Breaking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs) (3 page)

Anna once told me it was something her mom taught her to do when she was younger—to put her mark on the world around her, so it didn’t feel like she could fade away so easily.

She still does it. Smartphones and apps have made taking the selfies easier, and most of the pictures are of her making funny faces or are a joke for Stone, but sometimes she sets up elaborate scenes. Sometimes finding
Anna was here
in the background is like a game of “Where’s Waldo?” But every one still says the same thing.

And in the past six years, they’ve all been taken close to home. She went back to Pine Valley a few months before Stone and I left the corps and headed in the same direction. She’s been working the bar at the Wolf Den ever since and she seems content to stay, aside from a couple of short trips during her vacation days. Most of her free time she spends remodeling her part of the old Victorian farmhouse they share.

Maybe that’s about to change.

The inside of my throat feels like a raw blister when I ask, “You think she’ll take off again?”

Stone’s quiet for a long second before he says, “I don’t know.”

But that quiet moment tells me he’s worried she will. And in that quiet moment, one thing becomes crystal fucking clear.

I need to kiss her at least one more time before she goes. I need to taste her again. And pray it’ll get me through the next ten years.

If she wants a distraction, I’ll give her one. Nothing demanding. I’ll ask her out, take her to dinner, take her home. All aboveboard, friendly—nothing different from the date she suggested to me when I first met her. Just go out, grab a bite to eat, maybe fool around a bit.

Ten years ago, saying no to her was like slipping a knife into my gut. But she just shrugged and smiled before carrying on like she had before. No big deal.

This won’t be a big deal either. Just a good time with her brother’s friend. Her brother’s good-looking friend. My face is a point in my favor with her. A couple of months ago, there was some trouble at a bar where she and Jenny were hanging out, and I ended up taking a drunk Anna home. She tried to kiss me then, slurring over a
“Jesus, you are so damn beautiful,”
as she moved in.

The touch of her lips, heaven. Pushing her away, hell.

For me. When I pointed out she was wasted, that only an asshole would take advantage of her, she just shrugged before turning away. The next day it was like nothing happened.

No big deal. Just a kiss that I’d have killed for.

My voice is rough as I say, “I’m going to take her out before she goes.”

Stone gives me a long look.

He knows why I’ve stayed away from her all these years. And he knows I want to get close. Not much escapes him. I never let myself be alone with Anna, because it’d take a fucking miracle for me to keep my hands to myself. But whenever I’m at their house or sitting at her bar in the Wolf Den—which is pretty damn often—I watch her a little too much.

That’s never been an issue between Stone and me. Ten years ago he gave me a warning—a warning he’s repeated every year since we came back to Pine Valley.
I won’t kill you if you go after my sister. I’ll kill you if you hurt her.

I’d kill myself before hurting her. But it was never me I worried about.

“What about your family?” he asks.

“It’ll just be the one time.” No reason for them to fixate on her. “And I’ll downplay it. I’m just doing her a favor or I owe her a dinner or something. She’s fed me often enough at your place.”

“Still, you asking any girl out is damn remarkable.”

Fuck. That’s true. A hot knot winds in my stomach. “I’ll settle shit with them first, then. Maybe they’ll just let it all go.”

If they did… Jesus. I wouldn’t have to stop at just one date. Or just one kiss. I’d take however many Anna was willing to give.

I’d take
anything
she was willing to give.

He nods. “How long has it been since you’ve been home?”

“Six years. Maybe the futility of their plans for me finally sank in.”

Stone winces, as if thinking of the operation I underwent before that last visit. The vasectomy was a last ditch attempt to sever ties between me and my family. That didn’t go as I hoped but I don’t regret the sacrifice. “Or maybe they’ll chain you down and try to keep you this time.”

“Maybe.” In truth, I’m surprised they haven’t already tried it.

“Watch your back, then. And if you need me to mount a rescue, guns blazing, I will.”

Stone’s tone suggests it’s a joke, but he means every word. He’d put bullets in my brothers, my mother, and maybe he’d say sorry after. But the sorry would only be because he couldn’t see another way to settle it.

I can’t see another way to break their hold, either. And maybe one day it’ll come down to bullets. That’ll break every bond between us, once and for all.

But it won’t be necessary if they just let me go.

“Heads up on your ten,” he says quietly.

“I saw them.” A few members of the Iron Blood, including the patchholder Stone took down in the ring today—Paladin. I spotted the wiry bastard and his brothers as soon as we hit the main drag. Even this late, the street’s a mess of people—some coming and some going, some standing around and talking. Bikers and their women, most of them minding their own business, and a whole lot of them loud and drunk.

As far as I can tell, the Iron Blood are minding their own business, too. Paladin clocked our presence as soon as we stepped out from the side street, but although he’s watching us, I can’t read anything in his narrow, fox-like face.

“You expecting trouble?” I ask Stone.

Some assholes don’t lose well. And sometimes the assholes who don’t lose well get real fucking brave when they’re surrounded by their brothers.

But even if Stone hadn’t thrown down with Paladin in the ring today, we’d still be keeping an eye on them. Since they’re centered in northern Nevada and the Riders are in Oregon, we don’t often run into the Iron Blood. But we keep our ears to the ground and know their reputation. They’re a young club, hungry and growing fast.

Most outlaw clubs don’t grow fast. There are always stronger one-percenters in an area to deal with, politics to play and territory to sort out. If an established club feels threatened, it’ll step in and crush the new one—or at least teach them their place.

That the Iron Blood hasn’t been crushed yet suggests they’ve got some powerful friends looking out for them.

“Not especially expecting anything.” Stone stops, crouching low as if he’s checking out the custom chopper sitting next to the sidewalk. In truth he’s scoping out the Iron Blood from a better angle. “There was just the usual shit slinging.”

“You must have made a hell of an impression, because they’re suddenly real interested in looking our direction.” Not only Paladin anymore, but all of them.

“Probably because you’re so damn pretty. I can’t take you anywhere without attracting some asshole’s attention.” On his feet again, Stone tilts his head toward the Ponderosa bar—our destination. Asking without words if we still want to head that way, since it means turning our backs to the Iron Blood. “It’s that girly mouth you’ve got.”

“Fuck that. My mouth is
manly
.” I start toward the Ponderosa, my gaze sweeping the businesses lining the road until I see what I need: a window that offers a faint reflection of the street behind us. “Just yesterday, my lips wrestled a grizzly bear while barbecuing a giant squid they dragged out of the sea after skydiving from an exploding rocket.”

“That is, indeed, pretty fucking manly.”

“Hell yeah, it is.” The back of my neck tenses. “That idiot.”

Paladin takes a step in our direction—but before I finish calling him an idiot, a big hand on his shoulder stops him. He goes to shrug it off before his body stills, as if he realizes that isn’t a hand he should shake off.

“That’s their enforcer,” Stone says. “They call him Chef.”

He’s a heavy, barrel-chested fucker with a shaved head and bushy black beard. I had a good look at him earlier today at the fight. Long sleeves cover thick arms but the tattoos on his hands are visible. Inked across the fingers of his right and left hands are two words. RIDE FREE.

That’s a sentiment I can get behind. “Looks like someone in their outfit’s got brains, then.”

“Good sense? That’s just no damn fun,” Stone declares, then heads through the crowd lingering outside the Ponderosa’s front doors.

Inside, it’s standing room only, with bodies three deep around the bar. Despite the size of the place and the high ceilings, the odor of beer and sweat is so thick I can almost drink it, the voices and the music so loud I can’t hear a damn thing. Automatically I scope the faces, the kuttes and the colors, seeing who’s sitting and who’s standing where. We were in here this morning, making arrangements for tonight, but a few tables have been moved and I memorize their new locations. There’s so many women crammed into the hall outside the bathrooms that the emergency exits are blocked by a wall of shapely flesh.

I catch Stone’s eye, flick my gaze to the bar. He nods.

If shit goes south, we go that way. There’s a door behind the bar that leads to the kitchen.

We make our way toward the southwest corner. I ignore the double-takes and stares from the woman I pass. That shit’s just a distraction. Anna’s not mine, but I’m hers. And I’ve got no interest in fucking another girl just to get my nuts off.

For that, I’ve got two hands and a damn good imagination.

Fortunately at rallies like this one, the attention my face draws usually stops at the stares. Most of the women here are already with a man—primarily old ladies and club pussy who came along for the ride. The first will stay with the biker who brought her and the second knows it’s best not to cross club lines. They’ll look, maybe even smile and flirt, but they won’t risk riling tempers by offering me an invitation.

Stone prefers events where free range pussy is thick on the ground. There’s not much of that here.

The crowd thins slightly in the southwest corner, where a section of tables is cordoned off and a ‘Private Party’ sign taped to the wall. It’s not really private but I don’t give a shit about that. When I reserved the space this morning, I expected the crowd to push into the area. That doesn’t matter. What matters is most of the guys who were up in the ring today are here.

“Gunner, you fucking asshole!” The tube of ground beef I went up against breaks into a grin when he sees me. Buster’s cheerful as hell for a guy who lost two teeth today. The left side of his jaw looks twice the size of his right and his grin is just as lopsided. “You’re late!”

Waiting for a contact who never showed. But that’s past. Maybe we’ll get information here, instead.

I return his grin and bump his fist in greeting. “Worried I was going to leave you with the tab?”

“Not yet.” Buster waves toward the bar, then toward the tables, piled high with empty beer pitchers. “Waitress said you paid some up front.” He leans in all confidential-like, his breath almost as potent as the beer in his grip. “But she said your deposit was about to run out and that got me scared, because I’m not done drinking yet.”

“About to run out? Hell, no. We’ll take care of that.” I glance at Stone and he nods, heading toward the bar. I gesture to Buster’s jaw. “You’re a goddamn tank, walking around with that. I’d be laid up, crying and popping Vicodin.”

“Free beer.” He lifts his pint. “It’s the best medication.”

And the best way to ensure the guys we want to talk are close enough for us to hear them. Not all of the men who fought today are regulars on the circuit, but enough of them are. Someone might have heard or seen something when the missing fighters disappeared. So we let all of them know there’d be free drinks for anyone who got up in the ring. The liquor will bring them in. Enough of it might loosen their memories and their tongues.

Missing fighters or not, though, this arrangement is something I’ve done dozens of times at dozens of rallies. As the Hellfire Riders’ sergeant at arms, part of my job is checking out every establishment my prez walks into—and making sure that as soon as he gets there, he doesn’t have to stand around waiting for a table.

Over the years, I’ve tossed a few assholes out of their seats to make room for the boss. But it’s easier—and builds up a hell of a lot more respect—to create a situation where people offer up their place. Even in a joint as crowded as this.

Sure enough, a few seconds later Buster offers me his spot. But the prez isn’t here and my purpose is to gather info. That’s best done on the move, like picking berries from a bush. Delicately picking. Coming at the question straight might do more harm than good. So instead I say good-natured shit like,
You seen Airbag around? The fucker told me he wanted a rematch in Kalispell but word is, he took off. Running scared, maybe.

Buster’s heard rumors but has seen nothing. So after a while I move on to someone else, use another approach.

An hour later, my berry basket is still empty despite shaking almost every available bush, and I haven’t seen scarred hide nor blond hair of Stone—although he must have made it to the bar, because the waitress showed up with a tray weighed down with pitchers of beer, and those trays kept coming. I’m about to text him when he finally shows, wearing both a grin and a woman.

That figures.

He makes his way through the bodies to my position against the far wall. His grin widens when I let my expression tell him exactly what I’m thinking.

“Sorry, brother,” he says in his so-not-sorry voice. “I miss anything?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“Then it sounds like I had a more productive hour.” He wraps his arm around the woman’s waist. “I ran into Cherry up at the bar.”

Cherry? Jesus. I suppose she gets the name from her flame red mane, but if Stone can’t see she’s sporting a wig, I’m not going to ruin the surprise for him. Or maybe he can tell and he just doesn’t care. She’s a looker under all that fake hair, though she’s a scrawny thing. Not slender like Anna, but on the edge of strung out, with hipbones and ribs showing clearly through her skintight dress.