The price of redemption, p.1
The Price of Redemption, page 1
BLURB
From bestselling author ML Nystrom comes a new darker breed of bikers. Hold on for the ride and meet The Dutchmen MC.
Iceman has a reputation for being the coldest and most ruthless biker in the Dutchmen MC. He has no loyalties to anyone or anything outside his club. The people who go against him or betray the club find themselves in serious pain... or dead.
Then one afternoon trouble in the form of a blonde walks into his life.
Gabriella doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to enter this biker world of crime, cards, and sex, but her uncle has left her little choice. She must make a deal with Iceman to protect the ones she loves. In doing so, she finds more than she bargained for.
Iceman must face the demons of his past while Gabriella must face the monsters of her future. Are either of them willing to pay the price of their redemption?
THE PRICE OF REDEMPTION
ML NYSTROM
HOT TREE PUBLISHING
ALSO BY ML NYSTROM
DRAGON RUNNERS MC
Mute
Stud
Blue
Table
Brick
* * *
MACATEER BROTHERS
Run With It
Ready For It
Hold It Close
Risk It All
Give It To Me
* * *
THE DUTCHMEN MC
The Price of Redemption
The Price of Forgiveness
The Price of Peace
The Price of Redemption © 2021 by ML Nystrom
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
The Price of Redemption is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.
www.hottreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: BookSmith Design
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-922679-00-0
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922679-01-7
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 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Other Books by ML Nystrom
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
More Authors to Check Out
CHAPTER 1
“He’s late.”
The tall man made the simple two-word comment to his opponent on the opposite side of the pool table. The player ignored it for a moment as he leaned over the green surface, bridged his hand, and sighted down the long cue stick. The stroke was slow and deliberate. Controlled. Pale gray eyes followed as the white ball spun and rolled toward its intended target. It hit the yellow-striped ball, which in turn rolled smoothly and sank into the far corner pocket. The white ball finished its path, stopping precisely lined up to sink the green-striped ball next. Just as he intended it.
He stood straight and reached for a cigarette smoldering in a nearby ash tray. He exhaled a new plume of smoke to join the haze that floated over the pool table. Calmly, he picked up a blue chalk cube and dusted a new layer over the tip of the cue stick. He didn’t look up at the commenter when he broke his silence. “I know.”
The two words sounded like velvet in that low voice. The inflection was easy, like any other two words in a casual conversation, but from this man, they held more meaning. Anything that came from his mouth was cold hard law that no one in the Dutchmen motorcycle club questioned. Good things happened when he spoke and bad things happened when he spoke, but whatever was said, it always came out in the same way: calm and informal, almost disinterested.
The members elected him president a long time ago because he had the skill to lead and his reputation for wielding that power had grown legendary. When he got angry, he didn’t rage out of control. He became cold. Frigid. His name was Iceman for a reason, and he was not someone to piss off. Men feared him and respected him. Women wanted him, but none of them spent more than a night or two in his bed.
He lined up his next shot. “Tell Duke and Nutter to pay Bookie a house call and give him a reminder of what he owes. Leave his face and fingers working, but legs are fair game. He won’t need them to run numbers on a computer. He doesn’t need to die yet, but that option is on the table.”
The VP, Railroad, leaned on his own cue stick and watched as Iceman pocketed the next ball. He earned his name from two perfectly parallel scars that resembled train tracks running from the left side of his face, over his jaw, and down his neck. Another reason for that moniker? He was unstoppable.
Iceman grunted and took his next shot. The cue ball tapped a third striped ball, but the spin was slightly off, and it landed just to the edge and teetered but didn’t fall. Iceman’s face showed no irritation other than a tiny eyebrow twitch. If he ever had any emotions, they were well hidden to the point of being nonexistent.
“Hey, Ice! Iceman. Someone here to see you.” Rebel grinned, showing off tobacco-stained teeth between his two lower lip rings. Rebel was a tall, lanky man with a shaved head, covered in colorful tattoos and multiple piercings. He didn’t smoke but chewed tobacco like it was gum. More than one club girl had complained about his habit of leaving beer bottles full of tobacco spit everywhere. They were ignored.
Iceman didn’t move from his spot at the pool table, but his curiosity was piqued. Rarely did an outsider come to the club. Rarely, as in never. Most people stayed far away from the Dutchmen MC. Hangarounds hoping to become prospects came to the public bar the club owned, but no one was dumb enough to approach the private compound without an invitation.
The clubhouse sat behind the Harbor Bar and Marina on an island between Minnesota and Wisconsin. It used to be a storage warehouse until the club bought and converted it into their private place. The main room was spacious, the rows of industrial shelving long gone. Mismatched couches and easy chairs were scattered around the room. Some circled a raised platform sporting two stripper poles, some around a giant flat screen TV, and some around coffee or card tables. The former break room had been converted into the club’s meeting room, also known as the chapel, and they had converted the few offices to bedrooms for ranking club members. The square-shaped bar sat in the room’s middle between the lounging area and the two pool tables that sat closer to the back. A dart board hung on the wall.
Twelve club members hung around lounging, watching TV, shooting pool, or whatever they wanted to do. One of the club’s girls manned the bar, and another danced at a strip pole, moving to the music playing from someone’s MP3 list through a set of Bluetooth speakers. She wasn’t a very good dancer. Her jerking movements had no rhythm, but it didn’t matter as she had stripped down to her G-string and her bouncing breasts held the rapt attention of several brothers. Two hangarounds that were lucky enough to be considered for membership threw a game of darts, and the four prospects kept watch outside the club.
It was a typical early fall Tuesday night, except for the petite blonde standing next to Rebel. She looked like she just came from a bank or a lawyer’s office. She was wearing black dress pants, black flats, white button-down shirt, and a shapeless, oversized black-and-white checkered blazer. Her garb screamed outsider. Her pale bumped up hair was fastened with a clip at the back of her head and she had her arms wrapped around her middle as if holding herself together. She appeared conservative, professional, and totally out of place at a motorcycle club.
“What the fuck?” Railroad echoed Iceman’s thoughts. “Doesn’t look like fresh club meat. Probably from the cities and got lost looking for the marina.” He frowned as he set his pool cue down.
Iceman didn’t say a word as he set down his own cue. He observed the girl shift from foot to foot as he approached. Her pink lower lip disappeared into her mouth as she bit it. A random word came into his mind. Cherries.
Assuming he’d fulfilled his duty to their guest, Rebel randomly grabbed one of the club girls and pulled her to a couch. The pretty stranger regarded him for a moment and then quickly looked away as Rebel sat and pulled out his cock. The club girl dropped to her knees and stuffed it into her vacuum of a mouth. Iceman didn’t react to this common sight. The lack of private rooms meant lack of privacy. No one paid much attention to it anymore.
Iceman and Railroad reached the female intruder. Everyone ignored the sucking sounds from the couch just a few feet away. Iceman stood in front of the stiff girl, crossed his arms, and stared down at her. She was at least a foot shorter than his six-foot-three frame. The name tag she wore pinned to her blazer stated that she worked at the St. James Hotel and her name was Gabriella. Not from the cities then, and not lost. Soft name for a soft girl, Iceman thought. She was wholesome, pretty, and looked innocent. Too innocent to be in a place like this. He grew intrigued despite his desire to kick the girl out immediately. He kept his stance and his silence, waiting for her to make the first move.
Gabriella squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. There was a slight tremble in her rigid posture and she dropped her clutched hands stiffly to her sides. Scared out of her mind, but gutsy enough to push through it, Iceman thought. Few men could meet his eyes directly and not flinch away.
“Are you Iceman?”
She was breathing fast, but her voice was steady. He was impressed, and a deeper curiosity took hold of him. He let his gaze drift slowly and deliberately down her figure and back. The intent was to make her more uncomfortable, but he also succeeded in making himself interested. The cut of her jacket made her shoulders look boxy, but he could tell she was petite all over. Her breasts weren’t particularly large, but they matched her small frame. He guessed his hands would easily span her waist where it gently flared at her hips. His gaze traveled her form and purposely stopped at the junction of her thighs before he raised his eyes to meet hers. His dick twitched once as he dipped his head in answer.
Her skin flushed red under his perusal, but she remained still. “I have a n-note in my jacket from R-Roger. Um… you call him Bookie? He wanted me to come here and… and give it to you. M-May I reach for it?”
Iceman raised an eyebrow. Smart girl. She didn’t stick a hand under her jacket before asking permission. That would be a good way to get shot since more than one biker in the place carried a firearm, including himself. Her voice shook, but even scared people could pull a trigger. Attempts had been made on his life in the past, but no one had ever succeeded. Yet.
As the girl reached into her jacket, Railroad made a show of pulling his piece and racking the chamber. The girl’s eyes widened and Iceman could make out their deep blue color. She handed him an envelope and retracted her hand to wrap both arms back around her middle in a protective gesture. He lost the color of her eyes as they dropped and she pinned her gaze to the floor. Little mouse. He took the single piece of paper out of the unsealed envelope and began to read.
Iceman! Buddy! This is Roger. You know I ran into trouble at the tables but don’t worry. I got a couple things going so you’ll have your money back soon. I get that’s not the way the Dutchmen do business, but I promise I can get it all back with interest. I just need a little more time. I swear I’m good for it and it will never happen again. Trust me. The girl is my niece and you can keep her as a marker. I explained that, and she’s good with it. She’s a hard worker and will do whatever you tell her to do without bitching and being a pain in the ass. She has a job at that old fancy hotel in town, the St. James, so she pulls her weight. You can use her in the club waitressing or something or even as a house mouse if you want one. She knows the deal and agreed to do this until I get the money together. Shouldn’t be more than a week or two. What do you say, pal? A class A cook and house cleaner and someone to take care of other needs for a couple weeks extension? (ha ha, you know what I mean!) That’s a real deal there, buddy! If you like her well enough, maybe you could knock off some of my debt too? Say around ten thousand? Anyway, you keep her and she’ll be real good to you, I promise.
Roger Adkins—Bookie
Iceman read the letter twice. His face gave away nothing of the rage building inside him. No, the Dutchmen didn’t do business this way. They didn’t give deadline extensions and didn’t reduce debts with pussy, even if it came fresh and beautiful. The only reason Roger’s body wasn’t at the bottom of a lake was his talent for cleaning money. Camo, the club brother who oversaw their books and paid the bills, had found a number of discrepancies. Small ones at first, but they added up quickly. So far, Roger had taken over a 100K from the club and, from all indications, lost it at the casino. Even if he got the money back, it wouldn’t erase what he’d done. He was a complete idiot if he thought he could get away with this stunt.
Iceman raised his eyes to the girl in front of him. His deceptively easy tone was glacial. “How old are you?”
Gabriella looked up and swallowed. She held herself rigid and trembled a little, but met his piercing gaze. Iceman gave her points for that. “I turned twenty-two a few months ago.”
“License.” He trusted no one associated with Roger. She pointed to the jacket pocket, and he nodded his permission. Damn smart girl. Brave, too. Not many men could stand up to me.
She handed him a plastic square and retreated back into her wrapped up statue pose, dropping her eyes again in retreat.
The license was several years old, but still showed the same person. Nice picture. Looks like she should still be in high school, he thought as he confirmed she told him the truth. Fuck, I’m getting old. Thirty-nine is nearly old enough to have a kid her age. “Roger is your uncle. This note says you agreed to be a marker for his debt. You sure you understand what that means?”
She nodded and sucked her lower lip into her mouth again. Ice’s groin tightened at the reappearance of the glistening pink. Fuck, this girl has no clue. “Look at me.”
She raised her eyes and again he found himself liking their pretty blue. That didn’t stop him from laying out the crudity of Bookie’s plan in plain terms. “Just so we’re clear, you agreed to getting fucked. You’d spread your legs for me anytime I want to get off until Bookie gets the money back he took from the club. I can take you to that pool table, bend you over, fuck you raw, and no one will stop me. You’re willing to do that to yourself for him?”
She winced at his harsh words but held his gaze steady. “Y-yes, I know what’s going to happen and I’m okay with it,” she whispered with more resolution than drive.
Iceman was sure something else was going on. Bookie was a real piece of work, but not stupid. He knew damn well he was giving his niece to the club to be a toy for a man nearly eighteen years older than her. If he refused, Bookie had no other options. The women who had permission to be at the clubhouse were ones who just wanted to get high and party and didn’t care who they fucked. There was always an ample supply. No one forced a club woman for sex, but if she didn’t spread, she didn’t stay around long and wasn’t invited back. A few members had old ladies at home, but they were never allowed into the clubhouse. Only club pussy could hang in the private compound.
Iceman watched Gabriella, his eyes boring into hers, while his mind spun. It surprised him she would willingly put herself out there as she didn’t fit the type. This had to be a distraction. She had to be in cahoots with Bookie, running some sort of scam to get out of the debt. A blackmail attempt, although he hadn’t figured out how. Pussy was pussy and unless hers was lined with gold, there was no way he’d trade that much debt for it. On the plus side, she wasn’t underage, and she didn’t look or act dumb. She knew exactly what was going to happen to her with this deal and had agreed to it. He admitted it had its appeal, but something didn’t add up.
