Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) (34 page)

His face was all apprehension. The previous night at the club, Hawk had lost it in the worst way. He would have done some serious harm if Beanie hadn’t stopped him. Twice.

Hawk was mostly muscle and there was a lot of him. Beanie had shown skills as well as fast thinking.

It was definitely the best thing for Hawk. He had been a guest at the
Knights of the Lost Highway
clubhouse. What he did could have had him killed, for sure.

When Hammer asked him how he was feeling, Hawk’s face puckered with the look of a teenage boy caught stealing.

Hammer extended a hand. His voice rumbled, low and soft, “Look, it's history, Hawk. No biggie, okay?”

Hawk’s jaw tensed, “Is that why six of you came to rip me a new asshole?”

“That isn’t why we're here.” Hammer's voice was soft, almost gentle.

Hawk glowered over Hammer’s shoulder at me. “And you brought the little sweetbutt to watch.” His dismissive sneer stung me.

Hammer said, “Nothing like that, Hawk.”

Hawk looked at each of the six bikers. “Why the platoon, then?”

For a moment there was no sound in the desert hush except for the metal ticks of the bike engines as they cooled.

Hammer said, “Are you having fun watching us bake in the dust out here,” he reached out to Hawk, “or are you going to pass that blunt and offer us a beer, bro?”

Two big bikers with heavy-duty beards turned slowly on their barstools as we stepped inside
Thunderhead’s
clubhouse. When they saw us, they both reached over the bar counter fast.

Big, round bears of men, I was surprised at how quick and agile they were. Metal buckles on their cutoff bike jackets scraped on the bar counter as they swung back to face us.

In the dark far corner, three figures, two men and a writhing girl, huddled around the pool table and stopped whatever they were doing to watch us come in.

Hawk lifted a palm toward the men at the bar. He said, “They come in peace, Crank.” The bigger of the two men cocked his head, but he turned with a pistol in his hand and a growl in his voice.

“That’s what they all say.” He held the gun with both hands, but he didn’t raise the barrel.

Hammer carried an easy smile and his arms were out from his sides. His open palms faced forwards and his step was relaxed as he approached the biker.

He said, “Hey, Crank,” and he nodded a greeting to the other man, “Hambone.”

The two bikers at the bar stood shoulder to shoulder. Crank was the one with the gun. The other man hefted a baseball bat.

Hammer said, “We ain’t armed. We came in part to see how Hawk was after last night. He took a couple of hefty whacks.”

Hawk said, “Yeah, thanks for those, Beanie.”

Beanie’s feet shifted. Before he could speak, Hammer said, “It was that or he’d have taken some hot lead.” He waited for that to settle. He told Hawk, “Beanie kept you him the game, bro.”

Hawk grunted, “I should buy him some flowers.”

Hammer turned back to Crank and Hambone. “We also wanted to be sure that
Thunderhead
and the
Knights
were good, or if something needed to be done.”

The other man, Hambone, nodded somberly. His voice was like a preacher’s. “As is righteous. We’ll take an account of Hawk’s line to assay our share of that. Hawk?”

Hawk said, “No, we’re good. I did something grievously dumb and Beanie was right to stop me.” Hambone nodded again and turned to Crank.

Crank’s voice thinned. “’Roid rage?” When Hawk nodded, Crank looked to Hammer. “Was much damage involved?”

“None to speak of. Got a bit out of hand at the card table. Again in the ring later.”

Crank’s eyebrows lifted. “Out of hand in the ring?”

Hammer told them, “The rage. You know?” Crank and Hambone looked toward each other as they considered that. Hambone’s bushy mustache and beard bristled as his lips pursed. He looked at Hawk as he nodded.

Hammer said, “No lasting harm done.”

Hambone said, “If the
Knights
are right with us then, the way I see it, bro, we’re justly right with you.”

When Hammer nodded, Crank looked around the six
Knights
and said, “Beer?”

The air in the room lightened immediately.

The
Knights
crowded around the bar. Hambone was the
Thunderhead’s
club president, and Crank wore a patch that said
Sergeant-at-Arms
.

Talk spread, became louder and grew animated.

Over in the corner, the two men and a girl lost interest in us and resumed their interest in each other. The girl sat on the edge of the table and spread her legs wide.

One biker jammed himself up between her soft, milky thighs while the other fed and slurped on her long throat and her ample, bouncing breasts.

As the bikers talked and drank, I watched Beanie. He was quiet, ready to listen and slow to react. His ink and the scarified patterns shaved into his scalp somehow hid thoughtful, cautious Beanie.

The slow movements of his strong, careful fingers were sensual. The rim of his tongue pressed gently between his thick red lips and a small tremor ran up the insides of my thighs.

Hawk was like his opposite. Big and hot, he seemed to be primed and sprung, ready to laugh or to fight at any moment. Both men’s eyes twinkled with boyish sparks.

Hammer was another story. His voice was strong and deep. He spoke quietly, but when he spoke, everyone listened. His eyes flashed with savage, ruthless sparks.

When his body moved under his jacket, especially under his denims, my breath fluttered. As the men talked, all of their eyes snook over my loose shirt and my short denim skirt.

When Hammer looked at me, I felt it.

The girl on the pool table was up on all fours. A sturdy biker pumped at each end. Her face slid along one fat cock and her hands gripped the man’s round, clenching buttocks to pull him deeper into her gagging throat.

The biker behind spanked her ass as he reamed in between her widespread thighs. Her wet moans were muffled.

Watching with a heat of my own rising, I couldn’t decide whether she looked abandoned or consumed. My thoughts drifted until the sound of Hammer’s name pulled me back.

Crank told him, “Hammer, the
Knights
have business in the drugs trade, just the same as we do.”

“That’s kind of the other piece of why we came here, Crank,” Hammer said. “I thought maybe we might have a number of interests in common here.”

Hambone said, “Truly. It could behoove us to share knowledge and to take a reading of the situation together.”

Crank said, “My view, these damn ’roids are just going to be a source of heat. You may feel differently, in which case, fair enough. I’d like to hear about it.”

Hammer said, “No, we’re against ’em, too, bro. You know the D.A. has a hard-on for them.” Crank and Hambone nodded. Hammer went on, “We don’t allow trade in growth hormones or ’roids on
Knights
club premises. Not around club business either.”

Crank said, “Our members all know that we’d take a view on them selling the stuff, here or anywhere else. Just like you, we’ve got too much to lose from the extra attention.”

“Hawk’s a good man.” He turned to Hawk. “Look, I mean it, bro, you’re a good man, but I fear the ’roids are going to run you off the road.”

The men drank and passed a joint around. Hammer said, “Anyone have any ideas where the ’roids are coming from?”

Everyone looked at Hawk.

The girl in the corner moaned louder.

Before we left, Crank wanted to show off
Thunderhead MC
’s new fight ring. Like the
Knights’,
it was in a separate building from the clubhouse. The
Thunderheads’
was long and low, metal-sided like an old hangar.

Inside, a few bikers sat around. Two men sparred with their hands taped. One, red-headed, bearded and bulky, was slow but powerful. The other was shorter, solid and fast.

Both of them big men, the sweat made it tough for them to wrestle. They kicked, hit, and barged each other until the redhead took a blow to the neck from the shorter man’s forearm.

As the redhead dropped down to one knee, he quickly found his neck in the crook of the shorter man’s arm. His arms flailed and his face reddened.

From the side, Hambone shouted, “Lay off the chokehold, Spark.” Meek as a lamb, he looked up and let go. The redhead slumped, gasping onto the mat. Hambone called out, “Sparring should not involve fatalities.”

Back at the
Knights’
clubhouse, a gaudy, red, big-ass Seventies convertible was slumped in the lot out front. I knew right away that only Larry would be enough of an ass to park a thing like that outside a biker bar.

I felt a powerful urge to run, but I had nowhere to go. Out here in the middle of the desert, I had no money and nothing but my legs to run with.

My little drab Honda was rotting with no gas in front of the diner back in Peaceable. I had less than ninety bucks to my name and no place to go.

No, whatever kind of a scene Larry had come here to play out, I would have to play it out with him. See it to the end.

Perched at the bar, Larry looked somehow bigger than I remembered him. Bigger, and more intense.

Over the thin shades, his sapphire eyes peered hard at me. His thin black beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. The big collar stood tall on his gleaming white shirt, with the neck wide open.

When he looked at me, it was like his eyes held me. I couldn't look away. It was like he had something on me.

He didn’t. If anything, I had the goods on him, but that wasn’t how he made me feel. He looked at me like he was happy to see me and ready to forgive. Him. Forgive
me.

His eyes even looked bigger than I remembered.

“You been having fun with your new biker friends, Belle?” He smiled like he was looking at a naughty little girl.

I kept my voice even. “I wonder if I had as much fun as you did with my credit card.”

A little laugh sparkled in his voice. “Yeah, shit happens. What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me how much of that eye-bleeder pimpmobile I own.”

“Aww, baby. Even though you dumped me, I can’t stay mad for long. Come sit with me and have a drink.”

When I hesitated, he glowered and his voice rasped, “You’re mine, Belle. Don’t you forget it.” His eyes blazed. Larry had never acted that way to me in front of other people.

Wait—I hadn’t left him. For a moment there I almost lost sight of what had actually happened, of how he’d run off with the last two months’ rent for our little apartment.

How he took the credit card that I had spent more than a year to build up and he blew it. How he left me broke, stranded, and out of gas with no phone service in the middle of the desert.

He could be volatile in private, but I only knew him to go over the tipping point when his “bulletproof” scheme-of-the-day backfired and blew up in his face.

All of Larry’s ruses did that sooner or later. They always depended on him outsmarting someone, and most people turned out to be a lot smarter than Larry planned for.

When it all went south, Larry would barge back into the apartment, mean. Anger stepped out from behind cheap whiskey. Then he’d find something to blame me for.

Anything would do. It didn't have to be something I said, or even something I had actually done.

Could be the dishes or the way that a man had looked at me. I learned that if I said something, anything at all about Daddy at one of those times, it would save me the anxious wait, get the thing over and done with.

“You bitch, you fucking
whore!
” He'd come at me with his fists balled. His neck would stand out red, his face would flush and the vein in his temple throbbed.

When his arm shot out, his hand would be open. Most often he struck me backhanded across my face. Once or twice it was a wide swing and an open-handed slap.

My head snapped around and my neck jarred at those. Once, the back of my neck felt twisted for a week, and I thought he'd done me some real injury.

Most times, though, I played it up. Made like he’d hurt me much more than he really had. He stopped as soon as he thought he might have done some damage or when my crying brought him back to his senses. Not like Daddy.

Daddy wasn't all tied up in knots and conflicted about it. When he hit you, it was meant to cause you some pain. Getting the pain into you would help get it out of him. He was a bad man, and he wasn’t all twisted up and confused about it.

He knew what he wanted, and all of his thinking stopped right there until he got it. Then he’d figure out whether it was a good idea or not. “Win first. Plenty of time to examine the prize when it's yours.”

I wondered, not for the first time: had I endured violence because I was drawn to violent men? Men like Hammer. Men like Larry. Was I drawn to the men who would give me what I was accustomed to? Did I grow up with the feeling that that it was normal, or that I deserved it?

Or was there a deeper reason? Deep down, did I think somehow that I could have been the reason for Momma leaving Daddy, or whatever it was that happened to her?

There was no memory of Momma. I never remembered seeing her. I didn’t know the sound of her voice.

Daddy only ever said “your momma” three times that I could remember. Those were the only times I saw his eyes mist over. The only times I heard his voice catch. The only moments I ever saw Daddy’s lips tighten and his jaw muscles clench as he turned to look away.

Did I welcome the punishment because inside, I believed it was my due?

Or did I simply get hooked on a fix of pain every now and then?

Larry’s look hardened as he patted the barstool next to him. I didn’t move.

“Didn’t see a ‘property of’ stamp anywhere on her.” Beanie’s voice made Larry turn. “We gave her a pretty good look over last night.”

As he said it I was remembering some of that. Beanie’s eyes glistened and he looked at me. His voice reminded me of our night’s explorations. Beanie’s and mine, Hammer’s and Carlie’s.

The hot scent of the four of us in the room came back to me, and my stomach fluttered.

Larry narrowed his eyes at Beanie. Beanie’s young, strong, tattooed torso rippled and flexed in the low light. He lifted his eyebrows to meet Larry’s gaze. Beanie seemed to be growing up right in front of me.