by Kati Wilde
I nod. The county prosecutor went after me with all guns firing, because no one was talking about what had really gone down or naming the girl I’d saved—by then, I’d known who she was, but I didn’t name her either. I wasn’t opening my mouth beyond the basics of it: seeing a girl getting hurt and kicking Reichmann off her. But the prosecutor had been putting together a tidy little story about Reichmann’s death being part of a territorial war between the skinheads and the Hellfire Riders, and how I was ordered to kill him. If I’d been on a jury and he’d spun that tale, I might have bought it.
Until Jenny came forward. Red hadn’t wanted her to, knowing how testifying would reopen those wounds—but she did, believing it would help me, the stranger who’d saved her.
Thorne says, “It wasn’t until we were listening to her testimony that Red realized there was more that needed taking care of. Because she’d told us she’d been hurt, but she hadn’t really said what Reichmann had…what he’d done.” His voice cracks and he takes a sip, holding it in his mouth for a few long, deep breaths through his nose. “But we heard it all there in that courtroom.”
I remember. Because I hadn’t known the details, either. I’d seen her on the ground at that rally, then I hadn’t seen her again until she’d taken the stand. And I sat at the defense’s table and watched this girl, sixteen when she’d been hurt and barely seventeen when she exposed herself in that courtroom, and I saw her—so brave and scared as she talked about what he’d done, how he’d made her bleed—and I’d have killed Reichmann all over again for her. I’d have killed anyone for her.
Fresh anger and the old memory taste like bloody acid in my mouth as Thorne continues, “And there she was, describing how she can’t hit him or scratch him because he’s got her on her belly and he’s pinning her wrists behind her back. Then he gets his fingers inside her, and she hears him unbuckling his belt—”
“Too many hands,” Blowback says.
I barely hear him over the sick pounding in my head. “What?”
“Too many hands,” he says again and Thorne nods. “He’s got his fingers in her, he’s unbuckling, and he’s pinning her wrists. That’s three hands, at least, so there was someone else holding her down. You never saw?”
Probably. I don’t fucking know. Before I saw Jenny in that courtroom, I’d been spiraling hard. The day of the rally, I was flying high on a line of cocaine and Christ knows how much booze. I remember hearing shouting, the skinheads hooting and cheering Reichmann on. I remember a girl under him.
I shake my head. “I was a fucking mess. And it was chaos after I went in.”
“That’s why it took a while before Red found someone who saw and who wasn’t loyal to the skinheads.” Thorne’s voice is like iron. “That was Anthill. He told Red who it was holding her down.”
My fingers clench on the glass. “Who?”
The older man’s gaze doesn’t waver. “One of the Eighty-Eight’s rabid pups. Anthill knew him by the swastikas inked on his forearms. And Red made sure that fucker was the same one who held her down before he took care of him.”
Killed him. “Good.”
Now I don’t have to do it.
His face grim, Thorne nods. “So this favor—”
“We’ll babysit,” I say. No question about paying what we owe Anthill now. “And if it is Carlisle, he’d better fucking keep his head down while he’s here.”
“He can stay in one of the cabins,” Thorne says, referring to the old log cabins that used to be part of the tourist lodgings when the property was a dude ranch. “With Bull and Duke keeping an eye on him. They were Titans and it’s our debt.”
It’s my debt now, too. But I’m not going to argue. The less I see of Carlisle the better. It’s Anthill I’m wondering about now. “You think their prez is pulling some shit by bringing him here? You think he knows who Carlisle is?”
Blowback answers that. “He might know, but Anthill wouldn’t waste a favor on bullshit. If he says he’s looking for a place to hide an asset, then that’s what he’s doing. And Carlisle probably is in over his head.”
Gambling again. “Find out with who.”
“I will. If there was bullshit,” he adds, “it probably came from Carlisle. He might have suggested to Anthill that they come to us, and to cash in on that old favor before any Steel Titans who still care about it are gone.”
Probably. Carlisle always was an opportunistic fucker. Time to swing by, drop in on his flesh and blood, see if there’s any weak spots to mine for cash.
Carlisle won’t find any weak spots in me. They all hardened over the first time I understood my mom wasn’t crying because he always left, but because he always cleaned out everything we needed to live on when he went.
“All right,” I say. “Anything else?”
Thorne nods, but I’m not expecting his, “My Molly wants to know if you and Jenny are coming over for Christmas dinner.”
I have no idea what Jenny plans. Or even if she’s up for it. We got the same invitation for Thanksgiving, but I don’t think Thorne was surprised when we stayed home. Red had only been in the ground a little over a week then.
“I’ll ask her,” I tell him.
“Good enough.” He rises, capping the bottle of scotch before holding it out to Blowback. “For Lily,” he says. “Married to you, she’ll probably need it.”
“That she will.” Blowback’s lips twitch as he gets to his feet. “Need anything else, boss?”
“If I did, would it take you two months to get around to doing it?”
“Maybe. I’ve got a demanding wife to keep satisfied.”
Thorne huffs out a laugh before giving the warlord a curious look. “How long has Frank Carlisle been with the Sand Demons?”
“Four years. Since he got out of the Walla Walla pen.”
The state penitentiary up in Washington. I still don’t know what he was in for—and I don’t really give a fuck, either. The only reason I even knew the bastard was in prison was because he wrote my mom a letter of apology while going through some gambling rehabilitation program the state put him in. I didn’t care about my father then, and I sure as hell didn’t care when he got out, but it doesn’t surprise me Blowback has kept tabs on him.
My veep looks to me. “You don’t want us to babysit him somewhere else?”
Hell, yes, I do. But this ranch is as out-of-the-way as it gets. Most of the time we can’t even get a damn cell phone signal out here. And if Carlisle only hangs around the cabins and the clubhouse, I can avoid him easy enough. No need to put any brothers out for this, holing them up in some shitty motel room over the holidays.
I shake my head. “Just make sure he doesn’t expect some jolly Christmas reunion.”
“I’ll do that,” Thorne says, then his expression turns grim. “Maybe don’t say anything to Jenny about what Red did. She’s never been squeamish about that side of the life, but considering.”
Considering. Yeah. He doesn’t need to say the rest.
Considering that Red just passed. Considering that Jenny’s emotions are all over the place and she might take on a load of guilt, knowing Red killed someone for touching her. Considering that mentioning it will bring up all that old shit with Reichmann.
“That favor is club business,” I say. “I’m not sharing it.”
He nods and heads out. Blowback follows him, bottle of scotch in hand. Off to share it with Lily.
That thick envy clogs up my chest again. I glance at the phone. Jenny’s at work, at her brewery on the other side of the ranch, and just like this place, the only way to reach her is by landline. No easy texts, no quick calls, because the ringing phone drags her away from work, and keeping busy is one of the ways she deals with her grief. But after thinking about Reichmann, I need to hear her voice. I need to know she’s all right.
I reach for the phone and stop. Her voice isn’t enough.
I grab my coat and head out.
2
Jenny
Shipping ou
t three hundred gift baskets before Christmas Eve? Not my best idea ever.
No, that’s not right. It was a great idea. The Kick-Ass Christmas Bucket from Black Boots Brewery, including his-and-her (or his-and-his, or her-and-her) T-shirts—black, with my logo on the pocket and “Have a kick-ass Christmas!” across the back—a pair of pint glasses etched with my logo, and a twenty-two ounce bottle of my limited-edition Cherry Xmas soda, all nestled in an old-fashioned tin pail.
I came up with the concept last year and sold almost thirty gift baskets in December—half through the storefront, where customers can choose to replace the soda with one of my craft beers, and half online, where I can only ship non-alcoholic drinks. This year, I expected to sell fifty buckets, but I was on track to ship seventy-five by Wednesday, the last date I can guarantee delivery by Christmas.
Most of those seventy-five orders were out of here by last night. I expected a few more to trickle in over the next two days, so I assembled a dozen buckets in advance, thinking that would cover the remaining sales. Instead I woke up to over two hundred new orders, because a popular food blogger listed it as a “great last-minute gift idea.”
I should have prepared for something like this. I don’t do anything last minute, but apparently, at least two hundred other people do.
So here’s the real great idea: Software that integrates my online store and my on-site inventory. If we hadn’t sold out of tin pails and the gift basket hadn’t clicked over to “out of stock,” I’d be screwed right now.
Another great idea currently saving my ass? Hiring my first employee, Hashtag. He started hanging around last summer, acting as my personal bodyguard when the trouble between the Hellfire Riders and the Eighty-Eight started going down, but he showed a strong interest in the brewery itself, helping out while he was here. And after my dad got sick, I couldn’t devote as much time to working, so bringing Hashtag aboard was a no-brainer.
I don’t think he imagined that learning the ropes would include slapping two hundred shiny black bows onto cellophane-wrapped pails, but even though his shift is about to end, he cheerfully volunteered to stay as long as necessary tonight and tomorrow.
Very cheerfully. He’s humming “Jingle Bells” as he uses a tablet computer to scan a shipping label. Twenty pails sit on the long folding table between us. Since the only difference between any of the orders is the sizes of the T-shirts, we’ve set up an assembly line. If I had more room, I’d do more pails at a time, but most of the free space in the old barn is taken up by the shipment of Lionheart stout that’s going out to a distributor next week. So we crammed the table in between cases of ale stacked on pallets and the stainless steel brewhouses standing behind us.
I look up when Hashtag’s humming suddenly stops.
He’s tall and cute in that fresh-out-of-the-military way—erect posture, short hair, close shave. Since hiring him, I’ve noticed an upswing in the number of college-age girls coming out this way, and I can’t say I blame them, given how his black T-shirt clings to his fresh-out-of-the-military chest. Currently he’s wearing a Santa hat that should look silly, but I suspect more than a few women volunteer to sit on his lap when they see that puffy white ball dangling between his eyebrows.
Right now, though, he’s looking down at the tablet and that puffy white ball is hanging over a slightly sick expression. “Uh…there are still orders coming in. Almost a hundred more.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
Sliding his finger down the screen, he scrolls through the list. “Looks like they’re buying things individually. Especially the pint glasses. And the Xmas soda. It’s…sold out.”
Oh, Jesus. I reach for the tablet. “Let me see.”
So stupid. Why didn’t I change the estimated processing time when we sold through the pails this morning? But I wasn’t thinking of individual orders. I was panicking and trying to figure out how to get all of the buckets out.
Stupid, stupid. But that stops now.
“Okay,” I say and show him what I’m doing on the screen. “Global change here, see? We’ll increase the processing time for every item in the store to…”
I pause to consider.
“How about a week?” Hashtag suggests. “That’ll give us a breather through Christmas.”
I was thinking something shorter, just a few days so that anyone who wanted their stuff delivered by Christmas would know it wouldn’t arrive in time, but his suggestion is better. Not because I need time off over Christmas, but because I’m losing almost three days packing all of this stuff and I’ll have to catch up on my other work.
“That’ll do,” I say, submitting the changes before popping over to the website. I click on an item and check the estimated delivery date. Well after Christmas.
“Phew.” Dramatically he passes a hand over his brow. “What now, boss?”
God, I don’t know. Can I do this? I scroll through the list of new orders. I can do this. “Buckets first,” I say. “But we’re going to need more shipping cartons for these new orders, and I don’t want to try scrounging them up last minute. So can you—”
The jingle of the bell over the storefront door interrupts me.
“—go take care of that customer?” I finish.
“On it,” he says.
As soon as he’s gone, I exhale a long, shuddering breath and try to rub the aching tension from the back of my neck. God. What a mess. And my own fault, because I wasn’t prepared.
Next year, though. Next year, I’ll make sure—
Saxon.
Everything inside me stills as the Hellfire Riders’ prez strides in from the storefront, a six-foot-three walking brick house of muscle and steely eyes that warn the world to stay out of his fucking way.
Once upon a time, I hated how everything seemed to stop when I saw him. I hated how my entire world seemed to narrow until Saxon Gray was the only thing that existed. I hated how I couldn’t force myself to look away from him, how a glimpse of his tall, strong frame and rugged beauty stole my breath and my sense. I hated knowing I could never have him, because he was a Hellfire Rider, and for a long time, there was too much bad blood between my dad’s club and his.
Not anymore. And he still leaves me breathless. But I love the quiet he brings now, love how everything else falls away. Until there’s just Saxon.
And me.
I can’t stop my smile as he comes straight for me, his blue gaze locked on mine. I can never stop my smile. Who could?
He’s big, he’s mean…and he’s mine. I’ve got a lot to smile about.
But he’s not smiling. His eyes are dark and intense, his expression like stone. I know that look. He’s holding something back. Something’s got him wound up, though he’s trying not to show anything—but because he’s not showing it, I know.
What would he be hiding from me?
Unfortunately, growing up around a motorcycle club means that I can think of a million dangerous possibilities. With quiet alarm, I scan his powerful frame. He doesn’t seem hurt. Each step is long and sure. His boots leave wet tracks on the concrete. It must be snowing, because a few white flakes cling to his wide shoulders and dark hair. The rest have melted away.
Then even the stragglers disappear as he comes to a halt in front of me. I feel the cold coming off him, inhale the clean smell of winter he brought in from outside, but it’s not the cold that sends a shiver racing over my skin when his icy fingers tip up my chin.
I manage to breathe out a “Hello” the moment before he captures my mouth with frigid lips that instantly warm against mine.
And his kiss. God help me. What Saxon does to me now isn’t kissing. Instead he takes me and breaks me and remakes me with every stroke of his tongue past my lips. A shudder rips through me and I push closer, hands gripping the iron strength of his arms, my body heating in a fiery rush.
On a rough groan, his fingers tangle in my hair and he drags me up closer for a deep, deep taste. Delirious need sears my every nerve, burning low and raging h
igher. A greedy whimper sounds in my throat.
At the sound of my whimper, suddenly he eases back, his lips softening.
No, no, no. Saxon. He’s hard against me, his cock like a pillar of stone, but when I reach between us to palm that thick length, he draws farther away.
Still kissing me, but now it’s sweet—and like every time he kisses me, it’s perfect—but the wild heat felt so good.
I sigh when his lips release mine. Lately he acts as if he’s afraid I’ll break. For the past month, he’s been like this. Ever since my dad died. Always being careful, always keeping a tight leash on his control, even after I tell him that I don’t need tender, that I still love it rough and hard.
Not that it’s his fault. Some nights, I have needed tender. A few times, I’ve cried so much and felt so lost, I didn’t want anything more than to lie in his arms. Other nights, the sex is still so good—so hot and sweet. I miss his rough edges, though. I just don’t know how to prove to him those edges won’t make me bleed.
That roughness isn’t gone. He simply has it locked away. But whatever brought Saxon here made him forget to be careful for a few seconds.
I don’t think that’s a reason to rejoice, though. Shadows slip through his eyes when he looks at me. Gently, I trace the sculpted line of his jaw. He’s growing in his beard again, a ward against the winter wind while riding, but it’s still short enough the whiskers are bristly rather than soft. The beard suits him.
“You’re all right?” I ask him. “You look like you got some bad news.”
He shakes his head. His voice is like midnight, dark and deep. “Just club business, princess.”
At least he doesn’t try to tell me it’s nothing, but I know he won’t tell me more.
“Okay,” I say and touch my thumb to the side of his mouth. “It couldn’t have been all bad, whatever it was. Because you taste like you’ve been drinking something yummy.”