The Sins We Hide, page 1
THE SINS WE HIDE
IRON OUTLAWS MC 1
S. COLE
Copyright © 2023 by Scarlett Cole
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published By: Kadelo Group Ltd.
Edited by: Manu Shadow Velasco
Cover design by: Letitia Hasser at RBA Design
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
E-book ISBN: 978-1-7398672-7-0
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7398672-8-7
For the brave ones who dare to live their
life exactly how they want to…
… for there has never been
a greater act of courage or rebellion.
CONTENTS
A Quick Word
1. Clutch
2. Gwen
3. Clutch
4. Gwen
5. Clutch
6. Gwen
7. Clutch
8. Gwen
9. Clutch
10. Gwen
11. Clutch
12. Gwen
13. Clutch
14. Gwen
15. Clutch
16. Gwen
17. Clutch
18. Gwen
19. Clutch
20. Gwen
21. Clutch
22. Gwen
23. Clutch
24. Gwen
25. Clutch
26. Gwen
27. Clutch
28. Clutch
29. Gwen
30. Clutch
31. Clutch
32. Gwen
33. Clutch
34. Gwen
35. Clutch
36. Clutch
37. Gwen
Epilogue: Clutch
Ready for Spark and Iris?
Acknowledgements
The Games We Play
About the Author
Also by Scarlett Cole
A QUICK WORD
This is an MC romance. These bikers are unapologetic 1%ers. As a result, there are themes in this book that might not be suitable for all readers. Read on for trigger warnings if you need them, otherwise, dive in.
On-page violence and violent acts
Misogynistic names for women (sluts, bitches)
Sexual kinks: Breath play
No cheating - but other woman drama
Death of parents
Now, grab a blanket and a stiff drink, then buckle up. It’s time to meet the Iron Outlaws MC.
1
CLUTCH
There’s a saying that cowards die many times before their deaths, but the brave ones, the ones who put honor above all, only taste death once.
At their very end.
As I reach for the cold handle of a white coffin carrying the body of our former Iron Outlaws MC president, Arthur “Camelot” Hills, and lift it onto my shoulder, I know it’s true.
Arthur was a warrior, born of the grit and dust of the highway. A man with wisdom for days. Son of our founder and former president. Born and bred in New Jersey with a love for Tennessee whiskey. He could lose his temper faster than any man I’ve ever known but was always the first to apologize when he fucked up.
He was loud. Loved tomato pie and rippers with too much Jersey relish.
He took me in when my old man went inside, when I was a thirteen-year-old kid with aspirations for the MC life but not an ounce of muscle or skill to make it happen. While I love and respect my dad, visiting him the last Friday every month, it was Arthur’s steady hand that guided me. He shaped the man I’ve become, and I’m struggling to keep my shit together as we walk forward.
He’s been gone seven days. Feels like a lifetime. Taken out by an errant truck on the highway. It’s a biker’s dream to die on his bike, but not at such a young age.
Uther “King” Hills—his son, my best friend, and new club president—is on the other side of the coffin.
Behind me is Miles “Bates” Graydon, our enforcer, named by my old man, Bill “Cue Ball” Bailey. Dad said Bates reminded him of the freak in the Hitchcock movie, morally ambiguous . . . and just as handy with a knife. Our pretty boy sergeant at arms, Spark, follows Bates. He got his road name from Arthur after some fuckup no one can remember. Arthur had asked “which bright spark prospect” had come up with the idea. Spark stepped forward and said, “I’m the bright spark,” causing Arthur to bust a gut laughing.
I got mine for being a clutch player as a prospect. The guy you could count on to perform when everything is on the line. Thriving when the stakes were high.
Our treasurer—Niro, with his slashed-up face—brings up the rear. Penny-pinching fucker keeps our spending under control. Knows where every cent goes, down to the last roll of paper in the shitter.
King is followed by other leaders of the club. Vex, Halo, and Switch. Saint, our priest, is saying religious shit that makes me itch as we carry the coffin out of the clubhouse.
Sticky late-August heat hits me. A trickle of sweat runs down my back. There’s a haze over the asphalt as the sun reflects off the chrome of bikes as far as the eye can see. According to the police, the same sun that caused the trucker not to see Arthur when his truck swerved into the oncoming traffic lane.
Shit.
My stomach does that roller-coaster-drop thing it’s been doing for a week whenever I think of Arthur’s accident.
We load the coffin into the back of the hearse. I have to look away when King kisses the damn thing before slapping the lid.
I reach for him and squeeze his shoulder hard. “You’ve got this, brother.”
King’s face is ripe with grief. There’s a strong possibility it mirrors my own.
His new patch sits proud on his chest.
President.
Easiest fucking vote I ever made. He’s been ready since he was sixteen. Smartest guy in the MC. Arthur leaned heavily on him. All the new paths and ventures the club is involved in have been his idea. Adheres to the highest ideals of the life. He’s tightened the funnel for membership, meaning only those fully aligned with the club’s values get in. As Arthur’s vice president, he was ruthless.
That patch is now mine. Third-generation VP to King’s third-generation president. As it should be. My family has always had his family’s back. Through club history, the Vietnam and Iraq wars, and life.
There are mutters of condolence, of loss, of love as we walk to our bikes. The other club members wait until King sits on his bike before starting theirs. The floor vibrates beneath my feet at the power of all the bikes. The throaty bass of so many engines reverberates through my chest. It’s the send-off Arthur would have wanted and deserved.
Respect. Honor. Peace inside the roar.
I bite back tears as the hearse starts to drive away.
An MC ride out is one of the greatest joys in life. The smell of gasoline and leather fills the air. There’s an art to it. The formation is always set. The president leads, always. But it’s like a dance. Synchronized. All timing and tracing the curve of the road.
Halo, our road captain, is seeing to last-minute details. The guy’s love of bikes and the road is only surpassed by his love of pussy.
This is the first time King will take the lead. As VP, I’m now behind him, to his right.
As we ride behind the coffin, I reflect.
As a chapter president, as a motorcycle club brother, as a surrogate father, and as a man, Arthur Hills was one in a million.
Makes me wonder, once it’s my turn in the wooden box, who will front for me?
I’m not half the man Arthur Hills was.
Not yet.
But I decide, while feeling the breeze hit my face as we pull out onto the highway, that I will do everything in my power to see King become the most successful president in our chapter’s history.
By the time Arthur Hills is in the sunbaked dirt an hour later, it’s an ironclad promise.
“You ready to head out?” I ask King when the last of the eulogies have been said and the ceremonial shovels of dirt tossed.
“Dad’s too young to be gone.” King sweeps his hand through his dark hair. Short at the back, long at the front.
“The brave don’t live forever, brother. Look at how many people turned out today for him. Somewhere, he’s sitting on a brand-new hog—assuming you can get Harleys wherever he’s ended up—watching all this and raising a beer.”
He pulls a flask of what I’m sure is Tennessee whiskey out of his pocket, cracks the lid, and takes a large gulp. He hands it to me, and I raise it in salute before I do the same.
When I hand it back to King, he steps forward and pours the whole thing over the coffin. “Sleep well, Dad,” he says before tossing the flask into the hole.
Skylar, the bitch who’s always on him like a dog in heat, walks in our direction, her ass tucked into a tiny black dress with a denim vest over the top. She totters in heels.
King shakes his head, and she stops, uncertain of what to do now. I find it hard to have any sympathy for her. I hate her for him. I mean, I get the fucking her part of the equation. She’s got those Pamela Anderson while she was still in Baywatch vibes. A rack-to-waist ratio that looks infeasible.
Her dad was killed the night my dad was arrested. The club treated her like a princess, making sure she was taken care of, but it’s never been enough for her. She’s got a long rope with the club and uses every inch of it.
She looks at me like I’m candy whenever King’s back is turned. I can’t decide if she thinks I’ll make a good consolation trophy if her and King don’t make it. Perhaps she just wants to stir trouble between the two of us. Only once did I end up alone with her, and within three seconds, she had her hand on my cock. Another second later, I had my hand on her throat, telling her to not disrespect King.
“He should be wearing this patch,” King says. “His boots are too big to fill.”
“You’ll make your own mark. Slow and steady.”
King squares his shoulders and stands up straight. “Time to celebrate the life of a good man and get so wrecked I can’t remember my name.”
“Lead on, Prez.”
“And that’s another thing. That was dad’s title. Don’t call me that.”
“Just for today, I’ll respect that. But I’m calling you it from tomorrow on. Or King. Or dick. Or whatever name you deserve.”
He grins and shakes his head.
Uther had inadvertently come up with his own road name. Back when we were prospecting, Rubble, one of the older members, was coming up with ideas. But Uther got pissed and said, “I’m named after a fucking Welsh King, what could you come up with that would be better than that?” And King had stuck.
When we get back to the clubhouse, the celebration of Arthur’s life goes Mach 10.
The old ladies have done us proud. Meat sizzles on the grill. Beers sit in coolers full of ice.
As day fades to night, people are still telling stories.
Vex has set up the surround sound through the lot. As day turns into night, I notice that someone has put up fairy lights, an odd juxtaposition to the gruff bikers sitting beneath them.
“Fights starting in five,” Bates says, bouncing on his toes. “You’re up first.”
My vision blurs. I probably have sunburn, sitting out in the yard in just my leather cut and jeans. “The only hydration I’ve had all day is Budweiser interspersed with whiskey. There may not be any water in my eyes.”
“Don’t give a shit,” Bates says. “You always win. Might as well give them a little bit of an advantage. Lure ’em into betting more against you.”
“Fine,” I say. Maybe a fistfight will help numb the awful feeling in my bones. Despite frying myself to a crisp beneath the hot sun since the funeral, I still feel cold.
Suze kneels between my legs, rubbing her hands up and down my thighs. It feels good. “You got whiskey dick going, or you need a little something to tide you over until later?”
I lean forward and grip her chin, harder than she might like. “Gotta fight first, then I’ll stick my dick in that mouth of yours to stop you talking shit.”
The night Arthur died, she and two of the other club girls had lain down on the pool table and let any guy fuck ’em if they wanted.
Sex trains aren’t for me. I’m too possessive. Which is why Suze will never be my old lady, despite her wanting to be. For now, she’s the best option outside of stroking one out in the shower, requiring limited effort.
“Clutch.” Bates yells my name across the lot.
“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Suze says.
I flop my head back in my chair and look at the starry sky.
Amid the chaos, I hope we did Arthur proud.
2
GWEN
It’s pretty funny that Mötley Crüe’s classic, “She Goes Down,” is blasting as I watch a once attractive, now strung out, young girl on her knees in the corner of the clubhouse sucking off a balding biker with an out-of-control gray beard.
But it proves one thing.
I’m in the right place.
Nobody recognizes me. Because it’s been fifteen years since I was last here as a thirteen-year-old, dancing in my sneakers to Springsteen. I remember that night, wishing Landon would look at me instead of goofing off with my brother.
Witness protection has required a certain amount of practiced anonymity. The art of blending in.
It kept me safe from those who’d do me harm.
At least I thought it did.
Whatever secret my mom had been carrying found us in Cleveland, Ohio, and took her from me. I put her in the ground this morning and drove into the night to get to New Jersey. No cops nor federal marshals had protected us in the end.
And sometimes, the only safe place to be is right in the middle of the vipers’ den.
Or in my case, the home chapter of the Iron Outlaws. It’s everything I remember. Tile floors, a wood-paneled bar, beat-up sofas, and too many girls waiting to become some guy’s property like my mom was once. Cigarette smoke lingers near the ceiling. Bikers, too drunk or high to notice, just let me walk through.
Funny what red lipstick, decent breasts, and a smile can do.
I look around with vague recollections of people I knew fifteen years ago until I see a face like my own. Same high cheekbones, only his blue eyes look arctic, while I’ve been told mine look like a tropical storm. Nonidentical twins who look alike. It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic.
“You with someone?” A voice to my left steals my attention. The stink of sweat precedes him. His patch says his name’s Buck. The gray hair and haggard lines on his face say he’s nearing sixty. A dirty old man believing it’s my relationship status that will stop me sleeping with him, not the fact he looks like the back end of a cement mixer.
“Yes.” It’s a simple enough answer.
“You sure, girl?”
Girl.
Urgh. I’m so over being here already. The scent of tobacco and cheap aftershave makes me want to heave.
I look over to my brother. To the man who hasn’t seen me since I was thirteen. His eyes catch mine. A passing glimpse. A double take. And then he marches to me, fury etched on his features.
But I stand my ground.
This isn’t the first time in the last week I’ve stood my ground with a man whose face and actions said he wanted to murder me. I’m relying on genetics and faith that he won’t kill me until I’ve had a chance to explain.
“I was talking to her,” Buck says, stepping in front of me. I’d like to believe chivalry isn’t dead, that he’d stand between me and my brother to impress me. To win me because I’m precious. To save me. But the bottom line is I know he’s just looking for an easy lay.
My brother simply shoves him out of the way. “She’s my sister, dickhead.”
I raise my hand to wave. “Hey, Uther.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Gwen?”
I know. Uther and Gwen . . . as in Uther Pendragon and Guinevere. The dog got Lancelot. No one called Dad Arthur, just Prez. It’s what happens when a badass biker sweeps a theatre kid off her feet and knocks her up all in the same day.
It’s also weird because Arthur married Guinevere in the stories, but no one else seems bothered by that.
“I need to see Dad.”
The guy getting the blow job comes with a groan as the woman coughs and splutters around his dick. Mascara-loaded tears leave tire marks down her face.
I feel like gagging with her. It’s gross.
“Why?” Uther leans toward me, his cut flapping open to reveal his gun.
“That’s between me and Dad. I need to talk to the organ grinder. Not the monkey.”
Uther points to the patch on his cut.
President.
Also, he has a road name. King.
“You’re looking at the organ grinder.”
My hands shake. I had a plan. Come here. Tell Dad everything. Hope he realized none of it was my fault but that by the time I was eighteen, I felt so removed from this life, from him, that I couldn’t imagine a life with him in it. What few stories Mom had shared made the life sound horrific. They scared me so much, I never tried to come back, even though I knew where he was.
