Never Love an Outlaw: Deadly Pistols MC Romance (Outlaw Love) (45 page)

He took my hand. In the last two hours, everything went crazy. The man I'd thought about killing was staring at me like I was an angel. If it wasn't for the warmth filling my heart, the guilt there would've caused it to sink like a lead weight.

I swallowed the thick lump in my throat and mustered my most serious stare. “I'm ready, Brass. I want you to set things right...and I'm ready to run away if it means we can finally be together, start over, keep my sister safe...”

He tugged me closer, one strong arm around me, pushing a sturdy finger to my lips. “Stop. There's no fucking ifs in what we're gonna do. You, girl, are coming with me no matter what's up ahead. You're
mine,
dammit, and once I lay claim, I don't let go. Not for the club. Not for the cartel. Not for my own fucking mistakes. Not even for the awesome fucking French toast I'm gonna make when we get outta here.”

It took me a minute to figure out that last part. Then I remembered Jackie was still outside in the living room, waiting for us and the breakfast he'd promised. Smiling like an idiot, I punched him in the side.

“Jerk. We'll judge how awesome this stuff's going to be.”

He grinned. “Dry your hair and get dressed. You'll find out.”

We were stuffed around the little breakfast table about thirty minutes later. The entire apartment smelled like warm bread, cinnamon, and syrup, sweet as it was comforting.

Jackie dove into hers with a teenager's appetite, eyeing the big stack of breakfast on the serving plate. He served up eggs to go with the toast and a pitcher of coffee. It looked as good as it smelled.

Brass didn't touch his food. He sat across from me, his Grizzlies MC t-shirt clinging to his chest, waiting for me to have a bite.

I dipped my toast in syrup and brought it to my lips. One crunch, and I was in pure heaven. I think I moaned – dangerously close to the sound I'd made in the shower, when he pushed me over the edge.

“Fuck yeah,” he said, reaching for his own bread. “Told you it was good.”

Jackie looked at us both, covering her mouth. I rolled my eyes when I finally came out of my sugary high. Whatever, she had every reason to giggle, and it was good to hear her laugh versus all the alternatives weighing on us the last few weeks.

Soon, we'd be heading out for the day while my Christa showed up for lessons. I'd be stuck cleaning up more of the mess from the night before, hoping to god that freak with the barbed wire on his face kept his distance.

One more week. I told myself I could do it. With a few more mornings like this, maybe I could. And maybe – just maybe – being his old lady wasn't half bad.

F
uck. I did it. I really made up my mind, ready to leave behind everything I'd given my life to since I turned eighteen. Ready to turn on the brotherhood that was never anything but a fucking illusion.

Sitting at the table for church the next day was surreal.

Fang came in and took his seat at the head, red as molten steel. When Crack snuck in behind him, moving like an animal with its tail between its legs, I knew he'd broken the news about the cartel hit in SoCal.

The room was stuffy, tense with brothers waiting to hear the Prez go off like fucking dynamite. Instead, he picked up the petrified bear claw, raking its nails just right on the table. Sounded like some asshole teacher scratching chalkboard.

Guys covered their ears and groaned, including me. We only stopped when he slammed the thing so hard on the wood I thought the whole table was gonna go up in splinters.

“All right, you bastards, listen up! Hope you all enjoyed Lipstick Night, 'cause it's gonna be the last time you fuckers got enough free time to get your cocks sucked for a good long while. Half this room was holding out on me about San Diego. You motherfuckers must think I'm stupid or incompetent. Which is it?”

His hard eyes shot to Crack, then Blackjack next to him, slowly moving down the ranks of brothers. When they landed on me, Fang blinked, peeling his lips back in an angry snarl. It was the same ferocious smile I'd seen before I crashed out on the floor, and I remembered those two scared whores with him.

“Well? Clearly, I've lost your fucking faith, or I'd be getting my intel without assholes sealing their lips.”

“Fang...” Crack folded his hands and leaned toward him, but froze the instant the Prez shot him the evilest eye I'd ever seen.

“Shut the fuck up. Both you assholes.” Fang's head snapped back to Blackjack. “I'm gonna give you one chance to call a no confidence vote for President. Everybody in this room's gonna have their say. If I walk outta here still holding the claw, then I expect to have
everything
flowing to me the instant it happens. And I mean abso-fucking-lutely
everything
– even if it makes me want to tear this place upside down. This club is dysfunctional – fucked – when the head doesn't know the fucking tail's on fire.”

Nobody moved. Fang had been the national Prez since...fuck, I didn't even know. Decades.

I wasn't sure what to think. The pale, flat expression on Rabid's face next to me said my brother was just as confused as me. This shit was unprecedented, and now we were gonna see if anybody had the balls to threaten removal the safe and easy way, or if this was some kinda fucking trick.

“Prez, in the interests of full disclosure, I think everybody ought to know about Tacoma –“ Blackjack started to speak, but Fang cut him off with another table rocking slam of the bear claw.

“They don't need to know shit 'til they decide if I'm gonna lead, or if some other cocksucker wants to sit on this mountain of shit. Come on, asshole. Be a man.” His eyes were dark, intense, drilling into our old Enforcer's.

Finally, Blackjack stood up, his gray hair flopping on his shoulders. “Fine. All right, everybody, we're gonna take a vote on No Confidence for the sitting Prez of the Sacramento charter and acting Prez of Redding. If Fang's deemed to have lost our faith, then we'll have to elect a new man to head the club. Not just our charter, but for the entire Grizzlies MC in the whole twelve state area.”

Fang rolled his eyes. “Fucking get on with it. Here,
Sarge.
”

The Prez sneered as he passed the bear claw to Blackjack. As Enforcer, it was his job to carry out a vote like this.

My brain was on fucking fire. I couldn't decide if this was a blessing or one helluva curse. If Fang was removed – and that was one big fat
if
– the club would be in so much chaos it'd be a cakewalk moving Missy and her sis north. Shit, even I could slip away in the craziness if I wanted to, assuming the cartel didn't crash the power struggle and burn us all alive.

Blackjack gripped the bear claw. He looked us up and down, letting his eyes linger on Rabid and I.

“Let's do it, brothers. Starting at the head of the table. Every man here gets a vote except the Prez, an aye or a nay. I'll keep count. Crack?”

The VP was the first man up. Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward him. Fuck, the first few votes were bound to set the precedent.

The only way Fang was gonna be removed was if anybody had the balls to effectively spit in his face. And I wasn't sure anybody here had the balls. Dammit. If only the charter allowed these kinda fucking votes to go by secret ballot instead.

My heart stopped. I forgot to breathe. For a second, I thought he was really gonna do it, thought Crack was gonna vote aye for his own selfish ass reasons.

“Nay,” the VP choked out.

Adrenaline flooded my head. Rabid let out a little hissing sound, and several brothers next to us looked down, shuffling their boots underneath the long table.

Blackjack moved down the line, cold and efficient, no emotion showing on his face. Nay, nay, nay.

Three more votes to keep Fang. Then six. Then five.

“Nay.” Rabid's hoarse, quick vote echoed loud in my ears, like the sound of my own blood running out after getting stabbed.

Fuck.
It was my turn, and Blackjack was looking right at me. I didn't have to count everybody else on my right to know they'd all have to vote aye to even make this fucking thing a tie.

I clenched my teeth and waited too many seconds before I let it out. “Aye.”

Several brothers cleared their throats loudly. I caught Fang's eyes before he caught mine, holding as firm as I could without shaking, looking right into his devilish eyes.

He'd saved me from being burned alive with the other rebel Grizzlies one fucked up night in Montana. But, fuck, he wasn't good for the club. There were no excuses. We were losing the cartel war, and he was letting desperation eat us alive, turn us into demons no better than the Mexicans.

I had to be honest. The Grizzlies patch on my back felt like lead, and the one on my chest itched something terrible. There was no understanding in the Prez's eyes – not even when the asshole next to me voted nay, followed by Serial and Splitter too.

I tried to do right by the club – the same thing everybody wearing the bear on their cuts was supposed to be about.

Idealistic? Stupid? Probably.

Right? Fuck yes.

It was over long before it swung back around the U-shaped gathering, toward Blackjack. I was the only aye. I seriously wondered if I'd make it outta the room alive when the claw returned to Fang.

I didn't give a fuck what happened to me. All I could think about was getting killed before I had a chance to get Missy and Jackie out.

Fuck!
If there was a God, I really needed a miracle right now, more than I ever needed one in my life. Of course, I was the last asshole in the world who deserved good karma after getting Ma killed and drugging myself blind, but a man could hope.

“Aye.”

Fang broke the death stare with me and his jaw fell open. Blackjack stood like stone, his face hard, as if to say,
yeah, asshole. I did it.

The whole room heard the relief hissing out my nostrils. Now that I wasn't the lone asshole voting aye, I might have a chance to smooth things over, before some brother slit my throat in my sleep.

“The nays have it,” Blackjack said, taking his seat. He held the bear claw several seconds longer than he needed to before passing it to Fang.

When he held it out to the Prez, Fang ripped it outta his hand, slamming it down on the table again.

“Okay. It's done. Everybody in this room knows exactly where the fuck everybody else stands.” His tone sounded calm, but the tremor in his shoulders said otherwise. “Blackjack, tell them about Tacoma.”

“We had another shipment hit by the cartel last night,” he said, his voice as icy as Fang's. “Some heavy weapons we picked up from a Chinese drop off. It never made it out of port. The Washington crew found three of their guys dead plus a couple prospects, and all the boxes gone the next day.”

“Shit! You mean the cartel's slipped that far north without hitting us in Redding first?” Serial pulled out a cigarette and took a long drag.

“No. Right now, there's no proof it was the Mexicans at all,” Fang said, leveling his eyes on me again. “The Devils got a much stronger presence on our northern front. They've been coming through our territory for months, hauling shit to Canada, paying us their toll as agreed. All part of the truce I was a goddamned fool to sign.”

My head started to spin. I had to grip the table's edge just to stay focused, before that asshole sucked me into the black hell waiting in his eyes.

Fuck.
War with the Devils meant one more thing for me to worry about when it involved my own fucking sister and her Prairie Pussy husband.

“Prez, we owe it to the club to find out what's going on before we do anything,” I spoke up. “Seems like the perfect kick in the nuts from the cartel. Hit us somewhere we least expect...make us think it was the Prairie Pussies...fuck everything to pieces up north when we need every guy fighting them in the south.”

Fang bared his teeth. The bear claw smacked the table loudly, and then he stood up and roared. “Sit down and shut the fuck up, you little shit!”

The Prez and I both hit our seats at the same time. Rabid looked at me like I was about to get my head chopped off. Hell, for all I knew, maybe I was. Then again, decapitation would've been a whole lot easier than the Mauler, and they'd definitely use that fucking thing if they wanted me dead.

“Nothing's been decided,” Fang growled. “But I've got my suspicions. The pussies have been expanding West where they don't belong for too fucking long. They know it's the perfect time to hit us right now. Shit, if I were Throttle up in North Dakota, I'd jam it so hard up our asses we'd scream if I knew about the intel your old lady's dead daddy passed to the cartel, Brass.”

I swallowed hard. My throat was bone fucking dry. All the guys in the room looked at me like wolves – everybody except Blackjack and Rabid.

“You know what I think?” Fang said, folding his arms, never taking his eyes off me. “I think we've got more rats biting holes in our ship. Rats on the inside passing shit to the cartel, and possibly our old friends in the Devils too. No, I can't prove anything – yet – but when I do, the Mauler's gonna have a lot of traitor skin to chew on. A hard interrogation and death's the only thing rats deserve. Same fucking thing
any
asshole in this room's gonna get by holding back critical intel from this day forward. New policy. I'll have Crack write it into the club charter later.”

Sneering, he turned to Blackjack. “Or would you like me to put that up to vote too?”

“Your call, Prez. You know the charter just as well as I do,” Blackjack said, a little hint of sarcasm breaking through. “The national President doesn't need to put all defense decisions up to vote when the club's under imminent threat.”

“Damned straight,” Fang snapped. “I don't know what's going on, but I'm gonna find out. When I do, it'll be time to clean house. We can't fight the cartel head on 'til we stomp the vermin in our own midst. And if it means we've gotta fight the Devils too...well, who am I to hold all the boys back who're jonesing for some Prairie Pussy colors hanging on their walls?”

Several of the rougher men grinned, including Serial. Of course that motherfucker wanted blood. What else could anybody expect from a psycho fuck?