Outlaw's Bride (8 page)

No lying – deep down inside, being admired by another brutal badass made me prickle, sweat, and flush. He brought back the memories I wanted to forget most, everything that big, rough, tattooed wave did to me two summers ago.

He was a walking, talking, dangerous temptation. Everything dirty and so fucking good I could have all over again, if only I wanted to roll the dice on inviting biker badass number two into my bed.

I drove on, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. Jesus. Seeing Roman naked was one thing, but knowing yet another brother wanted my panties as trophy?

I wasn't sure I'd survive the autumn harvest. Something told me I'd soon be seeing
a lot
more of Beam once their patrols started, and I had to keep my distance. Even if the sexual tension surging in my blood wanted to chew me up and spit me out.

No sex was good enough to risk another kid without a father. And no man with that patch would
ever
be loving or responsible or worth it.

Deep down inside, they were all flawed. Maybe a few grew up, guys like Rabid, who had a hard-on for one girl so bad they let go of the whoring, the drinking, the senseless killing.

My visit proved they were rare, and also drove a stake through the heart of my expectations forever. I couldn't unsee the bitter truth.

Roman would never be father material, much less my boyfriend. We were too damaged, too hurt, too adrift in two very different worlds. And brothers like Beam were the same, except they'd never miss anything outside the bedroom.

I swore then and there to batten down the hatches and seal them tight. I'd survive.

Everything. I'd keep my son safe, keep the cartel away from our farm, and keep my head while the bastards with the bear patch roared into my life.

I knew I could do it, as long as I hung onto all my good senses. Even if I had to get a chastity belt and lock myself up tight.

I
fucked Twinkie 'til she couldn't even walk over the next week. She was nothing but a hot warm hole for me, a stress ball with tits and ass and long blonde pigtails. Whenever she whined or asked me about the strange chick who'd given me shit, I stuffed her panties in her mouth, pinned her down, and railed her cunt 'til she forgot all about it.

But on the sixth or seventh day, I kicked her outta my damned bed and picked up the bottle.

Fucking couldn't cure everything, no matter how many times I busted my nuts. Truth was, Sally gave me one helluva kick in the balls without even raising her foot.

Shit, just seeing her again did that. But having her talk back to me, trying to make excuses for abandoning me while I was in prison? I didn't know whether to slam her against the wall, shove my lips on hers, and suck every last molecule of air outta her lungs, or hold her down and spank her ass 'til she gave me a proper apology.

And if goddamned Beam hadn't shown up a second too early, I would've done it too.

Instead, I walked the fuck away with my tail between my legs.

Or did I? I told Sally everything I had to say. I bled and ached behind bars to forget her, and it was only slightly harder having her get in my face.

I could live without her, go on doing the same shit I'd always done since I put on this patch. I'd done it for almost two years.

Serving this brotherhood the best way I knew how was all that mattered. Pussy came and went. The patch was forever.

Easy words. Harder to believe them.

No matter how much I drank, pumped iron, and fucked the closest whore I could grab with golden locks, I couldn't make myself believe shit. Sally haunted my fucking head.

I had to forget. Again.

I told myself I'd get the fuck over it, make her fade like a phantom. Enough time could do anything.

Then I saw her face at night in my dreams, her perfect body, remembering the way she rode my cock and turned my nerves to steel, the fever hit me like a junkie missing his dope.

Yeah, I'd cut Sally outta my life like a cancer. But I'd suffer first, rage and sweat and bellow, the same way an addict does when he's lost a hit that sends him up to heaven.

Next week, Blackjack ordered us to start our runs, the latest patrols in the endless cartel war, now threatening to bite us on our own turf. Prez split the crew in half. He must've sensed Sally's reluctance to let me on her land – or maybe the bitch said something to him herself – who the fuck knew.

Regardless, the Prez had other plans for me. I rode with him, Brass, Asphalt, and a couple prospects out to the old warehouse, while the rest of the crew took care of playing guard dog at the Jennings' farm.

We had a bigger prize waiting for us inside the run down place where we got our intel. It had been a heavy industrial complex back in the day, now it was more like a ghostly slaughterhouse. We'd skinned more than a few sorry bastards alive and paved their carcasses with concrete here, and now there was one more pig on the docket.

“Start talking, Alejandro. That's your name, isn't it?” Cool and collected as always, Blackjack eyed the beat up cartel goon strapped to the chair, slowly lighting a cigarette and taking a long pull.

Fucker sat there like a bulldog. He was a bit older than most of the sloppy thugs we normally brought in, scrawny kids too young to drink, but old enough to kill for their border spanning mafia.

Those shitheads begged for their lives when they realized we were gonna snuff out their short lives of sin. Not one ever got their wish.

Our new buddy, Alejandro, just stared in silence, giving the Prez the evil eye. Asphalt shot me a wide eyed look as I took a step forward, my fists balled into mallets.

These hands were fucking hungry. Since prison, I couldn't shake the overwhelming desire to feel a man's bones snap, crackle, and bleed beneath these knuckles, and Sally's shit last week made the need twice as strong.

“Let's not bullshit. We both know you're here to die, boy,” Blackjack said, breathing smoke in his face. “We're giving you one final choice – the kindest choice this world ever offers anybody in our biz. You cooperate, answer a few questions, and you'll go out of this world quick and clean. Feed us more bullshit, and we'll make sure you choke on your screams before the bear opens his mouth and drags you down to hell. Understand?”

Alejandro didn't even flinch. Gotta admit, the fucker had balls. Blackjack's always been an imposing SOB. He'd been a natural Enforcer in the old days. As Prez, he commanded our respect – no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

I saw the Prez's lips twitch with frustration. He pulled out his smoke, dropped it to the floor, and ground it into the concrete with his boot.

“Who's the rat? We know you've got one embedded in my club.” Pausing, the Prez locked eyes with the prisoner, drowning him in an icy stare. “You can't save yourself, boy, but it's not too late to save your friends. The sooner we shut this thing down, the quicker we stop killing each other. Your friends don't have to end up buried beneath ten feet of concrete too. Flapping your gums just might save a few lives.”

For a second, the bastard's eyes lit up. I wanted to believe he'd talk, but they were never so altruistic. The average cartel soldier was a selfish, violent little shit. They didn't have a code like the average MC. It was all business to them, and their whole damned enterprise was killing.

Besides, I didn't like the energy going on there, especially the way he looked at the Prez like he was doing him some great favor.

Sweet terms never mattered to these fucks. Nobody's ever happy about going to their grave. They either scream for a mercy we'll never give 'em, or fight us 'til the bitter end.

No compromise.

The Mexican squirmed in his restraints, making some noise like he was about to talk. Blackjack leaned down, holding his ear closer to the asshole's face.

Shit, I didn't fucking like this. Two steps forward, and Asphalt started shaking his head, warning me to back the fuck off before the Prez found out I was treating him like a goddamned idiot.

He knows what he's doing, asshole!
Asphalt's eyes said.
You're out of line.

Brass' look was even worse. He mouthed a few words, and pointed to the spot next to him, right where I'd been standing before.

I blew the Veep off. Only needed a couple more seconds to know whether or not this was gonna go how I expected.

Alejandro coughed, mumbled something that sounded like
go to hell
in a thick accent. Then the fucker jerked like a fish leaping up to catch a bug, caught the Prez's ear, and sank his dirty teeth in.

Growling, Blackjack held his ground, punched the fucker in the face. The cartel boy had a grip like a gator, and I had my nine millimeter out in a heartbeat, pressed to his temple.

“No, son!” Blackjack roared. “Don't you fucking –“

Too late. The blast of my bullet going through Alejandro's rotten brain shattered the Prez's words. The dead thug slumped in his chair, and the Prez pulled his bloody ear away, holding a hand to the side of his head.

Asphalt and the prospects surrounded us, staring at the grisly scene in disbelief. Prez looked at me, disappointment shining in his eyes. Brass walked up, and before I knew it, his fist nailed me in the face like a heavy stone.

“Asshole! We were all reaching for his throat, and you know it. There was no reason to blow his goddamned brains out.” The Veep's lips twitched, his face creased so angry he looked at least ten years older. “What the fuck were you thinking, Roman? Tell us!”

I turned my back, refusing to say shit. Didn't help that I barely had a clean answer myself.

Why'd I do it? Because my fists were hungry, and the cartel turd beginning to rot in his chair was wasting our fucking time.

“Boys, clean this miserable piece of shit up and take him to the bone yard out back. Make sure he's buried deep, VP. Roman, you're with me.”

I fucked up. It wasn't like I didn't know it. But the Prez was making a big mistake if he meant to give me a long lecture.

Yeah, I'd let my bloodlust do the talking, but I'd saved his damned ear too. The punk asshole never would've cracked, not after twelve hours of torture. I'd seen his type too many times to count.

We could've carved that fucker up, piece by sloppy piece, and he'd still spit in our faces, maybe try to take somebody's nose off too, if we didn't rip out his teeth first.

Soon as we got out back, the Prez threw his full weight into me. I hit the wall with an
oomph.
He'd always be smaller and older than me, but he was one mean bastard when he wanted to be, and no man in this club ever got over the shock of having the Prez get physical.

“What the fuck's your malfunction? You could've saved your bullets for another day, and you know it. I'm disappointed, son. These asshole informants don't grow like plums. You just trashed our best chance this month to find the vermin embedded in our own house.”

His voice hit me in a harsh whisper. Angry, intense, and so fucking disappointed. Only the last one really got to me.

I tensed up, stood as straight as I could, and lowered my fists. “He had your ear, Prez. I had to step in. You know my job's to keep order, inside the club and out. I gotta protect you, even when you think you can protect yourself.”

“Your job's keeping this club
safe.
If that means pulling brothers off each others' throats, or turning up the traitors who'd like to put a dagger in our backs, you know your duty. You know it so damned well I don't need to remind you. Just like I don't need to tell you I know how to protect my own body – he'd have never ripped my ear off. Somebody would've beaten him out cold first if you hadn't fired that popgun.” Blackjack relaxed his death grip on my cut, spun around, and turned back after a minute of collecting his breath. “I thought keeping you away from the Jennings place would do us all some good. Clearly, I'm mistaken.”

My guts twisted up in knots. “What? Come the fuck on, Prez. This shit's not about her. That motherfucker I blasted would've strung us around for hours. He wasn't like the other bitch boys who tense up and cry because they've got nothing valuable to tell us. I've seen his type before. He'd let us wreck him before he told us shit.”

“Maybe,” Blackjack said, narrowing his eyes “Or maybe we would've gotten him so delirious he'd sing like a goddamned rock star. Killing him wasn't your call, son. Unless he's got a gun to a brothers' head, that's mine, and mine alone. You went over the chain of command.”

I lowered my eyes. Fuck. There was nothing to say to that when it was true.

“I want you to look at me and
admit
you're having trouble dealing with your old flame. Because if it's not her screwing up your skull, we just might have a bigger problem. No man who's drunk or hooked on the shadier shit deserves to be my Enforcer. And if it's not her scrambling your brain, I'm going to assume it's something worse.”

“It's not that. I never touched that shit, and I drink half as much as the other fucks hanging around the clubhouse on a good night. I'm not a goddamned junkie, Prez.”

Blackjack nodded, but he didn't take his eyes off me.

Fucker wanted me to say the rest. Admit the way she'd twisted me up in knots, sent me into a fury of fucking and drinking and storming tempers that still hadn't settled down.

I refused. I'd let him slice my tongue out before I admitted how bad Sally busted my balls, leaving me ringing with the aftershocks.

“Okay. We both know what happens from here.” Without looking away, he stepped back, reaching into his pocket for a fresh smoke. “Pack up your shit and head out to the Jennings' place. You're gonna trade places with Rabid and oversee the little crew out there on patrol.”

Fuck!
I wasn't sure if he'd just realized my worst fear, or granted me some fucked up secret wish that wouldn't quit humming in the back of my skull.

I shrugged, tightening the impassable mask I called my face. “An order's an order. I'll be there. Put me wherever I'll make you happy, Prez. Just don't treat me like you're trying to save me from your own damned fate. It's not the same. I'm not getting back with her. The woman hates my fucking guts, and the feeling's mutual.”