GHOST: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Evil Dead MC Series Book 5) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Present Day

Sturgis, South Dakota

August

Five bikes slowed on the rain soaked pavement, and then backed into spots in front of the tattoo shop, their back tires to the curb.

Three bottom rockers read Alabama. Two of them read California.

Ghost dropped his kickstand and threw his leg over the bike, turning to look up at the place. He pulled his daylight KDs off and wiped the water from his face.

Brothers Ink

Word was it was the best place in town. Just a temporary store, like so many others that popped up in Sturgis seemingly overnight this time every August.

This one was different. Four brothers owned it, and one of them, a man named Jameson O’Rourke was gaining recognition in the tattoo world. He’d been on the cover of
Inked Up
Magazine
, and rumor had it they were in talks about a TV show.

The MC came through the door, ignoring the clearly posted sign that read,
NO MC COLORS
, their broad, leather-covered shoulders filling the small shop. They were dripping wet, rivulets of water running off them to puddle on the floor.

Ghost saw his two California Chapter brothers, Crash and Wolf smile at a girl standing by the window.

Wolf even winked at her.

“Got a customer for you, Superstar,” Shades announced, pushing JJ forward. They were here to get JJ his club tattoo. Club bylaws stated you had to be a member for two years and be accompanied by two patched members that already had their ink.

Jameson looked from Shades to the girl, who obviously worked for him. And it was almost as if he was questioning whether she wanted him to get rid of these men. Not that that would be an easy task, but apparently the man thought he was up for it. Ghost huffed out a breath. If he was going to take on five members of the Evil Dead MC, he was either fucking stupid, or he had balls the size of the Hulk.

Shades was starting to narrow his eyes at the man, not liking his hesitation one bit.

“There a problem?” he asked with a growl.

The girl cut in, breaking the tension. “No, not at all. I’ll get the paperwork.” She moved toward the counter. “Please, gentlemen, this way.”

Shades eyed Jameson, and then turned toward the counter, shoving the younger member ahead of him.

As the girl shuffled through the papers at her station, searching for a consent form, it was apparent that their VP was making her nervous as hell. That is, until Crash leaned his elbows on the counter and grinned down at her.

“How’s it going, Crystal?”

Shades looked over at him. “You know her?”

“Crystal used to run the bar at our clubhouse.”

“That so?”

“Crystal, this is Shades, VP of the Birmingham Chapter.” Then he indicated the others. “This is JJ and Ghost.”

Shades and Ghost both smiled.

“Ma’am. Pleased to meet you.” Ghost tried to put her at ease.

“You, too,” she replied, giving them a nervous smile.

“Think you can relax now, darlin’?” Shades asked as he turned up the charm.

“Of course.” She handed the paperwork to JJ. “Sign here and here, please.”

Ten minutes later, Jameson was at work on a full back tattoo, working from the design on the club’s cut. The man was a fast worker, Ghost had to admit, but even so, it would take several hours to complete a tattoo of this size.

They had a couple more customers that the other owners took care of, but in comparison to a normal day, they were pretty dead. The rain was keeping most people away. It varied off and on from a downpour to a drizzle and back again. Classic Sturgis, Ghost mused.

As the afternoon wore on, Jameson was getting close to finishing JJ’s club tattoo. Ghost had to admit the man had talent. His lining was perfect, and his shading was flawless. Ghost rose and moved toward the front door, deciding to wait outside. He stepped out onto the boardwalk with its overhanging roof and slid his daylight KDs on with their yellow lenses, his eyes on the distant mountains visible at the end of the street. A group of brave riders rode past, a fine mist of rain spraying up from the tires of their big bikes.

Ghost glanced over to the end of the porch where Wolf, one of his brothers from the Cali Chapter, talked to that chick, Crystal. Seemed they had some history. Ghost smiled. He’d heard stories about Wolf. The man had a line of women a mile long. But something about this one told him she meant something to the man.

The wooden boardwalk shook as three more pairs of booted feet stomped out the door. JJ’s tattoo was finished, and they were ready to roll. Ghost saw Wolf twist to look behind him as they all glanced in his direction.

“You comin’?” Crash asked.

Wolf lifted his chin. “You go on. I’ll be a while.”

Crash nodded, and then they were all headed toward their bikes.

The rain had slacked off to a light drizzle as Ghost and his brothers climbed on their bikes. A moment later, four Harleys roared to life and pulled out, heading back to the Evil Dead’s Sturgis campground.

The Evil Dead MC was in Sturgis for Bike Week. It was their club’s national meet. Mandatory. Members from every chapter across the country were required to attend.

Ghost eyed the sky as his fellow Birmingham Chapter brothers rode ahead of him, and he suddenly felt a shimmying vibration in his bike and knew right away that he was getting a flat.

Motherfucker.

He eased up on the throttle and pulled to the gravel shoulder.

JJ glanced back over his shoulder, immediately noticing when the rumbling sound of Ghost’s pipes were no longer at his side. He then gunned his engine to pull alongside Shades and Crash passing the word.

As Ghost climbed off his bike, he noticed all three of his brothers slowing down and making a U-turn. He squatted down next to his rear tire to examine it. It was losing air fast. Dipping his head and following the hissing noise, it only took him a moment to locate the nail he’d picked up.

At least he had a repair kit with him, and as bike problems went, this was an easy fix.

He stood back up as the three bikes rolled back up to him. “Picked up a nail.”

“You got a kit?” Shades asked.

“Yeah. I got this. You boys don’t need to hang here with me.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you back at the campsite,” Ghost assured him as he pulled the repair kit out of the leather bag strapped to his swing arm. The Evil Dead MC owned forty-four acres of land halfway between Sturgis and Deadwood. They’d bought the property back in the eighties and used it for a campground for their national meet during Sturgis Bike Week.

“All right then. See ya back there.” Shades lifted his chin to him and the rest of his brothers pulled out.

As the sound of their engines faded over the rise, Ghost bent down and got to work plugging his tire.

It took Ghost about fifteen minutes to repair his tire. Then he mounted up and pulled back out on the blacktop. A few miles down the road, he turned off into the gravel parking lot of a remote roadhouse, the neon beer signs in the windows calling his name. The lot was crowded with bikes, but not nearly as many as it soon would be. The rain earlier in the day had slacked off and riders were starting to get back out.

Ghost rolled slowly across the lot, gravel crunching under his tires. He found a spot and parked. Dismounting, he headed toward the front door, stretching his neck from side to side to crack his spine like some people cracked their knuckles.

As he came through the door, he looked around. The place was medium size, rough-hewn wood floors and rustic décor, with tables on the right and a bar on the left.

He made his way through the crowd and found a place at the far end of the bar where it curved around to form a short L shaped corner. Beyond the end of the bar was a doorway leading to a short hall that contained the bathrooms and a back door. From his spot at the corner end of the bar, Ghost could see both the front door and the back door. And that wasn’t by accident. Sturgis, Deadwood and the surrounding towns were crowded with many one-percenter clubs, many of which didn’t get along, to put it mildly. Not a problem for a member if you were traveling in a pack, not so if you were the sole patch from your club in the place when another club walked in. Some bars were claimed by certain clubs as their territory while they were in town; other small places like this were not.

Ghost ordered a beer and surveyed the crowd. It was the typical biker crowd, riders decked out in leather against the chilly, rainy day. Although the Sturgis Rally was held in August, the South Dakota weather was always unpredictable and changeable. Temperatures could vary anywhere from the low fifties to the upper eighties. Today had started out wet and windy. It was temporarily clearing, but the horizon looked dark and the wind had picked up again.

A couple of women with bandanas around their heads and braided hair, laughed at the jokes the men at their table in the corner were telling. A jukebox up front blasted out some music. He’d picked out only one other patch when he came in, but it was just that of a member of a military veterans club, nobody that would give him any trouble.

Ghost quietly sipped his beer, keeping to himself. It had been an honor taking JJ to get his club tattoo today. He’d glanced over at Shades while JJ sat under the needle, and he knew they’d both been remembering when they’d gotten their ink. It had been years now, but every now and then, like today, it seemed like just yesterday.

Ghost signaled the bartender for another beer and leaned on his elbows, his arms folded. Movement through the doorway behind him caught his eye, and he twisted his head, peering over his shoulder to see the back door open and a young woman dash in. His eyes swept down over her, taking in everything at once from the low cut bright pink tee shirt that proclaimed in big block letters,
Punk Rock Rules
to the pair of black leather hot pants with the fishnet stocking under them and cute little high heeled ankle boots. She may be wearing black leather, but she looked more like something off a London runway than blending in with any of this crowd. His eyes returned to her face. She had long dark hair and the heavily lined and shadowed eyes that also could be found straight out of some fashion magazine. But there was something else… something about her rang familiar to Ghost. He just couldn’t quite place it.

That feeling was quickly pushed aside by the expression on her face. She looked frantic, terrified, and maybe even desperate. Ghost frowned.

What the fuck?

She jerked to a stop when her eyes hit him, sliding down and taking in his cut and the patch on his back.

Ghost had seen that reaction in women before, the ones that saw the cut and backed away. But this was different. This was downright terror.

She stood beyond the doorway, still in the back hall, just out of sight from the crowd in the bar.

Ghost’s frown deepened, and he straightened from the bar, but before he could react, his attention was drawn to a commotion at the front door. The crowd had suddenly gone quiet, and he saw the reason. Four members of the Death Heads MC had just come through the door. They stood there, just inside the entrance, their eyes sweeping over the crowd. And then they began moving, their eyes traveling slowly and painstakingly over every person at every table.

They were searching for someone, Ghost realized.

And then the terror he’d seen on the girl that had come through the back door clicked, and his head jerked back to look. She had her back to him now as she stood at an old pay phone, her shaking hand punching at the buttons, oblivious to the danger that had just come through the front door.

Ghost glanced back to the Death Heads moving through the bar. If he was going to get involved, he had only seconds to do it. If he had any sense, he’d stay the fuck out of this shit. But something about the terrified look on that girl’s face wouldn’t let him leave it alone.

“Fuck,” he cursed as he pushed off the bar.

***

Jessie held the receiver tightly to her ear, relief flooding through her when she heard the dial tone. Thanking God the old pay phone was still functional, she punched in 911 with trembling fingers hoping the call would go through even though she had no coins to feed into the slot.

Suddenly, she felt a presence at her back and the smell of leather enveloped her. She sucked in a breath as a muscular arm reached over her shoulder, two fingers pressing down on the cradle, disconnecting the call, the other hand yanking the phone out of her hand and hanging it up. Then, before she could react or spin around, the man grabbed her by the upper arms and was herding her into the women’s restroom. The flimsy door banged against the wall as he shouldered his way through, pushing her ahead of him.

It was a small room with only two stalls and a low counter with double sinks and a cracked mirror on the wall above.