The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 (8 page)

Tall, blond, and built like a football linebacker, T-Rex whimpered. His dark-haired companion, Bandit, paled.
Good
. Jagger wanted them scared and thinking about the screwup for the rest of the night. He'd had closer calls, but regardless, he needed to be able to trust his men not to make the kinds of mistakes that could cost lives.

They drove around for an hour while Fuentes shouted and banged on the trunk. Zane shared a few stories about his years as a firefighter, and Cade talked about his women. Jagger tuned them out. There was only one woman he wanted to think about. A woman who hid a soft vulnerability behind a tough exterior. Strong. Brave. Beautiful. And totally off-limits, not just because she was the enemy, but also because he'd put her in danger once already, and it damn well wouldn't happen again.

The phone rang, and Cade confirmed Fuentes's people had agreed to the terms. Cheers and laughter all around. The money would help renovate the new clubhouse and finance the imminent destruction of the icehouse, which would put a severe dent in the Black Jacks' financial operations.

Twenty minutes later, they dragged an enraged, groaning Fuentes from the trunk and dumped him on the ground. T-Rex retrieved a sports bag from the Dumpster and fished out a piece of paper, holding it up for Fuentes to see before handing it to Jagger.

“There's an address on the piece of paper,” Jagger said to Fuentes. “You're going to give me the address of the icehouse. If it matches, then you're free to go. If your people have given me the wrong address, you'll pay the price.”

Fuentes's face grew chalky. Clearly he was worried his people would stab him in the back. Not something Jagger ever worried about—not even Axle would have dared to try to take him out. From here on, however, Jagger had no doubt Axle would be gunning for him.
Well, stand in line.

Fuentes rattled off an address in a barely audible whisper. Jagger confirmed the match with a nod. Five minutes after that, they were headed back to the emergency base, which the board had just agreed would be renovated to become their new clubhouse, five hundred grand richer and set to blow the Jacks' icehouse sky high.

“This stays between us,” Jagger cautioned as he drove through the darkened streets. “No one else in the club hears about the plan. I don't want to risk a leak.”

“Good thing, then, you got rid of that pretty little Black Jack.” Bandit gave an obsequious laugh, clearly trying to make up for his massive screwup with Fuentes and totally unaware he was just digging himself in deeper. But that was Bandit. Loyal, honest, but a total knucklehead when it came to social relations.

“She's one hot little piece of ass,” he continued. “Maybe Cade should've worked her up for some Jack intel. The way he tells it, there isn't a woman alive who doesn't want in his pants.”

Jagger gripped the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles whitened. Then, without warning, or even a word, he reached over the seat, grabbed Bandit by the collar, and smashed his face into the back of the headrest. He made a turn, righted the steering wheel, and kept driving.

Zane looked over from the passenger seat and dropped his voice to a low murmur only Jagger could hear. “What's eating you? We're supposed to be celebrating.”

“Fucking hate cages.” Jagger blew out a long breath and shifted his weight. He wasn't lying. Cages brought back memories of the months he'd spent intubated as he recovered from the rocket strike while on tour in Afghanistan. Unable to shake the residual claustrophobia and the memories of pain and utter helplessness, Jagger could no longer ride in a cage unless he was driving and all the windows were down. And no way would he have been able to handle what they'd just put Fuentes through. PTSD was the military psychologist's diagnosis. Jagger just called it a need to be in control.

“Unfortunately, my charm doesn't work on hard-core biker chicks.” Cade folded his arms behind his head, forcing Bandit and T-Rex to move toward the side doors. “Too much life experience too young makes 'em sharp and savvy, not innocent, the way I like 'em. Plus they're hard to control, hard to manage, and—”

“You mean they see through your bullshit.” Zane laughed and glanced over at Jagger. “She had balls, though, and one helluva kick.”

Jagger stared straight ahead. Zane was entirely too perceptive. Although Jagger never discussed his PTSD, Zane, who knew him best, had been quick to pick up on his triggers. He was the one who'd insisted they ride with the windows down, and when it came time to drive, he'd tossed Jagger his keys.

“What's on for tomorrow?” He pointedly ignored Zane's not-so-subtle attempt to feel him out about Arianne, because Zane clearly knew what he thought already, and the fact that he'd picked up on Jagger's interest in the fiery brunette irked him even more than Bandit's disrespect.

“Devil Dogs MC are good to meet tomorrow,” Cade said. “They're so desperate for a patch-over, I think they'd lick our boots if we asked. I've already placed the order for new cuts with our patches on them. They've passed all the tests. If you approve, I think they'd be a welcome addition to the club.”

He'd been thinking the same thing. While the truce with the Black Jacks had held and they weren't losing brothers left, right, and center, Jagger had been reluctant to bring smaller biker clubs into the fold because the resources required to keep them in line and protect them were substantial. But now that the feud was back on, the Sinner's Tribe would need to aggressively expand to keep their numbers up and protect their territory. And if his ultimate goal was to maintain their status as the dominant club in the state, he would need to patch in new clubs.

Cade leaned over the seat. “You want them to come to the new clubhouse?”

“We still don't have full security in place,” Jagger said. “And I want to meet them on neutral ground.” His pulse kicked up a notch, and then the words spilled out before he could catch them. “There's a bar on the West Side, just off the 191. We'll meet them there. It's called Banks Bar.”

*   *   *

Arianne parked her car in the dimly lit parking lot behind Banks Bar and reached down to check the LadySmith .38 Special in her lower calf holster.

He was coming for her. She knew it from the pounding of her heart and the sick feeling that hadn't disappeared since Jagger dropped her off five days ago. If she could only get home to collect the rest of her weapons inventory: a 9 mm Glock 26, usually holstered under her shirt when on Black Jack business, and a .22 she carried in her purse when she wore a skirt or dress. But she'd been in such a hurry to get to Jeff the night of the fire, she hadn't had time to get them, and since then she hadn't been able to go home to retrieve them. Hell, she hadn't even been able to collect clean clothes, knowing that the minute she stepped into her apartment, she would be snatched up and dragged back to face Viper's wrath.

But that was the biker way. A price would have to be paid for her interference with the raid on the Sinner clubhouse, especially since Jeff hadn't managed to steal all the guns from the weapons shed out back, and there were only two possible punishments. Since she could never be kicked out of the club, she would have to pay in blood and bruises, and she hadn't yet recovered from the last beating.

Arianne took one last glance in the rearview mirror before turning off her vehicle. She'd managed to hide at Dawn's place for the last week. Her best friend and coworker was always more than happy to give up her spare room when Arianne needed a place to stay, and had even cleared out a space in her wardrobe so Arianne could store emergency clothes. But after five days of sneaking out in disguise to search for Jeff, and with her savings depleted, Arianne had to break cover.

Her father would've anticipated her eventual emergence. Waited. When it served his needs, Viper had infinite patience, and when it didn't, he let loose a temper that had spilled the blood of some of the strongest men she knew.

And women.

Even after so many years, she was still afraid of him. Not that she would ever let him know it. Fear was a weakness, and Viper, president of the Black Jacks MC, didn't tolerate weakness. Not in himself. And certainly not in his daughter.

With one hand on the door handle, she made a slow, thorough check of the area for Black Jacks before sliding out of the vehicle, and racing to the back door of the bar. The night was crisp and cold. A harsh breeze sent leaves scurrying across the pavement. She fumbled with the key, and caught a whiff of piss and stale beer, and … leather.

No.

She wrenched open the door and threw herself into the warm, dimly lit stockroom, where her Dawn was counting bottles with their boss, Joe Banks aka Banks.

“You okay?” His eyebrows furrowed. “Someone outside bothering you?”

“No. Just … looking forward to work.” She turned around and worked the dead bolt with a firm click.

“Really?” The bar's owner and manager straightened and glared at the door as if he could see through the steel and into the night. Standing just over six feet tall, he was muscular but not bulky, his forearms covered with tats from the year he'd spent in prison. The soft fuzz on his head—usually shaved to a number 2—contrasted with piercing steel-blue eyes that could warm to a deep azure in an instant. He wore his usual uniform of black heavy metal band T-shirt, khakis, and an ancient pair of kicks.

“Yeah. I'm good.” She held her voice firm, knowing even the slightest hitch would send him charging into the parking lot in an overprotective frenzy, ready to pound on anyone who dared mess with his staff.

Dawn brushed back her soft blond curls with one hand and gave her a questioning look. Small and curvy with a pixie face and big green eyes, she was the yin to Banks's yang. Soft where he was hard, sweet where he was bitter, she could cajole their boss to do almost anything except leave her unattended on the floor. Banks had hired a new bouncer, ostensibly to tighten up security, but in reality to keep roaming hands off Dawn's ass. Little did he know, Dawn's seemingly delicate fists packed a dangerous punch. She'd once been a biker's old lady and could still hold her own.

“You're looking kinda pale.” Dawn stared at her intently. “Even paler than when I saw you this morning.”

“Seriously.” Arianne told her. “Just jumpy tonight.”

Banks huffed and then gave Arianne a slow perusal, from her dark chestnut hair swept into a high ponytail to her plain black tank top and her tight jeans to her ballet flats. “Your top is too low, your jeans are too tight, and you're wearing too much lipstick to work the bar tonight. Unless you want me to pull security from the door to watch you, I'd suggest you put on one of my T-shirts.”

A smile curled her lips, and for the first time in a week, she felt as close to safe as she ever got. No one messed with Banks, and that meant no one messed with her. “You say that all the time, and yet I do just fine on my own.”

He gave an exasperated grunt. “Last week you were wearing too much blush.”

“You sound like someone's dad.” Dawn pressed her lips together to keep her laughter in. “You gotta get a handle on that protective streak, Banks. What are you gonna do when you finally stop working so hard and get yourself a girlfriend? Wrap her up in tissue and keep her in the house? Or spend your evenings beating on anyone who dares look in her direction? I'll tell you right now, those are big relationship killers.”

Banks scowled. “Fired.”

Dawn laughed, her throaty voice warming the room. “Seeing as you fire me at least three times a night, honey, I'll just keep countin' bottles and get ready for work.”

Arianne's tension eased with their familiar banter. She grabbed her apron off its hook and tied it firmly around her waist. “For the record, I don't wear blush. Blows off when I'm riding.” Banks knew about her bike but not about her biker family. No one knew about them. Not her friends or coworkers. No one except Dawn.

But Dawn hadn't been so forthcoming about her own past, the night Arianne shared her story. Whatever pulled Dawn into the biker world had scarred her so deep, she refused to talk about it.

“Good thing. Got enough trouble with the guys drooling over you two.” Banks hoisted a crate onto a nearby shelf and then stepped to the side to let Arianne pass.

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek as she reached for the door to the bar. “Thanks for giving me the week off. And for caring.”

“I don't care.” He turned and shoved the crate to the back of the shelf. “Just need to make sure my girls aren't being harassed. Got a business to run, and now I got a fucking motorcycle club breathing down my neck, demanding protection money.”

Arianne stopped short, her hand on the door. She had taken the job at Banks Bar for the simple reason that it was one of the few bars in Conundrum not owned, managed, or under the “protection” of any gang or motorcycle club. Banks was tough enough to keep those wolves at bay.

“Which club?”

He pried the lid off another crate. “Don't know. They're all the same to me. They came in here this morning when I was taking a delivery. One of them pulled a gun on me while the others cased the joint. I told them where to go, but these guys were different from the usual suspects. They asked for the protection money as an afterthought, and when I told them to go fuck themselves, they went.”

Arianne's pulse kicked up a notch. Good thing she was leaving anyway. If one of the MCs decided to shake down Banks, she would have had to quit. She couldn't take the risk of being recognized by any of the Black Jacks' enemies. “Do you think they'll be back?”

“They didn't say.” Banks scowled. “But I do know I'm not playing that game. They come back, I'll burn down the bar, take the insurance money, and start up somewhere else. I don't have a sentimental attachment to this place. Won it from a guy in a poker game my first night out of the joint.”