Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (26 page)

In protecting her, he’d fallen for her. His throat closed off and a jackhammer started up in his head. As he stood and lurched to the bathroom, he tried to make out the time of day. The fundraiser was still going strong outside. Music, laughter, and bike engines.

He splashed water on his face, raked droplets through his hair, and then stared at his reflection. Red eyes, creased face. Unshaven. He looked dangerous, and Delta deserved a pretty boy.

I wanted to give her a helmet. Make her mine.

Madness whirled, gaining in strength like a tornado ripping across flatland. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face and hands. Before he knew his brain had commanded him to walk outside, he was there, the bag of money he’d taken off the Russian in hand.

Chief Rhodes was hanging with the sweet butt Morgan, and Jamison had a group of brothers laughing.

As Drake passed, Jamison raised his jaw in invitation. Drake came forward and thrust the bag into the center of the knot. “Burn this. It’s counterfeit.”

Ace accepted the bag but didn’t unzip it.

“And this,” Drake fished a packet from his cut, “was the money our
prez
took from a Raider in exchange for a bag of our own fucking prescription drugs.”

Jamison’s eyes bulged. “Say that again, bro?”

“You heard me.” Drake met his VP’s gaze. “It’s time for that vote.”

With that, he turned and walked away, strolling through the parking lot that had been transformed into a fair midway. Food, games. MC kids ran by with balloons. He followed the sultry notes of the woman singing and found Delta on a high stool with a crowd around her.

He stopped dead, but his heart continued the forward momentum and crashed into his ribs. Her eyes were closed, plump lips parted as soul-stealing notes trickled out.

Drake couldn’t breathe. While overseas, he’d wanted nothing but to get home alive. Go home and make something of himself. All he’d done was screw himself up more and drink too goddamn much.

Turner stood near Delta, thumb hitched in his pocket, young and whole.

Drake pivoted on his heel and strode back to the building, fighting the need to roar. An ache in his heart was worse than any ghost limb. He’d left part of himself with Delta, and it was going to hurt for a motherfucking long time.

Maybe forever.

He needed Scotch.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the mass of black moving fast across the lot. Jamison and the crew. Drake swung his gaze up, ignoring the swirling of his brain. He fixed his attention on Strother.

The battle cry sounded—from him. He rocketed forward, shoving through people, right through the knot of Sons, and propelled his body right into Strother’s.

They flew backward, striking the concrete, Drake flattening his prez. He barely had a moment to regain his breath before Drake slammed a fist into his stomach. Women squealed and people skittered away.

Knowing it was justice, the Sons stood back and watched. As Drake beat the hell out of the man who was supposed to lead them, they began to cheer.

Drake drove his fists into Strother’s nose, jaw, teeth, stomach. His knuckles split and burned, but he clung to the pain because it was war. Just like shooting those Russians. Just like blowing that van.

No, his world was too harsh for someone like Delta. She’d lived through bad shit, and he wasn’t going to add to it.

Strother’s head lolled to the side. Fucking unconscious. He needed to wake back up and feel the pain. Drake cocked his fist.

Hands grabbed at him, hauled him off the limp body. He could barely see through the rage still pounding his system.

“It’s done, bro,” Jamison said. “Ace, Harris, get his body. Make sure his hands and feet are tied so if he wakes up, he can’t escape. Put him in the warehouse until after the vote.”

Drake raised his head, his gaze catching on Delta. Her eyes were wide, her hand pressed to her mouth. Her shoulders heaved, and Turner slipped an arm around them.

Clenching his bruised and bloodied fists, Drake started forward, a new target in sight.

An iron arm locked around his shoulders, but Jamison could barely hold him. Two Sons dragged him back as a wild scream sounded. A figure streaked across the lot and launched at Delta.

She skidded to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

“No!” Drake threw himself at them just as Delta got the upper hand. She rolled over Trina, got her on her back, hitched up a leg, and dug her high heel into the woman’s forearm to keep her from throwing a punch.

Trina’s other hand broke free of Delta’s hand grip, and she viciously yanked her hair. Dark strands fell. Drake’s gaze locked to them.

A growl left him, primitive and frightening even to him. He threw himself forward. Delta’s little fist darted out and landed squarely in Trina’s eye.

Drake got ahold of Delta and lifted her off, too aware of how perfect she fit against him even if she was kicking to get away.

“Let go of me, you jerk!” She bucked, and he released her. The women were there, swallowing her in their group, bearing her off.

Jamison gestured to Rocket and Bunky. “Tie Strother’s old lady up too. Their reign in the club has come to an end.”

By the time they were all seated at the big table with Jamison at the end, Drake was too damn sober for his liking. Every throb of his heart reverberated through his head, and he felt bruised on the inside.

The easy relationship he and Delta had built in the past few days…that was a city burned to ash. He’d fucking blown it up.

It was for the best.

“You all heard what Drake said about Strother.” Jamison looked from brother to brother. “We’ve known for a while he’s bad for the club. He lost it after his son died, and his leadership needs to end. Let’s put it to vote. In favor of Strother being patched out.”

Hands extended into the air, Drake’s included.

“Unanimous vote. Strother is out.”

“I move to vote Jamison into the prez chair,” Drake said. “All in favor.”

Hands shot up. Jamison grinned. “Unanimous vote. I’ll do right by you, brothers.”

Several whoops and some fists slamming on the table in congratulations. When it died down, Drake said, “We need another vote. You said yourself, Jamison, Strother isn’t a man who can just lose his patch. He’s a Lifer and he will not stop interfering with club business. Something needs to be done.”

All were grim. They knew. Jamison knew.

“We can’t go that far, bro. We just need to stress Strother’s need to take his old lady and get the fuck out of Heller’s Gap. Out of Alabama period.”

Drake raised a brow. “And if he comes back? Starts shit with the Raiders again and fucks things up for the Sons?”

“We’ll deal with it then. Hell’s Sons do not harm unless absolutely necessary.”

“It’s fucking necessary. He sent your woman into the enemy unprotected. He made comments about wanting my woman in his bed, which started a bunch of shit.” Images of Delta’s long hair falling from Trina’s fingers leaped into his head. “He sold our prescription drugs to the Raiders and pretended he was onto some new beef with them so he could rile us up. He deserves a different kind of goodbye.”

Jamison bowed his head over his steepled fingers for a moment. “All in favor?”

A few hands. Not enough.

“My way is the only way,” Jamison said. “Strother is escorted to the border and nothing more. If he comes back, we deal with him then.” He eyed Drake.

Drake nodded. They all stood, but Jamison called him back.

He paused, hanging around while the guys thumped their new prez on the back and embraced him. When the door closed, Jamison sat on the edge of the table. Drake folded his arms and waited.

“What the fuck’s going on, bro?”

Drake pushed a breath through his nostrils. “Business as usual.”

“Working for the club twelve hours a day and getting sloshed for the other twelve?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t even realize what you said about Delta, do you?”

At the mention of her name, Drake’s heart did that staccato he’d come to associate with her. He wet his lips. He needed a goddamn drink.

Jamison went on, not waiting for his reply. “You said Strother made comments about wanting ‘my woman’ in his bed.”

Drake swallowed hard. Yeah, he’d said that. He’d believed himself a dumbass after the bike accident that had taken his leg, but now… He shook his head.

“What’s holding you back? She’s crazy about you.”

Drake’s gaze shot up and he clenched his jaw. “It’s lust. Nothing more.”

“That’s how it happened between me and Ever. We wanted each other bad, and the rest came along.”

“It can’t be that way for me and Delta.” Even linking them together in a sentence raised a hot lump in his throat.

Jamison clamped a hand on his folded arm. “You need to think harder before you dismiss everything.”

“I can’t keep her safe,” he blurted.

Confusion settled on Jamison’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“The Russian. When we bombed the feds’ van—I didn’t scout the area and Vasily was there. Delta saw him, and she got that girl out of the car and into hiding. I didn’t know. If she’d been taken—killed—” his voice roughened “—I wouldn’t have known who to fucking kill in revenge.”

“This is about you not protecting her?”

“Yeah.”

“You got her away from the fucking Raiders. We all know what she endured there. You saved her from the Russians twice. You’ve done a pretty damn good job of keeping her safe.”

“The Raiders are still after her.”

“Yeah, and we’ll handle it.”

The door opened, and they looked up to see Ace and Chief Rhodes.

“What’s up?” Jamison asked.

“The feds are holding a suspect for the van bombing. They’re also holding him on counterfeit money charges.”

“Vasily,” Drake said.

“Yes.” Ace threw the bag of money on the table. “It’s not all counterfeit. We sorted it and handed over the printed money to the Heller’s Gap police chief.”

Rhodes waggled his brows, grinning.

“And the rest belongs to the club.”

“How much is there?” Jamison asked.

“Two hundred grand,” Ace said slowly.

Jamison whistled through his teeth and Drake shook his head. To think he’d told them to burn it. “I say we use the money wisely then. Ten grand to the chief?”

Ace and Drake nodded. Rhodes made a fist and jerked his elbow back in a display of victory.

“Then half goes to the club. We could use some renovations.”

“Agreed.”

“And the rest goes to Ever’s charity.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Ace said.

“Don’t tell her. I want to do it.” Jamison arched a brow, and they all knew his news would land him in bed with a very happy woman.

Drake started out, and Jamison called, “Drake.”

He turned.

“Don’t be so goddamn hard on yourself, man. You might have a robotic leg, but you’re human.”

•●•

Delta’s feet ached. After a long day in those boots, walking miles back and forth through the parking lot to help make Ever’s fundraiser a success, she welcomed the lawn chair Turner unfolded for her.

Sinking into it, she accepted a bottled water with a smile. He was going to make someone a good mate. Just not her.

Her heart was chained to a man who was on a downward spiral, determined to punish himself for things that were probably out of his control. Time spent in combat, friends killed. None of it his fault, and that had started his affair with alcohol. Now something else had driven him to the bottle again, but she didn’t want to know what it was.

She was going to find her own path.

Ever took the microphone and reached into a basket to draw a slip of paper. She read a number, and applause went up for the winner of a gift certificate. Next she called a spa weekend for two donated by a local business, and Bunky was the winner.

The burly biker strutted forward to much hooting and hollering. His old lady giggled, and after he’d accepted his certificate, he swept the woman off her feet, bent her over his arm, and laid a kiss on her.

Delta clapped with the rest, but her heart felt like a stone. Heavy, hard. The man she loved was inside, pickling his liver.

He wasn’t fighting for her—for them. Maybe the tender looks he’d given her after lovemaking had been her imagination. She was only a tight pussy and pretty clothes to him.