Page 1 of Hell Bent

Chapter One

Mason ‘Vicious’ LaPointe rode his blood-red Harley through Montreal. The bike felt like part of him, part of what he was. The sheet metal was adorned with ghostly images of skulls stretching out in pain. Twelve-inch mini apes were his choice of handlebars. They weren’t normally seen on a Road King, but his bike wasn’t a normal Road King. After dragging it from a dark corner of a local bike shop, he rebuilt it specific to him. The engine was a custom 103. He could blow most bikes out of the water and often proved it.

Downshifting, he slowed as he came into town. The wind was picking up, crisscrossing the area. October brought with it occasional snow and rain, but tonight, it was just damn cold. He felt a definite drop in temperature since the sun had gone down. Dropping his hand next to the engine, he warmed it up as he slowly rolled down the street.

A woman walking down the sidewalk caught his attention. Her long, dark raven hair hung to her waist, swaying withher hips. He could imagine how all that wealth of silky length would feel wrapped in his hands. When she walked into an auto repair shop, Vicious shifted into a higher gear and rolled on.

Tonight, the Royal Bastards were having a friendly game of poker. Having a deep need to take money off one or more of his club brothers, Vicious headed for the clubhouse. Things had been tough for the Montreal chapter the last few years. Problems within the chapter itself caused the National President to step in and make a lot of changes. Even though the chapter had been around for more than a decade, Jameson could have shut them down. Instead, he brought in Bastien Cartier, better known as Teller.

Vicious had been voted in as VP, and Teller had gotten dropped in as President. Not much was known about their new Prez other than Jameson had handpicked the brother. And he hadn’t come alone. Blackjack and Double Tap were sent at the same time. No matter what any of the three men said, they knew each other longer than they were willing to admit.

Teller was much like Jameson in the sense both men kept things tight to the chest.

Things were starting to fall into place within the chapter. Still, there were moments he and Teller didn’t see eye to eye. They argued more than they got along. Maybe that’s why Jameson had sent Teller—he didn’t want a ‘yes’ man in charge.

Deep clouds blocked out the setting sun, making the evening chillier. Making his way through town, Viciousstuck to the side streets to avoid traffic. Old Montreal, especially Saint Paul Street between Marché Bonsecours and Saint Laurent Boulevard,was mostly pedestrians. You could walk anywhere within minutes.

Dark windows and empty streets signalled he had entered the backend of what was referred to as the Red-Light District. The area was home to cabarets, strip clubs, pool halls, bars, and multiple illegal businesses. A few streets down, he pulled up to the clubhouse. Backing his sled into an open spot, Vicious dropped the kickstand.

Tank, one of the prospects, walked up and let him know they had the bikes covered. Thanking the kid, Vicious climbed off his Harley and headed for the door. Walking into the clubhouse, he headed through the common area, passing leather sofas, cigar chairs, and poker tables.

Heading for the bar, he heard raised voices, alerting him that some of the other brothers had also arrived early. Player and Joker walked in talking shit about hockey teams. The two brothers were always arguing over nothing and everything. Pulling a bottle of Monkey Shoulder from the shelf, Vicious poured himself a stiff drink.

“Hey, man, don’t be stingy. Pour us a round.”

“Give me a beer back as well.”

Chuckling to himself, Vicious grabbed two more glasses and long necks from the cooler. Setting the round up, he poured the drinks and listened to the brothers carry on their discussion about which team was better. Vicious intervened before the conversation got too heated. “Who’s coming tonight for the poker game?”

“Everyone’s coming to the clubhouse tonight. It’s a party, didn’t you hear?”

“Nope, didn’t get that memo.” So much for a poker game with a few of the brothers. Maybe a party was just what he needed.

Tossing back his scotch, Vicious enjoyed the heat of the liquor as it slid down his throat and settled into his gut. Pouring another round, he picked up his glass and headed to the poker table as a few more brothers entered from the back with their ol’ ladies, who were carrying food trays.

Flanked by Player and Joker, Vicious sat at one of the tables. He listened to the two laughing at the expense of a few of the clubs’ prospects who had been forced to clean the clubhouse wearing French maid uniforms. He didn’t know if it had been a challenge or a punishment. Either way, it was funny as hell.

Not being able to stop himself, Vicious joined in the laughing. If they didn’t want to endure hazing or challenges, they should have second-guessed joining a club. There were two ways these things went—one, the prospects would see it through, or two, they could step away from the club.

Even if the prospects chose not to remain part of the club, they could drop back to being a hangaround. At prospect level, they weren’t privy to anything pertinent to the club. Becoming a full patch took twelve months and committing a felony in front of a full patch member. If you wanted out, that was more complicated. It could happen, but it wasn’t the easiest thing to achieve without dying.

Since the chapter had been started, they had never voted anyone out, though Vicious couldn’t say they hadn’t had afew taken out. Those fuckers were buried in the Notre Dame Cemetery in crypts owned by the club. Owning crypts in multiple cemeteries made it easy to dispose of bodies. He often said they needed to buy a funeral home for the incinerator. For now, they shoved the bodies in coffins, held funerals, and buried them like any other person.

He thought he’d seen the prospects put through some funny shit before but having them become French maids was climbing to the top of his list quickly. Vicious tossed back a shot, and he almost spit the liquor out when one of the prospects walked over and dusted the table, sticking his ass in the air. Player roared with laughter at him.

“Get your fucking ass out my face.”

Player slapped him on the back. “It’s all in good fun, brother.”

Vicious shoved Player’s hand off his shoulder. “Are we playing cards or what?”

“In a hurry to lose your money, Vicious?”

“Big words, Joker. Let’s see you back them up.”

The cards were dealt and insults started getting tossed around immediately. Every hand that Vicious won just pissed off the other guys sitting in on the games. It wasn’t his fault he had a great poker face. Player tossed his cards on the table.

“I need another beer.” Player looked up in time to catch the eye of one of the girls sauntering past the bar. Signalling for her to bring a round to the table, he leaned back in his chair.

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