Outlaw's Bride (4 page)

No, no, I couldn't give up this easy. God help me, I was the only one who could bring Roman into his life, or else I'd keep them apart forever.

P
rison changes a man. It makes him leery, anxious, and ready to fucking fight every second his body isn't so damned exhausted it makes him stay still.

We'd only been in church for five minutes, and I was getting goddamned antsy.

“Beam. Stryker.” Blackjack stood at the head of the table, staring at our two prospects like he was about to anoint them with holy oil. “You've proven yourselves. You've spilled blood and licked dirt for this club, and now you're going to do it some more.”

The room was dead silent. The two men looked at each other, nervous as hell. It would've been funny if I didn't have so much shit on my mind.

“The difference is, this time we'll be calling you our brothers. Welcome to the fold, boys. You've earned your bottom rockers, and the vote was unanimous.” The Prez stopped and looked at me. “Roman?”

My cue to get up and hand them the patches I've been sitting on since we got into the room. The boys stared at me like their damned eyeballs were about to melt.

They probably couldn't believe how quickly they'd been patched in. Well, there's more of that these days, especially with good men dropping like fucking flies along the border.

Before we really started to tango with the cartel, we were the biggest MC west of the Mississippi. Flash forward a couple years, and we'd lost hundreds, rivers of blood spilled to gain the upper hand over those bastards from Mexico. Not to mention some of our own brothers, who'd turned this club into such a shithole it was too weak to push the invaders back where they belonged in the first place.

“Congratulations, brother.” I shook Stryker's hand, a tall man, former soldier.

Then I moved to Beam and offered the same thing. He had more of a punk ass skateboarder's look, but whatever. Seeing dudes with weird styles was nothing outta the ordinary in any MC.

“Take your seats, brothers. We've got business.” We all nodded and found our places while Blackjack limped back to his.

The Prez's bum leg probably wouldn't ever heal. He'd taken a bullet when the boys fought Fang, our old fuck of a Prez, not long before I got outta jail. When I showed up for duty with the new and improved Grizzlies MC, I wasn't sure what to expect. Luckily, the past few months have proven it's a big improvement.

Anything beat the old group of thugs, killers, and honorable outlaws getting their asses kicked by the cartel. I went away after killing for the brothers I trusted. Since I took the Enforcer promotion, it was my job to make damned sure no man sat at this table or wore this patch who couldn't be called a brother in the fullest sense of the word.

Once everybody was seated, Blackjack looked at Brass, our VP, waiting for him to deliver the latest war report.

“We're still struggling with these ambushes, Prez. The Devils are working with the Oregon crew, helping hold things down up north. But they hit us every week in LA and San Diego. Sacramento's got spots we don't control, even after several months.” He paused, as if he didn't want to say the next part. “They're still going after men's families. They beheaded a brother's old lady last week in SoCal.”

Fuck. Christ.

Hands went up and slapped the table. Men shook their heads. My guts spooled up like a goddamned chain getting ready to snap.

The brothers who've got women they've claimed looked the worst. At our table, that was Brass and Rabid, but several other guys were just as pissed. I felt it too – an iron hot fire making me wanna hit the road and strangle a few cartel soldiers myself.

Thinking about those fucks butchering an old lady only fed the shit running through my head. It wasn't just about the dead chick – it was the ultimate slap in the face, the ultimate way for those cocksuckers to squat on us and take a steaming dump on the entire club.

For a split second, it made me think about
her,
before I shoved Sally outta my skull for the dozenth time that day.

“Christ.” Blackjack's lips twitched angrily, taking a few seconds to collect his words. “All the more reason to end this thing before Christmas.”

“I hope it's that easy, Prez,” Rabid said, breaking in. “Shit, I'd give up Jack all winter if we didn't have to worry about those fucks breathing down our throats.”

“Quit bullshitting, brother. I'd settle just for the Mexicans breathing down our threats, instead of fucking cutting them.” Brass stared at his friend across the table.

“Enough. You know why we're here.” Blackjack peered out at all of us, one by one, stopping on me dead last. “We need manpower. The two brothers we've just patched in are just the beginning. Roman, you're going to choose three new hangarounds by the end of the week. Make them prospects. Make sure they're ready to face hell for this brotherhood.”

A few guys exchanged icy glances. The club's power structure was too damned new for a lot of 'em to openly grumble to the Prez. Not me.

I couldn't slack off when the stakes were this high – even if the Prez was wrong.

“Prez, I told you last week we can't be flipping through these strangers like a revolving door. Hell, this isn't the army where we can snap our fingers and draft a bunch of bastards from Redding just looking for a little action and some mean tattoos. We can't pick up every motherfucking kid fresh outta high school who likes Harleys and thinks wearing this patch'll show all the ladies his balls have dropped.”

A few guys snickered. Brass gave me a nod, then looked at the Prez.

“Roman's right. Look, Prez, I do all the background checks I can on these guys, but I can't catch everything. One of them could be some plant wearing a badge, trying to get into our operation, or even some fucker working for one of the cartels.”

Several guys stared at the Veep in disbelief. “It happens. Believe it, or don't. Better you hear it from me than find out the fucking hard way.”

Thank fuck. Maybe hearing it from the VP would make the Prez see the light. Then Asphalt piped up, his bald head shining, reminding everybody the asshole's the biggest hothead at this table.

“Yeah? Excuse me, Veep, but what fucking good's that gonna do if we're all dead? The cartel's picking guys off one by one. Sure, we've made progress, but just wait 'til they call for reinforcements in the spring. These bastards are
huge.
They've got shit stretching all the way down to Colombia, and if they think we're a big enough problem, they'll bring in reinforcements.”

Damn if I didn't want to grab his head and bounce it off the table like a goddamned basketball. “You're thinking short term, Asphalt. And that's being pretty fucking generous. How bad do you think we'll have it if this club gets caught between some DEA mole and the cartel's shit? We can barely keep the bribes flowing now to make sure the Feds look the other way with all the blood turning this state red. Shit, next year, we've got an election coming up, and all the money in the world might not save us if those peacocks in their suits latch onto it.” I let my fists hit the table. “Think harder,
brother.
”

Yeah, that last part was an afterthought. I didn't give a shit when he started eyeballing me neither. Too bad the Prez started doing the same thing.

“You know we're in a desperate situation, son,” Blackjack said. “If we hadn't spent so much time and effort sorting out our own problems in this club, the cartel wouldn't be tightening its hold at all. The stakes have never been this high.”

Several guys coughed. I was the only man in the room who could take the Prez head on, while everybody else just wilted underneath his sorcerer's gaze. I never had trouble seeing why Blackjack held the Enforcer spot before me under Fang. Shit, he'd been cracking skulls for this club since most of us were kids.

“Imagine it's you. Your families, brothers. I know there's nobody wearing this patch who'd hesitate to shed sweat and blood for the bear, but no man ought to risk his lifeblood, his woman, his kids. We protect our old ladies and our children as viciously as we backup any man with our patch. If that means we've got to bring in a few more good, eager soldiers faster than we'd like, then you'd better believe I'll fucking do it.” His fist came down hard.

The old table was probably gonna take a lot more punches before the meeting ended.

“You know what the revised charter says. It's every full patch member's right to call for a vote, and we'll go by majority rule.” Furrowing his brow, he folded his arms. “Do it. I can't have dissent when we're fighting for our goddamned lives. If anyone here disagrees, call the vote. We'll sort out your objections without any hard feelings.”

My hand twitched. I wanted to fucking do it bad. Of course, I didn't. Gauging club politics came easy to me. I'd been through enough tense church sessions like this one to know I'd be on the losing side.

That's the thing about democracy. It only fucking works when the votes go your way.

“Well? Nobody?” Blackjack paused. “Good. Then we've aired our objections and we can move forward like men. Roman, you have your orders.”

My hands balled into fists. All I could do not to give the Prez the world's most sarcastic-as-fuck salute.

“I'll make sure the new recruits are up to speed,” I said. And I meant it too.

I'd been in the life long enough to know Prezes and Veeps don't always make perfect decisions. But brothers like Blackjack and Brass deserved my respect, and I was damned sure going to give it to them – even at the cost of bringing down more shit for this club we'd all have to clean up.

Church ended on a high note. Several brothers hit the bar with our newest full patch members, laughing and serving them shots. I kept my distance like always.

Evening rolled in, and the guys with old ladies invited them to join the celebration. The whores and club sluts began to show up too.

I needed to keep my ass glued to the bottle. So, I sat, watching Rabid and Brass hug their women close. Every time they kissed their girls, there was love in those lips, the only kind that comes from a man putting his brand on his old lady.

I couldn't decide what the fuck was worse – the lovey-dovey shit with the old ladies, or watching dudes like Asphalt, Stryker, and Beam slobbering all over tonight's easy pussy.

Even old Southpaw was getting in on the action at the edge of the bar. The big, gray haired blockhead looked up and grinned at me over the shoulder of some nameless bitch straddling his lap.

My dick jerked hard. I'd been clean for too fucking long, stuffed away in prison, a desert without tits and ass if there ever was one.

Fuck.
My hand tightened on my glass, thinking about Sally. I reached for the bottle, adding another big splash of Jack to my beer. I downed the shit in one big gulp and started all over again.

Back when I was behind bars, I told myself getting fucked up was first on the list as a free man. As it turned out, there hadn't been time for that crap since I got to the clubhouse.

Rabid and his new old lady, that bouncy redhead on his lap named Christa, caused us a world of shit just a few weeks ago. She'd hidden her blood debts to our brothers up in Oregon 'til it all came screaming outta the closet – and the crew in Klamath Falls was rotten to the core. We found out real fast who our brothers really were in that group. The rest were dead and buried, rotting underneath ten feet of thick concrete.

Of course, Sally picked the worst time in the world to show up during that fuckery. Seeing her after two damned years of silence blew my brains out my skull.

Did she really expect to just pick up where we'd left off after I'd given her more than any other woman that summer? Did she think I'd forget she hadn't said boo for two fucking years while I lived in that pit?

When she whipped that bottle at my boots and cursed me for walking away, she tore my heart in half.

One part wanted to march right back, throw her over my shoulder, and fuck her goddamned brains out. That chick warmed my blood like nobody before.

The other half wanted me to spit in her face, tell her what a bitch she was for walking away, leaving me high and dry like a goddamned chump.

No, it wasn't just the dry spell in prison driving me up the wall. Even when I touched her a couple weeks ago, it was like a fucking jolt. Sandpaper scratched my veins, and molten blood pooled straight in my dick, turning it into a hammer ready and willing to bust holes in the walls.

I couldn't deal with that shit, that firestorm in my blood leaving me in a stupor.

I took another swig, feeling relief from bad memories when it hit my guts and burned. Every glance around the clubhouse hurt my eyes. Too bad there was no relief as long as I was stuck here.

A few minutes more, watching brothers on the verge of getting their dicks wet, and I couldn't fucking take it. I jumped off my seat, carrying my new beer and whiskey cocktail with me, wandering toward the room in the back where I always crashed for the night.

I just wanted to pass the fuck out and find some peace for a few hours. Soon as I flicked on the lights and kicked the door shut behind me, I got an eyeful that lit my dick up like a fucking bottle rocket.

Twinkie was on the floor next to my bed, naked from the waist down. Her arms sprawled out above her blonde pigtails, a half-burnt joint between her fingers. She twisted her head, staring at me with those bright hooded eyes – dangerously similar to Sally's.

Do it, do it, do it, motherfucker.

My cock's lightning hit my brain, and I heard its pleas crystal clear. At first, she looked scared, startled. She knew damned well she wasn't supposed to be in a brother's room without his permission.

Normally, that shit got these whores an ass tanning or an angry shove back where they belonged That night, I had something different on my mind, and there was no fucking way I was shutting my sex starved dick up.

“Oh, Christ. Hold up, Roman, I'm on my way out!” she moaned, staggering to her feet, her eyes going wide and alert when she saw me coming toward her. “I didn't take anything, honest. I just wanted a spot to relax by myself, and I know there's never anybody in your –“