Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (4 page)

"Yes, sir." He couldn't help the smirk stretching across his face.

Shep leaned closer, eyes twitching down to his mouth for half a second. His smirk deepened and the VP's fingers clenched.

Fetch coughed.

Shep straightened and moved on to the next item. "Revelation."

Collective groan. His stomach clenched. Nine out of ten—he didn't give a damn what other people thought of him. But Revelation meant proving himself worth to Shep. And it had him tied in harder knots than even the rest of his prospect brothers.

"C'mon, guys." Pretty Boy tried to rally them. "We get through this, and it's over. We're almost done."

"Yeah, I'm just looking forward to Cowboy not calling us 'greenhorns' anymore," Fetch said.

"And what, exactly, makes you think that's going to change?" Shep asked.

"Or Coyote calling us
gringos,"
Dash added.

Shep straightened. "He what?"

Pretty Boy laughed. "He thinks it makes him sound diverse."

"Diverse … racist, whatever." Shep shook his head. "Also, unfortunately, not likely to change."

"Do we have to keep talking about something we're not allowed to know anything about?" Crash leaned back in his chair.

"Unless you're about to reveal all the secrets of the ceremony …" Dash grinned hopefully. "Cuz, then we'll take some notes. Maybe some flash photography."

"Fat chance." Shep laughed. "Listen up, this is serious. One, the lumber came in today—"

"The lumber
?" Crash nearly screeched. "What on God's good green earth do you need lumber for?"

"So, I'll need all of you to unload it. Put it in Axel's shiny, new shed with the shovels."

"This is not sounding any better," Fetch groaned.

Pretty Boy hoped this wouldn't involve word-working again. He had splinters in places he couldn't mention in polite society after the shed fiasco.

"And, I want to revisit one of the little perks of this whole thing you're putting yourself through," Shep continued.  "If you make it in—"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Shep!" Fetch protested

"You get to choose one person. One person outside of old ladies, Hellspawn and such," the VP said, shooting a warning glance at them. Lexi and Dani were both Hellspawn, kids of members. Pretty Boy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. " You ain't gotta pick between your granny and your son—we're not like that. You pick, and they get the protected tattoo, which looks like … Fetch?"

"Four Horseshoes. On fire. Usually on the wrist or shoulder." Fetch snapped his fingers. "Ha! I got that one!" he crowed like he'd just won final
Jeopardy.

"This person is protected for their entire life by the club. It's long term commitment, beyond the life of the brother." Shep squirmed a bit in his chair. "This is a one-time kinda deal. You can revoke that protection, but it's non-transferable. No do overs on this choice. So think it through."

That sobered the mood up a bit. Pretty Boy swallowed. How to choose one person to be protected by the club? He had one slam-dunk answer, and he was already protected. Maybe Etta? He'd hated her back in the day, but even then he had to admit, the girl could use a guardian angel. Or a guardian troop of bikers, as the case may be.

"Who did you pick?" Crash leaned forward, the front legs of his chair snapping against the linoleum as he righted it.

Shep swallowed and did not look around the table. "That's a really fuckin' personal question."

"You're seriously not going to say? You are
so
playing Truth or Dare Karaoke with us." Dash folded his arms.

Fetch looked at Pretty Boy. "Hey, you knew him before you prospected—do you know?"

Pretty Boy cleared his throat. "I think what the VP was saying is that it's none of our business."

"You
do
know!" Crash grinned. Oh, that was so going to come back and bite him later.

"One last thing." Shep stood and they all climbed to their feet. He faced Pretty Boy. "Your PIC is going to be out in the driveway, scrubbing your bikes while we finish off the twelve-pack in my saddlebags."

"Bullshit!" Pretty Boy winced even as he said it. He'd said he wouldn't bitch about this, but seriously? He'd been looking forward to knocking back some beers with the guys and … Shep. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut. "For what?"

"Did you fall down and hit your head? You know for what." Shep held his gaze, a challenge in his eyes.

Was Shep really going to admit following him to the warehouse? Pretty Boy really should behave and fall in line. He'd known he was screwed the second he saw Shep's face in the crowd. But if he was damned for it anyways, at least he could make Shep squirm a bit. "I don’t think I do."

"For not having the Handbook on you when I ran into you last night." Shep tsked at him like a goddamn schoolteacher. "That's no way to set an example."

Pretty Boy moved a little closer. "You ran into me? You just happened to wander down a dead end street in the industrial side of town, into an abandoned warehouse with a bouncer?"

"Sure did." Shep didn't back up an inch. "You better get to work."

Pretty Boy held his gaze for a moment. He had to give in, but it was just so fun to watch Shep sweat. He leaned just close enough to make Shep uncomfortable and winked at him. "Yes, sir."

Shep cleared his throat, blindly turned and headed for the fridge. He was halfway through the first bottle before Pretty Boy made it out to the driveway.

In true brotherly fashion, Fetch, Crash and Dash had headed out onto the porch to drink their cold brews and mock him working in the heat.

"You better take off that leather cuff, man!" Fetch yelled. "The soap from washing my bike's going to fade it!"

"Should we be throwing buckets of water on you?" Crash called. "I’m sure we got some in the garage."

He flipped the fuckers off. But Fetch was right. He unfastened the cuff and tossed it up on the porch. Dash caught it. "Don't worry, man. We'll take real good care of your shit while you work." Dash promptly slapped it on his own wrist.

"If you get your sweat on that thing, I’ll bust your ass as soon as I get done!" he yelled.

By the time he had worked his way through all the prospect bikes to Shep's the guys were yawning and bleary-eyed. Fetch had fallen asleep on the porch swing. Crash and Dash sat in the shade, back to back on either side of a poplar tree, legs sprawled out in front of them, clutching long neck bottles.

"So, for real, man—what's the story with you and Shep?" Dash hiccoughed.  "You knew him before he joined the MC?"

"Yeah. He helped me out a lot after ..." Pretty Boy pretended to be cleaning a stubborn smudge off the handlebar. He cleared his throat. "After my father died."

Dash nodded. "So you been bros a long time, huh?"

He tossed a grin over his shoulder. "Not getting jealous, are we? You guys know you're my one true bromance."

Dash thumped his fist over his heart. "Fuck yeah, I am."

"Who'd he mark as his person? We know you know," Crash asked, looking at the tips of his boots.

Pretty Boy sighed as he rinsed the bike. "Look, if he doesn't want to tell you, there's probably a reason."

"That's what I'm saying!" Dash slapped his knee. "Right? Any idea what that reason is?"

"You guys just don't let up, do you?" Pretty Boy grinned as he finished and started winding the hose.

"I have some suspicions, just looking for a little confirmation." Dash helped Crash to his feet and they followed him towards the garage.

"And who do you suspect?" Pretty Boy put the hose back on the wall rack and faced them.

"You first." Crash folded his arms.

"Not going to happen."

"We'll see." Crash stared him down, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

"Hey, I still got your bracelet." Dash pulled his leather cuff out of his pocket and handed it back to him.

Pretty Boy automatically strapped it on, flipping his wrist over so he could work the fastenings. He heard Dash inhale sharply.
Shit.

Four horseshoes, rimmed with fire, clustered over the bridge of his wrist.

Crash and Dash were staring at his arm. He smiled tightly. "Alright. I got to have the boss man check out my work so I can go. Eddie's supposed to pick me up soon."

"Pretty Boy—"

He let the swinging front door cut off whatever the rest of Crash's question had been. He shouldn't have took the fuckin' cuff off, fading leather be damned.

Chapter Five

The prospect in charge always carries the Handbook. Always.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Every bone in his damn body hurt as Pretty Boy finally settled himself into his ratty lawn chair in the shade of the trailer's torn awning. He could barely lift his hand to light his blunt. All of that hunching over to scrub bikes, followed by making moonshine with Eddie into the wee hours on top of his most recent set of bruised from the fight had hit him like a truck.

His phone buzzed just as he'd lit up. He frowned. It was Etta Jameson. Once upon a time when she'd first been his social worker, he'd loved to give her shit. But she'd done him a solid in the end; he’d be forever grateful.

Can we talk? Coffee? HDCS my treat.

Absolutely.
He grinned. Lady knew him. A Hellhound Ristretto from the Hot Damn Coffee Shop never failed to persuade him—like Scoobysnacks for the kids who'd been in her charge.

U got it. Get it 2go 'n stop by the trailer.

Maybe she had another case for him. The problem she'd run into with him as a kid was the same problem she had with so many others. If a child didn't want to testify against an abusive parent, there had to be proof. And proof was hard to come by in a state where people believed in minding your own, and letting kin take care of kin.

He understood the kids that didn't want to speak against their parents. Daughters afraid it was their fault. Sons afraid of what would happen to their siblings or their mother if they got removed. Hell, he'd fought kicking and screaming against being taken out of his home; almost as hard as he had when they'd brought him back. And finding proof was a helluva lot easier when you weren't bound by things like “probable cause” and “in plain sight.”

He breathed the smoke in deep, holding the hit until his brain started to buzz. As the high eased his pain, his thoughts centered on Shep. No surprise, they usually did. He considered the night he'd realized how he felt about Shep. As rites of passage went … well, it was pretty much what he'd expected in his life. Maybe even a little better.

It had been one of those beautiful autumn Texas nights, stars shining brightly in the black velvet of the night and a cool breeze blowing a sigh of relief that the heat of the day had been extinguished. Noah had glanced over at Shep, laying on his back in the truck bed next to him. He grinned and raised his glass of shine. Their Mason jars clinked in the moonlight.

He couldn't imagine a better way to spend his eighteenth birthday than next to Shep, getting drunk, far from the cramped and hotter than a three balled tomcat trailer. Away from his dick of a father and the train wreck who had given birth to him. Tom Cochrane’s "Life is a Highway" came on the radio, and as they slurred along with the lyrics, Noah thought this might be the happiest moment in his entire life.

Shep's chiseled silhouette was gilded by the moon, and Noah's thoughts were less than pure. Not that those thoughts could lead anywhere with a man hellbent on being a pastor. But he could dream right? Fantasize even. Especially on an occasion as auspicious as his birthday.

"What'cha thinking 'bout?" Shep asked, his speech softened in his inebriation.

"Just wondering why a pastor is spending the night drinking with a trashy delinquent like me." Noah raised a brow. "Your fiancé ditch you again?"

He tried to keep the sneer out of the word 'fiance'. Shep was too damn young to get married, in his opinion. He should get done with schoolin' before making such a big commitment to anyone. Had nothing to do with how Noah felt about what's-her-face. Or her place in Shep's life.

"Shut the fuck up." Shep looked away, but he hadn't even checked his phone once tonight.

Hmmm … lady trouble?
He filed that thought away.

"Seriously, though. Couldn't you be excommunicated for such a sin?"

Shep blew out a breath. "S'pose I gotta have something to repent come Sunday morning."

"Anytime you're in need of something to repent, I'm more than happy to oblige," Noah teased. He loved the way Shep's Texan accent intensified the more he drank. His guard was down, manner softer and more free.

"I'm sure," he drawled. Shep flipped to his side, raising up on one elbow to look down at Noah still flat on his back.

Noah couldn't keep his ravenous eyes off the supple lines of Shep's lips, wondering what he tasted like.

Sin or salvation?

He dragged his teeth across his lower lip, almost tasting the fantasy spinning in his head and twisting his gut in delicious ways. He felt the smirk slide across his face as he caught Shep's gaze. "How sinful do you want to be?"

A warm flush spread across Shep's neck and he twitched. His voice sounded hoarse as he asked, "What are you talking about?"

Noah leveraged himself up on his elbows, coming dangerously close to Shep's face and watching as the man's eyes widened, noting his pupils' dilation, the sharp inhale with marked interest. Noah paused a breath away and held still, stretching the moment out just to see if anything would happen.

Shep didn't move, didn't even breathe. But he didn't pull away either.

Noah couldn't remember ever wanting to kiss someone so badly. But he held back. He couldn't bear if it he was wrong and Shep looked at him with the same disgust he saw in his father's eyes.

He pulled a small plastic bag out of his pocket and dangled the pot in front of the would-be preacher, raising a brow in challenge.

Shep's shoulders slumped, the tension dropping from his body. "I can't. But you can, if you want. It'll stay between us."