Duke: Burning Saints MC, #0

By Jack Davenport

18+ for language and sexual situations...

Home from a war my country hated me for, I'm looking for my place in the world, managing to find myself in jail instead. But when a vision of perfection walks up the jailhouse steps, I'm lost. Now I just have to convince her to get lost with me.

2nd Edition/2020 Edition

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trixie Publishing
• Release date: Feb 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393437475

Book preview

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COPYRIGHT

2019-2023 Jack Davenport

Copyright © 2019-2023 Trixie Publishing, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States

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

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Art

Jack Davenport

CONTENTS

Copyright

Thank Yous

Back Blurb

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Recipe

Minus

Book List

About Jack

THANK YOU

Liz Kelly

Your insights are amazing and always spot on. Thank you!

Piper

I couldn’t do any of this without you. Literally, my fingers would fall off and I’d be a vegetable.

Brandy G.

Thank you for the million reads and your attention to detail!!! You’re amazing.

Gail G.

You’re a rock star! Thank you for all your help!

BACK BLURB

18+ for language and sexual situations...

Home from a war my country hated me for, I’m looking for my place in the world, managing to find myself in jail instead. But when a vision of perfection walks up the jailhouse steps, I’m lost. Now I just have to convince her to get lost with me.

CHAPTER ONE

Duke

––––––––

March 1973

Every jail cell I’d ever been in smelled the same, a mixture of piss, puke, and cheap as hell aftershave that every cop seemed to drown themselves in. The Fulton County drunk tank was no exception. It was Saturday afternoon and the intake holding cell was already over capacity by the time my bedraggled ass was tossed in.

This was my third run-in with Georgia’s finest since I’d returned home, and my father was gonna be none too pleased to hear I’d been arrested, but what the fuck did I care? He was just another on a long list of people who hated my guts. He was still angry that I’d gone off and joined the Army in the first place, and the whole country was pissed off at me now that I was back home. The college kids and hippies called me ‘baby killer’ and the straight people tried to pretend I didn’t exist. I could scarcely blame them for that. Most of the country, including myself, wanted to pretend Vietnam had never happened.

The ‘busted taillight’ I’d been pulled over for had been working fine until the cop who pulled me over, laid his nightstick across it. Then came the questions about where I’d been and where I was going, followed up with him giving me shit about the way I was dressed, my bike, and my hair. Next thing I knew, I was booked on some half-assed charges of reckless driving, resisting arrest, and whatever else the hell they were bound to tack on for shits n’ giggles.

What about my phone call? I asked as the guard shoved me into the cell.

I’ll make sure and add your name to the list, he replied and pulled a pad and pen from his pocket. Now, tell me. Is ‘Shithead’ spelled exactly the way it sounds?

The drunk tank erupted with laughter as the guard stared me down. I knew better than to push these good ol’ boys too far and stowed my comments.

That’s what I thought, the guard replied. Now, shut the fuck up and find a seat before I come back here with the firehose and wash the stink out of this cell.

I scoped out my surroundings and saw I’d been temporarily housed with an assortment of bums and junkies, as well as a half dozen bikers in kuttes that read Burning Saints. I’d been riding in and around Savannah since I was a kid, but had never heard of their club, so assumed they must be local to Atlanta. I was in my riding leathers and hoped they didn’t want to start any shit with me. Six-on-one wasn’t my idea of a good time, and my lack of a patch made me a target for biker gangs.

I found a sliver of free space on the floor next to a skinny, nervous looking kid in a dirty white T-shirt, and slumped down against the filthy grey wall. It didn’t take long before the chatty young cell mate struck up a conversation.

Hey, man. My name’s P...P...Pete. H...h...how you d...d...d...doing? he stuttered.

Well, Pete. I’m in fuckin’ jail, so how do you think I’m doing? I replied.

Pete laughed, even though my response was delivered without a trace of humor. W...What’s your n...n...name, man?

Look, no offense but I’m not in a real talkative mood right now, so if you don’t mind..., I said, closing my eyes and tilting my