HAMMER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 1) Read online

  HAMMER

  Riding With Wolves, Book One

  FAITH WINSLOW

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 1

  ~ Rachel ~

  Sam Hammond…

  That son of a bitch had a lot of nerve showing up at Bradley’s!

  The moment he walked into the place, my blood started boiling. I wanted to run over, get right up in his face, and tell him to get the fuck out. Actually, I wanted to do more than that. I wanted to punch him square in the jaw, poke him in the chest, and kick him in the balls… repeatedly.

  He was six foot two and built thick, like a Roman statue. I was definitely no match for him—but still, I would have taken him on if I could have. Unfortunately, however, given where we were, and why we were there, I couldn’t. I had to mind my manners and be a good girl. But damn, I would have liked to have ripped him a new one.

  If it sounds like I’m being a little extreme here, I’m sorry. But trust me, if you were in my shoes, you would’ve wanted to kick Sam Hammond in the balls—repeatedly—too. You see, he was a big part of the reason I was in the mess I was in, and quite frankly, I hated him for it.

  Sam was a member of the biker gang that my brother belonged to, and if it hadn’t been for him and his brethren, none of us would’ve ended up at Bradley’s the way that we did. True, I could’ve blamed any one of my brother’s biker buddies for what happened, but Sam stood out as the most suitable scapegoat. From what I could tell, he was pretty high up in the gang’s ranks—and from what I’d seen, he was a huge asshole.

  In the gang and on the streets, Sam Hammond was known as “The Hammer,” and several months ago, I saw him come down hard on my brother, Terry.

  It was Terry’s twenty-fifth birthday, and I was supposed to meet him at a local dive bar for a few drinks. When I got there, Sam had him nailed up against the back wall and was shouting something at him about loyalty, brotherhood, and other gang-related garbage. None of the other patrons seemed disturbed by the spectacle, and Terry just kinda stood there and took it. But not me. I wasn’t about to stand back and watch my brother be bullied.

  I made my way towards Sam and Terry, but word of my arrival got to them before I did. I was still a few feet away when Sam let go of Terry, whispered something in his ear, and amicably, yet aggressively, butted heads with him. A split-second later, Sam turned away from my brother, gave me a dirty look, and walked out of the bar without so much as another word.

  Of course, I asked Terry what their “fight” was all about, and of course, he wouldn’t tell me. But whatever Sam Hammond said to him about loyalty and brotherhood that day—whatever kept Terry nailed to that back wall like a painting—must have really stuck with him. That loyalty… that brotherhood… that blind faith and complete devotion… that’s what landed my baby brother in a baby blue, satin-lined casket.

  So, tell me, wouldn’t you have wanted to kick Sam Hammond in the balls, too?

  But alas, as I’ve already said, I couldn’t do that. I’m sure neither the guests nor the management of Bradley’s Funeral Home would have taken fondly to me attacking Sam during Terry’s viewing. I had to respect all of them—and Terry—so I decided not to go postal. But come on, I still had to do something.

  I took a deep breath, collected myself, and slowly walked across the room, headed straight for Sam. And as I did, I felt myself growing even more enraged. My blood was way past boiling.

  Not only did Sam have the nerve to show up at Bradley’s, but he had the nerve to show up looking like he did. His jeans were frayed and torn and had oil stains on them, and his black, short-sleeve T-shirt was far too tight and revealing for such a solemn occasion. It showed every ripple in his chest and didn’t hide a single one of the tattoos that flecked his forearms.

  On top of his clothes, Sam didn’t even have the decency to tie his shoulder-length brown hair back into a ponytail or shave away the five-day scruff that lined his cheeks, upper lip, and chin. I don’t know what look he was going for, but whatever it was, it wasn’t at all fitting.

  There had to be at least a dozen other bikers, and just as many, if not more, biker babes in the funeral home, but none of them stood out like Sam. He looked like he didn’t belong there, as if he’d walked into the place by mistake or stopped in on his way to a date or a “biker of the month” calendar audition. Either that or he was trying to steal the show and have all eyes on him, rather than on Terry or any of Terry’s loved ones (like me).

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I said when I finally got close enough to Sam to speak to him without raising my voice.

  “Why not?” he asked, obviously mocking me.

  “Because I don’t want you here,” I replied quickly. “You weren’t my brother’s friend.”

  “You’re right,” Sam fired back. “I was much more than that… And now I’m here to pay my respects.”

  When Sam spoke, he spoke much louder than I did, and everyone within earshot undoubtedly heard him. I didn’t want to cause a scene—for multiple reasons—so I bit my lip and my tongue and said the nicest thing I could think of. “Fine,” I told him. “Pay your respects, then leave.”

  “I will,” Sam replied. “I know you don’t want me here. And I don’t want to be here either. But I have to be here… We were family.”

  Family!?!? Sam’s use of that word hit me like a fist in the gut. It hurt and sickened me at the same time.

  “You may have been in the same gang,” I said, stepping closer to Sam and lowering my voice to stave off the listeners, “and you all may have called yourself ‘brothers,’ but that doesn’t make you family.”

  “Rachel,” Sam said, slanting his head so that his deep blue eyes could focus on me solely, “that’s not the family connection I’m talking about.”

  I swallowed hard and fought back the urge to vomit. I hated to admit it, but Sam had a valid point. With all that had gone on over the past few months, I never stopped to think about it, but the fact of the matter was, there was a family-like connection between Terry and Sam… and even though I didn’t realize it at first, Sam had brought proof of that fact with him to Bradley’s.

  Chapter 2

  ~ Sam ~

  Ten years. That’s how long I’ve been a Wolf—and being a Wolf means everything to me. It’s my identity, my job, my religion, and my lifestyle.

  Wondering what a “Wolf” is? Don’t worry. I’ll tell you.

  First of all, let me start by saying, it’s not as crazy as it sounds. When I say I’m a “Wolf,” I don’t mean I’
m a werewolf, shapeshifter, or anything like that. Those things aren’t real, but what I am is—and what I am, is something far more formidable than any creature you’ll ever find in a horror movie or paranormal novel.

  The Wolves are one of L.A.’s lesser-known, smaller motorcycle gangs. But don’t let our size and lack of notoriety fool you. We’re actually pretty high up on the food chain in the biker world. The reason you won’t find us on the outlaw lists, or read our name in the headlines isn’t because we don’t break the rules when we do what we do. It’s because we’re so good at breaking them that we never get caught.

  Well… almost never.

  The Wolves made the headlines a few months back, for the first time in over two decades, when that punk Terry Cramer went and killed a member of our rival gang, the Street Seraphs. The dude he killed was no angel by any means—none of the Seraphs are—but his death was meaningless and sloppy enough to catch a lot of unwanted attention.

  Then, the Wolves made the headlines again about a week ago, for the second time in three months, when that same punk, Terry Cramer, went and got himself killed in prison. His death was pretty sloppy too, and it, too, brought unwanted attention—and unwanted responsibilities.

  Terry was a member of my pack. He rode alongside me in the same band of brothers, and he’d managed to squirm his way into other parts of my life as well. Like it or not, there were strong ties between us, and when he died, those ties needed to be honored and observed. It was my responsibility to go to the funeral home to see him laid out, pay my respects, and show my support—and it was my responsibility to put up with her as best I could while I did.

  There’s a name for women like Rachel Cramer, but my good-for-nothing alcoholic of a mama would set her bottle aside for a minute and wash my mouth out with soap if I ever used it. So let’s just put it this way: Rachel’s the kind of woman I just can’t deal with—and that’s really saying something, because I can deal with all kinds of women.

  I’ve had every color, size, shape, and status of woman out there. I’ve fucked eighteen-year-olds fresh out of high school, given women well into their mid-fifties the ride of a lifetime, and buried my balls in everything in-between. They call me “The Hammer” for a reason, you know—and they ain’t just talkin’ about the way I act when I’m on my hog or out conducting business.

  The first time I met Rachel Cramer, she didn’t even give me a second look. And the second time I saw her, she acted as if it was the first time she met me, as if she didn’t remember meeting me before.

  I’m not the kind of guy who’s easily forgotten, and I would have liked to say that she probably forgot me because she was a lesbian. However, not even lesbians can resist my charms. I’ve managed to fill the holes of several dykes, and I’ve exchanged great pussy-eating tips with a few girls who were too gay to have me.

  But Rachel Cramer wasn’t one of those girls who was too gay to have me. She was one of those girls—the only girl, in fact—who simply didn’t want me. From the moment we met (for the first and second time), I could tell that she didn’t like me, and it didn’t take me long to figure out why.

  It was obvious from the way she acted around me and the other Wolves: Rachel thought she was better than we were. She had a proper nine-to-five job, working in an office somewhere, wore soft, feminine clothes, and drove a vehicle with four doors and four wheels. The biker lifestyle was beneath her—and she probably couldn’t understand why her little brother chose our way of living rather than hers.

  If she’d taken the time to get to know us, asked questions, or opened her mind just a little, she might have been able to understand Terry’s choice, but she didn’t even try any of those things. She more or less automatically dismissed us and held tightly to her preconceived notions about bikers.

  Whenever Rachel was around the Wolves, it was clear that she was just visiting our world and had no intention of becoming a part of it. And when she visited our world, she was a typical tourist, totally unfamiliar with our ways and customs, lost, out of place, and for some, an easy target.

  Take Terry’s last birthday for example. It was about seven months ago, before all the shit went down between him and the Seraphs. A bunch of us were out drinking at the bar. I’d been hit with a lot of disturbing news earlier in the week, and I kinda let loose on Terry. But I simmered down once she showed up. I figured someone as uptight as her might call the cops or something, so I stopped badgering the little punk and decided to leave.

  On my way out of the bar, Rachel gave me a dirty look—and I shot one right back at her. She deserved it, based on both her attitude and her appearance. I don’t know what she was thinking, showing up at a known biker bar wearing a little white dress speckled with pink flowers.

  Don’t get me wrong. She looked hot. Her legs went on for miles beneath that thing, and the firm, bulbous tops of her tits peeked out from just below the neckline. She barely wore any makeup on her cute-as-a-button, girl-next-door face, and the way her dirty-blonde hair flowed down past her shoulders in natural waves and ringlets was enough to drive a lesser man crazy.

  But hot as she was, she was also ridiculous. With her curly hair and white dress, she looked like a lamb—and she’d just willingly walked in on a den of Wolves. She was lucky that one of them didn’t pounce her. Or maybe one of them did. Hell, maybe they all did for all I know. I have no idea what happened after I left, and I couldn’t have cared less.

  What I do know is that I didn’t see Rachel again for a few months after that—not until Terry got in trouble. And once that happened, I did everything I could to avoid coming face-to-face with her. I figured she probably held the Wolves responsible for Terry’s crime in some way, and I didn’t want to deal with her lip or get burned by the fire that the death of one of the Seraphs had just fueled.

  When Terry turned up dead, however, there was no avoiding Rachel any more. He and I had those strong ties between us, remember—and I had some mighty pressing responsibilities on my end.

  I had to show my biker brothers that I’d remain true to the pack through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through life and death.

  I had to show any Seraphs who were watching that the Wolves were just as strong as ever, if not stronger, so that they wouldn’t try to come at us during a weak point.

  I had to show Rachel that she had the Wolves on her side if she needed us, even though I’m sure she didn’t want us there.

  And, of course, I had to show my little sister, Hannah, that I’d stick by her, despite the unbelievably stupid decisions she’d made.

  Chapter 3

  ~ Rachel ~

  Hannah Hammond was exactly the kind of girl you think of when you think of a biker babe. She had long, stylishly cut, jet black hair with a few cobalt blue highlights in it, wore heavy makeup on her eyes and lips, had a nose piercing and a couple of tattoos, and dressed like a burlesque performer or off-duty porn star.

  We clearly had different styles and tastes, but nonetheless—there was no denying it—Hannah was a real looker. She was, for lack of a better term, “hot as hell,” and I could definitely see what my brother saw in her—and as she stood there in the funeral home, I could definitely see what my brother put in her, or at least what she claimed he put in her.

  Hannah was about six months pregnant. Though, judging from the huge baby bump beneath her ill-fitted black dress, she looked like she was about to pop at any moment. Supposedly, the baby in her belly was Terry’s. Sometime after he was arrested, he and Hannah let the cat out of the bag and told everyone they’d been secretly dating, and no sooner had the “truth” come out than Hannah’s belly started to grow

  Naturally, I wasn’t going to take their word for it though—especially not hers. I mean, come on, we all know how those biker babes can be, right? I’ve heard rumors that they get passed around from one man to another. And even though this particular biker babe was Sam Hammond’s sister, I’m sure my brother wasn’t the first Wolf she ever made howl.

&n
bsp; If I was expected to believe that Terry was the father, I’d need hard facts to go on. Once the baby was born, I intended to do whatever it took to get a DNA test to verify that it was, in fact, Terry’s. I’d go to the courts if I had to, and if push came to shove, I’d plead my case to Maury Povich, Steve Wilkos, or Jerry Springer.

  But regardless of what I had to do in the future, I was faced with something daunting in the present. As Hannah looked at me from behind Sam’s shoulder, I felt incredibly foolish for saying what I’d just said about “family” in front of her, and I felt even more foolish for not noticing her and her huge belly until after I’d said it.

  “Hey Hannah,” I said, softening the tone of my voice to match its volume. “I didn’t see you there.” It was an awkward way to shift gears in the conversation, but it was the only thing I could come up with at the time.

  “It’s okay,” Hannah replied with a smile that thinly veiled her grief and sadness. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  I appreciated Hannah’s understanding, even if it was an understatement, and smiled back at her in return. “How are you doing?” I asked, stepping to the side, past Sam, and putting thoughts of him behind me.

  I reached out my hand and offered it to Hannah, and she took it into hers, squeezed it, and replied, “I’m fine. And T.J.’s fine, too.”

  A couple weeks before Terry was killed, Hannah’s sonogram revealed that the baby was a boy, and they decided to name him Terrence…after Terry. So that’s where the “T” came from, and the “J” stood for “Junior.”

  “He’s been kicking like crazy and rolling around a lot, and—”

  Hannah stopped talking midsentence, and a genuinely happy smile flashed across her face.

  “Here,” she went on, pulling my hand upward, “he’s kicking now.” She placed my hand on her baby bump and put her hand on top of mine. I felt something tiny poke up at me from inside of her, then felt that tiny thing move to one side, then the other, as Hannah’s belly shook and jiggled.