Blake: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Hell's Exiles MC Book 2)

by Sassie Lewis

  Twining her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer and parted her lips. A low moan left him before he annihilated her mouth. The taste of him mixed with tequila was something she’d never forget. Sweet, tangy, and masculine. Rolling her hips, Becca tried to relieve the ache building between her legs. Again, he showed how fast he could move. Their positions changed, and Becca found herself sitting where Blake had been, with him kneeling on the floor between her legs. She tilted her head back as he slid his lips from hers and trailed them down to her neck, his hands busy sliding up her skirt.

  She was seriously going to hell for letting him do this. It had to be the drugs. If he knew what he was doing . . . well he wouldn’t be doing it. But Jesus Christ, she didn’t care if she was damning herself. Honestly, she’d crossed that bridge years ago. It didn’t matter that Blake would regret behaving this way. Because when he tore away her panties, and worked his fingers over her slick lower lips, she was in utter heaven.

  “So w-wet for me, prin-princess.” His slurred words turned garbled and not entirely English.

  Grasping onto his ears, Becca pulled his face back to her mouth, swallowing whatever the hell it was he was mumbling. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. There was more than just a possibility that her silly brain would latch onto those words and believe them true. Believe that Blake really wanted her and it wasn’t just some weird reaction to the sleeping tablets.

  His fingers shifted until one slid deep into her vagina. Blake captured her moan in his mouth before pulling away to watch his hand move between her legs. The smoldering look on his face sent her another step closer to the orgasm building inside her, ready and waiting for that final push.

  Widening her legs and wiggling her hips, Becca tried to get him to go deeper, use more pressure. Something. She just needed a little more.

  “God dammit, Blake, harder.” She scratched at his arms, demanding the big guy give her want she wanted.

  He blinked up at her, a look of surprise flashed through his eyes before they drifted shut. Then Blake tumbled away, his fingers ripping free of her tight passage and his head bashing against the coffee table on his way to meet the floor.

  “Well, fuck!” Becca cursed the timing. Seriously, would it have been too much to ask for the drug to wait another minute? Hell, she reckoned another thirty seconds would have been enough.

  Looking down her body she heaved out a sigh. “Sorry, chica, your need is gonna have to wait ‘cause we’re blowing this joint.”

  Within fifteen minutes, Becca walked away from Boulder City and anything to do with Hell’s Exiles.

  Chapter One

  Blood dripped in a steady flow; a crimson so dark it almost matched the pitch black of night that surrounded him.

  Nessa’s screams and Chase’s shaky tenor echoed off the otherwise quite yard.

  It’s not her. It’s not her. The words bounced around his head in a continuous mantra. But, and no matter how many times Blake told himself that the bleeding woman wasn’t her, bile still crept up his throat.

  A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and brought the coopery tang of blood with it. He swallowed the bile once again filling his mouth.

  “It’s not her.”

  Blake dug his heels into the ground to stop from jumping at Zane’s quiet words. So much for being the big, bad enforcer. The man who scared and bled others for his club. Here he stood, gagging at the sight of blood, and jumping at whispered words. If he wasn’t so freaked out, he’d laugh at the ridiculous behavior. But he cut himself some slack. It wasn’t every day you walked out your VP’s front yard to find a dead body. Not just a body, but one hanging feet first from a tree, with its throat slit. One that looked just like the clubs missing princess.

  “Did you hear me, Blake? It’s not her.”

  “I...” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I know. But fuck, man—”

  “Yeah, fuck. If it wasn’t for the eyes, even with them paling with death, the poor girl could be Rebecca’s twin. Now,” – Zane moved until he blocked Blake’s view of the body — “What are we gonna do about this? We’ve had enough heat from the natives. This,” he waved a hand behind him, “is gonna bring more shit down on our heads. Something we don’t be needing right now.”

  No, they didn’t need that, not with the big run Hell’s Exiles was due to make. Grange North was not a man to take fuck-ups lightly.

  Blake and Zane had spent the past six months cleaning up their club. Not just their chapter either. Hell’s Exiles spread across America with four Chapters. Some fuckers had infiltrated every one of those chapters. Fuckers because no matter how much Blake had made those bastards bleed, none of them had given him any fucking information. It had been like pounding the crap out of robots. Oddly, Blake appreciated their loyalty, their unwillingness to talk. If it had been one of his boys, he would have been proud. But when the bastards taking the beatings were responsible for killing his president’s old lady, Blake was more than pissed.

  Stepping around Zane, Blake took in the scene once more. This time without freaking out. “We let Stone deal with Grange, you and Horse will have to handle protection—”

  “Why ain’t you coming?”

  “Because I’ll be dealing with this.” He nodded at the Becca look-a-like.

  Soft foot-falls sounded behind them. “Nessa’s calmed down, and dad’s on his way.” Chase was obviously as shaken up as Blake was. It wasn’t often the man referred to their president as ‘dad’. “Soon as he’s seen this, we can cut her down. Nessa doesn’t want us to bury the body.”

  “What does she expect us to do, call the cops for them to come out and collect it?”

  “Watch your fucking tone, Blake. Last I checked, I’m Vice President of this club.”

  “Meant no disrespect. Just want to know what she wants us to do with the body?”

  “I reckon we put it along the highway,” Zane said. “Maybe where those women were found a few years back. From memory, the killer was never caught, and he also slit their throats. I’m not willing to check if he did the other things to her.”

  Blake remembered the case; six women had gone missing, their throats slashed, and their dead bodies defiled. Blake had done some pretty fucked up shit in his life, but raping a woman was never one of them.

  “That would work,” Chase agreed. “Blake can handle it. Zane, I want you to find out all you can about her and who might have done this.”

  The unmistakable sound of a Harley interrupted them. Gravel kicked up at them as Quin came to a skidding stop. Fury shone in his eyes, but his skin took on a sickly pallor as he looked over the scene.

  “Find who the fuck did this,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Already on it, Prez. I’ll leave Blake and Chase to explain everything.” Without a goodbye, Zane jumped on his bike and took off.

  “Where’s Nessa?” The older man looked toward the house.

  “She’s inside. Freaked, but she calmed down once she realized the body’s not Rebecca.”

  Quin paced away from them before turning back to once again look at the body. “We’ve gotta find your sister. It’s no fucking coincidence that this girl looks like her.” He ran his hands over his face, pulling at his beard. “Where the fuck is she? I’ve had people looking all over the goddamned fucking country, and no one’s seen her.”

  Blake knew he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He steeled himself for the reaction. “She’s in Reno.”

  “The fuck you say?” Quin asked.

  “The princess is in Reno, has been all along.”

  “Then why the fuck didn’t you. Go. And. Get. Her?” Chase demanded.

  He shrugged his shoulders . . . “Because I didn’t want to.” The fist to his face was to be expected, the kick to his balls was a low move though.

  An hour later, the yard was clear of the body, now Blake sat on Chase’s lounge with one very pissed off Nessa—who seemed to take pleasure in the fact that Blake sat there with an ice pack against
his balls—glaring at him. All the while, Chase hovered over his woman like a protective shadow. She hadn’t spoken since ordering Blake to sit his ass down and explain everything, all while pointing a shotgun at him. He’d been too scared to argue with her. The girl was a damn good shot.

  “Explain to me why, when you knew I’ve been looking for my daughter for months, you never mentioned knowing where she was?”

  “Because she’s safe.”

  “How the fuck could you know that?” Chase asked.

  “Because of who she’s with.”

  A look flashed between Chase and Quin. “Who the hell is she with?”

  Pulling a crushed pack of smokes from his jean pocket, Blake lit one. It was a habit he’d quit years ago, but with the shit going down, he’d gone back to the old vice. His lungs protested as the toxic plume filled them, and nicotine buzzed straight to his head.

  Blake knew Quin would know the answer to this, but he didn’t think Chase did. “Ever wonder why we don’t do runs anywhere near or around Reno?”

  Chase tilted his head. “Actually, I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because the Russian mafia, or more precisely the Kuznetsov Brotherhood, has the run of Reno and they aren’t people to be fucked with. They don’t and won’t deal with bikers.”

  Chase wasn’t stupid and Blake could see that the other man was putting all the pieces together. “She’s staying with the mafia?”

  Blake nodded. He had to give it to Becca; the girl had been smart when she’d ran. “When you want to get away from someone, it’s best to go where you know those after you won’t follow.”

  “And you think she’s safe! Are you fucking crazy?” Nessa screamed at him. Chase wrapped his arms around the little warrior, stopping her from charging at Blake, and sat with her on his lap.

  “Trust me, Nessa, she’s been perfectly safe there.”

  “Seeing as we avoid that part of the state, how do you know where my daughter is, and why are you so certain she’s safe?”

  Fuck! Talking about his past wasn’t something he liked doing. He knew he would have to have this conversation at some point, he just hadn’t planned on doing it right then. Or ever, if he could’ve managed it. But it seemed lately, fate was having a fuckin’ ball of a time screwing him over, and she wasn’t going to give up now.

  “Because I used to be part of the Kuznetsov Brotherhood.”

  At nineteen, he’d walked away from them. He’d never been built to handle the in-house politics that went along with being a member of one of America’s largest organized crime syndicates. Killing he was good at, the other shit hadn’t interest him.

  But because of who he was . . .

  Well, it was a place and position he’d never wanted. You didn’t really walk away from the mafia, but when—even at nineteen—most feared him, Blake had done it. And they’d let him.

  Chase glared at him. “You will bring my sister home.”

  Stubbing out the cigarette, Blake leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared Chase down. The younger man was beginning to piss him off. Quin’s angry growl had Blake lowering his head. He so didn’t want to go to Reno.

  Closing his eyes, he counted to ten . . . Shit!

  He didn’t think anyone in Reno would hurt the princess, but fuck it, they were right. The princess needed to be back in Boulder. “Fine, I’ll head out in the morning.”

  “No, you’ll head out now,” Quin said.

  Fuck!

  Chapter Two

  The night air, even heavy with humidity, was refreshing. Becca loved it here. Loved the deserted rooftop. Kazino Royale stood tall, overlooking the entire city of Reno. Up here she felt free. The twinkling lights of the city calmed her, and the murmur of the city below acted as a nondescript symphony that soothed her. Yet, tonight, she couldn’t find peace.

  She’d escaped the casino floor with a desperate need to be alone. Something had nagged at her from the moment she’d awoken. A foreboding of things to come. Then a sensation of being watched followed her around the casino floor; made her neck itch.

  A shiver skittered up her spine. Wrapping her arms around herself, Becca tried to ward off a chill that didn’t exist. Panic wanted to pull her under. Damn it, she’d worked hard to not be the panicked princess who jumped at shadows. It had taken months and a lot of hard work to become the woman she was now. She refused to give over to this feeling that something bad was coming; to let the panic attacks rule her life again.

  Not that her life was a fairytale, far from it. Fairytales didn’t exist, especially for people like her. But Becca was . . . happy. Something she hadn’t truly ever been before. She missed some of the people from her old life, but she had purpose now, no longer just the president of Hell’s Exiles daughter. She had a badass reputation, and while she’d worked on getting her shit together, she’d also lost those thirty pounds she never seemed able to budge before. Not that she was classed as thin, but at five foot exactly going from a size twenty to fourteen sure did wonders for her ego.

  The vibrating of her phone alerted her that time was up; with one last look over the city and a plan in mind, she made her way downstairs.

  “When are you going to have dinner with me, malysh?”

  “Don’t call me baby, macho,” she snapped at Danil. Becca hip-checked Abram out of the way. The security shack, or just The Shack to those who worked there, was a ten-by-ten electrical hub of activity with anywhere from four to six people working on monitoring everything that went on at Kazino Royale.

  “She’s got you there, Danil, you are a player. What are you doing in here anyway, my sweet Rebecca? I thought you were sticking to the floor tonight?” She didn’t bat an eyelid at Abram’s endearment. Unlike Danil, the older Russian didn’t annoy the shit out of her. He also didn’t begrudge her position in the company—head of special security. Danil had a real problem with the fact that a nineteen-year-old, non-Russian, let alone female, had taken the position he coveted. He thought his displeasure was concealed by the come-ons and false compliments he dished out; thought she bought into his fake niceness. But even though he clearly didn’t like her, he had no problems whatsoever making lude comments about her body and leering at her. She’d never had an issue with people ogling her, but Danil was beginning to creep her out. There was more than one reason he’d never been made head of special security.

  SP security had nothing to do with brute force, it was all about sleight of hand. Seeing the con before it happened. Or knowing how to stop it once it started. You would think a man born, raised, and working for the Russian mafia would understand this, but Danil just wasn’t the brightest bulb. Becca, having grown up the way she had, did. That, and a few tricks of her own, had made her perfect for the job.

  “I need to see the tapes for the past hour,” she directed at Abram. The playful smirk disappeared from his face to be replaced by the fierce scowl of a mafia soldier.

  “What are we looking for? Everything seemed fine when you headed up to the roof for your break.” Abram tapped the screen, bringing up the footage she asked for.

  “It was . . . I think. And I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when/if I see it.” With a nod, Abram hit play.

  Becca watched herself move across the screen. It had been a slow night at the tables so it was easy to follow her earlier movements. Abram must have understood it was herself she wanted to watch because as she walked off screen he flicked to a different camera, easily finding her. He did it again and again, following Becca as she’d made her way through the casino. Abram looked over at her when the footage hit the point of her going into the staff elevator. A question clear in his eyes.

  “Play it again.”

  “You noticed—”

  “Yes. Now play it again,” she snapped. He did, only to hit pause a few minutes in. “Print that out for me.” This time her voice came out bland. Numbness momentarily taking her over, although she felt better about the whole
freak-out session upstairs. It was good to know that she hadn’t panicked over nothing, because she was most definitely being followed.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “No, but I plan to find out. Then I’ll show him why it isn’t a good idea to fuck with me.”

  “Rebecca, you can’t handle this alone, you must tell Boris.” Abram needn’t worry, Becca had every intention of getting Boris involved. Who else better to protect her than a mafia boss?

  “Malysh, we’ve got a problem on the floor. Big ass biker just dropped twenty large on table two.” Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, Becca counted to ten. Because if she didn’t calm down, she’d likely stab Danil with her stilettos. And not the ones on her feet.

  After the incident, as she liked to call it, Becca had discovered that guns freaked the shit out of her. However, knives didn’t seem to bother her at all. Under the tutelage of some of Boris’ enforcers, she’d become quite proficient in using them. Now she didn’t leave her room without her shiny new stilettos strapped to her thighs.

  Eyes still closed, Becca spoke through gritted teeth. “Don’t call me baby. And why would a biker sitting at a table be my concern?” She snapped her eyes opened, and finally turned to face the idiot Russian. “I get that we don’t allow bikers into this casino.” A fact that made Becca very happy. No bikers meant no unwanted visits from daddy dearest or his idiot sidekicks. “But unless he’s counting cards or conning the jewels off our high rollers, he’s Bear’s problem. Not. Mine.” Bear was Boris’s grandson, head enforcer, and also head of the casino’s security—the brute side of it.

  “Seeing as Bear is just standing there watching the guy, I figured you’d want to know. Besides, aren’t bikers your people?”

  Apparently Danil wasn’t going to fake niceness anymore. The hostility in his voice was unmistakable to all in the room. Becca would have...well, she would have done something not pleasant to the little snot if she wasn’t distracted by what was on the screen in front of her. “You have got to be shitting me.” Seriously, could tonight get any more fucked up? “Abram find out how long I’ve had an admirer and see if you can get a cleaner image than this one.” She waved the paper she’d picked up off the printer. “I’ve got shit to handle on the floor.”