The Alpha

The Silver Fang Riders rolled through town like banshees under a moon so bright it bleached the gaudy neon from the Reno skyline.

Paul Harlan was nineteen years old, tall with brown hair and silver eyes that shone in the night.

He was sarcastic and intelligent, and too young to care about speed limits or the Nevada Highway Patrol.

Who needs em?

Besides, they might want to ask him questions, like how he came into a bag of unmarked hundred dollar bills, and if he and his friends' cruising speed had anything to do with the bank truck currently on fire across the street from Circus Circus.

As the riders cleared the city limits, they split up.

Three went with Paul, and the other three made their way west toward Sacramento.

When they felt safe enough to circle back toward the hideout, they parked their bikes in an empty swimming pool and set them on fire.

Paul wanted the cops to find their getaway bikes. They had stolen them from their rivals, the Highway Devils bike club, and hidden their real bikes under an overpass where they could ride them to safety.

A dirty trick forsure, but nobody in the city would cry if John Law busted up those meth selling shit stains' clubhouse for a while.

They'd probably have a couple of bad months before the cops got bored and gave up due to lack of evidence. No harm, no foul, that was how Paul saw it.

In no time at all, they had shaken the heat and were back at the rendezvous where they met up with the other three riders. Paul was smiling proudly as he leaned against his matte black chopper while they counted the take from the armored truck.

Three duffels of bearer bonds, nine sacks of unmarked cash, one guard with a broken nose, and zero casualties.

Clean, just how the Silver Fangs liked it.

"Nice drivin, pup," said Rocco, and he slapped the back of Paul's leather vest. The patch on his arm read PRESIDENT.

Rocco was a good guy.

He'd left the Marines after Vietnam and helped Paul's father found this bike club.

After Paul's father was killed by a couple of dead men in Vegas, Rocco took over.

He let in new blood, and the club grew into a force, he made the Silver Fang's legends on the open road. Nowadays, he was more of an administrator, though. Time had slowed his reflexes a bit, and softened his disposition.

Can't have that and still be feared, still lead these animals effectively, so he took more of a backseat as he'd aged, took on more logistics and managing role.

Everyone knew who really wore the crown: Marcus Kane.

Kane was a mountain of muscle, one of the first of the new blood that Rocco had sworn in to the Silver Fangs, and he immediately grew his influence in the club.

Kane was an earner. He had a knack for bringing in big scores, and it didn't hurt that he was also charismatic, funny, and violent.

Kane didn't seem to want to challenge Rocco for the top spot, though.

He was happy to give his opinion on things and hold court unofficially so there was never a a need for enmity between the two men.

But what he did want was Colleen, Paul's widowed mother.

Two years after Paul's father was killed, Marcus Kane "married" in the way of outlaws and thieves, he'd grabbed her ass one drunken night while leaning over a barstool and she hadn't buried her teeth in his neck.

And so just as unofficially as he had become the pack's leader, he had become a stepfather and mentor to her nine year old son.

Rocco smirked, "I bet Marcus is kicking himself for missing out on this haul, I was surprised when he said he would sit this one out."

Paul laughed, "I'd say you'll end up giving him your cut over a game of Hold'em soon enough."

Rocco laughed, "Then we might need to double back and see if we can pick up an extra couple million."

Rocco turned to the other men, "Whattay you say boys, did we leave enough for seconds?"

The rest of the pack tilted their heads back and let out a long wild wolf howl in unison.

Rocco chuckled and turned back to Paul, "This was a good plan Paul, we lay low for a month or two, then we take this act to another casino."

Paul smirked. "Try keeping up next time, old man," he said, pulling out his grandfather's KA-BAR, tossing it in the air, and catching it nonchalantly.

Rocco laughed again, but the sound died when a silver tipped bullet punched through his throat.

It came from the sunroof. Glass shattered and rained down as six figures dropped from the windows above Paul and his crew.

They wore security uniforms and casino dealers' outfits stained with the color of dried blood.

Vampires, Old Ones, Dead Men. They smelled like mausoleums and expensive cologne, and they fought like wildcats.

Paul's wolf-sense surged. His bones cracked, and fur ripped through his skin. The other riders who'd survived the initial attack began the change as well. He hit the pavement on all fours, silver eyes flashing like headlights in oncoming traffic.

The lead vampire was tall and pale, with hair the color of dried bone.

It smiled at Paul with too many teeth. "Eddie Blood sends regards," it said, with a voice soft as funeral silk.

It moved unnaturally fast.

The fight was quick and ugly, werewolves against the dead men, nature and ferocity versus un-nature at a speed that bent physics.

Paul took a blade across the ribs and felt the burning trace of silver that it's passing left had left in his fur and flesh.

He leapt and managed to catch his jaws around the face of one of the undead blackjack dealers, he sank his teeth in its neck as far as he could before jerking his massive canine head backward, ripping the foul tasting creature's head from its shoulders.

When the dust settled, three of the vamps were ash on the floor, and two prospects had survived but were bleeding out next to Rocco's corpse.

"Fuck!" Paul yelled once his mouth had finished transforming enough that he could form human words. "Why the fuck would vampires be in this part of town?" He rushed over to crouch next to the corpse of his father's best friend.

Had they been in the casino, did they hold some kind of private stake?

If Rocco had known that vamps were anywhere near that place, he would never have okayed Paul's plan to knock over that truck in the first place.

Paul'd messed up bad, real bad, and now he had Rocco's blood on his hands.

It wasn't all a loss. They'd managed to keep a couple of bags of cash, and all but one of the bags of bonds were gone.

No amount of money could bring his friend back... but he hoped that maybe, just maybe it would be enough to save his neck with the pack hierarchy.

Chapter 2

On an old airfield outside Sparks, Colleen Harlan/Kane sat cross legged on a porch swing, waiting for her son to make his way home.

The night air was cold, but despite the chill, her denim jacket was open over a black tank top that strained to cover her heavy breasts.

Guys had always paid attention to her chest since way back when she was a girl, but after she'd had Paul, they'd ballooned to an F cup, and she had to wear jackets so folks'd look at her eyes when they talked to her.

At thirty nine years old she was still very pretty.

She'd put on a little extra weight, sure enough, and her curly brown hair had begun to show streaks of gray, but she was as dangerous as she'd ever been, and her mind was sharper than a rattlesnake's tooth.

She'd heard the roar of his bike a couple of miles away as it screamed down the dusty road to the old house that her family had owned since buffalo roamed the land.

He pulled into the gravel driveway, kicked the stand and let his bike lean lazily to the side.

Her silver eyes caught the porch light in the same way Paul's did as he made his way up the stairs to greet her. She could see the bruises on his cheek and the new tears in his jacket.

She did not ask if he'd won whatever fight he was coming back from. She just looked at the bags of cash and said, "Best come on in out of the chill."

The inside of Colleen's house was still stuck in the 1980s. The carpets were red shag, and the walls were dark brown wood with pictures of rock bands that hadn't been relevant for years.

Paul sat down at the kitchen table under a warm tungsten ceiling light while she took off her jacket, tossed it on the counter, and opened the liquor cabinet to pull out a bottle of Maker's.

Colleen poured the golden whiskey into three glasses and slid one to her son.

She leaned over to him, her enormous braless tits jiggled and hung low just above Paul's lap and her fingers brushed his chin while she surveyed the damage to his face.

Her son had grown up to be a tough, handsome young man, a lot like his father. But he'd inherited her temper and over the years she'd gotten used to treating his cuts and bruises.

Her hands were warm and soft, and she smelled of gun oil and vanilla.

He could smell the coffee on her breath as she brushed his hair back out of his eyes and said, "You're bleeding on my floor, puppy."

"Puppy," the pet name she'd called him since he'd been a little boy.

It used to annoy him, but now he just let it be.

He looked down at the small trail of blood on the off white linoleum floor. The gash in his side had already started knitting. "I'll live, Momma."

Paul tried not to think about how her blue jeans hugged her round ass as she turned around and walked to her chair at the other side of the table.

"Was the take worth the scrap?" she asked, raising her cup and downing the smooth brown liquid.

Paul gulped his down as well and said, "No. We got away with around two million, but we lost Rocco."

When Colleen frowned, her silver eyes shifted and her nose wrinkled, and a tear began welling in her right eye but it never fell.

For a long time she didn't say a word. She'd accepted what he was saying without doubt. She knew they lived a dangerous life and she had become accustomed to losing her friends a long time ago.

"Rocco was a good man. He did all he could to keep this pack together after your father died. You'll have to step up and help Marcus out more."

Paul knew that with the death of Rocco, his mother had lost one of the last living ties to her dead husband's memory.

It didn't help that the anniversary of his death was two days away.

They'd named it "The Summit." Rocco and Colleen had made it a tradition that on the day of his death every year, they would ride out with Paul and spend the day at his father's grave.

The timing of Rocco's death was awful.

Colleen was not a woman to be seen as weak, so she held back her tears even from her own son.

This time of year always put stress on their relationship, and he tried not to take her coldness personally. He'd learned to give her space when she needed it.

"Yes Ma'am," was all Paul could say.

Colleen threw back her second shot of whiskey and stood up.

Her braless breasts bounced pleasantly as she placed the glasses in the sink. "I guess you'll be staying in your old room tonight?"

Paul answered with his voice low and reverent, "Yeah, I didn't think I could ride all the way to my place in this condition."

Colleen turned to the hallway and headed upstairs, but she called back down to her son, "There's clean towels in the dryer, and you can wear one of your father's old shirts and jeans from the attic. You remember where the box is?"

"Yeah Ma, I remember. See you in the morning."

She was already up the stairs by the time she yelled back down, "I love you, Puppy!"

"You too Ma!" he called back just before he heard the door slam shut.

By the time Paul had finished off the bottle, the digital clock on the kitchen counter read 1:23 AM in bright red numbers.

Paul tossed the empty bottle in the trash can and stumbled his way up the stairs to a small, dark hallway covered in lime green wallpaper with bluebonnet flowers etched in patterns around it.

He made his way slowly to his old bedroom.

The door creaked open, and he saw that it hadn't changed much since he'd moved out.

The walls were still covered in posters of rock bands and half naked swimsuit models with their tits smashed up to look bigger than they were.

There was one in particular that he loved the most. It was a woman with curly brown hair wearing a wet white tank top, holding a water hose as she leaned over a cherry red Mustang.

Maybe he was drunk, and partly because he was so tired, but the woman looked a little bit like Colleen.

He, of course, decided not to read too far into that thought and plopped himself down on his old twin sized bed that rested next to the window overlooking the moonlit prairie, face first, and started to doze off.

Something jolted him awake: the sound of footsteps.

He perched himself up on his elbows and looked out the window to see his mother, Colleen, wearing a purple bathrobe, walking slowly down the faded blue porch steps, barefoot, onto the gravel driveway that led out to the desert wilderness.

His mother dropped her robe, turned around to toss the robe back on the porch swing, revealing her sensual curves and naked breasts. She had a wild brown patch between her legs and a softness around her waist that had come with age and too many beers.

She was beautiful in her naked glory.

Paul watched her, captivated by how her tits jiggled when she moved and the muscles in her thighs flexed as she padded gracefully up the hill.

She lifted her head to the sky and howled like an alpha wolf, lead bitch of the pack. It sent a shiver down Paul's spine.

Then she began to change.

She began to grow, longer and leaner, and her skin became covered in dark brown and gray fur, and she fell to all fours.

She howled once more and ran at blinding speed out into the wilderness.

Paul knew she was going to grieve in her own way.

He could picture her beautiful predatory form darting through the moonlight, stalking some prey and letting go of her pain the only way a wolf knew how.

His mind went back to the gorgeous soft curves of her body in the darkness.

He lay back, holding on to that image of her, dark and dangerous, soft and vicious, motherly and sensual, and he rubbed his cock until he exploded on the blanket beside him, he shut his eyes feeling the sensation of pleasure and shame wash over him.

Paul fell asleep like that, trying to forget what he had just done.

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The following night, the clubhouse roared with life. Silver Fang Riders didn't celebrate the death of their members with tears.

They drank and fucked and partied and howled at the moon in their memory.

Rocco would have hated a formal send off. He hated the pomp and circumstance of being president, but he was good at it, and he built a lot of loyalty and love around him, so they all sat around and told jokes and stories about the old hound dog and the three brave prospects who fell with him.

Now the bragging began.

"Paulie Boy took three vamps solo!" said one of the prospects.

Another pointed at Paul. "He damn near ate the whole fucking vamp horde by himself."

Paul wore a big bandage around his ribs.

His wolf constitution made him heal faster than a normal mortal would, but it still hurt, and so Colleen convinced him to wear it.

He thought it made him look weak, but his mom always knew how to get her way with him.

Marcus raised a beer from the bar. "To the riders who made the vampires bleed!"

Cheers went up again, and backslaps.

Paul grinned. He had expected to be ostracized for the loss of their president and some good prospects, but the heist had been a small success otherwise, and they had made it back with around 2 million dollars.

Nothing to turn up your nose at, by any means.

He was honored to accept a fresh jacket and rocker from Marcus.

It was sleeveless leather with a sergeant at arms patch sewn on the spot. The colors on the back were vibrant: SILVER FANG RIDERS stitched in big, bold Gothic letters with a direwolf running on a highway road under a full moon.

"You earned this, son. I'm proud of you."

Paul put the new vest on and clasped Marcus's forearm, his respect for Kane had only grown, and this new responsibility put a new sense of pride in his voice. "Couldn't do it without the pack, Alpha."

The club roared and threw back another round.

Paul's pride was beaming from his face to the rafters as Kane sauntered over to the leather black loveseat that everyone called "The Throne," that sat on the stage at the front of the club.

Colleen was seated on the left cushion.

As the alpha female of the pack, she sat on the throne for formal meetings, and Marcus sat down next to her.

Rocco had never liked the throne.

He'd always stand in front of the stage and hold court.

But Marcus had no problem plopping on the cushion right next to her, handing her a beer, and pushing his hand up her smooth, pale legs and under her denim cutoff miniskirt.

From the position where Paul was standing, he could see her light blue panties as she crossed her legs and pushed Kane's hand away.

Marcus pulled Colleen close, his hand slid down to squeeze her full, plump butt, and he kissed her deep. She laughed into it, playful.

Paul's smile melted. Jealousy seeped up his spine, sharp, hot, and foreign.

Why does it burn to see his mother happy?

His fists clenched without realizing it. She is Marcus's mate. She had chosen him. But the image of Marcus's hand on her seared boiled his blood.

The women of the Silver Fangs had left the bar, and a few had circled around Paul.

Sable, one of the prettiest of the pack, with her blonde hair and ice blue eyes, pressed against him.

She wasn't wearing a bra, and her cutoff black Megadeth shirt was thin and revealing.

Her breasts brushed his arm, she stood up on her tiptoes, looked into his eyes, and said, "You were amazing out there."

Kira, a brunette with tits that must have made her back ache, poured him a shot, and handed it to him, her fingers lingering on his. "Need someone to patch those ribs later?"

He forced a laugh, but his eyes found Colleen across the room, Marcus's arm pulled tightly around her waist. The jealousy twisted deeper.

What is happening to me? Why should I care?

He could only rationalize it as an effect of how close The Summit was.

Yeah, that was it. Just the time of the year.

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They rode out, Paul on the Knucklehead, Colleen on her old Panhead.

Every year since the murder, they had made this trip to the desert grave overlooking The Playa with white roses in the saddlebags.

No Rocco this time, just them.

This year the air felt heavier in his chest. He hadn't cried since he was ten years old, but leaving without Rocco was almost too much for him.

A tear fell on his right cheek and was swept away but the desert wind in his face as they sped over the open road..

They rode side by side through the Nevada desert and over the hills to Black Rock. The bikes cut a black ribbon through the morning sun, engines thrumming like twin heartbeats.

They pulled off at the old turnout before the Playa, where people who hadn't yet found their way home from Burning Man camped in RVs and pitched tents. They made their way to the summit of a tall hill, tires crunching over dry cracked earth and desert weeds.

The sun bled orange as they killed the engines.

The silence of the desert fell over them like a blanket and midday became evening,

Paul handed Colleen her roses. Their fingers brushed, and neither pulled away. The touch lingered, electric and surprising for both of them.

Colleen stared up at her tall son.

Neither of them had an answer for the question in their hearts.

What would they do now? What was left of their family? How could they keep their connection alive?