Risking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 14) (5 page)

“No, man.” Face pasty, he swallows hard. “I’m thinking you’re probably the one who fucked something up.”

“That’d be good thinking.” I raise my fist. He flinches before quickly tapping my knuckles with his.

I glance at Lily. She’s staring at me. There’s not a hint of unease on her face. No anger now, either. Just a slight frown, like she isn’t sure what to make of what I just laid on Burnout.

She’ll work it out. I tip my head toward the tables. “You sitting with Gunner and Stone?”

A short nod, then she grabs her beer and heads in that direction. I scoop up my lemon before following. She takes a swig from her bottle and gives me a sidelong glance.

“Was any of that true?”

Only some. “Who rips out a tongue when snapping a neck will do the job?”

The sight of her grin is like a firm hand around my dick. Needing her, needing to do something with my mouth other than telling her again how much I love her pussy, I sink my teeth into the lemon wedge and suck out the juice. She gives me another sideways look, this one bemused. “Did you give up drinking?”

I can’t imagine that day coming. “I asked for something within reach. If he’d used his left hand I’d have gotten his shotgun.”

She grins again. “Pete just doesn’t give a shit.”

And doesn’t take any. “No.”

“He’ll probably charge you five bucks for that lemon.”

“Then it’s fortunate that I don’t give a shit, either.”

“And that’s what I like—” She abruptly stops, smile fading, her gaze shooting away from my face.

Because that’s what she likes about me. A few days ago she’d have finished that sentence.

Not angry now. But she’s still hurting. Or just wondering when I’ll hurt her again, so she’s not lowering her defenses.

Tomorrow I’ll start tearing them down. But right now the headlights I’m seeing through the Barracks’ open front doors tell me I’ve got business coming in. Maybe for the best. Knowing she’s hurt, knowing she’s wary, my chest is tight as hell and ripping out a few tongues sounds pretty fucking good.

Lily’s step slows as she spots the bikes outside. Her gaze flattens and her arms tense. Instantly ready for a fight, and never afraid to throw down.

Just one more reason I’ll never lose interest.

“Go to the boss,” I tell her and she nods. “Tell him there’s six Hangmen, including Croc and his veep. Creek’s with them. So is Valentine. Tumble’s their new enforcer. He’ll likely stay at the door with Hunter.”

Who’s just muscle, not a ranking brother. I don’t expect them to flex the muscle. This’ll just be the message.

But I’ve got one of my own to deliver.

• • •

Lily

The music goes quiet just as I finish relaying the heads-up to the prez. The strippers stop gyrating and look to the grubby little DJ booth, probably assuming the crappy sound system finally gave out. But they know the score, so when they see Hashtag there, it’s clear the prospect has been told to cut the noise, and the dancers head through the curtain at the back of the stage. The brothers go quiet, too, but they take their cue from the prez and their asses stay in their seats. At the bar, Pete stands within reach of his shotgun and braces his big hands on the counter. He scowls out over us all, but it’s just more of his growly bullshit. The Riders can be rowdy, but we treat the girls and the place with respect. If shit gets broken, we’ll pay for it. Pete knows he won’t get that from every MC. He practically kissed the prez when the Riders ran the Eighty-Eight out of this place.

I’m already standing by Saxon as the Hangmen come in, so I just straighten away from his ear and step to the side.

Croc walks ahead of the other Hangmen. Mid-forties, tough and weathered, he’s a stone cold bastard. Jack never says much about the work he does for the club but when the Hangmen rolled into the area, he took a trip down to Vegas to look at their mother chapter. To see what sort of MC they came from.

And he found that the Hangmen call each other brothers, but it’s all business, not family. You do your job and prove yourself useful, or you find yourself with a bullet in your skull.

I prefer the kind of ship that Saxon’s running. Our prez is a mean motherfucker, but if one of the brothers falls, he’ll see that the club helps pick him up.

Right now, the prez is just sitting easy, watching Croc come. Not even bothering to size the other man up, the way Croc is looking at him. Maybe Croc has heard that the last time Saxon met another MC’s prez at the Barracks, the other man limped away missing three of his fingers.

There’s always a party going down at this strip joint.

And Jack’s missing it. A quick scan of the floor tells me he’s taken off. Maybe heading outside to make sure there aren’t another two dozen Hangmen waiting down the road a bit.

As Jack predicted, Tumble and Hunter take the door, blocking the exit. A classic intimidation tactic. Stone taught it to me when we shook down a meth dealer last summer. You put either your biggest men or your most heavily armed men by the exit. The people inside feel like they can’t get out, can’t expect help—so they feel trapped, controlled. Then it doesn’t matter how many men you send in, because by controlling the door, you give the impression of controlling the whole room.

It’s all a mental thing. But all this shit is mental right now. As Valentine passes Gunner’s table, the sergeant at arms calls out, “Hey, Valentine! You back to get your ass kicked by Zoomie again?”

Usually I hate the “you must be a wimp if a
girl
kicked your ass” crap but it’s damn effective against dickholes like Valentine. Though he looked cocky as hell walking in, now the little shit’s face reddens. He turns to the side and throws his arms wide, as if inviting Gunner to take him on, but before he can open his mouth Creek claps him on the shoulder and keeps him moving forward.

Croc and his veep seem to ignore the drama behind them. The veep is young, probably too young for the position, but Jack says his dad’s got big connections in Vegas. He’s a petulant fuck who goes by Sherlock. That just makes me hate him more. I’m pretty sure the only time the Hangmen’s veep pulled out a magnifying glass was to fry bugs with it, and that he probably couldn’t detect shit at the end of his nose.

Another dickhole. I bet he and Valentine have become good friends.

Croc glances at me standing by the prez’s side. Saxon’s got a little smile that says,
This is all real fucking amusing,
so I’m wearing the same smile. I let my gaze slide from Croc’s head to the toes of his boots.

I’ve only seen him on his bike. Turns out, I’m just a bit taller. He’s heavy with muscle and outweighs me by half my body weight, but he notices the height difference at the same time.

Widening my smile, I give him a saucy wink.

Jaw clenching, Croc glances away from me and looks pointedly to the other chairs at Saxon’s table. Obviously waiting for the prez to order the Riders sitting around the table to clear out, so that he can sit. Not gonna happen. The old-timers are sitting at Saxon’s table tonight. The prez would offer his own seat before asking them to give up theirs—especially to some asshole who is showing him disrespect by coming to the Barracks without an invite.

But assholes like Croc don’t see it as disrespecting our club. Instead they figure we’re so far below them that they’re the ones being disrespected when we don’t immediately bend over and spread our cheeks.

And Croc’s pissed. But it’s cold, so the anger only shows in the tightness of his jaw, the gleam in his eyes.

Saxon enjoys every second. He lets the silence drag out, takes a drink like he’s got nothing better to do. Finally he sets down his beer and glances over at me. “You hear a word out of him yet, Zoomie?”

“No, boss,” I say. “I guess he’s just here to waste your time.”

“Do I have time to waste?”

“Not tonight, boss. You’re real busy watching the dancers shake their tits.”

“That’s right.” His steady gaze is on Croc’s face, but he’s not smiling with amusement now. Instead he’s wearing the look that gave him his name. The Wolf. “So he’d best stop waiting for an invitation and tell me what the fuck he wants.”

If Croc’s raging inside, he’s got the anger under control. Instead he appears as easy as Saxon did before. Either damn confident or just good at pretending he is.

His voice is deep, with a smoker’s rasp. “Valentine here tells us this property used to be the Eighty-Eight’s.”

The prez nods. “Used to.”

“And what was once the Eighty-Eight’s is ours now. So you see where I’m going.”

“I see. And now I ought to see your asses heading back out the door, because your boy Valentine got it wrong. This here’s the county line.” Saxon draws his finger across the table. “This side’s all the Eighty-Eight’s territory—yours now. And on this side is the Riders’ territory, with the Barracks right here. So it’s real simple. You stay on your side. We’ll stay on ours.”

“Real simple,” Croc says, but it isn’t agreement. “We can make sure it stays that way.”

The prez takes another drink, studying him over the length of the bottle. “Since you’re here now, I guess you’re not real good at staying on your side.”

“No.”

“So what do you propose?”

There’s genuine curiosity in Saxon’s voice. I know he doesn’t have any intention of giving up the Barracks. Just wondering how Croc will move forward.

Croc doesn’t pussyfoot. “We’ll give the Riders a week to clear out.”

The prez’s eyebrows shoot up. “You call that a proposal?”

“It’s one you should take.” The other man’s gaze hardens. “We’re proposing to keep relations amiable. Neither one of us wants to lose any men.”

Because Croc wants the Riders’ members to bolster his ranks. But I’m guessing he’ll sacrifice some on both sides if necessary.

The prez knows it, too. There’s steel in his voice as he says, “I think you’d best turn tail out the door before I forget to be amiable now. You’ve fucked up, coming here.”

“I don’t think so.” When Croc smiles, it’s easy to imagine how he got his name. There’s no humor. It’s just a steel trap. “Next week, you’ll be offering me a seat. Then you’ll be offering to suck my dick.”

Holy fuck. The way every Rider just pulled in a breath I don’t know how there isn’t a windstorm raging through the joint. But although half of the brothers are out of their seats, although my own fists are clenched and I’m ready to take the fucker out, Saxon just grins and holds up his hand.

“Just let him walk out,” he says. “We can be amiable, too.”

No one wants to. But they sit, and when Croc turns to go, I want to smash the smugness off his face. Like he’s thinking that Saxon just backed down.

But the prez didn’t. Did he? He wouldn’t.

So why the fuck is he letting Croc walk away?

I realize exactly what’s happened at the same time Croc’s smooth stride hitches through a single step.

The two Hangmen at the doors are gone. Not waiting outside. Not knocked out on the floor. Just fucking gone.

And Saxon’s making their prez walk through those doors, knowing Croc can’t say shit. Knowing there’s nothing he can do that won’t make him look weak. Two men gone and he can’t ask what the hell we did to them, because whatever happened, it happened right under his nose, and he didn’t see or hear a damn thing. None of his men saw or heard a damn thing.

Jesus Christ. How could they? I was
facing
that direction and didn’t notice a damn thing, either.

But now I know where Jack went.

Jack

Killing’s easy. It’s what comes after that’s a pain in the ass—making sure the kill doesn’t come back on you. Years ago, before I was ever sent on a single mission, that lesson was drilled into me.
Clean up after yourself. If the kill comes back on you, it’ll come back on the country. Protect the flag. Protect the president. Don’t leave any trace.

What I do for the Riders is the same. The colors just aren’t red, white, and blue anymore.

I roll by Lily’s place when I drive back into town. The sky’s already pink. She’ll be getting up and heading out for a run soon. Five miles on a Sunday, plus at least an hour of sparring in the gym this afternoon. I’ve joined her on a few of those runs in the past few weeks, and for the past few years, I’ve scheduled my workouts to match hers. I’d wait for her to wake up now, run alongside her, but I’m on fumes and covered in the dirt of a night’s work. I have to wash away the trace first, so it can’t come back on her. My dick can wait until tonight.

Except my cock’s not on fumes. Just the thought of sliding into the silky heat between her thighs leaves me aching and stiff on the drive home. In the shower, I don’t even soap away all the trace before fisting my dick. Just a few hard strokes, remembering Lily’s taste, remembering her full lips wrapped around my shaft, and I fucking blow, milky strands of cum mixing with the dirt swirling down the drain.

I chase it with a gallon of bleach and hit the sheets.

• • •

I’ve only been up about ten minutes when I hear a handful of bikes in the lot below. Most of the Riders run Harleys, and if they don’t have the bike then they’ve got the engine. None of them straddle the new Thunder Stroke V-Twin, which is what I’m hearing now.

But I’ve heard it before.

Croc. Val’s with him. So is Creek.

Creek’s a potential threat. Val’s an annoying shit. Croc’s just interesting. Last month he sent his enforcer to put a bullet in my head. Now I suspect he’s coming to make an offer. That’s a hell of a turnaround.

Most likely, he’s feeling the pinch of losing two enforcers and a piece of muscle. Maybe he’ll end up ordering his men to kill me again. But he can’t afford to do that without trying to recruit me first.

My kutte fits easy over my shoulders, my weapon snug in its harness. Wearing both is just habit; I’m not worried that any shit’s about to go down. My auto shop is just off the corner of the busiest intersection in town, and my apartment sits above the auto shop. Even now, families are driving by in their minivans, most of them heading to the church a little farther down the block. Others have parked on the street and are making their way along the sidewalks in their Sunday best. Pretty soon they won’t be able to find any spaces and they’ll start filling up the east end of my lot. So even with the shithead factor added in, there’s no chance Croc’s going to kill me in the next thirty minutes.

He’s looking at my ride, instead. “Beautiful. You restore her yourself?”

I did. And he’s buttering me up. Maybe he thinks a little flattery will sway me—but then, he doesn’t know I’m aware he sent Tank after me last month, or that I killed three of his men.

Bottom line: He doesn’t know who the fuck he’s talking to. I’d never walk let my prez walk into a similar situation. If I don’t know exactly what type of person he’ll be dealing with then I go alone.

Behind him, Valentine’s got his chest puffed up. The important new brother with all the info on the local MC.

He doesn’t know shit. Fortunately the one Hangman who might be able to tell Croc what I am can’t reveal it without exposing himself.

Creek’s just watching us. He knows exactly what happened to the two Hangmen last night, but he won’t say a word. Probably he’s been downplaying his own talents for years, or else he would have already been in the enforcer’s position. Otherwise I can’t figure why Croc hasn’t appointed him there yet. Lack of trust, maybe. Or maybe Creek pissed off someone in the mother chapter and Croc’s playing his cards carefully.

He’s playing these carefully, too. When I don’t answer, he takes a long look around the property. “It’s a nice setup you got here. Valentine tells me you pull in a hefty amount of business.”

“Valentine says a lot,” I tell him. “But I’ve never heard him say anything worth listening to.”

Croc enjoys that. Valentine doesn’t. I don’t give a fuck what either of them feel.

When he’s done chuckling, Croc starts getting around to it. “Maybe you should have listened. He has good things to say about you. He says that you’re a resourceful man. That you get your prez anything he needs. Namely, information.”

“Like I said, nothing worth listening to.”

“What I have to say is. Because I could use a man like you.”

Fair enough. “And if you were my prez, I’d find you one. But since you aren’t, I’ll just tell you good luck searching.”

His faint smile tightens. “I figure I’ve found him—and that you’ll come around to my way of thinking once we talk about the benefits to you. Because a man with an established business could be useful. There’s things you can do no one would question.”

Like cycling cash through my books. Like taking in cargo and letting it sit in my garage. Like changing VINs and repainting vehicles.

“I got all the business I want to handle,” I tell him.

“I’d see you get a hefty cut.”

If I gave a crap about money I wouldn’t be puttering around engines every day. “I’m still not hearing anything worth listening to.”

Behind him, Valentine starts blowing some hot air.
Fucking asshole. Watch your mouth.
Some more, but I stop listening to it. It’s all shit that he wouldn’t have the balls to say if we were alone.

After a second, Croc turns and gives Val a look, shutting him up. I’ve seen that before. Croc lets his boys shoot their mouths off so he can appear calm, even. But those boys are just saying what he wants to say.

Last time, they were all saying Lily fucked her way into the club.

His gaze falls to my name patch. “Blowback,” he reads. “That’s what they call it when something you do blows back on you, isn’t it? Like pissing into the wind.”

Considering I’m what comes after someone if they’ve pissed on the club, it’s close enough. But I don’t need a lesson in my own name. And I don’t know which face I’m wearing,
Don’t fuck with me
or
I don’t give a shit
, but they both seem like answer enough.

Croc only wants one answer, though, and it’s not the one I’m giving. “Now, I think that makes you the perfect example to show everyone what ‘blowback’ really means. So that everyone can see the consequences of what saying ‘No’ might be. Consequences like… Well, let’s see. If your business isn’t useful to me, then it’s not useful at all. So maybe seeing that will persuade you. Or maybe my boys will have a conversation with the dyke you’ve been fucking, and that’ll bring you around.”

“There’s no rivers around here,” I say and in my head I’m ripping out his fucking tongue. “But I know of a dike on the Klamath. I never fucked it, though. I’ve just buried a few body parts there.”

“No, you dipshit,” Valentine breaks in. “He means—”

“He knows what it means.” Creek’s watching me warily. Because he knows what it means, too. Croc threatened Lily. So the Devil’s Hangmen are going to need a new prez pretty soon. “He’s joking.”

“Good. I like a man with a sense of humor.” Croc claps my shoulder and before heading back to his bike. He straddles his ride and says, “I’ll be seeing you at the Barracks next weekend. So why don’t you think about it until then.”

I’m thinking about it.

I’m thinking he needs to learn exactly what ‘blowback’ means.

And I’m thinking that, bet or no bet, it’ll be a miracle if Lily ever lets me touch her again.

So I’d better get one last night in.

• • •

Lily

On my way.

Jack’s message buzzes through my phone just before ten. Sharp relief replaces the tension I was pretending not to feel while staring at the TV.

Then the relief fades and I’m staring at my TV again with a dull ache climbing through my chest.
On my way.
He doesn’t say how far away he is, but with all the shit Croc stirred up today, I’m guessing he was probably out at the ranch meeting with the prez and the message came through as he hit the road. Twenty minutes away, then. Late, but I’m surprised he’s coming at all.

Not because he missed the last few days. After last night, I knew he’d come. I expected him earlier, actually—maybe showing up before I headed to the gym or while I was there.

It was while sparring with Gunner that I heard how busy the Hangmen have been, trying to make friends with at least a half dozen Riders. Telling them no harm will come to their houses or families if they just stand down on Saturday night, and to let the others do the fighting. A little later I got notice from the Riders’ secretary that the prez was calling every patchholder in for a meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. So I assumed Jack was still working, visiting all the club members, seeing if they’ve had any visits from the Hangmen and arranging extra protection for their families.

Now he’s on his way.

But it’s nothing. Just a hookup.

I keep telling myself that. I told myself that the first night, too. Told myself he only wanted to fuck me so he could tear me down, and I was determined to make him regret that he’d trapped me into following through on a stupid, drunken bet.

But tonight is nothing like that first night. My feelings were so mixed up then—wanting him, pissed at him, hurt that he’d forced his way into my bed when he could have just asked and I’d have let him in.

That hurt was nothing compared to the thick pain rising in me now. I keep trying to ignore it, to push it down, but it’s filling all the empty spaces that ripped open when our last night passed and he didn’t show.

I can’t ignore this pain though. So I’ll just fuck it away. I’ve done it before. Jesus, half the time, that’s what hookups are
for
.

So that’s what this will be. That’s all it will be.

I just need to take control. Easy enough. In the living room, I strip off my shirt and toss it on the floor. My bra drops in the kitchen. My jeans on the stairs leading to my room.

Leaving a trail for him to follow.

My front door is locked, but that never stopped Jack. After he knocks once, he waits about a minute before breaking in. I don’t mind. I just wish he wasn’t so damn quiet, because even though I knew he was coming, all of a sudden he’s there, big and dangerous and filling up the entrance to my bedroom. Desire makes his eyes burn like hot coals as he takes in the sight of me waiting in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but a scrap of black lace.

His voice is rough. “Christ, Lily. You’re so—”

“No.” I stop him before he can get another word out. “You don’t get to talk tonight, either. We’re just going to fuck.”

Of course he doesn’t listen. Of course he has to make it a fight. So he opens his mouth and I’m on him. A kiss shuts him up but Jack fucking Hayden is never easily beaten. He groans as I lick past his teeth, take a hot taste of his tongue, then his fingers tangle in my loose hair, yanking my head back, and he’s biting my throat, the little nips beneath my jaw that drive me crazy.

God, yes. Just like this. Hard and rough, with my panties already drenched and the iron rod of his cock digging into my stomach. There’s no pain now. Not while I’m touching him. There’s only need.

With urgent fingers, I grip his T-shirt and drag it over his head. I knock his hands away when he reaches for his belt. When my hands take their place, slowly drawing the leather through the buckle, his body stills and his gaze locks on my face.

Jesus, he’s such a beautiful man. I could look at him forever. When I’m with women, I don’t have a type, unless that type is ‘everyone.’ But with guys, I definitely prefer big and rugged and a little bit deadly.

Jack punches all of my happy buttons. God, he punches them so hard. Hard enough that I’m almost dizzy with it sometimes.

Dizzy with it now, I rise onto my toes. He knows what I want, his strong fingers gripping my ass, hauling me against his solid chest. His mouth crashes down on mine. He devours me like a man starving, until I have to pull back, gasping for breath.

My skin burns from the scrape of his whiskered jaw. More than a day’s growth, as if he didn’t have a chance to shave this morning. Maybe he didn’t even have time to sleep. Not after taking care of the two men who’d vanished from the Barrack’s entrance last night.

Jack isn’t just a
little bit
deadly. And holy fuck, that makes my body sing.

Everything does. Still holding me against him, he’s quiet, just watching me as I trail my fingers along the breadth of his shoulders. His torso is stacked with muscle, his arms roped with steely strength. Ink covers the left side of his chest, a hellish illustration with demons swallowing the names of his mother and father. His brother’s name bleeds. All the shit that hurts him is on his left side and there’s hardly an inch not covered colored in. Only the Riders’ logo and part of a lily decorate the right side. The only things that feel good.

I’d tattoo his chest on my right side. I’d tattoo the feel of his warm skin and hard muscle beneath my palms. I’d tattoo the pounding of his heart, the stiffness of his cock, the heat of his mouth. I’d tattoo the whisker burn on my chin, knowing my inner thighs will soon have the same burn, because Jack is always hungry and rough and won’t leave any of my pussy untasted and unfucked.

But I’m always hungry, too.

The rasp of his zipper is loud in the silence, parting the denim straining over his erection. Slowly I slide my hand in and grip his meaty shaft. A vicious shudder rips through his big body before he goes absolutely still.

Jack always goes rigid when I touch him. When I take him into my mouth. As if he’s afraid any movement will make me disappear.

I’m not going anywhere but the bed. With my hand wrapped around his cock, I pull him in that direction—leading Jack by his dick, his jeans open and his belt hanging loosely around his hips.