OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC)

by Naomi West

  “Prosecutor?” Judge DeAngelo asked, his beady little eyes shifting to Wyland.

  “Your honor,” Wyland began, “the prosecution feels that the defendant is a flight risk, due to his associates and the nature of his lifestyle. We'd like to petition that he be remanded until trial.”

  “Shit,” Cutter swore beneath his breath. If they remanded him, he wouldn't be getting out of that hole for God knows how long. Depending on how flimsy the case was, Wyland could well try and keep his case at the bottom of the docket damn near indefinitely. He leaned forward, put his hands between his knees, and tried to keep them from shaking.

  “Your honor,” Hunting said, stepping forward, “my client is employed, is involved in charitable work for disadvantaged children and the community, and has ties throughout the county. The idea that he'd be a flight risk is patently ridiculous.”

  “Your client,” Wyland retorted before the judge could get a word in edgewise, “is a waiter, does one toy drive at Christmas every year, and is involved with a motorcycle gang. I don't think I'd characterize him as an upstanding member of this community, or any other.”

  Hunting went to retort, his mouth half-open, but DeAngelo banged his gavel twice, cutting him off. “That's enough, counselors,” he said, slamming the gavel again. “You've convinced me, Mr. West. Seeing as he has ties to this motorcycle gang, I'll leave him remanded till his trial date. Court dismissed.”

  Cutter was fuming. They were holding him as a flight risk? He hadn't done anything serious! He got up and stormed down the central aisle. He could hear the proceedings continuing behind him, despite the gavel having been sounded multiple times. He stopped to look back, to see if there was any more that would happen.

  “But, your honor,” Hunting said, approaching the bench.

  “If you'd like to speak to me about this case,” Judge DeAngelo said, his voice level and coldly cruel, “you can see me in my chambers this afternoon. Until then, I am done with this, Mr. Hunting.”

  “Yes sir, your honor,” Hunting said, backing off a little.

  Raging, Cutter slammed into the exit and pushed out into the hallway, scattering a crowd of civilians. He took as many deep breaths as he could, held them as long as he was able. But, it wasn't any help. He was seeing red. He went and sat on a bench outside the courtroom and put his head down. He clasped his hands together, squeezed them hard, and tried to control his outrage.

  When the anger got really bad, he had to do this, had to control himself. In his earlier years, just after high school, he'd discovered that he had a temper, a pit of rage that sat deep inside of him. It was part of how he'd joined the Vanguard in the first place. Apparently, they respected it when a thin gawky guy could take on one of their patched members mano a mano, even if it had been because he lost his temper in a biker bar parking lot. It wasn't till after his first few years in the MC, though, and Smalls talking to him about it, that he'd realized it was a problem. Smalls, who'd been a jarhead in Desert Storm, taught him how to control the anger as best he could. When that kind of anger struck him, in a crowded room or even a public place, that was the last place to lose it.

  Cutter didn't know how long he stayed like that, how many minutes he spent just focusing on his breathing like Smalls had taught. Eventually, the anger began to recede from the forefront of his mind. The thunderheads that had reared their ugly faces on the horizon had slipped back behind the curve of the earth. But, they of course were still there. They just weren't a threat to anyone else at the moment. Someone cleared their throat, bringing Cutter back to reality.

  “You okay?” Hunting asked. “Tough break in there.”

  Cutter didn't glance up. He just nodded, and sat upright, his eyes straight ahead.

  “Mind if I sit?” his lawyer asked, gesturing to the bench.

  Cutter ran a hand down his face. He'd been up later than he should have the night before with Liona, and had left her sleeping in his bed that morning. All that exhaustion was hitting him like a ton of bricks now. “Sure thing,” Cutter said, not bothering to scoot over or make any room.

  Hunting squeezed into the spot next to him, put his briefcase across his lap. He wasn't a small guy, not by any means, but he was almost dwarfed next to Cutter.

  “There's nothing we can do,” Cutter asked after a short, but pregnant silence, “is there?”

  The lawyer shook his head. “We can try and appeal, but there's no guarantee on that, though.”

  “My guy's a sitting duck in there,” Cutter said, his voice low. “Other clubs are going to smell blood in the water and get somebody into lockup, or pay someone already there. Jersey ain't exactly pure as the driven snow, here, and he's got enemies.”

  Clubs like the Bolt Riders, the biggest rivals to the Vanguard, had members on the inside. If they heard Cutter's MC was beginning to splinter like this, they'd circle on them faster than a shiver of sharks. That's how it was when you warred over territory. You waited for a sign of weakness. Then you struck. And, right now, as the club was divesting its old business and using the cash to open up new flows, was the worst time. He suddenly felt like Germany invading Russia, like he'd opened a second front in this war. Between the law, and the other gangs in the area, the Vanguard were getting backed into a corner.

  Hunting considered Cutter's words for a moment, then sighed. “I could petition for protective custody in there, Cutter, but I'm going to be honest with you: you're probably not going to get it for him.”

  There had to be something he could do, though. Something he could pull. Cutter shook his head and ran a hand down his face again. “You gotta have something. You're our lawyer for Christ's sake. Isn't that what we pay you for?”

  “Look,” Hunting said, his voice quiet and serious. “I'm going to level with you. Judge DeAngelo's normally a pushover, he only gives a shit about cigars and golf. But Wyland's back early from his vacation, and DeAngelo will do damn near anything Wyland West asks. With the exception of maybe sacrificing his first born, but even that's up for grabs depending on how much Wyland's daddy is offering for the judge's reelection fund. Now, maybe if he wasn't here on the case, something would have been different. But it's an open secret that West's next in line to be DA, and what he wants becomes what everyone else wants. And, apparently, he wants Jersey.”

  Cutter's stomach sunk, the pit of it just dropping out and disappearing into oblivion. So, it was all Cutter's fault, in a way. If he hadn't gone to Liona and Wyland's wedding, if he hadn't found her on the side of the road and picked her up, they'd both be in Maui, Cancun, or Paris, or whatever, and Jersey would be more than likely getting out today. Goddammit, why'd he have to think he was so fucking clever?

  “Don't look now,” Hunting said, drawing Cutter's decision, “but here's the man of the hour.”

  He jerked his head right, just in time to see Wyland coming out of the courtroom. He was surrounded by a gaggle of aids, briefcase in hand. They moved down the corridor, talking as they pressed into the crowd. “No, no,” Wyland said, clear as day, “it was her decision. I don't know why she chose to do it, but I feel like she just needs some space to clear her head and reevaluate some things.”

  Cutter went to jump from his seat as he heard those shit-eating words coming out of that shit-eating mouth. DA or not, he was going to slap that smug look off his face, then beat it in just for good measure. “Hey Wyland,” he shouted as he began to rise from the bench.

  Hunting lay a hand on his forearm, though, before he could. “Hey,” he hissed. “Get hold of yourself, Cutter. I'm not going to represent someone who flies off the handle like this.”

  Wyland, though, had heard the president of the Vanguard's call. He spun around on a heel, easy as he could, a big pearly white grin on his lips like he didn't have a care in the world. His eyes, though, were lit up by something else, something intense and dark. He stuck a hand up in the air and waved to them both, still smiling.

  Cutter growled deep in his chest, like a wild animal or a mad dog. Huntin
g, though, kept his hand on his arm. “Cutter,” he warned.

  Without the wave acknowledged by either man, Wyland gave them an expressive fake frown. Then, to Cutter's absolute disbelief, the motherfucker winked at him before turning around to walk away with his assistants and hangers on.

  “Did you see that shit, too?” Cutter asked his lawyer.

  “Yeah,” Hunting said, shaking his head. “I don't normally say this about people, especially not peers. But, something’s not right about him. And everyone knows it.”

  “Really?” Cutter asked.

  “Rumors mostly,” Hunting said, “but not much else. Not enough to get him disbarred or anything, that's for sure. Certainly not with his dad in the background like he is.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “The usual. Most people don't believe them, though. But, no one denies he can be a real fucking prick.”

  Cutter smirked. “Yeah. And I'm on the receiving end of it right now.”

  Michael Hunting gave him a half-smile back and went to stand. “Don't worry about your buddy, Cutter. The case against him is weak, once we can get it to trial.”

  “But getting it to trial, that's the problem, isn't it?”

  The counselor nodded. “That about sums it up. Think your man will last in there?”

  Cutter thought about, then nodded. “Jersey's tough, and we do have some friends on the inside. But, it's gonna-”

  Hunting held up his hand, stopping him midstream. “Nope,” he said. “Don't want to know. That's a whole rabbit hole I don't want to go down.”

  The big biker nodded. His lawyer had been clear on a few things when they'd put him on retainer: he didn't want to know the full extent of everything. He wanted a somewhat clear conscience on certain things in his life.

  “Call if you need anything else,” Hunting said.

  Cutter nodded. “Will do.”

  The lawyer walked away, briefcase dangling from one hand. Cutter would call if he needed anything that he could get. Deep down in his heart of hearts he knew that he could call every lawyer in the county and they still wouldn't be able to help him. He shook his head and got up from the bench. This wasn't going to be solved with the law, that was for damn sure.

  Chapter 22

  Liona

  Liona was just coming out of the shower when Cutter arrived back from court. He tossed his coat on the chair and collapsed on the bed, flopping onto the mattress. He just stared up at the ceiling, unflinching as he watched it. It was such a weird dissonance, this world she'd stumbled into. She went from the bed of one man whose life was consumed by court dates and legal papers, to the bed of another man whose life seemed to teeter on the brink because of it. In a sense, both were two sides of the same coin.

  “How'd it go?” she asked as she dried her hair.

  He just half-grunted, half-growled.

  “That good, huh?”

  “More or less,” he replied.

  “Wanna talk about it?” she asked.

  He shook his head, sighing. “You know I can't.”

  “I know,” she replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed with one leg curled up beneath her as she continued to dry her hair. “It's club business. And I'm not in the MC.”

  Her morning had been consumed by thoughts of the night before. Of who this Rachel girl that had arrived at his door so unexpectedly was. Was she an old flame, a woman she should be worried about? There were just so many things that she didn't understand about his world, things that he either couldn't, or wouldn't, explain.

  “What's bugging you?” he asked, the tone in his voice even and unaffected. It was just a question, with no malice behind. “You okay?”

  She wasn't sure how she could broach the subject of the other woman. Or if he'd be as recalcitrant about his love life as he was with Vanguard business. “I've just been thinking,” she began after a moment, “about last night.”

  “What about it?” he asked. There was a certain change to his tone, though. Like he was thinking back fondly on it, already. “You want round two already?”

  She glanced down at him, saw that little smile of his. She grinned and shook her head, playfully slapping at him with the damp towel she'd been using to dry her hair. “No, not that.”

  “Well, what then?” he asked.

  “Rachel?”

  “Rachel?” he asked.

  “The girl that came to your door last night?”

  “What?” he asked, lifting his head up from the pillow and looking at her, genuinely astonished Liona was bringing her up. “Her? What about her?”

  “I'm just ...” Liona licked her lips as she searched for the right words to use. What would fit here? “You called her a club girl, I think.”

  He nodded. “Yeah?”

  “What is that? Exactly?”

  Cutter sighed and rested his head back on the pillow. “Club girls,” he began, “are just like, I dunno, biker groupies. They like hopping on our bikes, riding around with us, having us buy 'em shots, fucking some of the guys. But, they ain't ol' ladies or anything. They ain't our women, even if they wanna be.”

  “Old ladies?”

  “Ol' ladies, yeah,” he continued. “You know, like, ol' man, ol' lady?”

  She stopped drying her hair for a moment, considered what he'd just finished explaining. “So, Cutter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, what am I?”

  Sitting up, he laughed and reached out for her, grabbed hold and pulled her close. “Well, you ain't a club girl, that's for damn sure.”

  She submitted to his warm overpowering embrace and let the smell of leather and cedar, his distinct scent, wash over her as he pulled her to his broad chest. “Yeah?” she asked. “How are you so sure?”

  “Cause a club girl would only get one round in my bed,” he said with an easy shit-eating grin.

  “Ha,” she said, giving him a quick peck, “ha.”

  He leaned down and kissed her, this time making it much more than just a peck on the lips. It was one of those kisses she could feel all the way down her back and down into her tingling toes.

  They broke their kiss, but held onto each other as their gazes stayed locked. “Hungry?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yeah,” she said, her stomach grumbling as soon as it realized they were talking about it. “I could eat something.”

  He kissed her again. “I'm going to go cook up some grub, get my mind off things.”

  She nodded and smiled up at him. “Yeah,” she said. “Sounds good.”

  Cutter let her go and got up to leave. As he left the room, she couldn't help but return to the face of Rachel, the other woman. Say what you wanted, she had more than just a passing resemblance to Liona. And then there was the part about her not being a club girl, about those women only getting one night in his bed. She shook her head, smiling. She wasn't sure about the feelings she had for him, what shape they might be taking on. But she had a sneaking suspicion that not all hope was lost where they were concerned. If, of course, last night was any indication.

  Chapter 23

  Cutter

  The day had passed idly, with Liona and him riding the backroads near the clubhouse as he showed her their turf. He hadn't wanted to stray too far away, into town or on the main roads. He was fairly certain Wyland still didn't know where his ex-fiancée was hiding out, and he wanted to keep it that way. With that in mind, he stayed away from any place he was likely to encounter the cops on a random basis. The way things looked, they may very well have been working hand-in-hand with the assistant-DA.

  Now, though, he'd settled outside in front of the clubhouse with a bottle of beer in an old lawn chair. He gazed up at the sky, tracking the celestial movements of the stars just like he had when he was younger and out tramping in the surrounding woods. Those had been good times, carefree. Of course, they'd only been that way because he was a young boy, and ignorant to the world around him and the problems in his home. Tomorrow was an early morning for the res
t of his brothers, so they'd begun to turn in for the night. Smalls, keenly aware that Cutter probably wasn't getting as much sleep as usual because of his new roommate, had offered to keep taking the early shift. Farm to Fable wouldn't open itself, after all.

  Recognizing it for the hand-up that it was, Cutter hadn't declined the offer. He needed the rest. And the time he was getting to spend with Liona was a godsend. Just the sound of her laugh was almost enough to rejuvenate him, to make him feel like he had a new lease on life, no matter how fleeting that life might be. He was still torn, though. Torn about where the Vanguard were going, this war with the law, and on his relationship with Liona. He still couldn't afford to lose focus on the club. He'd never be able to forgive himself if he did.