Welcome to Cape Hill (Cape Hill Vipers Book 0)

  Welcome to Cape Hill

  C. L. Matthews

  COPYRIGHT

  Welcome to Cape Hill © 2018 C.L. Matthews

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without written expressed permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Cassie Chapman

  Editor: Nicole Zoltack

  Format: Abby Formatting & Web Design

  The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and please purchase your own copy.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author

  To Helen, Absinthe wouldn’t exist without you.

  He’s yours.

  Loving him was like drinking poison.

  Slowly killing me from the inside out.

  - S.M. Pastore

  Prologue

  There are two kinds of bikers.

  The 1%ers—that’s me and my crew.

  And the 99%ers—they’re the pussies.

  We 1%ers aren’t upstanding bikers. We’re cruel, callous, and deadly. We take what we damn well please, abide by no laws but those of our own making, and fear no one.

  I’m the embodiment of that one percent, and I’m fucking proud of it.

  My brothers call me Venom, but everyone close to me knows me as Absinthe Luther.

  The Cape Hill Vipers are my chapter.

  I’m the grandson of the Founding Viper, and I’m a mean motherfucker.

  Outsiders call me the green-eyed demon, but they don’t know how much worse I am.

  I say as I please, and the others follow suit.

  Don’t cross me, and you’ll survive.

  Don’t touch what isn’t yours, and you’ll keep your hands.

  Don’t fucking disrespect the patch, and you’ll keep your life.

  Live together, die together.

  Vipers MC.

  Chapter One

  My fist collides with his jaw, the impact of our skin connecting sonorous to any outlaw’s ears but mine especially since he’s a deceitful piece of shit.

  Forcing loyalty from prospects is my soul’s music, though they should already show it, why else prospect? This ass whooping is the symphony to my wrath, the cure to my woe. It fuels my pride, feeds the respect I’ve been given by my peers, and shows there’s no betrayal accepted amongst the ranks. Beating the deserters is necessary, an unavoidable evil. It produces a calm, waning my indignation toward any filthy swine who has the balls to fall prey to any lesser man.

  Hedge didn’t do himself any favors by being a part of Los Desolados agenda. To an outsider, he had everything—an old lady, a place of work, and a home with the Vipers. He could’ve gone places, but he ruined his chances for greed.

  Or stupidity.

  I’m going with the latter. The former is only a cop out.

  Bones dragged me to our dungeon hours ago. It’s not really a dungeon, but it’s musty, dirty, and desolate like one. It’s realistically a cellar, one that we use for the deplorables. They hardly make it out in one piece.

  It’s located behind the Den, only about one hundred feet from where I work every day. There’s an opening that leads here, it’s a perfect spot for what we do. This place, our dungeon, is where we take the disposable men and women we need information from.

  Right now, I’m beating the man who betrayed me, the one that betrayed us. He’s in the small twelve by eight room, reeking of piss, sweat, and fear. Usually, I’d find the fear intoxicating, but not when it’s one of our own.

  He’s tied to a chair by belts, they’re holding him tight—almost too tight. He’s a whimpering mess, and I hate that it’s him in this seat. Why’d you do this?

  Hedge groans, flinching, waiting for another hit, but he can wait. I’m done playing.

  “Two in the chest, one in the head,” I order Bones, my Lead Enforcer.

  My hands are itchin’ and not for shedding more blood. I want answers, and he’s either going to die or give them to me. Wiping my knuckles clean of this worthless scrapper’s life source, I pray for patience. It’s not my strongest suit, and it isn’t in me to be merciful, but I need to know why five of my men are six-feet under.

  Hedge’s blood is caked on me good. It’s dried in some spots, painted on me like it’s creed. It is in many ways, it marks my beliefs and dogma as truth. It defines who I am as a president and proves that I don’t cower for anyone.

  He wouldn’t be so bloody if I hadn’t let the anger get to me. In the end, I didn’t remove my rings. One marks me as Prez, another shows my chapter, and the last one, my father, and his father, The Founder, wore since ‘73.

  Now it’s stained, tainted by this piece of shit’s disloyal blood. Pledges mean everything, and he demeaned it with his fallacy. The tarnishing of the Viper’s Bible now lives in every crack of my skin and in every crevice of my rings.

  Because of one man.

  One man I trusted.

  One I called friend.

  One who won’t survive once I’m done with him.

  “If he decides to give us the mole, then we’ll let him leave with his life, but don’t spare him with his self-respect. He’ll walk the streets stripped of everything that used to define him. The patches that once protected him and the brotherhood that once honored him—it’s gone.”

  “Prez,” Bones warns. “He knows too much to live.”

  “You’re right…” I pause. “Regardless of that realization, we need to know how Los Desolados have my name. My real name.” I point my gun at Hedge, the barrel resting between his eyes. “They’re coming to Cape Hill, and they know who we are. There’s no way they can do that unless someone inside told them who I am and where our transports go and where the money leads.”

  Hedge whimpers as the metal grinds against him. I’m not sure how Hedge got inside, how he passed all the tests, got through all the trials. He’s not worthy of his patch. He’s not worthy to carry the Viper name.

  We have a name for men who betray our cause. Scrappers. They’re named after the garbage they become, begging for any scraps they can get. When they double-cross us, they’re dishonored in front of the entire crew. Their cuts are removed, their tattoos filleted from their bodies, and their dignity severed along with all ties to us. They’re stripped of everything that made them a part of our crew—our brotherhood—if they’re still alive to make it that far.

  We hear them scream and beg for mercy, but there’s no mercy for rats, no forgiv
eness for scrappers, and no hope for the damned.

  They’re nothing when they come to us, and they’ll leave the same way.

  “P-please,” Hedge cries like the little bitch he is. “D-don’t kill me, Venom.”

  Don’t kill me, Venom, I want to mock in a child’s voice.

  Instead, I laugh. It’s a hearty sound, full of disdain and desire for blood. “Talk,” I demand. This is his last and only opening to be honest for once.

  “Belén… she’s your mole,” he chokes out, gagging on his own blood. Hedge coughs, convulsing from the damage done to him. The red dribbles coming from his mouth, running down his chin. It’s almost beautiful in its repugnance.

  Belén. His old lady.

  “Your woman? She did this?” I roar, coming back to his bloodied face. My fist wants to collide with him again, to reshape his face like he’s done to my crew. He’s put us in danger and risked everything for some pussy.

  “S-she played me… for h-him,” he sputters.

  Fuck love.

  Look at what it’s done.

  Fucking emotions and pussy don’t mix.

  “For who?” I growl.

  He’s nearly passed out, and I’m ready to kill him for his answers. He let love take him hostage. He allowed it to fool him, and all for a pussy that wasn’t even great. I’d know. Pretty sure the entire Den would know too.

  “Danté Soltero,” he groans the name like it’s acid, eating away at his insides.

  If I wasn’t absolutely enraged, I might feel sorry for the fucker. Someone used his humanity against him, and now, he’s lost everything for it.

  His cut. His crew. Everything that once defined him.

  This Danté fuck must be the leader. It’s time for recon. Then it’s time for death, starting with Belén Díaz.

  “You know what to do,” I bark at Bones.

  He nods, his lips in a tight line.

  Before I walk out of the cellar, I turn to Hedge. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry the bitch fucked with you. Love is lethal. Maybe next time, you’ll try drugs instead.”

  *****

  After cleaning up, I head to my office, planning what to do next. How can I fix something I had no control over?

  “So, it was her?” Chefski, my newest prospect, asks. He’s poking his head where it doesn’t belong again.

  “Apparently,” I snap. “You shouldn’t be listening to shit you’re not privy to.”

  He shrugs, thinking he’s something special since his brother Skinner is my Tail Gunner. Well, tough for him. Family might be blood, but not here it ain’t. Here, it’s the ones who sacrifice for you, the ones who fight for you, die for you. Above all, it’s the ones who have your fucking back.

  Chefski isn’t anything special, not until he proves otherwise.

  “You think you’re big shit, kid, but when you get knocked down a few levels, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He smirks, and it pushes me, making me want to see him bleed. Pretty boy. Standing up and making my way to him, I give him the only warning he’ll get. Prospects don’t get their biker name until they’ve proven themselves, but with how he’s pissing me off, he might get the girliest fucking one out there.

  “Get the fuck outta my face and go help your brother.”

  “Yes, sir,” he snarks, putting his left hand to his forehead, saluting me like an idiot.

  “Stop disrespecting, punk.”

  He laughs, heading to the den, throwing up a peace sign. Fucking hipsters.

  “Boss,” Pilar shouts from the bar. I peek out the door, noticing her holding a bottle of my favorite poison, shaking it back and forth.

  I head that way, as if the bottle is the one who beckoned me forward and not her. Pilar isn’t a prospect, not that she could be. She isn’t even an old lady. She’s just here. My pops took her in when she was fifteen, and she’s stayed. She’s hot but off limits. My pops threatened me when I made eyes at her once. Now, she’s eye candy with a snarky attitude. She’s badder than most of my men, and she’d cut any man’s dick off if they crossed her.

  I sit in the stool I’ve spent many nights at. The rotator squeaks as I turn toward the bar. It’s annoying to most, but to me, the sound is familiar, almost homely in this den of thieves.

  Quickly, I throw three fingers up, her cue to bring me three fingers of Absinthe, neat. She nods, understanding in her expression. By the time she’s back, I’m already planning my trip to Belén’s. She lives about twenty minutes from here, and if she’s as dumb as I think she is, she won’t leave without her belongings.

  Pilar passes the glass to me, her eyes studying me. She does this, tries to see what’s going on in my head. Well, she’ll never know.

  “Stop,” I grunt, narrowing my eyes at hers.

  “Stop what?” she feigns innocence, and believe me, she’s far from it. She’s more of a succubus in a prep school uniform.

  “Stop thinking. I can hear your protruding thoughts like they’re screaming.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone follows you. You’re such a prick.”

  “Watch your mouth,” I chastise.

  I gulp my drink back. Slamming the glass down, I stand and turn for the doors where my dark Mistress is. She’s my bike, but so much more. She’s gotten me through half my life already.

  She’s bled for me.

  She’s been through hell and back.

  She’s the only constant in my life.

  “I don’t need to watch my mouth when you never look away from it,” she yells back at me.

  I flip her off and head out. Not today.

  Instead of walking straight to my bike, I head back to the office I share with my Vice President.

  As soon as I step foot into the place, I’m flashing the lights, letting him know I’m here. He’s pretty aware of everything, but I don’t want to be the dumbass who forgets to warn him and get a knife to the gut. He’s always on high alert, more conscious of everything around him than most people.

  “I've got to see the Díaz girl,” I sign, knowing my face shows how pissed I still am.

  “What for?” he signs back, his eyebrows dip inward.

  Shit. I'm dumb for thinking anyone could read minds.

  “She's our mole.”

  His eyes narrow, nearly closing with his aggravation. This man is dangerous when he's livid. He furiously signs at me, my gaze darting to his hands, hoping to catch every third sign and piece it together later. I never claimed to be a pro, only enough to comprehend conversations, and when he’s angry, even my more skilled mind gets frazzled.

  Dragging five fingers up my forearm, I show him to slow down. He smiles, laughing without the actual noise of a laugh. He knows he's a dick, and I chuckle in response.

  Deaftone won’t make any sounds. He doesn't even scream in fury or frustration or cry when he’s breaking. I've asked him on many occasions why he doesn't use his voice. He always shrugs me off.

  “I can't believe she betrayed us! I vouched for her!” he signs aggressively but slow enough that I can understand.

  We all did. She’s enigmatic. We all fell for her lies. That’s probably why he feels guilty. He was the first to welcome Belén, endorsing her character when it was only a role she played.

  I tap the side of my head with four fingers, letting him know that I’m aware.

  Betrayal doesn't come often, so when it does, it hits us hard.

  “I'm going to head out. She won't be alive when I'm done with her,” I reply, my hands still shaped like “L’s” on my chest for life.

  “Good fucking riddance.” He waves, hitting his chest twice, our sign for “‘til next time.” It’s our sign. One we made up.

  After I'm sure he can keep everything in order while I’m gone, I head out. Swinging my leg over Mistress, I think of how we all learned sign language for him. He’s Deaf, but don’t let that fool you. He’s also the baddest man in my crew. He’s unrelenting and fierce—a beast and a poet. I’m damn proud to call him my VP. Ther
e’s a soft side to him too. He doesn’t think I notice, but I do. It’s only with Pilar, and she doesn’t pay him any attention.

  I squeeze Mistress while cruising through the turns on the highway. She purrs, vibrating beneath me. She loves the curves as much as I do.

  This is where I’m fully at peace, when the wind rages at me, my bike is beneath me, and the free road is ahead. There’s something soothing about being able to just exist in the moment and breathe the free air, where nothing exists but a bike and his rider.

  It’s not long before I’m near her little bungalow—or, rather, Hedge’s. I park about five houses away, but there’s no way she didn’t hear Mistress howling in the wind. She’s not quiet.

  My boots hit the ground, tapping loudly. Every noise is heightened by the realization of what I plan on doing.

  This area knows to not call the police. They know the Vipers control all of Cape Hill and the surrounding cities. Their curious eyes peek at me, some with envy, some with hatred, disdain, and even some in lust. It’s a normal occurrence. You either want me or hate the ground I walk upon. Neither matter in the least. If I want ass, I’ll have it. I don’t need to work for it.

  By the time I get to her door, the neighbor’s eyes are no longer on me. It’s like they know the damage I’m about to wreak, the havoc I’m about to ensue, and the blood they surely won’t want on their hands.

  My boots absorb the heat from the pavement as I make my way around back. If hell had a doorway, it would be Cape Hill in the summer. It doesn’t help that I’m in black jeans, a black t-shirt, my cut, and boots. I’m basically asking to for it.

  Silence falls before a storm, before a bigger monster comes into play. Everything around stays quiet, praying it won’t be at the other end of rage. That’s the air I’m breathing in right now. Even the animals are silent, waiting to see the carnage I leave behind.

  It’s surreal, knowing that everything exists around you while your entire focus is on the task ahead. That’s when it’s serious, when not even the loudest of noises interrupt your journey.