Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (18 page)

Dash—brilliant boy he was—refilled Shep's glass before returning with the pitcher of beer. "Alright boys, refreshments!"

"That'll improve your game," the random asshole Crash was playing snickered.

Dash flipped him off. "No beer for you!"

Manson and Asshat wandered off towards the broken jukebox in the corner, a waitress hurrying after them with frosted bottles. They settled in, Manson jawing away and Asshat staring at his phone.

Pretty Boy glanced back at Shep and mouthed, "See? It's fine."

Shep tilted his head, all
I'm watching you.
Pretty Boy smirked and went back to watching Crash epically fail at pool.

His timing couldn't have been better. Just before Crash's opponent sank the final ball, Chucky threw his phone across the table and spat, "Bitchface! Are you fucking kidding me?"

Showtime.

Crash lost like he was a hungry, tired, uncomfortable toddler. He cursed and blushed, counting the money out grudgingly and loudly after the guy asked if he was going to pay up.

"Better luck next round, bro!" Pretty Boy called. He headed over to the bar. "I'm gonna grab us some shots and you're going to kill it next game!"

"Fuck off!" Crash yelled back, only half salty. That kid probably would have been a helluva an actor, if he hadn't spent all his time blowing shit up.

Shep stared him down as he came up to the bar. He whispered under his breath, "What the hell are you up to?"

"Getting shots and talking to you. What's it look like I'm up to?" He asked as if insulted.

"You're gonna try to bullshit
me?"

Pretty Boy called in his order for what was probably shit-rate whiskey shots, so his back was to what was happening by the pool table. By now, Fetch would have walked past Manson and Asshat to the bathroom, talking on his phone to someone who wasn't there about how much money Crash had just lost and placing a wager on how much more before the night ended.

From the mirror over the bar, Pretty Boy watched as Manson and Asshat talked it over. He speculated they were deciding a "friendly" game of pool with the bonus of taking money off the Four Horseman prospects sounded like a damn fine way to salvage their afternoon.

"Are you fucking with me right now?" Shep whispered, his eyes glued to the scene unfolding in front of him.

"Want me to tell them to stop?" Pretty Boy asked. He turned, leaning his elbows back on the bar. "Manson might take offence."

"And here I thought your plan hinged on gettin’ him irritated?" Shep asked wryly.

Pretty Boy widened his eyes as the bartender set down a tray of shots for him. "How the fuck was I to know they were gonna be here? And I’m not even standing over there right now. What? You think I hypnotized them into asking for a game of pool?"

"You realize I am actually aware that Crash does not in any way, shape or form, suck at pool," he drawled slowly.

"Off day?"

Shep shook his head slowly. "We should have fucking left when they got here."

"Too late now …" Pretty Boy shrugged. Then he grabbed headed back to the table before he pushed his luck.

Crash took the tray from him. "You ready for this, bro?"

Pretty Boy raised an eyebrow.

"We're going teams. And Fetch and Dash bitched out." Crash look him in the eye. "You know, because they're bitches."

"Or because we don't want to lose our money just because you do!" Fetch yelled, posting up at a stool along the wall.

"Fuck you!" Crash shouted back. He knocked back a shot. "C'mon, Pretty Boy—you got my back, right?"

He tossed his shot back and upturned the little glass on the tray with a thunk. As he grabbed a pool cue, Pretty Boy could feel the cloud of profanity growing behind Shep's eyes. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

Crash pulled back the hustle just a tad and with Pretty Boy's help, they only lost the first game by a little. Which was the bait.

But Asshat took the hook, line and sinker before the ball had even settled in the pocket, tossing another wad of hundred dollar bills on the table. "Double or nothin'."

Pretty Boy shrugged. "Fine, but I get to break."

Shep visibly flinched behind him. Yeah, the jig was up. But anything Shep did to intercede at this point had just as much potential to go belly up as their plan. And the VP was smart enough to realize that letting Pretty Boy steer probably meant a softer landing.

Pretty Boy had learned to hustle pool from the owner of this establishment, back when he'd been doing nightshift as a dishwasher trying to get some goddamn food in the house once awhile. Probably why he failed all those classes in high school.

He flipped the cue back and forth between his hands as he considered his move. He could try for the trick shot—sink all the balls with break. It was risky. He had been good enough by senior year to enter pool tournaments if he'd been into honest games, but even he only had a seventy-thirty success rate on the move. And it might push the aggression too hot, too fast. Bad plan.

Better that he draw it out just a little. 

With a cocky smirk, he lined up his first shot. He caught Shep's gaze as he took it, relying on nearly ten years of muscle memory to carry it through. As balls slowly rolled into the pockets, he leaned back and cracked his neck.

 Manson and Asshat shuffled closer together, muttering to each other. Fetch, Crash and Dash did a half assed job of not staring at the pool table like it was about to explode. He'd better up the pace before this party got started without him.

"So, was that lady trouble I heard earlier?" Pretty Boy asked casually, rounding the table, eyes on the felt.

Asshat snorted. "Yeah, stupid bitch hauled my ass out here for no fucking reason."

Manson's fists clenched by his sides when Pretty Boy sank two more balls. Shep tensed, hands on the back of his barstool, near the piece he kept tucked in the back of his jeans.

But he wasn't saying no.

"Sorry to hear that, man. Of course, I never have that problem." He sank another and lined up the eight ball, nodding to the side.

"Oh?" Asshat laughed. "That's fucking hard to believe."

"Nope, I swear. Ninety nine problems, right?" Pretty Boy winked at him and sank the eight ball.

"Damn, son!" Crash couldn't help himself, actually biting his knuckle to keep it at just that comment.

"You hustling us, asshole?" Manson came around the table, chest puffed out and arms flexing.

Pretty Boy picked up the wad of cash and stuck it in his back pocket. "Hey, you asked me to play. Maybe you should have asked if I was any good first."

Asshat lunged forward, shoving Pretty Boy towards the pool table.

He pivoted, letting Asshat stumble past him and spun to catch his elbow. He twisted his arm up behind his back. "Easy there, big fella. I'm not trying to hurt you. Just want what I earned."

"Earned, shit. That was dirty as fuck and you know it," Manson growled. "You want to try that move with me?"

Pretty Boy released Asshats, shoving him away. "I was just defending myself. When I decide to fight one of you, you'll know."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Asshat staggered to the side, letting his brother move in closer.

"I don't think you're getting a choice, fucker." Manson looked about ten seconds from trying to deck him.

Pretty Boy tapped his chest, then spread his arms, bowing his back. "You want to fight me, you're going to have to put your money where your mouth is. I fight in the ring."

Recognition flickered in Manson's eyes. "You're part of Benny's underground action, eh?"

"Yeah. Keep eating your Wheaties and maybe they'll let you in some day." Pretty Boy smirked. Manson had been rejected twice. Not because he couldn't fight. Because he was batshit crazy.

"I don't need to be in some industrial basement to kick your ass." Manson adjusted his weight and Pretty Boy was almost out of time.

"What—you got stage fright? Don't want to hear the crowd chanting my name while I pound your ass into the concrete?" He grinned, bouncing on the heels of his feet and shaking out his shoulders just for show.

"Anytime. Anywhere," Manson gritted out, while Asshat tried to look menacing over his shoulder.

"How about at Apocalypse? We were just tossing around the idea of a prize fight fundraiser." Pretty Boy was tap dancing down the threshold of Manson's temper. His muscles tensed, ready for it to all go south. "Unless when you said 'anytime, anywhere' you didn't mean while there are a couple hundred Horsemen in town?"

Manson glared, and Pretty Boy could see the conflict raging underneath. His pride had just smacked up against his common sense. But put enough beer in a fellow, and Pretty Boy had some good odds on how it'd go.

"Fine. You and me. I'll can break you into the life of a Horseman, getting fucked by Raptors," Manson growled. He turned towards Shep. "Unless you got a problem with it?"

It was a dare.

Shep smirked as he stood, idly peeling the label off his beer. "I think a little friendly rivalry would be good for all of us. Nothing the Feds are gonna fuck with. Looks like we're busy doing our thing."

Manson snorted. "We'll see how you feel after the fight."

"Who knows? Maybe I'll offer you a rematch." Shep put his beer down, tossed a hundred dollar bill on the bar and turned for the door. "Let's go."

The guys rounded up, trailing Shep and every one of them with a shit eating grin on his face as he passed Manson.

Pretty Boy pulled the wad of cash out of his back pocket and settling it into his wallet for safe-keeping until they could divvy up the spoils later. "Good game, fellas!"

Chapter Eighteen

If you fuck up, it reflects on the VP. So don’t.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

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Shep couldn't remember the last time he was this pissed.  They spilled onto the sidewalk like a cloud of black leather crows, heading down the street in a line. “Someone call Voo and see if he can give us a ride.”

Pretty Boy pulled his phone out.

"Not you." Shep spun grabbing the shoulder of Pretty Boy's jacket. "You're coming with me."

A flurry of coughing and muttering came from the other prospects.

"The rest of you wait here for Voo and call us when his ass shows up. Got it?" Shep barked.

"Yes, Shep," they muttered in unison.

He shoved Pretty Boy down the alley, past sickly rotten dumpsters to where the end cut off in a tall chain fence. 

"Uh-oh, I'm in trouble." Pretty Boy jerked away, putting his back to the fence. Petulance painted his features.

"Damn right you are. What in the holy fuck did you think you were doing?" Shep asked, exasperated.

"Getting a kid out of a house where he gets beat daily." He crossed his arms. "I figured you knew that since you didn't do a fucking thing to stop me."

"Anything I did to stop that motherfucking train-wreck in there would have resulted in us all getting arrested for brawling and you goddamn know it," Shep growled.

"I took advantage of an opportunity. What could look more natural than that?" He pushed his hands through his hair, ruffling the gleaming black waves.

"Did you? Or did you
create
an opportunity?" Shep challenged. Guilt flickered in Pretty Boy's eyes. "The girl standing him up—was that you, too?"

"Uh … well …" He shrugged.

"For fuck's sake!" Shep threw his hands in the air. "Do you get that you're fucking injured?"

"I've got some time—"

"Not to heal from a
broken rib
in time to be good for a
prize fight,"
Shep snarled. He stepped forward, grabbing the chain links on either side of Pretty Boy's head and trapping him against the fence.

"Feel free to put it to a club vote." Pretty Boy's smile got downright nasty. "If you get around to it."

"Yeah, how about I do that right after I explain to Axel why the fuck I let your ass get away with this shit?” Shep leaned into his face.

"How do you not get that this is worth it? I know the club's gonna get in some shit over this, but we'll fucking handle it.
That's what we do
. Or at least that's what you always said." Pretty Boy leaned forward, the air between them charged and heavy. "You'd rather explain to that kid why he'll limp for the rest of his life because the timing wasn't
convenient?"

Shep's right hand dropped the fence and dug into the collar of Pretty Boy's cut. "I don't give a fuck what your crusade is right now, I don't want to see you
broken
, you get that?"

"A little late for that." Pretty Boy smirked, his eyes enormous pools of liquid green.

Shep dropped his hand and slid it under the leather, brushing his fingertips lightly over the bulge of bandages under Pretty Boy's t-shirt. Muscles fluttered under his touch and his stomach tightened. "If you understood how I feel about
this
right now, you wouldn't fuckin’ push me."

Pretty Boy's pupils expanded and his breath caught. He wet his lips. "And how's that?"

Swallowing hard, Shep settled a tense hand against the line of Pretty Boy's jaw. "You better figure a way out of this fight. And if I manage to pull your ass out of the fire with Axel, it don't mean I'm square with the dumbass stunt you just pulled."

"I'm alright with the consequences of
my
actions." Pretty Boy raised a brow.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Shep leaned closer. He was pissed off and turned on and he needed to get out of this fuckin' alley.

"I don't know, Shep. Anything we oughta talk about happen lately?" He rolled his eyes.

"Uh, guys?" Crash's voice echoed down the alley. "Voo's here!"

Shep stared at Pretty Boy. "We'll talk about this later. And you'll take whatever detail I assign you with a fucking smile, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Pretty Boy smirked.

Chapter Nineteen

Protect and serve the old ladies and hellspawn.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

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