“I need a minute to catch my breath. It’s not every day someone yanks me out of bed, holds a knife to my throat, and then shoves me into the middle of a biker brawl.”
But Jagger didn’t stop, didn’t speak. Nor did he slow down. Instead, he increased his pace until she was almost running behind him.
“Why didn’t you just let me go last night? You must have known something like this would happen.”
Her outburst was purely rhetorical, a vent for her adrenaline-enhanced anger and fear. In her experience, men with Jagger’s power rarely explained their actions, and when they did, it wasn’t because they’d been asked. So when he slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder at her, she was unprepared for his concession.
“It had to go to a vote. Otherwise, I’d be dealing with accusations that I wasn’t prepared to take your life if the vote swung that way. I couldn’t risk dissension in the club, nor did I want an entire MC of outlaw vigilantes bent on revenge hunting you down.”
Arianne stopped in her tracks, forcing Jagger to slow and release her wrist. “So you were prepared to kill me for something I didn’t do? You took a gamble with my life? What if you didn’t have surveillance tapes? What if they’d agreed with Axle?”
A spasm of irritation crossed Jagger’s face and Arianne kicked herself for going too far. Why couldn’t she rein herself in around him? She would never even have contemplated speaking to Viper this way, and from what she’d seen in her brief time with the Sinner’s Tribe, Jagger was more than Viper’s equal.
“I know my men. You weren’t at risk. None of them would hurt a woman.”
Unlike the Black Jacks. By the time she’d turned sixteen, even her father realized it wasn’t safe for Arianne to be around the Jacks, despite the wall separating the clubhouse from their family home. But it had taken the biggest gamble of her life before he allowed her to move out, and even then he’d restricted her to Conundrum proper. She was a born a Black Jack, and he expected her to carry out her duties as a Black Jack whenever he called. But more than that, she belonged to him—his blood, his property—and there was no way Viper would ever let her go.
And yet she’d tried to run away—whether out of stubbornness, desperation, hope, or stupidity, she’d tried again and again. He’d caught her every time, and met her defiance with swift and brutal punishment.
“What about Axle?” She gestured toward the house. “What about the men who slapped me around and took me down to you at knifepoint? Weren’t they your men? Did they not share your beliefs? Did you not patch them in?” Her throat constricted, and for a second she lost control of the fear she had been holding at bay. A violent tremble shook her body and she folded her arms to hide her shaking hands.
Jagger firmly clasped her shoulders, drawing her forward, his eyes intent. She tensed, prepared for his anger. Viper would never have tolerated such an outburst.
“They will not harm you again, Arianne,” he said, his voice low and even. “You have my word.”
His word. A tremor went through her hands and her body slumped in relief. A biker’s word was his bond, not given lightly, upheld as a matter of pride and respect and for the honor of the club.
“Okay.” Her strangled whisper deepened his frown and he drew her closer, until she could feel the heat of his body, inhale the intoxicating scent of his cologne.
“They were patched in before my time,” he continued, although he owed her no explanation. “Most of the brothers who didn’t share my philosophy left the club when I became president. Axle and his supporters stayed, thinking my first term as president would be my last.”
“They obviously didn’t know you well.”
His face softened at last and his lips quirked at the corners. He liked the flattery, she realized, even if it was tongue-in-cheek, and she enjoyed making him smile. Maybe too much.
“And you do?”
“I know men like you.” And yet she’d never felt so at ease with a man as powerful and dominant as Jagger—not that many of those existed. She still couldn’t believe the way she was speaking to him—challenging, sarcastic, teasing—and she marveled at the words that were coming out of her mouth.
Jagger gave her a slow, appraising glance and then turned away. “There are no men like me.” He led her to a bike at the end of the row closest to the house, and pulled a small first aid kit from his saddlebag.
“Are you sure? You run this MC like every other outlaw club. There are only two penalties for breaking the rules: an ass-kicking or a kick-out with an ass-kicking on the side. You rule through violence and intimidation like any other MC president. The blood patches on your cut attest to that.”
“Don’t judge me, Arianne.” His voice sharpened with warning. “If what you told me is true, and you grew up in this world, then you, of all people, should understand it. Maybe even better than me. Most of the Sinners are ex-military. They are violent men used to being led with a heavy hand. If I let one step out of line, I’ll have a situation out of control. No law. No order. And that would put civilians at risk. I can’t let that happen. Hell, it was the reason I became president in the first place.”
“Not ambition and a burning need for power?” She gave him an incredulous look and Jagger laughed, defusing the tension.
“That, too.” He opened a disinfectant wipe and gently patted the tiny cut on her throat. Disconcerted by the sudden change in his demeanor, she allowed him to minister to her, wincing at the sting when the disinfectant touched her open wound.
Jagger froze. “I’m hurting you.”
“I find it hard to believe you’d be concerned about something like that after what you just did to Axle.” She also found it hard to believe he would care enough to treat her wound personally. And how many MC presidents claimed they’d taken the throne to protect civilians?
He finished tending to her cut in silence. Arianne waved away the little bandage he produced from the kit. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll have a little scar to add to my collection as a memento of my visit.”
Without a word, he cupped the back of her neck with one hand, holding her still, then carefully placed the bandage over the cut, overruling her objections. His breath was warm on her cheek, his lips so close, she had only to lean forward an inch to take a little lick.
He looked up from the dressing, caught her with his gaze, and the world faded away … She’d never been so utterly at a man’s mercy, yet it wasn’t fear that made her heart pound, but a primal, gut-wrenching desire for the one man she could never have.
“Jagger.” She whispered his name. A plea. A request.
Spell broken, he released her, turning away too quickly for her to see his face. “Gotta get you outta here.” He gestured to his bike and then packed the first aid kit in his saddlebag again. “Hop on.”
“CVO Ultra Classic Electra Glide.” Her voice came out in an awed gasp of appreciation as she tried not to drool over one of the most expensive Harley-Davidson motorcycles in production. “Nice bike, although I didn’t take you for a touring man.”
“I’m a collecting man.” Jagger lifted an eyebrow as he pulled a bandanna from his jeans pocket—black with white skulls, of course, just like his patch—and tied it over his head. “You know your bikes.”
God, the bandanna made him look even more handsome, the strong planes and angles of his jaw coming into sharp relief. She tore her gaze away and swung her leg over the seat. “I’m a journeyman mechanic. Bikes are my specialty.” Even if she did manage to escape her father’s stranglehold one day, she would never lose her fascination for the sleek design and powerful engines of the Harley-Davidson brand, or her need to make each one she touched run to smooth perfection.
Not that she had a bike to tinker with anymore. She briefly considered asking Jagger if his boys had retrieved her Ninja, but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Why would they bother, especially when they’d initially suspected she started the fire?
He shook his head and muttered, half to himself. “Of
course you are.”
“No passenger pegs or sissy bar on the back?” she said, as he settled on the bike in front of her. “You like your passengers holding on to you?”
“Never packed a passenger before.”
“What? No old lady? No rides home for the sweet butts after a wild night on the town?” She cringed inwardly after she spoke. How juvenile. And yet, although she would never see this man again, some part of her still wanted to know if he was taken.
“No time to look after anyone else. Running the club and keeping the brothers in line are more than enough work.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Where am I taking you?”
“Gas station on the corner of Eleventh and Main. I’ll call a friend to pick me up. Don’t want you to know where I live, in case you regret not killing me when you had the chance.”
Jagger laughed, a warm deep chuckle that made her toes curl. “Never gonna happen. I make a decision, I stick to it.”
She slid her arms around his waist, tucking her body against his, soothed by the familiar scent of leather and the less familiar scent of warm, musky male. “So, who looks after you while you’re watching over everyone else?”
“I look after myself.”
The motorcycle roared to life and Jagger peeled away from the sea of bikes. Arianne pressed her cheek against the cool leather of his cut and increased her grip around his waist.
“Me, too,” she whispered.
He couldn’t possibly have heard her over the roar of his engine, but when he reached back and gave her thigh a squeeze, tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Everything about Jagger confused her, from his gestures of respect to his unexpected kindness to his noticeable turmoil when she’d been in danger. Someone had forgotten to tell him this wasn’t how outlaw MC presidents were supposed to behave.
Her body flamed as he slid his hand down her leg to rest it on her knee, his touch at once soothing and protective. When had any biker ever made her heart pound? Sure, she was comfortable in their world—she could talk the talk, joke with them, and even hold her own in the occasional fistfight. But regardless of such camaraderie, she was live to the underlying truth: In her world—this world—women were property or playthings, definitely not equals worthy of the respect she craved. Not once had she ever sought or wanted a biker’s attention.
Until now.
He lifted his hand to grip the handlebars as they took a sharp turn. Arianne bemoaned the small loss of his warmth, the comfort of his strength, and the curious tingles that sizzled through her body from their brief contact.
After he dropped her off, she’d probably never see him again. She didn’t frequent biker bars or hangouts, never even went to the Black Jack clubhouse unless her father specifically demanded her presence. She liked her quiet life, working at Banks’s Bar, hanging with her best friend, Dawn, and occasionally helping out friends with their motorcycle troubles or working part-time at any garage with an opening for a journeyman mechanic. There were no crises. No wild parties. No crazy bikers doing crazy-biker things. No bloodshed. If not for her father dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night to help with club business from time to time, an outsider might’ve thought she led a normal life.
Jagger kicked up the accelerator. He had to be doing at least one hundred miles per hour, but no cop in Montana would dare stop a member of the Sinner’s Tribe. A reluctant smile spread across Arianne’s face. Fast as Jagger was, if she were on her Ninja right now, he would be eating her dust.
As they neared downtown, Arianne closed her eyes and took a mental snapshot of the ride: the cool wind in her clothes, the scent of Jagger’s leather jacket, the sharp edge of his belt buckle digging into her palms, the warmth of his body, and the flutter in her belly whenever he reached back and patted her thigh to make sure she was okay. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had cared enough to check up on her. But, to be fair, she never gave them that chance.
By the time they’d arrived at the gas station a few blocks from her apartment building on the west side of Conundrum, her heart was racing and a warm glow had settled in her body. Although she was glad to be away from the Sinner’s Tribe clubhouse, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed that the ride was over already.
The giant poplars lining the street cast long shadows in the afternoon sun. Jagger parked his bike at the side of the road and for a long moment, maybe too long, she stayed in her seat, arms around him, cheek pressed against his back, soaking up every last sensation.
“You okay?” He turned in his seat and she nodded, then quickly dismounted the bike, looking away from him to hide her burning cheeks.
What should she say? Thanks for capturing me and leaving me at the mercy of your psychotic biker gang? Thanks for rescuing me? Thanks for taking off your shirt last night and giving me a year’s worth of fantasies?
“Well … good-bye. I’d say it’s been fun, but except for the ride, it wasn’t.”
Jagger laughed. “You’re a speed demon?”
“I have, on occasion, been known to go over the speed limit.”
“I should have guessed.” He slid off his bike. “It’s a good thing, then, we’ve got to say good-bye. I happen to like speed demons.”
A firestorm of desire swept through her, sending her pulse into overdrive. “I have many unlikable traits. Consider yourself lucky you won’t have a chance to discover what they are.”
Jagger gave her a crooked smile and closed the distance between them. So close, she could feel his warmth through her cut. “Depends on how you define ‘unlikable.’ I also happen to enjoy the occasional challenge, being told off by a woman half my size, and discovering pink polka-dot panties under worn street leathers.”
Was he flirting with her? Did she want him to stop?
“I knew you had a naughty streak,” she brushed back the hair that had fallen over her face.
His gaze darkened, heated, until she thought she would burn in the sensual depths of his eyes. “You made it very difficult to look away.”
Every nerve in her body fired at once. Definitely flirting. But why not? It was just a game. Neither of them had anything to lose, and they would never see each other again. Jacks and Sinners definitely didn’t mix. She tilted her head and gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile. “You’re a dangerous man, Jagger. I’m lucky to be getting away. Panties and all.”
His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I am a dangerous man. If you have any sense, sweetheart, you’ll run down that road and never look back.”
Sweetheart. The term of endearment did strange, fluttery things to her stomach, and she wished it was something more than a casual throwaway expression.
With great reluctance, she took one step back and then another, her eyes drinking in their last fill of the man who awakened desires she had long thought dead.
“Wait.”
Arianne halted her steps, then relaxed when Jagger pulled her gun and holster from his saddlebag. “You might need these.”
His fingers brushed over hers when she took them from his outstretched hand. Her blood sizzled. No doubt about it, Jagger tripped every hormone in her body in a way no man ever had.
“Especially with dangerous men like you around.” A smile tugged at her lips.
“Where do I find you if I need to talk to you again?”
Her heart quickened. “Are you asking so you can come and kill me if your brothers decide to exact vengeance on me after all?”
“I’m asking in case someone in the club gets it in his head to act without my authority and I need to warn you.”
Her desire faded beneath the very real chance he was right. She knew the biker culture as well as he did. “You think that’s a possibility?”
“You know this world. Everything is a possibility.”
She weighed the risk of letting him know where she lived versus the risk of one of his men—Axle, most likely—coming after her on his own. Although the risks on both sides were considerable, part of her trusted Jagg
er. He’d acted with honor, a quality lacking in pretty much every Black Jack biker she knew. The situation could have gone an entirely different way if not for him.
She gave herself a mental slap. Was she really considering giving her personal details to a member of the Sinner’s Tribe? Rubbing her hand through her hair in distraction, she turned and walked down the sidewalk. “I’ll take the risk.”
“Arianne.” His deep, husky voice stopped her in her tracks, and she looked back over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved, and it was the hint that maybe there was more to his flirting that loosened her tongue.
“Banks Bar, west end of Villard Street.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I work the bar Tuesday to Saturday. And Mondays if there’s a game on. If you’re in the neighborhood for reasons other than killing me or warning me about being killed, I’ll buy you a drink. Say thanks for saving me.” Should be safe enough. She’d be working at Banks Bar only a few more days, maybe a week or two at the most. Once she got her fake passport from Jeff, she’d be leaving Conundrum behind.
“Thought you were a mechanic.”
“I was … am. But I quit when I thought I was leaving and my boss hired my replacement before my last day so I could show him the ropes. Banks, my boss, wouldn’t accept my resignation. He didn’t believe I’d leave. Good thing, too. It means I can make some extra cash before I go.”
“Got it.”
When Jagger didn’t say anything else, she stared down at her hands. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why had she invited him for a drink? He was being courteous, not coming on to her.
Cheeks burning, she cleared her throat and gave him a weak smile. “Okay, then. Well … say bye to Max for me.”
Then she turned and walked away.
FIVE
Respect must be shown, in order of importance, to your colors, bike, executive board, club members, clubhouse, other patch holders, prisoners, and chicks.
Flavio Fuentes screamed when Zane pointed the gun at his head.
He apologized for all the people he’d killed, the women he’d abused, and the children who’d suffered when their drug-addicted parents overdosed. He promised to go to church every Sunday, live clean, and give to charity. He would disband the cartel and leave Montana. Hell, he would even stop dealing with the Black Jacks. Anything but get into the trunk of Zane’s Chrysler 300C. He’d heard about trunking, and although he was confident someone would pay his ransom before he ran out of air, he had suffered from claustrophobia since childhood. Surely the Sinners had mercy. Maybe Jagger and his men would like a couple of lines of speed on the house instead? Good-quality stuff.
The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 Page 5