Slater's Claim

by Amber Morgan

  “Give him a break,” Punk said sharply. “You ever tried kicking heroin?”

  “Don't make this her fault,” Slater said.

  Punk stood, rolling his eyes. “Settle down, Lancelot. Let's get out of here and deal with everything else once we've convinced Nash to take in the runaways.” He gave Kayden a gentle nudge. “You can ride with me again. Our white knight here reserves his steed for ladies.”

  Kayden followed him out of the bar, shooting anxious looks back at Freya, who looked like she might either burst into tears or screams of rage any second.

  “He keeps promising he's getting help,” she said, more to herself than Slater. “And he keeps doing nothing.” She hugged herself, face bleak.

  All Slater wanted to do was wrap her in his arms and promise her he'd fix everything. Nobody deserved to shoulder this kind of burden, and Freya was carrying her brother's load all alone, as far as Slater could see. He couldn't promise everything would be okay, not without lying to her. But at least he could make sure she wouldn't face the consequences of her brother's shitty choices alone.

  For now, that would have to be enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The mood in the Wild Blood clubhouse was somber. Part of Nash felt like it always would be now, but the more jaded part of him knew it would pass. Judge would always be missed, his absence always felt, but eventually it would just become normal that he was gone. He could already see it among some of the newest prospects. They flirted with the girls and ribbed each other like nothing was different. Like Judge's passing hadn't left a mark.

  He stared into his beer and told himself he was being unfair. Nobody here owed him their grief.

  “...empty fields, but it is pretty close to the Church's commune. Not sure how you feel about that.”

  Nash blinked, realizing he hadn't heard a word Rattler had said. He refocused, looking up at his new VP. Rattler was frowning at him, but that didn't mean much. “Sorry, what?”

  “The old Heatherton Farm,” Rattler said, spacing out the words as if Nash didn't speak English. “Me and Spook checked it out earlier today, and the buildings are still in good shape.”

  Nash struggled to remember what they'd been talking about. Keeping track of shit had been hard lately. His thoughts were tangled, jumping from Judge to Livi to Roxy to Shelby and back again in an endless, snarled loop. He rubbed his temples, replaying the last ten minutes in his head and coming up blank.

  “Sorry,” he said at last. “You're gonna have to remind me why you're trying to buy a farm, Rattler.”

  Rattler stroked his goatee, making no effort to hide his impatience. “For the fucking fights, Nash. Christ, you need to get back in Shelby's good books.”

  Nash ignored that. His low mood was pretty much nothing to do with Shelby, and if getting laid would fix it, he had plenty of options beside her.

  He dredged his memory and brought the fights to the surface. The club's underground cage fights were a nice money spinner, and the county sheriff tended to look the other way—especially as he was often in the crowd, hurling obscenities and placing bets just like everyone else. The problem was, there weren't many reliable venues they could use in Warren's Mill, not regularly. Canceled fight nights were becoming more and more of a problem. The sheriff might not care, but Warren's Mill PD weren't so kind. They'd been busted several times over the past couple of months. It didn't just cost Wild Blood money, but fighters as well, which made it harder to put on fight nights later down the line.

  Earlier in the year, they'd talked about buying up some land outside of town, an old abandoned farm. The price hadn't been right back then, but having their own property, and a permanent base for the fights, was probably going to be worth the investment in the long run.

  “Right,” Nash said. He pushed his beer away, deciding it wasn't helping anything. “The Church. But it's all quiet on that front now, right?”

  He hadn't thought about the Church of the Serpentine Cross for months. Tanner's Old Lady, Beth, had been a member before she decided forced marriage wasn't for her and fled. There'd been ... some trouble. But with the Church's leader, Abram, dead, it seemed like those troubles were buried.

  “Yeah, sure,” Rattler said, in that frustrating way he had. The way that meant he was lying. “And the price is good, cheaper than it was last time we looked into it. The original owner died a couple years back and his son just wants to get rid of it.”

  “Right,” Nash said. He ought to care, he knew, but real estate was fucking dull at the best of times. He glanced around the room, looking for an escape. He saw Shelby enter the room, coming from upstairs with a brother in tow. She was giggling and wiping her mouth, and when her eyes met Nash's, she made a slow, pointed show of licking her lips.

  No escape. Nash reluctantly turned back to Rattler. “Well, if you and Spook think it's good—”

  The main doors swung open and Punk staggered in, clutching his chest. A skinny kid Nash didn't know followed him, looking stricken. Concerned, Nash leapt up, racing to the bar and reaching it just as Punk collapsed onto a stool and began hammering on the bar.

  “Waitress! A beer for the working man!” he hollered. “And a water for the unemployed bum with me.”

  Annoyance settled Nash's speeding pulse as he realized Punk was dicking around. “What the hell is wrong with you? And who's this?” he added, looking the trembling kid over closer.

  “Only thing wrong with me is I don't have a beer yet.” Punk thumped the bar again, bringing Shelby running, since she was the closest. “Is Slater not back yet? Sorry, Kayden, looks like he stole your sister.”

  The kid, Kayden, shrank in on himself. “He wouldn't—he's not gonna hurt her, is he?”

  “Only with his penis. Actually, scrap that, that sounds way more rapey out loud.” Punk clapped Kayden on the shoulder. “Slater's a good guy, kid. Your sister's safe with him, okay? I just figured they'd be here about the same time as us. They were only a couple of minutes behind.”

  “Shelby, pour me a neat vodka,” Nash said. He had a sudden feeling he was going to need it.

  She obeyed, sliding the glass his way without saying a word. Her pretty face said more than enough, though, her expression stony and cold. He really should straighten things out with her. He liked her plenty, but like was all it was, and that wasn't enough for her. Leaving things hanging didn't sit right with him. As President, he had a duty to everyone under Wild Blood's roof, including the girls.

  But one look at Punk and the scrawny streak of piss he'd dragged in, Nash knew now wasn't the time to deal with Shelby. He waved Rattler over. “You'd better tell me what's going on,” Nash told Punk.

  He knew he wasn't going to like it. But at least he wouldn't have to talk about barns anymore.

  ****

  Half an hour later, Nash thought he'd been wrong. Talking about barns would have been a much better choice. Hell, soothing Shelby's hurt feelings would have been a fucking a-plus choice compared to this.

  They'd moved to a corner table, well out of earshot, although plenty of brothers threw curious looks Kayden's way. Now he'd finished explaining the situation, Punk shifted uncomfortably on his seat, running his finger around the rim of his glass.

  “Don't give me that 'disappointed dad' look,” he said to Nash. “This is basically Slater's fault.”

  “And you're Slater's sponsor,” Nash said sharply.

  “Oh sure, when he does something wrong, he's all my responsibility.”

  “Punk,” Nash said. Just that. He kept his tone deliberately mild.

  It was enough. Punk dropped the mouthy front and leaned across the table, face uncharacteristically earnest. “Look, don't get pissed off at Slater, okay? Whatever the ins and outs of this are, Freya was genuinely terrified of these guys. Slater believes she and Kayden are in real danger, and that's good enough for me.”

  Rattler growled. “Well, I don't know if it's good enough for me. Where the hell is Slater, then?”

  Punk shrugged,
checking his phone. He'd tried Slater a couple of times throughout the conversation with no luck. “He'll show up,” he said, sounding certain despite the worry in his dark eyes.

  Nash leaned back in his chair, resisting the urge to groan as he studied Kayden. The kid rubbed his arms and chewed his dry lips constantly. He couldn't meet anyone's eyes, and right now looked like he might crash out at the table, his eyes fluttering closed, then snapping open again, over and over.

  He was junk-sick, in the early stages of withdrawal. Nash wished he didn't know the signs, but he'd seen heroin addiction up closer before. Punk had too, he knew, which was probably one of the reasons why he empathized with Kayden.

  “How long since your last hit, Kayden?” Nash asked him.

  Kayden shrugged. “Long enough.”

  Nash couldn't blame him for not wanting to share the details with a bunch of strange, angry bikers, but he didn't want Kayden to get to the vomiting stage of withdrawal in the middle of the club either. With the sense that he was stepping into quicksand, he turned to Rattler.

  “Know anywhere we can get methadone at this time of night?”

  Rattler's scowl could have killed lesser men, but to his credit, he rose. “Rigs might know.”

  “Get on it,” Nash said. Once Rattler was gone, he drained his glass of vodka and stood. “You two stay here until Slater shows up,” he said. “Right at this fucking table. Don't move an inch, understand?”

  “Yes, dad,” Punk muttered.

  Kayden said nothing.

  Nash hadn't expected him to. “As soon as Slater gets here, send one of the girls to grab me. I'll be in my office.”

  He didn't wait to hear Punk's smart-ass reply.

  It was a relief to slam his office door shut and block out the world, even if just temporarily. He left the main light off and switched on the desk lamp, filling the room with a soft, low glow. Stretching out in his chair, he flicked the radio on the windowsill on. The husky tones of a late-night talk show host drifted into the room, pushing back the silence without being intrusive.

  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a battered tobacco tin. A joint wouldn't fix anything, but it sure as hell wouldn't hurt.

  He stared at the photos pinned up on the wall. Club life, preserved in snapshots. Barbecues, vintage bikes, a grinning brother sporting a black eye and holding aloft a tin trophy. Nash couldn't remember what the occasion had been, but the picture always made him smile. And in the middle of them, a picture of him with Roxy and Judge. Roxy sat astride Judge's Indian Roadmaster, striking a pose, her unruly curls bronzed by the dazzling sunlight, her smile wide and warm. Judge and Nash had talked nearby, unaware of the camera, looking every inch like they were scheming behind her back.

  And they had been. Nash did remember that occasion. It was last summer and Judge had planned a big surprise party for their wedding anniversary. He'd been waiting to hear from Elena that she could make it back from college in time. Simple shit. Important shit. Family shit.

  Nash had chosen not to forge those kinds of ties all his life, until fate landed him here in Warren's Mill fifteen years ago. It had been impossible to resist the warmth and openness of Judge and Roxy, though. He'd been sucked in. Put down roots and sworn to leave the past where it belonged, no matter how painful that was.

  He thought of the photos he didn't have, of the memories there was no record of. Of Liviana Mancuso and the fucking mess they'd made together.

  He took a deep toke of his joint and tried to banish the thought of her, but she was there now, rising through the mist of memory and sinking her claws into his mind. As if he'd just seen her yesterday. As if the past eight years were nothing at all.

  He should never have asked Slater to look into her. But he'd promised Judge, hadn't he? His gaze drifted back to that photo of them, the usual pang of loss sharpened by resentment.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked Judge's photo. “No, fuck that, what was I thinking?”

  And what if this kid Kayden and his sister were wrapped up in some mob scheme? What then? Nash ran his hands through his long blond hair, eyed his distinctive tattoos. He'd never made an effort to change his appearance. Warren's Mill wasn't exactly an organized crime hotbed. He hadn't worried about being found.

  More fool him.

  There was a timid knock at the door. “Come in,” he said, expecting Punk.

  But it was Shelby, with a bottle of vodka and a glass full of ice in her hands. She bopped the door shut with her hip and gave him a nervous smile that irked him. Yeah, they'd fought, but he hadn't done anything to make her scared of him, had he?

  “Shelby,” he said, trying to shove Judge and Livi from his head. “I didn't ask for a drink.”

  She shrugged. “You looked like you needed one, though. And I ... I don't like it when we fight, Nash.” She held the vodka out, smiling hopefully. “Consider it an olive branch.”

  He took her in, all long legs and pouting lips. She could be catty and needy, but more often than not, she was fun. He could do with some fun right now. Ignoring the vodka, he reached for her, pulling her into his lap. She squealed in pleasure, wrapping her arms round his neck.

  “Are we friends again?” she asked, twirling a lock of his hair around her fingers.

  Instead of answering, he ran his tongue up her throat, then bit down softly, relishing the helpless whimper she gave. She squirmed in his lap, stirring his cock to life. He made one last, superhuman effort to shove Livi from his head.

  “Not yet,” he said. “But we'll work on it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Freya hesitated before getting back on Slater’s bike.

  Slater, already astride and holding his helmet out to her, frowned.

  “You okay?”

  She laughed, scanning the street. It was quiet in this corner of Wakefield, and there was surely no way anyone could have tracked them here, but her mind turned shadows into hitmen, backfiring car engines into gunshots. She wanted nothing more than to hide in the Cactus Club until daybreak, huddled down with Kayden and drinking cocktails while the night passed. The bar felt like a safe haven, especially with Slater there. He seemed so in control, so certain of what was going to happen, it was impossible not to feel comforted.

  But she wasn’t sure hiding out in his biker gang den was going to feel quite as safe. She saw stories in the news all the time about gang violence, turf wars, drug deals gone wrong… And then there was the inescapable fact that Slater worked for Benedict.

  She wanted to trust him. Wanted to cling to him. But how could she when there was still so much she didn’t know about him? She had no idea where his loyalties would lay if it came to the crunch, and he owed her nothing. Well, almost nothing.

  “Freya?” Slater called, breaking her moody reverie. “You ready to go?”

  Well, what choice did she have? Punk had already absconded with Kayden. She nodded, taking the helmet. Then she hesitated again, one leg slung over the back of his bike. The sight of her fishnet-clad leg, capped by a ridiculous high heel, froze her.

  “Your club…” She paused, not sure how to ask without insulting him. “They’re not going to think I’m a hooker, are they?”

  Slater twisted around to look at her, his face solemn in the glow of the bar lights. “It is a risk,” he said. “My brothers … they’re sex fiends. Animals. It’s wild in there, Freya, I’ll be honest with you. Taking a beautiful young woman like you in there is like taking a virgin to dragons.”

  She gaped at him, completely at a loss as to whether to take him seriously.

  “Luckily for you,” he continued, “I’m a knight in training, ready, willing, and more than able to protect you from the fierce onslaught of sexual demands and obscenities you’re going to encounter.”

  She went cold, then hot with indignation when he smirked at her. She slapped his shoulder, her hand bouncing off his leather cut. “Be serious. Look at me! I’m dressed like … like a stripper, and I’ve already had one man think I’m f
or sale tonight. You don’t think I know about MCs? I’m not walking into some sex party—”

  “Freya.” He stopped her, raising his hand. “I wouldn’t take you anywhere you wouldn’t be safe. Yes, there are girls at the club who are there for sex and not much else, but you’re not one of them, and I’ll put straight anyone who thinks otherwise. My brothers are good men. You don’t need to be worried, okay?”

  She bit her lip, worried anyway, then settled herself properly onto the bike. Her short skirt and fishnets offered her no padding or protection, but she’d found on the ride here that she didn’t mind that. The throb and purr of the engine was embarrassingly delicious, and the chill of the night air contrasted sweetly with the heat of the bike. She wrapped her arms around Slater’s waist and pressed her cheek to his back, inhaling the scent of old leather and woody musk. Something else she’d learnt on the ride here—she really liked the way he smelt.

  She really liked a lot of things about him. Why couldn’t he be a doctor or a lawyer instead of a biker with possible Mafia connections? The universe was cruel. She sighed, the sound lost in a rush of air as he gunned the engine and they shot away.

  Wakefield soon vanished in a smear of streetlights as Slater wove in and out of the thin traffic. A thrill ran through Freya as the bike dipped and dodged, a reckless sense of excitement chasing away the stress and exhaustion of the night. She rested her cheek against Slater’s back and watched the city zip by, giving way to silent, dark country roads as they headed toward Warren’s Mill.

  Suddenly, she felt the tension in her chest loosening. Out here, surrounded by fields and not much else, there was a freedom she hadn’t realized she’d been seeking. The bike roared as Slater sped up, and Freya was gripped by the fancy that they were driving into the future, leaving behind all the turmoil she’d been living in for the past few months. With the night wind whipping her bare skin and the heat of Slater’s body against hers, she could almost taste the hopes and plans that Kayden had shredded.