Craving It All (The Hellfire Riders Book 5)

by Kati Wilde

  “Okay, okay!” His head bobs with each word. “And you’ll get it. But, man. You really want what I picked up for you—”

  Fuck this. Hand fisting in his hair, I shove his face down, smashing his cheek against the pink lid of the trunk. “Let me make this real fucking clear, Vern. I don’t want a single fucking thing but that twenty thousand dollars worth of crystal meth—and for you to stop showing up anywhere I am. You understand me?”

  “Yes, man!” he says, then groans in fear as I lift the maul and place the blade close to his face.

  “Let me give you a fucking demonstration of what will happen if I see you in person again. You ever watch Game of Thrones, Vern?”

  “Oh gawwwwwd—”

  I swing hard. The blade sinks through the trunk lid about two inches from his face, and he shrieks.

  But it’s another sound that freezes my blood. A muffled scream.

  From inside the trunk.

  “What the fuck?” I tear the maul from the lid, grip his head tighter. “You got someone in there?”

  “I told you, man…” His body shaking, Vern’s all but pissing himself. “I got you something you wanted to tide you over.”

  Oh Jesus. Oh fucking Jesus, no.

  He knows what I want. He’s seen me at her counter every morning for months.

  “Open it,” I tell him hoarsely.

  His trembling hands fumble with the keys before he finally gets them into the lock and twists.

  “See, man?” he says like an eager puppy as he raises the lid. “I told you.”

  My heart stops. Because Sara’s curled up in there, her dark eyes wide—

  And absolutely terrified.

  Terrified of me.

  5

  Bull

  Among the brothers, I’m known for having something funny to say in uneasy situations. Something that’ll break up the tension and make everyone relax. It’s how I got my name. Most people assume Bull refers to my size, but really it’s short for bullshit, because of the kind of stuff I say during those awkward moments.

  But I can’t say a single thing now. Not after I reach into the trunk to pull Sara out—

  And she flinches away from my touch.

  After that, there’s not a word getting through the vise of my throat.

  As if realizing the opening of that trunk was shit hitting a fan, Blowback’s already at my back, ready to do whatever needs done. I toss him the maul, which he catches easily by the handle. His lethal gaze shifts to Woodridge and the fool finally shuts his mouth.

  Her face flushed and tears gleaming in her eyes, Sara’s struggling to crawl out of the trunk. Unlike the front of the car, it’s not trashed, and she’s not stuffed in there with a bunch of garbage. The sun’s scorching, though, and it’s just past the hottest part of the day. Damp patches of sweat soak through her T-shirt. She’s lucky to be alive but she must not have been in there long, and Woodridge gave her a bottle of water.

  Doesn’t matter if he took that much care. The fucker’s dead.

  Sara stiffens and slaps at my hands when I reach for her again. Physically it’s like being slapped by a honeybee but each blow is a hammer in my chest. Worse are the sobs shaking through her. They’re a knife in my gut and I’m just bleeding to death behind this pink Cadillac.

  Ignoring her struggles, I slip my big hands under her knees and shoulders and carefully lift her up against my chest, holding her securely enough that no matter how she twists and fights, she’s not getting away.

  But she stops fighting. Just settles against me and cries harder, her skin hot and flushed and glistening. Jesus, even her jeans feel damp against my hand, she’s been sweating so hard.

  I head for my front door but don’t see a damn thing in front of me. My feet move automatically up the porch steps.

  This morning, I held her and kissed her for the first time. Not for one second did I think it would be the last time.

  Because all these fucking months, I’ve watched her, talked to her—hell, I courted her, though it was a careful kind of courting. Since the day I met her, I haven’t looked at another woman, because I was waiting and hoping for the moment when Sara wouldn’t be so damn scared of some motherfucker whose name I don’t even know. Some motherfucker who scared her so bad, she fled across the country to get away from him.

  Now she’s scared of me. The second I let her go, she’s going to run again. And I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to stop her.

  But I can make sure she doesn’t go anywhere just yet.

  “Pop!” I roar, ripping open the screen door and striding into the front room. “Pop! I need you out here!”

  “The hell’s that racket, boy?” Shirt hanging open over his skinny chest, he walks in barefoot from the kitchen, grumbling, “I told you to get your own damn—”

  Pop abruptly stops, his gaze going from the devastation that must be showing on my face to the woman in my arms.

  “Who you got there, son?”

  “Sara,” I tell him, my voice rough. He’s never met her but knows I’ve got my eye on someone. It’s not going to take him long to figure this one out. “A stupid motherfucker put her in the trunk of his car. I gotta take care of him and I need you to look after her. Get her something cold to drink, make sure she’s not overheated.”

  Nodding, Pop steps back and I carry her past him into the kitchen. It’s a bright, sunny room with French doors that open onto the back deck, and the thickness of the log walls and the fans we’ve got going keep it cool enough, even on days like this.

  Her sobs have already quieted, though I think it’s through sheer will. She doesn’t want me to see her crying.

  Doesn’t want me to look at her at all.

  I set her down on the table and cup the side of her face in my hand. My palm engulfs her jaw and I brush away tears from her cheek with my thumb, wishing she’d meet my eyes as I say hoarsely, “I’m so damn sorry, Sara.”

  She averts her face. Not just her eyes. She turns her entire head, pulling away from the touch of my hand.

  And there’s nothing I can say now that’ll make this better. There’s nothing I can do to make it better.

  It’s been done.

  My chest an aching mess, I straighten and look to Pop, who’s at the sink drawing a glass of ice water. “You don’t let her run.”

  “I’ll watch over her.”

  Which isn’t the same as stopping her if she goes, but with a man like my dad who respects freedom and choice more than he respects the business of a motorcycle club, it’s what I’m going to get.

  Woodridge, though. He’s going to get something else.

  I sure as fuck wish I still had that maul in my hands when I leave Sara sitting stiff and tearstained in my kitchen. Pure fury drives me through the house. I slam through the screen door, nearly ripping it off the hinges, and in the haze of anger I’m halfway to the pink Caddy before I realize the little fucker is nowhere in sight.

  Turning, I look to the prez and the VP, who are still sitting by the woodpile. Blowback’s joined them again, a lemonade in his hand.

  My gaze zeroes in on the warlord, then to the maul propped against his leg, the heavy head resting on the ground and the handle within easy reach of his grip.

  No blood on the blade. Not yet. “Where the fuck is he?”

  Blowback’s gaze shifts to the Caddy. It takes me a second. Then I realize the trunk’s closed again.

  So he shoved Woodridge in there. Keeping him warm for me.

  I start for the Cadillac but the prez’s voice stops me in my tracks.

  “You head back this way, Bull.” With a big boot, he pushes an empty deck chair into position facing him. “Take a seat.”

  For a moment, I think about telling the prez to fuck himself. Woodridge shoved my woman into a trunk. Scared her.

  Made her scared of me.

  But it wasn’t just Woodridge who scared her. And maybe that’s what’s really hurting me so bad.

  After what Sara likely heard
me saying, she has good reason to be scared.

  I wouldn’t ever let anything happen to her. But she doesn’t know that. And even if I say so, I wouldn’t blame her for not trusting my word. Not now.

  My blood boiling, my pulse running wild, I drag my hands through my beard, my hair. I probably look like a giant fucking savage.

  I feel like one.

  Dropping into the deck chair would probably shatter the plastic legs so I sit slow and easy. But there’s nothing easy between all of us now.

  The prez’s eyes are hard and cold as steel. “That the woman from the café across from the clubhouse in town?”

  “She is.”

  “She yours?” The prez is sitting back like this is just casual conversation but there’s nothing casual about it. “I heard a thing or two about you going into the café pretty regular.”

  Because the old ladies’ gossip circles are a little glazed donut compared to the huge motherfucking cake of rumors that feeds the brothers’ big mouths. But the prez probably didn’t even need to hear it from them. Thorne’s my boss and I’ve been ribbed about Sara and her lunches more than once on the site. The VP might have told him while sitting right here.

  If not for Thorne knowing better, maybe I’d have lied and said she was mine. But there’s no point.

  “I was working on it,” I tell him.

  “So it’s not a done deal.”

  My stomach aching, I shake my head. Chances are, it’ll never happen now.

  So all that’s left is protecting her.

  His gaze shifts to Blowback. “You figure in that trunk she heard everything that we heard?”

  The warlord nods. “Every word.”

  “She’s not going to talk,” I tell him. “Just this morning she asked me to get her new identification. She’s not going to the cops.”

  “Is she an illegal?”

  Looking for something to hold over her. I shake my head again. “She’s American. I think hiding from an old boyfriend. She doesn’t want her name out there. Talking to the cops will put it out there.”

  “And you’re absolutely fucking sure she’ll keep quiet?” Face hard, the prez sits forward. “When Maurice wakes up, are you going to be the one who tells him that Osprey is sitting pretty in the county jail, because a girl went and told the cops exactly when and where to find him? You going to tell him the motherfucker who killed his little boy is still walking around alive and the Riders fucked up our chance to take him out because you’ve gone soft over some pussy?”

  I’m sure as hell not fucking up that chance. Maurice is a close brother to me. Almost as close as Duke is.

  But even if he wasn’t a friend, he’s a Hellfire Rider. And we look after our own.

  Sara’s mine alone to look after. She won’t like it. But she’s not going to get much choice.

  “I’ll keep her here,” I tell him. “We get Osprey, we let her go. Even if she does talk”—though I’m one-hundred-fucking-percent certain she won’t—“there won’t be anything left of Osprey for the cops to find. There’ll be nothing to pin on anyone.”

  Though even if they did pin it on one of us, it’s the kind of shit we’d be proud to go down for.

  “And you go down for kidnapping her, instead? For holding her against her will?”

  “I don’t think it’ll happen,” I say and my voice is real fucking thick. “I think she’ll just take off. Find safe waters again.”

  But if she does end up going to the cops, if I’m charged for holding her…fuck, I’ll take it. Because the only alternative here is a hell of a lot worse.

  And I won’t see her hurt.

  The prez nods. “All right. We’ll go in and talk to her. Not a damn fucking word about Osprey or why we want him. Maurice rides with us so the cops might suspect we’re gunning for him, but right now they’ve got nothing more than suspicion. He never shows his face again, they’ll figure he ran. Let’s not hand them a reason to think otherwise. All we want is the meth. That work for everyone?”

  Both Thorne and Blowback nod. Then Blowback says, “And Woodridge?”

  We all look toward the pink Caddy. “We’ll babysit him out at the ranch, yeah?” Thorne suggests. “Until it’s time for his meetup.”

  “Then I get him,” I say.

  The prez agrees, “Then you can do whatever the fuck you want with him.”

  That decision gets nods all around. So I’ve got three days with her. This morning, I had my whole damn future spread out before me. But three days is all I’m going to get.

  With her looking at me like I’m a fucking monster.

  Hell. Maybe I am.

  The prez gets up. And maybe because he’s got his own girl he’s crazy about, or maybe because the Riders look out for their own and my face probably says the whole fucking world just shattered around me, he tells me,

  “I’ll go easy on her.”

  I know he will. But the prez’s easy doesn’t fit most people’s definition of the word. Sara’ll likely end up more scared of me than she already is.

  After a morning—after months—that were the best fucking start to any time with a woman I’ve ever had. But it’s already ended. And in three days, chances are I’ll never see her again.

  So I better get all my looking in now.

  6

  Sara

  “You feeling all right now?”

  Blindly I look up from my ice water. The man who Bull left me with stands at the sink, rinsing a thermometer. His voice sounds unconcerned but his gaze roams all over my face, as if gauging whether I’m about to pass out.

  I’m not all right, but I nod anyway. Because what’s wrong with me isn’t my body.

  Unless you count my stupid heart. And my stupid instincts that led me so wrong again.

  But health-wise? I’m great. Beyond great. Especially considering that only fifteen minutes ago, I thought I was dead. Because I was sure there was only one reason a junkie might shove me into the trunk of his car, and it didn’t end up with me in Bull’s bright, sunny kitchen. No, it ended with me raped or chopped up into little pieces or my body never being found again. Or all of the above.

  I was so sure I was going to die. So sure.

  This is a different nightmare. But at least it’s a safer one.

  Feet bare and shirt hanging open over a wiry chest covered in gray hair, the man approaches me. “Good thing. But go ahead and stick this under your tongue, anyway. Let’s make sure your temperature ain’t elevated.”

  I take the thermometer from him. It’s an old fashioned one, a glass stick filled with mercury.

  My throat feels rough as I ask, “You’re Pop?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Is that a…a club name? Or are you Bull’s father?”

  His eyes are the same blue as Bull’s but other than that, there isn’t much resemblance. And the older man called him ‘son’ but that doesn’t always mean a biological relationship, any more than ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ does in my religion. Family isn’t always blood.

  “I ain’t in any club.” Pop seems amused by that, shaking his head. “He’s my pup.”

  A pup. That’s not how I would describe Bull. And I wonder if that makes his dad a dog or a wolf.

  A wolf, I bet. Pop’s been nothing but nice since Bull brought me in here. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have teeth.

  Before I can respond, he raises his graying eyebrows and gives the thermometer a significant look. Obediently I place the instrument under my tongue.

  “Yup,” Pop continues, “We’ve lived here all his life. He was born in the bed upstairs, pink all over and just screaming his lungs out. Looking at him now, you wouldn’t ever guess he started out as the tiniest, baldest little thing you ever saw.”

  My lips curve, still clamped around the thermometer. No, I wouldn’t have guessed that.

  Misty with nostalgia, Pop’s gaze drops to my mouth. “Hell. First time I ever took his temperature as a baby it was with that thermometer there. Stuck it rig
ht up his butt.”

  A laugh erupts up my throat. I sputter and choke but don’t spit the thermometer out. Working in restaurants and seeing some really disgusting shit means I’ve got an iron stomach, and I saw him wash the thermometer. So I’m pretty sure that breaking the glass and spilling the mercury would be a lot worse than anything currently in my mouth.

  “Attagirl,” he says approvingly and heads to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

  I shake my head.

  “Iced tea?”

  I nod, then shake my head again when he asks about sugar and lemon.

  Setting the glass in front of me, he takes the thermometer and reads it. “Well, you’re not dying,” is his prognosis, and it’s so far from the terrifying end that I thought I was heading for, I can’t stop my hysterical giggle.

  It’s not a laugh. A real laugh isn’t birthed from pain and fear. And none of this is funny.

  The heavy tread of boots quiets me. The muscles alongside my spine stiffen. That’s more than just Bull coming into the house. I know what’s about to happen, because I’m pretty sure that I heard something I shouldn’t have.

  A shakedown. Except they won’t be after money. They’ll be after my silence.

  No problem, really. If I have a choice, I won’t talk to or about any Hellfire Rider again as long as I live.

  I don’t turn to look at them as they come into the kitchen. Instead I watch Pop’s face as he sizes up the situation, his gaze lingering in one direction—I’m guessing on Bull. There’s some silent exchange taking place between the two men, because Pop finally nods like he’s agreeing to something unsaid.

  He takes his beer and says, “I’ll get that wood stacked, then.” His gaze finds mine. “You give me a holler if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him and my voice is a tiny rasp.

  Jaw clenched, he nods again and heads out.

  A big man settles into the seat across from me, wearing a black leather vest over a short-sleeved gray T-shirt. Not as big as Bull, no tattoos that I can see, a short beard and cold, dark blue eyes. I know who he is. Saxon Gray. He owns the Wolf Den tavern and the gym across from Reggie’s. A PRESIDENT patch sits below a HRMC patch.