by Joanna Wylde
“Your guys were down there to steal one of our shipments,” Hunter said flatly. “And they burned down our clubhouse while they were at it. Why’d they do that?”
Picnic shrugged.
“Dunno. I wasn’t in on that decision,” Picnic admitted. “That was all Roseburg.”
“Yet we’re prepared to fight and kill each other over it,” Hunter said. “And each time we strike back, it gets worse. Sooner or later we’re gonna kill each other off completely, which is exactly what the gangs down south want. Our clubs, we got history between us, and it’s not good. But we’re the same kind—we know what it means to be brothers. Men like us, we live to ride, and ride to live. Fuck the world.”
Ruger nodded, acknowledging the point.
“Now we’re seeing boys movin’ north, boys who aren’t part of a brotherhood … and I mean boys—they got kids workin’ the streets can’t be more than ten years old,” Hunter continued. “These children are takin’ orders from generals who don’t get their hands dirty, let alone throw down for them. They don’t get to vote, they don’t get to think, and they don’t even know why they’re fighting. They’re a threat to our way of life, yours and mine. I’m tired of putting time and energy into worrying about Reapers when every time I turn around some high school dropout’s takin’ potshots at me. I just want to ride my fuckin’ bike and get laid.”
Ruger glanced at Picnic. His face was thoughtful, although his expression didn’t give away a thing. Horse grunted, polishing off his drink.
“I’m not the only one who feels that way,” Hunter said. “Lot of my brothers, we’re tired of this war. Those same brothers are moving up in their chapters, thinking maybe it’s time for us to be on the same side in this little game. It’s about values and what we stand for. We’re brothers and we ride, all the rest is details. These fuckers, though … Deep down inside, there’s nothing there. We gotta stop them before it’s too late. I can’t do that if I’m fighting a war on two fronts.”
“Enough,” Deke growled. “You’re a little fuckwad and you don’t know jack. What’s gone down between us, that shit doesn’t go away just because you and your boyfriends decide you’re scared of someone new moving in on your territory. You wanted a war with the Reapers and now you’ve got it. We’re going to kill you. All of you. Might take a while. I’m patient.”
“Deke—” Picnic said, his voice low and full of unmistakable command. “What they did to Gracie can’t be fixed, brother. But the bastards paid and now they’re gone. The more we fight, the more likely some other girl’s gonna get hurt. I got two daughters. Peace between clubs isn’t always a bad thing. Especially when the cartel’s movin’ in. I hear stories …”
“We know you got two daughters,” Hunter told Picnic, eyes narrowing. “In fact, we know a hell of a lot more than you’d like. We know because there’s guys in my club who think we should strike, think we can use the cartel to throw you off balance. They called the shots last December, but they aren’t in control right now and I’d like to keep it that way. You got two choices here … First one is nut up and work with me to control this new threat. We pull that off, everyone goes home happily ever after, shittin’ rainbows and dancin’ with unicorns. Second choice is keep fighting with each other until they take us all out. You want that? Fine. I’m not scared to bring it. But consider this … You got daughters you care about. One’s up in Bellingham, other’s in Coeur d’Alene. Pretty girls, which I know ’cause I’ve seen ’em for myself. Recently.”
“You leave my girls out of this,” Picnic said, reaching for his gun. Ruger’s hand flashed out, catching him.
“Hear him out,” he murmured.
Hunter grinned, the expression feral.
“You should worry, old man,” he continued. “Because I guarantee those cocksuckers down south won’t care how pretty those girls are when they give the order to shoot them down in the street like dogs. Now me? I don’t even own a fuckin’ goldfish. At the end of the day, who’s got more to lose here? You call me when you’re ready to talk.”
With that Hunter stood up, shoving away his chair. Deke flushed, but Picnic’s face could’ve been carved from stone. Hunter thew a handful of bills on the table and walked out the door.
“He’s fuckin’ with us,” Toke said. “Cartel’s got fuck all to do with us up here. He’s losing territory. That’s not our problem.”
“You really think they can hold out?” Ruger asked him. “Cartel’s got a thousand kids ready and waitin’ to die, every one of them so hungry for glory they’ll shoot their own mothers. Jacks are tough bastards, but they’ll be fucked if they can’t shut them down before they get a foothold. We would be, too, and you know it. Those gangs exist for one reason—to make money. We let them take over, we’ll lose our territory and our freedom. No fuckin’ point in breathing without that. Not to mention the cartel doesn’t care where they shit or who they kill. You want them here in Portland?”
“This is big,” Picnic said slowly. “Bigger than we can decide here. We’ll get the brothers together, make sure we’re all on board. Take it from there.”
“I’ll never make peace with the Jacks,” Toke muttered. “You want peace, you’ll go through me to get it.”
“That a threat?” Ruger asked. He respected the hell out of Toke, but it wasn’t his decision to make. “I hate the thought of taking on a brother, but don’t think I won’t. We’re in this together, Toke. That means we make the call as a group.”
“You think you could take me?” Toke asked, cocking a brow.
“Only one way to find out,” Ruger replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “But I tell you one thing. We start fightin’ with each other, the cartel wins. Keep your eyes on the prize, brother. We make peace with the Jacks, they’re our buffer. That lets us put our energy into makin’ money and gettin’ laid. We give it a shot and it falls apart, least we’ll pick up some good intel along the way. Make it easier to go after ’em, the time comes.”
Toke took a deep breath, then let it out, visibly forcing himself to calm down.
“I’ll never forgive them for what they did,” he said. “Jesus, she’s still so fucked up. You got no idea.”
“You damned well shouldn’t,” Horse told him, voice serious. “What happened can’t be undone, and the assholes who did it deserved to die. Good news is, they did. Think ahead. We turn the Jacks into allies, we’ll own half the west coast with the Jacks as a line of defense between us and the cartel. That’s somethin’ we should consider.”
“I’ll settle for protecting my girls,” Picnic muttered. “Fuckin’ asshole knows where they are, maybe’s even watching them. You know what that means?”
“Means nobody’s safe,” Horse said softly. “And he’s damned right about one thing—in our world, we don’t fuck with citizens, so long as they show respect. We keep our towns safe and control what gets in. I know the Jacks did your niece, Deke, but she got as much justice as they could give. The cartel, though … They’re shootin’ women and children, and they don’t give a fuck who they kill so long as they get their money. No values. I’ll take the Jacks over them anytime.”
“If they’re telling us the truth,” Ruger said. “Remember—they lie. We need information.”
“Time to call the brothers together,” Pic said. “No help for it. You want to host, Deke?”
“Do it in Coeur d’Alene,” the Portland president replied, shaking his head. “We got nothin’ like the Armory. Whatever else the Jacks might be, they aren’t magic. We meet at the Armory, we’ll have space to talk. I’ll start making calls.”
CHAPTER SIX
SOPHIE
No girl should have to lose panties this expensive.
I felt almost wistful when I found them in Ruger’s couch. Dark, rich purple silk, delicate lacy cutouts in the front. Whoever she was, she’d shelled out way too much money prettying up for a one-night stand with the man-whore.
I knew the pain of lost panties myself … On that less-
than-spectacular night Noah had been conceived, I’d had to go without mine after we got kicked out of Ruger’s apartment.
Sighing, I dropped the couch cushion I’d been vacuuming under. I’d made my first pass through Ruger’s house doing surface cleaning. Now I was on to the deeper stuff, which meant hunting through the bowels of the furniture, among other things.
It was Thursday afternoon and the week had come together nicely. After my visit with Kimber, I’d gotten in touch with some of the girls from the club who’d left their cell-phone numbers. They were coming over on Friday night to meet me and hang out. They sounded every bit as nice and thoughtful as I’d suspected, and I couldn’t wait to put faces to names.
I’d also gotten to know the neighbor down the road, a woman in her late thirties named Elle. She’d been widowed a couple years back and now she lived alone. We met her Tuesday afternoon, when Noah and I went exploring and wandered onto her property.
She and I spent a couple hours sitting outside her house (she had one of the old, original farmhouses, which meant a kick-ass porch complete with swing and rockers), sipping iced tea, and shooting the shit. Elle really hit it off with Noah, too, and had already offered to babysit if I needed it. I got a great vibe off her, Noah adored her, and we’d been thrilled when she had us over for dinner on Wednesday.
Wednesday was also when I started cleaning Ruger’s house.
This was partly out of boredom. I also felt guilty, because Ruger was a single man who clearly enjoyed his freedom, yet he’d brought us home anyway. This had to cramp his style. Not that I particularly liked the idea of him being completely free to indulge himself … I knew I couldn’t have him, but it still bugged me to think of him with other women.
And I totally got how messed up that was.
Didn’t change how I felt.
Anyway, I decided the best way to pay Ruger back was to become his unofficial housekeeper. He didn’t plan to charge us any rent, but I wouldn’t feel right if I wasn’t earning my keep.
Which brought me to the pair of tiny purple panties lost in the couch.
Sadly, this was not the first piece of lingerie I’d found in the last twenty-four hours. They weren’t all the same sizes, either—Ruger clearly appreciated variety among his many booty calls.
I picked up the panties with a pair of kitchen tongs and carried them into the laundry room. I didn’t know who they belonged to, but I didn’t think I should be tossing out anything I found, no matter how … used … it might be. I dropped the panties into one of the four plastic boxes I’d lined up across the top of the dryer.
The first held money. So far I’d found ninety-two dollars and twenty-three cents. Box two was condoms. I found stashes in almost every room. Some were definitely on purpose, and I left those in place. But I’d also found them in the pockets of stray pants, in the silverware drawer, on top of the bookshelf … I’d even found two in the pizza box on the coffee table. Chocolate-flavored ones. This led to a series of fantasies about pizza-themed sex, which squicked me out a bit.
Also made me sort of hungry.
That’s when I decided I needed little boxes to put all this stuff in, so I could just close the lids and pretend they didn’t exist. So far it was working pretty well. Box three held women’s underwear, bras, and a single silk stocking. Box four was “other”—small, strange chunks of metal, random tools, a Buck knife, and two ticket stubs from a Spokane Indians game.
Weird pangs of jealousy aside, I wanted Ruger’s house fresh, clean, and comfortable when he got home. It was the least I could do. I cleaned everywhere but his bedroom, although I did wade in just far enough to grab the worst of the laundry.
That night, Noah asked me when Uncle Ruger would be back. I had no idea what to tell him, and I wondered if living in his house could ever feel normal. Free rent was great, but Kimber was probably right. Ultimately, I needed my own place, where the couch cushions weren’t full of strange underwear and the silverware drawer was condom-free.
The thudding of feet overhead woke me up around three o’clock early Friday morning. Ruger was home, I noted drowsily, and it sounded like he was throwing a party. Fortunately, my kid and I could sleep through anything, so five minutes later I was out again.
The next day, Noah and I did our best to stay quiet as we got ready and used our own door to leave the house. When I got back from dropping him at school, I had a near-miss with the house alarm, punching in the code twice before I got it right. Ruger’s obsession with security was damned inconvenient at times …
I showered and straightened up our little apartment. By then it was almost ten and still no noise from upstairs. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing up? God knew, Ruger had a tendency to invade my dreams.
I slipped up the stairs softly, not wanting to wake him. I reached the top, turned toward the kitchen and swayed, completely shocked.
Apparently a hurricane had hit the house in the night.
Empty beer bottles covered every possible surface. The furniture had been shoved around, with one end of the love seat actually lifted up and resting on the back of the main couch. There were partially empty pizza boxes, spilled beer—and the most disturbing part of all?
A completely naked blonde chick sat at the breakfast bar, lighting a cigarette.
Seeing her hit me hard—I actually couldn’t breathe for a second, and I felt dizzy. I knew Ruger slept around. I’d found the evidence myself, but somehow this finally brought it all home for me.
She was gorgeous and utterly unselfconscious. Naturally, I wore an old tank top and cutoffs, hair in a messy bun, and no makeup. I wanted to kill her. Dead. Strangle her on the spot for being a damned whore and being prettier than me and fucking my man.
I gave myself a mental smack.
I had no claim on Ruger. None. This was his house and he could do whatever he wanted in it, including this whore.
I didn’t even want him, not really.
“So, you Ruger’s property?” she asked me, eyes hostile, red-tipped talons tapping the bar idly.
“Um, I don’t think I understand the question,” I replied, torn between staring at her perky, jiggly boobs and watching the trail of smoke rise from her cigarette toward the ceiling. Once that smoky smell gets into a house, you never get it back out.
Yet another reason to hate the bitch.
“Simple yes or no,” she said. “You belong to him? He patch you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, glancing around the living room, growing pissier by the second, despite the fact that it was none of my business. This was going to take hours to clean and it sure as hell wouldn’t be me doing it, I decided. Let the whore do it. Or Ruger himself—what a concept!
“That’s a no …” she said slowly. “So why the hell are you here? Did he call you this morning? Seriously, if he wanted a three-way, he should’ve talked to me earlier. No offense, but I can do better.”
She looked me up and down as she said this, judging every inch of my body.
“I think I should go back downstairs,” I said with careful control. I turned to leave, but Ruger’s voice stopped me.
“You still here?” he called. The blonde answered, voice all sweet like honey, eyes sparkling with possessive triumph.
“Sure thing, baby. You need me?”
Ruger strolled down the stairs and into the living room, wearing only a pair of unfastened jeans. I could tell this because they drooped low enough to leave very few secrets. Damn.
I knew Ruger was hot, but it seemed like I forgot just how hot whenever I didn’t see him for a while, because it still shocked me. I could spend a year trying to describe him, but you still wouldn’t fully appreciate his unique appeal until your panties spontaneously combusted the first time he smiled at you.
Or, in this case, when he walked through the living room wearing half-fastened jeans commando, eyes still sleepy.
My eyes caught on his chest, sliding down along the lines of his muscles. Oh, my … Perf
ect pecs, sculpted obliques and abs. They disappeared into the denim, which just barely rode his hips, ready to slip at any minute. I wanted to lick him all over.
Right after I killed him for fucking The Blonde Slut.
“Morning,” he said, looking from me to TBS. I raised my hand and gave a little finger wave, wondering if the knife in the laundry room was well-balanced for throwing.
“Welcome back, Ruger,” I said, trying not to sound like a jealous wife, because nothing crazy about that, right? “Have a nice trip? Noah missed you. I was just going downstairs. Have a great morning.”
TBS smirked, taking my attempted retreat as a victory for her. Or that’s what I imagined was behind her smirk. For all I knew, that could have been her thank-God-I’m-not-in-a-three-way-with-this-loser face.
Whatever it was, she could damned well shove it up her ass.
“No,” Ruger said, staring at me intently. His eyes flicked down my figure, and no matter how hot the chick in the kitchen was, I could tell he still wanted me. His eyes were dark and needy like they’d been the other night. And all those years ago, too …
Nope, not going there, I reminded my brain. This situation’s fucked up enough already.
“We need to talk. It’s important,” he told me. Then he glanced toward TBS. “We’re done, time to go. Don’t call.”
Wow. That was cold.
I liked it.
“You seriously want her over me?” TBS demanded, looking between us, face genuinely confused.
“Sophie’s my nephew’s mom,” Ruger said, voice going hard and flat. “One of her in dirty sweats is worth ten of you naked on your knees, so get the fuck out.”
Oh, that was sooo cold. Maybe I didn’t hate him quite so much, because he might be an asshole, but he was definitely being a bigger asshole to her than to me. Justice, for once.
“You’re kind of a dick,” TBS said, pouting.
“Ya think?” he asked, walking past us to open the fridge. Ruger pulled out a container of orange juice and chugged it without using a glass. He finished, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slammed it down on the counter. Juice splashed, reminding me of the brand-new, giant-ass mess everywhere else.