Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (3 page)

Voo chuckled. "How deep of a shit list you on, Bé?"

"At least six feet with my luck." He rolled his eyes, but something churned in his gut at the thought of disappointing Shep. But would the man really make his underground fighting club business? The VP wasn't pissed about a prospect not following the rule, this shit was personal. "Listen, he just needs to understand, a guy like me … I have to let off some steam once in a while. You know—ease the tension. Let out a little aggression."

Voo's eyes widened. "Are you sure you can't narrow down what you did? Because that's sounding disturbingly specific."

"Hell if I know," he lied, sliding a bite of pancake through syrup. "But I have this sense of impending doom that says Shep'll have my ass anyway."

"Well, don't take it personally. Our VP's been in real bad way lately."

"Do tell." Pretty Boy set his fork down.

"Like you ain't noticed," Voo scoffed. His eyes sharpened and his voice lowered. "I thought you might have the inside skinny on whatever's rollin' around his cracked brains these days."

Pretty Boy's breath hitched. "Why would I know?"

"Mm-hmm." Voo straightened and spoke in his infuriatingly philosophical way. "You know the problem with most bikers? They always got our eyes on the road ahead.  But Shep's unique. He looks around more, sees what's going on in the lanes beside his own."

"Your point being?"

"So do I."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"It means finish your breakfast. Think on it." Voo moved to the other end of the counter to wipe down something.

Pretty Boy swallowed. Shep didn't like other people in his business. Of course, none of them had ever figured out how to keep Voo from knowing too much. Just wasn’t possible.

"If you're done pretending to eat, you can go gather the other prospects." Shep's low timbre hit Pretty Boy like an electric shock running down his spine as the VP appeared at his shoulder. "Meet at my place."

Pretty Boy straightened. "Yes, sir."

"You know, I think I like it when you call me sir." Shep smirked, warmth twinkling in his eyes.

"Ah, shucks. You're going to make me blush," Pretty Boy replied softly. Had Shep just flirted with him? His day was looking up.

Shep's face hardened as if he'd just realized what he'd done. "Go."

He jumped up. "I still gotta pay."

Voo dumped his remaining pancakes in a Styrofoam container and shoved it in his hands. "Your pancakes are on the house, Bé."

Pretty Boy pulled a ten out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter. "Appreciate it, but I pay my own way."

"That's a little more than I charge," Voo laughed.

"But not nearly as much as they're worth. Thank you," he said sincerely.

"Alright, if you're done making time with Voo, get your ass in gear," Shep growled, a hint of jealousy sparking in his blue eyes.

Pretty Boy jumped up, tossing over his shoulder, "Yes, sir."

Chapter Four

The prospect in charge always carries the Handbook. Always.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

As Pretty Boy parked his bike in Shep's driveway, he had to admit, the only thing better than having the open road to himself was riding with the crazy bunch of bastards pulling in behind him. His prospect brothers, Crash, Dash and Fetch meant the world to him. Navigating the club was tricky business, and these guys had his back the whole way.

The brick ranch house baked in the Texas sun, painted shudders fading under the onslaught of this past summer's unrelenting heat. He'd have to slap a new coat on those for Shep, keep it looking good. The wrap-around porch could use a little work, too. He frowned. The VP took a lot of pride in the things he owned; wasn't like him to let it fall into disrepair. Especially with a bumper crop of prospects at the ready to assist with their newly acquired handyman skills.

He walked backwards towards the front door, jingling his keys in the air. "Let's go, guys! We got less than twenty minutes before Shep's here."

"Let's get this done in time for beer!" Crash called, jogging up to join him on the porch. There was a wide grin on his broad face, the smattering of freckles across the tan skin a gift of long days spent tossing footballs under Friday night lights. His sandy brown hair was shaved on the sides, a tousled mess on top.

Dash and Fetch tried to squeeze into the line of scant shade offered by the aluminum panels of the porch roof. "You fixing to get that key in the hole sometime today, junior?" Fetch asked.

“It’s not actually about how fast you can jam it in, Fetch.” Pretty Boy flipped him off and turned to unlock the door.

"Why do you have keys to Shep's house, anyhow?" Dash asked.

The key slid out of the lock.
Shit.
He took a breath, trying not to notice Crash's gaze targeted on his shaking hand. He sighed, tossed on a smile and unlocked the door. "Because I'm PIC."

"That's your excuse for everything, isn't it?" Fetch laughed, patting him on the shoulder as he followed him inside. "Why do we have to clean Shep's house? Because I'm the prospect in charge."

"Because it's in the handbook!" Pretty Boy protested as Dash brushed past him into the air conditioning. He'd wait until later to tell them they'd also be brightening up the exterior. And maybe doing some landscaping.

He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. "Ahh … that's so much better. Why is it this fuckin’ hot in October?"

"Um, because if it ain't hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night, it wouldn't be Texas." Crash elbowed him in the ribs. "What, are you new?"

"No, for real though." Fetch walked into the kitchen and grabbed a broom. "At some point, you got to come to terms with the fact that you're the VP's pet. Got nothing to do with your leadership skills."

"You mean his memorization skills?" Dash laughed. Pretty Boy had earned PIC by being the first to recite the handbook.

"Are you seriously talking shit to me right now? Who got you out of that incident with the brunette that dyed her hair. You know the one." Pretty Boy took the lid off the trash can and pulled the bag out.

"Yeah, yeah – you're an okay leader," Fetch grumbled with mock resignation. "Still the pet though."

"Fuck you," Pretty Boy laughed good naturedly. He looked over at Dash eyeing the cabinets like they were plotting on him. "Dash, man—sponges are over the sink."

            Between the four of them, they had Shep's house back in perfect order in fifteen minutes—just enough time to grab a beer on the porch before Shep got back to hold their meeting.

            "Hey, you got a little something on you we could smoke right quick?" Crash asked once they were settled on the porch with frosty cold ones, eyes searching for the lines of Shep's bike coming up the road.

Pretty Boy gave him the
get outta here!
look.  "You know how pissed Shep would be if we came to church high?"

"But he's fine with drunk?" Dash asked, eyebrow raised.

"From his breath, he seems to be," coughed Fetch.

Pretty Boy frowned. "Hey, he's just going through some shit."

"Sorry man, didn't mean to talk smack about your boyfriend like that," Crash teased, a sly note in his tone.

If Shep walks up on them talkin' about this, he won't come near me for a week.
"Dude, don't even start this shit again—"

"I have keys to his house. I'm prospect in charge. I hold the Handbook. I'm so special!"
Dash mocked, William-Shatnering the fuck out of some eyelash batting.

Pretty Boy's heart sped, blood rushing to his face and … other places. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying, for a guy who has a rep as some kind of badass in the ring, you're awful docile when it comes to our VP."

"Naw, that's not the word," Crash argued. He pressed a hand to his chin, furrowing his forehead. "Oh! I know –
whipped.
Whipped is the word."

 Pretty Boy took another long swallow of his beer. Bravado—when all else fails. They were just giving him shit; he could joke his way out.  He knew they had their suspicions about him—and maybe even Shep—but they'd never treated him differently. "Fuck all of you. You know I'd be the top in that relationship."

"Doesn't appear so, friend," Crash said sadly.

Fetch held his beer bottle against his forehead. "Why does it have to be this hot
and
this bright? Just ain't right."

"Usually, because you drank so much." Dash nudged him. "Eddie's shine'll do that to you. How's she doing anyway?"

"Good." Pretty Boy grinned. "Still waiting on her to get it on with Cap, though."

"That's not a thing yet?" Crash groaned. "I'm totally going to lose the betting pool."

An engine sounded in the distance. "Bottoms up, boys! That's Shep."

"How do you know, I can't even see the—balls." Dash downed the rest of his beer as Shep roared around the corner on his Ultra Classic Electra Glide. The red and gold flames—just a touch of hellfire dancing on the glossy black—painted down the sides gleaming in the sun.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Fetch asked as he gathered their empties and headed towards big trash bin by the garage. "You got super-hearing or some shit?"

"Just be glad I do." He grinned and climbed to his feet as Shep pulled into the drive. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "For they know!"

The other three lined up behind him. "When their Shepherd is nigh!"

"Are you little bastards drinkin' my beer on my porch?" Shep narrowed his eyes on them. "Again?"

"Yes, Shep!" They shouted, grinning.

Pretty Boy grabbed another cold one from the corner of the porch with a sheepish smile. "Saved you one, though."

Shep's face broke into a grin and he took it. "Thanks. Now get inside. We got a lot to go over today."

They crowded around the round kitchen table. Shep banged his knuckles on the arm of his chair. Pretty Boy stared back at him, his fellow prospects silent as the fuckin' grave for once as they waited for Shep to speak.

"We'll get to old business in a few. The FBI's going to be in town for a bit and I need you guys to fall in line. Nothing that attracts attention. You're all getting new phones from Coyote, so save your contacts." Shep gave them each a hard look.

Crash raised an eyebrow. "Now, when you say nothin' that attracts attention—"

"I mean it."

"So, we should behave in what we would consider a 'normal' fashion?" Dash asked. "Like getting into fights, and being rowdy and whatnot."

Shep glared at them. "What I'm saying is, I don't care what happens, who gets in your face, just keep your goddamn tempers for fuck's sake!"

"Yes, Shep." They all nodded with the grin kids get when they're still thinking about how funny they are while their parents are fuming.

"Good. On to old business – where are we with plans for the rally?" Shep folded his arms.

The Apocalypse Rally was like biker fuckin' homecoming for their MC and reps from all the Four Horsemen chapters would be in town. As prospects, it was their job to ensure it went off without a hitch. Every week they reported their progress to Shep.

"Food is…done," Crash said with satisfaction. "Voo's smoked brisket and ribs will be going all weekend. We borrowed some hellions to bartend at Perdition so we can help out. And they’re waiting tables at Hade's diner in the mornings for the pancake crowd. We got Snowball's Chance to serve ice cream Saturday night. And Devilicius Donuts handling the exit gifts on Sundays."

The hellions were the wild women that hung around the MC, hankering for a piece of Horseman and crazy enough to keep coming back for more. For the most part, they liked booze, sex and bikes. In other words? His kind of chicks.

"We've gotten all the Horsemen businesses cleaned and stocked, now we just got to maintain until then. The Hellions are decorating Perdition," Fetch reported. "We're taking care of Seventh Circle Motors and Inferno Firearms. Voo may need some extra help at Hades, if he ends up firing someone."

"Why would he fire someone?"

"Supplies are going missing. He thinks there's a thief." Fetch shrugged. "But, we are looking good."

"As always," Crash crowed with a smirk.

"Alright, alright." Shep waved a hand. "And…entertainment?"

Dash and Pretty Boy exchanged glances.

Shep sighed. “What?”

"Ok, so we have the tire burn out competition set, the race is good to go. The bonfire is set." Pretty Boy swallowed. "Truth or Dare Karaoke at Perdition for Horsemen only on Thursday."

"And you said the Crossroad Crows are firm?" Dash asked, looking at Shep.

Jagger, one of the brothers, had started the band a few years back. It had almost died when they lost their lead fiddle and backup vocals, but they'd found a new girl a few months ago and the band had started to take off. They were on the road more than they were home nowadays.

"Yeah, Jag's already finished the set list." Shep nodded.  "So, what
didn't
work out?"

"Well, on Friday night we were going to have rodeo bull-riding." Pretty Boy sighed. "But apparently, the fucking San Antonio Rattlesnake Roundup managed to tie on a rodeo to the event last minute and we're up shit-creek with no paddles. Or in this case—bulls."

"So, instead we're going to …" Shep raised a brow.

"Petting zoo?" Dash twisted his hands in the air in the universal
I've got nothing and I'm totally pulling shit off the top of my head
gesture.

"Wet T shirt contest?" Crash waggled his eyesbrows.

Fetch smacked him in the arm. "Dude, don't even. You know if we do that, the old ladies are going to make us compete instead of the hellions. Sailor winks at me every time she sees me since Lexi's party."

"Yeah … uh … forget I said that."

Pretty Boy looked Shep in the eye. "I got this. I'll figure it out. No worries."

Shep held his gaze like he was hunting for something hidden there. Finally he nodded. "Okay, then. I trust you."

Pretty Boy grinned.

"Look at me," he said with a steely eyed gaze. "No. Petting. Zoo. Got it? Don't make me regret this."