Wrong side of heaven, p.1
Wrong Side of Heaven, page 1
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2023 Elizabeth Monvey
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0865-2
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: CA Clauson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Sincere thanks to everyone at Evernight.
For my readers—your support means the world to me.
WRONG SIDE OF HEAVEN
Elizabeth Monvey
Copyright © 2023
Chapter One
Ribar leisurely drove along the winding road. The warm evening air rolled over him, ruffling the hair caught in his ponytail. Moonlight played peak-a-boo through the trees, illuminating patches along the asphalt. Instead of taking the more direct route home, he had decided to take the scenic drive. He had just finished up on a run for the club, receiving payment for an order of drugs. Not as much as he had expected, but still enough to put a little money in the club coffers.
Lately, he’d been feeling … directionless.
He loved his club life. Had prospected with the Burning Reapers when he’d still been a teenager. Did every shit job they’d thrown his way. A year and a day later they’d given him his patch, and he’d never been happier. The Reapers were many things. Mostly criminals who managed runs for the local drug lord. Occasionally moved guns across state lines. They owned a few titty bars to launder their cash flow.
Every night was a hedonistic party, and nothing much was taboo. Lately, however, he was very unsettled. Perhaps restless was a better word, a need to get away from it all. He tried not to think that his life within the club wasn’t enough. Maybe it was the fact that his fortieth birthday was fast approaching and he was still living like he was eighteen. Maybe he needed his own space. A place he could escape the monotonous partying and fucking.
Not that he had any problem with partying and fucking. He rather liked both, although recently, not at the same time anymore. And he had no idea why.
As he came around a bend in the road, the neon glare of a bar sign looked slightly out of place in the serene wilderness setting. The name, however, captured his attention as he sped past. Wrong Side of Heaven. Seemed like he’d spent his entire life living the wrong side of something. He was no stranger to fighting, to doing things not quite legally. Hell, he’d been in jail once, which was a place he never wanted to be again. He’d learned he hated the confines of a cell, which now that he thought about, had initiated his malcontent. Hence the need to ride through the night, along long distances, trying to shake off the feeling of unease. Ribar slowed his bike and came to a stop in the middle of the road. The engine purred between his thighs. There was probably another orgy going on in the clubhouse. Sluts all over the place eager to suck cock and fuck as many men as they could. The thought held no appeal, so he carefully walked his bike in a circle and then throttled the engine back the way he came.
When he arrived at the parking lot, he made sure not to park right in front. Drunk bar patrons stumbling out the door tended to piss on the tires of the cars parked directly in front. Stupid, really, but drunk men doing dumb shit was common and he’d learned that lesson a while ago. Ribar hit his kickstand and dismounted, plopping his helmet down on the seat. He wasn’t concerned in the least with someone stealing it, and if they did, so be it. Wasn’t like he hadn’t ridden without a brain bucket before.
A few steps led up to the scarlet door. He pulled it harder than he should have and it flew back with a snap. Rock music played softly through speakers. When he stepped inside, a dozen or so pairs of eyes swung his way. Not that it bothered him. His six-foot two, solid-muscle frame usually attracted looks. Or could be his shoulder length hair pulled back in a ponytail. Although, more than likely, it was the patch on his leather cut and the 1% logo right below the emblem.
“You lost, friend?”
Ribar glanced over, his gaze locking with the bartender. Dark hair styled with gel. Light blue eyes reflecting the fairy lights strung over the large mirror lining the wall. Broad shoulders, form-fitting tee that hugged lean muscles. Fingernails painted black and kohl outlining his eyes. He looked more ready for a rock concert than about to serve a beer. Part goth, part head banger.
“I like the name of this place,” Ribar said.
“I thought it fitting. Wrong side of heaven—”
“And the righteous side of hell,” Ribar finished the song lyric. “Great song.”
“Great band.” He flashed the rock and roll hand sign. Index finger up, middle fingers down, pinky up, thumb in. “Got to see them in concert a few years ago.”
Ribar walked over and sat on a stool. “At Ball Arena in Denver?”
“Yep.” He smiled. “You, too?”
Ribar nodded. “I was so fucking stoned that night. Good times.”
The bartender laughed. “Same. Name’s Chester.”
“Ribar,” he replied.
“Your mom named you after steel reinforcing rods?”
Ribar grinned. “It’s my last name. Pronounced the same, but spelled differently.”
“Ah. What’s your thirst quencher this evening, my friend?”
“Beer,” Ribar replied. “I’m a simple man. Whatever’s on tap.”
Chester expertly poured him a drink and placed it in front of him. Ribar laid down some cash. Another man came up to the bar and Chester moved to serve him. He glanced over and saw the man pick up the two bottles and head back to his friend.
Who kissed him on the lips.
Ribar blinked and looked around. A few men played pool. A couple of others threw darts. But the majority of men sat around tables, some holding hands, some leaning close together.
“Let me guess. You didn’t know this was a gay bar.”
He looked back at Chester. “Uh. No. I was just driving by and saw the sign.”
“Not exactly your scene, eh?”
“No, not really.” Now he felt extremely uncomfortable, although he didn’t know why. Wasn’t like he was looking for dick. “So, you’re…”
Chester raised an eyebrow. “Gay? Yes.”
“Ah.” Not knowing what else to say, Ribar took a long drink of his beer. It tasted like acrid sawdust in his mouth.
“It’s not catching, you know.” Chester rolled his eyes and pushed Ribar’s money back. “Keep your cash. Have a great night, steel reinforcing rod.”
He walked away and Ribar sat there, holding his beer, not sure what to do. Clearly, he’d been dismissed. He’d seen Chester’s defenses spring into action, the earlier comradery dissolving. Chester didn’t even look at him, and although he didn’t know why, that bothered Ribar. He wasn’t a homophobe. Had no problems with gay men, or gay women. But what the hell? How had he walked into a gay bar and not known? Wasn’t there some sort of radar in his psyche that should’ve been activated?
Unable to help himself, he turned his head to look at the other patrons. A few stared at him, whispering to each other. Fear and wariness in their eyes. It struck him that he was the outcast. To them, he was simply a vicious biker who came to cause trouble or mock them. Lord knew what they thought, but it made him uncomfortable. His heart rate sped up. Sweat beaded his upper lip. For a moment, it felt like a panic attack was trying to steal his breath. He needed to leave. Like right fucking now. Only, his feet weren’t obeying. Men … couples … partners … whatever the fuck they called themselves. They looked so happy. So completely wrapped up in one another that they were oblivious to everything else.
“Thought you’d be gone by now,” Chester said as he walked back over.
“I… I…” Why the fuck am I stuttering? He took a deep breath. It was one fucking drink, right? “Gotta finish my beer.”
Chester cocked his head and then pointed to Ribar’s cut. “You’re not expecting your friends, are you? Not sure this is their scene and I’d rather my bar not be torn up.”
“It’s definitely not their scene,” he muttered in agreement.
“It’s not yours either.”
Ribar shook his head. “No, but I’m also not an asshole.”
“We’ll see.”
Chester left him to stare at his beer, and he suddenly didn’t have the stomach to finish it, despite what he said. He got up and quickly left without looking back. Even though he said he wasn’t an asshole, at that moment he certainly felt like one.
****
Over an hour later he walked into the Reapers clubhouse. As expected, a party was in full swing. Music loud enough to make his ears bleed poured through speakers. The cloying scent of pot hung heavy in the air. On every conceivable surface were men and women fucking. Once upon a time he’d have been one of them. In his younger days, he’d never had a problem getting it up for a woman, but lately he’d lost interest in the sweet butts, in the orgies, and fucking in general. If it wasn’t for the fact he jerked off every morning in the shower he’d be afraid E.D. was creeping up on him. He suspected it was apathy. Maybe disassociation. The Reapers weren’t the same as when he’d first joined. It could be him, but … more than l ikely, it was because the new president indulged in his vices more than what was best for the club.
“Where’s the prez?” he asked one of the few men who wasn’t fucking.
He pointed to a corner and Ribar looked over. The president, Zeus, sat in the corner, two naked women on his lap. Every few seconds he rubbed his nose, and some white powder lingered on his mustache. Ribar knew the man had to be high as a fucking kite, not that he really cared. It wasn’t like he hadn’t indulged every now and then, but Zeus took it to a different level. Using product that didn’t really belong to him. Spending the club’s money to feed his indulgence. When Zeus spotted him, he stood abruptly and caused the women to tumble to the floor.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he roared loudly. So loud that the music was turned down and every gaze swung their way.
Ribar had to force himself not to roll his eyes. “Took the long way home.”
“Where’s my money?”
“Yours?” Ribar asked.
Zeus narrowed his eyes. “I thought you stole it. I was all set to send out patrols to find your ass.”
White hot anger filled Ribar. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Zeus said. His eyes were dilated, and a speck of blood rolled down his nose. He sniffed and wiped it with the back of his hand. “You fucking stole my money.”
Ribar took a step away, disgusted with the man. He pulled the envelope filled with cash out of the inside pocket of his cut and threw it at his president. “I’m not a thief.”
Zeus opened it and thumbed through the cash. Then he smiled. “If there’s one bill not here—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ribar said coldly. “I’ve devoted my life to this club, so don’t ever accuse me of not putting it first.”
“I’m the pres—”
“So fucking act like it!”
Ribar spun and stomped through the throng of people who had come to witness a potential fight. He knew he’d pay for his anger later. Right then all he wanted was to find his bed and forget about the night.
****
The next morning, he discovered Zeus passed out on the pool table. All around him were empty alcohol bottles, amber pill bottles, and a half-eaten chocolate cake. Ribar might have had questions about the cake, but the rest made him shake his head.
He headed outside to one of the weight benches. Several other members were already working out. Hawkins gave him a nod.
“Need a spot?” he asked.
“Sure,” Ribar replied. He put the desired weights on the bar before positioning under it. Hawkins helped him lift up, and then Ribar cleared his mind as he focused on the burn.
“Don’t let Zeus upset you.”
“I’m not.”
“Not sure what happened to him,” Hawkins muttered.
“I do,” Ribar said in a huff. “He let the damn presidency go to his head.”
“Yeah.”
Ribar did his reps and then moved over to the dumbbells. One of the men started music up on his phone, and it took a moment for him to realize it was a Five Finger Death Punch song. Unexpectedly, Chester popped into his head. He’d never been the type of person to linger on something, but damned if he didn’t feel a little ashamed at walking out after he insisted he was cool with being in a gay bar.
“Just ignore Zeus,” Hawkins said. “He was stressed last night.”
“Yeah, well, he called me a fucking thief. If he does it again, I’m gonna make him eat his own nut sack.”
“Visual I did not need. You hanging around tonight?”
“What’s tonight?” Ribar asked.
“Another party, apparently.”
“Shocker. No, probably not. I haven’t been in a party mood for a while now.”
“That’s not because of Zeus, is it?”
Ribar shook his head. “I think I might be having a mid-life crisis.”
“No shit? I heard those things suck.”
Ribar chuckled. “Right up there with regret and apathy. I think I’ll take a long ride tonight. I might crash somewhere, try to avoid Zeus.”
“Hate to say that might be the wisest thing.”
“Yeah.” Ribar sighed. “Fucking hell.”
Chapter Two
Ribar stared up at the bar sign and wondered for the hundredth time why the hell he was back. He’d had a shit week and had needed to get out. Get away. The club … how many times did he have to say it was different? Something was off, and if he was being honest, it had been changing for some time. Or maybe it was just him. He didn’t like being accused of theft. As punishment for arguing with Zeus, he’d been assigned all the shit prospect jobs while the actual prospects did nothing.
Yet none of that explained why he was back. Here. Where he’d put his tail between his legs and slunk out last weekend, like some fucking moron. If he was smart, he’d ride off and never look back, because nothing but problems lay on the other side of that red door.
He was just going to say he was sorry for being a dick. Then he was gone. With one last mental debate, he dismounted and headed inside. This time, there were only a few men inside, but no bartender. What was he supposed to do now? Leave once more? Wait? Then, a moment later, Chester came from the back room, arms loaded with beer cases. When he saw Ribar, he paused for a second. Chester wore black skinny jeans and an old Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. Leather cuff braided bracelets were around both wrists. His dark hair was once more styled into a short, spiky mohawk.
“Hey, steel reinforcing rod,” Chester greeted. He hefted up the cases of beer, showcasing muscles rippling under the weight. “Never expected to see you again.”
“Yeah, I wanted … do you need help?”
“I’m not gonna say no.”
Ribar hurried forward to grab some of the heavy cases. “Where to?”
“Down there on the counter,” Chester directed.
Ribar strode behind the bar and deposited the beer where he’d been directed. He turned, ready to leave, only to bump into Chester. He reached out and steadied the bartender, who was only about an inch or so shorter than him. Their gazes clashed, and he had a sense of free falling. Almost like that faint need to puke after a spinning carnival ride. Chester stared at him with an equal mixture of interest and caution. Ribar’s heart hammered in his chest, his mouth went dry, and he didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. Hoping the ground wasn’t rushing up to meet him, he cleared his throat and stepped back.
“Thanks,” Chester muttered, his voice low and raspy. He flattened himself against the bar so Ribar could exit. As they passed by one another, Ribar tried to ignore Chester’s cologne. Leather, with cinnamon spice and a hint of citrus. He smelled fresh and masculine at the same time, like he’d just stepped out of the shower.
And why the hell am I sniffing him?
“Yeah.” Ribar rubbed the back of his neck. “No problem.”
Chester crossed his arms over his chest. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I, ah, wanted to apologize for running out last weekend.”
He’d managed to surprise Chester. “You didn’t have to come all the way back here to apologize.”
Ribar shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Ribar, what’s your first name?”
He’d never really used his given name before. He’d always been Ribar in the club, and even doubted any of them even knew his full name.
“Kemper.”
Chester cocked his head. “Kemper Ribar. I like it. Way better than Chester.”
“That isn’t so bad,” Kemper said. “There’re many cool Chesters.”
“Oh, yeah? Like who?”
“Chester … something … was a President. And, of course, the Linkin Park dude.”
Chester placed his hand over his heart. “Long live the Chaz.”
Kemper added his moment of silence for the dead front man, until the moment turned awkward. He looked toward the door. Every brain cell he had was screaming for him to get out. He had apologized and now it was done. He could go. But he didn’t really want to.
