Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5)

by Rayne, Sara

  "Well, this looks seven kinds of shady," Crash said.

  "I had this weird—obviously false—hope that the cryptic midnight text messages would stop once we were through Revelation." Fetch sighed.

  Pretty Boy cocked his head at Shep. He hadn't seen him since they had given the prize fight money to Etta last night. She had hugged him tight, tears of gratitude welling in her eyes as she told him he had probably saved that kid's—Manson’s son—life. The look on Shep's face as he hugged her back. The VP wasn’t rich—he lived off the money remaining from his dad’s estate and kick-backs from the Horsemen businesses for his officer position—but unbeknownst to Etta, he had thrown in an extra $5K from his own personal funds. Another reminder of why Shep was too good for him. "What's up, VP?"

  "We're breaking into Beauregard's tonight, using the cover of th Ie rally. Hopefully his guard will be down. Then we'll get back Eddie's gun." Shep lit a smoke.

  "So we can put that fucking asshole down," Axel added.

  Pretty Boy grinned. "I'm so down. How can I help?"

  "You get to be the distraction." Duke smirked.

  He nearly choked. "How the fuck am I supposed to do that?"

  "By getting caught."

  Mostly Pretty Boy thought of Duke as a big, mean-ass motherfucker and left it at that. His eyes drifted to the Pale Rider patch on Duke's cut. He knew better than to poke a bear twice his size.

  Which is why he controlled his tone as he gritted out, "You're fucking with me, right?"

  Duke and Shep exchanged a look. Shep leaned forward. "We're getting caught. And while they're occupied with our asses, Duke can come in the back and get the gun."

  “We still have to find the body of the FBI agent, but the gun is the strongest connection to Eddie, so it comes first,” Duke added.

  It was the last night of the rally, and everyone else was at the Crossroad Crows concert. But they were here discussing this insane-as-shit idea to get Eddie's ass out of the fryer with Beauregard.

  If it had been for anyone else, he wouldn't be about to agree to this.

  "You really think that's going to work?" Pretty Boy's mouth went dry.

  "It's for Eddie. We're going to find out," Shep answered firmly. "You in or not?"

  He swallowed, eyes locked on Shep. He couldn't let him down. No matter how fucking stupid this shit was. Or that the last time he'd let Beauregard lay hands on him, he'd ended up in a hospital. "I'm in."

  He looked away from the speculative glance of Crash and Dash, feeling a blush creep us his neck like he was some damned teenager.

  "Fetch, grab a cage from Seventh Circle. You got our ride out of there when we get free. Crash and Dash, you're on extraction. Duke's sole purpose is getting out of there with the gun—ours is letting him do his job. Got it?"

  "Yes, Shep!" The unison shout was automatic.

  "And guys? You don't have to do that anymore. You're full members now."

  "Yes, Shep!"

  He shook his head and stalked off.

  "Dude," Crash snickered as he put a hand on his shoulder. "Not sure what was funnier, his face when we do that or yours when he said you had to get caught!"

  Getting caught sucked just as much as he had imagined. Smashing the skylight with a hammer like a nube and stomping down the hall like his feet were made of elephants was humiliating enough, without having to take a dive during the fight. Pretty Boy glared at Shep. The VP half shrugged, a smirk sliding across his face like, the fuck you want me to do about it?

  The thug holding him shoved him face-first into the floor, wrapping cold cuffs around his wrist. At least the carpet felt soft on his face. He sighed. There was a dual snap as they clicked a pair on Shep, too. "Stay. Good dog."

  He looked around—they were in what looked like the main office, where the gun and safe were supposed to be. Which meant if Duke wasn’t camouflaged behind the curtains right now, they’d failed their mission.

  The doors of the richly decorated office opened wide and Byron Beauregard the Bastard strolled into the room. "Ah boys, there you are! We've been expecting you since we ran into your pal Duke earlier."

  Pretty Boy felt a growl building his chest. All this and they hadn't even gotten the drop on the smug asshole?

  Dressed in a spectacularly tailored tux, he had slicked his blond hair straight back. His tie was undone, bleach white shirt a little ruffled. He slipped his jacket off, hanging it on a brass hook on the wall, removed his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves above his wrists. As he finished and looked at Shep, Beauregard's smile smacked of sinister. "Better call your guard dog off, Shep. That boy's trying to murder me with his eyes. He might do something stupid."

  A muscle worked in Shep's jaw, and he shot a sideways glance at Pretty Boy.

  No fucking way. He wants me to bow to this motherfucker?

  Shep turned to look at him straight in the eyes, the message clear—fall in line.

  He gritted his teeth and relaxed his shoulders. Not like he could do a whole lot about this situation with both hands cuffed behind his back anyway.

  Beauregard watched them with avid interest. When Shep looked away, satisfied that Pretty Boy was going to behave—'for now' understood—Beauregard's eyes held a malicious gleam. He strolled over to his sidebar and poured himself three fingers of bourbon from a crystal decanter, then removed a thin cigar from a polished oak box. He clipped it and shallowly dipped the end in the booze, before lighting it. He blew a few smoke rings into the air, his silhouette lit by the lamps behind him.

  The last time he’d gotten this close to Beauregard, there had been a few too many fists in his face for him to give it much attention before, but now Pretty Boy could kind of see that whole 'sold-his-soul-to-the-devil' thing everyone kept talking about. Of course, seemed more likely at this moment that Beauregard was the slick-tongued demon waiting at the crossroads.

  "What do you want?" Shep asked, voice low and hoarse.

  "You know, Shep," Beauregard said, gesturing at him with his cigar. "I thought we'd buried hatchets, you and I. And now, here you are, breaking into my office building for something that Duke was never going to find in this safe."

  Pretty Boy could see how hard Shep had just swallowed.

  "Blackmailing Eddie is a sure way to bury something. Just ain't a hatchet," Shep told him.

  "Mmm-hmmm." Beauregard puffed on his cigar a few more times, blowing the smoke contemplatively at the ceiling. He took a sip from his glass. "You know what the problem is with you, Shep?"

  "Enlighten me."

  Pretty Boy bit back a smile at Shep's tone. For all the Shep had told him to cool it a few minutes ago, his usually diplomatic demeanor was sorely failing him.

  "The problem is, I can't kill you." He frowned as he flicked the ashes off the cigar into a glass tray. "You're the lynchpin of this little group. Don't even fucking matter who's Prez, if you're not on board."

  Shep's chin lifted, but he remained silent.

  "Look at this kid, here." Beauregard tilted his head toward Pretty Boy. "He'd tear my throat out with his bare teeth if he could. But he's not even trying. Because of you. That's why you're special."

  "Gee, thanks," Shep said dryly.

  "So, my options are bring you to heel—or get you removed from your position of favor." His smile chilled. He took another sip of bourbon and wet his lips. "Now, I'd like to talk about that little secret of yours and I imagine it'd be a might more comfortable for you if my associates left the room. But I'm going to need your word that you won't do anything…impolite."

  Shep's shoulders bunched, his jaw pulsing with anger. Pretty Boy could feel the fuck you rolling off the biker. But then, he slowly blew out a breath. "You have my word."

  "We're just going to sit here and take it?" Pretty Boy hissed before he could help himself. Shep shot him a glare over his shoulder.

  Beauregard put a finger to his lips. "Hush. The adults are talking."

  "They can go. We'll behave." Shep's dry was broken and hoarse.

>   The sharp sound stung Pretty Boy's ears. He swallowed hard and nodded once. What could Beauregard possibly have on …?

  Beauregard's thugs left the room, the door whispering shut behind them. "That's better isn't it? Only the parties involved present? Much more intimate."

  That fuck you tic was back in Shep's jaw. "What do you want?"

  "I wanted to have a little chat about your boy, here."He could feel Beauregard's gaze like a serpent sliding into his boot. Oh. It's me. I'm what he has on Shep.

  Fuck.

  He tried to apologize with his eyes as the realization washed over him. This was all his fault. Again.

  Beauregard picked a manila folder up off his desk. He fanned the thick pages within and clucked his tongue. "My, my, Shep. Public indecency from a man who was going to be a pastor. Whatever will the papers say?"

  He snagged three thick, glossy pages and scattered them at Shep's feet. Pretty Boy leaned wide to take a look. Pictures.

  Damn.

  "How did you get these?" Shep growled.

  Beauregard smiled wide, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. "Well, after I saw the way you two were eye-fucking each other the night his trailer exploded, I just got curious. Now, don't you worry—I took those myself. This can all stay in this room."

  "You're a sick son of a bitch, you know that?" Shep shook his head.

  "As a matter of fact, I do,” he said with a shrug. “But c'mon, Shep. You made it easy for me. Or did you think no one could see you smack dab in the middle of the trailer-park?" He spun one of his desk chairs in front of Shep and straddled it, hands folded neatly over the backrest. He raised a blond brow. "Middle of the night, thunderstorm or no—you get that you're not invisible, right?"

  Biting his tongue made Pretty Boy's jaw ache.

  Beauregard sighed. "But love makes a man a helluva mess, don’t you think?"

  Love? The word made something in Pretty Boy's chest catch. The gangster thought Shep was in love with …

  Beauregard reached behind his back and pulled his Colt 45 from his waistband. He cocked it and pressed the barrel to Pretty Boy's temple, cool metal kissing his heated skin. His stomach dropped to the floor as his heart accelerated into overdrive. The bastard was just going to kill him right here on his expensive-ass rug?

  Shep lurched halfway to his feet, eyes wide, mouth twisted in a snarl.

  "Back off or I shoot," Beauregard growled lowly.

  Shep hit his knees.

  Beauregard smoothly tucked the gun back in his waistband and turned to look at Shep. "I do appreciate the illustration of my point. You see, if I killed this man, you'd never stop coming for me, would you, Shep? No, I'd be looking over my shoulder till you were dead. And that's not how I want this partnership to work out."

  Shep repeated, softly, "What do you want?"

  "Well, for starters, this whole breaking into my shit to get Eddie's gun back is going to stop. Then you and I can talk about you helping the rest of your club come to terms with a long-term monogamous relationship with me." Beauregard blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. He raised a hand as if anticipating protests. "Of course, I'd never ask you to put your guys in harm's way, I know that's a deal breaker. Though I would expect a heads up if harm were coming my way."

  Pretty Boy stared at Shep. Shepherd—a traitor? No fucking way in hell. But then …

  "Unless you think your club is okay with your, uh, 'extra-curricular' activities?" The bastard smirked. "What about your sponsor, Duke? Think he'll burn off your tatts when they kick you out? Don't you people do that shit when you disown a brother?" His lip curled.

  Shep's hands shook a little behind his back and Pretty Boy heard him swallow. The amount of hate in his face as he stared at Beauregard was breathtaking.

  Undaunted, the Mafioso spread his arms wide. "You see, Shep, the only way for you to continue being a part of your little motorcycle enthusiasts club, is by getting in bed with me."

  Pretty Boy nearly choked.

  Beauregard laughed, the rich, whiskey sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Relax, son, that was just a colorful turn of phrase. You just aren’t my type. No offense intended."

  "You're expecting an answer right now?" Shep asked tightly. His raw voice seemed to loud in the quiet room.

  "Shep, you can't do this," Pretty Boy whispered.

  "I don't recall asking your opinion," he answered softly.

  "You can't. Not because of … I ain't worth …"

  Beauregard grinned wider. "What's this? Relationship troubles?"

  Pretty Boy snarled, "Mind your own, man."

  "This is rather inconvenient, gentlemen. While it is in my best interests for your sordid, little drama to play out as long as possible, I simply don't have the time to delicately finesse this shit along." Beauregard sighed. He palmed the pistol again. "Allow me to expedite matters. I'm going to have my guys drop you about an hour outside of town. Between that long walk, and the ride in the trunk, I trust you'll have time to work out your issues." He raised a brow. “Just consider me your therapist[O2] .”

  Pretty Boy growled, frustration aching in his muscles. Shep's mouth was shut tight.

  "But just to demonstrate how I treat my business partners, I'm going to do you two lovebirds a favor." He leveled the gun at Pretty Boy, then slowly swiveled to train it on Shep. He cocked it back, finger poised on the trigger. "You or him. Choose now."

  "Me!" They shouted in unison.

  Beauregard stood, twirling the pistol like some mockery of a western gunslinger. "Take my advice. That gut-wrenching, involuntary reaction you each just had? Start there when you get to talking. You've got twenty-four hours, Shep. If I haven't heard from you … if I were you, I wouldn't bet that I'm bluffing, understand?"

  Shep nodded, his face drawn, angry and…resigned. God, Pretty Boy hated Beauregard. "Understood."

  "Now, I've kept my uninvited guest waiting long enough. If you want Duke to leave here in one piece, you won't give my guys any trouble on the way out. Here's my number when you come to your senses." He tucked a card with seven numbers on it and nothing else into Pretty Boy's shirt pocket, then he stood and crossed to the door. "Have a real good evening, boys. Enjoy the fresh air."

  "Motherfucker!" Shep cursed.

  Amen, brother.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Being a Horsemen is forever.

  ~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

  * * *

  Pretty Boy darted glances at Shep as they walked down the moonlit road. "Shep …"

  "Don't. Just don't." Shep sighed. "Keep walking."

  Pretty Boy swallowed. Shep was all up in his head right now and Pretty Boy would love to get a peek at what was going on in there. But that would happen when Shep was damn good and ready, and Pretty Boy knew that.

  Beauregard had ordered them dropped off a good thirty miles outside of Hell, in the middle of bum-fucked nowhere. When they finally reached a town, Shep walked into the first 7-11 he saw. He grabbed two bottles of water, two power bars, two packs of smokes and a box of lubricated condoms. Pretty Boy tripped over his own feet and faked a coughing fit. The guy behind the counter clearly thought he was just giving Shep shit, but truthfully his brain was having trouble processing what precisely this purchase meant.

  There was a motel across the street and Shep headed straight forward without a word. He came back out of the office with one room key and waved at Pretty Boy to follow. As he tried to get the swipe card to read correctly, Pretty Boy cleared his throat. "Shep, you've got to talk to me. I’m so sorry—"

  The door swung open and Shep turned to face him. "Shut up and get in the damn room."

  "Yes, sir." Pretty Boy shook. Shep had to be supernova pissed at him right now, but the heat in his eyes hinted at more than anger.

  He blinked at the dimness of the room. But as his eyes adjusted to seeing by the light emanating from behind the mustard yellow curtain, he could make out neutral colors and blah beige everywhere. The oldest TV known to man. Faux wood paneli
ng.

  And one king-sized bed.

  The door thunked closed and the deadbolt snapped into place with a loud clink. Shep grabbed a bottle of water, dropped his bag on the floor and faced him. Pretty Boy wet his lips. Shep chugged back half the bottle and wordlessly handed it to him. He leaned back against the closed door and gulped it down.

  Shep moved in close to him with purpose, his lips dropping to Pretty Boy's throat to trace the movements of his swallows.

  Pretty Boy made a strangled sound, nearly choking as his knees wobbled. The heat rolling through him ratcheted up another notch. "What are you doing? I thought you were pissed."

  "I'm furious," Shep breathed hotly in his ear. He placed the long line of his forearm across Pretty Boy's collar bone, pinning him to the door. "Because I just figured out what the fuck's been going on."

  Pretty Boy bit his lip, trying to maintain any kind of composure until he knew what this was. "And what's that?"

  "You think I haven't touched you," Shep said, voice rough and deep, "Because I don't think you're worth it. That's my fault."

  Pretty Boy groaned as Shep ground their hips together in a slow, rolling rotation. "You don't have to lie to me, Shep. I know what I am."

  "No, you don't." Shep shoved his arm against his chest. "But I'm going to show you."

  Shep's mouth slanted down over his, his tongue thrusting slick and deep. Pretty Boy's hands clamped down on Shep's hips. He opened up, savoring the luscious slide of Shep's mouth sweeping across his. He groaned and broke away. "We…but…what are you going to do about Beauregard?"

  "Right now, I want you more than I want to kick his teeth in," Shep groaned in his ear as their bodies moved against each other. "Tomorrow, I'm going to tell the truth and shame the devil. And tonight, unless you tell me no, I'm going to have this." He punctuated his last word with a sinful roll of his hips. "I don't deserve it, but I want it. And I'm not strong enough to say no for the both of us right now."