Dixon (Dark Falcons Book 1) Read online

  “You know all you need to do is ask and one of us will come help you run the bar, Fiona.”

  “I don’t need help. I need…” Jesus.

  “We heard rumors that more bikers are headed your way to join up with Mayhem. That has all four of us ready to jump in our trucks and ride over to Mersey to make sure our little sister is safe.”

  “I’m safe.” She already heard the rumble of motorcycle engines as they flooded the parking lot in time for her to open her doors. After they settled in with their drinks and quarters lined up on the edge of the pool table, she could expect practically no other customers for the rest of the night.

  “You know Noah wants to come in there and bust some balls.”

  “Noah needs to stay out of trouble,” she said in her sternest tone about their second to youngest brother in the Browning clan. “He’s already been in enough over the years.” Though nothing compared to what he’d get himself into if he came to Mersey and heard the gang commenting on the sway of her ass when she served them drinks.

  Dragging in a deep breath, she stood in the center of her empty bar and focused on the call for a moment. “You’re only calling to check on me?”

  “Yes,” said Lake. “That and to tell you we’re considering a camping trip to the mountains soon. Three day weekend. We’re talking tents, fires, firecrackers and booze.”

  She sighed. “Sounds fun to be with y’all, but I can’t get away.”

  “Dammit, I knew you’d say that, Fiona. You’re chained to that place.”

  Yes, she was. Another reason why she didn’t have a personal life. Or a love life. Or any life that didn’t involve the bar.

  “Next time, I promise, Lake. I’ll hire more help and get away.” When would that be? She added another item to her mental to-do list—advertise for waitress.

  “If you don’t stick to your word, we’ll come up there and kidnap you, Fiona. Don’t think for a minute that we won’t.” His warning tone sank in—he wasn’t kidding, and she knew well enough what her brothers were capable of. All the more reason to keep them distanced from what went on her life.

  “I swear I’ll be there next camping trip, okay? I’ve gotta go now. I have to—”

  “Open the bar,” he chorused along with her.

  She chuckled, though she experienced a pang of sadness that she wasn’t only predictable but dull as hell. Where had her wild-child youth gone?

  “Bye, Lake. Love you.”

  “Bye, Fee.”

  They ended the call, and she stuffed her phone into her pocket as she walked to the door and unlocked it. The minute she did, two bikers entered, and then three.

  “Hello, fellas,” she called out, moving into position behind the bar.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  She bit down on her lip to hold in her sassy response.

  What the hell am I doing? I’m not putting up with any shit. Not tonight or ever again.

  “The name’s Fiona.”

  The big burly biker laughed and waved his hands around. “Ooh, she doesn’t want me calling her beautiful. She’s one of those girls.”

  “What can I get you to drink?” She already knew the answer. She remembered every drink she poured for every man who entered her bar. Moving toward the wall of booze, she heard his response even as she wrapped her fingers around the bottle.

  “Where’s that pretty little brunette with the great legs? She workin’ tonight?”

  Spinning, she held the bottle like a club, prepared to brain the guy if he stepped a single toe over her imaginary line. “No,” she said tightly, “she is no longer an employee. You and your buddies here drove her off because you couldn’t quit harassing her or touching her ass.”

  “It’s a fine ass. What can I say?”

  “How about I say 9-1-1? All I need to do is make a phone call and have the sheriff down here.”

  He arched a brow and settled on the stool in front of her. She glared him down. “You threatening me, woman?”

  A low growl emerged from her lips, but just then two more guys in leather, denim and chains walked in. Three members of Mayhem were a pain in her ass. Five were a party. And by the end of the night, her bar would be filled with all the rowdy guys that loved to create exactly what their group was called—Mayhem.

  Within minutes, she had orders for drinks and snacks. She went into the kitchen to put the French fries, wings and onion rings down. When she circled back to the bar, the first shout sounded.

  She whirled toward the commotion, teeth grinding off her explosion. Two regular Joes sat there, waiting for drinks, and the bikers were hassling them—trying to drive them out of what they intended to make ‘their bar.’

  A few words were exchanged, but the two newcomers held their own, and the bikers moved off to the pool table.

  She served them both with a smile for each. After checking on her fried food in the kitchen, she returned to see another customer seated there.

  Pausing in her step, she looked him over. She hadn’t caught his name the last visit, but she recalled his dark, mussed hair, the five o’clock shadow she’d bet money never fully disappeared even after a close shave and muscles popping from underneath his grease-stained T-shirt.

  The guy looked badass enough to bust up any one of the fights going down in the Painted Pig. He also was the type she veered far away from, after one too many bad relationships.

  He opened his mouth to order, and she held up a finger. “Don’t tell me. Johnnie Walker.”

  His crooked smile appeared, and she had to tear her gaze away from the path it cut upward into his cheek as well as the lights playing in his hazel eyes. “You got it,” he responded.

  She poured his drink and set it before him. He lay some cash on the bar top. “Thanks,” she said. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Worked late. Took the night shift for extra money. Thought I’d come see if the whiskey’s just as good here as it was last time.” The way he sliced his stare down over her body left her feeling he hadn’t only come here for the whiskey.

  “Liquor’s the same everywhere you go.”

  “Maybe I dropped by for the atmosphere.”

  At that moment, the clink of glass smashing carried through the bar.

  “Goddammit!” She braced her palms on the bar top and vaulted over it. As soon as her feet hit the other side, a hand caught her arm.

  She jerked around to see Mr. Hot and Sexy looking down at her.

  “Let me handle it,” he said quietly.

  A shiver snaked up her spine at his low, intense tone. Yep—every. Damn. Time. She wouldn’t fall for this guy, though. She’d known plenty of his kind.

  She shook him off. “I got it.”

  As soon as she reached the group of bikers and spotted the broken glass lying next to the pool table, she inwardly steeled herself. “Which of you is buying me a new glass?”

  She looked from one to the next, waiting.

  “How much?” a biker asked.

  “Six bucks.”

  “For a glass? Lady, you’re nuts.” The guy picked up the pool stick and started to shoot, but she yanked it out of his grasp and tossed it down on the floor. With a glare for all, she held out a palm. “Six bucks. Plus you clean up the mess.”

  In the end, she got her way. The biker picked up the glass and then used some paper towels to mop up the spilled drink, and she returned to her register with six bucks to cover the glass.

  Mr. Hot Stud tracked her moves. “You handled that pretty well.”

  No, I will not let his compliment melt my panties off. I will not go home with him.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Fiona.”

  “I’m Dixon.”

  Heat swam a sidestroke through her lower belly at the heavy weight of his stare.

  “You ever get out of this place?” He sipped his whiskey.

  “Sure.”

  He cocked a brow. “You ever go on a date?”

  Oh shit. Just what she didn’t need—an invitation to fuck up her life with another motorhead with muscles and not enough brain cells to rub together.

  “I don’t date.”

  “You don’t date ever or you don’t date customers?”

  “Both. I’ll up you by one too—I don’t do gearheads.”

  When he cocked his head and gave her that crooked smile, she thought her clothes might fall off right there and then. “How do you know I’m a gearhead?”

  “I know the signs.” She forced herself to concentrate on wiping down the beer tap, needing to look anywhere but at him.

  “What signs are those, might I ask?”

  She waved his direction. “The grease under your nails. The cuts on your knuckles from bashing them on some hard metal.”

  He chuckled and polished off his drink. Part of her wanted to keep him right here talking. Yeah, the stupid part.

  “You want another shot?” she asked.

  He studied her as though considering more than her question. After a long moment, he threw a look at the guys in the rear, who were behaving for once. “Nah, I’m drivin’. See ya later, Fiona.”

  When he climbed off the stool and sauntered to the exit, she tried not to think about what a tall, chiseled glass of water he was. Or how damn good he’d look between her thighs.

  Chapter Two

  Dixon swung his leg over the seat of his bike. The old girl only really required a new carburetor and a tune-up to get her runnin’. Of course, he and Tank had spent long hours polishing the Harley till it gleamed.

  He grinned at his buddy. “Purrs like a woman when you hit her G-spot.”

  Tank nodded. “Damn, I love to hear it—and the women. Time to take her for a spin and work out any kinks. I’ll meet ya outside.” He tipped his head toward t
he open garage doors.

  After tapping his heel into the kickstand, Dixon rolled forward into the gravel driveway in front of the shop. Tank hopped on his own wheels, and they hit the road.

  Fuck, he’d missed this. The last time he rode was the summer before bootcamp. The wind teasing his hair and the hum of the road under his tires all burned through him. He tipped his head up to the sky and released a roar of elation.

  At his side, Tank let out a long howl. When they glanced at each other, they veered close enough to high-five. Then Dixon opened her up and shot off down the highway. Tank sped at his side. They played tag for a bit, one dropping back and the other surging forward. Soaking up the Tennessee sun and being on the open road again—fuck, Dixon forgot how damn good it felt to live this life.

  To have something to live for.

  After circling through the foothills for an hour or so, they pointed their bikes toward home. As they approached the gas station, he raised his chin to Tank, indicating he was stopping to fill up. Tank rumbled in behind him, and they cut their engines.

  Tank pulled off his helmet. “Gotta get yourself one of these. Can’t have my buddy spattering his brains across the highway.”

  “I’ll pick one up at the end of the week.” He swung off his bike and set the gas nozzle in his tank. As he waited for the tank to fill, he looked around. In Mersey he’d grown accustomed to seeing the biker gang everywhere he turned. They seemed to multiply in number by the day, now filling up not only the parking lot of the Painted Pig but every store and each corner.

  Five guys shot glares their way.

  “The fuck’s your problem?” Dixon called out.

  Tank only shook his head. “You’re lookin’ for a fight, man. The Mayhem don’t stand for shit.”

  “Yeah, they don’t,” he said, meaning something completely different. “They have no morals or reason for being here, far as I can see.”

  “Only to make trouble. I heard they got driven out of two other towns.” Tank straightened to his full height and folded his arms in that don’t-fuck-with-me manner.

  “Driven out…yeah.” Dixon could see that needed to happen here in Mersey. Over last night’s dinner, his parents reported their friends had been burgled, and when the owner tried to defend himself, the bikers kicked the shit out of him.

  He disengaged the pump from his tank and started toward the mini-mart. A member of the Mayhem sidled up to him as he reached the door.

  Dixon looked up with a slow burn that if he let it, would burst into an all-out inferno. “Get the fuck outta my way.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” he shot back. Suddenly, Tank flanked his side and two others stood with the Mayhem member. “I grew up here. What’s your reason for being in Mersey? Besides to cause hell for everyone around you?”

  The members closed in, but Dixon and Tank didn’t step away. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a woman skittering away from the entrance. Good—let her get to safety. If shit went down here, he didn’t want anyone hurt.

  All of Dixon’s Marine days flooded in, fighting for freedoms, for rights of any suppressed. He’d call the Mayhem being in his hometown suppression and fear-mongering.

  “Get on your little bicycle and head home to Mommy, kid.” The gang member’s comment set off his cronies, who laughed loudly.

  Dixon had no problem taking up arms to battle these guys. He considered three against himself and Tank to be a pretty fair fight. Though one shout from these guys and all thirty—hell, forty or more—Mayhem members would descend on the gas station.

  “Step aside,” he gritted out in his deadliest tone.

  “Ooooh, big man’s wearin’ dog tags around his neck and thinks he’s big stuff.” The older of the three members roused more laughter from the others, but he twitched his head to the side. They walked away from the entrance.

  For a moment, he and Tank remained rooted in place, watching them.

  “Fuckers need to go,” Tank said.

  “Yeah, they fuckin’ do.” Dixon went inside to pick up a six-pack while Tank watched over their bikes in the lot. When Dixon emerged from the building, the Mayhem were gone, but his anger was far from it.

  He bungeed the beer to the back of his bike while his mind worked over all the possibilities of getting the gang to move out of Mersey.

  The thing that struck him most was the Mayhem’s sense of brotherhood. Camaraderie. For good, bad or ugly, they had each other’s backs. Not much different from platoons he fought in. The difference was what they were fighting for.

  He could see something to fight for now—cleaning up Mersey seemed like the best reason to form a new kind of platoon. A new brotherhood.

  He didn’t say any of this to Tank—he needed a lot more time to consider the angles of forming such an organization. He knew little of biker gangs, but he heard plenty did a lot of good around the world. Not all were one-percenters, thriving off crime and killings. The Mayhem looked to fall somewhere in the middle. Either way, they were no good for Mersey. They had to go.

  After moving down the road, they headed to the shop with the six-pack to kick back. They passed by the Painted Pig. A single glance at the steel lined up in the parking lot had him turning in, Tank right behind him.

  As he cut the engine, two men exited the bar. Laughter rolled from inside the open door, along with a woman’s voice raised higher than the rest.

  His fists curled. No fuckin’ way. He was putting a stop to this.

  He strode to the front. One of the guys attempted to block his path, and Tank shoved him aside.

  Dixon threw his buddy a look.

  “Go. I got this.” Tank grinned, fists raised.

  Inside, three gang members took up the stools. A guy leaned over the bar, making a grab for Fiona. She stood there looking like an avenging angel—cheeks red with fury and bullets shooting from her green eyes. She waved a Louisville Slugger like she’d done this a hundred times—and damn if Dixon didn’t get more pissed off to think of her needing to defend herself.

  “Get the fuck outta here.” His loud bark of a command stopped the laughter, and all three men swung his way.

  Dixon raised his brows. “Fiona, you all right?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Call the sheriff. There’s about to be a bar fight.” With that, he grabbed the nearest burly motherfucker by the shirt front and slammed his head off the wooden top. Blood spurted and bone crunched.

  Dixon shoved him off the stool, and he toppled into his crony, while the third leaped off the stool and took a swing at him.

  Ducking the blow, he popped up again in time for Fiona to toss him the bat. He caught it and brought it across the guy’s back. He bowed with a roar of pain, probably at the shattered ribs.

  “Make that call, honey,” he tossed out to Fiona.

  “Not your honey.”

  He couldn’t stop the grin from overtaking his face as he took on the third guy. Those in the rear hovering around the pool table started forward. Just then Tank burst in.

  “Your buddies are lying out in the gravel. Might want to pick their asses up before the buzzards start circling,” he announced.

  The few guys moved quickly to the exit, and Dixon kneed the third guy who’d been harassing Fiona in the balls. Once he hit his knees, he punched him in the jaw. A tooth went flying across the floor.

  “Get them the hell out of my bar.” Fiona twisted from the blood and tooth as if disgusted at the mess she’d have to clean up.

  Dixon and Tank dragged the three outside. The door slammed on the quiet, empty bar. When he returned, Fiona stared at him.

  “I’m sorry for calling you honey.”

  She gave a single nod. Tough cookie. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was as gooey and soft inside as his momma’s oatmeal butterscotch specialty.

  “Sheriff’s on his way,” she said, setting two shot glasses on the bar top. She poured them each a drink—Crown for Tank and Johnnie Walker for him. “Here. On the house.”

  He could see the aftereffects of her ordeal in the slight tremor of her hand. Ignoring the drink, he reached across the bar and touched her arm. “You all right?”

  “Of course.” She raised her chin a notch.

  “Your hands are shaking. You’re shaking.”

  “You’re wrong. My hands don’t shake. No whimpering or whining from me or anyone in my bar. If you’re not going to drink your whiskey, then you can see yourself out.”