Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  Souped-up vans stocked full of methamphetamines would soon be headed to Reno, packed with enough drugs to devastate streets from Seattle to San Diego. Stefan’s sources had confirmed that Mayhem’s Last Stand would be delivering the drugs to someone with ties to the Warehouse. Hard to know if this shithead was the same Vegas kingpin who, due to one massive clusterfuck, had avoided apprehension back in Flagstaff and had made off with an easy million in heroin. Different locale. Different drug. But the same motorcycle club, same hired mules running drugs for a quick profit.

  The Mayhem weren’t the only game in Nevada, but what they were was fucking marketable within the criminal underworld, with vans fully equipped to carry larger loads and men who’d slice your throat given the slightest provocation hired to protect the ill-gotten investments. At least Las Vegas, where their compound was located, would rest easier while the crew was on the road. A vicious, violent crew of bikers.

  Bracken should know, having been one of them for the past year.

  No, Bracken needed to stay out on the streets, working a different angle while he quietly conducted his own investigation into Flagstaff. Just a lone biker with a mean fist, training some wuss ass named Huntley.

  Numbnuts called it a simple assignment. Except Bracken wasn’t a simple kind of guy. Never had been, but especially not now, given what had gone down. Gun shy? Cautious? Strung out from exhaustion and from fucking failure? Whatever the reason, he hadn’t done a damn thing about finding the fighter beyond asking the bartender in the next room—sex-dressed-in-a-cream-colored-sweater, and sweet like a Sunday morning treat—if she knew a Hunter. And even that had been last week.

  He ran his fingers along his beard. The fucker itched like a bitch—another source of annoyance. Time for another refill, another reprieve from the doldrums of the Hall. Hell, why not? Tequila might help take the edge off his irritation. Liven up his senses a bit and help shake the relentless fatigue that had gripped him by the balls. What harm could a couple drinks do, job or no job? Definitely a cure for his boredom. Besides, the woman working the bar in the other room was the most entertaining thing in this hellhole.

  She disliked how he’d called her Creampuff—disliked him. And, unlike people he knew, she wasn’t afraid to show him how much. She was just the challenge he needed to keep his mind alert.

  Bracken worked his way back into the Warehouse. His movements reserved, so as not to draw attention on himself—a real feat considering his size. The bar was quiet, having emptied out on the chime of the bell. A prequel to the party going down in the other room. Clowns and hot air included.

  He took his usual spot at the pub table at the far end, scowling as both women took notice. The blonde strutted his way.

  “Your usual, sweetheart?”

  He nodded, avoiding making eye contact. At least the woman had a sense of humor. The tan skin she was fond of flashing him would have been tempting, if it hadn’t been for her friend.

  From beneath his lashes, he studied the brunette. He’d caught her attention, all right, her agitation apparent in how she made a sloppy, quick-pour of his drink. Probably wishing it was his head she soaked.

  For a brief moment, he’d been her hero, which pissed him off, just before he’d pissed her off good and fine. Drawing that kind of attention toward himself could ruin the entire operation.

  Earlier tonight, she’d greeted him, and he’d ignored her. Or at least pretended to. Now, as expected, she slammed a drink before him and then avoided his end of the bar. He wondered what she’d do if he pushed her toward the breaking point. A skill he excelled at.

  Better to keep people—especially a woman with a body like hers—at arms’ length. Not that he didn’t wanna fuck her. Hell, he’d bend her over that bar in a heartbeat, given the chance.

  But Bracken didn’t take chances. Ever.

  Still, there was something about her that brought the devil out in him. She had natural, classic, all-American good looks. Pretty, until you got an eyeful of the killer, tight-ass body that catapulted her in a whole different stratosphere. Hot babe category. The kind of woman other women disliked, and guys wanted to wake up buried balls deep inside.

  He rubbed his fingers across his goddamned whiskers. Fatigue still lingered within him, hanging on like a bad cold.

  Six months. That’s how long it’d been since he’d had a woman. Or women, rather. A freakin’ record if there’d ever been one. What he’d do to grab a piece for the night. Wipe the frown right off her face and make that sweet body sing. A night of anonymous pleasure. Why not? His contact was a no show. A second Friday night wasted on a half-assed attempt to track down this Huntley dude.

  For fuck’s sake. When had he started thinking like those pricks in Mayhem’s Last Stand? A year spent working undercover within their miserable company had turned his brain into chopped meat, made his hands freakin’ shake and his attitude bleaker than it’d ever been—which meant he was royally fucked.

  “Did you do it, Witt? Quit the program?” He heard the blonde ask, drawing his dark thoughts away from himself. That’s what all this had been about, right? Stirring the sexy bartender’s pot to take his mind off his own bullshit? What needed to happen was for him to get up and go. Get the hell out of here and head to the mountains. He’d done her a favor, getting rid of one asshole with a clean haymaker to the mouth. It shouldn’t be so hard for him to move his legs, and remove another asshole from her presence.

  Except he had I.A. breathing down his back.

  Except there was something about her that stirred up the devil inside him. Curiosity. Interest. Lust. A smorgasbord of distractions he wanted, but didn’t need.

  The blonde handed Witt his drink. “Yep.”

  “Your family freak?”

  “Freak out, yell, worry. I’m tired of their overprotectiveness. Enough time has passed since...it doesn’t matter. But it makes me mad that I put off talking to Hank for fear I’d miss this guy, and he was a no show.”

  “Yeah, my regular had promised me he was legit. Don’t worry, I’ll help you find someone else. You’re in the right place, Witt, to attract someone even better.” A pause, then the friend added, “Like him.”

  Bracken didn’t have to look up to know he was the butt of their joke. Their laughter confirmed it. Little did they know how close to the truth they were. He wasn’t boyfriend material, not someone a woman like her should get involved with long term. No roses and chocolates and whispering sweet nothings from him. Sweat, blood and violence, that about summed him and his year up neatly.

  He’d destroy a sweet woman like her. Devour her in one long lick then spit her back out. In his current state, with his fucked-up psyche, with his bad attitude in general, he had no business even thinking about her.

  The assignment he’d just come out of had done a number on him, for sure. Now with Stefan calling the shots, it was like asking for a bullet to the head. He had to get outta here.

  A tequila glass rattled on the wooden bar top. “That’ll be nine even, handsome.”

  Man, he loved the challenge the brunette presented. He took out a ten and tossed it on the bar. “Keep the change,” he told her, his tone meaner than intended. Fuck. Why’d she suddenly decide to approach him, now that he’d dug so deep to do the right thing?

  She headed away, the word “jerk” thrown over her shoulder.

  His lips curled.

  Several minutes passed as he polished off his drink, but she didn’t return. Better that way.

  “There you are, man. Sorry I’m late.” The bar stool next to him grated against the cement floor as Stefan settled himself on it. “Look, Sarge has me pulling doubles on Thursday nights. Last week, I slept straight through the alarm.”

  “Just heading out.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink, okay? See you made contact.”

  Bracken turned and shot Ste
fan a deadly look. “Big waste of time.”

  “You know, I’m beginning to think you’d prefer it in jail. This setup is perfect. No one would be a better in for us. But figure you’d want someone else. By the way, you look like shit. Hell warmed over. Maybe it’s the beard.”

  “What are you rambling on about?” His so-called partner was more concerned with getting a freaking Medal of Honor than getting his hands deep in the muck. What a joke. The guy barely merited a button that read “Royal Fuckup”—especially after Flagstaff.

  Bracken’s thoughts dwelled on Numbnuts’ comment about making contact. Casually, he glanced around, scoping out the few fighters hanging back by the double doors. Knowing he missed something but too tired to really care. Just going through the motions until a better plan comes to mind.

  A glass of water was pushed before him.

  Scowling, Bracken caught a whiff of fresh apples, what he’d imagined a fresh-faced woman to smell like. Add a little cinnamon spice and maybe a dash of Cool Whip and she’d smell like she looked—a tasty morsel just begging for his undivided attention.

  Man, he had to get outta here. Fuck Hunter or Huntley, whatever the fighter’s name was. His palm itched to give Stefan a parting smack on the back of the head, as his partner gazed at Witt—that’s what her friend had called her—like she was the bomb.

  “Hey, so what? I didn’t make it last week.” Stefan’s voice dropped off, his full focus falling on the gorgeous brunette. Bracken could feel her glaring at them both. Stefan jumped to his feet, a mad grin transforming his ugly mug.

  Bracken zipped his jacket, ready to bolt.

  But before he left...

  The devil knew why he did the things he did. Guess if he couldn’t fuck her, he’d do the next best thing and leave her frustrated. Like himself.

  He placed his forearms on the pub table and leaned in. He wiggled a finger at her, and lifted his gaze enough to catch her widening eyes.

  “Pardon?”

  “Come closer.” His tone was intended to provoke her. And man oh man, he could see that she knew it.

  She leaned across the table, mimicking his position, with her forearms on the bar as she closed the distance between them. “Your bite, bad attitude and big bruiser’s body don’t scare me. So back off.”

  Man, she had balls of steel. Not even the Mayhem had had the nerve to challenge him like that. He felt an unfamiliar tilt take hold of his lips. His cock stirred to life. Fuck, he wanted her. But everything about her was sweet despite the hard-ass bravado.

  No. Can. Do. He stood and took his parting shot. “See ya around, Creampuff.”

  She jerked back, stood up to her full height, and clenched her fists.

  “Huntley,” Stefan said, his voice full of warning.

  Was this Huntley guy her boyfriend? He frowned, the idea that a boyfriend might be lurking about rubbing him the wrong way. “Fuck, what kind of name is Huntley, anyway?”

  Witt growled low in her throat, scowling at him something fierce. He could hardly believe the sound had come outta such a stunner like her.

  Blame it on the fatigue. His bullshit job. Lack of interest or motivation in Stefan’s plan. His dumb-fuck assumption. For the first time in a long while—since he was kid really—Bracken didn’t see it coming.

  Her fist connected with the underside of his jaw. Not a clean punch, she had to angle upward in order to reach him. But it had some power to it. No sissy punch. More than anything, it stunned the shit outta him.

  Bracken surged to his feet, pissed off and amused. Until the second punch, verbal but packing the same heat, came flying his way.

  “Nice to meet you, asshole. I’m Huntley.”

  * * *

  “A biker? That’s the boxing expert you’ve been gushing about?” Huntley gestured toward the bar and the mean bruiser casually—yeah, right—sitting there.

  Her punch was weak, and no matter how many textbooks she read, videos she watched, fighters she studied, improvement had been slow. Thus, the idea of hiring a trainer. Talk about a reality check. She’d met Kaleigh’s new regular, a man named Stefan, three weeks before, and had been so full of hope.

  Her mind was reeling as Stefan gripped her arm and maneuvered her over into a quiet corner, out of reach and earshot of the biker. Was Stefan worried about repercussions, just being a manhandling jerk or simply touched in the head?

  With an average build, trimmed brown hair and clean-cut face, Stefan was on the short side. He wasn’t someone who captured your interest, who commanded attention, who caused your fickle heart to do fist pumps at the mere sight of him. Not like the biker blatantly watching them from his spot by the bar. No, Stefan merited more of a fleeting glance, a pass-over. Which was probably why he leaned toward being obnoxious rather than persuasive. Like now.

  That bruiser was “the boxer with a mean punch”? The expert she should take on as her trainer? It’d be like asking a bull to guide a matador in the art of surviving the arena. No way would he do.

  No way would he want to take her on, either, not after that introduction. She smirked. The surprise in the biker’s eyes was so worth it. Look who was talking little ol’ Creampuff now.

  “Don’t let that damn beard fool you. If you’re serious about boxing, he’s your man.”

  “I don’t mind his beard as much as his bullish attitude,” she muttered.

  Stefan didn’t seem to hear her as he scanned the room, then said sharply, “Your friend told me you were smart. ‘Witt’s a real wit,’ Kaleigh’s exact words.”

  Huntley stiffened. Now she had to defend her intellect, too? To some woman-handling moron who had the persuasive skills of a third grader? She tugged her arm free from his. Enough was enough.

  “Sometimes walking the straight and narrow—taking the predictable approach—doesn’t work out,” he said, his tone more serious, more reflective. “Be unpredictable. Try my guy out for size. You might be surprised.”

  “The last thing I want in a coach is another surprise.” Especially a surprising brute as intimidating as him. One who’d be ten times more difficult to manage than Desmond if he suddenly developed a case of happy hands. “You know, your guy isn’t the only game in town. The Warehouse is crawling with fighters. Several who have offered to train me,” she lied. No fighter here had filled her boxing bill. In fact, she could show most of them a thing or two. “So many I lost count,” she added, mentally checking off a half-dozen fighters she’d considered and dismissed.

  “No doubt about that.” Stefan smirked, the lustful look in his eyes making her uncomfortable. Especially knowing how he’d wrangled a date out of Kaleigh. Something about him made her skin crawl.

  His pushiness? The subtle nervous energy that hovered over him like a bad penny? No, it was the calculation in his eyes as he’d talked to Kaleigh. Like he was the puppet master pulling her strings, manipulating her easygoing nature. A haughtiness clung to him—it was there right now. Like he knew something she didn’t, and enjoyed the power in that.

  Her dislike of him intensified.

  If it wasn’t for Kaleigh’s suggestion... She inhaled deeply. Maybe she was projecting her disappointment onto him. Huntley swallowed back her displeasure and tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “You don’t think they’d take me seriously?”

  “Just like anything in life, you’re gonna have to prove your worth.”

  She flexed her sore fingers. “Thought I just did.”

  Stefan stopped fidgeting in his shoes. His expression took on such a look of unbridled pleasure at her words, like she’d agreed to be his date to the prom. Weirdo.

  “Guess you did, Huntley. A pretty thing like you, too. Who knew you had it in you. Though I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed that. No one catches Bracken off-guard. Ever. Looks like his brick wall is cracking at the seams.”
<
br />   Huntley smoothed a lock of hair back behind her ear. The bruiser had been surprised, no doubt about that. A mad grin had transformed his tired, hardened mug into something spectacular. But not exactly handsome. Not with the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes. Not with his wildly ungroomed hair and his even wilder vibe, like he was ready to attack on the slightest provocation. Spectacular, purely because he sparked a nervousness within her that had her pulse quickening and heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. Fear being the least of them. Once more, she wondered exactly what kind of man lurked beneath that thick beard.

  An asshole, she reminded herself. Still, there was something about him that pressed more than her irritation button. He was a man, through and through. So unlike Robert in every way. That didn’t make him good for her, though.

  As if he sensed the turn in conversation, the biker rose from his seat at the bar and with long strides, headed in their direction.

  She tensed, but refused to cower or look away.

  “Shit. Can’t he let me handle things for once?” Stefan grumbled beneath his breath, the shuffling of his shoes on the concrete floor a sign he’d resumed his fidgeting.

  “Why waste more time?” Bracken greeted them with a snarl. “We didn’t exactly hit it off. She’s not gonna take me on as a coach no matter what you say. Isn’t that right...Huntley?”

  Yep. One hundred percent asshat. Though his words were spot on, she had reached her quota of overbearing people making decisions for her.

  “Fine, if that’s how you want play it. Anyway, you two would probably kill each other,” Stefan replied, angrily.

  Bracken snorted. “This sweet thing can barely throw a punch. Felt like a mosquito whacked me in the jaw.” His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed as he caught sight of her fists. “What are you going to do, honey? Give me another love tap?”