Spyder: An Alpha Male MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 3)

by Ivy Black

  I told her I didn’t want her to say those words back to me until she truly felt it. And I wasn’t lying. But honestly, I figured she would have said them by now. When she looks at me, I can swear she feels it. But for whatever reason, she hasn’t been able to say it. It shouldn’t bother me. It really shouldn’t. Especially since we’re together all the time and we seem to have this tight connection. But for whatever reason, it does.

  “What are you doing over here pouting about?”

  Domino drops down at the table across from me and takes a long pull of his beer then flashes me a grin.

  “I’m not pouting,” I tell him.

  “Kinda looks like it from where I stand.”

  “Maybe you should get your vision checked.”

  “Funny guy,” he says. “Seriously, what’s up? We should be celebrating. We knocked out another shipment.”

  “And there will be another one soon. Or maybe he’ll just send up a shipment of sicarios and try to lay waste to everything. And how long do you figure it’s going to be before Zavala figures out it’s the Warriors feeding us the intel? What do you think’s going to happen then?”

  “Wow, you’re certainly all sunshine and rainbows today, aren’t you?”

  I shrug as I take a drink of my beer. It seems ridiculous that I’m in this black of a mood. Just because Bellamy hasn’t said it, doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it. And I should be celebrating the fact that she’s with me at all and that we seem to be building something real. Something solid. I know for a fact that this isn’t just a hookup thing for her. She’s not like that. She generally is pretty conservative and has never been the sleeping-around type. When she sleeps with somebody, it’s because they mean something to her.

  “Bellamy, huh?” Domino asks as if reading my thoughts.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  I hesitate, unsure if I should even get into this with him. I mean, I know how ridiculous it sounds in my own head. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’ll sound like from his perspective. But if there’s somebody I can talk to about it, I know it’s him. Always has been. So, I lay out the entire situation, thinking that maybe an outside perspective might be the best thing for me.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he starts when I’ve finished. “You spend just about every night together. You’re banging like bunnies—”

  I frown at him. “Do you have to be so crude?”

  Domino chuckles. “Fine. You and the lady Bellamy are having intimate relations on the regular. Better?”

  I wave him off but can’t stop the small laugh that passes my lips. I take a drink of my beer as he grins at me.

  “So y’all are basically a couple at this point, but you’re all butthurt because she hasn’t said those three little words just yet?”

  As ridiculous as it sounds in my own head, it sounds ten times more ridiculous when he puts it that way and I suddenly regret bringing it up at all. But then, Domino’s expression grows serious.

  “Did you stop to consider the fact that you’ve had these feelings for Bellamy like, for basically forever? You’ve been carrying this torch you’ve got for her since high school, man. This is still a new thing to her. Of course, she’s not going to spit those words out right away. You know her. She’s always been a cautious, conservative girl. Did you think that would change overnight?” he asks.

  “Well, no. Not really. But I—”

  “Just give her a little time, man. Even if she hasn’t said it, that don’t mean she’s not feelin’ it. I mean, the fact that she’s been with you just about every waking moment means something,” he goes on. “But when you actually say the words, it changes things. That’s when shit gets real. And Bellamy has never been a jump-into-the-deep-end-of-the-pool-straight-away kinda girl. You know that. So, cut her a little slack and go easy on her.”

  Everything he’s saying is true and somewhere in this addled mess in my brain, I know it—have known it—and it’s good to hear him say it. It actually does make me feel a bit better about things. I open my mouth to tell him, but then the door to the clubhouse bangs open, hitting the wall behind it with a hard thud that’s loud even over the music that’s blaring.

  “Turn that shit off,” Sheriff Singer demands.

  All eyes turn to Prophet, who’s sitting off in a corner with Doc and Cosmo—we take our orders from him, not Singer. Prophet gives one of the guys a nod and a moment later, the music cuts off and silence drops over the room. All eyes are on the sheriff, who is looking none too pleased at the moment. He takes off his aviator shades and stands in the doorway, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt, surveying the room around him.

  “We got a report of a gunfight out at the old Steadman cabin,” he announces. “Reporting witness came in today to tell us about it. Said it happened a couple weeks back and sounded like a goddamn war was startin’ out there.”

  If he expected anybody to say anything, he must have been disappointed. Nobody said a word for several long moments. Singer studied us all, looking like he was waiting for one of us to stand up and confess to igniting World War III. Fat chance of that happening.

  “Why’d it take them a couple of weeks to report it?” Prophet finally asks.

  Singer shrugs. “No idea. But the fact is they reported it. So, we went out there and guess what we found?”

  “That a war hadn’t actually been started?” Prophet said. “That maybe one was averted instead?”

  “Huh,” Singer says, rubbing his stubbly jawline. “Don’t know about that, but what we did find was a cabin riddled with bullet holes and blood everywhere.”

  “Wow. Sounds intriguing,” Prophet says. “But since the old Steadman place is actually outside town limits, that means you don’t have jurisdiction out there. So… what’s the issue here, Sheriff?”

  Singer’s face turns beet red and his nostrils begin to flare as he narrows his eyes on Prophet—all sure signs of an impending explosion.

  “Don’t get cute with me, Prophet. You know what the issue is. This war you’re having with the cartel has got to stop. It’s getting really goddamn close to the town—”

  Prophet shot to his feet, anger painting his features. “And it’d be a whole lot closer if we weren’t doing what we’re doing, Sheriff. Do you even know how many shipments of drugs bound for Blue Rock we’ve shut down? And those assholes in the Steadman cabin were cartel soldiers here for one reason and one reason alone… to start a war. So, yeah, we took care of business.”

  “That’s not your job, Prophet. I can’t have you out here runnin’ and gunnin’ like this. This shit’s gettin’ messy,” Singer hisses.

  My own frustration boils over and I get to my feet. To be fair, my frustration is only partly directed at Singer. If I’m being honest, most of it’s because of my situation with Bellamy. It doesn’t stop me from lashing out, though.

  “It’d be a whole lot messier if we weren’t doing everything in our power to keep Zavala out of Blue Rock, Sheriff,” I almost shout. “We’re putting our asses on the line to protect you and this fucking town.”

  The silence in the clubhouse is so absolute, it feels like we’re in a vacuum. All eyes turn to me, the expressions on the faces of the guys ranging from amusement to surprise. I’m not usually big on making speeches or anything, so my outburst caught everybody off guard. Like I said, my frustration boiled over. At the wrong time, obviously. And now, given the fact that Singer is staring at me like he wants to physically tear my head off my shoulder, I should probably tone things down a bit.

  “Look, I’m sure your deputies are good guys, Sheriff,” I say, trying to mollify him. “But Zavala’s guys are animals. Your boys are not ready to roll with that. We are. And so, we’re doing what we have to do.”

  “Stand down, Spyder,” Prophet says gently.

  I give him a nod and take my seat as Prophet walks over to the sheriff, and together, they walk outside to continue the conversation. I drain the last of my bo
ttle as Domino looks at me, chuckling.

  “Wow. Somebody’s nuts just dropped. I’m impressed,” he says.

  “Eat a dick.”

  We laugh together for a moment and he counsels me further on the situation with Bellamy. Eventually, Prophet comes back in and closes the door behind him, and I hear the sheriff’s SUV rev up and drive out of the compound. Prophet looks at us for a moment, then looks over at Doc and Cosmo, giving them a nod before turning back to us. His face is grim but determined.

  “Singer’s okay. He’s still in with us,” Prophet says. “We need to keep him in the loop, but he did say he appreciates all of us putting our asses on the line. He isn’t discounting what we’re doing out here.”

  “Then, what’s his problem?” Monk asks.

  “He’s nervous. He knows this thing is just getting ramped up and he doesn’t want it spilling into town. Doesn’t want any innocents getting hurt,” he replies. “And most of all, he doesn’t want feds swarming the town and turning the place into a goddamn military encampment.”

  Everybody mutters their agreement with the sentiment, and I can’t help but agree. Having the FBI, ATF, DEA, and whatever other alphabet agencies they have out here to ostensibly fight the drug war would kind of strip Blue Rock of its homey charm quickly. Not to mention, we don’t want them all up in our business. It’d be pretty hard for us to get around and do our thing.

  “Listen, I was going to wait until we had a plan in place to tell you all this. But we got some intel from Tarantula earlier today,” he announces. “Our hits on his shipments have had a desired effect. It hit him in the wallet. Hard.”

  “Zavala’s abandoning the area?” somebody asks.

  Prophet shakes his head. “No, though that was one thing we would have been happy with. But to be honest, although I hoped for it, I didn’t think that would actually happen,” he says. “Instead of abandoning the town, Zavala is coming up here himself. He’s going to get things squared away at his warehouse and then he’ll come for the town. He’ll come for us.”

  That’s not exactly what I’d call a desired effect. I’m so busy trying to calculate just how nasty this is going to be when it dawns on me. The hits on his shipments weren’t simply to hit him in the wallet. Prophet’s been hoping to draw Zavala out and draw him here all along. He intends for this to be the final battle. One of us, either the cartel or the MC, is going to emerge with a win. And the loser is going to face oblivion and extinction.

  “Cut the head off the snake,” I say. “And the body dies.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Spyder

  After leaving the clubhouse, I stopped off in town to pick up a few things before heading home. Bellamy is going to be staying with her mother tonight, so we didn’t make plans on seeing each other which is okay. I need a night to get my own head together, blow off a little steam, and wrap my mind around what Prophet told us. The final battle’s coming and it’s safe to say I’m a little haired out about it.

  It’s not that I’m afraid to fight. I think I’ve proven that over the last few weeks of these running skirmishes with Zavala’s men. What’s tripping me out is that I already know just how nasty this is going to be and there is a very real possibility that I don’t come back from this. Zavala’s going to have a lot of men with him and we’re twelve strong. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. I’m suddenly starting to understand how Leonidas must have felt at the Battle of Thermopylae.

  On the flip side of that coin, though, is that if we can somehow pull out the W, we will never again have to look over our shoulders. We’ll never again have to fear some sicario prick driving up and unloading on us at a stoplight. And we won’t have to worry about the streets of Blue Rock being flooded with all sorts of drugs or the kids here being trafficked and sold into sex slavery.

  If we win… if we kill Zavala… the power of his cartel is broken forever. I’m not naïve enough to think that somebody won’t step into the void. If we cut the head off the snake, the body will die, of course. But the problem is, a new snake will simply slither in to replace it. The hope is that they’ll turn their eyes away from Blue Rock and NorCal as a whole. If we can make it too costly in terms of money, product, and men, hopefully, it will deter anybody else from trying to set up shop here.

  It’s with all of that rampaging through my mind that I step out of the Chinese food place, dinner in hand, when I literally run into a face I wasn’t expecting to see. Tall, wide, greasy, and still ugly as hell, Pete Wells is standing before me, an expression of shock on his face I’m sure mirrors my own. Just seeing him sends a spike of anger surging through me.

  “I thought you were told to get the fuck out of town,” I growl.

  I see the fear behind his eyes, but he makes a good show of it. Peter puffs himself up and tries to loom over me intimidatingly. His eyes are narrowed and he’s staring at me, though not directly into my eyes—he’s looking at my forehead. It’s an old trick to make it look like you’re looking somebody in the eye. And most people don’t bother looking closely enough to tell the difference. I do. And I read it as a sign of nervousness. He’s got good reason to be nervous.

  “What are you still doing here, Pete?” I snap.

  “Y-you can’t tell me what to do. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not the president of this town.”

  “That would be mayor. Towns have mayors, not presidents, dumbass,” I counter. “And you’re right. I’m not the mayor. That’s why we can beat the shit out of you and get away with it.”

  “I ain’t scared of you.”

  I move closer to him and he staggers back a couple of steps, nearly tripping over his own feet, his eyes widening. I laugh and Pete’s face darkens, a scowl crossing his lips. He puffs himself up again, putting on what he thinks is his scary face. But he simply looks like a pouting, petulant child to me.

  “Yeah, you really are scared of me, actually. I can see it in your eyes, Pete. And you should be,” I tell him. “Now, I should just kill you outright. But you’ve caught me at an interesting time in my life and I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to give you this one last chance. Get the fuck out of Blue Rock tonight or I’m going to have no choice but to kill you for real.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” he spits.

  For a big man, he’s fast, and he moves quicker than I anticipated. His fist slams into the left side of my face and I stagger to the side, dropping my bag in the process. The contents of my dinner hit the ground and split open, spilling onto the sidewalk which pisses me off. I manage to stay on my feet, but the son of a bitch packs a pretty good pop that has my ears ringing and my head spinning. Gritting my teeth, I launch myself at him—and he just stands there like a goddamn idiot.

  I drive my fist into his gut and the breath is driven out of him with a loud “oomph”. Pete doubles over, gasping for air, so I grab him by the hair and yank his head up then deliver a hard shot to his jaw that sends him staggering to the left. Pete keeps his feet though and bull-rushes me. He slams me into the wall, caught between the brick and his bulk, very nearly taking the wind out of me.

  I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck at the same time I’m propelling my knee upward. His head is caught between the two and his jaw is slammed shut with a loud clacking sound. Pete staggers backward, a dazed look on his face. I step forward and deliver another blow to his midsection then grab his hair and raise his bloodied face to me again.

  “I gave you a chance to get the fuck out of here,” I tell him.

  I deliver a flurry of quick shots to his face, drawing more blood from his nose and mouth. He groans miserably, his voice thick and wheezing. I’m just about to drive my fist into his face again when I’m caught up in the red and blue strobe and loud chirp of a police siren. I give Pete one more hard shot to the nose, feeling it crunch before I let go of his hair. He falls to the ground with a sound like wet meat hitting the pavement.

  Sheriff Singer gets out of his SUV and steps over to us. He looks down at Pete, t
he look of distaste on his face clear then turns to me.

  “What’s goin’ on here, Spyder?”

  I shrug. “Just deliverin’ a message. Reiterating it, actually.”

  Pete groans and struggles to get to his knees. He casts a baleful look at me, his face a bloody ruin.

  “I want to press charges,” he slurs. “He assaulted me.”

  “Cry me a river,” Singer replies smoothly then turns to me. “Mind tellin’ me what this is about?”

  I fish a cigarette out of my pocket and light up. My eyes never leaving Singer’s, I take a drag and blow it out, the wind carrying it away.

  “He punched me first. It was self-defense,” I say.

  “That’s bullshit. He’s lyin’ through his fuckin’ teeth right now.” Pete sneers as he gets to his feet.

  Singer turns to Pete. “I’ve known Spyder to be a lot of things. A liar ain’t ever been one of them.”

  “He’s lyin’,” he repeats.

  Singer turns to me. “What started the scuffle?”

  “He’s dealin’. Meth mostly,” I say. “We suggested he find another town to live in. He apparently declined, so I gave him another chance. He thought punching me in the jaw would change my mind.”

  Singer chuckles. “I’m guessin’ by the condition of his face, it didn’t.”

  “I don’t deal nothin’,” Pete whines. “They broke into my house and planted drugs. Said they were mine.”

  I take another drag of my smoke, laughing softly as I shake my head. Singer rolls his eyes then turns to Pete.

  “Right. Okay, here’s how it’s gonna work. We’re all gonna forget this ever happened,” Singer says.

  “Bullshit. I want to press charges. He assaulted me—”

  “Sheriff, I don’t think we destroyed the gym bag filled with his product yet. I’ll turn it over to you. I’m sure the plastic bags inside will have plenty of his fingerprints on them. There’s enough in there to put him away for at least twenty years,” I say.