Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (10 page)

Moonshine with Shep.

The memory of last night washed over Pretty Boy, a flood of sensation and arousal sweeping through his gut.

What the fuck had he been thinking? How many times had he told himself not to push this? Just because Shep was attracted to him—the thought left his mouth dry—that didn't mean he wanted to act on it. Except… he'd asked Shep so many times if he wanted to stop.

He laced his fingers over the back of his neck, squeezing the muscles there as hot water pounded down his back. He couldn't shake the guilt. Truth was, at heart, Pretty Boy was a manipulator. The better he knew a person, the easier it was to push their buttons, sway their decisions, an invisible influence.

And he'd pushed Shep's buttons. Hell, he'd encouraged him to get drunk.

Pretty Boy felt like an asshole. But the guilt couldn't tamp down his body's reaction to the memories. The feel of Shep in his hands, the sharp hunger in his kisses, the unholy sounds he’d made while writhing underneath him. The reverent way he’d whispered, "Noah." How he'd looked, all just-been-fucked hair and mussed clothing, panting and wrecked, pupils blown, staring up at him before he could gather himself back together.

He reached down, jerking himself over the shower drain, the warm water didn’t make him feel any cleaner. He remembered the soft steel of Shep's cock in his hands, smooth and hard and
his.
The way he'd lost control, surrendered and consumed, shaking as he spurted into Pretty Boy's hands. He groaned as the orgasm built in his lower back, rolling through his hips and coiling in his balls. He thought about Shep's tongue thrusting into his mouth, his ragged gasp of 'Noah' echoing in his ears and came so hard, his knees wobbled.

By the time he’d recovered, the water had run cold. He climbed out, not bothering to dry off with the towel before he slung it around his hips and padded out into his living room. His doublewide was nicer than most, because his father had been the on-site manager of the trailer park. Nobody else wanted the job, so Pretty Boy had taken over with a sizable pay cut, but free utilities.

He made coffee, rolled a blunt and walked out the faux French doors onto his patio. His lot was surrounded by a six foot privacy fence and butted up against the woods surrounding the park. Just behind the fence, he grew his main source of income. Which smelled delicious right now. He inhaled deeply, holding it while he sipped his coffee and exhaling in a smooth stream. He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen up.

His phone buzzed, the notification sound—the ring of a bell between rounds of a fight—echoed through the morning.

Balls.
How long had he been ignoring his phone? Had he missed some prospect shit?

But the text was from Etta.

Did you ask him yet?

No, he'd gotten distracted by giving Shep a handjob.
Goddammit.

I'll do it today.
He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. As much as he wanted the excuse to check the status of their relationship, the idea of getting Shep to come over here for this made him want to dry heave.
Text you when it’s a good time.

He cracked his knuckles, then tossed the phone back and forth between his hands as he considered. He could text.

If he was a fucking coward.

His hand shook a little as he searched Shep's name in his contacts, fingers going numb when it started ringing.

"Yeah?" Shep's voice sounded somehow both wry and wary.

"I got something I gotta talk to you about,
VP."
He emphasized the title to convey this was club business. Not personal. "Can you swing by Hades in an hour?"

"What's this about?"

He swallowed hard. Letting Shep walk in blind would put him in the wrong mood to consider Etta’s request. He had to give him a heads up. "You remember Etta Jameson?"

"Your old social worker?"

"She has a proposal for the club that could actually get us some good PR—maybe keep the FBI off our backs." Pretty Boy paced back and forth, but tried to keep his voice steady. "But she also has a favor to ask and I don't think you're going to like it."

"I appreciate the honesty."

"Just hear her out, please Shep?" He asked softly. "You know what she did for me. Help me come through for her, just a little."

Shep's exhale crackled through the phone. "Fine. One hour. You, me and her. Got it?"

"Got it." He gave a sigh of relief. "See you then."

He grabbed the cleanest clothes of his floor, hopped on his Harley and tore ass out of the trailer park. Pretty Boy's stomach stayed in knots the whole way there. When he arrived, Etta stood outside the restaurant doors, smoking a cigarette and probably keeping an eye out for him so she didn't have to face the big, bad bikers alone. Shep's bike wasn't in the parking lot. He pulled next to her and parked, flashing her a tight smile.

"Thank you for doing this," she said, eyes wide with sincerity.

"Don't even mention it." He waited while she stubbed out her smoke. "Let's get some coffee."

She nodded. In a few minutes, they were settled at a corner booth, half hidden by a thick column. Two plates piled high with fluffy, perfect scrambled eggs, dark, crispy bacon and seared wheat toast sat in front of them and Etta sighed blissfully as she took her first bite.

"I didn't order this," she said, taking a sip of her steaming coffee.

"Doesn't really matter." Pretty Boy shrugged, gripping his coffee cup just a little too tightly as he kept an eye out over her shoulder for Shep.

"Honey, why do you look more nervous than I do right now?" Etta put her fork down and covered his and with hers. "Did something happen … between you and Shep?"

Someone cleared his throat beside the table and Pretty Boy looked up. Voo's grin assured him he'd heard the question. "How's the food?"

"Amazing," Pretty Boy said, his voice an octave lower than he'd expected it to be.

Voo leaned his hip against the side of the booth closest to Pretty Boy. "So who is this delicious soufflé you've brought with you, Pretty Boy?"

"Pretty Boy?" Etta mouthed at him.

He winked at her. "Can't argue with the truth."

"I'm Etta Jameson." She held her hand out to shake Voo's, but he lifted her fingers to brush his lips across her knuckles instead.

"A pleasure, ma'am." Voo grinned. "They call me Voo. And how do you know our delinquent little heart-breaker?"

"She was my social worker before I got emancipated." He grabbed his fork, hoping if he stuffed his face, he'd get asked fewer questions. Only delaying the inevitable; Voo was a master interrogator. After you spilled your guts to him, he'd make you think it was your idea the whole time. Screw the Spanish Inquisition, they had nothing on smooth talking Creole sonofabitch.

"I introduced him to Shep," Etta added, draining the last of her coffee. Her eyes widened as she took in Pretty Boy's poorly hidden wince. Facilitating too many group therapy sessions had made Etta a little more open with the past than Pretty Boy liked. "Was I not supposed to say that?"

"No, it's fine." Pretty Boy swallowed. "She sent me to the youth center he volunteered at, when he was still in seminary school. The day we met, I got jumped by a group of guys on the way over. I was already selling weed, and they knew I was carrying drugs and money."

Voo whistled lowly.

"Shep cleaned me up and then … he just kind of kept looking out for me."

"Speak of the devil." Voo straightened up, nodding towards the corner window. "I'll grab some more coffee."

Yeah, coffee with sugar and a splash of eavesdropping.

Etta snagged Pretty Boy's hand under the table and whispered, "You were totally right. I was completely picturing having sex with him."

He grinned. "Wait 'till you try one of his desserts."

The bell over the door jangled as Shep stepped inside the diner. He strolled over to them, taking off his shades and tucking them into the inside pocket of his cut. He had on leather pants, riding boots, a faded thin gray t-shirt and his cut. He'd actually bothered to rub some kind of product in his hair, because it was sticking up more than usual. His Four Horsemen tattoo peeked from under his shirt sleeve.

Etta's mouth hung open. "Are you fracking kidding me?"

"Nope," Pretty Boy whispered.

Shep grabbed a chair from the closest table, spun it around and sat on it backwards. The scent of his aftershave wafted over Pretty Boy as Shep pulled up to the table and braced his arms on the back. Shep raised a brow, noticing her blatant appraisal and smirked. "Hello Etta. It's good to see you, too."

She blushed. "It’s been a long time. You’ve changed a lot."

The casual observer might think Shep gave two shits what people thought of him.

Most of the time, they'd be right. But Pretty Boy wasn't a casual observer.

He knew how much Shep hated talking to people who knew him pre-Horsemen. The swagger, the insolent smirk, the amused eyes—it all masked a fear of judgment Pretty Boy didn't think Shep would ever shake. Figured the only guardian angel willing to give his ass the time of day considered himself fallen.

Voo appeared with a coffee refill and a frosty Dr. Pepper for Shep, then started fucking bussing tables behind them like he hadn't made Dash p\come in at the ass-crack of dawn for that very job.

Shep's eyes flickered to Pretty Boy's face. His breath shallowed, but in the next instant, he was looking at Etta expectantly. "So, what can the fine, upstanding gentlemen of the Four Horsemen Motor Cycle club can do for you?"

She pitched her whole biker protecting abused children program, while Pretty Boy forced himself to put some toast down his gullet. Shep sipped his soda, then nodded readily. "That's … a great idea, actually. We could use some good press and it's a worthy cause. I'll call it to a vote."

Etta smiled, but worry crinkled her eyes.

"Now, the other part," Shep encouraged softly.

"Other part?" Etta squeaked, gripping her coffee cup.

"The part I'm not going to like, but should hear you out on." Shep's gaze flicked to Pretty Boy's face.

Their eyes met and Pretty Boy felt his flesh heat, his pulse speeding. For a second, he wondered if what he and Shep had done in Perdition was written on his forehead. He didn't usually mind bumping into last night's hook-up the morning after. But then, it had never mattered to him before what the person thought of him the next day. Or
if
the person thought of him the next day.

He shifted in his seat, heat building in his cheeks as Etta looked at him nervously. "Sorry Etta, but with Shep's its better to shoot straight."

She told him about the boy and his situation.

Pretty Boy took a hard breath. "I've got a plan. If I can get the guy in the ring, I can put him in the hospital long enough for his kid to get some space. And we can use the prize money to set him up someplace safe."

The muscle in Shep's jaw jumped. "This is why you wanted to schedule a prize fight for the Rally?"

He swallowed, ignoring Etta's curious stare. "It is, but that's not the part you're going to object to."

"The hell I'm not," he gritted out. For a second he locked eyes with Pretty Boy, throat working as he forced himself to breathe. Then he sat back. "What
is
the part I'm going to object to?"

"Etta, if you don't mind, Shep and I are going to step outside for a smoke while I fill him on the rest, okay darlin'?" Pretty Boy knew his fake smile wouldn't fool either of them. But he jumped up, praying Shep would follow his lead.

Etta reached across the table and grabbed Shep's wrist. "Shepherd, you're a good man. And I know you'll help me if you can."

He swallowed hard. "I wish it was as easy as just wanting to, darlin'."

"Look, there's two things a man needs to make a difference—bravado and gravitas. And you got both in spades. Keep your chin up." She smiled kindly. "You'll get through whatever's got bags under your eyes and whiskey in your soda."

Shep stared into her eyes, his hand clinging to hers for a second. His throat worked as he stood. "Thank you for that."

Pretty Boy headed for the door. "You ok?" he asked under his breath. "Etta has a way of hitting where it really hurts when you need it most."

"How does she do that?" Shep shook his head.

"Third most popular topic at the group home. Best we came up with was –
she's Etta. She does that."
When he rounded the corner of the building, clinging to it's triangle of shade in the parking lot, Shep was right behind him. They each lit their cigarettes and took a hit, moving in silent synch, tuned into each other's movements as if they had always been side by side.

"Tell me," Shep said in an exhale of smoke.

"The kid's father is Manson."

Shep’s eyes widened. "The Raptor's fucking
president
? Are you shitting me?"

Pretty Boy shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"This another one of those 'giving back' crusades of yours, is it?" Shep asked. “Righting the wrongs in the community through innovative gardening?”

“And solid community planning.” He crossed his arms. He watched out for the people of Hell’s Gate. Just made sure they all had enough to get along. What was wrong with that? Didn’t Shep do that every day for the MC?

"You're treating meth heads and coke addicts with booze and weed," Shep shot back derisively.

"It's an easier twelve steps to swallow than prayer and sobriety." Pretty Boy raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sure it is." Shep sighed. "You don't want to start a pissing match with the Raptors while the FBI in town."

"I surely do. Crash was right—getting into a little bit of trouble makes us look normal. I'll make it look like he dragged me into it."

"Sure—use Crash as your voice of reason. That's a great fuckin' argument." Shep shook his head. "You don't know what you're getting us into."

"I do. I just don't care. Some things are worth the price." He glared at Shep. "The handbook says nobody fucks with kids. Not 'nobody fucks with kids unless the FBI is in town.'"