Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8)

by Susan Fanetti

  No fucking idea. But it didn’t mean he was going to fuck her. Right? He was just being neighborly. Right?

  “No, shortcake. You cooked, you should eat. What are we having?” He came all the way into the kitchen and checked out the contents of the pot—which contained, as expected, a sauce of tomatoes and beans, simmering softly.

  She brought the dripping colander over and, nudging him to the side with her hip, dumped the pasta into the sauce. “Chili mac! You must like it, because you had all the fixings already.”

  He hadn’t had chili mac since he was a kid. “I do. Smells great.”

  “I just have to put everything together. Wash your hands.”

  Chuckling at her businesslike bossiness, Becker turned to the sink and washed the engine from his hands. He kept a bottle of Goop soap on the windowsill because he got grimy so often.

  When his hands were clean, and the food was ready, Becker grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, and they sat at his kitchen table, which looked out over his back yard. She’d set it already, with plates and glasses of ice water, and his mismatched silverware set on paper towels folded like napkins. A short stack of his sliced sandwich bread rested on a plate next to his tub of margarine.

  She’d mixed the macaroni in with the chili and served him from the pot on the table. Becker watched her, bemused. He did not understand this little girl or why he couldn’t seem to tell her no.

  No, actually, he did. And that was why he was sitting here with her now. He understood. He didn’t want to, but he did.

  She didn’t want to go home. He understood that. He remembered it. His irresistible urge to help her out came from knowing. That was why he couldn’t say no to her, couldn’t push her away, couldn’t stop thinking about her. He understood. He remembered.

  “What are you doing, Sage?”

  She spooned a serving onto her plate, put the pot in the center of the table, and sat down. “Having supper with you. Do you like it?”

  He tried a bite—and it was good. Really good. Just the right kind of spicy, and the noodles done just right. “I do. You’re a good cook.” He had another quick couple of big bites.

  “Not really. I can make a few things. I don’t do it much.”

  “Your mom cooks?”

  “Yeah, for her and Denny. Most of the time, I try to stay away from the house when he’s there, so I usually don’t eat with them. I just eat at work or whatever, then check on my mom when he’s not around.”

  God, he knew her life—the life of a child of a battered woman, and the life of a battered child, too. Learning the rhythms of violence, when things would be calm and when they’d be chaotic, learning the triggers and which few, if any, could be controlled. Maintaining precarious balance between keeping out of harm’s way yourself and staying close enough to know when trouble was too bad for your mom. When she wouldn’t help herself, when she would only make excuses and take on the blame, when what she wanted most from you, what she insisted she needed, was quiet compliance, that balance was razor thin. And absolutely exhausting.

  The most exhausting part was the way the life kept hold of you. From the time Becker was ten and Kent had taken over dominion of the farmhouse, he’d fantasized about growing up and getting away. But when he’d turned eighteen, they were on their second false father, and he hadn’t been able to leave his mother. She’d needed him too much.

  The first night he’d ever spent away from home had been the night of his arrest. It was eight and a half years before he stepped into that house again.

  Sage had a bite and took a long swallow of ice water—she was ignoring her beer—then asked, “The guy you killed—was he a Denny?”

  Becker never talked about that time, not even to his brothers. Since his mother’s death two years ago, he’d barely even thought about it, and it had taken hard work to lock it away. But he nodded now. “He was a Clyde, and my mom was married to him, but yeah. Like that.”

  “Can I ask why you killed him?”

  “You already did, and I already answered.” He kept eating, but the conversation was killing the taste.

  “I mean ...” Drifting off without finishing, Sage had another bite and another swallow. Becker picked up a piece of wheat sandwich bread and smeared Blue Bonnet over it. “I mean, it wasn’t the first time he hurt your mom, when you killed him, was it? Something happened to make you do it that time.”

  He dropped the bread onto his plate and drank down the rest of his beer. “I don’t talk about this, shortcake.”

  She didn’t respond, or look away. Great big doe eyes locked on him.

  Those ancient memories he’d built a mental strongbox for broke free, and he was eighteen again, in that farmhouse that had been in his father’s family home, the house his mother had, after his father’s death, brought two far inferior men into, in search of a provider. Clyde, the second and final stepfather, had been the worst, but Kent had been no prizewinner, either.

  Becker looked out the windows. Over the fence was Sage’s house. The yard lights were on over there, and he saw Denny standing on the porch steps, arcing piss into the yard. Another champion man right there.

  “She was ironing, and she ironed a crease into his uniform sleeve. He didn’t like that, so he held her hand down on the board and set the hot iron on it. Her screams were the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life—still, to this day, that’s true—and I came running and saw what he was doing. He was shouting at her, holding her down, and she was almost on her knees, screaming, begging, trying to get away, and he still had the iron on her hand. I went to the other side of the ironing board, yanked the plug out of the wall, used the cord to pull the iron out of his hands. Then I beat him to death with it.” He turned back to Sage. “No, it wasn’t the first time he’d hurt her. But it was the worst.”

  Her hand had been a useless, withered claw for the rest of her life.

  “They put you away for murder for defending your mother?”

  “It had something to do with the swampy mess his head was when I was finished with him. And the fact that he was a state trooper.”

  “Oh. Shit.”

  “Indeed.”

  They were quiet and still while that old story filled with life and reverberated through the space between them. Then Sage pushed back from the table and stood up. Thinking she’d finally figured out she needed to be away from him and was leaving, Becker pushed back as well.

  Before he could stand, she came to him and straddled his legs, resting her little ass on his lap. He was too surprised to stop her—and he didn’t want to stop her. But he dropped his hands, letting them dangle at his sides. Touching her would be making a decision, and the dueling lists of reasons and rebuttals in his head clamored too much for that.

  His body, on the other hand, feeling her pert weight across his lap, had already decided.

  She set her hands on his shoulders. “You know that story doesn’t scare me at all, right? It makes me feel safe.”

  “It shouldn’t. He’s not the only man I’ve killed. Just the first.”

  “You don’t scare me, Becker. But I scare you, don’t I?” Her hands left his shoulders, and she pulled her t-shirt up and off.

  “Put that back on.” When he grabbed for it, she snatched it away with a sassy grin, and tossed it to the far side of the room. And there she was, sitting on his lap, topless. Becker turned his head and focused on the windows. Denny had gone inside and turned out the light; there was nothing but dark out there.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  He kept his eyes on the window. “I’m not afraid of you, little girl. I’m afraid for you. I’m too old for you. Too bad for you. And you’re not smart enough to take no for an answer.”

  “Are you telling me that all the biker groupies I hear about are MILFs? You never fuck younger girls?”

  That was on his list of rebuttals to his list of reasons to get clear of her—he’d fucked his share of young sweetbutts. “I do. But this is dif
ferent. You’re different.”

  “Why?”

  The million-dollar question. He turned back, meaning to keep his focus on her face. But there she was, topless, pale skin under intricate, exotic dark patterns across her chest, reaching toward her throat, sweeping under her tits, down her belly.

  The ink was so detailed it was like she was covered in lace, and Becker’s fingers found their way to her and brushed over the piece across the top of her chest, arcing along the sweep of her collarbones. She gasped softly and bowed back, closer, into his touch.

  Just skin, soft and dewy with youth. Now that he was touching her, though, he couldn’t stop.

  Ah God, her tits, the size and shape of ripe plums, little light brown nipples bunched tight. Tiny steel barbells through each one. Damn.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “You just are.” But right now, he couldn’t remember why that was a bad thing.

  Ravaged by old memories and emotions, his brain couldn’t remind him of his reasons or rebuttals. All he had was his body, and that was lost to lust. Becker lifted his hands, clasped her waist between them, leaned forward, and latched himself to one of those pretty little tits.

  “Oh thank god.” The words spilled out on an eager sigh, and she wrapped her arms around his head and arched farther backward, offering herself up to him.

  As before, her body seemed to explode in his arms, full of bright fire and avid need. She really wasn’t afraid of him, not at all. Or even deferential to his age and experience. She wanted, and she went after what she wanted, and she didn’t think twice about it.

  Her hips rocked, rubbing her ass over his thighs and her pussy over his aching cock, hard and fast, like she meant to drive them to finish just like this, both of them going off in their jeans. Now that he’d jumped, he wanted a fuck ton more than a dry hump—not wanted, shit, he needed it, needed to sink deep into this little live wire in his arms and fuck her until they both passed out. She’d been winding him up for days now, and he was manic with the relief of just giving in to what he wanted. Right now.

  Listen to her! Her sweet moans, her little words, her scattered breaths. All the women he fucked were into it, he wasn’t an asshole, but Sage was honestly excited, like Christmas-morning excited. And hell, so was he.

  He caught a tiny barbell between his teeth and tugged gently, just enough for a little stretch, and feral pleasure burst from her mouth.

  “Fuck yeah!” she yelled. “Oh God, fuck me! Fuck me!”

  He couldn’t take the time to get her to his bed.

  Sweeping one arm under her ass, he stood, kicked his chair back, used his free hand to shove the dishes and glasses out of his way—he knocked over a glass of water but who the fuck cared—and set her on the table.

  “Fuck yeah!” she cheered again and snatched at the hem of his t-shirt. He pulled it from her and yanked it over his head, sending it off in the direction she’d already sent hers. Her hands were on him before he’d tossed his shirt away, rubbing over his pecs, tweaking his nipples, brushing down his belly, sinking into his waistband, and wrapping around his cock, which was bent up mercilessly in his jeans and dying for release.

  Jesus goddamn Christ, her hot little hand was like gasoline on his fire.

  “Holy shit,” she murmured, getting to know his heft. “Oh, holy shit!” She pulled her hands out of his jeans and grabbed his belt.

  And then his burner went off.

  Sage didn’t seem to register the sound. She focused on his belt and popped open the buckle, jerking his hips while she pulled the leather out. But there was nothing short of a coma that could keep Becker’s attention when the burner rang. He grabbed Sage’s hand to stop her from opening his fly. Taking a step back, he pulled the phone from his pocket.

  Her eyes went comically wide. “Really? Now?”

  “Comes with the patch, shortcake.” His heart was jigging, and his breath was short. His cock ached, and all he wanted was to get her naked and full of him. He heard all that in the sound of his voice, and she did, too—she smiled and relaxed.

  He flipped open the phone without looking at the number. They’d just changed up phones again, and he didn’t have who had which number memorized yet. “Yeah.”

  “Prez? It’s Terry.”

  Terry was their prospect. Why the fuck was the prospect calling him at nine-thirty on a night without club work? “This better be good, meat.”

  “Um ...” the kid’s voice shook. “There’s ... it’s ...”

  “Spit it the fuck out!”

  Sage shuddered theatrically and made a face that screamed Ooh, scary! He rolled his eyes.

  “You know Mrs. Greeley?”

  An elderly neighborhood lady who drove a baby-blue 1973 Lincoln Continental and tipped the boys a dollar for pumping it full of gas. She had to be pushing ninety, maybe past it, but she took that old land cruiser out a couple times a week. Never at night, though.

  “Yeah.”

  “She just drove into the station.”

  The station had closed at nine. The kid couldn’t figure out how to deal with this on his own? “Tell her to come back in the morning. It’s too late—”

  “—NO, Prez, I mean into the station. She went right through pumps one and three and plowed through the front room into the garage. The Continental’s hanging off the edge of the oil bay.”

  “What? Call 911! And get clear! Jesus Christ!”

  Becker stormed across the room and grabbed his t-shirt off the floor. He tossed Sage’s to her, and she caught it and pulled it on, understanding that there was real trouble, and whatever they were doing here was over. Maybe for now, maybe for good. He couldn’t think that through right now.

  “I did, they’re comin’—Beck, Fitz was in there, cleanin’ up, he’s trapped under the office wall, and I think he’s hurt bad. He’s not movin’.”

  “Shit! I’m on my way. Call Simon and Rad, get them there. I’ll call D. And don’t call Kari. Leave that to me.” Fitz had a woman now, and had claimed her little boy as his own. But Becker didn’t want her to hear about this until he understood what had happened. There was nothing worse than getting bad news in pieces.

  He flipped the phone closed, put it away, and pulled his shirt on. “I got to go, right now.”

  Sage was fully dressed again. “I heard. Okay. I hope everything’s okay.”

  “It’s not, but I gotta get there and see how bad it is.” He put his belt back on.

  “Becker?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I stay here while you’re gone?”

  More surprising than the question was its tone—vulnerable, without a trace of sass. Becker stopped in his tracks and considered her. She looked back, not afraid, but unsure.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll clean up my mess in the kitchen and our mess here, and just watch TV or something.” Her eyes slid to study the floor. “I don’t want what we started to be over.”

  He didn’t, either. Lust was still thumping through his veins. More than that, he liked this stubborn, cheeky little shit.

  And he knew why she didn’t want to go home.

  “Okay. No more snooping, though.”

  Her eyes came back up and flashed artificial offense. “I didn’t—”

  “No more snooping.”

  A piece of a smile escaped up her cheek. “Okay. Can I be in your bed when you get home?”

  The image that question conjured—of coming home to a dark house, sliding into his bed, behind her slim body, curving around her, sliding into her—settled at the base of his gut and throbbed.

  Becker went to Sage, this little bit of a barely-woman. Her eyes tracked with his as he neared. He hooked one hand around the back of her neck. “You’d better be.”

  He bent and kissed her, pulling away quickly, before she could cause any more trouble just now.

  ~oOo~

  Rescue crews were already on the scene when Becker arrived. Two tankers, a paramed
ic rig, and an ambulance, all throwing bright lights around the block. He parked his bike out of the way of their work and ran onto the station lot.

  And great fuck, what a mess.

  It look liked the old woman had taken the corner wrong and driven straight up through the station lot until the Conti finally gave out. Pumps one and three had been torn totally away. She’d also taken out two posts of the canopy, which had fallen onto pumps two and four. Then she’d driven into the brick building, through the front door, through the interior wall, through the first two bays, finally crapping out in the open oil-change bay.

  The whole place was wrecked. All but the auto-body bay. Jesus.

  As he stood, trying to see if they’d gotten Fitz out okay, two paramedics came out carrying a stretcher with a fully covered body—a dead body. Bile boiled to a froth in his gut. Oh shit. He ran to them and was almost there before what he was seeing made full sense. There was no way that was Fitz on the stretcher, not unless he was coming out in pieces. Fitz was six-four and weighed well over two bills. The body on the stretcher was tiny.

  But he had to know the kid hadn’t come out in pieces.

  “Is that? Can I”—he took a breath and started over—“Who is that? Man or woman?”

  The paramedic closest to him answered, “Woman.” When Becker let out a massive breath, the paramedic added, “They’re still working on getting somebody out of the building.”

  “Thanks, man.” Becker turned toward the building, but a firefighter in full gear held him off.

  “We need you off the site. It’s not safe.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “I don’t know. Just let us do out work, and we’ll give you info when we can.”

  Without anything else he could do, Becker walked toward the clubhouse. Neighbors lined the sidewalks, clustered in small groups, watching and talking, but they gave the clubhouse a berth.

  In the alley between the station and the clubhouse, Simon and Rad stood with Terry. They all watched Becker come.

  “You get any word on Fitz?” Simon asked.