yeah, it does. I’m not serving time for those incompetent assholes over some dumb shit again.”

  “We’re doing it.”

  “You’re trusting me now?” I ask, cocking a brow at him.

  The last few months he’s been on my case, watching my every move.

  “You’re not pullin’ more shit.”

  “I’m not?”

  My old man smirks at me while putting his beer to his lips. He doesn’t say anything, and I know goddamn well that means we’re doing this whether I like it or not—whether he trusts me again or not.

  Conversation over.

  I might be VP. I might be my old man’s right hand. I might make decisions and pull weight, but at the end of the day, my pops is the fucking president, and there isn’t a damn thing I can say or do that’ll change something he’s dead set on doing. When it comes to our club, The Hell’s Disciples, we’re not father and son. He’s the president, and what he says goes.

  I respect my old man. I respect my club. I’ve got my brothers’ best interests in mind, always. And when I see an opportunity, even if my old man doesn’t, I take it. I take it even if it pisses my president off.

  I do what I have to.

  The music changes, the lights dim, and some bitch in next to nothing comes out onto the stage. She’s wearing nothing more than two Band-Aids over her nipples and a fucking cork in her snatch. She’s skinny as fuck, looking like a damn crack whore. Her hair is stringy and blonde, hanging down to her saggy ass.

  She’s a hard fucking pass for me.

  “Think she’s any good?” Pop asks, tipping his beer in her direction and chuckling when she stumbles on her eight-inch heels.

  The bitch is higher than a damn kite, and right out of the back alley.

  I watch her climb the pole, slowly, and bend back, her tiny tits thrust toward the ceiling. I shake my head. “Fuck no.”

  “You’re just mad ’cause that bitch you’re fascinated with isn’t here yet.” Rock laughs, grabbing a chair and spinning it around before he sits his ass down. Late, as usual. “We over here talkin’ about the women we’ll never have? If that’s the case, then I’d like nineties Pam in that red bathing suit running oh so slowly down that fucking beach toward me. Shit, man…”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Little touchy, aren’t ya?”

  “I’ll be touching something when I put my size fifteen boot up your ass.”

  Rock shrugs and flags down the waitress for a beer. “Why the fuck am I here? And why am I watching this nasty bitch and not in bed with my old lady getting my dick wet?”

  “The Russians need protection,” I tell him.

  My old man pulls his attention away from the stage to listen in on the conversation.

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?” Rock asks, looking at me with a confused frown on his face.

  “No.”

  I wish I was.

  Rocky’s head falls back in exasperation. He’s feeling exactly how I’m feeling.

  “How have those fucking idiots managed to live this goddamn long? Long enough to even need protection again?”

  Good question.

  “Sheer fucking luck, I’m guessin’.”

  “Jesus Christ. What kind of protection this time?”

  My old man doesn’t answer. Instead, he nods in the direction of the back door where a man in a corny suit and two idiots in matching getups walk in. They head toward us and sit, all three of them looking full of false bravado and bullshit.

  “Danny Boy,” the man in the monkey suit greets in a thick Russian accent. “Thank you for coming to my establishment.”

  My old man nods.

  “We appreciate your time.”

  Again, he nods while Rock and I wait, ready to hear what dumb shit we’re about to get in to.

  “We need your protection, your muscle,” Monkey Man presses on.

  The reason Rock and me are here.

  “We’re having trouble getting our shipments across the border. Every other truck is being intercepted or hijacked.”

  Elbows on the table, I lean forward, getting serious. “And what makes you think we can or will help? After last time, not real goddamn sure we want to do business with you.”

  The Russian lowers his head, a grim look on his face. “Last time was a mistake on our part. This time, we give you control.”

  “And…?”

  “And fifteen percent.”

  That’s a fucking insult.

  “Nah, that shit’s not worth my time,” I determine, starting to get out of my seat.

  The Russian smiles, holding up his hand to stop me. “You’re a tricky man, Disciple,” he chuckles, shaking a finger at me with a big, ugly ass gold ring on it. A ring I’ll pull off his cold dead finger if he thinks about fucking with my time again.

  “Not tricky, just not fucking stupid. Twenty-five percent,” I insist, taking a quick look at my old man. He’s just sitting there, smoking, and again watching the skinny bitch on stage. He hears me. He trusts me.

  Monkey Man nods, his hand out. “Deal.”

  I don’t shake it. Instead, I get up and head for the back, but not before telling him, “We’ll talk later. I got shit to do.”

  BAILEY

  Sitting in front of my light-up mirror, I apply some mascara, making my lashes longer and thicker. Next, I apply my lipstick, a deep burgundy. I did my hair at home, and the only thing left to do is to slip into my outfit.

  It’s the same routine every night.

  When I was little, I didn’t want to grow up to be a stripper. I wanted more out of life—a lot fucking more. But when life hands you lemons, you take off your top and shake your tits for the cash you need to survive.

  You do what you’ve got to do to not go hungry.

  You do what you’ve got to do to not end up homeless.

  And you keep doing it when you easily pull in a grand a night.

  I won’t lie, I’m addicted to the money and the attention, neither of which I had as a kid. Stripping gives me both, the two things I’m desperate for.

  I fucking hate it.

  But at the same time, I love it.

  Standing at my locker in the back room, I dig through my stuff to find my lotion. Putting my foot on my chair, I rub it all over my legs, getting ready for the night.

  Smooth skin. Silky hair. Pretty face. Tight body. My moneymaker. There isn’t a goddamn man in this place who gives a shit what’s in my head. It’s all about my body, my face.

  Stormi, another dancer, stops at the dressing room door, her head peeking through the curtain. “The Disciples are here,” she tells me, a wicked smile on her pretty face.

  My heart skips a beat or two just hearing the name.

  The Hell’s Disciples are here.

  He’s here.

  My skin prickles with excitement, a shiver of anticipation racing up my spine.

  Swallowing down the excitement, I offer her a blasé shrug, schooling my lips into a neutral smile. “Thanks.”

  Stormi winks before walking off. She knows.

  Finishing up my make-up, I pull on my outfit and give myself one last look in the mirror before heading out.

  I look good.

  Damn good.

  Walking through the club, the floor manager, Sonny, snags my arm, a permanent frown on his cratered face as he looks me up and down. “He’s waiting for you,” he mutters, nodding his head toward the stairs for the second level. The VIP area. “Don’t make the Disciple wait.”

  T will wait. He always does. A little anticipation does him good because it makes him hungrier
, and makes him want me that much more.

  Makes me want him that much more.

  Smirking, I pull free and walk toward the bar first. “He’s fine. He can wait a little longer.”

  Sonny points a finger at me, his nails dirty and nicotine stained. “You’re lucky you make me damn good money or you’d be out on your ass,” he growls, his breath hot and rancid.

  Asshole.

  “You’re damn lucky I work here,” I correct him, pushing my hair over my shoulder as I take the shot from the bartender that’s already been poured for me. It’s neon pink and tastes like cough syrup. It’s nasty, but it does the job.

  I’ve worked here for a few years now and I’ve never been nervous, not on my first day or my worst day, but every time The Hell’s Disciples walk in here, I feel a nervous excitement.

  Setting the shot glass down, I take one last look at myself in the mirror behind the bar. Running my fingers through my hair, I give it a quick fluff before dragging my finger under my lip to fix my lipstick.

  “Get goin’,” Sonny growls, giving me a hurried look and a little shove in the direction of the stairs.

  “Fuck off,” I snap, walking off toward the VIP area.

  Stopping outside the door to a private room—the only room I use up here—I take a moment to compose myself. He does this to me every fucking time, getting my heart pounding and my blood flowing. The man does bad shit to me. Shit that no other man ever has, and I’ve been around men of all varieties.

  With one last, deep breath, I open the door and walk in, closing it quietly behind me.

  I can smell him instantly. Woodsy and clean, and every bit the man he is.

  I wish I could bottle that smell.

  The room is dimly lit and small, the man in it making it feel even smaller, his presence sucking all the oxygen out of it.

  There he sits in a large wingback chair in the middle of the room. Head to toe, he drags his filthy stare over every inch of my body, his eyes animalistic and hungry.

  He’s the predator and I’m the prey.

  I’m the drug and he’s the addict.

  He looks at me like the first time he did—with ownership.

  I belong to T.