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  His Loyal Rebel

  Patches: Tarkio MC, book 4

  By

  Debra Kayn

  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.

  His Loyal Rebel

  Patches: Tarkio MC, Book 4

  1st release: Copyright© 2020 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 ONLY. No part of this 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.

  www.debrakayn.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 | Whip | 1993

  Chapter 2 | Twyla

  Chapter 3 | Whip

  Chapter 4 | Whip

  Chapter 5 | Twyla

  Chapter 6 | Whip

  Chapter 7 | Twyla

  Chapter 8 | Whip

  Chapter 9 | Whip

  Chapter 10 | Twyla

  Chapter 11 | Whip

  Chapter 12 | Twyla

  Chapter 13 | Whip

  Chapter 14 | Twyla

  Chapter 15 | Twyla

  Chapter 16 | Whip

  Chapter 17 | Twyla

  Chapter 18 | Whip

  Chapter 19 | Twyla

  Chapter 20 | Whip

  Chapter 21 | Twyla

  Chapter 22 | Whip

  Chapter 23 | Twyla

  Chapter 24 | Whip

  Chapter 25 | Twyla

  Chapter 26 | Whip

  Chapter 27 | Twyla

  Chapter 28 | Whip

  Chapter 29 | Twyla

  Chapter 30 | Twyla

  Chapter 31 | Whip

  Chapter 32 | Twyla

  Chapter 33 | Whip

  Chapter 34 | Twyla

  Chapter 35 | Whip

  Chapter 36 | Twyla

  Epilogue | Whip

  Author Bio

  Debra Kayn's Backlist

  The 1st book in Escape to the Bitterroot Mountains series | Every Little Piece of Him

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Dedication

  Wheels – I have never laughed so hard as when I sang/performed "Bicycle Race by Queen" in the garage for you.

  It wasn't the song.

  It was the look on your face.

  I love your face.

  Chapter 1

  Whip

  1993

  BANG.

  Whip dropped the throttle cable to the ground and reached for the pistol inside his Tarkio Motorcycle Club vest.

  "Across the street." Rick, his brother-in-law, moved behind a nearby car and peered over the vehicle's roof.

  Taking position behind his Harley, he looked in the distance and found a man and woman. The female held her hands in front of her as if she held a pistol on the guy.

  From across the street, it appeared they were in an argument. Though he couldn't hear them talking.

  "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Rick glanced at Whip.

  Whip squinted, studying the scene in front of him. The moment he made out the patches on the back of a leather vest, he stepped out from behind the motorcycle.

  "What's a Cusclan member doing in Missoula?" He kept his weapon in his hand.

  Rick glanced over his shoulder at the motorcycle shop. "Your guess is as good as mine."

  The woman shot the pistol. Dust flew up near the man's feet.

  "God damnit." Whip slipped his pistol behind his belt in the front of his jeans. "That'll bring the cops around."

  The door behind them opened. Carl, the manager of the bike parts store, walked between Rick and Whip. "What's going on? I heard gunshots."

  "Looks like some woman doesn't want anything to do with that guy?" said Whip.

  "Is he one of yours?"

  Rick scoffed. "No."

  More concerned about why a Cusclan member would step foot inside Missoula's city limits, Whip studied the couple, getting a bad taste in his mouth. His hatred of the other MC ran thick through his blood.

  Far enough away, he couldn't tell if he was familiar with the member or not. While he'd meet others from Cusclan in prison, there was no way he knew all two hundred members by sight.

  The woman yelled, throwing her arms out to her sides, and stepped toward the man. Whip cocked his head, straining to pick up on part of the argument. It could be a normal fight going on between the guy and his old lady, or they could be strangers.

  "They know each other," mumbled Rick.

  He agreed. A stranger harassing a lone woman would've sent her running and yelling for help. She wouldn't pull a gun and stick around to shoot the guy if she feared for her life.

  "Should I call the police?" asked Carl.

  "No. Let them hash it out." Rick put his weapon away and stepped to his Harley. "I'm heading over to Promise to inform Priest we have a trespasser in town. He can send someone else to make sure he gets the hell out of Missoula."

  Whip gritted his teeth, his concern going to his sister. "Get straight home to Tracy and the kids."

  The last time Cusclan Motorcycle Club invaded Missoula, they'd killed his mom and dad in front of his sixteen-year-old sister, fucking her up. Afterward, Whip had gone to prison for four years, dreaming about the day he'd retaliate for his parents' death.

  "As soon as I inform Prez, I'll head home." Rick started his motorcycle.

  At the rumble of the engine, the Cusclan member looked across the street. Whip stuck his finger out at his side, catching Rick's gaze. His brother-in-law and MC brother dipped his chin, aware he'd drawn all the attention.

  As a former Cusclan member who wore the scars on his back for the time he'd spent with the other club, Rick had enough reasons to kill the rider. But Rick put Tarkio first. He was the most loyal brother he'd ever met.

  Carl nudged Whip with his shoulder. "Feel free to step inside if you want to wait him out."

  "I don't run." He stepped toward his motorcycle.

  The Cusclan member walked toward his bike. Whip waited, making the other man leave first. He wasn't going to wait around for other Tarkio members to ride by. He wanted their enemy gone. His sister safe. No casualties within the club.

  Two seconds after he heard the roar of the engine, he started his Harley. Three seconds after the guy pulled out on the street, Whip rode after him.

  He'd rather kill the motherfucker for stepping foot in Missoula than breathe his exhaust while letting him get away.

  The woman remained in the parking lot as Whip followed the Cusclan member. Led on a high-speed chase, he ignored the risks of the police pulling him over.

  Since Cusclan took over the underground gun trade from Moroad Motorcycle Club, they'd become a bigger threat to Tarkio. It was only a matter of weeks before they started to expand inside the Federal prisons in the Pacific Northwest and inner PNW.

  If Tarkio was unable to stop them, Cusclan would soon have control outside the Cyclone fences.

  War would come to the streets, and Tarkio would lose men. It was inevitable.

  During his dad's time, he'd seen the devastation when the power shifted. While he'd done shit and served time for a crime he hadn't committed, the future was going to change, whether he wanted it to or not.


  His main concern was for his sister and her family. Tracy couldn't lose Rick. He was the one thing, besides the kids, that put the sunshine back in her life.

  The Cusclan member cut across a parking lot, going in the opposite direction. Whip followed, not seeing the other man's intent until he entered the onramp going east on I-90.

  Shifting down, he pulled off the road and turned his Harley. There was no use following him. The odds of more Cusclan members waiting for him, somewhere along the interstate, would outnumber him.

  He took his time going back through town, keeping an eye on the streets. Priest would want to know what they were facing.

  Far as he could tell, it was a domestic argument. The guy's old lady probably ran off and sought an area where she believed she'd be safe from him.

  Ahead of him, the motorcycle shop came into view. He looked to the opposite side of the street. The woman involved sat on the trunk of her car.

  He slowed. She swung her crossed leg up and down as if trying to attract his attention.

  On a whim, he pulled off the street and rode over to her. She never changed her position, leaning back with her hands braced on the vehicle, her sneakered foot swinging her bare leg.

  He stopped and cut the engine. The lights in the lot flickered as the sun dipped behind the mountain. There was enough daylight left to make out the platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail on the woman sprawled out on the car, confident about being approached by a stranger, despite shooting at another biker fifteen minutes ago.

  Looking all around him, he studied the street, going in both directions. The occasional car drove past, interrupting the silence. They were far enough away from the airport, even the loud whine of the planes escaped his hearing.

  "Are you going to sit there, saying nothing, or tell me your name?" said the woman.

  He wasn't getting off the Harley. Any second, the police could check up on the report of gunshots, and he wanted to be long gone when that happened.

  "Why was there a Cusclan member in Missoula?" he asked.

  Her pale, arched eyebrow lifted. She was a natural blonde.

  His gaze traveled down her long, bare legs. She had a tattoo on her ankle. He squinted, trying to see if he could tell who she belonged to by the mark on her.

  She stretched her leg, pointing her foot to the side, giving him a clearer view. "It's a swimming turtle."

  "Answer my question." He took his hands off the handlebar.

  "You want to know his name?" She slid off the trunk and landed on both feet. "Find out yourself."

  Her hand landed on her hip. He could make out the butt of the pistol tucked against her stomach behind the waist of her cutoffs where the hem of her shirt failed to reach her shorts.

  He'd known women like her. They put on a big show to get a man's attention and picked fights to draw him away from his club. An old lady would know better than to be a bitch. That told him a lot about her status within Cusclan.

  "If you're going to whore around with Cusclan members, you better get in your car and hit the highway. There's no place in Missoula for you." He reached down to start his Harley and stopped when her fingers gripped the handle of the pistol. "Sis, I've seen you shoot. Don't waste your bullets."

  He started the bike and rode away. She was a damn sexy woman. Too bad Cusclan dirtied her.

  Chapter 2

  Twyla

  The manager of the motel threw Twyla's suitcase out the door. She jumped out of the way. Struggling to hold on to the items in her arms, she dodged the pile in front of her.

  "I told you, I have the money to stay two more nights." Twyla blew the hair out of her face. "If you'll give me a sec—"

  "I've already given you enough time. Pay for the past week, plus the next two nights in advance, and I'll let you back in." The manager shut the door, locking her out. "You owe a hundred and seventeen dollars."

  She groaned, setting the items on the ground beside her luggage. Slipping her hand into the back pocket of her shorts, she pulled out all the money she had on her. "Here's seventy-five dollars. I'll get you the rest tomorrow night after work."

  The manager shook his head and walked away from her. She hurried to catch up with him.

  "Come on. I know you're a nice man." She stepped in front of him, stopping him from going into the office. "Give me a little more time. Please?"

  "You have five minutes to get off the lot, or I'm calling the police." The manager looked at his watch.

  Frustrated, she stormed back to her belongings and hefted everything to her car. Once finished, she got into the driver's seat and reversed out of the parking lot. The only other place with any vacancies was a high-end hotel that would take all her money for one night. And for what? A roof over her head and a lock on the door?

  She couldn't afford to pay more, and she wouldn't get paid until Monday.

  Driving around the block—three times, she gave up. She was out of options. Now that she couldn't depend on herself, she would either have to go back to Big or tuck tail and go see her sister.

  She would never go back to Big after the way he'd treated her. No matter how many times he begged or threatened her—depending on his mood.

  She was done with him.

  If she could go back and take away the night she'd met him and her stupid decision to stay at his house to save money, she would in a heartbeat.

  Though she never wanted to admit she'd made a few bad decisions, she'd need to go ask her sister for a place to crash. Just until she had more money where she could get a cheap apartment instead of staying at a motel.

  Turning off the main drag, she headed to South Tenth. Her mood soured. Angie was thirteen months older than her and had always fought. Her parents pit them against each other, making the sibling rivalry worse by always making an example out of her.

  'Don't act like Twyla.'

  'Don't lie like Twyla, or you'll get grounded, too.'

  'Twyla, why can't you be more like your sister? She never causes us problems.'

  She grew up hating the way they treated her. As if she was the example of what her sister shouldn't do, even though she was the youngest. Angie hated her for getting all her parents' attention.

  The attention she never asked for but received all the same. If verbal abuse was called attention.

  She was far from perfect but not once had her parents made her feel loved or showered her with the positive praise Angie received from them.

  By the time she was thirteen years old, she had given up on trying to gain favoritism. If they couldn't love her for who she was, then she'd live her own life on her own terms.

  Once she matured, she'd done what she wanted, paying no attention to curfews or rules. Eventually, her parents stopped caring. No one noticed when she stole a shirt from Meier and Frank. No one noticed when she went joyriding in her father's car before she was legally old enough to drive. No one noticed when she lost her virginity at fifteen years old.

  Exhaling loudly at the sight of a motorcycle parked in front of her sister's two-bedroom cottage, she parked along the street. It wouldn't surprise her if Angie hooked up with a biker after finding out she'd moved in with Big.

  She and Big only lived together for one month. Not long enough to save her money like she'd planned.

  Knowing Angie, she was probably making her way through whatever biker club let her hang around, trying to outdo her. As if dating an outlaw was cool.

  No, thanks. She wasn't playing that game. One biker was enough for her. She was swearing off the rest of them. The next guy she dated would have a nine-to-five job and drive a Celica or pickup.

  She shut off the car. Leaving her things in the vehicle, she walked up to the front door. Music blared inside. She looked out at the street. It wasn't the best neighborhood in town.

  Houses were literally ten feet apart up and down the block, with matching houses across the road. A few children played two driveways down, and a pizza delivery car roared past.

  Lifting her
hand, she knocked.

  Several minutes passed, and she kicked the door, rattling the wood against the frame with her force. She wasn't going to stand out here all night until someone finally opened the door to find her waiting.

  "Angie?" yelled Twyla, banging on the door. "It's me. Your sister. Open up."

  She shook the pain from her hand. Her stomach coiled tighter the longer she waited. Her day kept going on and on, and she wanted it to end.

  Finally, the door opened. Smoke rolled out, and she wrinkled her nose. Or maybe her disgust was aimed at the man blocking her view of the inside.

  "What do you want?" The guy shucked on a leather vest over his bare upper body.

  She ignored his question and squeezed past him. Going straight to the boom box on the entertainment center, she shut off the music.

  "Angie?" she said.

  "Go away," shouted her sister from the bedroom.

  She rolled her eyes and walked down the short hallway, and stepped into the room. Her sister stood by the dresser, slipping a shirt over her head.

  "I need to stay here," blurted Twyla, taking in the mess.

  There were clothes strung everywhere but in the closet. At least a dozen beer cans covered the TV tray her sister used as a nightstand. Her nostrils stung. It smelled like alcohol, pot, and B.O. in the house.

  "What happened to Big?" Angie slid her feet into a pair of white Vans. "Did you cheat on him?"

  "What if I did?" She shrugged. "I just need a place to crash until I save up enough money to rent an apartment."

  She hadn't cheated. Big had.

  They were never in a real relationship anyway. She got tired of being put last in Big's long list of errands his club had him running. He couldn't expect her to pay half the rent, pay for the food, and sleep with him when he started treating her like a second thought.

  No matter how hard she tried, she'd never settle like Angie, happy for any attention from any man, as long as her bed wasn't empty. She also wasn't going to hang around a biker clubhouse. Women like that weren't treated with respect.

  "You need to pay if you stay here." Angie bent at the waist, gathered her hair, and put the strands into a ponytail before looking at her. "Fifty bucks a week."