Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (2 page)

But before he could dance with that devil, all hell had broken loose. And it only got worse from there.

Now, Shep stepped back, the memory twisting his smile into something wry and regretful. Such tended to be his life. Call it providence or damnation—but it never included Shep catching the break he wanted when he wanted it.

The prospect leaned back against the exterior wall, eyes too sharp. Shep took another healthy swallow of whiskey and did
not
stare hungrily at the striking silhouette Noah made. "You know, I never did understand why you don't want to tell the rest of the Club."

Shep almost spat whiskey on the cracked asphalt. "Pardon?"

"They love you, Shep. They'll never turn on you."

He narrowed his eyes, paranoia warring with common sense.
He doesn't know.
"A man deserves to keep a few secrets every now and again."

"Killing a man is hardly something the brothers will judge you for." Noah leaned back against the cement exterior of the building.  "Trust me."

Shep felt his muscles relax. As he'd thought, he was talking about the other thing, not … well. "Some things are best left buried."

Noah took another long drag of his smoke. "Amen, brother."

When Shep lifted his flask again, Noah snagged it. "You got a sober ride home?"

"I'm fine."

"Not what I asked," Noah said, tone flat and eyes sparking annoyance.

Shep gritted his teeth. "Why don't you stop worrying about me and start taking care of your own ass. You care to tell me what the fuck you think you're doing getting involved in prize fighting?”

"I got bills to pay, Shep.”

“If you’d spend your money on yourself, instead of on every stray in your trailer park— “

“I take care of them the way you take care of the MC. I learned it watching you.” Pretty Boy laughed. “Now you’re giving me shit? Look, I’m mostly non-profit and completely self-funded and these fights
pay
. The crowd loves me and I'm good at this." His eyes flashed. "Got lots of practice at takin' a beating."

That particular truth never failed to trigger his temper. "You taking in strays doesn't count as charity. It sure as shit doesn't count as an excuse for this."

"Taking in strays?" Noah scoffed. "You the pot or the kettle in this conversation?"

"Beside the point. We got rules about taking illegal money on the side. You gotta clear it with Captain."

"How'd you know I didn't?"

"Cap woulda told me." Shep's eyes fixed on Noah's thumb ring, the way the silver shone against his tan fingers. The masculinity of the thick piece somehow elegant adorning the rough hands of a fighter.

"Prez's been awfully distracted of late. Maybe it slipped his mind."

"He knows all things prospect belong to me." Shep fixed him with his serious face. "Including you."

"That so?" Noah's grin deepened.

The expression flipped something low in Shep's gut. He swallowed hard. Something raw and possessive tugging at his chest. "It's my job to see you follow protocol."

Noah dropped his smoke on the ground, grinding it under the heel of his steel-toed boots. "Don't give me that company line bullshit. That's not what you're pissed about. You don't like me fighting."

"I don't like you getting hurt," Shep returned softly. He touched the backs of his fingers to the blood dried at the corner of Noah's mouth. "I promised no one would ever hit you again while I was around."

Noah brushed his hand away. "That's why I didn't invite you out here to see this."

Shep folded his arms, wishing he could grab his flask back without the gesture reeking of desperation. "You wanna talk about that guy you killed?"

"No more than you want to talk about that guy
we
killed."

Shep flinched inside, but held his ground. "Let’s focus on what happened in the Raptor whorehouse. You lost your shit."

"Ain't the first time. Won't be the last. Guy like that—hurting people's all he knows. Trust me, I'm familiar with the type. He needed putting down."

"And you just figured you were the guy to do that." Anger flashed through Shep and it was good. Better than the guilt and self-loathing. Anger he understood. Anger he could use. "Killing Raptors could land us all in a whole mess of trouble. You got to think about more than yourself now. That's what having brothers means. They come first."

The raw honesty of that statement struck Shep.

"I wasn't thinking about me. I was thinking about
her
. And the next 'her' and the next. He hurt people for fun. Got off on it." Noah cast a hooded look at Shep. "I got no regrets and if you think you can pull that holier than thou routine with me, you got another thing coming. Fucker needed killing; I killed him. End of story."

Shep narrowed his eyes and let the silence sink between them.

Noah gave a harsh laugh. "What's bothering you, Shep? That I killed him without your say-so? Or that I enjoyed it so much?"

"Why don’t you tone down the psychopath a little?" Shep forced a deep breath. "It's not about you doing what I tell you."

Noah smiled and stepped closer. "You sure? We all know you like 'em obedient."

Shep's ground his teeth as if that would hold the fluttering in his stomach at bay. "Yeah? What do you think that means for the
dis
obedient?"

"Oh, you're going to punish me now, VP?"

"Don’t push me right now, Pretty Boy," Shep growled. He was holding on to his control by his fingernails.

"Sure. I'll take whatever's coming to me." When Shep sighed, he rolled his eyes. "And I won't bitch about it."

Shep smiled smugly.

Noah took another step, standing so close Shep could feel the heat of his body in the chill night air. "So, can I take you home?"

Shep choked. "Excuse me?"

Noah leaned closer, the spice and pine scent of his aftershave a soft tease in the air. Shep swallowed hard, his heart racing. "Even if I couldn't smell the whiskey on your breath, I know you well enough to know when you've had too many. You ride home with me or I'm calling Fetch to come get you. Take your pick."

They were so close, Shep couldn't focus on Noah's face. Just his full mouth, his scent, his presence … he needed outta here before he did something really,
really
fucking stupid. Like ask whose home Noah was taking him back to. Or ask him to stay the night. "Call Fetch."

Something that might have been hurt flashed in Noah's eyes for just a second. "Yes, sir."

Shep turned and leaned against the wall, willing his body to calm the fuck down. He'd thought having Noah in the MC where he could keep an eye on him, ensure he was surrounded by protection would make things easier.

He was a fucking moron.

Chapter Three

Mind your own business.

 Members will tell you things when you need to know.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

The next morning, Pretty Boy revved his engine, the vibrations thrumming through his body as it came to life. He closed his eyes, feeling the hum in his ribcage as he popped his earbuds in and cranked the volume on his phone, blaring Brantley Gilbert's
Hell on Wheels.
The bike growled as it rounded the corner of the trailer park and hit the open road. Nothing was as freeing as riding. The wind rushing by his face, tossing the hair that escaped his helmet, the feel of the blacktop flying under his wheels—what could be a better high than this?

 At six a.m., the road was empty and it helped clear his head. Shep showing up last night had thrown him, though he'd been half-expecting it since Shep had noticed the frequent bruises. His guardian angel never failed to notice when he was in pain—physical or otherwise.

But he wouldn't let Shep stop him. He hadn't lied last night—he needed the money. Taking care of all his so-called strays wasn't cheap, even for a crafty guy like him. But outside of the VP, they were what gave his life meaning, reminded him he was more than just trailer trash no one had ever wanted.  

He pulled into Hades Hotel and Diner, spraying gravel and parked his bike next to Shep's. When he cut the engine, he could hear his stomach growling. Time to grab some grub before the flood of prospect orders came rollin' in for the day. Ass crack of dawn or shit late at night, didn't matter. When a brother said jump, they hopped to. God only knows what they’d ask him to do. Clean out gutters? Scrub the grease traps at Voo's diner? Last week, he had to weed Goat’s fuckin’ garden and build Axel a goddamn shed. He didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what being an outlaw had to do with being a handyman, but he could teach Tim the Toolman Taylor a thing or two about drywall.

He walked in quietly, sweeping his gaze across the room. The antique jukebox in the corner poured the soft sounds of the Temptations across the black and white checkered floors of the '50 style diner. Shep's back was to him as he sat at one of the red booths with Eddie, Captain and that asshole policeman they'd befriended for God knows what reason. The sexual tension between Cap and Eddie was loud enough to drown out the Motown Voo preferred in the mornings, but Shep was probably too hungover to hear it.

Get a fuckin' room already.

Pretty Boy hopped onto one of the red vinyl topped barstools at the steel counter and cup of steaming coffee appeared before he'd even dropped the messenger bag at his feet.

"Morning, Bé," Voo said, his deep Creole timbre tickling acr1oss Noah's eardrums. Though he'd been joking last night, Voo
was
a handsome fucker—from the short dreads dancing around his cut features, to the silvery eyes sparking in his cream in coffee complexion; he was startling to look at. And Pretty Boy had to hand it to him—any man who could pull off leather pants first thing in the morning had a lot going for him.

"Morning." Pretty Boy lifted his cup gratefully before loading it up with sugar. "Thanks for this."

"Your breakfast'll be up in a few minutes." Voo vanished through the swinging doors behind the counter. There was no use trying to order with Voo—he'd just bring you what he wanted to bring you anyway. And he was annoyingly accurate at intuiting exactly what a man craved.

Six months ago, it seemed strange. Pretty Boy rarely trusted people to cook for him, let alone divine what he might want off the menu—unless it was Shep. Now, it felt disturbingly comfortable. Like home. Like family. Though he was more or less guessing how such things felt. Not like he'd ever had much of either before the Horsemen.

He sipped his coffee, absentmindedly clicking his thumb ring against the handle, and pushed away the urge to run that always hit him when things felt too good.

Voodoo set a plate of hotcakes and a steaming carafe of amber liquid down on the counter. "Golden, fluffy, smothered in sweet cream butter with warm maple syrup, better than the ones your momma made you when you was a tyke."

"My …" Pretty Boy swallowed. "My momma never made me no pancakes."

Voodoo closed his silver eyes for a brief second and nudged the syrup towards him in a conciliatory manner. "Eat your breakfast kid, and stop breaking my heart."

He tucked into his pancakes, keeping an eye on Shep via the mirror behind the counter. Whatever Officer Douche was yakking about had to be serious shit, because no one at that table was enjoying their breakfast. But cops had a way of stepping in and ruining everyone's scrambled eggs and good times.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Shep. Pretty Boy looked up and Shep was studying his phone, tucked just under the table.

Stop staring and start eating.

Pretty Boy smirked, waiting until he caught Shep's gaze in the mirror before hitting send.
Yes, sir.

Shep frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It gave Pretty Boy a warm tingly feeling seeing him get all flustered. Despite his rather obvious responses, Shep never acknowledged his constant flirting. But Pretty Boy knew the difference between rejection and denial. This wasn't his first rodeo so to speak. But it gave him a little thrill to tease and not giving into temptation wasn't exactly on his skill list. So what if he knew deep down he didn't deserve someone as good as Shep? Wasn't like the good VP would ever act on it.

Guys, women—it didn't really matter to Pretty Boy and fuck knows he didn't cotton to labels. Plumbing was important to the mechanics of an act, but little else. It all felt good, just in different ways. He'd gotten good at knowing when a person was into him, regardless of their gender. He read people's faces like a goddamn telepath. Voo had once told him, "We should have named you
Spooky Motherfucker."

His survival had depended on knowing exactly when a person was going to turn on him. Especially since he'd never been able to keep his stupid mouth shut, just loved goading a person till he snapped.

Eventually he discovered turning people on was way better than pissing them off. He could charm the scales off a snake. His hustling powers worked equally on both genders and there were very few beds he couldn’t get invited into.

He mentally shrugged.
Everybody's got a talent.
He had super-junk and no problems with using it.

Yet, he'd never found the guts to outright tell Shep what he wanted. He wasn't blind—didn't miss the way the VP stared into his eyes, the taste of attraction in the air. But if Shep wanted Pretty Boy, he'd have figured his shit out and asked for what he wanted like a grown-ass man, right? He'd never shied away from doggedly pursuing his interests. The man was nothing if not goal-oriented.

"You don't start eating those pancakes, I’m gonna be offended." Voo leaned his elbows on the counter next to Pretty Boy's plate. "What you giving Shep the eyeball about? He give ya some bullshit prospect work?"

"Not yet, but the day is young," Pretty Boy replied with a sigh.

"What'd you do?" Voo asked knowingly.

"That is not the question, my friend." Pretty Boy grinned. "The question is, what did he
catch
me doing?"