Dixon (Dark Falcons Book 1) Read online

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  Dixon

  Dark Falcons MC

  Book 1

  Copyright Em Petrova 2020

  Ebook Edition

  Electronic book publication 2020

  Cover Art by Em Petrova

  All rights reserved. Any violation of this will be prosecuted by the law.

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  More in this series:

  TANK

  PATRIOT

  DIESEL

  BLADE

  RIO

  Dixon Rothchild once led Marines on the front lines. Now he’s living the high life in the room over his parents’ garage while tinkering with motors day and night. What he craves is a brotherhood.

  Then one night he lends a hand to the tough and savvy bar owner by cleaning some riff-raff off her barstools…and in that moment realizes there’s something to fight for right here in his hometown. So the Dark Falcons Motorcycle Club is born.

  Fiona’s taken men like Dixon Rothchild for a test drive before, and the last thing she wants—or needs—is another overly muscled gearhead who likes to show off by using his fists.

  He’s also the type she falls for…every…damn…time.

  DIXON

  A Dark Falcons MC

  Novella

  by

  Em Petrova

  Chapter One

  Mersey, Tennessee—home sweet fucking home.

  He parked his old Chevy on the corner in the only available parking spot between two SUVs sporting mountain bike racks—damn, the tourists really were out in full force today, weren’t they? He cut the engine, but the old V-6 took a while to stop chugging. As soon as he got a break from the family mechanic business, he’d tune up his own ride.

  Dixon’s old stomping ground sure as hell didn’t look the same. Before he left for the military and served three tours in Afghanistan, the streets were dirty, the buildings requiring a coat of paint and the street lamps rusty.

  Sometime during Dixon’s absence, the new town officials not only cleaned up the streets by laying new sidewalks and planting trees, but they installed Mersey’s very first traffic light. It dangled against a backdrop of the Smoky Mountains and a summery blue sky.

  He climbed out and slammed the door. Before he crossed the street to the auto parts store, he took a long look up the street. About thirty motorcycles lined the side. Another new addition to Mersey, but the steel and leather looked out of place in contrast to the colorful storefronts, signs and pots of flowers.

  With a grunt, he slicked his too-long hair off his face and crossed the street to the auto parts store. As soon as he entered, he cast a glance at two men clad in leather cuts bearing the name of their motorcycle gang. A guy stood at the checkout hassling old Mr. Hall about a price.

  Dixon didn’t consciously go into full alert mode—it just happened. After fighting for freedom, he prepared for a fight everywhere he went.

  Feeling the tension rippling along his shoulders, he headed through the store to the oil filters aisle. He crouched in front of the rack and selected several common sizes he saw on a weekly basis in the shop.

  “What the fuck. Rothchild?”

  He tossed a look over his shoulder to see his buddy from the days of sneaking a pretty girl wearing Daisy Dukes into the back seat of his parents’ car. A grin broke over his face as he straightened from his crouch.

  Thrusting out a hand, he looked up another two inches to meet his friend’s eyes. “Tank. Man, it’s been a long time. How the hell ya been?”

  Tank clasped his hand, jerking him in for a hard thump on the spine. When Dixon pounded Tank’s shoulder, he felt the same hard granite that blocked so many quarterbacks in the good ole days of Mersey Falcons football. Undefeated three years running.

  They drew from the bro-hug. Tank grinned down at him. “Fuck, man, you filled out. You’re about as broad as me.”

  Dixon sized him up. “I’m still bigger where it counts.” He nodded downward to his crotch.

  Tank busted up laughing. “Still a mouthy motherfucker. You in town for good?”

  He rubbed at his jaw with his fingers that never were clean of oil and grease no matter how much he scrubbed. “I’m back for now,” was all he’d commit to.

  Shifting his weight from huge steel-toed boot to boot, Tank folded his arms, which was Tank’s way of settling in for a long talk. “Where ya working?”

  “My dad’s shop.”

  “I shoulda guessed by your hands. You always were the best with cars. Where ya livin’?”

  “Above the shop.” He didn’t like admitting the step backward he’d taken. After being out on his own for so many years, it burned his ass to essentially live with his parents again. Even if he didn’t share the same roof with them, his momma still babied him by baking his favorite oatmeal butterscotch cookies and bringing them up the side stairs of the shop to him.

  Tank chuckled. “Dude, I bet your momma loves that.”

  He thought on those gooey cookies. “Yeah, but it’s not all so bad. Enough about me. Where have you been? You ever get out of Mersey?”

  “For a while, yeah. Lived in Gatlinburg about a year. Till my wife ran off with a truck driver from Myrtle Beach.”

  He huffed out a breath. “Damn, that’s rough.”

  “Best day of my life. Sex was fantastic, but we fought like hell. Anyway, I’ve been here for about eighteen months. Been working at the mill. Heftin’ logs all day wears me out, but I’ve been known to hold down a bar stool at the Painted Pig.”

  He chuckled at the name of the bar they were forever trying to sneak into as kids and pass themselves off as drinking age. “I can’t believe that old place is still standing. The town’s cleaned up so much, I thought they might have closed down.”

  “Nope. Gotta grab a cold one somewhere. Speaking of, what are ya doin’ right now? Grab the shit you need and let’s have a drink.”

  He lifted his chin toward the case of oil not far away. “Grab one o’ those cases and make yourself useful.” He filled his own arms with the filters and they headed up to the checkout. The bikers were gone, and Mr. Hall shot them a relieved look at their approach.

  “Those guys are good for business—always in here buyin’ parts for their Harleys—but they’re a pain in my ass too. Pains in everyone’s asses,” Hall muttered as he rang up the filters.

  “I take it they’ve been in town a while?” Dixon asked.

  “Been here since spring. They ride up into the mountains and raise hell during the days and come back here in the evenings to raise even more hell.”

  Dixon cocked his head. “What do they do? Party?”

  “More than that,” Tank cut in, setting his own auto part on the counter to ring up next. “The sheriff’s busy arresting them for theft and assault.”

  His brows shot up. “Fuck. Why doesn’t the sheriff toss ’em out?”

  “He did. Three times. They’re set on making Mersey their town, and we’re stuck with the assholes.”

  Dixon hefted the case of oil under an arm and grabbed the big bag full of filters with his free hand. “Put it on the tab.”

  “I know, I know. Been dealin’ with you Rothchilds half my life.” Hall smiled as he gave him a hard t
ime.

  Dixon walked out and crossed the street again. Ordinarily, he’d drop the oil into the bed of the truck, but knowing the town had more than a few sticky fingers in residence, he dumped the purchases on the passenger seat instead.

  An engine rumbled, and he looked up to see Tank whipping up on a rebuilt Harley. “Didn’t know you were ridin’ again.”

  “Never stopped. What’s your excuse?” He eyed Dixon’s old truck, and Dixon burst out laughing.

  “This thing’s a lady killer. Don’t let her fool ya.”

  “Well hop in that lady killer and head down to the Painted Pig with me so I can buy ya a drink.” With that, Tank laid on the gas and zoomed off down Main Street, not even slowing for the yellow light and sliding through it on red. A horn honked at him, and Dixon chuckled to himself.

  Some shit never changed, and for once since his return to Mersey, he was glad to find Tank hadn’t. He couldn’t deal with some buttoned-up real estate agent standing in place of his rough and rugged friend.

  Friends. Damn, the last time he called anyone by that term, it’d been his own platoon. His mind shot to the photo he kept of everyone at home on his dresser. The brotherhood broken apart now, but he’d fought with the best and called each and every one friend.

  More than a few were dead—killed in action. Fuck, they never did find Dax’s body.

  He swiped his fingers through his hair and climbed behind the wheel. A minute later, he bumped into the parking lot of the Painted Pig. The name of the bar was a point of humor among all who visited—the idea that a person drank so much that even a pig in lipstick looked good enough to take home.

  Tank already waited for him, leaning against his bike with arms folded over his massive chest.

  Dixon jumped out. “Nice to see they never filled the potholes in the parking lot.”

  “Some things never change, right?” Tank extended an arm as Dixon neared and slapped him on the back. “Whiskey still your poison?”

  “I’m a brand whore now, but yeah.”

  “Johnnie Walker?”

  “Yup.”

  “I prefer the Crown myself. C’mon.”

  Once inside, Dixon saw the Painted Pig hadn’t changed a bit. The same photo of an ugly pig wearing lipstick hung above the bar, and the dim interior boasted the same booths and stools. He sidled up to a stool he’d held down on his last night in town. He wasn’t even legal drinking age yet, but the owner let him in anyway, saying any man going off to the Marines better have a drink or two in him.

  “Man, remember the last time you were in this bar?” Tank seemed to echo his train of thought. “We had to carry your ass out.”

  “Yeah, I regretted that hangover all the next day. The bus trip didn’t do me any favors. I pretty much ruined that bus bathroom.”

  They shared a laugh, and Tank settled on the stool next to them. Dixon looked around at the dark walls bearing various alcohol signs and logos. A rowdy laugh exploded from the rear of the place, and he noted the guys surrounding the pool table.

  He’d found the owners of all those bikes. He stared at them for a moment, taking in particulars that most normal citizens probably didn’t—such as how many there were, their positions, and who looked most likely to stir up shit.

  He glanced back to the bar, where a woman stood in front of him, waiting for his order. He let his gaze work over her honey-blonde hair, tanned, bare shoulders in her Painted Pig tank top and tight-fitting jeans. At her waist, she wore a leather belt with more than its fair share of turquoise and silver.

  “What can I get ya?” she drawled out.

  His mind went right to that disrespectful place. But he didn’t say any of the things going through his mind.

  Offering her a crooked smile, he said, “Johnnie Walker. And a Crown for my friend.”

  “Comin’ up.” She didn’t stick around for small-talk. Instead, she whirled away and poured two shots in record time. She set them on the bar top. “That’s two-fifty each.”

  Surprise flitted through Dixon. “You want paid right now, or can we see if we want to drink another?”

  She held out her palm. “Pay now. I can’t trust everyone to pay for what they drink in this town.” She cut a glance toward the rear of the room.

  “I got it. Thanks, sugar.” Tank slapped some bills on the bar top.

  The blonde settled a hard glare at him. “Not your sugar.” She scooped up the money and pocketed it before moving off.

  “Damn, she’s tough.” Dixon raised his glass to his lips. The scent of whiskey flooded his senses, taking him to his last drinking spree. He and Dax and some other guys kicked back after a mission, glad to be fucking alive.

  Soon after that, Waylan took a bullet, Dax went missing believed dead…and Dixon got his leg blown up. Three months in the vets’ hospital and two surgeries later, he could walk at least, but the scar was ugly.

  What did he care about scars when he had all his limbs?

  He rubbed a hand down his thigh where the muscle puckered the most. Another raucous laugh boomed through the room, and a petite brunette rushed out of the group of bikers like a chopper flying out of a fire cloud.

  She slammed down her tray on the bar and whipped off her apron. “That’s it! I can’t take this anymore, Fiona! I quit!”

  The blonde bartender turned to her, eyes burning with anger and jaw locked. “Wait, Cassie. You can’t quit on me. You’re the last waitress I’ve got!”

  “I don’t care. Those assholes are disrespectful and can’t keep their hands to themselves. The tall dude with the big beard grabbed my ass!”

  Tank and Dixon exchanged a look. Tank’s expression warned, Don’t do it, man.

  Even though the urge burned strong, Dixon anchored himself to the stool. He didn’t return to Mersey to make trouble. He came back to figure out his fucking life, and it damn well wasn’t fighting. He’d seen enough of that for a lifetime.

  The waitress started to walk away, and the blonde launched over the bar top like she performed the move every day. She landed in front of the brunette. “Cassie, don’t go. Please. I’ll give you a raise. And a bonus too if you stay tonight. I can’t run this bar without employees.”

  Cassie threw a look at the rear of the room. Some of the bikers were watching her, laughing and sneering at some joke. Dixon curled his fingers around his glass and tried to find his calm.

  Another laugh sounded, and he couldn’t stop his head from turning. He stared at the women. “You want me to handle them?”

  The blonde whipped around, fist on hip, eyes narrowed. “No, Mr. Tough Guy, I do not want you to handle them! I don’t need any more bar fights. Just drink your damn whiskey and leave the running of this bar to me.”

  As he twisted around to face forward, his lips jerked upward at the corner. Tank chuckled and knocked back his shot.

  “That’ll teach ya for opening your mouth, Dix.”

  “Lesson learned.” They shared a laugh, but he kept tabs on the bartender and how she begged the waitress not to quit. In the end, the brunette stayed with the promise of this being her last night, and the blonde agreed to deliver drinks to the bikers in the rear.

  He and Tank stopped at a whiskey each, and he peeled himself off the stool to head home to his apartment above the shop. It always smelled of gasoline. Hell, coming from a family of mechanics on both sides, he’d practically been baptized in it.

  Outside the bar, he and Tank embraced once more. Dixon thumped him on the spine. “Come by the shop.”

  Tank grinned as he swaggered across the lot to his bike. “I’ll be there tomorrow after my shift. We’ve gotta build you a bike, man. Can’t have you driving around in this piece of shit.”

  Chuckling, Dixon jumped behind the wheel again. For the first time, he was damn glad to be home.

  Fiona scribbled her name on the final check in the pile. Sorting the payments into the correct envelopes—beer vendor, electric company, air conditioner repairman—she couldn’t help but dwell on how little
money was coming in. For all the business her bar drummed up, she saw the same few faces over and over and none of her regulars’.

  Pure and simple, that biker gang that called themselves Mayhem did a lot of damage to her livelihood. Hell, her whole life. As the owner, she already worked six out of seven days a week. Now that she couldn’t keep waitresses on the floor or bartenders pouring drinks, she was here twenty-four/seven.

  She set aside the last checks for her two former waitresses to pick up. As she pushed to her feet, her phone buzzed. A glance at the screen brought a sigh to her lips. Last thing she wanted to deal with—another check-in from her older brother.

  She allowed the phone to ring twice, trying to decide whether or not to answer. But declining the call meant one of her other four brothers would call. Or all of them. She spent many a night getting lectured on how she needed help in the bar, a bouncer at the entrance and possibly a guard. Better security like cameras and double locks on all the doors.

  Lately, she began to think they might be right. So far, she hadn’t been hit by the string of break-ins in Mersey, but she wouldn’t put it past the criminals in that gang to be scoping her out on the nightly.

  The phone continued to ring. With a growl, she finally tapped the screen. “What do you want, Lake?”

  “Is that any way to talk to your favorite brother?”

  “Nobody said you’re my favorite. What do you want? I need to open in a few.”

  “That’s what I’m calling about. Checking in on my baby sister.”

  She closed her office door and examined herself in the mirror on the backside. Fluffing her hair, she leaned in to check her lipstick. Not smudged, even after biting her lip while writing all those checks.

  She straightened and walked out of the office. She snapped on the lights at the breaker box and then revolved through the bar, checking every corner. Since losing all her help, the Painted Pig wasn’t looking the cleanest, with a layer of dust on the windowsills and light fixtures. But it would have to do for tonight.