Riders of Tyr Book 2: Hellhound

Rage

“Damn it!” I mutter, taking a long pull from my cigarette.

I grip the girl’s hair tightly, my hips moving with a fierce rhythm. She gags, but I don’t let go, tugging on her hair with a roughness that matches my inner turmoil.

I feel a rush of heat, then release, my body unloading into her mouth. I let go of her hair and finish my cigarette with a deep inhale. She stands, looking back at me, swallowing hard and rubbing her scalp.

I lift my chin in a silent challenge.

Candy is a club girl, a woman who knows the game she’s playing. Most women steer clear of me, but none dare to refuse me.

I’m a patched brother, and even if that wasn’t enough, they all fear me. But Candy is different. She came to me willingly, and I know her game.

She thinks if she can endure me long enough, I’ll make her my woman, save her from being passed around like a toy among the brothers.

“Rage?”

I zip up my jeans, leaning against the hallway wall. The sounds of the brothers’ party echo from the bar.

“Rage,” Candy tries again, pushing her luck. “Why not go into your room and finish this?”

I pull out another cigarette, lighting it. The flame briefly illuminates the hallway, casting an eerie glow on Candy’s pale face.

Her hazel eyes are hopeful. No one, not even my brothers, ever enters my room. And I’ve never taken a woman there, except for the occasional hallway encounter.

Candy knows that getting into my room would bring her one step closer to being claimed. I laugh, a harsh sound, and turn my back to her. As I leave the hallway and head into the bar, I hear Candy sniffle.

She’s a fool if she wants to get closer.

The bar is alive with the sounds of the party. All the brothers are there, except those on a run, and they’re all having a good time.

I see their smiles, hear their laughter, and I envy them. I just had my needs met, but there’s no smile on my face. I head straight to my usual table, sitting down and resting my elbows on my knees.

I run my fingers through my mohawk, over and over. I finish my cigarette, then reach for the whiskey bottle on the table. I drink straight from the bottle, welcoming the burn.

Another day of being alive. That’s reason enough to drink.

“Damn it!” I mutter, tilting my head back and pressing the bottle to my lips.

Another sleepless night. Just one of many.

I might have dozed off for a minute, but that doesn’t count as sleep. I can barely remember what a good night’s sleep feels like. I’ve been awake since before dawn, and the first thing I do is light a cigarette.

They say these things will kill you, but I’m no closer to oblivion than I was yesterday. I get out of bed, running my fingers through my hair as I try to orient myself. I can’t always tell when I’m awake, when I’m dreaming, or when I’m just drunk.

All I know is there’s a constant itch in my skull, like nails on a chalkboard. All the time. I can’t sleep, I can’t stand still, and I can’t let the memories flood back in.

I shuffle to the bathroom, relieve myself, then lean over to vomit into the grimy toilet.

I wash my face, then look at my reflection in the mirror. The mirror is cracked, stained with my blood. I smashed it with my head a while back, breaking my nose in the process.

That was a good night, but even that pain didn’t last long. I stare at the distorted, bloody reflection and I don’t recognize myself. How messed up is that? I could pass myself on the street and not even know it.

The doctors have a name for it, but I don’t care. I’m a dead man walking, so what does it matter what’s wrong with me? I leave my room and head to the bar.

It’s early morning, and the bar is quiet. No one is up yet after last night’s party, and I know no one will be up before noon.

I like this time of day. I’m alone, as alone as I feel inside. No one is watching me, whispering about me, or looking my way with desire but too scared to act.

I head down to the gym. Tor’s father built the gym, and he made sure most of the brothers spent some time there. It’s filled with weights, benches, punching bags, and a ring in the center.

I work out until my limbs shake, then I shower under cold water until I’m numb. That feeling lasts for a while.

I head to the kitchen, wearing nothing but my cut and tight black jeans, looking for something to eat to settle my stomach.

If Tor needs me today, I need to be ready. If I can’t do that, then who am I? If not Rage, the Riders’ Hellhound, then who?

I open the fridge and grab the first thing I see. I sit on the floor, eating absently as I stare at the empty wall. Then I head back to the bar, taking my usual seat.

By noon, I’m still at the bar, fidgeting in my chair, running my fingers through my hair, and digging my nails into my palms. I know it’s going to be another bad day.

“There you are!” Runner sets a bottle on my table.

I look up at him, and it calms me a bit.

There aren’t many people I like, but Runner is at the top of that list. He’s the one who found me on the streets and brought me here, giving me a family and a purpose, even if that purpose is to kill and maim.

He smiles at me, one of his usual wide smiles that women love.

He’s a dark man, in every sense of the word, and his Puerto Rican heritage gives him a rich, chocolate skin tone. He’s tall and lean, with a gentle face that makes him look like a model.

But you’d have to see him drag a man behind his bike until there’s nothing left but a head to know that’s not the case. He’s almost ten years older than me, but I’ve been with the Riders for over eight years, and Runner is like a brother to me.

“Mind if I join?” Runner asks.

I give a reluctant nod. Runner, my brother, knows me well. He knows when to approach me, and now he’s sitting across from me at the table.

But even with his understanding, I can’t promise I won’t explode at the smallest trigger. Today is a terrible day. I’m teetering on the edge of losing control.

I need to let off some steam, and I need to do it fast.

I’m considering asking Runner to spar with me in the ring, but I know none of the brothers will step in there with me. The last one who did ended up in the hospital. There were no hard feelings, but no one’s volunteering to spar with me anymore.

“Are you okay, brother?” Runner’s eyes search my face.

I grunt in response and reach for the bottle. I don’t ask Runner if he wants a drink. He knows that one bottle is just the beginning for me.

“Rage,” he says softly, “I’m here for you, bror.”

I turn to him and lift my chin. Everyone in the club either respects me or is downright terrified of me. They treat me well, but they keep their distance.

Everyone except Runner and Tor. Runner found me at my lowest and pulled me out, more or less alive. I respect him for that.

He’s the closest thing I have to what others call family. When Runner brought me to the club, the Riders accepted me as one of their own. And Tor, our new president, our King, sees me as an asset.

He views me as his most trusted weapon. That’s all I am: a loaded gun with a trigger on the edge, waiting to go off. I’m a Hellhound, a monster from the underworld.

And that’s where I’m headed when this agonizing life is over.

“Okay, bror.” Runner leans back and sips his coffee. I let out a soft chuckle.

The Riders of Tyr, the motorcycle club that took me in, originated in Sweden. They grew strong enough that some members ventured to conquer the U.S., just like the Vikings before them. Of the original Swedes, only Tor and Bjorn are direct descendants.

Tor is the son of a former King, as the Riders call their president. Despite being one of the most diverse MCs in the country, with members ranging from Puerto Rican to Native American like Ironhand, most brothers mimic the original Scandinavian slang.

It’s a bit funny to see a dark-skinned Puerto Rican speaking Swedish. But my smile quickly fades, as if a hook yanks it back into the depths of Hell from where it escaped.

I take a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. My legs tremble with tension as the bar door swings open. I turn my blurry eyes to the newcomer, my body coiled tight, hoping it’s an enemy of my brothers, someone I can unleash my pent-up anger on.

But instead, a woman stands there, the sun casting her in shadow as it streams in from behind her.