Jett:A Brikken Motorcycle Club Saga

By: Debra Kayn

A Brikken Motorcycle Club Saga


To my family


Chapter One

THE NOISE DOWNSTAIRS in the Brikken Motorcycle Club's clubhouse muffled Jessica's screams. Jett Stanton held her hips, thrust into her pussy, and blew his load. Holding the woman bent over in front of him, he slapped her ass and pulled out, ripping the condom off him.

He walked to the wastebasket. His mind still raced, not letting go of the feeling that the shipment of chopped motorcycles Brikken sends down to California every three months needed to change.

Jessica wound her arms around his waist from behind. He grabbed her wrist and set her away from him.

"Get dressed." He zipped up his jeans and buckled his belt.

"Baby," purred Jessica. "I could make—"

"You're finished." He lifted his chin and motioned toward the door. "Go downstairs and find someone else to cap your night."


"Out." He strode over and opened the door. "Now."

Jessica's pout turned into a snarl, and she snagged her dress off the bed, pulling it over her head and wiggling into the tight material. He gripped the top of the door and waited. It took her two minutes to believe he wasn't going to change his mind, and with a burst of disappointment, sashayed her ass out of his room.

He stepped over and picked up his pistol off the dresser, tucking it at his waist. What a fucking waste of a night.

Walking out of the room, he went downstairs. The party in full swing, bodies meshed and voices raised as the crowd of two hundred or so people celebrated fulfilling the shipment of motorcycles ahead of schedule.

Instead of joining the others, he'd got his nut off with Jessica, who went at fucking like she was sitting in a theater waiting for the movie to start.

He pushed through the door and stepped outside. Standing under the floodlight, he peered into the field. He could go beat some parts off the bikes for the next shipment for a few hours until he felt like sleeping or take a ride.

Halfway to his Harley, he pulled an elastic band out of his pocket and tied back his hair. He hated the nights.

In the daylight, people were forced to face each other. In the dark, people showed their true colors. Enemies came knocking. It was at night that he stayed alert and trusted no man, MC brother or not.

He sat his motorcycle and started the engine. History had taught him to keep his eyes open. Rollo—his grandfather—was shot in the back by a Brikken member. Chief—his father—had served two stints in prison, one of those because of a squealer within the club.

But, it was his personal experience spending eighteen months in prison that nailed the lesson home about the dangers at night and watching his back.

Someday, he'd become president. His gut churned. Brikken would be handed down from grandfather, father, and then him.

At thirty-seven years old, Jett expected Chief to lead the club for many more years. He was in no hurry.

Griff and Tag opened the gate for him. He held his hand low as he rode out onto the county road. He glanced at the group of bikers congregated on the outside of the fence surrounding Brikken Property.

Two hundred yards away, he slowed and made a U-turn. He opened the throttle and braked hard, skidding to a stop beside five Brikken members.

Heads turned in his direction, and everyone kept their position. He shut off the bike.

"What's up?" He remained sitting on his Harley.

Chano broke away from D-Con, Swift, Harrison, and Eddie. "Some chick's taking money for the game on Sunday."

"Betting?" he asked.

"If you want to call it that. Fucking Eddie put in a hundred bucks last week, turned it into five hundred, and those assholes plan to do the same thing." Chano pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped a smoke out. "Higher stakes. A five-spot to play. Too rich for my blood."

He squinted into the darkness, only able to see the Brikken men in the cluster. "Who's the woman?"

"Hey, D-Con." Chano waved his hand out to the side. "Jett wants to meet the woman."

The men stepped back. He studied the area they vacated and could only make out a small dark shape about two feet tall. Getting off his motorcycle, he walked closer until the shape materialized to a woman kneeling on the ground with her hands in a duffle bag.

She flashed him an interested look. "Do you want to play?"

He lifted his brow. "I never pay to play."

"Ah, you're a smart one." Her light laughter floated in the night air. "A big man like you, and lucky, too. Interesting..."

"Lucky...right," he murmured walking closer. "What else are you offering?"

"Sunday's game. Eagles versus the Cowboys," said the woman. "Five hundred to play."