Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (4 page)

She skittered away just as Trayson placed his knife at Alesander’s throat. What had happened between them? Whatever it was, they were out for blood.

“What the fuck’s going on in here?” Lucky roared from the doorway.

“This whoreson fucked my girl. He’ll die, amigo. Start digging a shallow grave.” Trayson’s face was dark with rage, his eyes wild from a cocktail of heroin and cocaine called Speedball. Drugs and betrayal weren’t a good mix.

If Alesander really did fuck his girl, none of the brothers would stop Trayson from killing him.

Alesander was a hell of a fighter, though. A martial arts master, he wasn’t going to stay in that headlock with a knife at his throat for long.

With a grunt, he twisted, gripped Trayson’s nape and slammed his head down. It bounced off the hardwood, leaving a splatter of blood Delta would have to clean later.

Alesander shoved him in the spine and forced him flat. Then with a slow, intentional movement, pulled his blade.

This was no switchblade—eight inches long and lethal as hell. Delta’s heart hammered. She hated both of these guys but she didn’t want to witness another murder. Her hands trembled, and she locked her fingers together.

She took a step back and came up against a body. The unwashed man rubbed his erection on her ass. Bile shot up her throat, and she narrowly swallowed it before she was sick.

Alesander glared into Trayson’s face. “You’re right—I did fuck your girl. She was tired of tasting your cock.”

“Fucking son of a bitch!” Trayson surged upward, his knife glancing off Alesander’s muscled arm. Delta swore she heard the skin flay open and the coppery scent of blood hit her.

The man behind her rocked his hips, probably hard for the fight, not her.

She knew better than to struggle. To do so was like dangling a raw steak in front of a killer dog. He’d only get more excited.

She went dead still just as Alesander plunged his knife into Trayson’s side. His eyes widened in shock at the blade worked between his ribs.

“Fucking hell, someone get the doc.” Lucky sounded almost bored. Certainly not concerned that one of his best guys had a knife buried in his chest.

Their “doc” wasn’t a Raider but a former doctor who’d lost his license because of some illegal activities. Who knew the real story—Delta didn’t want to.

Swaying at the sight of the dark stain spreading under Trayson, she yanked free of the man grinding his cock against her, and ran.

She pushed into the kitchen and kept going right out the back door. Hopefully everyone would be too concerned about their brother to worry about Girl.

•●•

As soon as Drake spotted her, his muscles locked in preparation for a fight. She was behind the Raiders gates, protected by barbed wire and enough illegal arms trickling down from Canada to take down the whole shitty town.

Not for long.

Drake crowded closer to the block wall surrounding the neighboring property. He didn’t believe for a minute Raiders weren’t patrolling the whole block, but Drake wasn’t against cutting someone’s throat.

He threw out his senses. The same burning garbage smell that must be an inherent part of the town, an occasional car on the street. Funny how he was sixty miles from home, yet it felt farther.

Though he hadn’t been raised in Heller’s Gap, it had become home. After being discharged from the Marines and then his accident, he’d spent half a year in a VA hospital on the east coast, learning how to walk again. He didn’t have a lot of money saved, so he bought a beater car and headed south where his leg wouldn’t ache so much.

He’d rolled into the small Alabama town and his car had up and died. Basically he’d put down roots in Heller’s Gap because it was the end of the line. He was out of money, couldn’t get another car. So he’d gone to work at a biker bar called The Gearhead.

It hadn’t taken more than a few months before Jamison had made Drake a Hell’s Sons prospect, and less time before they patched him in. Drake had a little family somewhere west of the Mississippi but the Sons were his family.

The sun glinted off the chain link fence and sparkled along the razor-sharp wire at the top. A bomb vial rested inside his cut, against his heart. It was a backup plan, but he couldn’t storm the Raiders’ club a second time using the same scare tactic.

There was no movement outside of the block walls, which indicated the enemy partied all night and slept half the day. Business fell in between.

Drake had his own business to see to. Jamison had handed over the new gambling enterprise. It was barely launched, but cash was already coming in. There were some bugs to be worked out, and Drake would give them his attention—right after he made sure Delta was okay.

His gut told him she wasn’t.

Slow, heavy footsteps coming toward him. He turned his head, listening, counting, analyzing location.

A man wearing boots directly to his right, walking along the narrow street running between the Raiders’ club and an auto body shop.

Drake locked his titanium leg under him, prepared to launch to his feet. If the pedestrian came around the corner wearing a Raiders cut, the game was on.

Whooshing tires. Someone hammering wood a few blocks over and a phone ringing in the auto body shop.

The footsteps were coming faster, and the guy was on his cell. “Yeah, boss, get the doc. I’m on it.”

With every step that came closer to Drake, his pulse slowed. He was in complete control.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

A broad shoulder appeared around the corner first, followed by a torso sporting the unmistakable black leather cut with the Raiders patch, a red spider in a white web.

Drake lunged at him. The man wasn’t bigger, but he had reflexes on his side. He reached for his gun. Drake hooked an arm around his throat, yanking him upward and cutting off his air supply.

With the Raider’s legs dangling off the cracked pavement, Drake felt along the man’s neck. Ah yes, he could find that special spot blindfolded and in the dark. He pressed, and the man crumpled.

Drake let him drop to the pavement. He pocketed the man’s cell and handgun. Then he grabbed the man’s boots and began to drag him. Across the road, toward the metal garbage containers outside the auto body shop.

No one was watching as Drake hefted the guy up and into the open container. He’d wake surrounded by takeout food containers and boxes.

Drake jogged back to the block wall and continued around the other side. From here he had a view of the back door of the club—his heart stopped—and a lush backside of a woman he’d dreamed about last night and every night since he’d kidnapped her.

His pulse rate increased. Besides having a round, sexy ass and hips he wanted to grip and pound into, her waist was slender, her tanned legs exposed by short shorts.

Her long hair was off her neck in a messy ponytail, revealing a succulent neck that would star in tonight’s dreams. He darted a look around to see if anyone was nearby, plotting a jump over the wall, then the fence. Making it back over the fence and wall with a woman thrown over his shoulder would be more difficult.

She kept her back to him, shoulders slumping a little.

What was she doing? She could have come out to have a cigarette, but he didn’t see any smoke. She was just…standing there.

He clenched his fist and listened to his own heartbeat. Seconds passed and then she moved. Scrubbing her hands over her face.

Jesus, was she crying? Fuck, his concentration was broken. He struggled to focus on his surroundings, on any men approaching or even the guy crawling out of the trash bin.

Drake stared at her, sweet innocence trapped with an enemy. She might call the Raiders her family, but they scared her. The way she’d flinched, cowered, refused to drag her gaze off the floor—

The club door opened and a man dressed all in black came out. Not the leader he now knew was called Lucky, or any man Drake recognized.

He walked right up to Delta and grabbed her. Arms around her waist, pulling her against his body.

Drake’s teeth made a gnashing noise.

Delta didn’t relax into the man’s hold. No, the muscle of her thighs tightened inch by slow inch until a scrumptious crease appeared on the leg closest to him.

Damn if he didn’t want to lick that line.

And he wanted to kill the man with his arms around Delta, namely because she didn’t welcome it. Drake had spent years observing situations, and that tightened muscle said a lot.

He gripped the block wall, and some of the stone crumbled. From here, he couldn’t hear their conversation. What was that fucking bastard saying to her?

She nodded, but so slightly that the movement of her hair was the only indication to Drake. The guy released her, but Delta’s body language spoke volumes. She remained tense.

Then the man latched onto her arm and led her back inside.

When Drake was alerted to a rough breathing noise, he realized it was coming from him. He dragged a deep breath through his nose to focus again. Dammit, those assholes weren’t going to let her out of their sight.

Drake needed to think up a plan. He needed to get her out of there.

While his brain worked over every detail of what he’d seen, his body went into autopilot. Before he knew it, he was at his bike parked several blocks away.

When he climbed on and started the engine, the memory of Delta pressed close to him flooded his mind. His cock jerked behind his fly, and a low burn took up residence in his stomach. For two nights he’d watched her, wanted her.

She’d just been reunited with a sister she’d never seen before, and out of respect for her emotional uproar, Drake hadn’t run his hands all over her as he wanted. Or pinned her to a wall and sank between those heavenly thighs.

With an uncomfortable bulge in his jeans, he hit the gas and roared down the street. The miles between the Raiders’ club and Heller’s Gap gave him too much time to think.

Four years ago his unit had been sent to cover a supply convoy moving into a small town. Drake spent half a month before the operation watching the activities. He set up on the single dirt track leading in and out. He knew what time the people woke up, went to sleep, and even how long they cooked their vegetables.

In the end, the Afghans had set up an ambush. It had been one of the biggest casualties his unit had taken during all their years together.

Drake blamed himself because he should have seen suspicious activity. Absolutely nothing was on his radar.

Five friends had lost their lives because of his failure.

As soon as he realized the mess they were in, he’d cooked up a bomb, got the survivors of his unit out, and blown the fucking place up.

It had helped with his rage—for a while.

He didn’t have time to sit and observe Delta as long as he had the Afghan village. For all he knew, the guy he’d knocked out and thrown into the garbage had been sent after him. Was Drake missing things—crucial things just like the Afghan ambush?

As he guided his bike onto the straight stretch to Heller’s Gap, he mulled over everything. The man who had come outside and put his arms around Delta hadn’t harmed her, yet the tightening of her thigh muscle had alerted Drake. If he’d been able to see her face, he would know for certain what the hell was going on.

Although Delta was damn good at masking her emotions.

The Raiders were all alike. Whether it was the Black Oath, Long Branch, or Stealth charters, they were hated by blacks, browns, whites, skinheads. It didn’t matter. The Raiders were the foulest group of one-percenters in the country. They killed in cold blood and abused women and children. They had their dirty fingers in everything from Canadian arms to child pornography.

He arrived at The Gearhead in a foul mood, not that anyone noticed.

He helped Burns unpack cases of alcohol the Sons had just dropped off that morning. He and Burns worked well together—both bodies patched up then patched into the club. Neither was willing to share information or have emotional discussions about their pasts.

“Thanks, man.” Burns clapped him on the shoulder.

“No problem. How’s Operation Riches?” He gave a chin-nod toward the back room set up like a mini casino.