Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

dispute when we
could only limp around our borders.
    The bike wove
between cars and tricks, dipping low into a tight-ass bend as I squared myself for
the next exit. I ducked behind a creeping Honda and swore as the jackass on his
cellphone nearly ran the cage off the road. The rumble strip kicked up a chunk
of rock that grazed my cheek.
    It was bad luck
to end a fight without bleeding. The cut under my eye would serve as sufficient
sacrifice to whatever fucked-up god demanded the tribute. Better a gash on my
cheek than a bullet in my head.
    I eased off the
exit and made a right, skirting the airport lanes and heading into town. Priest
and his prospect didn’t follow...or couldn’t follow with two police cruisers dipping
their donuts in the bikes’ exhaust. Didn’t envy them. The good ol’ boy
Cherrywood Valley police chief had a hard-on for me anyway. A reckless driving charge
would blow his load quicker than head from his teeny-bopper mistress dorming at
the community college.
    I kept to the
back roads and texted my crew at a red light to warn them against riding single
tonight. Exorcist wasn’t stupid enough to fail twice, but vengeance poisoned
all rationality. I rode through the shadows of our uncontested territory, but the
twisting unease never left. Not anymore.
    Constantly
looking over my shoulder did worse than hurting my neck. It exhausted me.
    We’d either lose
our edge or our necks would snap. Neither option was appealing.
    Keep’s bar and
Brew’s warehouse composed half a block of Anathema safe-houses. Their old man
had enough common sense to set his boys up with some real estate, though the
crazy bastard didn’t hide his bloody handprint as well as his financial assets.
The bikes stayed in back, away from any wayward civilian dumb enough to wander
inside the bar. Keep reserved the rear entrance for the MC, and I shut and
locked the door before my fingers stopped itching for my gun.
    “Hey.” Keep
sprawled on a wooden bench. He ignored his cigarette in the ashtray and the
laptop copying trucking schedules into Excel. He rubbed his bare head. “Lyn’s
here. She wants you.”
    “Fuck me.”
    Keep smirked. “She’s
too pissed for that. Been there, got slapped, my friend.”
    “What’s she
want?”
    “Wouldn’t say. She
looks ready to torch the place.”
    “Great. Where is
she?”
    “Where do you
think?”
    Displaced from
his own damn office. Just like Lyn. Good thing Keep didn’t have his old man’s
temper. Or his older brother’s wrath.
    Fortunately for
the MC, Keep did have a natural aptitude for business. The bar stayed clean,
financially and literally. Every bill, every receipt, every W-fucking-4 for the
last decade filed away in his office. He kept the bar stocked, the tables clear,
and every indigo pulsing light-blub humming with pure, unsullied profit.
    Unfortunately,
that meant the bar was the only place Jocelyn “Lyn” Hart would grace her sweet
ass when she traded favors. She might have started out dancing on one of the
pool tables, but Lyn’s principles prevented her from entering the chapel locked
inside the warehouse. Claimed she could stay out of prison and enjoy a shot on
the house that way.
    She was probably
right.
    And a hell of a
lot smarter than me.
    “You look like shit.”
Lyn greeted me with an insult as soon as I shut the door. “Do I want to ask why
you’re bleeding?”
    “Take a guess.”
    Lyn tilted
Keep’s executive chair back, settling within the thick leather like a court
concubine inheriting her rightful place as queen. The blonde ruled with a bump
of her hips or a strike of her fangs, and each carried enough poison to cripple
a man if he wasn’t careful. Lyn thrived best when underestimated. Learned that
lesson a long time ago.
    “Not a lover’s
scratch,” Lyn winked.
    “I prefer a
tender touch.”
    She crossed her
legs over the desk. The black leather pants might have seemed like an
invitation to less informed men. Jocelyn displayed the