Betting It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 11) (4 page)

That amuses him. His lips twitch. And the sight doesn’t make my gut ache. Warmth spreads through me instead. He’s so damn big and gorgeous. But I’m still wary, because he braces his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. I know that stance. He’s determined, immovable.

So I’m in deep shit.

His flat gaze holds mine. “You said the place wouldn’t last in a red-meat town like Pine Valley. You bet that within two years, a burger joint would be standing there, instead.”

What? That does sound like something I’d say, but…
Oh, holy fuck.

I remember. We were at the Wolf Den. At the pool table. Gunner, Stone, Jack, and me—all of us talking shit. Well, Jack wasn’t saying much. But we’d been talking about that new restaurant opening up. Jack had quietly mentioned that it was a good business investment in a growing town like Pine Valley and I’d replied with almost the exact words he just used to remind me. A red-meat town. A place like that wouldn’t last. But that wasn’t all I’d said. I’d gotten up into his face and told him,
If that place is still in business two years from now, I’ll let you tie me up and have your way with me all night.

I can’t believe he’s serious. “You’re going to hold me to that?”

His chin dips in a slow nod. His eyes are dark and empty, just watching me.

My chest is tight as fuck. “I was drunk off my ass.”

“But you’re not now.”

Is he saying I have a choice? That I could back out of the bet?

Because I can’t. Just like I couldn’t back out of the fight with Valentine after Jack shoved my injury into it. If I go back on my word and the brothers find out, then my word is shit. Then
I’m
shit.

Jack has to know that. He’s got me backed against a wall. And not in the hot-as-fuck rough and sexy way I’ve imagined; not the way he had me against the wall before. Instead my guts are spilling out over the floor.

Not that I’d ever let him see it. “Okay,” I tell him, adding a careless shrug. “Whatever. I’ll let you know when I have a night free.”

He catches my wrist as I turn away. Immediately my fist clenches, though I know I can’t beat him—I just want to pound him, to hurt him as much as he just hurt me. But it wouldn’t matter. I’d only be exposing all of my anger and pain, and a few punches would mean nothing to him. To really hurt him, he’d have to give a fuck.

Obviously he doesn’t.

“Creek and I served together until about eight years ago,” he tells me and I stare blindly ahead, not looking back at him. “When he got out, he headed to Quantico. To the academy.”

The FBI academy?
I pull in a sharp breath. Shock snaps my gaze back to his. “You think he’s undercover?”

“I’ll find out,” he says but I’m certain he’s already sure, that something about Creek already gave it away. He wouldn’t have said anything otherwise. “Hold it to yourself for now.”

I nod. His thumb slides over the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. Involuntarily I shiver, then anger hits again and I yank my hand back.

“Just so you know,” I warn him. “You should have screwed me in the shower. Because doing it like this? I’m going to make sure it’s the worst fuck of your life.”

Something sharp and bleak moves through the emptiness of his eyes. “I’ve already had the worst. Now I’ll just take whatever I get.”

“You’re also gonna get the Asshole of the Year award. You’ll take that, too?”

He actually grins. “If you give it.”

“Well, I
was
going to hand it to Valentine. But, hey. You’ve earned it.” I give him a double thumbs-up and start backing away. “Don’t forget to bring the lube. I’m sure I’ll need a full tube.”

His grin vanishes, his expression suddenly dark and intense. “I’ll make sure you’re wet enough. Then you’ll come for me. Repeatedly.”

Want to bet?
I almost say. But I’m not setting up round two. “I’ll make it the
Delusional
Asshole of the Year award.”

“I’ll take that, too. As long as I get a night in your bed with it.”

He’s going to get that. And what am I going to get? I don’t know. I can’t see his end game.

But I think I can manage the
hate
part of a good old hate fuck now.

My night with Jack will have to be a fight. Not with feet and fists, but when we’re in bed, I need to beat him at his own game. I just have to make sure I’m beating him at the
right
game.

So what does he want to win? Not just sex with me. He could have asked for that a long time ago.

The question twists through my head most of the night but my brain’s too cluttered to think straight. I keep feeling the heat of his skin and the rough pleasure of his fingers inside me. I keep hearing him tell Croc I earned my place. I keep seeing the emptiness in his eyes when he said that he doesn’t need to ask because he’s already won.

He hasn’t. He won’t.

I’m up before my alarm goes off. On the road, I open the throttle. The engine roars in the pre-dawn light. Nothing cleans me out like miles of asphalt and the wind in my face. If I could, I’d keep going all day. But the sky calls—and flying a helicopter is almost as good as riding the road. There’s no time to brood or sit around with my thumb up my ass, so by the time the afternoon rolls around and I’m back on the ground, my head’s back where it should be.

This uncertainty and doubt isn’t me. As soon as I decide to do something, I’m all in.

I
am
going to spend the night with him. I
am
going to win.

I’m also suddenly looking forward to following through on this bet—and
really
looking forward to denying Jack fucking Hayden any kind of victory. Somehow, he must be looking to tear me down. It’s what he’s done for five years, so I’ve got no reason to think he’ll do anything differently now.

So how do I beat him? First I’ll make sure there’s no question whether I’m keeping my word. Easy enough to take care of that in the board meeting.

And what else did he tell me? That I’ll come. Repeatedly.

Normally I’d be cheering if a guy wanted to make me come all night. But if that’s what Jack wants, then he must have a reason for wanting it. So I’ll deny him that, too. I’ll probably get wet—God knows I can’t help that—but getting off? Pfft. If I’m not focusing and working for it, an orgasm is as likely as catching a unicorn. I’ll just close my eyes and think of repairing my bird’s engine.

I’ll be the lousiest lay he ever had. It’ll be great.

• • •

Except for when special gatherings are called, the club meets once a month. The executive board used to meet every two weeks, but ever since the Riders and the Titans merged, the prez has been holding the meetings every week—keeping his thumb on the club’s pulse and making sure everything stays amiable. The club’s officers all sit on the board, along with a few non-officers appointed by our prez. Together they manage any conflicts cropping up outside the club and between the brothers. If rules are broken, the executive board acts as a court—with the understanding that the prez’s word outweighs every other patchholder’s.

I didn’t sit on the board until the Titans joined us. Saxon appointed me along with two new patchholders—Bull, the Titans’ enforcer, and Duke, who hadn’t been one of the Titans’ officers but had once been a Rider. He’d turned in his colors when I was patched in. Duke and I get along all right now, but I assume his appointment to the board is also why the prez brought me in. He’s making sure the Titans are represented, but he’s also quietly telling anyone who questions his decision to patch me in to fuck off.

I’d rather have earned my spot on the board, but I’ll take it like this because
keeping
my spot has to be earned. Saxon will toss me out if I’m not pulling my weight—or if I become one of the conflicts they always have to manage.

Today I am. Or rather, Valentine is. But since Jack asked me what the hell I was thinking, fighting Val after he’d given me a bullshit “out,” I know some of the blame will come down on my head. It pisses me off but I’ll deal with whatever comes.

It might be worse than I expect, though. Widowmaker’s already giving me the eye as I come in—a warning not to mouth off. So I zip it and sit.

In the old clubhouse, the board met in the Crib—a loft reserved for the officers’ use, which included a crowded conference room. We’ve got a lot more space out here at the ranch clubhouse, and the building’s former life as an overpriced lodge where tourists forked out hefty amounts of cash to ride a horse for a weekend has left a classier mark on the place than the car dealership left on the clubhouse in town.

The conference room is like something out of an old boys’ smoking lounge on the east coast, with leather club chairs surrounding a carved oak table, dark paneling on the walls and thick rugs over gleaming wooden floors. Big windows look out over tall pines and a rocky creek bed—dry now that it’s late summer, but I’d bet it’s like a postcard in the winter and spring.

Typically the executive board meetings are more casual than the club meetings. At club meetings, nobody eats or drinks unless the prez calls for a break—and even then, anything stronger than water is rarely passed around. I don’t know how the board meetings went at the old clubhouse, but here frosty pints of ale are always waiting for us, and our new veep’s old lady lays out a hell of a spread. Today it looks like she fired up the grill. Some of the guys are at the sideboard, loading up their plates with thick burgers and all the fixings.

My stomach rumbles but I sit tight. Valentine’s here, too, though he’s not on the board, and his glowering mug kills my appetite.

Shit. I knew I’d see Knucklehead, because he’s the club’s road captain and always at these meetings. But I hoped the prez would discuss Valentine’s behavior without him here—there were enough witnesses that he doesn’t need Val to tell the board how it went down. Instead Saxon must have called him in.

Now the prez takes his seat at the head of the table. He’s a big, mean-looking fucker and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him—partly because he’s the one who opened the club’s doors for me, and partly because he would never ask us to do something he wouldn’t do himself.

Red Erickson claims the seat beside him. The former Titans president, he wears the Riders’ colors now, and I have a hard time knowing how to feel around him.

Growing up, my dad used Red Erickson as an example of everything a biker shouldn’t be. He called Red disloyal and yellow. Years passed and I figured out my dad was an egotistical prick. I also found out that the bad blood between the Titans and Riders fell squarely at my dad’s feet. But that early image of Red stuck, and every time I looked at him, I saw something that shouldn’t be respected.

Until recently. We’ve fought together against the Eighty-Eight. I know he isn’t yellow; I know he’s fair and smart.

I also know he’s a better dad than mine ever was, and when I look at him now, I don’t see something to hate, and I don’t see the Titans’ prez—I see his daughter’s face. Jenny and I have been hanging out ever since she hooked up with Saxon. But each time I see her lately, she seems a little more tired and heartbroken, because cancer is eating away at Red’s chest and he’s got maybe a month or two left. Saxon’s helping her hold on but it won’t be easy when Red takes that final ride. Hell, I despised my dad and his death still knocked my heart onto its ass. So all I can think when I see him is how much my friend is going to be hurting.

The two presidents sitting is a signal to the others and they start settling into their places. A pint thunks down in front of me. My pulse trips as Jack takes the chair to my right, his own beer in hand. I didn’t even see him come in.

I reach for the glass and shoot him a grin. “A full tube of lube. Right?”

He regards me with that flat stare for a long second. His voice is too low to be overheard when he replies, “Only if I fuck your pretty little ass.”

“Do you plan to?” God, I hope so. Chances of an orgasm would be zero. “Because I’m not a fan of anal.”

“You will be when I’ve finished.”

I snort into my beer. “Because you’re so good at it? Or because you’re so bad, every time previous will seem like sweet angels were pounding my ass, giving me a newfound appreciation?”

The corners of his mouth quirk in amusement. I wish he wouldn’t do that. I immediately picture myself licking those wide, firm lips, then we both shut our yaps when Widowmaker reads the first item on the agenda.

As club secretary, Widowmaker sends everyone an email listing each item of business we’ll be discussing, but the list is hilariously brief. Each item is given a vague one- or two-word description, so half the time we don’t know what the actual topic is until we get here. There’s the treasurer’s report—listed as “Money”—and it always goes first. The next item is “Ride.” I assume that’s regarding plans for the Labor Day weekend ride, and “Hashtag” is most likely about setting the date to patch in the prospect. The fourth item is “Altercation.” That’s probably Valentine and me. The last piece of business will be “Hangmen.”

I’m right about the ride; I’m wrong about Hashtag.

“Next up,” Widowmaker says before looking to Stone. “This is yours.”

Because Stone is the prospect’s sponsor and responsible for him. The enforcer gives a heavy sigh and spreads his hands. “He’s been shadowing one of the La Pine girls.”

Oh, crap. The girls aren’t from La Pine—that was just where we took the women we found chained up in the Eighty-Eight’s compound when we burned down their meth kitchen and clubhouse. We busted our asses making sure we couldn’t be connected to anything that went down there but we didn’t expect to stumble across women being sold as sex slaves. We couldn’t leave them. We couldn’t let them identify us. So we blindfolded them and dropped them off at a church in the next county over.

But some of the women weren’t able to walk out on their own. I remember the girl who’d been clinging to Hashtag, sobbing in relief. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Hashtag’s noble little heart probably didn’t stand a chance. “It’s the one he carried out, isn’t it?”

Stone nods. “Turns out she’s local—she lives up in Bend. I didn’t see the harm at first. I told him to keep his distance but that he could make sure she was all right. But if she connects him with—”

“End it,” Saxon breaks in. “Do it without losing him.”

“That’s why I’m bringing it here. I can forbid it but I think he’ll walk. So other suggestions are welcome.”

“Throw pussy at him,” Spiral says. Like me, he’s one of the non-officers on the board, and that’s typically his solution for everything: more fucking.

Stone is already shaking his head. “Not going to work with him.”

“Double his load.” Gunner speaks up but his pretty eyes are fixed on his plate. “Keep him too busy to think about her. Eventually it’ll pass.”

Yeah, that has worked real well for him. He’s been mooning over Stone’s sister for years. “He’s a smart kid, Stone,” I butt in over some of the other suggestions being tossed at him. “So tell him why he has to keep his distance. Tell him he’ll be putting a target on the club, because even if she doesn’t figure out who he is, anyone keeping an eye on her will notice him eventually.”

“The feds will be looking,” Jack says quietly. “They’re still trying to figure out who took down the Eighty-Eight and where the assault rifles we used came from. So they’ll keep swinging back to the women, hoping to shake out information.”

Maybe they’re already looking if Creek is undercover. But Jack doesn’t mention that so I don’t either. Instead I say, “Pointing out the threat to the club is just half of it, though. Hashtag doesn’t know her, so part of the reason he keeps going back must be because she makes him feel like a hero. He saved her; now he’s protecting her. So you remind him she doesn’t need protecting now, make him feel like a hero for backing away and looking out for the club, and accept that you’re going to break the kid’s heart.”

“
Then
you throw pussy at him,” Spiral adds.

“All right.” Stone groans and rubs his hands over his face. “Shit. I’m never having kids. It’s too much fucking pressure.”

“You don’t know pressure until you try raising girls,” Widowmaker says dryly. “Next item is regarding the altercation in the ring between two patchholders, Valentine and Zoomie. Boss?”

The prez glances at Val before looking to me. Oh shit shit
shit
. I know that look in his eyes. He isn’t called the Wolf for nothing. That stare means the boss is out for blood and someone’s colors are going to run. I drop my hands to my lap to hide the sudden tremor in my fingers.

Don’t let it be my colors. Please don’t let it be mine. But it might be. Merging these clubs means the Hellfire Riders are stronger than we ever have been before. Fucking it up would threaten everything—especially with the Devil’s Hangmen at our door—and I didn’t keep it amiable.

The prez isn’t going to let that pass like it’s nothing.

“Tell me your piece, Zoomie,” he says.

My heart’s thumping so hard I can feel the blood throbbing in my head. “I screwed up,” I say. “I knew it wouldn’t stay friendly if I took him out too fast, because his ego was wrapped up in the rematch. But I lost my temper and threw him down.”

I hear Valentine scoff from the other end of the table but I don’t look away from the prez.

“Cool. Fucking. Head.” Each word drops like a brick and is joined by the thump of his knuckles against the table. “Get pissed all you like, I don’t give a damn. But you hold it in.”

“I will, boss.”

He nods and leans back, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Five hundred dollars.”

A few of the guys around the table suck in a breath. Fines don’t ever run that high. I’ve seen patchholders pound each other bloody and only get tapped for one-fifty. The prez isn’t just drawing blood—he’s gouging deep.

But I’ll scrape it up. Relief’s hitting me so hard I’d be happy to scrape up diamonds. I’d rather bleed money than have him take my patch. “Yes, boss.”

“Gunner’s going to pay half of it because he didn’t keep you out of that fucking ring.” His gaze moves across the table, zeroing in on the sergeant at arms. “These other brothers probably thought it’d be real funny to see him try taking Zoomie down. Maybe you did, too. But joking’s not your job. Keeping the peace is.”