The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 (101 page)

“I remember that sound,” he murmured. “I remember everything about that night in the forest, the softness of your skin, your breath on my cheek, your hard little nipples, the slickness of your pussy. I remember what it feels like to be inside you. That night ruined me for other women, Evie. I've only ever wanted you.”

He held her arms behind her, pinning her wrists with one hand while he kissed her breasts, sucked gently on her nipples, tasting, devouring her. She tugged against his grip, wanting to touch him, slide her hands over his broad chest, work her fingers through his hair, and caress those broad shoulders. But he held her fast, and the restraint aroused her, made her more wanton, more desperate to have him inside her.

“Are you wet for me, sweetheart?” He slid one hand up her thigh under her dress. Far from the shame and disgust she'd felt when Viper had done the same, passion suffused her. Sweet desire. And when he shoved aside her panties, slid his finger through her wet folds, she almost came right then.

“Tell me, Evie.” His voice dropped to a husky growl, and he thrust one finger deep inside her. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” she whispered, trembling at the exquisite intrusion. “It was always you.”

A dog barked. A man shouted. She heard the low rumble of a quad in the field and suddenly the fog in her brain lifted. She was a mom. Ty was sleeping inside. Her neighbors were sleeping only fifty feet away. She'd just ditched the man she'd been dating for the last four weeks. What was she doing only hours later in her backyard with the man who had broken her heart? A man who had walked away and would no doubt leave her again. A biker. Living the biker life.

Steeling herself, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “But when I gave up hoping you would ever come back, I let you go. I'm sorry, Zane. I'm not ready to open that door again.”

He released her so abruptly she almost lost her balance, but if she'd thought to push him away, she was gravely mistaken.

“Whatever it takes for you to trust me, I'll do.” He wrapped his hand around her neck and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “If you want me to go slow, I'll go slow. If you need gentle, I'll be gentle. I will do what it takes, however long it takes. But I won't let anyone else have you. You are mine, Evie. You've been mine since you were eight years old. And now that I've found you again, I'm not gonna let you go.”

 

ELEVEN

Sometimes the most difficult problems can be easily fixed with teamwork.

—SINNER'S TRIBE MOTORCYCLE REPAIR MANUAL

Zane usually enjoyed watching Dax work—especially during the first half hour of a torture session. Not because he was into blood and pain—he wasn't—but because Dax could get even the most hardened of men to talk without laying a hand on them. No wonder the CIA, FBI, and every covert organization in the U.S. had offered Dax a job after he completed his PhD thesis on psychological terror at Yale.

And he turned them all down for a piece of tail.

Zane couldn't understand it. Sure, Dax's old lady, Sandy, was attractive in a honey-blond goddess kind of way. And she had to be good in bed since they had five kids—or maybe he was Catholic, although who ever heard of a Catholic Sinner?—but still it seemed a lot to give up for good sex and a career as an outlaw biker, especially since torture was in his blood. Why else would he have joined the Sinners with the stipulation that he be given free rein to practice his craft?

“Haven't had a woman under my knife for a long time,” Dax said as they descended the stairs to the clubhouse basement. “I'm surprised Jagger allowed it.”

“No harm.” Zane skirted around the pool table and grabbed a set of keys from the wet bar in the corner. The vast, poured concrete basement served as a games room and wet bar, as well as housing three cells for prisoners and interrogations. “Terror only. That's why I'm here.”

Better here than driving the roads around Evie's house looking for Jacks. Or in his room thinking about her. He'd told her Viper was the kind of man who took what he wanted—as if it were a bad thing. But hell, he was that kind of man, too.

And he wanted Evie.

He had lied to himself last night just as much as he had lied to Jagger after Viper left the bar under a truce born solely by the fact they were evenly matched in both men and arms, and neither club wanted to attract the attention of the ATF. Yes, he wanted to rebuild his friendship with Evie, make up for all that had transpired. But friendship wasn't enough, just as it hadn't been enough when they were young, and damned if Viper would get in the way.

“You're here because you're a secret sadist.” Dax laughed and lowered the duffel bag he'd been carrying on his shoulder. “You have a fascination for extremes—extreme pain, extreme emotion, extreme desire. You like to see how far a person can be pushed. What you don't seem to realize is that, really, you're pushing yourself.”

Dax was always direct. And when it came to analyzing people, he hit too close for comfort. One of the reasons Zane kept his sexual liaisons discreet was because he didn't think his brothers would understand his need to dominate in a way he couldn't as VP. He needed the kind of control he hadn't had over his life. Whether it was because of his abusive father or the girl he loved but couldn't have, he didn't know, but Dax had the unique ability to pin him down, and although he knew himself well, he had no desire to have his inner motivations brutally exposed.

“Save the psychoanalysis for Doreen.” Unable to hold Dax's searching gaze, Zane turned and unlocked the door. “You're gonna need it. Never met a woman like her before. If you so much as loosen the ropes on her wrists and ankles, she'll throw herself at you and claw out your eyes. Piston is in the medical suite right now with Doc Hegel because he was taken in by her tears. But make no mistake…”

“I never do.” Dax pushed open the door and they stepped into the bare, cinder block room, lit only by a single bulb on a wire hanging from the ceiling.

“I see Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding brought a little friend to play.” Doreen swung her bound legs over the side of the camp bed Jagger had provided for the comfort of their female prisoner. “Who's gonna be first, or are you gonna both do me at once?”

Dax turned slightly to the side as he removed the tools of his trade from his duffel bag, holding each one up as if to assess it under the light. Zane had watched this performance before. Some prisoners caved when Dax pulled out the blade saw, for others the nutcracker was enough. He suspected the nutcracker wouldn't frighten Doreen, although she had bigger balls than many of the prisoners who had warmed that very bed.

Dax carefully placed his tools on the table—whips, knives, cuffs, gags, a squeaky toy … If he hadn't known Dax was a torturer, Zane would have thought the guy had a kink. Maybe he did, although Sandy didn't strike him as the submissive type. And with five kids, when would they find time to play? That was one benefit of remaining unattached. No kids to tie him down or interfere with his lifestyle. No lives to ruin because of his total lack of a role model for being a dad.

“How did it go last night?” Zane leaned against the wall, paying no attention to the prisoner on the bed. After the Jacks had left Riverside Bar the other night, the Sinners launched a revenge attack, setting fire to one of the restaurants the Jacks were known to frequent. He could have asked any of the brothers about the outcome of the restaurant hit, but the conversation worked well into the game he and Dax played to unsettle their victims, an easy banter that took the focus off the prisoner and onto the collection of torture toys.

“Good.” Dax placed a pair of forceps on the table. “The restaurant burned down in a matter of minutes. Too bad for Mario. But then he shoulda thought about what might happen if he let too many Jacks into his establishment.”

“You burned down Lucky Mario's?” Doreen's baby blues widened. “That was Viper's favorite restaurant. He's gonna hit you so damned hard, you'll be over at his clubhouse on your knees begging for mercy.”

Dax pulled out a whip and flicked his wrist, the crack echoing in the small space. “Someone's gonna be begging for mercy, and it isn't us.”

“You can't hurt me,” she said quickly. “Zane gave me his word. And I got a kid. He needs me.”

“If I know Zane, and I do, he probably gave you his word that you won't be harmed. But there's a world of difference between hurt and harm.”

Wasn't that the truth. His old man knew the difference. Zane's father was always careful to hit Zane where the bruises couldn't be seen. But the emotional abuse, the constant accusations that his mother died because of him, that he was worthless and no good and a burden on his dad, caused irreparable harm. If not for Evie and Jagger, Zane doubted he would have made it through school without some serious psychological damage, or landing his ass in jail.

Dax studied Doreen, his lips twisting to the side. Then he put away the whip and pulled a pair of scissors from the bag, holding them up to the light. “That hair's gonna get in the way. Maybe I'll give her a pixie cut, shaved up both sides with a piece in the middle for holding on to.” His phone buzzed in his pocket and he dug it out and frowned. “Damn. Timmy's back in the principal's office. That's the problem with having five boys. I gotta spend half my day gettin' them outta trouble. Excuse me love, I'll be right back.”

Zane straddled the only chair in the cell and faced Doreen, resting his elbows on the metal back. “So who's looking after your kid?” He'd never thought about the people their prisoners left behind, and especially not kids, but now that he had one of his own, he wondered how it all worked in the context of his world. What would happen to Ty if Viper snatched Evie and threw her in his dungeon? What kind of boy was he? Would he curl up in his room and cry? Would he dial 911? Would he go to a friend's house?

Would he call his dad?

His fingers tightened on the chair. Fuck. What the fuck was he doing here when Viper was still roaming the streets? He'd arranged for two brothers to watch their house, but he should be there looking after his own damn family instead of trying to take care of this one.

“Like I'm going to tell you.” Confident now that Dax was out of the room, Doreen shuffled back on the bed and leaned against the wall, her gaze focused on the table where Dax had left his equipment.

“I got a kid, too.” The unfamiliar words slipped off his tongue. “Just wanted to make sure yours wasn't alone.” He glanced up at the camera, hoped the mic was off. He'd never live it down if the brothers heard him showing concern for a prisoner. Hell, they'd be shocked he showed concern for anyone. He had a reputation as a loner, an “ice man,” and he liked to keep it that way.

Doreen exhaled a long breath. “He's with my mom in another town. Viper sends all the kids away. He doesn't want the women he's fucking to be distracted. It's hard to blow a man when your kid is whining for juice, especially because no one bothers with closed doors in the Black Jack clubhouse. MC women don't get a choice of where they get fucked.”

She gave him a sly look, her eyes slightly narrowed and a smirk on her lips. “Just like your redhead from the shop. She's got no choice either. Viper wants her bad. Never seen him want a woman the way he wants her.”

“She's with me.”

“And I was with Axle. Look what happened to him.”

Zane forced his muscles to relax, feigning disinterest. “Viper killed him to get you?”

Doreen opened her mouth and then closed it again, her eyes flicking back to the table. “It's a long story and not one I'm wantin' to share unless you're gonna let me outta here. But I think it's pretty damn obvious that Viper doesn't let anyone or anything stand in the way of what he wants.”

“Neither do I.”

“So why are you here talking to me? He's probably on his way to get your redhead right now.”

*   *   *

Evie dusted the tank of the Honda CB600F Hornet. Her client loved the matte black but needed a touch-up on the paint. The factory had put the clear coat over the decals and when he pulled them off the marks were visible. Even worse, the aftermarket front end's color was off from the rest of the bike. Not a big job. She had a stock of color match paint and there weren't many dents to fill. Maybe three hours and then she could get back to the work she enjoyed best, the custom designs, creative artwork that reflected the owner with a little bit of her soul thrown in.

Stan and Gene were working on a Kawasaki Ninja in the corner, badly damaged after the owner had skidded in the rain and dropped his bike under a stopped SUV. The fenders were dented beyond repair and there was substantial mechanical damage—almost a write-off, but not enough for the bike's insurers who were footing the bill. Insurance claims made up the bulk of the mechanics' work, taking them away from the custom builds that had first drawn them to Bill's shop.

“Morning, all.” As if on cue, Bill walked into the shop through the back door, all relaxed like he hadn't just up and disappeared a week ago. “Can anyone tell me why the back entrance is covered in bullet holes?”

Big Bill, so named because he was six feet five inches tall and maybe half as wide, with long, dark shaggy hair and a thick beard to match. He had inherited the shop from his old man, and although he loved bikes, he wasn't a businessman. After running the shop into the red in its first three months of operation, he'd hired the best staff he could find and let them run the shop for him.

“How about you tell us first where you were?” Evie folded her arms across her chest. She'd been happy to partner with Bill when he first approached her, but now she was pretty much running the show on her own and his unreliability was becoming an issue.

“Tables in Helena were calling, darlin'. I was feeling lucky.”