Drifter

Drifter RAGING HEATHENS MC, BOOK 1 CILLA RAVEN Copyright © 2023 by Cilla Raven Books All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, names, and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is purely coincidental. No part of this book, whether in print or electronic format, may be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without express, written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in an article or book review. www.cillaraven.com Cover Art @ 2022 Rainy Day Artwork www.rainydayartwork.com Created with Vellum I’d like to dedicate this book to… My great, amazing, fantastic, wonderful, awesome husband who inspires me each and every day, North Carolina, The trauma I call inspiration, And to every person that had to learn how dangerous this would can be from the people who were supposed to keep you safe, This book is for you. Contents Prologue 1. Skye Sutton 2. Diego Melendez - Drifter 3. Augustine Livingston - Anchor 4. Skye Sutton 5. Skye Sutton 6. Princeton Avery - Prowler 7. Skye Sutton 8. Skye Sutton 9. Chase Evans - Cruiser 10. Skye Sutton 11. Augustine Livingston - Anchor 12. Princeton Avery - Prowler 13. Diego Melendez - Drifter 14. Skye Sutton 15. Skye Sutton 16. Bronx Reynolds - Brawler 17. Skye Sutton 18. Skye Sutton Epilogue Also by Cilla Raven About the Author Acknowledgments Prologue AUGUSTINE LIVINGSTON - ANCHOR (Four Months Ago) “They’re here,” Prowler said as he jumped up on the bar and slouched forward, pulling out a six-inch blade with a flick of his wrist while we waited to meet with the new leadership of The Lost Savages Motorcycle Club, who’d been our club’s sworn enemy since way back in the sixties. “Let ‘em in, Prospect.” Prowler sounded bored as he spoke, but Emry practically bounced with excitement over the task he’d been given. He got up in a hurry and propped the door open to our clubhouse, standing beside it with his arms crossed over his chest like a cat ready to pounce. I pursed my lips at him. If we had our way, no one would be fighting or dying here today unless it was done in celebration or for fun. “Easy, Kid,” our new national club president, Reaper, said in warning. Then, glancing around the room and speaking to all of us, he added, “Every one of you knows what’s at stake here. Don’t fuck this up just ‘cause bloody knuckles give you a hard-on.” It’d been almost a decade since the last time a Savage and a Heathen met face-to-face in any official capacity, and there was no telling how long it’d been since our national club presidents gave one another the time of day. Other meetups had occurred with the people who used to run the show, unbeknownst to the rest of our clubs, but that was one of the things we were trying to rectify today. That underhanded, back alley shit they’d pulled wasn’t okay in either of our clubs’ books, and the deals they’d made behind closed doors while no one was looking went against everything we stood for. It fucked our organizations up in more than just our finances and was why we both found ourselves in such disparaging straights, having to make deals with the devils we knew just to make ends meet. Whether we came to an agreement, an impasse, or left in body bags at the end of this, we were still making history just by reaching out for a meet and allowing them on our turf. This wasn’t something to be taken lightly, and I, like the rest of our patched members, knew our club’s existence was riding on this meeting. So was theirs. A man with an inch-long graying beard and chin-length hair walked in first. From what we’d found when we’d reconned for this meeting, he was Lyn Stone, the newly appointed national president of the Lost Savages’ mother chapter out of Savannah, Georgia. He was not one to cross if you wanted to keep breathing. He was just as deadly as he was cunning and unassuming. A slew of men followed behind him, in order of their rank, while each of us stood behind Reaper in accordance with ours. I was standing in the vice president’s position while Drifter stood at my back as our sergeant-at-arms. Beside him was Cruiser, our new treasurer, and behind both of them was Brawler, our new road captain. Prowler had never done well with the ritualistic side of things, so even though he was our club’s chief enforcer, he remained sitting on the bar because that was where he was most comfortable. If anyone here could spring into action like a hairpin trigger, it was him, so we never called him out about his less-than-proper manners unless we had to. “Reaper,” Lyn said, extending his hand when he got close enough to our prez. “Lyn,” Reaper responded. “We welcome you, so long as you turn out to be what you say you are.” Lyn laughed a good-natured chuckle and spoke with an Irish/something accent I couldn’t place. “Same to you, my brother, same to you.” He stepped to the side so he could make the introductions. “This,” he said, gesturing to the guy on his right, “is Mac. Right now, he’s my VP.” He paused there, and I wondered what he’d meant by ‘right now.’ Motioning to the other men in his ranks, he said, “This is Kinley, our new sergeant-at-arms; Tito, our treasurer; Ethan, our road captain; and Holden, one of our enforcers.” We all nodded at each other, and I noted each of them in turn. Reaper introduced us, and within a few minutes, we were all sitting on different sides of the clubhouse, facing each other while the tension grew, so I had Emry bring out a round of beers for the group. He was no more than a prospect, but he