“No, of course not. I was expectin’ push-back from the two or three older guys and some of the more fringe members. Guys who were loyal as hell to Wheels.” Wolf exhaled, hard. “I just didn’t expect things to drag on this long.”
“What’s really going on, Wolf? Spit it out.”
“Lots of members leavin’,” Wolf said quietly. “Last month, one guy – Dawson – started a whole new club behind my back and took over a dozen guys with him. Fuckin’ blindsided me, baby girl. Never saw it comin’ at all.”
That shocked Zoe, and she sat up straighter, not even pissed that Wolf had waited until she was here in person to tell her this part: this was a big goddamn deal, the kind of info that was passed on by the President, not anyone else.
Leaving an MC after being patched in was a major thing… an unthinkable thing. There were ways out, of course, though they were so hardcore that none were worth thinking about seriously. But just taking off and starting a splinter club without permission or warning? Fucking unheard of. And she’d heard and seen plenty about these MC boys.
“You’re kidding me,” she said, indignant for him. “What an asshole.”
“Yeah, well.” Wolf shrugged again. “It’s done now. They just picked up all the dirty contracts and clients that I’d dumped, so money’s no major issue for them, and all the parties involved know each other.”
“Is Jensen involved with the new club?”
“Yeah, of course.” Wolf stared at her, intense and angry. “That fucker’s involved with everythin’, Zee. Same as when you left.”
Zoe nodded. Kirk Jensen was without a doubt the dirtiest and most dangerous man in Denver – he was also one of the smartest, which is how he killed people, and trafficked drugs, and ran sex rings without serving even one minute of jail time. Wolf’s decision to sever all ties with Jensen a year before had been a bold, brave move… but no way it had been an overwhelmingly popular one.
“Is there trouble between you and the new club?” she asked him.
“Nah, no trouble. Bad blood, for sure, but they leave us alone.” He sighed. “They’re busy, you know, settin’ up new contracts and expanding. They ain’t got time to come around here and cause shit.”
“You got Dawson’s word on that?”
“Yeah. He sent a message through Ice. He ain’t interested in any back-and-forth with attacks, and payback and more payback. He wants to focus on building up the business and growin’ the club.”
“So this guy Ice is with them now? He left you to join Dawson?”
“No way. Dawson asked him to go, but Ice told him to fuck right off. He’s loyal.”
“So your major problem at the moment is – what?”
“Lack of warm bodies,” Wolf said, waving his hands around the tattoo studio. “The guy that I had runnin’ this place did go off with Dawson, and now I’m stuck with no decent manager that I can trust to play by the rules. That’s where you come in.”
Zoe leaned back, and surveyed her oldest and dearest friend. Yeah, here it was: the reason that she’d hauled ass across three states in her beaten-up Volkswagen that was practically being held together with packing tape. Wolf had a job for her, and even though the money was right, nothing else was.
“So.” Zoe looked around, noted the clean and professional surroundings. “I’d be an employee of Blue Dragon Ink?”
“Yeah.”
“And the tattoo parlor is one-hundred-percent owned by the Road Devils?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, in effect, I’d be working for the MC. For you.”
“Right.”
“I’d be back into it. The life.”
He paused. “Yeah. In some ways.”
She fell silent again and this time, Wolf let the silence go on. He knew she was fighting every instinct in her body to put as many miles of highway between the Road Devils and herself as humanly possible, and Wolf didn’t blame her. She’d barely gotten away from the club in one piece six years earlier, so he understood that she wasn’t in a big old rush to hand her whole life back to them, even if Wolf was in charge. He’d have to win her trust, however the hell she needed him to do that.
Her stunning eyes were narrowed at him. “Convince me that you and your boys are on the up-and-up now. That the club isn’t the same as I remember it. That you’ve turned your backs on the one-percenter lifestyle for real and for good.”
Wolf nodded. “How?”
“You earning money on your three businesses only, and you got the accounting to back the numbers up? You paying taxes? You got employee contracts for here and the bar and the garage? You got papers proving that you own this property? You got suppliers that aren’t being threatened, and are being paid on time?”
“Yes to all of it.”
“Show me.” Her blonde hair fell forward over her shoulders again, warm and loose. “Show me all you’ve got to prove to me that you’re legit and legal.”
“You want to call the suppliers personally?”
“Yeah. And show me their invoices, proof of payment, agreements.”
“You got it. What else?”
“Wolf…”
“Yeah?”
“I’d be safe? We both would?”
She asked these last two questions in a hushed, hesitant voice that was so unlike her usual ballsy confidence, it almost killed him. Wolf knew that for all her blustering about taxes and invoices, this was the real issue. He’d never forget finding Zoe tied up and gagged in that bar back room, naked and helpless and surrounded by his own brothers, most of who had their dicks out, just waiting for their turn. Wolf had barely gotten her out and away; thank Christ he’d been in time.
Just in time.
“Yes.” His rough voice was gentle now, his hard eyes soft. “I promise you, baby girl… you’d both be safe here. Nobody in the club is gonna lay a fuckin’ finger on you. I got my boys under control, and nobody in-house is questioning my Presidency. Dawson and his merry band of idiots have no interest in anything but establishin’ themselves – and they have a hard job, believe me. I’d never have asked you to come back if I thought for one second that anything bad would or could happen to you or Keira.”
She stared up at him, really looking at him. They’d known each other for twenty-two years now – since Wolf was thirteen and Zoe was ten – and she knew his every expression, every twitch, every tone. No way he could lie to her, and fuck if he wanted to. She was the one constant in his life, and they’d pulled each other through raging rivers of hell. It was a weird thought, but she was his best friend, his family. He’d never let her down. Not again.
“OK,” she said softly.
“Anythin’ else, Zee?”
“That’ll do for now.” She stood up, peeled off her jean jacket. Wolf eyed her full breasts in her tank top with automatic male appreciation, and she huffed at him. “Eyes off the girls, Connor.”
“Sorry.” He grinned, charming as hell, decided to tease her a bit now that some of the tension had passed. “Can’t help it. You’re a hot piece.”
“Urgh. Really?” Zoe put her hands on her curvy hips, and he grinned again at the endearingly familiar stance: she was raring up to hand him his balls, just like she’d done for the past two decades. “You fucking sexist dickhead. Call me that again and I’ll call you nothing but ‘Calvin’ and I’ll make a point of doing it in front of the guys and your slavering hordes of women.”
He shuddered at his civilian name that he’d tried hard to forget. Who the hell named their kid ‘Calvin Connor’? “Fuck. OK, deal. No more comments aloud about your sexiness. I’ll just keep my thoughts to myself.”
“Good plan. You’ll live longer. Now, you get me what I asked for, and then you beat it. I’ll take a few hours, check things out, and we’ll talk again after.”
“OK.” Wolf headed to the back office. “Gimme twenty minutes to sort it all out. The coffee’s fresh, so help yourself. And I’ll get Rebel to make you some breakfast, yeah?”
“Oh, ye
ah. Thanks.”
Zoe poured a large cup of Wolf’s usual industrial-strength coffee, and took a grateful sip. Sleep was a hard-to-come-by luxury in her life, and caffeine was her fuel. She’d almost decided that she liked it black by now, though she suspected that sleep-deprivation may just have dulled her taste buds.
She wandered over to the large front window of Blue Dragon Ink, and stared out at the parking lot. It was still pretty empty, and no big surprise: the only other businesses around here were Satan’s Bar and The Garage, both owned by the Road Devils. The garage was doing a full inventory, and so was closed that day, and the bar was open at noon to the general public. Of course, it was open 24/7 for Road Devils members, but she doubted that many of them would be around at ten a.m. on a Friday.
She sighed, wondering just what the hell had possessed her to let Wolf talk her into this insanity. Because if Zoe was being honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she was really, truly considering coming back; even after it all and what she’d gone through to get away, she wanted to come back. Wolf Connor was the only man from the group of asshole MC members that she’d even listen to about coming back.
Yeah, he was a lot of things, and she knew just how many bodies he’d put in the ground. But he was like her brother, for all of that, and despite the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in years, and he’d never put her in the line of fire. He’d die before he’d let her get hurt again. She’d never forget the rage on his face when he saw her tied up on that table – or how tenderly he’d wrapped his own shirt around her shaking body, and held her as she’d wept. If he was telling her that Blue Dragon Ink was legit and she was safe, it was, and she was.
And so standing in the blazing sunlight, clutching her coffee, Zoe finally faced facts: she needed this. She needed what Wolf was offering her. Life in North Dakota wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything close to great, either.
Her current job at the tattoo parlor barely covered her expenses, and now that she had Keira, she was struggling. Like, really struggling. The money she’d earn in Denver was more than double what she was making in Fargo, and even though the cost of living was higher here, she’d easily be able to afford a small apartment, and her car payments, and food and clothes for a growing baby. She could make a go of it, for real. Life could and would be better, and she owed it to Keira to give her this. Fuck, Zoe deserved a break too, didn’t she? Just a little one?
And she could handle being around the Road Devils again, couldn’t she? Besides Wolf, she’d limit contact with them almost completely – stay at the tattoo studio most of the time and deal with her employees, maybe drop by the bar for a beer once a month, just to say hi to the guys. Be friendly, be polite, but be unavailable for anything more than tattoos, and the occasional game of pool. No need to become best buddies with any of them; definitely no need to get involved with any of them. No good ever came from that, God knows.
So basically she was acting like a bratty kid sister, and just fucking with Wolf, asking for the papers and playing coy. The truth was that her mind was almost made up.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding, huh? I’m coming back to Denver. This is home, and it always has been.
Chapter Two
Scars Innis groaned as his cell vibrated on the hotel bedside table. He cracked one eye open, grimaced at the time.
Fucking ten o’clock. Really?
He stretched out one hand, and fumbled with the phone, cursing at the dull, dusty pounding in his head. Yeah, he was hungover. Again.
“What?” he ground out, his voice rough. “What?”
“Vic?”
Scars fell back on the bed, his muscular forearm covering his blue eyes against the bright late-spring sun. “Sam.”
“You OK?”
“I’m fucking sleeping, man.”
“It’s ten o’clock.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been up since five, right, Doctor Innis? Saving lives, and being generally awesome?”
“Actually, I haven’t been to bed yet. I’m just leaving the hospital. There was a bad car accident last night, and I pulled a double shift. Nine people died.” Sam paused. “Including a family. Two young kids.”
Scars sighed. “Fuck, Sam. I’m sorry. You doing alright?”
His brother gave a shaky laugh, and right away, Scars’ body tightened up. He knew that laugh: it was Sam’s poor attempt to cover up bottomless pits of hurt and helplessness. The accident would have thrown Sam back twenty-three years, to that horrible rainy night when their parents were killed. Watching those people die right in front of him would have just ripped scabs off old wounds; Scars was certain that his brother had fought like hell to keep those people alive, and the fact that he’d lost them would pierce him deep.
He imagined Sam in his scrubs, his dark eyes deceptively calm behind his glasses, his hands covered with the blood of strangers. He’d have intubated, and sliced, and sewn, and done CPR, and performed surgeries… and in the end, nobody had lived to see the sunrise. Talk about fucking devastating.
“Sam?” Scars’ voice was gentler now. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I’m OK. I’m just – I’ll be better after I get some sleep.” He paused again. “I’m sorry I woke you up… I just needed to talk to you. To hear your voice.”
“It’s fine, man. I’m sorry I shouted at you.”
“Where are you, Vic?”
Scars flinched at the use of his civilian name, but then again, nobody on the whole planet called him that except his kid brother, so he’d take it from him.
“Not in Denver.” Scars shifted his large body on the bed, winced as his stomach heaved a bit. “Club business.”
“I see.” Sam’s voice was flat. “You’ll be back soon?”
“By tomorrow night. You want to meet up? Hang out a bit?”
“Coffee sounds good.”
Scars wished that Sam had said ‘beer’, but for his brother, he’d do coffee. Not before noon, though. Lines had to be drawn somewhere.
“Yeah, OK. Coffee it is.” Scars sat up carefully, wondering if he could handle coffee now, decided to go for it. “Sunday afternoon?”
“Yeah. Call me when you get back.”
“I will.”
“Vic?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re being careful, right?”
“Sam, I’ve told you a thousand times: the club’s out of all that shady shit now. I’m not doing anything that any other businessman wouldn’t do.”
“So what are you doing?”
“I’m meeting with alcohol suppliers for the bar.”
Sam was silent. “Really?”
“Yeah. Wolf’s unhappy with some of our current suppliers’ delivery times, and he asked me to find a few alternatives.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Scars swung his legs over the side of the bed, waited for his head to stop spinning. “It’s all above-board now, I swear to you. Wolf has completely changed the club, and we’re all better off for it.”
“OK.” Sam sighed. “I’m at my car now, so I’ve got to go. Call me, yeah? And be safe?”
“I will. To both things. Go get some rest.”
“I will.”
Scars disconnected and threw the phone on the mattress. He knew he should get some more sleep, but he was one of those people that when he was awake, he was awake. Still, though – he hadn’t hit the bed until five o’clock, and he could definitely use another three hours.
He got to his feet, ambled over to the coffee machine. He puzzled over the fucking knobs and buttons for a while – fancy-ass shit in this hotel, man – and after consulting the goddamn instructions, he finally figured out that the capsule thing went inside the top. He shut the lid, gingerly pressed a few buttons, remembered to actually stick the damn cup under the spout just in time. He was gratified when the coffee started to pour and he inhaled, starting to feel semi-human again.
As he waited for the coffee to finish, he hit the bathroom. He used the toilet, sta
red at himself in the mirror. Yeah, he looked pretty bad: his brown hair was standing up on end, his blue eyes were tired and bloodshot. And that was all before you considered the long, shiny scars on his face, hands, forearms and chest.
He went back into the main area, and grabbed the cup of coffee. He took a huge gulp, then another, wondered if he was up to opening the blinds. He knew it was another clear and bright May day out there, sunny and a bit cool. Perfect weather for riding his motorcycle – but with sunglasses, of course. His hangover needed to be placated by shades.
His mind wandered back to the night before. He’d ended up in some dive bar on the side of the highway that reminded him of his second-favorite Denver bar, Dangerous Curves, in some ways. It had been full of questionable types, which he liked just fine, seeing as he was one such type himself, and easy women, which he didn’t like nearly as much.
The problem was that easy women liked him plenty. He got the attraction, he really did: the ladies went for large, muscular, scowling bikers with big hands, and lots of tattoos. If they weren’t repulsed by his scars, then they found them a turn-on. They usually imagined that he’d gotten them in some badass MC-related event, and Scars never bothered to correct them. It was none of their fucking business, anyway.
No, one-nighters had never been his thing, surprisingly. Scars was a one-woman kind of man, and the trouble was that his sort-of-chosen lifestyle made it hard to find a one-man kind of woman. Oh, sure, he’d had some girlfriends. Even serious ones. But there had been nobody since Rachel, and she’d dumped him more than a year ago.
Scars thought about Rachel for a few seconds, wondered if she’d found what she’d wanted with her new guy. Scars had tried hard to be everything that she’d needed, but he just couldn’t go all the way… hell was going to freeze over before he tied up and hit a woman in the bedroom, or anywhere else. Even if she had begged him to do it.
He shook his head, drank some more coffee. Maybe it was time to give it another shot on the woman front. God knows, he was ready to get laid again, and he also wouldn’t mind having someone around in the mornings. He liked making more than one cup of coffee, liked showering with a woman, liked having someone to call during the day. Now that all this shit with Dawson and the new club had started to settle down, maybe Scars would focus on his personal life once more.
Solid Gold (Unseen Enemy Book 8) Page 21