Expose

  EXPOSE

  -A Red Rebels MC Novel-

  C.D. Breadner

  The Freak Circle Press

  Copyright 2015 C.D. Breadner

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  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Expose: Red Rebels MC Book Two

  About C.D. Breadner

  Connect With C.D. Breadner

  Acknowledgements

  I have to thank Susan Fanetti for her wonderful editing help, and Marci for catching a few more errors as well.

  Thank you as well to the Freak Circle Press. As always, your encouragement and humor makes anything possible.

  And thank you to my husband for only complaining a little bit when I was busy writing. I love you, honey.

  Prologue

  -SIX MONTHS AGO-

  She wasn’t nervous. That was what Rose Clairborne told herself, anyway. She parked her clunker Toyota Camry in the small staff lot to the side of the Rebel Circus, unfolded her legs from behind the steering wheel and eyed up the alley behind the lot. No one around. It was strange for her, being so used to big cities. Walking down a street without encountering another soul brought back every zombie apocalypse movie she’d ever seen in her life.

  She eyed up this brick-faced building. It had been coated with a thick black paint, Rebel Circus scrawled in hot pink over the doors. A neon sign followed the same lettering, obviously for nighttime viewing. It was turned off at the moment.

  She pulled a small duffel out of the trunk of her vehicle. She’d been a travelling performer for a couple years now; one would think she’d be used to getting used to a new team of co-workers. But she still found this part nerve-wracking: meeting the other dancers. Finding out their pecking order. Seeing if the place was run by a legitimate business owner or a pervert.

  The last place had only held her loyalty for about three weeks. It was in Bakersfield, run by some gangster bastards that didn’t seem to see dancing as a skill. Girls were only protected from handsy clients if they were giving favors to the bouncers. Rose would like to say this was her first encounter with that kind of bullshit, but she was used to it. Hence the travelling act.

  She had to keep working, had to keep travelling and bringing in cash. A lot of it was being sent home to her mother in West Yorkshire. Leeds, to be exact. Her mother was in a palliative care home, one of the best you could pay to be in. While the MS worsened, Rose’s guilt about being here grew deeper.

  She’d come to the U.S. hoping to make it big; a travelling Broadway show would have been wonderful. Not that she’d be raking in the cash, just living her dream. It was what her mother really wanted for her. When she got here, however, she discovered the hard truth: she just wasn’t good enough.

  Here the chorus girls and dancers had professional training out their ears. Rose was trained, but not by any recognized schools these Yanks seemed to respect. The culture had been a lot less inclusive than she’d hoped. And she was tall, which never seemed to help her cause. A tall, willow-thin black woman tended to stand out on the stage, instead of complementing the scene. She hadn’t even gotten a call-back for The Lion King, for Christ’s sake.

  Waiting tables was a job she didn’t mind, but the hours were shit and didn’t really complement even off-off-Broadway jobs.

  One of the girls she sometimes worked with had started exotic dancing, as she insisted on calling it, and quickly quit her diner job. The money was good, the management was made up of a few former dancers and they were all great people. So Rose had given it a try as well.

  Performers were always comfortable with their bodies. You had to be when in auditions they would automatically measure you to see how in shape you were. Same with the costume fittings; you could be standing half naked under horribly unflattering fluorescent lighting while the director and costumer argued over what you should be wearing.

  Stripping was more than taking off your clothes. The managers at that first club had been willing to teach her everything they knew. Her strength and control of movement meant it all came easily to her; she was moldable through years of ballet and contemporary dance. Learning the pole had been the real education.

  Rose loved it. For once her strength was an asset, instead of a visual distraction. She’d always appeared muscled. Her metabolism had been set on high since she’d hit puberty and it hadn’t stopped, and neither had her dancing. They were absolutely linked, she knew that. But one side effect was muscular arms, back, legs and abdomen. Too much for ballet. Too much for most jobs, actually.

  But the pole was made for her, or the other way around. She loved it. It felt acrobatic, and it wasn’t a skill all dancers could really master. It was something that set a girl apart from the rest.

  Something-that-shall-not-be-mentioned drove her from that New York club. Now she was floating from stage to stage, whoever had a spot to take her for a while. Her mother still thought she was in New York. Rose was paying an arm and a leg to keep a post office box in the Big Apple and having her mail forwarded to the spots where she stayed long enough to pay someone rent.

  Her mother also thought she was still dancing in Broadway shows.

  Rose wasn’t ashamed, she just didn’t want her mother to be disappointed. And June Clairborne would most definitely be disappointed if she found out the truth.

  As Rose rounded the building to the back door she was greeting by three gleaming motorcycles, and it made her pause. This wasn’t the first biker joint she’d danced at, but most of them fell into that category of sexual favors for good treatment. From what she’d heard, though, this place wasn’t that bad. She hoped so. She was damn tired of living out of her suitcase.

  She pulled open the front door. Apparently the woman who ran Rebel Circus always held a late-afternoon staff meeting when someone new started, a chance to introduce everyone, get to know each other without the rushing around of a working night causing the newbie to feel overwhelmed. It was a nice gesture, but another reason for Rose to feel nervous. She could dance in front of people, take off her clothes, but speaking and letting people get close were weird things for her to willingly take part in.

  With a steeling breath she pulled the door open, blinking a bit as the door fell closed behind her. Of course it was dim inside, took a minute for her eyes to adapt. Then before she could see a single damn thing there was a chorus of “Surprise!”

  She jumped, probably got about four feet vertical. Then as she put a hand to her chest she scanned the room, able to see better, and the circle of people who had been waiting for her were frozen, their smiles locked in place but their eyes wide, even a bit confused.

  “Ummm … hello?” Rose greeted the assembled crew, who looked like they were probably her coworkers.

  “What the hell, you guys?”

  Rose turned to the voice, a petite, blonde, California beauty coming forward to stand next to Rose. “This is Rose Clairborne,” she told the crew, linking her arm through Rose’s. “Rose, this is everyone.”

  They all stared. Rose wasn’t new to this, either. As far as she could tell, she was the darkest thing past a late-summer tan in Markham.

  “I guess I didn’t warn them you were so tall. Or British,” the blonde said with a bright smile. As Rose looked down at her, she realized the woman was pregnant, her stomach just starting to strain the sundress she had on.

  Rose laughed at the line. She couldn’t help it. She knew she was going to like this woman.

&nbs
p; “I’m Trinny, I’m the one that hired you over the phone,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

  Rose shook it, her smile genuinely staying in place. “Right. Nice to finally meet you.”

  Trinny waved a hand, chin jerking at a girl in the crowd. “Beenie,” she shouted authoritatively. “Show Rose to the dressing room. Introduce her around, okay?”

  As a striking pale woman with raven-black hair styled in a rockabilly updo come forward, smiling, recovered from her surprise, Rose took Trinny’s hand. “Thank you so much,” she said sincerely. “I really appreciate the job.”

  Trinny’s smile increased wattage, which seemed impossible until Rose saw it. “I know you’re going to do well here, honey,” Trinny assured her. “And if you have any problems, you let me know. We take care of our girls.”

  Rose didn’t doubt it, not for one second.

  Chapter One

  “Fuck you!” the Mad Gypsy was spitting out as Knuckles and Tiny clamped manacles around both wrists, holding the fucker up by his arms against the concrete wall of the warehouse. The AC/DC pumping through the speakers on the other side of the wall was great noise cover for shit like this. Being next door to a strip club had more than one advantage.

  Trevor “Tank” Williams dropped the end of his cigarette to the concrete floor and crushed it out under the heel of a cowboy boot. It was an over-six-foot drop from his lips the ground. He was the tallest man in the room, but he was not the one this Gypsy should be scared of.

  Knuckles and Tiny were the scary bastards, most definitely. But today someone else had the honor of being the badass fucker no one should mess with, and that was Buck.

  Tank could all but feel the rage rolling off the usually-steady man standing next to him. Buck was tall, too, about six-four. He had the stride of a slim man, but his shoulders were wide. His arms seemed longer if you were unfortunate enough to be trading fists with him. And at the moment he had the dead stare mastered.

  “Kutte,” Tank muttered as Buck started towards the meat they had hanging against the wall for him. Without even looking his way Buck slid the leather off his shoulders, handing it over. Tank folded it over his arm as Buck handed him his white T-shirt, too.

  “Good call,” Tank remarked. The jeans were dark so nothing should really show. But a stark white shirt tended to advertise bloodstains.

  David “Buck” Buckingham was one of those calm guys that you could always depend on. Predictable, maybe. Or he had been until he’d met his woman. Easy-going was a lot harder to pull off when you really cared about someone, apparently.

  Now he was quick to anger, but there was a very good reason for that. His woman had been hurt, in the worst way, and one of the pricks responsible was at the moment staring him down without seeming to realize he was about to die.

  This was the first Mad Gypsy they’d been able to capture that had taken part in the assault on Gertie. The idiots had videotaped it, and they weren’t smart enough to avoid showing faces of who was doing what. There was much celebrating, laughter and revelry while Gertie had screamed herself hoarse. They must have wanted the moment commemorated.

  This asshole in particular had held her arms across the pool table while the first Gypsy had violated her. Then they’d taken turns holding her down like that. This guy was rapist number three. Who knows how many other times he’d forced himself on Gertie. The Gypsys had her in their clubhouse for a week, and they weren’t nice to her there, that much the Red Rebels knew for certain.

  “I know you,” the Gypsy said, eyes on Buck. “Not Sergeant anymore, huh? That’s too bad.”

  If he wanted some kind of reaction he wasn’t going to get one. Tank knew that at that moment Buck was numb, cold with a need to hurt this prick good. Nothing was going to pull focus from that.

  Without a word or a look Knuckles was at Buck’s side, handing over a hunting knife with a bone handle. It was Knuckles’ personal kill device. The bastard kept it just sharp enough to tear skin, dull enough to make it nasty.

  “Buck, isn’t it?” This guy had a mouth. Might make this a bit more fun. “Can I call you Buck? Listen, you may as well plunge that thing right into my heart because I’m not telling you a goddamn thing. Save your energy. Save it for fucking that redhead whore of yours.” The bastard actually fell to laughing as he said it.

  Buck’s reaction wasn’t obvious from where Tank stood. His brother was now gazing up at the Gypsy, still not speaking. But something changed. The Gypsy was staring back now, but he swallowed hard enough that Tank heard it from twenty feet away.

  Buck motioned with one hand. Within a half-second, Tiny was at the guy’s midsection, yanking open his belt. The guy squirmed, trying to move his hips and make it difficult. Tiny stopped it by elbowing the asshole in his junk, drawing a yowl that was just the first of many. While the Gypsy was trying to catch his breath Tiny got his belt and fly open, yanking his jeans down to his knees.

  “You … you wanna blow me asshole?” Great, the guy found his voice again. “Just ask nicely. Didn’t know you had a crush on me.”

  Buck came closer, blade tucking into the waistband of the guy’s shorts. With a flick of the wrist the elastic broke, and with his other hand he tore the guy’s underwear right off.

  Now he had the guy’s attention. The eyes got wider, on that knife the entire time. His voice even cracked. “Listen. It’s orders. It’s how things are done. You know how this all works. If some slut was offered up to your crew— ”

  “Not. A. Slut.” Buck said each word sharply, ice in his tone. “An insurance adjuster.” He stepped back, knife working in his hand. “She can’t even open a jar of pickles on her own.” Buck informed him, conversational now. “She’s never thrown a punch in her life until you guys got hold of her.”

  “What … what the fuck are you getting at?”

  “I’m supposed to believe you’re badass right now? Trying to get me worried? Nervous that you’re not about to fill your boots with your own piss? I already know you’re a fucking coward.” Buck moved closer, point of the knife digging into the flesh of the guy’s throat. “Complete pussy. And you know how I know? Because only a coward would celebrate forcing himself on someone weaker. With the help of friends, yet. I’ve seen the video. I saw how proud of yourselves you all were. We used to think you guys were actually a formidable foe.” The guy frowned. Maybe Buck’s words were getting too big for him. “Now we’re feeling a lot better about our odds. Because we’re not fighting back with unarmed insurance adjusters, you fuck. And I will not rest until every Mad Gypsy has bled out. Through his dick, just to make it interesting.”

  The eyes were at their widest as Buck ended that thought, then he stepped back. ‘Fuck,” he muttered. “I didn’t think this through. I’ve gotta touch the guy’s cock to do this.”

  “Here,” Knuckles chimed in, coming forward. He was holding a crescent wrench. “This should hurt. I mean, help.”

  “Fuck,” the guy was sputtering, pulling at his wrists, bloodying them in the process. His feet weren’t bound, but he was on tiptoe with how high they’d cranked up his restraints. Made it hurt to lift his feet, try to avoid all the attention his groin was about to receive.

  Knuckles was all too happy to help. He was grinning, that mad glint in his eye as he tightened the wrench up on the tip of the prick’s prick. He made sure it was good and tight—Tank only knew because the guy started yelping again.

  Tank had been leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle. Suddenly he had the need to stand up, shake himself out, give the boys a bit of room. Taste that freedom.

  Knuckles held out that chunk of meat and Buck positioned himself to hack it off. And it was a hack job. Knuckles wasn’t pulling it taut, so it took a lot of sawing. A lot of bleeding. A lot of horrible screaming.

  Tank’s stomach pitched a bit, actually. He couldn’t help it. It made him appreciate how connected his own equipment was. When Buck was done he reached up and shoved it in the guy’s mouth to shut him up.


  Tank fought back the urge to vomit.

  “Is he out?” Knuckles was asking, grabbing the guy by the chin and shaking his head. Blood was running down his chin, the front of his shirt. “Come on, buddy. Keep talking. Piss him off more. Maybe he’ll kill you faster.” Then the gray-eyed bastard turned his eyes to Buck. “You want his balls, too?”

  Buck shook his head, making Tank take a deep, relieved breath. Thank fuck.

  “Nah, I’m good,” Buck added, flipping his grip on the knife and with a solid swing planting it to the hilt in the center of the Gypsy’s chest.

  There wasn’t another noise made. Buck backed away from the body, suffering an enthusiastic slap on the back from Knuckles. When the man turned away and headed towards Tank, the Red Rebels’ Vice President met him halfway. “You all right?” Tank asked.

  Buck reached out for his T-shirt.

  Tank nodded his chin. “Blood on your hands, man. Wash up in the sink.”

  Buck looked at his hands, and the sight of the blood seemed to startle him. He stared for a moment, then ran for the wash sink. Not to wash his hands. He threw up, his stomach emptying itself from the shock of what he’d just done.

  Tank gave him a moment for it. It was one thing to kill a fucker in the heat of the moment. Cut someone up bit to send a message. Knock a guy’s teeth out before he had a chance to do the same. Intentionally drawing out a person’s pain and horror was entirely different. It made you feel a lot less human. So because of that Tank left the terrorizing to Tiny and Knuckles. Their constitutions seemed able to handle it better. Even at that moment Tiny and Knuckles were pulling the body down, plastic drop cloth already prepared for the corpse. They were chatting. Laughing.

  Tank heard the water taps turn so he moved towards Buck, readying the T-shirt to be handed over. “You all right?” he asked low, so no one else could hear.