The Brotherhood Saga Book 1: The King
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Jassy Doe
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Chapter 1
KING
The first thing that hit me was the heat. That brutal, unforgiving California sun was already slicing through my window, laser beams burning straight through my eyelids. I groaned into my pillow, the movement sending a dull, punishing throb through my skull. The sheets were damp with sweat. Yeah. Overdid it again.
The thought surfaced from the murky swamp of last night’s hangover. No special occasion—just another rider’s party where the main event was getting good and shit-faced, just because we could.
I rolled over to escape the light and my shoulder bumped into a warm, sleeping body next to me. A mess of long red hair was fanned out across my pillow. Candy.
The name clicked into place. One of the club girls who haunted the edges of my bar, dreaming of the day she’d become an ol’ lady—claimed, respected, permanent. The whole thing was a joke.
These girls didn’t even respect themselves, hopping from one prospect’s bed to another, trading favors for a sliver of that belonging they were so desperate for. But they served a purpose. They were easy, available, and they knew the number one rule: you’re gone by morning.
No calls, no awkward goodbyes, no comments on my record collection. Just a simple, mutual understanding. We used each other for a good time and a little stress relief.
I swung my legs out of bed, the old wooden floor cool under my bare feet. I found my jeans in a crumpled heap, my boots kicked into a corner. I dressed quietly, not out of any courtesy for her, but because every movement sent a fresh shockwave of pain through my head.
By the time I’d pulled on my cut, the heavy leather vest feeling like a second skin, she was still dead to the world. I left her there, naked and dreaming, and headed downstairs.
The clubhouse was already starting to stir. The stale scent of last night’s beer and old smoke was getting chased out by the rich, life-giving aroma of coffee. As I came down into the main bar area, I saw my sister, Alice, perched on a stool at the counter.
Right next to her was Wrath, her husband, my brother, and our club’s treasurer. His cut, stitched with the same MC No Limits patch as mine, looked just as worn and lived-in.
“Coffee?” Alice asked, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as she poured that dark, savior-broth into a heavy ceramic mug.
I just grunted in response, taking the cup and sinking onto the stool beside them like a condemned man.
That first sip was a sacrament. Bitter. Hot. Perfect. I leaned my elbows on the polished wood, my gaze drifting past the neon signs and out the big window that looked onto our street.
This was it. This was our world.
A whole self-contained universe right in the middle of Las Flores, an unincorporated speck in Orange County that barely scraped together four thousand people. My great-great-grandfather had a hand in founding this place, and that legacy was baked into the very dust on the streets. We were respected here. Not just as bikers, but as founders. As pillars.
Over the years, the town’s name changed, but our grip on it never did. Our headquarters wasn’t just a clubhouse; it was the beating heart of a small, fortified village. Our main street was lined with our businesses—my bar, the workshop, the tattoo parlor—and branching off from it were smaller lanes, like arteries, leading to the houses where my brothers lived with their families.
The whole thing was protected by a high wall and a single, guarded gate. Some of the guys had even turned their plots into little farms, growing veggies and keeping chickens. But that life was never for me. My hands were plenty full with the club.
My dad, J.J.—a name everyone knew him by, printed right there on his “Original Member” patch—had passed the presidency down to me, the eldest of his four kids. Well, three by blood, and Ace, who might as well have been. He grew up with us, and I trusted him with my life.
Most of the men in my MC had grown up right here in the dirt. Their parents were the retired members, the old guard who still put in the work for the community, even if they’d traded their active patches for “Original” status.
The weight of my own cut felt heavier than usual this morning. MC No Limits President—King. The leather was worn smooth in places, the patches faded. It was more than a title; it was a covenant. A promise of protection and order that stretched way beyond our walls.
And that promise included the safe house. A deal struck generations ago between my grandfather and a young, ambitious police chief from Laguna Beach named Tom Carter. Carter climbed the ladder high in the FBI, and that old friendship turned into a lucrative, secret arrangement.
We provided an ironclad safe haven for witnesses, for victims, for anyone who needed to vanish from the worst people the world had to offer. I mean, who’s stupid enough to start trouble in the heart of an armed, organized MC’s compound? Nobody with a working brain cell.
These days, my dad and Alice run the safe house. Duke, my younger brother and our VP, handled the messy, not-exactly-legal side of things—forging new papers, arranging safe transport. He worked with Wrath, our treasurer, and Void, our secretary and resident hacker genius.
Void and his wife, Erin, were tech wizards. The shit that looked like gibberish on a screen to me was a whole other language to them. Their kid, Mike, was already following in their footsteps, a little geek-in-training.
On the flip side, Alice and Wrath’s daughter, Drew, was a hellion on two wheels, a true biker princess, and my favorite damn kid in the world.
“You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out,” Alice said, pulling me out of my thoughts. Wrath coughed, hiding a laugh into his fist.
I just rolled my eyes, the motion making my head swim.
“Feel like it, too,” I mumbled into my coffee.
The front door swung open, cutting a shaft of blinding sunlight across the floor. Ace strode in, looking disgustingly alert and put together.
“Mornin’, King,” he said, his voice too damn cheerful.
“How the hell are you already vertical?” I groaned, laying my forehead back on the cool countertop. “We drank enough to kill a decent-sized horse.”
“I had work to do. Prepped the safe house. Didn’t Alice tell you? We’re getting a new one today,” Ace said, dropping onto the stool beside me like he owned the place.
I lifted my head, shooting a look at my sister. “We are?”
She nodded, her smirk gone, replaced by a serious, all-business expression.
“The situation’s messy. Old Tom called Dad. Said they’ve lost contact with her. Something’s off,” Alice explained.
As if summoned by the serious turn in the conversation, my parents walked in. My dad, J.J., had that same easy smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this morning. My mom took one look at me and raised a critical eyebrow.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“What’s it look like, Ma?” I said with a weak laugh. “Bikerhood.”
Dad ignored the banter and sat down with us, his presence immediately shifting the gravity in the room.
“Someone’s gotta go see Tom. He won’t talk about this over the phone. Says there’s too much at stake,” he said, accepting a coffee from Alice. “Sounds like it’s about a big fish. A trafficker. Women.”
A cold silence dropped over us, colder than the hangover. We’d heard it all before, seen the hollowed-out, broken people who showed up in the dead of night. But it never, ever got easier.
“I hate these fuckers,” Alice whispered, her voice tight with a quiet, simmering fury. “Poor women.”
“Guy’s supposedly operating from here to Las Vegas,” Wrath added, flipping open a folder he’d had on the counter. “Local, but connected.”
“Is it smart to bring her here, then?” Mom asked, the worry clear in her voice.
It was a fair question. But the system was airtight. People arrived under cover of darkness and left the same way. No one came in or out of our gate without an escort and explicit permission. The people we protected were ghosts within our walls; no outsiders ever saw them or spoke to them.
“Of course it is,” Dad said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He pulled Mom into a one-armed hug. “We’ve never failed before. We won’t fail now. We’ll find her a new home.”
“I’ll go with Duke as soon as he’s up,” Alice said, all business.
Right on cue, a low, pathetic groan echoed from the staircase. We all turned to see my little brother, Duke, shuffling down the steps. He looked even worse than I felt, his face pale and his eyes squinted shut against the faint light.
Ace barked a laugh. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. He is alive.”
“Okay,” Dad said, standing up. “You two go as soon as he’s functional. And call me the second you’re back.” He led Mom out, leaving us to it.
It took another half hour and two more coffees before Duke was even vaguely human.
“Let’s go, sunshine. We’re taking my car,” Alice said dryly, already grabbing her keys.
I stood in the doorway and watched Duke reluctantly climb into the passenger seat of Alice’s “pick-’em-up” truck, as he called it.
I knew he hated it—he’d rather ride his Harley straight into a wall—but you can’t exactly transport a scared, potentially injured woman on the back of a bike.
I watched them go, the sedan kicking up a small cloud of dust as it rolled toward the main gate. The coffee in my gut had settled the worst of the nausea, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache behind my eyes and a cold knot of anticipation in my stomach. This was more than just another job. Something in the air felt different. Charged.
The sun was climbing higher, baking the asphalt outside. I turned my back on the empty road and walked into the dim, familiar comfort of my bar.
“We need to talk,” Ace said the moment I slid onto the barstool next to him.
“About what?” I asked.
He gestured with his chin toward the staircase, and I remembered—Candy was still asleep upstairs in my bed.
“Word is Candy’s been hanging with some bikers from the Laguna Beach MC,” he said, pouring a coffee. His tone was grim.
“What?” The word shot out of me, sharp with disbelief.
Ace met my eyes and gave a slow, confirming nod.
“Storm saw her yesterday in Laguna,” he explained. “She was riding with one of the Sons of the Pacific.”
I drew a sharp breath. It wasn’t jealousy twisting in my gut—it was the chilling realization she could blow our cover if she drew the wrong kind of attention. Candy was new, just looking for a place to crash, but I had no idea what she was truly capable of.
“Fuck,” I bit out.
Ace just nodded again, then jerked his head toward the stairs. He knew, just as I did, what had to happen.
When I pushed my bedroom door open, she was still curled under the blankets.
“Candy,” I called, my voice cutting through the quiet.
She stirred but didn’t wake.
“Get up.” I yanked the covers off her.
She jolted awake, sitting up fast, confusion all over her face.
“You need to go. Now,” I said, my voice cold and flat.
“What?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
“Did I stutter?” I snapped. “You need to fucking leave.”
She scrambled to gather her clothes from the floor, her eyes locked on me the whole time.
“You were with the Sons of the Pacific,” I stated.
Her face went pale, eyes wide with panic.
“Just once,” she pleaded. “I won’t do it again.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” I hissed.
She pulled on her glittering short dress, then turned to me at the door.
“I won’t cause you any trouble…I promise,” she said softly.
She had no idea just how much trouble she could already be.
“Damn it—Candy!”
