Vipers Run (9 page)

After we ate, Cage and I took another ride through town. I'd never been down this far south, and even though we didn't stop, I knew this place was different. For one thing, I was used to states with a faster feel, where you didn't slow down until forced to. Which was typically never. Even in Connecticut, where my schools were, there was a feeling of elegant intensity. Like it was preparing us to head back into New York and her frantic pace.

Here, things sprawled with a quiet dignity that made it seem almost offensive to rush. There was more land, more room to just slow down and breathe.

Skulls Creek was along a river, the main drag making it appear more small town than the moderate-sized city it actually was. The busier
section, with the big office buildings and the more commercial restaurants and shops, was on the north side. The Vipers' influence was most strongly felt on the original strip near town hall, where residents seemed to be used to the roar of Harleys. I suspected it worked that way because the clubhouse was actually pretty far removed from either section of town, tucked away from prying eyes and curious teens.

“Vipers own this block?”

“Preach bought real estate back when a lot of this place crashed. Got in cheap and made a killing. We fixed the buildings up, rented the shops and now this place looks like it did way back when.”

It had a small-town feel, where everyone looked out for everyone, but was big enough that you could get lost if you needed to. The town was a municipality that appeared to be thriving. Lots of cars and foot traffic. Stores were open, pretty. Clean.

If this was what having an MC in your town meant, I guessed that very few complained.

“So the MC is good for the town,” I said, once we'd parked behind a building along the outskirts.

“We are. Most of the time. It's a balancing act. Vipers keep drugs out. They'd ruin this place. We've seen it happen to other nearby cities.”

It seemed as though he'd seen it firsthand, up close and personal. Again, I was frustrated at his refusal to share, but I was hoping that the further he let me into his world, the more he'd reveal.

Granted, I hadn't revealed a lot either, but he knew the basics. And for me, that was enough to make my gut tighten just thinking about what might happen if I had to reveal everything. “How did Vipers start, anyway?”

“There were four original members,” he explained as he used his keys to let us into the locked building. There was an alarm too, and he locked up, realarmed and got us into the large service elevator. He hit the button for the sixth floor, which was the top floor. “They came back here after Vietnam, kind of all fucked up, and they built the club from the ground up. Bought the block of run-down stores and apartments and the big lot on the corner, and built their clubhouse and the place for them to fix their bikes. It wasn't ever open to the public, just a place for club members to fix their bikes and cars. The clubhouse was where the guys lived for a while.”

“Are any of their sons still with the club?”

“Rally's a great-grandkid of an original.”

“So why isn't he in charge?”

“That's a long, boring story.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

He let me off the elevator first, then pointed to the lone door in the hallway.

“This whole floor is yours?”

“Yeah. Preacher's big on investments in real estate. It's way too big for one person.” He unlocked the door and motioned me in first. There was an alarm buzzing too, and I guessed better safe than sorry. And I was feeling safer the deeper I went, like those Russian dolls where each doll was protectively encased in another and another. All the layers helped.

I looked around his apartment. It was sprawling and mostly empty, with floor-to-ceiling windows. I could see the view of the river all the way down. On the other end, there was a locked door that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. He didn't explain what it was, and I didn't ask. I went to the window, where I could see the river instead. I could see the clubhouse if I strained a little.

Finally, I turned back to him. He stood in the middle of the place, looking around like he didn't own it.

“You don't spend a lot of time here.”

“I don't spend a lot of time in any one place, no,” he agreed.

The walls were bare, a soft beige. The floor was a gorgeous dark stained wood and there were two leather couches and various kitchen
appliances. A big mattress and box spring on the floor in the bedroom. And wooden blinds. “It's a great place.”

“You'll be hanging out at the clubhouse most of the time, so don't get used to it.”

Great. Because even though it had been fine that morning, there was something about it that made me uneasy. I couldn't put my finger on it, though, and I didn't want to make a big deal of it right off the bat. Going up against Preacher had been enough for one day.

I crossed my arms and sat on one of the couches, watched him rifling through some bags on the floor. He pulled out clothes and stuffed them in a bag. “A couple of the women will go shopping for you, okay? I think it's better if you stay with club company for the moment, until I make sure this shit with the Heathens isn't entangling you in it.”

“Sounds good. So where do you spend time, besides at the clubhouse?” Because that room hadn't looked very lived-in either. Cage was slipping away already and we'd barely been in Skulls for two hours. The whole broken-promises thing was starting to tug hard at me, and I didn't want to go to that dark place again. “I mean, I know you were in the Army with Bernie. And Tenn. And Tals.”

“Yeah, I was. Tenn and Tals got out before me.”

He had a faraway look in his eyes. I wanted to know how long he'd been out, how long he'd been a part of the MC. Instead, I asked, “What have you been doing since you got out of the Army?”

* * *

What have you been doing since you got out of the Army?

It shouldn't have been a hard question to answer. He'd been in for a tour, and then his inactive reserve status hadn't lasted long. He and Tals had gone back in—Tenn joined them for six months. But then Cage had volunteered to stay active until his eight years were up. Tals and Tenn went back on reserve, and as of eight months before, they were all out.

The fact that he couldn't answer Calla's question alerted him to the fact that, for the last six months, his sole focus had been revenge. He'd never outgrown it, and while there was nothing inherently wrong with that stance, it was dangerously close to the blood-for-blood mentality of the Heathens. And he was tired of blood for blood.

That was the reason he'd gone into the Army in the first place. He'd skated the edge of insanity that went along with vengeance for so long that he'd started hating himself. The Army gave him
what he needed, worked his mind as well as his body.

But when Preacher told him things had gotten worse with the Heathens, the choice was made. Drugs were pushing in closer, and as much as law enforcement didn't want to need the Vipers MC, the officers and the mayor realized that, without them, they'd lose their stronghold completely in the war against a meth invasion. Meth brought more dangerous MCs to town—not that the Vipers weren't dangerous themselves, but they simply couched it better—and meth also brought the skinheads. And nobody wanted those guys in their backyards.

The Vipers were an insular crew. Occasionally, they'd take in a rogue, but more often than not it was a member's brother or cousin or son. It added to the family mentality.

Tenn hadn't wanted anything to do with the MC, but because of Tals, he'd be protected anyway. The guys who worked for Tenn would be too intimidated if they'd known just how close their boss was to a one-percenter MC, but, for the most part, the MC respected the fact that Tenn could kick the majority of their asses enough to not give a shit that he was running a gay porn Web site . . . or that he was gay himself.

“I've been doing MC business,” he told her
finally, ignoring what looked like betrayal in her gaze. Betrayal or hurt at being shut out. “You all right to stay here while I go do a few things? I won't be more than a couple of hours. I've got a few guys who live in the building keeping an eye out. The whole thing's locked up tight and their numbers are right by the phone. They won't leave the building without checking with me first.”

“You've got guards on me now?”

“Yes.”

He'd been conscious of the fact that she was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country, and could probably compete for that title worldwide. Calla hadn't grown up with her dad, but Cage had been right about the look of a rich girl. He could spot them a mile away, and more often than not they meant trouble.

“Okay, then.” She glanced toward the bed. “I haven't slept in days. Not much, anyway.”

“We're making an appearance at the bar tonight, so catch some shut-eye while you can.”

“Are you going anyplace I should be worried about?” she asked, and when Cage didn't answer, she sighed. “Forget it. Just be careful.”

He would.

Ned's place was a dump of a motel that sat in front of a flophouse, about thirty miles from Skulls, right beyond the mountains, where people were sparse and land was abundant. Why he'd come here, and why he was hovering so close to Calla, had been Tals's main concern for getting Cage out here so quickly. They'd discussed it briefly when they'd made a pit stop to grab food and take a piss, but Cage needed to keep going, to see the motherfucker instead of talking about him.

Cage had also checked in on Calla, through Rocco.

“I just texted her to check on things. She's okay,” Rocco assured him. And then he hung up, pocketed the phone and realized Tals was staring at him. “What?”

“You got it bad, brother.”

“Problem with that?”

“Depends on how far it takes you from the club. You made a commitment to Vipers first.”

He had. And the MC had saved his ass in more ways than one. But he'd be damned if he'd let it get in the way of a life with Calla. “What the fuck do you think I've been doing the past six months, jackoff?”

Tals held up his hands. “Just trying to get the love dust out of your eyes and your mind focused on the fight.”

“Never left,” he growled. “Let's just find this asshole.”

“What's the plan when we do find him? Threaten? Because I think we need to bring him back with us and let Calla deal with him,” Tals said. “Women need that kind of closure.”

Cage eyed him. “Who are you and what have you done with Talon, the bastard?”

“Someone left an old chick magazine in the john. There was nothing else to do.” Tals shrugged unapologetically. “Well, after I beat off.”

And then Tals was back, just like that. “I don't think Calla wants him anywhere near her. Which is why I don't want him to see our cuts.”

Tals reluctantly peeled his cut off and stored it in the back of the van, as did Cage. Ned would probably know they were MC members, because
from what little Cage had found out about the guy, he wasn't stupid.

He and Tals had been breaking into places unnoticed since they were small. The Army had continued to hone their covert skills, and with the amount of drugged-out people wandering the area, they probably could've walked naked through the outside hallways of the motel and no one would've noticed.

“Jesus Christ,” Tals muttered as they stepped over a woman who was passed out by a doorway. She was skeletal—looked to be in her fifties, but Cage would bet anything she was in her twenties.

“Fucking meth,” Cage replied, sliding into Ned's locked room using a magnetized-strip card he'd grabbed off someone he'd passed in the hallway. The people staying here were all too stoned to realize there was one card that opened every room.

Once inside, with Tals standing guard, Cage systematically went through Ned's things. He found nothing of interest, beyond some stubbed-out joints. If he was taking anything harder, there wasn't evidence of it.

“Anything?” Tals asked as he came out.

“No, but he's here. Found a take-out box with his name on it.”

“So we come back.” As they headed to their bikes, Tals told him, “You know Calla's freaked, right?”

He knew, because he was the one responsible. Balancing her and the MC wasn't easy. He was just about to address it when he noticed a few of the local skinheads staring at them.

“Did they see me in the room?” Cage asked.

“No, but they saw me.” Tals looked damned pleased with himself. “You need a good fight later.”

“And let me guess—you know where to find one?”

“Stick with me and I'll hook you up. One's going to follow us home.”

I was really nervous by the time Cage came back. He'd brought me some clothes—cute jeans and boots and shirts—and I'd already showered. He was still distracted, and Tals was with him, which meant that we couldn't talk much.

I dressed quickly. Thought about telling him I wanted to stay here instead, but I really didn't want to be alone. But when I'd hinted at that, he'd said that he'd been ordered to a command performance by Preacher.

The bar was walking distance from the apartment—two short blocks—but we rode instead, parked in a line of bikes along the back and walked into the darkened bar.

It wasn't too different from any of the bars I'd been in. But it was crowded already since it was
after eleven at night, and the drinking was going full swing.

I'd known it wasn't going to be easy, coming here and meeting a good portion of the Vipers crew, plus their women, plus hangers-on. And it was more crowded tonight than usual, Cage told me, because they all knew he was back in town.

Many of the guys watched him with guarded expressions. Some of the women did too. I got outright contempt from more than a few, but smiles and waves from others. Still, I was nervous as anything. I was sure it showed, and I didn't want it to. But I was out of my element, and while I might've felt that way in boarding school and college, I knew how to fake it. Here, I really didn't.

I mean, I felt stupid because what could I do? Look up, “My boyfriend's a biker, what next?” Because Cage wasn't exactly my boyfriend. Although I wasn't sure what calling me “his” meant exactly.

I'd watched
Sons of Anarchy
, along with the rest of the world, and that aided with the pictures Tenn had drawn for me in my mind of what a real MC was. These men lost tongues and noses and balls. They were hard-core. And maybe Vipers wasn't as hard-core as some of the MCs, but there'd been guns in Cage's apartment.

He was in the Army
, I reminded myself. But that
hadn't settled the questions in my head. So I just stayed by his side and studied the women. I quickly realized there was a certain way of dressing, a certain bearing to each group—there always was, and the MC women were no different.

It was easy to spot the old ladies from the mamas. There was a natural confidence to the old ladies, like they knew they were untouchable. I was dressed somewhere in between, and I wondered which one of them had picked out my clothes.

At some point, Cage parked me by the bar next to a few women he'd introduced me to and told me he had some club business to attend to. As soon as he left, they stopped talking to me, and I sipped a Diet Coke and looked around.

Cage was hanging out with a group of women who were basically all over him. I wasn't sure what the hell was going on at this point, but club business, my ass.

The depth of my jealous feelings was too intense and it surprised me. A woman was talking to Cage with far too much intimacy for my comfort. The jealousy I'd known twisted with misery, and instead of going over to him, showing the woman that he was mine, I turned away and walked toward the back room.

“You can't let him get away with it.” I turned
toward the source of the voice. A pretty, dark-haired woman, curvy in jeans and a tank top, bracelets of silver and beads of different colors traveling up her arms. “I'm Amelia. You're Calla, yes?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Calla, look—these guys, they're going to get away with whatever they can. Some women deal with it. Others can't. But Cage will never respect you if you don't fight for him.”

“I would like to punch that bitch out,” I muttered, and Amelia laughed and clapped her hands together once lightly.

“That's the spirit. But, honey, fists aren't the way to win this game.” She looked me over. “I see what I bought you fits well. If that's not to your style, tell me what you need.”

She didn't question why I couldn't do my own shopping, didn't seem to think it was odd at all. So of course, I blurted out, “I told him I wasn't sure I wanted commitment. I told him we were both free to do what we wanted,” and wondered how the small, dark hallway had suddenly become a confessional.

“So? We're not allowed to change our minds?” she asked. Then she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a couple of wrapped bracelets. “Here,
put these on. It's onyx and these are worry beads. They'll help.”

I'd take whatever I could get. I unwrapped it and slid the pretty black and wood beads on my wrist, rubbed it a couple of times with my opposite hand for good luck.

“Who are you dating?” I asked.

“Me? No one,” she said with a smile. “I just work here. Manage the bar. They stopped hiring their own guys because they were drinking too much of the profits.”

“Thanks for being nice to me.”

“The others will, once you're with one of the guys. Until then . . .” She shrugged, then gave me a crash course in life, MC-style. “MC men fuck whoever they want. Old ladies are expected to be faithful, but most of the time any guy who's got an old lady's off the market.”

“Since I'm not attached, I'm a threat,” I said.

“Right. Means all the women hate you on sight, especially because you're gorgeous.” She glanced at Cage. “My suggestion? If you want him, if you think you made a mistake, it's time to claim him.”

Yes, I could do that.

I'd grown up between two worlds, not feeling entirely comfortable in either. It was like I didn't
know the entire story behind my life—was I supposed to be a bar chick or a rich girl? And in the end did it really matter? I'd been faking everything for so long it had all become a matter of course.

I understood now, watching Cage, just how much I missed. So much lost time to make up for. Because everything I'd thought I'd wanted at the cabin went straight out the window the first time I saw another woman chatting Cage up. My heart raced in my chest and I wanted to rip him away from her, rip her hair out. And I could've flirted with any number of MC members in the bar—and I should've.

Instead, I stared behind the bar and said, “Do you need help tonight?”

“Honey, I need help every night. Bar business isn't my thing. I'm good with numbers, but this other stuff? Preacher promised me he'd find someone to take this over. So go take a spin.”

“We don't need more help.” A woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties brushed by and went behind the bar. She was all boobs and butt, curvy, undeniably hot. She eyed me like I'd crawled off the bottom of her shoe, then called, “Rich girls don't know what work is.”

I raised my brows to Amelia and pointed behind the bar. “Mind?”

Amelia held the swinging half door open. The other bartender watched me as I walked through the bar, taking stock of where things were kept and what kinds of liquor, including top shelf, they kept there.

It had been a couple of years since I'd been behind a bar. But in a matter of five minutes, I was pouring drinks and shots. Flirting. Ignoring Cage in favor of having fun.

For a little while, I didn't feel like a pretender. This is what the Benson women did. I might not belong in this world, but at least I got to be me, didn't have to fake anything.

When there was a lull, I couldn't help but scan the crowd for him. If he'd noticed me behind the bar, I didn't know.

I didn't want to flirt with anyone but him. And so I didn't. Not in the traditional sense anyway, but when Amelia cranked the music up, I got up onto the bar and started dancing.

For Cage.

* * *

When Cage heard the catcalls, he looked up and saw Calla. Dancing. On top of the goddamned bar. She was laughing too, having found a group of women to dance with, and he sat back in his chair and watched her letting loose and having fun, because she was twenty-goddamned-three
and obviously hadn't had enough of it. Her hair had come out of the knot she'd tied it in earlier when she'd become the in-demand bartender, and now she was reaching under her shirt, pulling out a lacy bra and twirling it.

He could see her peaked nipples through her white cotton shirt. Someone would soak the girls with water soon enough, and he'd watch that show. Because other men could look, but they couldn't fucking touch, and it didn't matter what he'd told her about that.

The thing was, she knew it. He could tell. But if she wanted to play this game, to prove whatever it was to both of them, who was he to argue? Either way, she'd be in his bed tonight, and sooner than later.

She was in control. Protected. Worshipped by Cage's eyes. She was safe here, for the moment, and she wasn't being judged for taking her bra off, dancing wildly. No, the crowd wanted more from her and the two other women she was up there with . . . and she had all the power.

And he'd tried his best to give her space, to give himself distance. It wasn't working, and it never would. She was his. He'd known it from day one, so why he'd bothered to fight it was beyond him.

She got down off the bar and danced her way
over to him, threw a leg over his. The woman he'd been talking to glared at her, but Calla smiled at her, then brought her mouth down on Cage's.

“Done fucking teasing me, babe?”

“Not even close,” she murmured.

“You could suck me off right here.”

“Wouldn't we get arrested?”

“Never happened before.”

“How many women have sucked you off in this bar, Cage?”

“I'm a wise enough man to not answer that question.” He dug into her pocket and pulled out several phone numbers—he'd seen some guys handing them to her—and crumpled them before dunking them in his beer mug. “If you're out looking to get laid, that's not going to fly.”

“You agreed that we didn't own each other,” Calla reminded him.

“You agreed—I never did, so take a walk back through your memory bank, sweetheart. You want to fuck, I'm right here. I'm not letting someone else fuck what's mine.”

“I'm not—”

“Mine,” he repeated firmly, backing her against the wall, his knee sliding between her jean-clad legs. Her thighs clamped around his in an effort to stop it from pushing against her sex, but it was
useless. “I'll get it through your head however I have to, even if it means fucking you right here in the middle of the bar.”

“You wouldn't.”

“You think no one's seen that before?”

“You're a goddamned caveman.”

“And you're a cocktease.” He looked over her shoulder and saw Rocco motioning to him. Urgently. “I've gotta take care of a few things. Tals'll take you back to the apartment.”

She looked pissed. He was pissed too, but he wasn't exactly sure why. But now wasn't the time to pick it apart, not when he saw Tals throw himself into the crowd of skinheads outside the bar.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to waiting at the town border?” Bear asked. “They've got a lot of nerve coming in here.”

“Then we gotta make sure they never want to come back,” Cage growled. Although reluctant to leave Calla, he'd been furious enough to do so, and he recognized this opportunity for what it was . . .

Tals had found their fight.

* * *

I stared out the window at the melee in the middle of the street. Last call had people pouring out half an hour earlier. At this point, there was a
skeleton crew of men, including Cage, and the fight looked brutal—on the skinheads' end. The MC guys seemed to be doing just fine.

I refused to turn away, as if doing so would cause any of the MC guys to get hurt. I'd seen fights before—teenagers in bars, an occasional punch thrown—but melees like this were reserved for the movies.

This was no movie. This was my real life now—and the skinheads who'd come into Vipers territory were bringing it back up.

“Amelia, what the hell?” I asked. But it wasn't Amelia. It was Hot Blond Butt. And she looked worried.

“They're the guys who were caught here a couple of weeks ago. They're pushing meth for the Heathens in Skulls Creek,” she said. “My kid goes to the middle school. He told me he saw these guys trying to sell there too.”

She glanced at me, like she was waiting for a judgment.

Instead, I told her, “Cage came back to try to help.”

“Maybe he shouldn't have left in the first place.”

“Maybe. But that's not going to change any of this.” I looked back outside. The Vipers were outnumbered, but it didn't seem to matter. I saw
the glint of something metal—Blond Butt did too, because she grabbed my forearm and we both could only helplessly watch the Vipers defend their town.

With all the tension, I hadn't noticed the sirens in the distance. Now they were close enough for me to see the flashing lights coming down the street parallel to the bar.

“You've got to go,” Blond Butt told me.

“I'm Calla,” I said.

She smirked. “I know.” Then, “I'm Allie. My old man's Jimbo. I'll keep an eye on them.”

“Are they going to jail?”

“For a little while at least,” she said. “Go. They'll try to question you.”

I'm assuming she'd been questioned a lot. For me, right now, it could be the worst thing. And when I turned around, I saw Rocco was waiting for me by the back door. I was waiting for Amelia to grab my jacket.

She handed it to me, staring around me and out the window toward the fight. “That's a beautiful thing.”

“The fighting?”

“Yes. So primal. God, I love it when they kick some ass.” She turned to me. “By the way, this whole tension between you and Cage? It's him.”

“I guess that's supposed to make me feel better?”

“It's supposed to make you stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Amelia leaned into me. “They don't like to break down their walls or let us in, darlin', but I hate to break it to you. You're already over the goddamned wall, so stop fucking it up.”