Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (5 page)

“Four grand in profit yesterday.” Burns’ eyes gleamed. As manager he got the biggest cut. His risk was huge. If they were raided, Burns would take most of the heat and go to prison. He should be compensated.

Drake released a low whistle. “Lucrative business.”

“Better than the alcohol trade. That’s been worrisome lately.” An inspector had been by, and they’d hurriedly stashed what alcohol they had left in an underground room. But she’d been clearly suspicious of a bar that didn’t have much more than beer on premises.

In the end, Burns complimented her a dozen or so times until the old hag was blushing. It didn’t matter that his face was a twisted mass of scar tissue. He was a sweet talker, and she’d probably gone home with wet old lady panties.

Drake nodded. “She’ll be back.”

“I know. I was thinking we should get a few more kegs, some six-packs of beer and a little whiskey to keep here—the kind we pay state tax on.”

“That’s a good idea. Do it. The rest we can bring up from underground as we need.” Drake opened the door to the back room and peeked inside. Two die-hard gamblers sat in the dimness. The room was fogged with blue smoke. Obviously they’d been sitting here all night. Burns had an employee called Meat seated on a high stool to keep watch over them, a weapon across his knee. Word was Meat had gotten his name because he sported a foot-long dick. Drake didn’t know firsthand, thank God.

“They’ve been at it for two days. I don’t think they even stop to eat.”

Drake shook his head. Maybe there were worse vices than alcohol.

One guy had a thick stack of bills in front of him. What sort of dark shit was he into to have a wad of cash like that?

“Hey, Drake.” Meat unfolded himself, and keeping an eye on the pair of card players, edged toward the door. These guys had all worked with Drake for a while before he’d been needed full-time for club business. “I hear there’s a Knucklehead over in Mayville up for sale.”

He perked up. The Knucklehead was the granddaddy of Harleys. Every last Hell’s Son coveted that bike.

“Who’s selling?”

“Guy who knows my brother. He said he saw it in the man’s garage. An old guy, had it since the 50s. Said he’d let me put the word out, knowing I could probably get top dollar for the guy. I guess he needs some cash to supplement his pension.”

“Yeah, I’d love to have a look at it. Set it up. You’ve got my number.” He clapped Meat on the back and wandered over to the table.

A dealer sat between the two card players, eyes bloodshot but his gaze riveted on the gamblers. Drake reached in front of him and plucked a hundred dollar bill off the table. “For change.”

The guy nodded. They all knew “change” meant alcohol, but a hundred bucks wouldn’t begin to cover the illegal crates they had shipped in weekly. No, Drake wanted to take a closer look at the player’s money. He stuffed it in his cut and headed back out to the bar.

“Keep an eye on the twitchy one,” he said to Burns, who nodded.

They closed the door between gambling operation and bar. Drake fished a cigarette out of his cut.

And stopped dead.

“Danny D,” he drawled.

The ex-member of the Hell’s Sons jerked and almost fell off a barstool. Panic crossed his young face, but he quickly got control of his features. He slid off the stool and reached out for Drake.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll embrace a fucking rat.” Drake’s anger took hold.

“Wait, man. I explained myself after I got out of the pen.”

Drake stared him down. “Yeah, and what we heard was that you made some deal with the feds in exchange for intel about the Rx division.” The prescription drugs brought money into the club, and the feds were always looking into people who knew the Hell’s Sons. While those guys had ended up in prison, the Sons had managed to fly low.

Then this fucking
brother
had dropped names. Drake spent a whole day in the police station for questioning, along with Ace, Jamison, and Strother. They’d all checked out and been released. But after that, they’d cornered Danny D and let him know his actions weren’t going to go unpunished.

Danny D was still missing those front teeth Jamison knocked out. They’d stripped him of his patch and Drake had sliced through it with his knife. Later they’d nailed the patch to a shooting range wall and all taken turns eliminating Danny D from their club.

Now the fucking asshole had the balls to enter The Gearhead?

“I didn’t make a deal, man. How many times do I have to say it?”

“Look, motherfucker, you picked the wrong guys to betray. You’re lucky you have two legs to walk on because we wanted to break them with a sledgehammer.” Drake’s voice sounded grittier with fury. The angrier he got, the lower his voice.

Danny D’s eyes widened and he backed up two steps. “Man, I don’t want trouble.”

Drake advanced, liking the way Danny D’s fear fogged the air. “Then why the fuck are you in an MC bar?”

“I came for a drink and I thought—”

Drake folded his arms over his chest. “Yes?”

“Listen, I heard something about Raiders getting a big shipment of oxy. Thought I’d let you guys know.”

“Now we know. Get out.” Drake’s voice lowered.

“Man, is that all I get for informing you?”

“Being an informant will get you nothing but killed, D. Now get the fuck out of this bar and don’t come back.”

His throat worked, and he dropped his gaze from Drake’s glare. “All right, all right.” He hesitated, palms forward as if to stop Drake from attacking. The idiot didn’t know he wouldn’t be able to ward off Drake. If Drake wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

Finally Danny D turned and walked out.

Burns appeared at Drake’s side, ready for instruction. “Have him followed for a week. If he comes within a block of this bar, you call the Sons.”

“Gotcha.”

Drake left the bar with a deep, familiar craving, but first he needed to unload this mess in Jamison’s lap.

By the time he reached the MC and found his VP, his veins were itchy. As he passed the bar, Ace looked up. He wordlessly passed Drake a full bottle of twelve-year old single malt Scotch. Drake gave him a chin-nod, opened the bottle, and swigged on his way to “church.”

Jamison had Ever on his knees and his hands up her shirt.

A ripple of need for Ever’s sister ran through Drake. He tipped the bottle.

Jamison gently removed his hands from his old lady’s tits. “I’ll come find you, baby.”

She slid off his lap. Hell, she looked well-fucked already, with her mussed hair and swollen lips. Drake’s desire to get Delta within reach again burned, but he’d never have what Jamison and Ever did.

Taking a hit of the Scotch, he withstood Ever’s angry look as she left the room.

Jamison didn’t say a word about Drake’s interruption. Business was business, and he always put the club before his cock. “You look burdened, my son.”

Lips twisting at the joke they shared whenever in church, Drake nodded. He took a seat adjacent to his VP and laid it all out for him—the Raider’s cell phone and weapon, a hundred dollar bill from Operation Riches, and intel from Danny D about Raiders having their hands in prescription drugs too.

By the time he finished, he’d drunk half of the Scotch and was feeling pleasantly numb. He could still feel that goddamned leg though—his ghost limb. He poured more liquor down his throat.

“I’ll take care of this. Make sure you aren’t driving for the rest of the day.”

Drake stood, fingers wrapped around the bottle. “’Course, boss. I can’t afford to lose another leg.”

Just need to lose my mind.

Jamison shook his head and followed him to the door. Drake passed through, not yet swaying on the edge of the pleasant buzz that would take him to oblivion. He paced back the hallway and went to bed with his own lover—alcohol.

•●•

Delta was going to have to get into the car with Fisty, even if he did reek of beer from the six-pack he’d guzzled. If he’d only been on a beer diet, she might believe the big guy wasn’t intoxicated. But he’d chased the beers with whiskey and two snorts of cocaine.

“Why don’t you let me drive, honey?” she cooed. Her voice had saved her ass more than once. The guys loved her throaty tone, especially when she pitched it low and used it against them.

Fisty pointed at the passenger’s door and went to get behind the wheel.

A shiver of apprehension slipped down her spine. “Fuck,” she whispered, and got in.

Micky had given her a handful of cash and the order to go to “the goddamned store whether Lucky likes it or not.” Apparently some of the guys had stopped by a corner grocery and taken what beer they wanted with guns and threats.

In a weird way, Micky was a mother hen, pecking her children into line.

Fisty started the engine and rolled out of the gates. Was this Delta’s day to die? She hated fucking riding with drunk assholes, but she had no say. Hell, she had no say about anything in her miserable life.

For a while with the Hell’s Sons, she’d been handed decisions. The first time someone had asked her what she wanted to drink, her throat had clamped shut. She could get used to answering for herself and being Delta, not Girl.

Fisty latched onto her upper thigh, dangerously close to her pussy. She didn’t dare reveal how her skin crawled, or Fisty would park the car and have his way with her.

She settled a hand over his and squeezed his fingers. He pulled the wheel too far to the right. They careened toward a parked car. As they clipped the mirror, Delta cringed but didn’t cry out.

“You seem tired today. Not your usual charismatic self.” She threw a look at Fisty’s face, which was like a ham for all its expression. Even when he wasn’t drinking, he had the personality of a goldfish.

But she couldn’t let his vacant stare deceive her. He’d hurt her more than once.

“I missed you while you were away, Girl.”

“Yeah?” She made a play of caressing his fingers when really she was keeping them from creeping toward her pussy. Despite the amount of drugs and alcohol in his system, his jeans were bulging. “Why don’t you let me drive while you take care of your…little problem?” She emphasized the words, and he leered.

“You like seeing me jack off? You want me to come in front of you?”

“I want you to ease that ache I know you have. Why don’t you pull over?”

She didn’t actually believe he was capable of parking the car in his state. He might need to just stop in the middle of the street. That worked for her.

If they wrecked, Lucky would know she had gone against his orders. Of course, she couldn’t fight her mother. That woman had laid down miles of scar tissue in Delta’s soul.

She held her breath as Fisty swerved into the oncoming lane. Jesus, she
was
going to die today. Last week she would have welcomed it, but not today.

The thought took her by surprise and she closed her eyes as they narrowly missed an SUV. Horns screamed.

What was different about today?

The difference was she could still feel the warmth of her sister’s embrace. Someone loved her in this big, cruel world. And the way Drake had looked at her… For a brief time, Delta had forgotten she was Girl.

She popped open her eyes in time to see a pedestrian dive out of the way. “Let me drive, Fisty.”

He turned ugly, hooded eyes on her. “You saying I’m no good at it?”

“No, not at all. I just…want to see you come.” The words tasted as fetid as they sounded. If she didn’t die in a twisted mass of metal, Lucky would kill her for disobeying.

She sucked in a shuddering breath and placed her hand over Fisty’s crotch. The organ underneath his jeans twitched like a vile snake. He stopped looking at the road completely.

Delta pitched her voice low, infusing it with as much sultriness as she could when she felt like puking. “Pull over, Fisty. Let’s take care of this.”

•●•