The Sins We Hide

THE SINS WE HIDE IRON OUTLAWS MC 1 S. COLE Copyright © 2023 by Scarlett Cole All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Published By: Kadelo Group Ltd. Edited by: Manu Shadow Velasco Cover design by: Letitia Hasser at RBA Design Photographer: Wander Aguiar E-book ISBN: 978-1-7398672-7-0 Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7398672-8-7 For the brave ones who dare to live their life exactly how they want to… … for there has never been a greater act of courage or rebellion. CONTENTS A Quick Word 1. Clutch 2. Gwen 3. Clutch 4. Gwen 5. Clutch 6. Gwen 7. Clutch 8. Gwen 9. Clutch 10. Gwen 11. Clutch 12. Gwen 13. Clutch 14. Gwen 15. Clutch 16. Gwen 17. Clutch 18. Gwen 19. Clutch 20. Gwen 21. Clutch 22. Gwen 23. Clutch 24. Gwen 25. Clutch 26. Gwen 27. Clutch 28. Clutch 29. Gwen 30. Clutch 31. Clutch 32. Gwen 33. Clutch 34. Gwen 35. Clutch 36. Clutch 37. Gwen Epilogue: Clutch Ready for Spark and Iris? Acknowledgements The Games We Play About the Author Also by Scarlett Cole A QUICK WORD This is an MC romance. These bikers are unapologetic 1%ers. As a result, there are themes in this book that might not be suitable for all readers. Read on for trigger warnings if you need them, otherwise, dive in. On-page violence and violent acts Misogynistic names for women (sluts, bitches) Sexual kinks: Breath play No cheating - but other woman drama Death of parents Now, grab a blanket and a stiff drink, then buckle up. It’s time to meet the Iron Outlaws MC. 1 CLUTCH There’s a saying that cowards die many times before their deaths, but the brave ones, the ones who put honor above all, only taste death once. At their very end. As I reach for the cold handle of a white coffin carrying the body of our former Iron Outlaws MC president, Arthur “Camelot” Hills, and lift it onto my shoulder, I know it’s true. Arthur was a warrior, born of the grit and dust of the highway. A man with wisdom for days. Son of our founder and former president. Born and bred in New Jersey with a love for Tennessee whiskey. He could lose his temper faster than any man I’ve ever known but was always the first to apologize when he fucked up. He was loud. Loved tomato pie and rippers with too much Jersey relish. He took me in when my old man went inside, when I was a thirteen-year-old kid with aspirations for the MC life but not an ounce of muscle or skill to make it happen. While I love and respect my dad, visiting him the last Friday every month, it was Arthur’s steady hand that guided me. He shaped the man I’ve become, and I’m struggling to keep my shit together as we walk forward. He’s been gone seven days. Feels like a lifetime. Taken out by an errant truck on the highway. It’s a biker’s dream to die on his bike, but not at such a young age. Uther “King” Hills—his son, my best friend, and new club president—is on the other side of the coffin. Behind me is Miles “Bates” Graydon, our enforcer, named by my old man, Bill “Cue Ball” Bailey. Dad said Bates reminded him of the freak in the Hitchcock movie, morally ambiguous . . . and just as handy with a knife. Our pretty boy sergeant at arms, Spark, follows Bates. He got his road name from Arthur after some fuckup no one can remember. Arthur had asked “which bright spark prospect” had come up with the idea. Spark stepped forward and said, “I’m the bright spark,” causing Arthur to bust a gut laughing. I got mine for being a clutch player as a prospect. The guy you could count on to perform when everything is on the line. Thriving when the stakes were high. Our treasurer—Niro, with his slashed-up face—brings up the rear. Penny-pinching fucker keeps our spending under control. Knows where every cent goes, down to the last roll of paper in the shitter. King is followed by other leaders of the club. Vex, Halo, and Switch. Saint, our priest, is saying religious shit that makes me itch as we carry the coffin out of the clubhouse. Sticky late-August heat hits me. A trickle of sweat runs down my back. There’s a haze over the asphalt as the sun reflects off the chrome of bikes as far as the eye can see. According to the police, the same sun that caused the trucker not to see Arthur when his truck swerved into the oncoming traffic lane. Shit. My stomach does that roller-coaster-drop thing it’s been doing for a week whenever I think of Arthur’s accident. We load the coffin into the back of the hearse. I have to look away when King kisses the damn thing before slapping the lid. I reach for him and squeeze his shoulder hard. “You’ve got this, brother.” King’s face is ripe with grief. There’s a strong possibility it mirrors my own. His new patch sits proud on his chest. President. Easiest fucking vote I ever made. He’s been ready since he was sixteen. Smartest guy in the MC. Arthur leaned heavily on him. All the new paths and ventures the club is involved in have been his idea. Adheres to the highest ideals of the life. He’s tightened the funnel for membership, meaning only those fully aligned with the club’s values get in. As Arthur’s vice president, he was ruthless. That patch is now mine. Third-generation VP to King’s third-generation president. As it should be. My family has always had his family’s back. Through club history, the Vietnam and Iraq wars, and life. There are mutters of condolence, of