Prosper (Hells Saints MC Book 7) Read online

  One night he’d went on a drunken rampage, tore up a bar, and a couple of guys with it. The severity of their injuries should have been enough to put Prosper away for a very long time. And that had been just fine with him. Prosper had pretty much given up on life and on himself by that point and really didn’t give two shits where he ended up. He’d waived his rights to an attorney and pled guilty. But as luck would have it, the judge hearing the case had been a veteran himself and had two sons who served. Judge Rubio had taken a personal interest in Prosper’s case. It was not every day that a true American hero sat in his courtroom. As far as the judge was concerned, Prosper’s commendation of the Purple Heart Medal had put him in that category. Judge Rubio used his extensive influence to see that Prosper was able to work out a plea deal. However, the terms of the reduced sentence carried with it non-negotiable and stringent criteria: Prosper was to do good time and follow a path towards rehabilitation. He’d been signed up for anger management therapy sessions, a high school completion program, a mechanics course, and bible study. Prosper’s cellmate during that time had been Jack Winston.

  Now, as Prosper considered the men as they argued over the merit of ape hangers versus stock handlebars, he took a moment to think about his own choices, the good and the bad ones. All of them having brought him here, to this place and time.

  Prosper had kept his word to Maggie and had ridden straight for Mississippi after leaving her behind. He had found Jack camping out on the Gulf just where he said he would be. Prosper had had that heart-to-heart with Jack and had told him all the things he’d vowed to Maggie that he would, and none of the things that he’d promised her he wouldn’t. Jack Winston may have been a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He listened attentively and heard everything that Prosper had to say and guessed at some of the things he hadn’t said. Jack loved a good time, but he loved Maggie more, and when faced with the very real possibility of losing her, his decision was easily made. Prosper and Jack parted the very next morning with a new and clear understanding between them.

  For a long time after that, Prosper’s head was in a very dark and abysmal place. He was in a constant state of misery, longing, and confusion. Living the life of an angry, bitter man, he became the worst possible version of himself.

  Derringer and Prosper met one hot afternoon when Prosper had misjudged a soft shoulder on a lone stretch of desert highway, blew out his tire, and dumped his bike. Furious with himself, with the road, and with life, in general, Prosper began to kick the shit out of his Harley. He was so intent on exacting his revenge on the fucked-up hand that life had dealt him, he hadn’t heard the van drive up behind him. It was only after a few bullets hit the already blown-out tire did Prosper turn around.

  “You fucking crazy?” Prosper jumped as the loud crack of the pistol whizzed past him. Then he spun on his heels and looked down at the small wiry man with hard eyes: the man who still had a handgun trained on Prosper’s bike.

  “’Bout to ask you the same thing, friend. Not sure what this here black beauty has ever done to you except give you a sweet, sweet ride. But it just goes against a man’s grain to see a custom job like that being kicked to shit by a man who looks like he should know a helluva lot better,” Derringer said as he pushed another clip into the gun and offered the pistol to Prosper. When Prosper just stared at him with hell to pay in his eyes, Derringer shrugged and put the gun into the back of his waistband. “The way I see it? A couple of bullets in an already blown-out tire’s gonna do a lot less damage than those boots of yours are gonna do on that chrome.” Then Derringer held out his hand. “Name’s Derringer, Derringer Gage.”

  After a slight hesitation, Prosper shook that extended hand. Partly because he wasn’t gonna ignore a man who just shot off a round of bullets, and second, because the man was right. That bike had never given Prosper a bad minute and it deserved better. Prosper took a moment to assess Derringer. In his experience, you could tell a lot about a man from his handshake. This guy might be small in size, but he had as firm a grip as any man Prosper had come across. He was a mean-looking sonofabitch too. Shrapnel scars covered his arms and a series of Vietnamese prayers were inked into his skull.

  After introductions were made, Derringer walked over to where he had parked his van, took out a flask, and handed it to Prosper. After Prosper shot back some of the best whiskey he had ever tasted, he pulled a joint out of his t-shirt pocket, lit it up then handed it over to Derringer. The men sat for a while and shot the shit, smoking the premium weed and washing it down with some quality whiskey while sizing up each other. When Derringer had offered to load Prosper’s Harley into his van and bring it to his home garage, Prosper took him up on the offer. That day a friendship that would span over forty years had begun. Derringer Gage introduced Prosper to a whole underworld of like-minded men. Men just like the ones Prosper had described to Maggie. Men who were rebels, who lived just outside the margins of the law and were thirsty for the brotherhood and sense of belonging that they had experienced in the military. It wasn’t long before Prosper had shared his vision for a motorcycle club, and with the help of Derringer and a handful of those men, the HSMC was born.

  Now six years later, the Hells Saints MC had four charters with a membership of over two hundred men, and they were about to open up a fifth charter. With Prosper leading the helm and Derringer second in charge, all systems were go and the club was becoming more than either men had dared to hope it could be. Prosper had called his head boys into a national meeting this week where he had laid out the vision and business plan for the next two years.

  Wisely, he had also drafted up a contingency plan. This plan would go into effect should something arise leaving Prosper unable to fulfill the positional duties of National President. The brothers took it as a matter of course and as a necessary and smart way to safeguard the club. They had no idea that this passing of the torch may be imminent.

  One phone call had changed everything and Prosper was now on his way to exacting that executive order. While Derringer Gage did not possess what could be called an affable personality, he was good with numbers, had an uncanny ability to read through bullshit, and above all, was a great leader and a loyal friend. Prosper had absolutely no qualms about leaving the club in his hands for as long as it took, and honestly, Prosper had no idea what that time frame would be.

  Now Derringer spied Prosper all packed up and ready to go. He called out from across the garage, “Need the room, brothers,” The men glanced up from their conversations and when they saw their president outfitted in road leathers and carrying a full saddlebag, they raised a few eyebrows, but didn’t say a word.

  Derringer waited until the men cleared the room, then he shook his head and sighed. “You wanna tell me what’s going on here, brother?”

  “You know what’s going on,” Prosper growled back.

  “I thought we talked about this. Not your place, friend. The time that’s left, that she has left? That belongs to her family. Belongs to her kids, to her man. “

  “We also agreed if I got the call that I would go.”

  “And you got that call?” Derringer looked at him speculatively.

  “Yep, I did.”

  “When?”

  “Five minutes ago.”

  A flash of worry and concern passed over Derringer’s face. But his tone was even when he asked the question, “So, on a scale from one to ten, how bad are things?”

  “A thousand.”

  “You want me to come with? Just for the road trip? I can put Beast in charge for a few days. I’m sure he’d be down with that,” Derringer offered, already knowing the answer.

  “No. I appreciate it, brother, I do. But I’m gonna need the head space that the road is gonna give me to prepare myself for what’s coming.” Prosper’s voice was smooth and steady and he said the words casually, but when he held his hand out for the cigarette that Derringer offered, his hand was shaking.

  Prosper had Derringer’s respect in a w
ay that few men did, and he had gotten it by earning it. He was as tough as a man could be but was a clear thinker and smarter than his leather and lifestyle made him out to be. He had taken a bunch of wounded, ill-tempered, half-tamed eagles and taught them how to fly again. That’s how Derringer saw it anyway. Only a few short years into its inception, what Prosper had built from the rubble of lost souls had grown into an organization that was a force to be reckoned with.

  Prosper was also a courageous sonofabitch and that courage had gotten him through some real hard times and tough spots.

  But now he was scared. No other way to see it, no other way to call it.

  And Derringer could see that the fear his friend was rocking needed to be named, dealt with, and defeated, or his good friend wouldn’t stand a chance of making it through the next few months. Derringer reached out to Prosper and put a hard hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

  Prosper took a long draw on his cigarette and looked at Derringer through the curl of smoke. “This ain’t gonna be easy. I don’t know how to do this. Don’t know if I have it in me.”

  “Sure, you do. You’re the toughest man I know, and trust me, coming from me … that says a lot.”

  Prosper raised an eyebrow and couldn’t help but let out a tiny grin because Derringer was right, coming from him that statement said a lot.

  Derringer leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, and crossed his ankles. If it wasn’t for the coiled muscles that sat taut in his flat stomach and the hard look in his eyes, you would think he was relaxed. “You know, “Derringer began in a matter-of-fact tone, “until a man passes out of his twenties or so, he thinks that given the right circumstances and under the right conditions, he could be the baddest, meanest, hardest-living motherfucker in the world. I know I sure as hell thought it. But then I saw you kicking the shit out of that sweet Sportster all those years ago, and I knew, I knew in my gut what and who you were. I have to tell you, brother, it was liberating and a relief for me to come across a badass like you, because I knew I didn’t have to worry about being that guy anymore. After five minutes with you, I knew that position had already been taken.”

  Prosper looked at Derringer. “You are so full of shit.”

  “Dead to rights.” Derringer lifted his hand in an “I swear” gesture. “You are it, my man. The real deal. If I moved to a martial arts dojo in Korea and studied nothing but that for ten years, if my family was wiped out by the Cosa Nostra and I swore myself to vengeance, if I had one year left in my lousy life and decided to use that time to wipe out the Colombian cartel … or if I just devoted my whole life to being a straight up badass, I wouldn’t hold a fucking candle to you.”

  Prosper shook his head. “Not feeling it now, brother. I don’t mind telling you, I never been this terrified in my whole life.”

  Derringer let out a long breath. “You remember when we were riding through Montana and we stopped at that rest stop? We were just heading towards the trash after eating a couple of those huge, meaty roast pork sandwiches when out of nowhere had come a small pack of big-ass wolves; drooling, snarling, rabid motherfuckers coming towards us with their bared teeth. Now that’s something you don’t see every day, right? And I am man enough to admit that I was fucking petrified. Paralyzed with fear. I took a look at your face and I knew you were as scared as I was.”

  Memory lit up Prosper’s eyes and he ran a hand through his hair. Then he gave Derringer a lopsided grin. “Yeah, me and you have been through some shit, and I don’t mind telling you that that wolf pack was up there with the worse of them. I can still hear their feral ass snarls.” Prosper shuddered. “It was like looking death itself in the face. Those wolves came right out of every man’s worst nightmare.”

  “You remember what you did?”

  “Pissed my pants?” Prosper snorted.

  Derringer shook his head.

  Prosper paused in thought.

  “You don’t remember?” Derringer posed the question again.

  “I know we got our asses out of there. Quick.” Prosper shrugged.

  “You stood in front of me,” Derringer told him.

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, you sure as hell did. You pushed me out of the way and behind you. Then you looked the biggest snarling wolf, the alpha male, straight in the eye. You raised yourself to full height and put your hands up in the air to appear even bigger. Keeping me behind you, you backed us up slowly until we were at the bikes. Once we were there, you kicked up a big rock at the snarling motherfucker and hit it hard on the skull. The wolf yelped out and ran off with the rest of the pack following behind.”

  “Huh, shit sure I don’t remember that.” Prosper shook his head.

  Derringer continued, “Scared as you were, your first instinct was to look out for the guy standing next to you. And that’s just one time, brother. The things you’ve survived, the lifestyle you chose, and the choices you make? The leader that you are? You’ve looked in the face of death more than a few times, and you know what death did? It backed the fuck down. You got this brother.”

  Prosper nodded, hoping Derringer was right because, really, compared to the shitstorm he would be riding into, standing up to a vicious, snarling pack of man-eating wolves seemed tame in comparison.

  Magaskawee sat in the corner of the room in a big chair by the window, closed her eyes, and let the sun warm her face. She moaned softly. The pain was getting worse.

  “Mamma?” The little hand reached up and touched her cheek. Maggie opened her eyes and smiled into the deep blue eyes of her little girl. Every time she looked at Raine, Magaskawee was amazed at her beauty. At just a couple of months shy of her eighth birthday, Raine showed none of the gawkiness of other little girls her age. She was poised, quiet, and projected an outward calm no matter what turmoil was around her: a dying mother, a heartbroken father, and a little sister who couldn’t seem to sit still.

  “Yes, little one?” Maggie opened her eyes and smiled at her daughter. The relief on Raine’s small face broke Maggie’s heart. She had become so watchful, so hyper-vigilant. It was as if she expected her mother to disappear any moment. That notion, Maggie sighed, was not so far from the truth. She tried her best to keep the child occupied. Just a few months ago, she and the girls had planted some more berry patches in the yard. It had given them all something to focus on, something to nurture and watch grow. Their attention to the little plants had been rewarded, and they were now heavy with clusters of rich, fat berries that her daughters loved to pick.

  “Sweetheart, why don’t you take Claire and go pick me some strawberries? When Daddy comes home, we can …” But Raine was already half out of the room before Maggie could finish. Part of it was her eagerness to please, the other part was that she liked nothing better than to be outside in the little garden with Claire.

  In one of his more insightful moments, Jack had brought home a little gardening kit for the girls, complete with a miniature hoe, rake, and watering cans.

  Jack Winston.

  Her Jack. The one who came back.

  Jack had been repentant and loving all those years ago when he had come home from the Gulf of Mississippi. On Maggie’s part, she did her best to hide her disappointment when she saw that it was her husband and not Prosper who had ridden up that long road. That night, Jack and Maggie talked in a way they had not done in years. Later on, when he made love to her, it was like they were beginning all over again. And because Maggie still loved her husband, she had given him that chance.

  In many ways Jack had kept the promises that he’d made that night. He’d tried his hand at some of those much-needed home repairs, and he’d stopped taking off whenever the mood struck him. But Jack was never meant to live the life of a family man, not really. So, although he made as many compromises as needed to keep his little family functioning, he could not live by his family alone. Maggie and the girls were just never enough. Jack squelched that yearning to be on the open road by opening his home to every vagrant or stray ca
t that he came across: the ex-cons, the returned soldiers, the down-on-their-lucks, and the road warriors … all had a place at Jack’s table. Maggie never knew from one day to the next who would be sharing their meals or camping out in their barn. She obliged Jack and dealt with these “guests” the best she could but had one hard and non-negotiable steadfast rule. And that rule was that no man slept under the same roof as her little girls.

  No man except Prosper.

  He didn’t come by more than once a year or so, and even then, he didn’t stay long. But when he did, Maggie wouldn’t hear of him sleeping anywhere but inside the house with her family. It was the least she could do, the least she could give him. Maggie knew that Prosper’s visits were his way of checking up on them and checking up on Jack’s ability to keep his promise. If Jack felt that, he never made an issue of it and always welcomed Prosper warmly and with the open arms of a good friend.

  Prosper Worthington.

  Hard.

  Unyielding.

  Uncompromising.

  Who would have ever thought that he would become the hero in her story—or the love of her life?

  Maggie closed her eyes and let her mind drift as she often did these days just as the medication began to kick in. She was no longer ashamed to admit that these times were becoming the best part of her day … the peace that came between the twilight and dreaming. And she had been having the loveliest dreams lately: beautiful sunrises, magnificent sunsets, walking through fields of colorful blossoms the size of her open hand, and brightly colored butterflies that landed on her shoulder. But the best dreams of all were the carefully stored memories … those few and precious moments of loving and being loved by Prosper Worthington.