Unlawful, p.1
Unlawful, page 1
part #1 of Young Outlaws MC Series
UNLAWFUL
YOUNG OUTLAWS MC Book 1
TL Wainwright
YOUNG OUTLAWS MC
UNLAWFUL
Book one
First edition. March 2020
© 2020 T.L Wainwright
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews
Thank you.
Story Editor:
Jackie McLeish
Nikki Young
edited by:
Eleanor Lloyd-Jones
Cover:
Francessca’s PR & Designs
Formatting by:
Graphic Shed
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
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
Acknowledgments
Also available by T.L Wainwright
You can find T.L here…
Prologue
“Please, Remy, they’re too young. They shouldn’t live here—be around all this violence. If we bought the house, then…”
“Shut the fuck up, woman,” he growls back. “Is that what you want: have them living in a little house with a picket fence, reading and playing with a fucking train set?”
“They need their childhood, not all this…” Ma waves her hand around the bar at the guys with women dressed in tiny skirts and bras that hardly cover their bodies draped around them, the aroma of stale beer and sex lingering in the air.
My father jumps up from the wing-backed chair that everyone treats like it’s his throne and grabs my mother by the throat. He pulls her close to him, their faces nearly touching. He’s not a tall man by any means, but he makes up for it with girth. My ma, who is no more than five feet tall, is left with her feet barely touching the floor as he hisses into her face.
“What are you trying to say, woman?” Spit sprays from his snarling mouth. “This is where I was brought up as a child. In this very room. Are you disrespecting my parents?”
“No, Remy, I didn’t mean that. I just…”
“Let me make this clear, bitch. I intend to bring up my boys the way I was. They will live in this club house, be a part of the MC, until I feel that they are ready to officially become one of the Young Outlaws. You get me?”
“Yes,” my mother whispers.
“I can’t hear you,” he snarls with his free hand cupping the shell of his ear. It’s loud enough for all the guys to hear him and is met with a shower of laughter.
“Yes, Remy,” she repeats, this time louder. When he pushes her away, her arms flay at her side as she endeavors to regain her balance. When she does, she stands firm with an air of stubbornness, her head held high and a look of determination on her face, not wanting to show any sign of weakness. The single tear that I see track down her cheek before she quickly turns and walks away betrays her true feelings.
“My boys will not grow up to be pussies,” he shouts after her before turning his attentions back to the club members and laughs. “The only pussy they will be interested in is the kind they’ll find between some club whore’s thighs.”
His boys!
What a fucking joke.
Chapter One
I’m Cannon. Well, that’s my club name and what most people know me by, but my real name is Colt. I’m the youngest of three all-male siblings. My two older brothers are twins: Smith and Wesson, Wes for short. Yes, my pa is a fucking gun nut as was his father before him—not that I ever knew my grandfather: he had been shot in the head by a disgruntled, bent cop who was none too happy about being taken off the MC’s payroll.
Smith had been the first of my father’s heirs to be born into the MC way of life and, according to Ma, had been in one hell of a rush to make an appearance, sliding out like he was coated in butter. Wesson not so much. Having a home birth in the Young Outlaws MC club house was never a good idea but was one that my father was insistent on and, as always, his orders were abided by.
Wes was big—so big that Ma had struggled to birth him, and when he’d eventually arrived, he was blue. Story has it that amongst the gut-wrenching cries of my mother, Ratchet—one of the club whores—performed in a way that nobody knew was possible at such a young age. Blowies yes, CPR not so much, but she worked on Wes and astounded everyone when she brought the life back into him. Turned out that nineteen-year-old Lisa—re-named by the guys due to the fact that she was as sexy as sin and could tighten anyone’s nuts—had been training to be a nurse before she got caught up with the club. Her fledgling career had taken a nosedive when she got kicked out for screwing one of the married docs. Their loss was our gain.
After that, Lisa gained a lot of respect both from the club members and my Ma. If someone got hurt or sick, nurse Ratchet had been called in. She’d even become a dab hand with a needle and thread, but that’s another story.
At the side of his twin, Smith, it had become clear that Wes’s development was much slower, which had concerned Ma but hadn’t stop her loving him any less.
While Smith had been running around hyper at eighteen months, Wes had still been shuffling around on his ass. Talking hadn’t come easy for him either. Even to this day, his speech is a little slow, which gives people the impression that he’s just some thick retard. Oh, how fucking wrong are they. Wes is so fucking bright, and his artwork astounds me, yet people don’t see past the big monster of a man, or the way he speaks: slow, clear and precise. He’s hard as nails, but only the ones close to him know that hiding within him is a heart of pure gold.
So as not to confuse the shit out of you, let me explain the club members, our biker names and the screwed-up reasoning behind them.
Bullet – President
Of course, this is my pops, the President of the Young Outlaws, whose actual biker name is Bullet, an obvious choice with his official name being Remington Gunner. Everyone just calls him Pres, or Boss and sometimes asshole… but only behind his back.
Gearhead – Sgt at Arms – newly appointed.
An ex-marine with a knowledge of mechanics that would put Nikola Tesla to shame. Bikes, motor vehicles… damn, he could even re-build a semi if we needed him to.
Conda – Secretary and Treasurer because members are limited.
Don’t get giddy girls: his name has nothing to do with the size of his trouser snake. In fact, we don’t know much about Conda’s history other than he was apparently the unexpected result of a split condom. His underaged mother had given him up, and with no family willing to take him, he’d ended up a son of the state and ping-ponged around various undesirable foster homes. At least when he became an adult, he found a permanent family: The Young Outlaws Motorcycle Club.
Masher – Enforcer
Big fucker built like a tank and with a punch that’s equivalent to being hit by a freight train. Enough said.
Buzz – Member
This guy might have a hand missing, but he’s as dexterous as any other man and has a determination beyond any other. His loss of limb was not from combat but from a freak accident with a chainsaw. Less questions asked the better.
Mac – Member
After leaving the military, the only work he’d been able to get was working at a McDonalds drive thru. One day, he’d just happened to get talking with Gearhead, swapping combat stories, and they’d clicked. Decision made. The club had better job prospects.
JB or Johny Bravo – Member
Named after the cartoon character because he’s a pretty boy who wants nothing more than to impress the girls. But ‘Whoa, Mama!’ you’d be more than happy to have him watching your back as long as there’re no ladies in the vicinity.
Creeper - Member
Now this guy is a creepy fucker. It’s not just the fact that he watches every move like he’s an FBI agent, but he appears out of nowhere when you least expect it. He even scares the shit out of me.
Tag-it – Member
Loves to fuck ladies tag team style with Creeper.
Toothpick – Prospector
Tall, skinny guy that has only just patched in from another charter of the YOMC. It was them who gave him his name, so don’t blame me. I’m not the type to give someone grief about their stature.
We have a couple more Prospectors, but as yet they’re still pretty insignificant until they’ve proven themselves.
Then we have the club whores. There’re quite a few that come and go, but the three main club ladies are…
Nails – JoJo.
Fingernails always painted the bloodiest red, always long and pointed, and if you ask her nicely, she’ll tear the hell out of your back while you shoot your load into her pussy or between her talented lips.
Ratchet – Lisa
& nbsp; Well, you already know how she got her name.
Poison - Veronica
This bitch should have a neon sign permanently suspended right above her head. ‘Don’t trust this woman’ because everything she touches goes to shit, and unfortunately, she has her sights on me. Bitch with a capital B.
When it came to the President’s sons, a club name had been bestowed upon each of us even before we’d been able to ride a bike. I’ve never been one-hundred percent sure if it was actual club etiquette, but as we were the Presidents kids, who was going to argue? If it hadn’t been for Smith’s mischievousness, then it might not have come about until we were much older, but when it had gone to church and put to the vote, each of our names had been decided with the crash of the gavel.
Smith had been the first to be given his official club name at the tender age of nine. After being dared by both Wes and me, he’d jumped on one of the prospector’s rides, only to lose control of the heavy, powerful Harley and crash it into the wall of the outbuilding. Pops had thought it was hilarious, the Prospector not so much as his ride had been a fucking mess. Smith had just spat the brick dust from his mouth and brushed the rubble from his clothes and hair. As it turned out, the building had ended up needing some repair work too.
“That’s my fucking son!” Pops hollers, a rare shimmer of pride in his voice. “Tougher than a mother-fucking brick wall.”
Brick had been given a prospector cut the very next day, although he wasn’t put through the usual hazing shit that the rest of the prospectors had to go through. That didn’t come until a good few years later.
If Smith had his MC tag, then being his twin, it had only been right that Wes should get his, too.
Mammoth—it had to be. Even at such a young age, he’d been built like a huge fucking mammal, and he’d had such thick, dark hair. Even his face had fuzz. It had been clear even then he was going to be a hairy motherfucker.
After I’d griped and moaned like a chicken shit kid—well, I was only eight—I got my own name, too.
At my birth, my pops had glanced at me lying on a towel as Ratchet sponged me down to remove all the blood and crap off me. He had shouted at the top of his voice, “Well the little bastard has nuts as big as cannon balls, but his dick, it’s just a teenie, weenie peenie. He’s gonna be fucked if it doesn’t grow along with him.” Let’s just say that when it had come to picking my MC name, it was that particular comment all those years before that had got me the tag of Cannon Balls, which over time has been cut to just Cannon. Although, I’m pleased to say that my balls are still big, and my cock has grown into one huge fucking weapon.
I’d come along eleven months after Smith and Wesson, which meant my pops hadn’t even let my ma get her breath back before he’d been rutting into her again. Dirty bastard.
Although there’s very little age difference between us, Smith has taken the role of big brother very seriously over the years, protecting Wes and me equally with a ferocity that is unyielding. When we were younger, he would constantly try and put himself between us and Pops, but not one of us would back away. It hadn’t mattered whichever one of us three brothers it was that was in the firing line for pissing the old man off: we would stand together, take on and share the burden of his wrath.
Some of the club members had thought that my Pops’ level of discipline was acceptable. Hell, it’s probably because they were brought up the same way. Others, well, they’d turned and walked away, knowing that if they interjected then they would then have become the victim. The punishment of going against the Pres had ranged between a bout in the makeshift boxing ring with Masher—believe me, you don’t want that: he is a fucking six-foot-five animal with a chest span the size of a semi-truck who leaves everyone he fights in a shit heap of a mess, or a hair’s breadth from death once he’s played with them for thirty minutes or so—and (if he was really pissed and that way out) looking down the barrel of The Pres’s own favorite 38-caliber Colt Cobra special… the same gun that was used to shoot Lee Harvey Oswald back in 1963; the gun that shot the man, who shot the president of the United States of America. Personally, I have always thought there was more to that story, but Pops has always been insistent that Jack Ruby was a modern-day vigilante of that time.
That just about sums up my childhood. My mother had spent her time trying to shield us from MC life, continuously trying to convince my father to purchase a house where we could live away from debauchery, violence and an illegal lifestyle. However, all she’d got for her incessant nagging was a beating. She’d still always come back for more, though; she’d never given up the fight for her kids.
When I was around thirteen, my mother had started to spend less and less time in the house during the day, despite always being there to get us up in the morning. Breakfast time had always been just the four of us: Ma, Smith, Wesson and me, Colt.
Pops had never been there and neither had any of the club members. It hadn’t been until I was older that I realise that it was because they’d been either unconscious somewhere, sleeping off the previous night’s alcohol intake, or still hauled up with one of the club whores getting their dicks wet. Mouth, pussy, ass… whatever.
We would sit around the large table, feasting on a mountain of home cooked food—Ma’s pancakes are the best, always piping hot and smothered in the sweetest syrup: Heaven on a plate—and as soon as the plates had been cleared and the kitchen spotless, Ma would leave, but she was always back in the late afternoon when she would cook enough food for the whole club.
Once dinner was done, she would try usher us off to our rooms, only to be overruled by my father. She’d have a different excuse every night as to why we needed to go upstairs, but it had always been a waste of time: what the club Pres says, goes.
Defeated, she would go to their marital bedroom to wait for him—although the chances of my father meeting her in there had been slim. I’d been young but not stupid. It had been clear to me from an early age that my father spent most of his time with his dick in someone else rather than my mother. On the occasion he had stumbled back to their room, the sounds that came from it had had me covering my ears against my mother’s cries and pleas to be left alone.
Two days before my fourteenth birthday, my ma hadn’t returned in time for dinner. She wasn’t there at breakfast either. When Smith had asked Chubs—one of the older members and the only one who seemed to show any concern when it came to Ma—if he’d seen her, he had just shaken his head. Deep sorrow had masked his face when he turned and walked away.
It had been enough to incite Smith to go and face The President himself, our father. Both Wes and I had followed, each of us standing firmly by his side.
Smith and Wes may have been twins, and I guess they’ve always had a connection that only twins do, but we’d all been close, which was only expected as most of the time, we’d been left to our own devices. If one of us had been in trouble, we’d all been in trouble. We’d covered and stuck up for each other, taking the discipline together.
So, I guess it had been only fitting that when my father had announced with very little emotion that our mother was dead, it had been when we were together, standing in front of the man who suddenly had free rein on our future. How fucking thrilling that was. I can still remember how ridiculous we’d looked: three teenaged boys standing in a row, dressed in jeans and plain black, leather cuts, still, stunned and scared to show any emotion.
We’d got no explanation—no sympathy or signs of sorrow from him. We’d got nothing.
