Cry Mercy (Blood Legion MC Book 1) Read online

  CRY MERCY

  BLOOD LEGION MC BOOK 1

  RIE WARREN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cry Mercy

  Copyright © 2019 by Rie Warren

  Excerpt from Storm copyright © 2016 by Rie Warren

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.

  https://www.riewarren.com

  Warren, Rie.

  Cry Mercy / Rie Warren – 1st ed

  1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Crime Fiction—Fiction. 4. Erotica—Fiction. 5. Suspense—Fiction. 6. Thriller—Fiction. 7. Mystery, Thriller, & Suspense—Fiction. 8. Romantic Suspense—Fiction. 9. Dominant Male Romance Possessive—Fiction. 10. Enemies to Lovers Romance Kindle Unlimited—Fiction 11. Organized Crime—Fiction 12. Heist—Fiction 13. Action & Adventure—Fiction 14. Possessive Alpha Male Romance—Fiction 15. Dominant Biker Romance—Fiction 16. MC Romance—Fiction 17. Possessive MC Romance—Fiction. I. Title

  ASIN:

  B07QV3WYHY

  Table of Contents

  CRY MERCY

  Author Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Keep reading for a sexy sample from Storm, Bad Boys of X-Ops 3

  Chapter Three

  Coming June 10th . . . Save Grace, Blood Legion MC book 2!

  Books By Rie Warren

  Connect with Rie

  About Rie

  Author Note

  Hello fearless (fierce!) readers. Just a couple quick notes before we dive into a brand new sexy adventure. These books can all be read as standalones, however, we first meet the NOLA Blood Legion MC crew in Storm, Bad Boys of X-Ops 3, and biker dude/former Marine Killian Slade in Bo, Bad Boys of Retribution MC 3.

  Also, this book could contain potential triggers. If you’d like spoilers, just shoot me an email at [email protected].

  One final thing . . . I have to give massive thanks to Cherie LaDouceur Lord for helping me with some local New Orleans color for this book!

  XOXO~

  Chapter One

  ANGEL

  “GET A GODDAMN MOVE on.” Drawing my hair back from my face, I held the door open with a booted foot.

  The officers of Blood Legion MC filed past, and I swore to hell getting them to chapel was like herding feral fucking cats.

  “No phones in church,” I ordered. “Toss ’em in the basket.”

  “Toss this.” Saint made the obvious rude hand gesture, big many-ringed fingers stroking up and down.

  The tall dude looked nothing like a friggin’ saint, that was for damn sure. He possessed linebacker shoulders, a perma-scowl that only lifted when he gave his Imma killer grin, and—like the rest of us—he came with his own special set of baggage.

  Saint Baptiste was the Legion treasurer.

  “Aww. Sweet, Angel.” Slade poked at the basket slanted on a window ledge.

  The airtight ex-CIA operative and former Force Recon soldier wasn’t an over sharer, in fact he shared very few deets about his life at all. But he’d saved my half brother Storm’s life and that of the woman who was now Storm’s wife.

  Slade had stayed on at Blood Legion after the massacre and stood in as my veep.

  Now he cut a wink at me. “You go on a shopping spree at Pier 1 with your old lady, Prez?”

  Not an over sharer, unless he was getting on my case that was.

  “Fuck you and you too, dickcheese.” I tossed my own rude gestures at Saint and Slade. “I ain’t ever had or will ever have an old lady.”

  “Riiiiight.” Lennox whacked me on the shoulder with such force he almost knocked me on my ass. “’Cause you be poppin’ the cherries on the regular.”

  I’d have chuckled if I weren’t busy regaining my balance from the big man’s friendly pat.

  Meanwhile Sol grinned from ear to ear as he polished glasses behind the bar. The old Creole man flashed new pearly whites that matched his shockingly white hair because I’d taken the man to the dentist, got him fitted with dentures as kind of payment or restitution. Hell, he’d stuck by our side and survived the last Blood Legion shit circus. Not an official MC member, he was without doubt a Legion institution. Chow cook and den mother.

  “Hell, I don’t give a shit about handing over my phone as long as I can keep Veronica here by my side.” Slade patted the wicked custom-made KA-BAR strapped at his waist. “She and I are never to be parted.”

  “Tell us again how you named your knife?” Saint lounged outside the door I kept open.

  Mon Dieu. Here we go again. Herding motherfucking mongrel cats.

  “See now, it all started with my buddy Bo, the Iron Nails takedown in Florida, and a beautiful shrink called Veronica.”

  Now Killian Slade was officially over-sharing.

  And I almost missed Hayden Chase trying to slip past my guard to get into chapel.

  “Not you, boug.” I slapped a hand against the prospect’s chest.

  “Come on,” the goateed boy bleated.

  “Cryin’ will get you nowhere, baby face.” Saint cracked that murderous grin.

  “Angel’s a hardass. Don’t be fooled by the name, kid.” Slade stood beside me, barring the entrance to the sacred room.

  “I’m not a kid!” Chase’s voice rose.

  “Oh yeah? Your testicles drop yet? ’Cause it don’t sound like it.” Lennox gave him a friendly pat, which sent the probie sailing backward.

  Entering the chapel—fucking finally—we shut the door in Chase’s face.

  We took seats at the long table, and Slade immediately began rolling a cigarette. I passed around a bottle of bourbon after skimming four glasses across the table.

  I began. “Order of business today—”

  “Hey, you got dibs on that chick named Louise who keeps hanging out at the bar?” Saint asked, leaning in my direction.

  “If she’s into you, be my guest.” I tapped my fingers impatiently on the wood. “So, we need to talk about—”

  “Ah, fuck. Zippo’s dead. Anyone got a light?” Slade tipped his rollie back and forth between his fingers.

  Exhaling deeply, I vaulted my lighter to the man with the thick black beard. “Do I have to slam the gavel, or can we get down to biz now?”

  Squinting through a plume of smoke, Slade advised, “Probably be more effective to just shoot a round in the ceiling to get our attention.”

  He probably didn’t think I’d do it.

  Reaching for the sling on the back of my chair, I hauled out a shotgun. Hey, it wasn’t a sawed-off—like my mamere’s. Had a permit for it and everything . . . during hunting season.

  Hunting feral cats.

  Taking a bead on Slade, I watched his dark blue eyes narrow dangerously. Every other fucker went blessedly silent. When I squeezed the trigger, no one flinched. Fuck, Slade didn’t even wince when the ball whizzed past his ear to plug into the wall with a loud burst and shocking bang.

 
Chase threw the door open, eyes about to pop out of his head.

  I grinned, rubbing a palm down the barrel. “Just callin’ this meeting to order, kid.”

  He nodded with jerky motions then shut the door again.

  “He probably just shit his pants.”

  “Bet he doesn’t want in on the next chapel.”

  I drank my bourbon, laying the shotgun on the table. “If we’re ready, I wanna put Revenge up for tail gunner.”

  Lennox paused over his drink. “You sure ’bout that?”

  “Anyone got a problem with him?” I asked.

  “He’s solid,” Saint said. “I can vouch for that.”

  “If solid means he’s not in an insane asylum and hasn’t committed murder.” Slade blew another ring of smoke.

  “I’d call that solid, given Blood Legion history.” I cracked a thin smile. “You could always call Justice for intel.”

  Lennox and Saint watched our back and forth like their heads were on swivel.

  “You could call Storm,” Slade countered.

  “Did that,” we said at the same time followed up with a fist bump across the table.

  “So, show of hands. All in favor of Revenge as tail gunner?” I looked around the crew.

  A show of hands at Blood Legion meant knives thrust into the table. There were so many scars marring the wood from decades of club votes, the thing looked all scratched to hell. A testament to MC democracy that’d gotten lost during Venom’s reign as prez.

  The vote unanimous, I nodded. “Excellent. Agreed and adjourned, brothers.”

  I slammed the heavy gavel onto the table then cocked and shot my gun to officially call an end to church.

  Once the men ambled out, I made my way around the table, pushing in chairs and running my fingers over the deep grooves of the Blood Legion emblem detailed in the center. My dad had painstakingly carved the gruesome skull with a bullet hole for an eye socket into the wood so many years ago.

  Stepping from chapel, I dug out my smokes. With a Red to my lips, I realized Slade still had my lighter.

  I stuffed the cigarette back in the pack and headed up the rickety stairs to the second floor. I strolled across the landing, but not before I stopped to place my hand against the hole Blaize had blown into the wall just like I’d done earlier.

  I’d taken over Storm’s old quarters. The room he’d last shared with ballsy Blaize. A balcony overlooked the street where Sol usually set up his barbeque for all and sundry with the froggy-throated call of, “Get dem ribs! Da corn pone! Da slaw!”

  Swiping another lighter from amid the jumble of tools and shit on my dresser, I stepped onto the balcony and lit up.

  Nawleans in June—man, it was a scorcher. Heat seemed to crawl up from the pavement, creating hazy waves in the air. Our bikes lined up on the street below, matte black, shiny chrome, night trains, and choppers. The rough element of the area was a little more tamed than it used to be. Fucking gentrification and all that. But we were here to stay, and we weren’t about to change our colors, much.

  Blaize and Storm were man and wife now. Shee-it, they were goddamn parents now, which was just mindboggling. I saw my niece at least twice a year between travelling to DC and their crew visiting here.

  Watching Storm with his woman and their kid . . . well, that stuff tightened my chest, but not in a bad way.

  His life wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

  Shit sure had transformed in the space of two years for our MC in the Crescent City. No longer coke traffickers or gun smugglers or outright murderers, I still made it my business to have a new horny honey on my cock on a nightly basis. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, I was all about spreading my bonhomie. Or as Lennox had mentioned, nailing every cherry I could.

  I wasn’t ready to be completely rehabilitated yet.

  ****

  By the time I got back down to the bar, the noise level had risen exponentially. The doors had been opened for business, and the booths and tabletops were full. Pool. Poker. Darts. Pretty much anything you could ask for from this type of establishment. The place was packed to the rafters yet I could still hear Sol out the front, hawking his secret recipe BBQ.

  Baby-faced Chase slid me a bottle from the other end of the bar just as the latest road hummer vixen hipped her way to me.

  A few other honeys out to get my attention made a beeline in my direction. They were cut off at the pass when Babe Number One spun around to hiss in their faces, baring claw-like scarlet-red nails.

  All black lace and tall boots and tits that didn’t quit, it seemed Babe One, AKA Demi, was done waiting for her turn.

  I merely watched, amused. Biker bunnies always wanted a ride on my Harley and on my cock. I wasn’t too picky—getting laid was a means to an end rather than anything meaningful. I got my dick wet. Released some testosterone. Gave a broad a few orgasms and sent her on her way.

  I never did the same babe twice, because then they started getting all possessive.

  “Hey, Angel.” Demi sidled up to me, tits first.

  I nodded at her over the lip of my bottle.

  “I told the girls you’re mine tonight,” she purred, batting what had to be fake eyelashes to go with the fake nails.

  “Did you now?”

  She dragged those nails down the center of my chest.

  I wasn’t too picky, but I wasn’t much into claw marks either. Or being claimed.

  “Hate to break it to you, cher, but I decide who I bed down with.” Taking her by the wrist, I removed her roaming hand.

  Demi’s pout turned into a hard sneer, and she stomped off with her ass wiggling all the way.

  “Duuuude.” Chase shook his head, staring after the pissed off vixen turned viper. “I’d have taken her up on her offer.”

  I leaned an elbow on the bar. “Well, I’d say go for her, prospect, but she’s not really the type of girl you wanna lose your virginity to.”

  “Oh fuck you.”

  “Careful, boug. You want your patch before you get out of puberty, right?”

  Chase slunk to the other end of the bar, muttering foul oaths while his cheeks blazed pink.

  Saint, overhearing our exchange, slapped me on the back.

  “Damn, I love it when you rip on the kid.” The man’s long sharp goatee mirrored his sharp grin.

  Yeah, Blood Legion MC. One big happy family.

  We were all orphans, or at the very least damaged goods, and that meant we bonded in the same way dysfunctional families did. Slinging barbs. Threatening gross bodily harm. Occasional bar brawls.

  Ultimately having one another’s backs though.

  Thunder Road was now one hundred percent legit. Okay, ninety-nine percent legit. The bar was operational, and we’d expanded next door to set up our own tattoo parlor.

  It’d been Saint’s brainchild to call the place Tit for Tat. Turned out to be an excellent decision, because we pulled in a bunch of dicktool businessmen thinking they were in for a tittie show to go with their new tats.

  Idiots.

  We didn’t exploit women. We were done with the down and dirty.

  And fuck knew we had enough ink between us to know what we were doing when it came to tattoos. Saint was a master artist, and Lennox—the dude who was big as an ox and we used to think was dumb as one too—had mad ink skills too. No more gun running or drug dealing for us . . . much.

  Hell, I even paid the damn taxes and applied for permits and everything.

  Everyone was welcome at Thunder Road Bar. Not like the bad old days of Venom’s rule when every horrible deed we’d ever committed had come to a head. The old Blood Legion gang days had gone down in flames. A total shitshow perpetrated by a cartel, haji terrorists, the Tenn-tucky hillbilly cocaine fucks, and Storm’s dark ops team.

  Now this palace was all mine. Blood Legion MC was my legacy.

  Everyone welcome. That included northern transplant hipster fuckheads who frequented our watering hole. The bushy bearded imposters loved the genui
ne vibe. If only they knew.

  If only these walls could talk.

  Venom and the bulk of the outlaw crew had been incarcerated. Former members and bad seeds Burn and Kouto dead at the hands of Storm and Slade. A bunch of women who’d been loyal hangers-on had been put in WITSEC never to be seen again.

  Of the crew during those bloody days that left only Slade, Lennox, and me.

  And Solomon.

  I’d been careful, doing my due diligence and all that shit, letting new members join us. Now at more than fifteen members total plus Chase the prospect, we’d paved a new path.

  But we were still the same roughneck dudes.

  I scanned out over the crowded barroom as rock music blasted from the speakers and police sirens blared from the streets.

  At least I was reasonably sure the pigs weren’t after us . . . this time.

  Another honey began making eyes at me, that one blonde and all cutesy and probably a coed from Tulane.

  No way was I touching that.

  Slade took my empty and slipped another bottle into my hand. He also dropped my Zippo into the front pocket of my cut.

  I lit up a smoke immediately as I took another drink of cold beer.

  The heat from outside compounded the body heat inside, and it was probably a cool eighty degrees inside Thunder Road.

  Like most nights, Slade manned the bar with Chase. He had a certain flair with the customers. If by flair one meant his curt fuck you attitude that proved to be a favorite with the cool kid wannabes.

  “Another pussy drink for Man Bun!” Slade loudly called out an order just placed by—I glanced to my left—yup, some chill guy sporting the man bun.

  Chase juggled a tall glass and a cocktail shaker in his hands. “Pussy drink for Man Bun! Gotcha.”

  Those around the bar guffawed, Saint and me included.

  Pussy drink meant mixed shit, whatever we had on hand, with some ice. It didn’t matter if these pretentious douchebags ordered a mojito, a dirty martini, or a mudslide. We didn’t serve top of the line anything except for insults.

  Authentic ambience. They got that in spades.