by Joanna Wylde
• • •
Sitting back and watching as the guitar player eye-fucked Tinker on Friday night was just the beginning of one of the longest, shittiest weekends of my life.
Marsh dragged us all out of the bar around midnight, forcing me to leave Tinker with Joel. The thought of that guitar-playing bastard sinking into her hot, sweet pussy while I sat around with my thumb up my ass was almost more than I could stand.
I considered calling it off.
Considered telling Marsh to fuck himself, then walking across the bar and claiming my woman. I’d have done it, too, if the Reapers had been at full strength to back me up. We had a lot of information already, and if it wasn’t quite as much as we’d hoped for, such is life.
Then I forced myself to think about what would happen if I did.
My brothers would be in unfamiliar territory, and with Marsh’s hangarounds they’d be outnumbered. Ultimately, I knew the Coeur d’Alene Reapers were tougher than those little fuckweasels. We’d take them in the end, that I knew for a fact.
The real question was how many of us would find ourselves in the morgue along the way. Could I justify risking my brothers’ lives over a woman who didn’t even know my real name?
The Portland and Bellingham brothers were still down in Cali. If I made the call, the Coeur d’Alene brothers would come. Period. That’s just how it worked in our world. But with that kind of loyalty comes the understanding that a man doesn’t make the call unless he’s run out of options.
Deal with it, asshole. It is what it is.
It was probably a good thing that Marsh dragged us back to the clubhouse. Guitar Fucker had been buying Tinker drinks all night, sitting next to her between sets.
Touching her.
If he’d tried to stick his tongue down her throat, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold my shit together. Of course, once we left the bar my imagination took over, and damned if it wasn’t already pretty vivid when it came to my curvy landlady. She’d been wearing bright red lipstick. Would it be smeared around his cock by the end of the night?
I’d have to hunt him down and shoot him.
Only reasonable response under the circumstances.
• • •
Things got worse when we reached the clubhouse. Not only was I tense as fuck, but I realized that the only men out there were Marsh’s people. Cord’s faction—the original brothers who didn’t like Marsh—hadn’t showed their faces all night. Either Marsh hadn’t invited them or they were planning something. Either way, the split was coming. Maybe soon.
Part of me thought we should pull them aside, maybe see if we could recruit them to our cause. On the other hand, they were the ones who let the situation get this bad in the first place.
We spent the night drinking and playing cards while Talia and her friends kept sneaking off to do more drugs. Marsh was so tense that he punched one of the prospects when he was stupid enough to win a hand at poker with a bluff. The Nighthawks’ president kept muttering about Hands, and how we all needed to look out for traitors.
I swear, his eyes followed me when he said it, too.
At least Talia wasn’t giving me too much shit—she was too busy hot railing meth with her girls in the bathroom. Around three that morning, Marsh got a text message that pissed him off enough that he threw a chair, screaming, “Shut the fuck up and play poker, you fucking losers!”
Good times.
Throughout it all, the girls were getting wilder and wilder, several of them doing stripteases on the bar—all under Talia’s direction. By four, she decided Sadie should pull a train in the back room, and most of the guys followed her back there while I sat against the wall, nursing a beer that’d long since grown warm.
Shit got real at five, when Marsh pulled out a gun and told us to hand over our cell phones. Said he didn’t want us warning the traitor. Didn’t like that idea, not one bit. Fortunately, I kept mine locked and clean. I also kept an extra burner hidden in a secret compartment on my bike—along with a spare piece—but that wouldn’t do me much good if I couldn’t make it out of the building. The other bikers’ eyes widened, but we all handed them over because what else were we supposed to do? I honestly didn’t think that up until that point, most of the poor dumbasses he’d drawn into his net had a fucking clue how serious this was.
Now they knew.
Around seven that morning, Marsh sent three of the women out for food. Then he spent the next hour pacing and muttering, alternating between staring at his phone and glaring at the rest of us. The whole damned clubhouse was like a pressure cooker, slowly building toward some sort of violent explosion.
I needed some fucking air.
Marsh had assigned a couple of his thugs to watch the front, telling them to stop anyone from leaving—comforting, that—so I headed out back instead, where a six foot fence topped with razor wire surrounded an area about half the size of the clubhouse. In the center were a fire pit and some broken-down picnic tables. Talia had told me they liked to have bonfires out there, but not even the Nighthawks were willing to risk a burn at this point. Smoke from the wildfires filled the air, and it was getting worse every day.
Leaning against the back wall, I closed my eyes, wondering what Tinker was doing. Had she gone home with Guitar Boy? Fucking hell, I’d gut him. He didn’t get to touch her. Nobody did. Totally rational thoughts, bro. That’s when I heard a soft sob. I followed the sound around the side of the building, where a young woman had curled up against the wall, knees tucked against her chest. She flinched when she saw me. Hair covered her face, and between that and the dim light I couldn’t see much of her.
“You all right?” I asked. She nodded, refusing to look at me.
“Yeah, just a rough night,” she said, her voice familiar. It was Sadie—the same little bitch who’d ratted me out to Talia at the apartment building. Fuck. She’d gone into a back room with half the club, and now she was here. Not good.
“What happened?” I asked, wondering why I cared. She’d caused me a hell of a lot of trouble. But this didn’t sit right—the Reapers were supposed to be controlling our support clubs and she was just a kid.
“Guess,” she said, sniffing as she burrowed her head deeper into her arms.
“Things got rough with the boys.”
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t bother answering.
“You need to leave this club behind,” I told her. “Talia’s not your friend, Sadie.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’m not ashamed of myself.”
“Never said you should be. But you’re obviously not happy, either. The Nighthawks aren’t good for you—none of those men will ever treat you with respect, or make you his old lady. Get out while you still can.”
Sadie scooted away from me, still refusing to look up. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Sorry to waste your time,” I said, running a hand through my hair. Fuck it. So much for doing the right thing. Still, I didn’t like leaving her this way. “Let me know if you change your mind. Might be able to help you, okay?”
She didn’t answer.
“Hey, Coop! You out here?” a man’s voice shouted.
“Yeah,” I shouted back, heading around to the door. One of Marsh’s newer hangarounds—Rome—stood waiting for me.
“Marsh needs to talk to you,” he told me, swallowing and glancing back toward the clubhouse. I raised a brow in silent question. “This isn’t right, Cooper. You saw how strung out Marsh is? Now he’s saying we all have to stay with him today. I’m supposed to work. I can’t afford to lose my job over this.”
“Stick close to me,” I said. “We’ll see what we can figure out.”
Rome looked relieved, although I wasn’t quite sure why. Not like I had any fuckin’ power in this situation. I didn’t know much about him, but he was young and I got a decent vibe. Like Sadie, he’d fallen into something way over his head. We headed back inside, where things were getting even more fucked up. Marsh stood in front of the do
or, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at everyone in the room.
“Nobody leaves,” he announced. “Not until I find the traitor.”
That didn’t have a good ring to it. Rome cleared his throat nervously, and Marsh’s eyes snapped to us.
“Cooper was out back,” Rome said. “Wasn’t trying to sneak off, Marsh. Just getting some air.”
Marsh nodded sharply. “We gotta talk, Coop. Chapel. Now.”
Then he pulled his semiautomatic out of his shoulder holster, holding it casually as he glanced around the room.
“Nobody leaves. Nobody talks. Do not fuck with me.”
He started walking across the room toward the chapel, men jumping out of his way so fast one of them fell over. I followed him into the small room, noting the two brothers at my back. One of them shut the door as Marsh raised the pistol, pointing it at my chest.
“You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”
TINKER
Saturday morning was . . . unpleasant.
That’s because I’d drunk more the previous night than I had since—well, since Margarita’s bachelorette party. Now I had the hangover from hell, except hell wasn’t really a strong enough description. I had the hangover from whatever was worse than hell. Justin Bieber concert?
I blamed Margarita for this.
Devil woman.
Every time we went out together, I got drunk and made a fool of myself. Not that last night hadn’t been a lot of fun. The three of us girls had closed the bar down, dancing until our feet hurt, shouting slurred song requests at the band. Joel bought me drinks between every set, and by the end of the night I’d decided to go home with him after all.
Then he’d pulled out some pictures of his kids, including an adorable baby girl not much older than Tricia would’ve been. Sexy, flirty Tinker dissolved and I ended up telling him all about Tricia’s death, ugly crying all over his shirt.
Big turn-on, right?
To his credit, Joel took it in stride, listening to what I had to say without making it into a thing. Then he’d offered me a ride home, walked me up to my door, and gave me a very sweet, very platonic kiss on the forehead.
So much for raging passion.
Now it was the next day, and because God is cruel I’d gotten a rush order from a caterer in Bellevue. This was good news financially but bad in terms of production capacity. Fortunately, Randi agreed to help me, and I recruited Mrs. Webbly to keep an eye on Dad.
Things would be groovy once the fucking Tylenol kicked in.
“I think I’m in love,” Randi announced as we started our prep. I blinked at her, wondering what this had to do with making candy. She giggled, the sound grating painfully around the interior of my skull.
This. This is why you shouldn’t go out with Carrie and Margarita. Why do you never learn?
“Again?” I asked, hoping desperately she’d get distracted and shut up.
Randi sighed happily, oblivious to my pain.
“His name is Rome, and he’s perfect,” she said, oblivious to my pain.
“Is he new to Hallies Falls?” I forced myself to ask, reaching for the sugar.
“Yes, I think so,” she replied. “I mean, I don’t really know for sure. We only talked for a couple minutes, but he wanted my phone number. It was at a party over in Omak last weekend. I didn’t hear anything from him, so I figured he was blowing me off, but yesterday afternoon he called and asked me out! We’re supposed to see a movie after he gets off work tonight. Do you think he knows that guy who does work around your building? Rome spends a lot of time with the Nighthawks, and I’ve see Cooper with them, too.”
That broke through my mental fog, and I glanced up at her.
“How old is this boy?” I asked, suspicious.
“Well, I wouldn’t really call him a boy,” she said, giggling. “I mean, that’s part of what I like about him. He’s been around, you know?”
My stomach soured.
“No, I don’t know. Enlighten me.”
“Okay, so he’s maybe four years older than me,” she told me, sighing happily. She was so sweet and earnest that I threw up a little in the back of my throat, choking as I swallowed it back down. (In all fairness, it was probably hangover related. Still, that much perky, youthful enthusiasm is a lot to swallow first thing in the morning.) “He’s got dark brown hair, and he’s all tan from riding his bike, you know? He’s kind of messy and rough, but he got me a drink and sat next to me at the party. We just hung out and laughed and it was really fantastic. I probably would’ve kissed him, but my mom called and asked if I could come home. She had to go into work at the hospital and she needed someone to watch the kids.”
“Huh,” I said, wishing my brain would kick into gear. Usually I felt frustrated with Randi’s mom over stuff like this. The woman had a good job, and it didn’t seem fair that she constantly guilted her oldest daughter into babysitting. When I’d first hired her, Randi had been planning to go to college at Central. Then she’d come in one morning a few months back and told me she’d decided to take online classes instead.
Bullshit.
I still didn’t like her mother very much, but maybe this time it was a good thing she’d dragged her out of the party. I wasn’t so sure about an older guy connected to the Nighthawks.
“I think you need to be careful,” I said, frowning as I pulled a container of heavy cream out of the cooler. “You don’t know anything about him, and we’ve got no idea how dangerous the Nighthawks really are. And yes, I know I hired Cooper, but it’s not like I’m dating him. He’s just another tenant.”
Randi rolled her eyes.
“You don’t understand.”
Oh, I understood a hell of a lot better than she realized, poor kid. She wasn’t the only one stupid enough to fall for a biker’s crap.
The sound of someone pounding on the main shop’s locked door interrupted us, the string of bells ringing painfully. For an instant I thought it was Talia coming to kill me, then I remembered Carrie and Margarita planned to stop by before Margarita left town. Seeing as I’d caught a ride home with Joel, they were probably dying to hear the details.
Randi peered through the kitchen door.
“It’s Carrie and some other lady,” she confirmed. “Are you going to be talking to them for a while?”
“Probably,” I said, head throbbing.
“Then would you mind if I walked down to the gas station and grabbed something to eat? I didn’t get any breakfast this morning.”
So much for getting a jump start on filling the orders. Clearly this wasn’t my weekend.
“Sure,” I told her, giving in to the inevitable. “Take your time. Let them in on your way out.”
Looking over my checklist, I considered all I needed to get done that day. Too much. Way too much for a woman with a hangover.
“You look like hell,” Carrie said brightly, sticking her head through the doorway. I blinked, because she looked fantastic. All perky and happy and obviously full of far more energy than was decent. Margarita stepped past her, holding a cup of coffee out toward me. God, she was even worse—somehow she’d managed to do her hair and full makeup.
“Why aren’t you hungover?” I demanded. “I feel like something a cat coughed out.”
“Vast quantities of caffeine,” Margarita declared. “And vitamin C. You should try it. I’d get an IV if they’d let me. We brought you food, too. Grab a seat.”
“I need to work.”
“You need to eat,” she corrected. “Now sit your ass down. The stove will still be there when you’re done, I promise.”
She and Carrie had already grabbed stools, pulling them up to the center island. I sat across from them, reaching for one of the wrapped sandwiches. I opened it to find pepperoni, prosciutto, and salami, with a heavy mixture of mayo and mustard oozing out the sides like pus.
“I can’t eat this,” I said, gagging as I dropped it.
“That’s mine,” Carrie said, laughing as she handed over a
nother wrapped sandwich. “Yours is a veggie wrap. See? I’m not a total sadist.”
Margarita laughed, opening a meatball sub that smelled like death. I took a bite of my wrap, then set it back down. Yeah. Eating wasn’t gonna happen. Not yet.
“Too soon?” Carrie asked, her voice sympathetic. I nodded mournfully, which hurt my head. When the fuck is that Tylenol going to kick in? “So what happened last night? You and Joel were eye-fucking each other when we left. Please tell me you got laid.”
I considered lying to them.
Telling them that I’d dragged him to some cheap hotel, then had wild monkey sex with him. Something involving handcuffs and whipped cream and a fluffy purple boa.
“He showed me pictures of his kids,” I told them. “He has a daughter about the same age that Tricia would’ve been.”
Carrie and Margarita shot each other a look.
“And?” Carrie asked.
“I ugly cried like a mental case. Then he took me home and kissed me on the forehead.”
They groaned in unison.
“Kiss of death,” Margarita said gravely. “You’ll never hear from him again.”
“Hey, let’s not leap to judgment,” Carrie objected. “Yes, you cried all over him while you were drunk. Obviously that’s a huge turnoff. But you didn’t see how he was watching your ass, Tink. You were looking mighty fuckable last night, which means there’s still hope. He already put in the effort to comfort you while you were sad—I’ll bet he’d be happy to collect his reward. Give him a call.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Way ahead of you,” she said, grinning. “This morning I called Anita Schofner. She lives in Wenatchee these days, works at Bi-Mart. Anyway, Anita is friends with Kirstie Inman, who’s friends with Brandy Soza. She’s Joel’s sister’s hairdresser and she just happened to have his phone number.”