Original Sin (Dark Saints Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

  Original Sin copyright @ 2014 by Amy Love. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

  PROLOGUELos Angeles—1990

  “Victoria, get in the closet.”

  “Mommy, what—”

  “Do as I say and get in the closet, right now.”

  Gazing up at her mother's steely gray eyes, eight year old Vicky Platt felt her lower lip start to tremble. She had no idea what was going on—there were sirens and loud noises outside—and men were shouting. Her daddy had gone out a few minutes ago to talk to whoever had come to visit them, and he hadn't come back yet. So now, it was just she, her older brother, Darren, and their mother; and Michelle Platt looked none too happy with the evening's events. When the men in black jackets had arrived at their house about an hour earlier, the young woman had greeted them cautiously, telling them that her husband was going to be home soon, and they should come back later if they wanted to speak with him.

  And so they'd left.

  Moments later, a barrage of bullets had sprayed in through the front windows of the house. As quickly as she could, Michelle had ushered her children into the master bedroom and locked the door.

  The shooting hadn't stopped, and now Vicky could hear men moving around inside their house, scaring her.

  “Darren,” she said, tugging at the hand of her brother, who was five years older. “Come with me. I can't go in the closet alone. I'm 'fraid.”

  But, the boy was too busy arguing with his mother to even pay attention to her. “Momma, let me go out there and fight them.”

  “Darren!” The alarm in her voice was enough to make Vicky wince. “Get in the closet with your sister, now.”

  “No!” The young boy's voice cracked—on the cusp of adolescence. “They already got Dad! I'm not going to sit here and let them get us, too!”

  “You're thirteen. Do as I say before I throw you in there myself!”

  “No!” However, before Michelle could do anything to stop him, her son yanked his hand from his sister's and shoved her aside, flinging the door open wide. Almost immediately, he was greeted by two men in leather jackets, one with lanky blonde hair and the other with a dark buzz cut. Both wore sunglasses, despite the fact that it was long after sundown.

  Without hesitation, the men raised their guns.

  “No!” There was a flurry of movement and a burst of gunfire. Vicky watched, wide-eyed, as her mother fell to the floor, Darren clutched tightly in her arms.

  There was red. Red everywhere.

  And then Darren screamed, “Momma!”

  More gunfire.

  By now, Vicky was sobbing. She was confused, scared, and she wanted her daddy. Where was he? And why was there so much red all over mommy? She wasn't moving! Darren was shaking her really hard, and she wasn't moving.

  Then, from outside, there came the sound of whirring propeller blades. Bright lights shone in through the windows, and the men in leather jackets stopped shooting to look.

  “This is the LAPD,” said the voice from the helicopter, magnified one hundred fold. Vicky winced at its volume. “Come out of the residence with your hands up.”

  The two men looked at each other, fear evident on their faces. Then, they turned to the doorway of the bedroom and saw the body there and the two children beyond.

  They began to advance, and Vicky screamed.

  From behind her came the breathtakingly loud sound of gunfire once more, and this time it was the two jacket-clad men who stopped in their tracks, red blooming on their shirt-fronts.

  Shocked, the little girl turned to see her brother holding their father's pistol in trembling hands, his mouth set. The men in the hallway crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain, and still, Darren stared. One cheek was smeared with blood, and tears streamed down his cheeks; but, his teeth were bared in a fierce grin.

  Vicky did not like that look.

  “Darren,” she whispered, her own tears dripping onto the floor. “What did you do?”

  Her voice seemed to snap him from whatever trance he'd been in. He glanced at the weapon in his hands before tucking it into his back pocket. Then, furiously, he dashed the tears from his cheeks. When he looked up again, his blue eyes were cold and just as steely as their mother's had been moments earlier.

  “Come on, Vicky.” He held his hand out to her, and the little girl merely stared at it. “We're getting out of here. We're leaving, and we're never coming back.”

  “But…but what about momma?” Vicky's voice was rife with hiccups, as she continued to sob. “We can't just leave her here.”

  For a moment, Darren's eyes showed a pain far beyond his thirteen years. Then, he reached out to take his sister's hand. “Vicky, Momma's dead. She's gone, and she's never coming back.”

  Vicky tried to stifle her wails at his blunt statement. “But…but—”

  “No buts.” Darren leaned down to stare directly into her eyes. “Are you gonna be weak and cry about it? Or are you gonna be strong?”

  Vicky didn't want to be strong. She wanted to go into the closet like her mother had told her and cry until she fell asleep. When she woke up, everything would be alright again. Momma would be making dinner, and they'd all be eating happily at the table.

  But Darren said she shouldn't cry.

  Darren always protected her, and he knew what was best. If her mother and father were really gone, then he was all she had left in the world. Curling her fingers around her brother's, she let him lead her across the hall, down into the basement, and through the secret tunnel they'd always played in. When they emerged, the sky was dark and starless, and they were close to the storm drain two houses down.

  When Vicky looked back, she could see search lights hovering over their house, and what seemed like a hundred police cars. She knew they couldn't go back; and so, she followed Darren into an uncertain future.

  CHAPTER ONEPresent Day

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Feet planted firmly against the carpet, hands on her hips, and a glare to rival that of an avenging angel, Vicky stared down the man in front of her. He might have filled out over the years with brawn and muscle, as well as grown a few feet, but to her, he was still her only relation. She'd be damned if she'd stand by and let him pull a stunt that would get him killed. “You are not going.”

  “Please, Vicky. You need to sit your ass down. This doesn't concern you.” His icy-blue eyes filled with warning, as Darren withdrew a beer from the fridge in his messy kitchen before popping the top and taking a deep swig. He always drank when they got into arguments—a habit that annoyed Vicky. However, if he wanted to prove her case even more by disrespecting her, far be it from her to stop him.

  “Doesn't concern me? It just concerns my only brother, the front guy for over twenty kilos of raw coke. Christ, Darren. No way the cops aren't all over that.”

  “The Saints have it handled.”

  “Oh, is that it then?” Vicky threw her hands into the air, feigning an expression of relief. “Your precious Saints have it all in hand. Not like no one ends up dead in those deals. No one gets fucked when that kind of money is involved.”

  “Hey. You watch your fucking mouth. That money has paid your way your entire life, you brat.”

  “Watch my mouth?”
/>   Darren was just too goddamn much. For years, she'd followed him into every exploitative, crazy, dead-end opportunity they'd had to take to stay alive, and now he was telling her to watch her mouth? That was a laugh. Darren spent his days with men foul-mouthed enough to melt the hair off a skunk—it seemed to be a signature trait of each and every member of the Dark Saints, her brother included.

  “Darren, I'm not just going to sit in my apartment and wait for you to not come home. It kills me every goddamn time.” Her expression became pleading and, sensing that she was going to try to wheedle him into seeing her way, Darren's walls came up.

  “See, this is why I shouldn't be telling you about this shit. It's none of your goddamn business anyway.”

  “It's my business when it's my brother,” Vicky shot back immediately, her gray eyes narrow.

  “Listen, girl.” Coming close, Darren took her upper arms in a harsh grip. “When I got into this, I swore that you would have no part in it. I'm not breaking any promises.”

  His little display of bravado may have hurt, but it didn't faze her. Victoria Platt had been dealing with her pushy older brother her entire life and displays that might cow others didn't make her bat an eyelash. At least, most of the time. “When we got into this, Darren. We. Why do you shut me out like this?”

  “Because the Saints is no place for a woman.” Darren shook her slightly, his expression incensed. “You hang out at the den far too goddamn much already. Christ, Vicky. Do you know what I would do if something happened to you?”

  “Why can't you see that I feel the same way?” she implored, her eyes beseeching. “Just because you're the Saint and I'm not doesn't mean that I think you're invincible, Darren. I fucking know better.”

  Grunting at the low blow, Darren let her go before turning away and raking his hands through his short raven waves. For a moment, Vicky thought she might have won a small victory; but, when her brother turned to face her once more, his expression was no more giving than it had been previously.

  “You're not coming anywhere near the den for the deal—even if I have to lock you in your goddamn closet.”

  Enraged, Vicky immediately bellowed, “You fucking bastard! I—”

  “Say one more word. One more goddamn word and I swear to God I will gag you and tie you up, right here.”

  Left with no other options, Vicky could only fume, glaring at him as she crossed her arms over her chest in a huff. When she fell silent, Darren breathed an audible sigh of relief before crossing the room to her once more to take her shoulders in his hands. “I only do this because I care about you. If something happened and someone got a hold of you,” his eyes took on a dark, manic gleam that was frightening in its intensity, “I'd burn down half the city to get you back, Vicky. You know I would.” When he bent to place a kiss on her forehead, she drew back, leaving him to stare at her, his expression slightly hurt.

  Then, in a split second, his mouth and eyes hardened. “Fine. Fucking be that way. Just stay your ass in this damn apartment until I get back.” With that, he grabbed his leather jacket from where it hung over the back of a kitchen chair, as well as his keys, before leaving the room without a word.

  Within moments, the door slammed loudly behind him, and Vicky heard it lock. Then, came the coughing, spluttering roar of a bike that should be long dead, as it was forced into gear. With that, Darren sped away.

  The bastard!

  She was twenty-three years old, and he was still treating her like she was a child.

  Angrily, the young woman glared at the door. Ever since she'd started sneaking out to the den to make sure that Darren wasn't getting into too much trouble, her brother had been suspicious. When he'd found that she'd been following him, he'd installed special locks on both his and her apartment doors— locks that could only be secured from the outside.

  This was probably the third or fourth time he'd locked her in.

  Lucky for Vicky, she'd been outsmarting her brother since before she'd hit puberty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Still seething, the young woman strode from the kitchen and down the hall into the single bedroom. As usual, the window was open. Her brother wasn't a huge fan of wasting money, and therefore they rarely used the AC. Consequently, she had a clear route onto the fire escape.

  It took some contorting, but within a few minutes she was outside the apartment on the wrought iron balcony, gazing down at the city of LA.

  She had to admit that she hadn't been thrilled with the place when they'd first moved in, but he had a hell of a view from his bedroom. You could see every part of LA—from the Venice boardwalk to the high rises downtown. At night, it glittered like a star. Carefully, she tucked her long black waves under a baseball cap and began to climb down the rickety fire escape. The fifth floor wasn't terribly high up, but with a building as old as this one, one could never be sure.

  Luckily, she made it to the ground without incident, and as soon as she did, she hailed a cab. She wanted to get as far away from the apartment, and their neighborhood, as she could. Away from the leathery, oily smell that constantly permeated his apartment and announced his profession, away from the stuttering of the ancient bike he was so goddamn obsessed with, and away from the world she'd buried her intrigue for. It wasn't, after all, as if she'd ever be able to properly participate in it. Not with Darren breathing down her neck and warning her that every time she set foot in the Dark Saints headquarters, she was taking her life into her own hands.

  There was no way that she was going to sit at home, waiting and wondering about whether some rival gang member was going to blow his brains out when the drug deal went south.

  She simply refused to do that.

  Following her directions, the cabbie drove them deep into the heart of downtown. It was Thursday night, and though the scene wasn't quite as hot as it would be on the weekend, there would be plenty to occupy her. Vicky got out somewhere in West Hollywood and spent an obscene amount on a sinful red dress and sky high heels. From there, it didn't take much to find a bathroom and do herself up—from luscious red lipstick to a messy up-do— and she was immediately transformed into a desirous fox of a woman.

  Which was exactly her intention.

  Vicky was pretty sure that her brother didn't know the frequency with which she went out and cut loose—often going home with men she'd met only hours before. In fact, she was sure he must be clueless—or else there would be dozens more murders on the news than there already were. If she had her way, she would continue to keep her secret.

  When she went out, there were times that she could forget who she was. She could never forget her brother's identity—not anymore—and she had no qualms using it, but she herself? She'd been marked by most business owners in the city. Refusing her, insulting her, or coming on to her meant nothing but trouble. It meant that at any given time, a crew of bulky, armed men could roll up on the offending establishment like a sudden storm and make the owner’s life a living hell.

  Luckily for her, it seemed that intimate knowledge of what she looked like was reserved to those who had the most to lose: the shop owners of boutiques she frequented, the managers of restaurants she went to, and the brothers and fathers of her friends. If every goddamn person in LA handled her with such kid gloves, she thought she'd go insane.

  Thus, her need to escape.

  As she gazed into the mirror and fluffed her hair, Vicky examined her reflection critically.

  She was of average height and slender build, her skin sun-kissed enough to look caramel in the low-lighting of the bathroom. A dusting of freckles on her shoulders revealed just how much she sunbathed, while her slight musculature spoke of mornings spent running along the beach. Her eyes, in her opinion, were her best feature—dark gray and intense. They stood out in a face that was angular over the bridge of her nose and cheeks but softened slightly at her jawbone. Applying lipstick, she pressed her full lips together and smoothed back a strand or two of long, dark hair.

  She knew sh
e was attractive and often used it to her advantage.

  The only problem was that Darren seemed similarly enlightened when it came to how attractive she was. As a result, he never let any guy come within ten feet of her; and, while he went through women galore, he threatened all of her potential suitors with poisoning and disembowelment.

  At the thought, Vicky scowled.

  Overprotective asswipe.

  He should know that she could more than handle it if it came down to kicking any man's ass. Wasn't he the one who had taught her how to box and knife-fight? He'd practically prepared her to take down an army, and he thought she couldn't take care of a wayward boyfriend?

  Many times, she'd told herself that it was simply because Darren loved her that he tried to shelter her from the world. However, she knew better. The way her older brother protected her bordered on the insane. She'd seen him beat a man to a pulp for glancing at her. Though she still loved him, and he was still her only brother, sometimes Darren scared her.