Trent walked into the Devil’s Bastard, the sound of men cussing and laughing overwhelmed the air as his booted feet pounded the pavement to the back room, where he and his men normally sat, pounding beers, and watching ass. Grunts and head nods greeted him as he made his way further into the club. He ignored them all, making a bee-line to the back. He glanced in the back room to see Jason, Mark, and Dillon all throwing back a shot of what looked like whiskey.

            “Hey!” Trent called to the only waitress behind the bar. It was noon and Sam was the only one working. “Get me a double of what they got, and keep ‘em coming, till I say otherwise.”

Sam nodded and busied herself behind the bar, while Trent sat down at the table nearest the back exit.

            Dillon thrusted a fist in the air and hooted. “Fuck yeah.” Leaning back too far, the man nearly toppled out of his chair. Reaching out, he righted himself, just before his ass met the floor. “Man, what are you doing here so early? Ain’t you got work or some shit?”

Normally, Trent couldn’t stand Dillon, as he was always ready to start shit. But today, he was glad as fuck he’d run into him. It’d only take beer, or the promise of some ass, to get him to do any kind of favor.

Sam sat the shot glass down on a paper napkin.

            Trent glanced up at her. “Y’all getting fancy around here?” He picked up the double and slammed it back. “Another.”

            Sam smiled, her crooked teeth on display. “Nah, nothing like that. You starting a tab, Reed?” Her playful tone had dissipated the second Dillon showed interest.

            “Yeah, start one up for me.”

            “Me, too,” Dillon added.

            Sam flicked him the bird. “Hell no. Pay as you go.” The group laughed and Dillon sat back in his chair, looking like someone had kicked his puppy.

            Jason took a long swig of beer, then placed the bottle on the table. “What brings you in here this early?” Trent knew he would be a hard sell. The swastika tat on his chest and KKK inked on his knuckles, along with the fact he’d been in jail for numerous hate crimes, told Trent convincing him to rescue a little Spanish teen would be close to impossible.

            Trent took in the man’s ice blue gaze and cruel smirk, and shrugged. “Just trying to pick up a few fellows for a job I got contracted for.” He had to make sure to not tell the men he owed the FSMC a favor. Hell, that would send even the dumbest man running from the room. “I need men not afraid of the law.” Trent didn’t bother lowering his voice. He’d scoped the place out the second he walked in and knew every damn drunk in the bar.

Jason quirked a brow, but didn’t say a word.

            Dillon’s grease-stained hand flew up. “Ooh! Pick me.” Trent’s eyes went to the man as he waved it left and right, wiggling in his chair like the ace student in the class dead set on fucking up the grading curve.

            “Put your damned hand down,” Trent muttered. “You know I got your ass. A bottle of whiskey, and a hand job over at the titty bar you love so much.”

Dillon whooped and hollered, before heading to the restrooms in the back. Sam made her way over and sat another shot glass in front of Trent.

            Mark motioned to the glass as Trent tipped it back. “You ain’t never been one to drink this early.” His lazy drawl came out a bit slurred. Mark drank at any time of the day. The man’s large size gave him more leeway in that area; while most men hovered around the two hundred mark, Big Mark was pushing three-twenty. His weight wasn’t sloppy, either. Mark held his weight in his legs, chest and arms, and power lifted daily.

            “Celebrating,” Trent lied.

            “How much you paying?” Jason asked.

            “A grand each.” Trent placed the shot glass on the table.

            “BYOG?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, but I got you on ammo,” he said, knowing that’d sweeten the deal. This way, all the money went to the men, and nothing was wasted on supplies.

            Jason was the first to agree. “I’m in. How soon?”

Before answering, Trent looked to Mark who nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Sam placed down another shot.

            Mark motioned to his glass and she moved to refill it. “Who we riding with, and what is the job?” Sam picked up his cup and headed back behind the bar.

            Trent was only mildly surprised that the men waited until now to ask about the actual job, however, Trent had never really been into anything too heavy in his life, so perhaps they weren’t worried by that account.

            Trent downed the shot and placed the glass on the table. “I got three friends riding along. Mutt, Ace, and Gator from Blackwater.”

Jason sat back, his beer sloshing over the rim of his cup onto his hand.

            “Brothers from Blackwater?” Dillon stumbled from the bathroom, his hands fumbling over his fly. “Them dudes . . .” He whistled, then sat—or rather, fell drunkenly—into his seat. “Well, I’m still in, but I want a happy ending,” he added, as if this were some sort of negotiation.

            Trent grunted his approval. “You all in?” He lifted the next shot and threw it back. His head began to cloud, and his body loosened—the liquor having its intended effect. Eyeing each man, he knew the second they decided to ride with him.

As each man said yes, Trent imagined the group of men heading down to Blackwater. Trent was not fucking naïve. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would be expected to kill tomorrow night. Keeping himself alive was his main goal, but Trent also thought to the young girl caught in the crossfires of a vengeful gang and her corrupt father.

            He stood on loose legs; he needed to check with Reno—an old buddy—to see if he would join. “Meet me at my house, tomorrow night. I’ll go over the plans with you there.” Trent wasn’t too concerned with the police in this situation, seeing as how the FSMC had most of them on their payroll, and wouldn’t dare show up to an MC shoot out.

As he headed out the door, he pulled a fifty from his wallet. Placing it on the bar, he pushed it over to Sam. He wouldn’t leave that shit anywhere near Dillon, as the bastard would end up drinking it.

            “Thanks, Trent.” Sam smiled. “And thanks for watching Rain for me last week.” Her sad smile pulled at his chest. She was a good girl, stuck in a shit town, and he’d often wondered what would have happened between the two of them if he’d known she liked him before Shayla crashed into his life.

            “No problem. Call me if you need me to watch her again,” he said honestly. The two-year-old was cute as a butterfly.

SEPTEMBER 28th 2017

Months after opening up his heart – and his past – Trent is looking forward to a future with his new bride and daughter. He’s recovered from the near-fatal shooting, hopes to purchase a farm for his beloved Teal, and is building a life free from the horrors of his past.

But the past has a bad habit of never staying buried, and now it’s coming after his entire family. Because Trent didn’t reveal all his secrets to Teal, and the deepest, darkest secret he’d always kept just out of reach is about to break the surface.

An old debt is being called in, one that will pull Trent back into the world of sex, lies, and murder he’s fought so hard to escape. And in the wake of devastating betrayals, he’ll discover who is truly loyal to him, as he agrees to pay that debt with an unforgivable crime.

Trent will stop at nothing to keep Teal and his daughter safe. Even if that means losing them forever.

Meet Ace, Gator, and Mutt from the First Sons of the Revolution MC, and enjoy the first chapter and first look at the spin-off featuring the badass, no-shit-taking men from Blackwater Rising!