Time Owed
Time Owed
by Debra Kayn
Book 4, Moroad MC series
This is a work of fiction. 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.
Time Owed
1st Digital release: Copyright© 2015 Debra Kayn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Debra Kayn. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Coming Soon
Author Bio
Debra Kayn's Backlist
Sneak Peek – Wrapped Around Him | Book 1 Moroad Motorcycle Club series | Chapter One
Dedication
Wheels – Picking a perfect spot takes talent. Now, turn around. Okay, done. Between whispers, tunnels, dead-ends, and theories, we've got this.
Acknowledgements
Wallace, Idaho — As most of you know, Federal Idaho where my Bantorus MC and Moroad MC series books are based is set in my hometown of Wallace, Idaho. It's wonderful to live in an area where we take pride in our colorful past, rich history, and mining. Most of all the acceptance of those we call neighbors. Thank you to Ryan Motel, Lux Rooms, Oasis Bordello Museum, Wallace Inn, Rossi Building, Shoshone County Sheriff's Department, Harvest Food, Hecla Mining, and the community for adding that special touch to my books.
Natalie —Thank you for all that you've done to support the Moroad Motorcycle Club series. You've rallied readers everywhere with your love of #TeamCam and #TeamMerk. You're amazing!
Shauna and Christy — You two took your love (and no love) for Cam, and especially for Merk before the book was even released, to a new level. At the end of the day, the in-depth discussions, friendly battles, and loads of teasing showed me the wonderful world of readers and how we all receive something different from the same book.
Barnes & Noble in Rochester Hills, MI — Thank you for your support in putting the Moroad Motorcycle Club series on your shelves and introducing your customers to my books.
Moroad MC Support Group — First off, thank you to Daydream Believer Book Blog for running the support group and giving readers of the series a place to call home. To all the readers who joined —Between the deep discussions, the back and forth debates, and sharing your feelings about the books, you all have created something wonderful. In the wacky world of publishing, readers came together over their mutual love of books and offered each other understanding, appreciation, and new friends. By far, you're the best group of readers out there!
Chapter One
Five men sat around the scarred table in the basement of Rail Point Bar playing their last hand of poker for the night. James 'Merk' Tarmerk leaned against the concrete wall and stared at the bottle of Fireball sitting in front of Jacko, his Moroad MC brother. The red devil label beckoned him forward to ease the overload of details muddying his head.
Every detail about the men bored into him, refusing to let loose. Joe, owner and bartender, sat tense. Merk took in the sweat running off the old man's head. Joe was one-step away from a heart attack if he continued to puff on the cigar in his mouth and finished the second ham sandwich at his side.
The two men to Jacko's left wore baseball caps to hide their eyes. More than likely, the two men were brothers from different mothers going by the almost mirrored hand movements and head nods. He suspected Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum cheated whenever the suit-wearing man on their right turned from the table to sneeze. He sneezed a lot, and not for distraction. The businessman had some serious allergies going on, probably from the cloud of smoke hovering above the table in the windowless room.
Every person playing poker concentrated on winning the next hand and paid no attention to Merk. He stayed alert and waited, never moving from his spot against the wall. Nobody ever beat Jacko in cards, not in Federal or in the Idaho State Penitentiary where most of the prisoners had experienced the pain of losing to him.
The poker game wasn't Merk's reason for coming along with Jacko.
The last time he stepped foot into the basement of the bar, he'd shot a man and then spent twelve years in prison for the crime.
Unknown to him, he'd walked into a bad deal between Los Li and Jerry Carlyle, the bar owner's son in law and the person he'd come to kill. In the process, he'd barely escaped Los Li's hands and ultimately failed to outrun the arms of the law. Federal agents picked him up four days later for murder.
Merk took in the tension rolling off the men playing cards and the over-exaggerated arm movements from Jacko. No matter where any of the Moroad members went in Federal, someone always looked for the opportunity to take down a career felon.
Thanks to the patch he wore on his vest for the world to judge, he usually scared off the majority of the assholes that would attempt to take him out. At least everyone in Idaho, seeing as how he had restrictions placed on him by the state. The court system frowned on letting someone with an assault, murder, grand theft, and whatever fucking felony charge he had pinned on him from leaving the area.
Tired of chasing his freedom, he came to the bar to stop running. He couldn't change his past, but he could regain what he'd lost.
He no longer believed freedom came from living on the outside of the prison walls. He still walked around with his ankles chained, stopping him from leaving and riding the open road. He rolled his lips over his teeth, inhaled deeply, and forced himself to relax. With a target on his back, he had nowhere to go, nowhere to find the independence that continued to elude him, so he visited his past often.
“Jesus Christ.” Joe sucked on his cigar and pushed away from the table.
Merk’s hand went to the back of his jeans and his fingers curled around the butt of his pistol. He wasn't afraid to die. In the back of his head, he had the thought that maybe he'd finally find true freedom when the state burnt his body to ashes.
“Thanks for the game, my friends.” Jacko flipped his shaggy hair out of his eyes, scooped the pile of cash into a stack in front of him, and laughed holding the bundle in a tight grip. "Money, money, glorious money."
Merk pushed aw
ay from the wall, clenching his jaw to keep from telling Jacko to shut the fuck up before the men decided to put a slug in his crazy ass. One of these days, someone would recognize the mask of insanity on Jacko’s face for the truth he kept hidden. The conniving, brilliant, motherfucker played everyone and took advantage when he spotted an opening.
“Come back tomorrow night.” Joe heaved himself to his feet, sending a puff of smoke across the table. “You can give us a chance to win our money back.”
The door to the room swung open. Merk stepped back, keeping his hand on the handle of his nine millimeter.
A woman entered the room and Merk's reason for coming with Jacko stood right beside him. Her dark green eyes, a color he'd only seen once before, swept the room and settled on the man running the show. Merk absorbed the changes in the woman within three seconds.
At least five foot eight inches, stacked with a rack that only encouraged him to glance down and ogle her firm, solid ass, she confidently stood in a room filled with disappointment, tension, and smoke without blinking her long eyelashes. He stayed in position, giving nothing away of the turmoil tightening his gut. It'd been thirteen years since he'd laid eyes on her.
That night, barely old enough to have tits, she'd gazed up at him in trust. Then he shot a man and fear entered her eyes.
The Feds claimed a witness identified him as the killer. He'd known without a doubt, the girl turned him in. The judge wouldn't release any identifying details, because the child in question was a minor. However, that night in the basement, the little girl had voluntarily given her name.
Desi.
He'd spent 12 years incarcerated for murder and every day since, Desi's eyes haunted him. He wanted those lost years locked behind bars back.
No longer a scared little girl, an air of confidence surrounded Desi. Obviously experienced at walking into an illegal gambling den and adapted to the stink of sweat in a concrete basement, Desi planted her hands on her flared hips. The high level of attitude set her apart from most women in town and let him know she'd learned to take care of herself since he'd helped her.
"Get shakin', Pop." The woman's sultry demand stopped all conversation.
Joe grunted, put out the cigar, and pocketed the stub. "Give me a few minutes, Desiree."
Desiree? She'd wanted him to call her Desi.
Desi's canvas Converse sneaker tapped against the concrete floor. She swung her long, dark blonde hair behind her shoulder. "Time's up, Pop. You need to get upstairs."
"Hold on." Joe pointed his finger at Jacko. "Tomorrow afternoon. We'll raise the stakes. Are you in?"
Jacko stood, leaning from one foot to the other, in a perfected dance confirming his questionable IQ. "Yeah, yeah, oh wait. I've got a meeting tomorrow night."
"We'll cap it at seven," said Joe.
Jacko shrugged. "That'll work."
Merk brought his attention back to Desi. His gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Full pink lips with not a stitch of lipstick puckered out in irritation instead of trembling in shock the way they had when she hid behind the heater in the basement so many years ago. The twinge of admiring a beautiful woman tightened his chest. He looked her over again, not surprised the scrawny teenager who'd walked straight into her worst nightmare would turn into a looker.
The face he admired swung in his direction and the lips he imagined around his cock hitched into a sneer.
"What are you looking at?" She glared.
He refrained from answering, and yet refused to look away. She aimed her attitude in his direction and he wondered who or what crawled up her ass.
Her gaze lowered to his vest and she inhaled swiftly, which caused her tits to lift. He cocked his brow, challenging her to remember the man who took a life without any regret. She looked away and disappointment filled him.
Not that he expected her to recognize him. There were more tattoos covering his body and he'd aged. At forty-six years old, wrinkles set in around his eyes and he'd gained a scar down the side of his face. He wore a beard now, mainly because he hated shaving and he wanted to appear different from the picture on his last warrant.
A sense of entitlement swept through him. He'd like nothing more than to show her a good time and remind her to be glad she still breathed.
Usually he went for more compliant, soft, and willing women. Stronger, more independent women made him work harder. He'd make an exception for Desi, because somewhere inside of the grown-up Desi, a frightened girl who willingly asked him for help remained.
She narrowed her eyes as she stepped forward, brushing him off and literally, brushing against his arm daring him to stop her. He tilted his head, enjoying the way she swished her round ass as she walked across the room. Yeah, he'd made the right decision to come here tonight and dig up his past.
His balls ached in pleasure at the same time his stomach hardened. He needed to get out of here and away from the crowd where he could absorb the changes he'd found. The bitter reminder of a crime he'd willingly do again suffocated him.
"Yeah, I'm in." Jacko kissed the stack of money in his hand before shoving it into his vest pocket. "Bring your girl, we'll have a party."
Joe growled and planted his hands on the table. "Keep my granddaughter out of my business."
"Pop." Desi tugged on Joe's sleeve. "You need to take over upstairs before the sheriff makes another round and questions where you've gone."
Jacko licked his lips, ogling Desiree. "Oh yeah, I hear you. I won't involve her at all in—"
"Let's go, Jacko." Merk motioned his hand toward the door, wanting Jacko's eyes off Desi. "Now."
Not in the mood to fight, Merk stepped away until he felt the door at his back and escorted a silent Jacko up the stairs to the bar and out the back door. Merk walked the cracked sidewalk to the end of the block.
"Home sweet home." Jacko cut a quick right and took the stairs in the back of Cleo's Coffee Cave to the apartments on the second floor.
Merk lagged behind. It wasn't the first time he found himself rooming with Jacko. He'd lucked out during two incarcerations to find Jacko lying on the top bunk when the guard shoved him in the cell. What never bothered him while shut in with Jacko on the inside, bothered him when they lived on the outside of the Cyclone fence.
Jacko's ability to talk constantly for no reason and the sporadic times he woke up in the night and walked outside, waking Merk, wore on him. Merk climbed the steps one at a time.
Inside the single bedroom apartment, the bedroom door clicked shut. Merk sat on the ratty couch that served as his bed and let his head fall back on the torn cushion. He closed his eyes. The depressing living situation put a roof over his head and nothing more.
On suspension with the club for shooting Cam, his president, he'd pay for his punishment and room with Jacko. He'd made a mistake and picked up a bottle. One bottle turned into two, until his ability to judge a situation clouded and most of his memories remained black.
He'd fucked up. The same way he'd fucked up with his sister. Roni would still be alive if he'd stayed out of prison. He ran his hands over his whiskered face, more tired than normal. Tomorrow night, the club would gather at Cam's house and they'd expect him to be there.
He no longer worried about Cam or Christina. She was obviously happy and settled down with Cam, and he and Cam always straightened out their problems without anyone's help. Time, distance, and getting his ass thrown in prison after Cam set him up for murder cured him of losing himself in alcohol. He stared up at the water pipe running the length of the ceiling. He dreaded showing up at the meeting tomorrow night, because it meant seeing Jeremy again.
Far as anyone cared, he had no right to his nephew.
His dead sister's son.
His president's son.
Christina's stepson.
His past mistakes merged, overwhelming him. His focus strayed, like every day for the last thirteen years, to Desi standing in front of him, barely tall enough to reach his chest. Her full lower lip quivered. Then the vision
of the girl turned into a woman, tempting and arousing him. She begged him to return.
He brought his head forward and stood. He had nowhere to go and no reason to keep going. The war inside of him wore him down. He'd make Desi pay him back for the twelve years of freedom he'd lost the night he killed her dad.
Chapter Two
The second to last pool ball sank into the side pocket. Desiree Carlyle braced the end of her cue stick on the top of her black Chuck sneaker and twirled the square chalk against the felted end of the stick. While she prepared for her next shot, she eyed Bruce across the pool table. It'd taken her thirty minutes to work over the tourist, until he finally bet two weeks' worth of his wages on a single game.
Usually other players took the ribbing and the taunts of playing against a woman with a good sense of humor. Not often, like today, a tourist played to prove a point he could beat a woman. She had a lot riding on the outcome of the game. The thirty-five hundred dollars sitting in the envelope behind the bar would help Pop get over his losing streak. Her grandpa relied on most of her winnings to pad his poker games downstairs.
If she lost, she'd need to risk setting up a few more games to cover her loss. Something she tried not to do, because the sheriff kept his eye on all the bars in town looking for illegal gambling.
She set the chalk on the edge of the pool table, moistened her lips, and directed her attention to Brent. "Eight ball. Corner pocket."
Brent raised his brows. "Are you sure about that, little girl?"
A tingle of attitude shot up her spine. Standing five foot, eight inches, there was nothing little about her. Her breasts were too big even for her height and her ass carried about ten pounds of fat she couldn't lose. Besides, her birth certificate proved she'd had her twenty-sixth birthday last month. Not that she celebrated.
She ignored his question, leaned over the table, widened her legs, and lined up her shot. The last time she'd missed a trick shot around three balls covering the eight ball, she'd been ten years old. Her lack of skill that night came down to running a hundred and one degree temperature after staying up all night because her dad tore apart the apartment in his fit of rage and Pop had to come in and settle him down.