Bear (Wayward Kings MC Book 1)

by Zahra Girard

  I hold my lips tight around him, swallowing every last drop while he shudders above me. Tied up, beneath him, his captive, but he’s putty in my captive hands.

  His eyes open slowly. “My turn.”

  “Wait — what?”

  Faster than I expect, he moves, sliding between my legs. Thoughts vanish as his hands rest on my thighs and his tongue begins a slow caress that turns me to something primal.

  All I feel — all I want to feel — is the bliss that his tongue brings.

  Lips envelope me, a gentle suck and clasp that radiates waves of pleasure from my clit. A growl, deep, insatiable, comes from his throat, vibrating against me and I shiver in overwhelming ecstasy.

  Craning my neck, I look down between my legs and see him looking back at me. His eyes are so bright, and in the shadows, there’s a faint smile on his face. He’s focused on me, my satisfaction, my pleasure.

  He winks at me. And does this thing; sucking a bit harder and changing the shape of his tongue and the way he licks me; it’s like every nerve in my body is a fuse and he’s just lit them all, sending a bone-shaking eruption through me. My legs jerk, flailing, my abs shake, flexing, my body erupts, climaxing.

  I’m panting when he stops. Sweat beads on my forehead and chest and the slightest breath from his lips against my pussy sends aftershocks roaring through me.

  The bed shakes as he lays down beside me. Every part of me wants to turn on my side and rest my head on his chest. But he doesn’t move from his spot and I’m still bound.

  I clear my throat, trying to give him a hint.

  He lies there, grinning at me.

  “Come one — what’s going on here?” I say.

  “I’m debating something. I’m trying to decide whether to cut you free, or whether to leave you tied up. On one hand, it probably isn’t too comfortable for you there. On the other hand, I’m tired, it feels like you’ve drained my balls so much they’ll turn into raisins, and, if I leave you there, it makes things more convenient for tomorrow morning.”

  I look him dead in the eyes.

  “You know how well keeping me tied up has gone for you. I’ll just get out while you’re sleeping. Tell me, how many weapons do you have in this cabin? In this room, even?”

  He frowns. “A lot.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Cut me loose.”

  “Fucking hell, Houdini.”

  He throws open the top drawer of the nightstand and pulls out a long-bladed combat knife. It effortlessly cuts through the zip ties and I eagerly shake feeling back into my hands.

  “You’re ruthless, you know that?” he says.

  “You love it.”

  He puts the knife away and lays back down beside me. I nuzzle into him, my body floating on a cloud and, somewhere beside it, my heart, too.

  “Yeah, maybe I do,” he says.

  I lay there in the dark, listening to his breath as it goes from relaxed to asleep, with the occasional snore. It’s perfectly quiet in this cabin, except for the spare noises of the forest and the faint sound of the ocean. It’s bliss.

  I wish this moment could last forever. But even now, I can feel the violence lurking on the horizon, a malevolent thing waiting to upend my life. The things Nash has promised he’ll do to get his daughter back, and what he’ll do to the men he feels are involved in taking her.

  I can’t allow that to happen. I can’t allow Nash to unleash that kind of violence and I can’t allow him to hurt my father.

  Whatever it takes — I’ll stop it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nash

  My phone’s an angry hornet, vibrating against the night stand. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I sit up in bed and snatch the damned thing before it wakes Roxanna. I don’t know what exactly has gotten into her — right after the shit that went down with Jamal, it felt like she was coming down on me hard as hell, and then, after the clubhouse, she’s suddenly ready to ride my cock until I come so hard and often that I’m practically shooting sand. But whatever it is, I like it.

  There haven’t been many people I feel that I can trust, and those few are either wearing cuts themselves or married to a man who does, but I feel like I can trust her. Even considering who she’s related to.

  “Yeah,” I mumble into the phone as I step into the hallway.

  “Sorry to wake you, brother,” Gunney’s voice is laced with urgency and command enough to make me stand straighter. “You able to ride?”

  I do a groggy mental check; my legs feel like lead weights and my dick feels so numb that I have to grab the damn thing just reassure myself it’s still there, but I’m sure everything will get back to working order once I get on my bike.

  “I can ride,” I answer. I step back into the room to grab some jeans, a shirt, and my cut off the floor. “What’s going on, brother?”

  “Grease and Preacher called. That special shipment we got coming down from BC has run into a whole helluva lot of trouble. Ran into at least a half dozen Devils south of Seattle. They had to ditch the truck.”

  “Fuck,” I say, loud enough that Roxanna stirs in the bed. “I can be on the road in five.”

  “I expect you sooner than that. This is no time for fucking around. We have to clear this up before we can help you with your daughter. If we lose the cargo, we’re on thin fucking ice.”

  “I’ll be there,” I answer. I throw open what’s soon to be my daughters room and grab my service pistol and shove some clips of ammo in my cut.

  “It’s good to have you back, brother.”

  “Good to be back, Gunney.” I end the call and head back to the bedroom. The stirring noises haven’t stopped and I can’t leave without saying goodbye to Roxanna.

  “What was that about?” she says as soon as my shadow darkens the doorway.

  “Club business. I need to head out for a while. My house is yours while I’m gone. There might be some food in the fridge. If you need to head out, the keys to the truck are on the coffee table next to the ashtray.”

  She sits up. “Club business?”

  “Someone stole something from us. Stuff for the mechanics shop we got in town. I have to go help sort it out.”

  “Does sorting it out require a gun?”

  I grit my teeth. “It’s a precaution. We’ve got a good idea about who stole from us and they’re not the type of guys you can work shit out with by having a reasonable discussion.”

  “So you’re going to kill them instead?”

  “Not if I have to,” I lie.

  The truth is, someone’s dying today. More than a few someone’s.

  An attack on anyone in my family is an attack on all of us. Whether we’ve gone legit or not, this isn’t something we take lying down. In this lifestyle, the second you do is the second every other group of shit heels and miscreants decides to try to fuck you raw.

  “Nash, before you go, just think about your daughter. Think about doing what’s right for her. You’ve got three days until the deadline — is this the right thing to do?”

  I come closer to the bed and kiss her softly on the lips. If I’m going to have any chance at getting my daughter back, I’m going to need the rest of my family to make it happen.

  “This is about protecting my family. Her family. It’s the only way. Trust me.”

  * * * * *

  The pre-dawn air is salty, crisp, cold. It tingles with energy, waiting for the spark of sunrise to come to life.

  My breath fogs in front of me, lit by the pale beams of a half-busted street light. A few seagulls scream in the distance, their cries echoing off the containers and corrugated steel warehouses that make up this busted shipping yard.

  It’s quiet, and even though blood will paint the concrete of this heaping relic of Tacoma’s industrial past, it’s peaceful.

  I’m calm. Ready.

  Truth is, I’ve missed this.

  A block down the road is one of clubhouses for the Iron Devils. The chapter that jacked our truck. Our targets.

&n
bsp; “Grease and Preacher will be here any minute. Grab your glocks and check your cocks, boys, we’re going to bust these fuckers.”

  I check my pistol, pat my pockets where I keep my ammo, and I’m ready to rock. If I strain my ears, I can make out the chugging thunder of approaching bikes.

  “So, what’s the plan here, eh?” Ozzy whispers. “Last thing I fucking know, I’m in bed, fifth of rum in one hand, and the other holding my cock, so I’m a bit out of fucking sorts.”

  “What happened to Beth?” I say.

  “Eh, we got into it earlier. Time for something new.”

  Rog shifts on his bike, leaning closer to Ozzy. “We’re busting some heads. Keep your eyes open for our truck and our cargo.”

  “The fuck do the Devils want with fucking car parts anyways?” Jynx says.

  “They don’t give a single shit about the car parts. What they care about is that it costs us money — a lot of fucking money,” Gunney barks at us. “This is not a fucking drill, boys. We hit them hard, we find our cargo, and we make them pay.”

  “Lock and load,” I say, my voice shaking as the thrill of the coming combat rises in my heart.

  Grease and Preacher thunder through the entrance of the industrial park. Our family together once more.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jynx murmurs as he catches sight of Grease.

  He brings his bike to a wobbly halt in front of us. Blood streams from a wound on the side of his neck, thick crimson that looks almost black in the half-light of the industrial park.

  Preacher’s not in much better shape. He’s got his shirt off, tied around his leg like a bandage, exposing the scar that runs around the length of his neck like a priest’s collar. Blood trickles down his chest from a wound in his shoulder.

  “The fuck did they do to you?” Gunney nearly bellows.

  “We’re fine. The driver’s dead, though, poor guy,” Preacher says.

  “Alex? They killed him? He just worked for the damn trucking company,” Rog says. “He was a good man.”

  “Well, he doesn’t work for the trucking company any longer,” Preacher says.

  “Those fucking cunts. We need to go in hard as,” Ozzy says.

  “Truck nearly blew an axle when we ditched it. You know the company’s going to make us cover the work.”

  “Move out. Now,” Gunney’s voice seethes with rage, and he’s the first to start his bike and rip out the gates.

  The rest of us follow hot on his tail, guns loaded, hungry for blood. We get into the clubhouse lot just as he’s hopping off his bike, gun at the ready. I slide my finger to the trigger and race to his side. He halts at the door and motions for Rog, Grease, and Preacher to circle around back.

  Muted music and voices drift from the clubhouse. Laughter.

  Fuck them for laughing at a time like this.

  A three-count passes and Gunney plants his boot to the door, cracking it on its hinges and sending it flying open.

  Stools fall sideways, men shout, a woman screams. There must be a dozen of them, but we’ve caught them with their fucking pants down.

  Gunney doesn’t say a word. Gun level, face an emotionless mask, he takes the room like only a marine can. Two men go down, red bursting from holes in their faces, before anyone even knows what the fuck is happening.

  I follow. Gun ready. Heart thudding the familiar rhythm of combat.

  The bartender yells something and raises a shotgun with one hand.

  I plant lead in his chest and he whips sideways, screaming. I plant another bullet in his back before he hits the hardwood surface of the bar.

  It feels incredible.

  I survey the room.

  Time slows, caught in this hanging moment between surprise and retaliation, and I realize their clubhouse ain’t shit. It smells — beyond the smell of gunshot, it reeks like spilled, spoiled booze and food that’s grown mold — and looks like a blind Hank Williams Jr decided to take up interior decorating. Even if I didn’t want to kill these sons of bitches for everything they’ve done to my club, I’d kill them for having such a pathetic bar.

  Worse yet, next to the bartenders corpse strewn across his own bar, there’s only two beer taps: Bud Light and Coors.

  Fucking Coors.

  “These guys fucking suck,” Preacher yells from the back, his words punctuated by the rat-tat of gunfire. “Their kitchen’s full of fucking frozen pizzas and microwave burritos. No respect for good food. They’re just a bunch of fucking slobs with guns.”

  “What kind of burritos?” Ozzy shouts, poking his head up to look towards the kitchen. “Are they good ones, at least?”

  “Bean.”

  “Bean and what? Bean and cheese? Bean and beef?”

  “Just bean.”

  “Holy fuck, these guys are terrible,” Ozzy says over the gunfire.

  Bullets whiz by my head and Gunney and Ozzy both return fire while I dive behind the bar for cover.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, who gives a shit about the burritos? Kill these sons of bitches,” Gunney bellows.

  “Piece of piss, bro,” Ozzy calls back. “These guys can’t shoot for shit.”

  “A piece of piss? The fuck is he saying?” Gunney says to me. “All these years and I never know what he’s fucking talking about.”

  “No fucking clue, brother,” I answer.

  “It’s bloody English, you fucking cunts,” Ozzy yells. “You should learn it, sometime.”

  “Are you sure?” Gunney says.

  “What kind of metaphysical bullshit are you getting at? Am I sure that the English I’m speaking is actually English? For fucks sake, this isn’t a fucking philosophy class.”

  “What I’m saying is you say a bunch of unfathomably unintelligible shit sometimes,” Gunney retorts.

  “New Zealand was an English country a lot longer than you Americans. We’re still in the Commonwealth, too. Maybe it’s your English that is all wrong.”

  “Guys, we can figure this shit out later. We’ve got Devils to kill,” I yell from my place behind the bar.

  “Fine, fine, but, I am not shitting you, Ozzy, we are sitting you down later and we’re going to un-fuck your vocabulary.”

  “How can you fuck words? That doesn’t make any sense. Are you sure you’re not the one with the language problems?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, guys,” I yell.

  Bullets keep me pinned behind the bar, splitting wood and raining splinters down on my head. From the kitchen area, it sounds like Rog, Ozzy, and Preacher aren’t having as easy of a time of it as Ozzy implied.

  Pulling liquor bottles off the bottom shelf, I start hurling them into the walls near where the Devils are crouched behind some heavy tables they’ve kicked over as barricades. I soak half the bar in high-octane booze and then rip the rag from the pocket of the dead bartender and fish out a lighter. A bottle of whiskey that looks and smells like jet fuel turns into a molotov cocktail.

  “Suck my cock, you pieces of shit,” I scream as I hurl the bottle of flame at the Devils.

  Liquor lights up bright as a dying sun and that corner of the bar turns into a scene from Backdraft. Some of them scream, but all of them run for the exit.

  They’re gunned down as soon as they step from cover, Gunney and Grease both relentless in firing into the cowards. I step out from cover and aerate the head of one of the bastards.

  Five dead bodies hit the floor.

  Screams and shots are still erupting from the kitchen, and Gunney motions for us to follow him.

  The place is a fucking mess. Blood everywhere, and all of it from a guy in a cook’s apron who looks like a cross between Captain Ahab’s worst nightmare and a Sasquatch.

  There’s another body on the floor, wearing an Iron Devils cut and holding his head and moaning. We’re in the room for just seconds before bullets buzz our heads like angry wasps.

  “What the fuck?” Grease says, looking around.

  Rog points to the walk-in freezer. “One of ‘em is barricaded inside. Locked him
self in there almost as soon as we showed up. I think he’s just a prospect.”

  “Fucking coward,” Preacher spits. “I’ll bet he’s in there pissing himself.”

  The porthole window to the freezer is busted and some son of a bitch is sniping through the window while hiding behind the inches of steel and insulation that make up the freezer door.

  He’s unreachable.

  “Fuck him,” Gunney says, punctuating his curse with a boot to the face of the downed Devil. “This place is going to be ashes soon and we can’t afford to stick around when the emergency crews get here. Rog, Bear, get this Devil bitch somewhere safe and find out if he knows where they’re keeping our shipment.”

  I kneel down and heft the unconscious Devil over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Our prisoner’s light, probably not much more than a hundred and fifty pounds. No wonder it was so easy to clear out this place — the Devils are patching in a bunch of weaklings.

  “Lead the way,” I say to Rog.

  “Show off,” he says.

  “This guy’s a child. I’ll bet your beer gut weighs more than him.”

  We get out to the lot and the rest of the guys take off while Rog and I figure out how to quickly hogtie this son of a bitch to my bike.

  “It’s good to have you back, brother,” Rog says, as he takes a length of rope from his bike’s saddlebags and starts binding the man’s hands together. “Things have been pretty rough, lately.”

  “Yeah? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Let’s not be facetious here.”

  I frown at him. “Sorry, man. Lay it out for me.”

  He pauses a moment, looking at the unconscious Devil, sizing up the man’s weight and how best to fit him on the bike. “Going legit was the right thing for us to do, but it wasn’t easy. Especially considering how fucking short we are on manpower and how much the Devils have been pushing us.”

  “We’re keeping them back, Rog.”

  “For now. But with the money they’re pulling from the drugs they’re bringing down from BC, and with the meth they’ve got people cooking out on the Olympic peninsula, they’re like fucking hydras. We can cut off a fucking head, but they’ll just sprout another. We need to end it for good.”