Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2) (7 page)

While musing over Delta’s ripe curves and her perplexing actions, he leaned against the bar and drank half the bottle. Ace appeared with bite marks on his neck, and the brothers hooted about him being late. Copilot moved from man to man, having his morning scratching.

When he reached Drake, the dog made a wide berth to his place behind the bar. Drake heard the animal chomping from his food dish.

Delta hadn’t met Copilot. At the time she’d been here, the dog had been at the vet for something or other. A few nights’ stay and a big bill for the club, but they paid it gladly because Copilot was like a brother. He protected their property, fought their enemies, and even rode in his own sidecar.

Ace clamped his hand on Drake’s shoulder as he rounded the bar. “All right, man?”

The haze was creeping over Drake. He didn’t have words, so he raised the bottle in salute. Ace looked at him hard then nodded and moved away. Water ran in the bar sink, followed by Copilot’s slurping.

Jamison burst into the room, his hair neatly combed, face fierce. “Church,” he barked.

Chairs pushed back and men stood. Drake pulled away from the bar, reluctantly setting down the Scotch.

“Must be urgent to call church. It’s not even eleven o’clock,” Rocket said.

Jamison was already in the head chair—the place he’d occupied since their prez had gotten too entangled with family affairs to take care of the brothers. “Shut the door.”

As the last one in, Drake closed the heavy wooden door. Copilot scratched at it and whined, so he opened the door enough to let the dog run to his master’s side. They all settled before Jamison spoke.

“Someone broke into Tomfoolery.”

Exclamations of outrage rippled down the table, but Drake remained silent, already plotting ways to get revenge on the fuckers who would hit one of the MC’s bars.

Jamison spread his hands on the table. He wore a slim band on his pinky finger—Ever’s ring, and there was a new tattoo on his left ring finger—a red heart. Drake figured Ever now wore one too, and the legal ceremony and club celebration would be announced soon.

She’d want her sister here for it. Drake had to get Delta out.

“The cash register was empty—Rafe always takes the cash home with him for safekeeping. A few things were smashed—tables and chairs. A window too.” Jamison looked into each pair of eyes at the table. “They were in the back room.”

Drake sat forward. The back rooms were his business—Operation Riches. The doors were kept bolted and barred when the space wasn’t in use. “They would have needed a welder to cut through the locks.”

Jamison nodded. “I guess that’s what they did.”

“What the fuck…?” Bunky said slowly. He was one of the older guys in the bunch, big, burly, and as loyal as they came. “They had to be watching, plotting.”

“Yeah.” Jamison sat back and scraped his fingers through his hair.

The door exploded inward and bashed off the wall.

Seven guys jumped to their feet, weapons in hand. Copilot snarled. Strother held his arms out to his side. He’d lost weight since his son died from a drug overdose and his old lady lost her shit. His cut hung on him. “Getting a little jumpy, are we?”

The guys lowered their weapons, and Strother strode across the room. He shoved Jamison out of the head chair and sank into it. “I’m back.”

“So we see.”

“Welcome back, boss,” Rocket said.

Jamison didn’t look a bit happy to see the man. Drake couldn’t blame him. If someone had put his woman in danger for his own ends, the asshole would be in a shallow grave.

Jamison’s jaw worked, then he slowly sank to his old chair. He chin-nodded at the door. “Close it so the women can’t hear.”

“I’d be more worried about that new prospect. He’s never getting my vote for a patch-in.” O’Dovey’s eyes were narrowed and his face mottled red.

“You only hate him because he likes Sarah.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Drake walked to the door and shut it again. His head was starting to clear too much without his Scotch to put up with this bullshit. Once he’d sat down again, Strother smacked his palm off the table.

“I heard about the break-in.”

Jamison eyed him. “How did you hear about it so quickly? Rafe just called me.”

“He called me first. I’m still the prez here, in case you forgot about this.” He tapped his patch and stared at them.

“No, boss.”

“Of course not, man.”

Jamison remained silent.

“Whoever got into that back room knew what the fuck he was doing,” Strother said.

“That’s obvious. What the hell did he want is the question,” Jamison said.

“The place wasn’t busted up, but some gambling money had been left there. It was taken.”

“Shit.” Jamison’s shoulders tensed and he threw Drake a look. They were both thinking the same thing—that hundred dollar bill had looked odd. He’d mentioned having Ace check it out to see if it was counterfeit.

If someone had stolen counterfeit money, the Hell’s Sons would be in hella-trouble for more than gambling.

“There’s more.” Strother’s announcement silenced the room.

“Say it,” Jamison gritted out.

“The Raiders are dealing Rx in Marianne Pass.”

Drake didn’t look at Jamison. No one but the two of them knew about the intel Drake had shared.

“How do you know this?” Jamison asked.

Strother flattened his hands on the table. Big hands that had done a lot for the club in the past years, but lately he hadn’t been a leader. And there was the not-so-small fact he’d gone against their creed by putting a woman in danger. He’d sent Ever into the Raiders, her only protection a microchip in her arm so she’d show up on a screen.

There wasn’t a man among them who would easily forgive that.

“I’ve had some guys watching the Raiders since our fight. Not only are they dealing in guns, drugs, and pussy, but they’re infringing on our profits.”

“Do you think they’re responsible for the break-in too?” Bunky asked.

Strother shrugged as if trying to ease an itch. “I’m going to find out.”

“What do you need from us?” Rocket looked a little too eager to help a man who had fucked things up in the past few weeks. Drake leveled his gaze at Rocket. He lowered his attention to his hands.

“I need guys on the streets. We put two on the Raiders turf, and we take turns at The Gearhead and Tomfoolery.”

A good move, but it meant only a few men were at the MC protecting their own. Jamison seemed to agree. He gestured to Bunky. “Call everyone. Get them here this afternoon to be assigned their posts. We need the extra men.”

“Done.”

Strother turned his head slowly to glare at Jamison. Drake waited for the chemical to mix with the spark. Jamison’s job was to give orders and protect the club, but their prez seemed to need verification of his position.

Jamison stood quickly, sending his chair sailing backward. He met Drake’s gaze. “I’m done with church. Drake, come with me.”

Strother watched them leave the room with a scowl. Jamison gripped Drake’s shoulder and led them outside. The bikes gleamed in the morning sun. Harris, who was standing guard, turned and walked halfway across the parking lot to give them privacy.

Jamison’s mouth was tense. “That fucking man knows more than he’s telling us.”

“Agreed.”

“His skin isn’t in the club anymore. It’s with his family—and that’s fine. But we need to take him down and get his patch.” Jamison’s voice was low and urgent. Incensed.

“He can’t stay. We’ve put up with his shit because of his son and then Trina, but it can’t go on. You’re our leader now.”

Jamison nodded and clapped Drake on the back. “I knew you’d be on my side, especially with Delta in the picture.”

Drake blinked. “What’s this gotta do with Delta?” He didn’t want to think about the way his chest tightened at mention of her name.

“Strother doesn’t want Ever in the club, and Delta would be targeted too. But we both know that woman belongs here.” He pointed at the ground—the soil where the Hell’s Sons lived and breathed their brotherhood.

She did belong here.

“What’s the plan?” Drake was ready to snipe the fucking prez if necessary. He was bad blood among them.

Jamison pushed his fingers through his hair. “We can’t let him know about the money. You get on that—track down the gamblers and see where that cash is coming from. It might not be counterfeit, but I think you’re right to be suspicious of such a large sum. And if it’s fake, the player is cheating the club.”

Yeah, a bad end for him.

“I’m on it.”

“Good.”

“What about the Rx and the Raiders?”

Jamison clenched his fist, and hectic color crept up his throat. “I have a feeling Strother will take it upon himself to look into that. I’ll have Bunky keep a close watch on him. Bunky’s on our side.”

When did they draw lines in the club? Shit, this wasn’t good at all. Drake had to put their rightful commander in control. Strother had led them into war, and for his personal gain. Jamison needed to keep them peaceful and profitable.

“Let me know if you need anything from me on that.”

“Glad to depend on you, brother.” They man-hugged, thumping each other’s backs. When they released, Jamison looked at him hard. “Anything on Delta?”

“Saw her last night. Tonight I’m going in.”

Jamison shook his head. “No, man. Not alone.”

“It’s the only way. They won’t detect me. I’ve got it covered, bro.”

“The Raiders have a lot to lose. You won’t get in easily.”

“I’ve gotten into tight spots a few times in the past. I know what I’m doing.”

Jamison pushed out a breath and nodded. “I’ll leave it to you then.” He clapped Drake’s back once more and started back to the door. As he passed a bike, he touched the handlebar of Harris’s ride.

“Hey Harris!”

The man turned.

“Put some better ape hangers and classic saddle bags on this bike and you’ll triple the value.”

Harris tipped his head then nodded. “I might do that. Thanks, boss.”

Jamison went inside, leaving Drake to make his plans. Maybe it was best he’d only downed half a bottle of 12-malt. He needed his wits to figure out this gambling mess. And there were a few preparations he needed to make before going after Delta tonight.

•●•

The Raiders MC was unusually quiet today. Most likely because the guys had made a run for the coast after the weapons. Guns came into Canada and made their way south through the country or they came in by boat. The feds were cracking down on their trade with Mexico, and the Raiders had realized Canada was their future. A lot of the Canadian arms were sold in New York City, but they got enough here to make the risk worth their while.

Delta did her chores and since Houlihan was on the run, she didn’t have to kneel at his feet half the day. And Micky was in bed with a migraine.

With no one ordering her around—or slapping her around—Delta went back to bed for a few hours, locked her door, and slept hard. Dreams of Ever and Yo Momma jokes flitted through her mind, but she awakened with Drake in her mind and her pulse pounding.

Breathing heavily, she stared at the ceiling. Useless longing.

But her body was alive. Tingling with want, her pussy slick. She could slide her hand into her panties and ease her torment, but what good would it do? For a few minutes she’d float in a world where people didn’t hurt her, but crashing back to reality hurt way worse.

Sighing, she got out of bed and padded around her room, tidying it. Everything she owned was because of the club. The guys liked her to look hot, so Micky bought her the right clothes. She had nice furniture and even a guitar. But only because she could entertain the brothers.

Her entire life, she’d been primed by her parents to be a certain type of girl. One who appealed to all men. She didn’t think for a minute if Houlihan’s knuckle rings didn’t scare the shit out of the others, she would have been used harder than she already was. Her parents liked to keep her afraid that one day Houlihan would be gone and they wouldn’t protect her. They kept their guys happy first, even if it meant Delta’s soul.

She picked up the acoustic and sank to the mattress with it cradled in her arms. It fitted perfectly to her. The only thing in the world she’d want if she were to ever escape.