Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (27 page)

A bike ornament.

She stood and Turner was there. “I’m feeling tired. I think I’ll head inside and go to bed.”

His handsome face showed disappointment, but she didn’t have it in her to appease another man. Her whole life had been about making men happy. It was her turn.

“Thanks for everything, Turner.” She squeezed his hand, and he nodded.

Jamison took the microphone. “Thank you all for coming out and supporting the Victims of Crime charity. We’ve tallied your contributions and are happy to announce we will be giving twenty-seven thousand dollars to help children who have suffered from crime.”

Cheers erupted. Delta weaved through the crowd, heading toward the door of the MC. Jamison’s voice followed. “And the Hell’s Sons have raised some money of our own. Ninety-five thousand dollars will be added to tonight’s donation.”

Delta turned to see Ever clap her hands over her mouth then throw her arms around her man.

Happy for her yet aching, Delta continued on. Thoughts of burrowing her face against a pillow and giving in to her sobs spurred her faster. When she entered the club, it was silent. Her boots echoed on the worn tile floor.

Copilot whined and she looked down at him. “Do you need some water, boy?” He’d had enough hot dogs—he couldn’t be hungry. She moved toward the bar where his water dish was kept, and froze.

Drake leaned against the wooden bar, long fingers wrapped around an unopened bottle. His gaze arrested her, burning, lighting fires she didn’t want lit. She pivoted to go to the kitchen, but he caught her wrist. The dog growled, and she hoped he chomped down on Drake’s good leg.

“Let me go.”

“You’ve already said that to me tonight. You forgot to add ‘you jerk.’”

She stared into his eyes, deep forest green pools she wanted to dive headfirst into. Well, she once had. Now they were bleary with alcohol. If she were honest, the drinking didn’t bother her as much as his hardness toward her. She knew he could stay sober, and she was willing to work through that with him. But she couldn’t live with his indifference, always waiting for him to drop his armor and hoping he’d make her feel…

As if she wasn’t Girl.

Drawing a deep breath, she shook off his hand. “I’m going to bed.”

He lowered his jaw, eyes glinting. “With him? The kid from north charter?”

“What? Turner?”

“Yes.”

She gaped at him. “Does it bother you that he wants me? That he shows me that he does?”

He snaked an arm around her waist with record swiftness. In a heartbeat, she was locked to his muscled body. Girl would go boneless and accept the boner poking into her belly. But Delta stood up.

She rocked his head with a slap. Then another. “Sober up, you ass. When you’ve gotten yourself under control and can treat me right, you know where to find me.”

He released her, and she took the opportunity. She broke for the corridor leading to the guest room Ever had situated her in. Belle was in the adjoining room, and as Delta passed, she heard soft crying.

Poor woman had a lot of ghosts, but Delta couldn’t listen right now. She threw herself down on the bed, except she was wound too tight to sleep.

Not a tear slipped free.

Moonlight streamed through the small window high on the wall. The soft weeping dissipated over time, and Delta’s shaking eased.

Then the familiar roar of a Knucklehead engine vibrated the walls of her heart.

Drake was headed out, hell-bent on self-destruction.

•●•

The inky pavement stretched before Drake, but all his foggy brain could only focus on were the miles between him and Delta.

The hurt in her eyes had wounded him worse than anything he’d ever known, because he’d fucking put it there.

As he zoomed through Heller’s Gap, he missed the soft weight of her against his back and her warm thighs crowded around him. Why hadn’t he bought her a helmet? He could have picked one up while buying boots or leather jacket. She deserved a helmet—deserved to be claimed.

She’d unlocked something inside him. She deserved better, but…that hurt in her eyes said she wanted him.

The wind on his face and the realization sobered him completely. He circled back around town and headed to The Gearhead. If he was going to make himself worthy, he had to ensure her safety first.

He was going to get rid of the Russians.

As he entered the bar, Burns looked up and gave him the chin-nod. “Anything going on back here?” He crossed the room to the backroom door. Things needed to change in the bars, starting with Operation Riches.

Hand on his weapon, he pushed open the door. The dark, smoky room was full. Two poker tables filled with men Drake had never seen before—except for one.

Vasily’s sidekick who Delta had shot. As soon as he spotted Drake, he half rose from his chair.

Drake shot and he crumpled, the bandages he wore reddening with fresh blood. Ten more guns trained on Drake, but more cocked from behind—the Sons backing him up.

“We escorted Strother to the border and thought we’d swing by for a nightcap,” Ace said. “I see you need a brother in your corner tonight.”

Drake readied himself, moving cautiously into the room despite all the Russian scum itching to shoot him. The Sons poured in behind him, and they closed the door.

“Where’s your dog?” he asked Ace, keeping his eyes on one twitchy fucker in the corner.

“With your woman.”

“Good. Looks like I’ll have to get you a new dog since yours will be staying with me now.”

Ace snorted. “We’ll see, brother.”

“Put down your weapons. You’re outnumbered,” Drake said, feeling the support of his MC. No one moved or lowered a weapon.

“Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads,” Drake barked. “Pax, get that guy in the corner before he shoots someone.”

Paxton shoved forward and rapped the guy neatly between the eyes with his rifle butt. He collapsed in a heap, and Paxton scanned the room. “Anyone else?”

“We’re just playing poker here,” one guy said in surprisingly good English.

Drake raised his brows. “This many Russians have come to Alabama to play poker? Your boss is in federal prison, you know.”

Someone to the right made a move, and Burns blasted the gun right out of his hand. Blood spurted and he screamed, clutching his blackened fingers. The Russians moved, and hell broke loose—the Hell’s Sons.

Shots, screams, the tang of gunpowder, and the recoil against Drake’s palm. Smoke hung in the air and many lay on the floor, staring blankly in death.

One guy quivered in the corner, hands raised to keep from being shot too. Drake gripped his shirt and hauled him up. “We had orders to take over the gambling ring. Use the counterfeit to lure players in then take their American dollars.”

He shook the man. “Why us? Why here?”

He cowered. “I—I don’t know. I only take orders. The boss kills any who don’t take orders.”

Drake squeezed a pressure point, and the guy sagged, slipping to the floor. Running a hand over his face, he turned to survey the destruction. His men were all standing, but Paxton had a bullet graze on his cheekbone.

“Okay, bro?” Drake asked.

Pax grunted and didn’t even raise a hand to wipe away the blood streaming down his cheek. “Better than that guy.” He twitched his head toward one less fortunate.

“Shit, boss. Now what?” Burns asked.

“We’re closing down. The bar stays open, but we move the gambling elsewhere, somewhere quiet. We don’t want any more notice from outsiders. We’ll find a warehouse or something. Meat, call Fat Franny at the Tomfoolery and have them close their doors.”

“What if they have Russians too?”

“Good point. I’ll go over there myself.”

“We’re behind you,” Pax said.

“Call Rhodes and have him bring a meat wagon to carry all these bodies away.”

“I think he’s tied up with sweet butt Morgan,” someone said.

“He’ll have to untangle himself then and get to business. Let’s ride.”

The Tomfoolery was clear. They kicked out two regular Joes with the vow to collect their gambling debts and destroyed the evidence that anything illegal had ever taken place here.

With both bars secured, Drake was able to let thoughts of Delta seep in again.

Sweet, intoxicating Delta. As soon as he made certain the Raiders weren’t coming for her—particularly that sonofabitch Houlihan, he’d try to make amends.

Ace clapped him on the back. “It’s been a long night, bro. Let’s head back to the club.”

Copilot’s menacing growl raised Delta from a fitful sleep. She jerked upright, gaze fixed on the open door and the shadow there. The hairs on her arms stood up, and the dog jumped off the bed.

The figure retreated, but her sleep-fogged mind recognized those shoulders.

Drake.

Breathing hard to control her adrenaline rush, she waited, dragging her fingers again and again through Copilot’s coat. After her heart had slowed to a normal rhythm, she climbed out of bed with the thought of going to the man she needed.

He lay on his back in the dark room, the moonlight painting him blue.

Heart aching with the need to touch him, to ease that tension she’d seen in his shoulders, she slipped into bed with him. He stiffened but didn’t move to touch her.

Maybe she’d been too hard on him, pushing him away when he really needed her reassurance as much as she craved his. His jealousy of Turner was enough to show her how insecure Drake was.

She reached out and stroked the dark hair off his forehead. His breathing hitched, but he didn’t move.

When she started singing, low, he locked his fingers around her wrist and removed her hand. “Don’t—don’t sing to me.”

Understanding sliced through her. “You don’t think you deserve comfort or ease—things all humans deserve.”

His glittering gaze pinned her. “Neither do you.”

“I didn’t use to. You made me see things differently.” At one time all she’d believed she deserved was pain.

His throat worked, and she fingered his cross tattoo, tracing the dark lines from memory. “I’m no good for you.”

“Drake.” She leaned over him, letting her hair fall in a curtain to shield them from the world. “You’ve been good to me. Given me freedom and a new outlook on life. Given me strength to stand up for what I want and believe in. I wouldn’t be in this place in my head if you hadn’t gotten me away from the Raiders.” She’d still be Girl, finding some twisted comfort in getting cut up by Houlihan’s knuckle ring.

“I got you out on Jamison’s orders.” His voice was devoid of emotion.

She shook her head, and he pressed his lips into a firmer line. “Maybe the first time, but
you
came back for me the second.”

He remained silent, jaw set, staring at her coldly.

Drawing an uneasy breath, she lowered her head and brushed her lips over his. Once. Twice.

He came alive. Gasping, clutching her like a drowning man. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and wedged a knee between her thighs as he rolled her under him. Hands in her hair, kisses unbearably gentle.

“I fucking need you, Princess. You slipped in somehow and made me feel—” He broke off and pressed her fingers over his heart. “I have this when I’m with you.” His heart thudded under her hand, a wild beat that took up residence in her soul.

She twisted her hand into his cut and pulled him down. As their kisses turned carnal, devouring, words were unnecessary. He removed her top and kissed each flower on her shoulder and arm. Moving down to her breast, he sucked her nipple through the bra she’d fallen asleep in.

The hard planes of his back under her hands ignited, and she tried to wiggle closer. When she hooked her heels behind his back and bucked into his erection, he groaned.

She tore at his cut and tossed it over the bed. His shirt followed, and she stared up at him in wonder. Each line of ink seemed alive. But the heat in his eyes speared her deep.

“I’m in love with you, Drake.”

He turned to stone, muscles hardening around her. For an instant she thought he’d deny her, push her away.

He jerked into action, and she gasped.

He threw them both off the bed. The world tilted, and she found him standing and her wrapped around him. His arms locked around her, his eyes so close he was all she could see.