Ridge City Recruits: The Full Seven-Book Collection

by Mazzy King

  “Is that why you came here?” Tristan asks, tilting his head. “For a job?”

  Ryan lifts a shoulder. “Is that weird?”

  I gape at him, and Tristan tilts his head back and laughs.

  “What’s going on over here?” The Draconians’ vice president, Mitch, walks over to us and stands right behind me.

  I’ve never liked Mitch. I’ve never trusted him. Tristan swears up and down he’s loyal, but there’s something about his small, shifty dark eyes that rubs me the wrong way. He spends too much time following me with his eyes, but he’s never tried anything—yet. Tristan would dismantle him.

  Ryan sizes him up, still leaning casually on the bar. “Nothing that concerns you, pal.”

  Oh shit. The cute idiot definitely has a death wish.

  Mitch takes a threatening step forward. “What’d you say to me, you little shit?”

  “I’m six-three,” Ryan continues. “I wouldn’t call that little. Do you want to try insulting me again until you feel big enough?”

  Mitch grabs his arm. “You fucking—”

  In a flash, Ryan whirls around. He’s a blur, but the next thing I know, Mitch is bent over at the waist, one of Ryan’s hands pushing against the back of his neck and the other cranking Mitch’s arm—the one he grabbed Ryan with—up in the air behind him.

  Mitch howls. “Get the fuck off me!”

  Tristan’s fists are clenched at his side, but he makes no move to stop Ryan.

  I nudge him with my elbow. “Tristan!”

  “Let him up,” Tristan says quietly.

  Ryan complies, and Mitch stumbles back several feet, a murderous look in his eyes. “Fuck you! I’ll kill you, you prick!”

  “Mitch, shut up,” Tristan says. He points toward our table in the back. “In fact, walk away.”

  Mitch gapes at him. “Tristan, are you fucking—”

  “No, I’m not fucking kidding you. Go.”

  Anger flashes across Mitch’s face, but he turns and does what he’s told.

  Ryan is back to leaning on the bar, sipping his beer calmly as if nothing happened.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t have my crew drag you out by your ankles and beat the shit out of you for that?” Tristan asks him.

  “If you really wanted to do that, you would’ve done it already,” Ryan replies. He pauses, then adds, “Nobody touches this jacket. Ever.”

  “And why not? What’s so special about your precious jacket that you felt the need to manhandle my vice president?” Tristan folds his arms.

  It’s becoming more and more clear to me with every word that Tristan is intrigued by this newcomer. If he wasn’t, Ryan would already be lying in a pool of his own blood out back. My brother is my best friend, but he can be absolutely ruthless. I’ve seen it in action plenty of times, even when it’s being used to my benefit.

  Ryan sets down his beer and meets Tristan’s steady gaze. “That’s my business.”

  The corners of Tristan’s eyes tighten, but he doesn’t seem mad. “Where’d you learn to do that tricky shit just now?”

  “Also my business,” Ryan replies. “But, suffice it to say that’s not even the tip of the iceberg.”

  So Smart Alec can kick some major ass. He definitely looks strong and well-built, but he’s not huge, like Tristan is. He didn’t even break a sweat with Mitch either.

  Ryan’s gaze drifts to me, and he winks.

  Oh Jesus…cue the melting panties…

  “Like I said before,” Tristan says, “I don’t need a mechanic. But…I can tell you’ve got some skill. I might be able to make a place for you in my crew, after a probationary period.”

  “Probation?” Ryan’s mouth curls up on one side.

  “I run a tight ship,” Tristan replies. “And I don’t give second chances. You fuck up once, you’re out.”

  Ryan shrugs. “Sure. I’d like to make an extra buck. What’ll I be doing?”

  “Meet me here tomorrow at three. We’ll worry about the rest later on.” Tristan nods at him, then strides back to our table.

  Ryan grins at me. “Well, how about that? I guess you’ll be seeing a lot more of me. Gemma.” He tilts his head. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  I try to ignore the pounding of my heart as he gives me one of those sweeping, undressing stares again. He’s outrageously flirtatious, but he’s walking on thin ice.

  “You’re in over your head,” I tell him. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

  “No?” He smiles, checking me out again. “Maybe I can buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it.”

  I shake my head. “My brother didn’t tell you the most basic rule of joining the Draconians.”

  “And what’s that?” Ryan asks.

  I step close to him, so close I can smell the dusty leather scent of his jacket, riding beneath a slash of fresh, spicy citrus that’s his cologne. I angle my face as though I’m moving in for a kiss, stopping when our lips are just a couple inches apart.

  “President’s baby sister is off limits.”

  I step back. Ryan doesn’t look chagrined. In fact, he looks…turned on.

  “Challenge accepted,” he says softly.

  3

  Ryan

  “This is our base of operations,” Tristan tells me the next day as we dismount our bikes in front of a sprawling warehouse. There are no signs on it, but the assortment of Harleys parked outside tells me one thing: this is the Draconians’ lair.

  The door opens, and out steps Gemma. My heart lifts at the sight of her, but with Tristan watching, I don’t smile at her.

  She comes to stand beside her brother.

  “And what are those operations?” I ask.

  Tristan glances at Gemma. They both study me for a long moment. I keep my face impassive, stare unwavering.

  “You’re not some undercover narc, are you?” he asks quietly.

  What?

  Maintain. One of the many lessons I learned in the Program training. Maintain, lie, act.

  I lift a brow a fraction of an inch. “I look like a cop?”

  “Answer the question,” Gemma says flatly.

  The steadiness of their matching gazes is unnerving. I tighten my jaw. “I’m an ex-con. That’s what I am.”

  “You did time?” Tristan asks.

  “A year in county.”

  “For what?”

  I draw a deep breath. This wasn’t a question I was prepared to have to answer. “Vehicular manslaughter.”

  “Take the suit off those words and tell us what happened.” Gemma folds her arms.

  I clench my jaw, fighting off the horror those memories evoke. “I’d just gotten a new motorcycle. A Yamaha. My best friend Ben wanted to go for a ride. So we went.” I swallow. “It was nighttime. We pulled up on this empty stretch of road, and another motorcycle pulled up alongside us.”

  Tristan is immobile, but Gemma shifts her weight. A little crease forms between her brows.

  I shake my head. “I was…cocky. Stupid. The other rider challenged me to a race. Ben didn’t want to, but I told him it’d be fun. I hit a slick patch after a little while and lost control.” There’s a huge lump in my throat, and it makes saying the next part impossible for a beat.

  “Ben,” I say hoarsely, “was killed. I was injured. Went to court. Charged and sentenced. Did my time in county.”

  “I’m sorry, Ryan,” Gemma murmurs.

  I glance at her. “Thanks.”

  Tristan raises a brow at her, then turns to me and nods. His face is still stoic. “Let’s go inside.”

  Over beers and under the scrutiny of the other club members, Tristan gives me the lowdown. Gemma slips behind the bar, cleaning up and keeping an eye on us.

  “We provide protection for a local businessman. We ensure his pickups and deliveries are smooth.”

  My ears perk. “What kinds of pickups and deliveries?”

  Tristan swirls his beer. “What do you think?”

  “I think
you’re talking about drugs.”

  “That a problem?”

  Kind of a big one, bro. “It’s risky,” I say.

  “No shit. That’s why they pay us so well.” He takes a long sip. “I need someone I can rely on to help me keep things organized.”

  I tick my chin toward Mitch the Bitch, who’s doing his best to kill me with his glares. “I thought that’s what your right-hand asshole’s for.”

  Tristan doesn’t bother looking in Mitch’s direction. “Let me worry about him. Are you in?”

  “When, and how much?”

  “First run’s tonight. I’m paying a grand.”

  My brows shoot up. “A grand? For…organization?”

  “And a healthy dose of danger.” Tristan folds his arms and leans toward me. “In, or not?”

  “In,” I say. “I’m in.”

  Tristan nods, satisfied.

  Behind him, at the bar, Gemma shakes her head and turns away.

  Late that night, I cruise on my Harley in an almost military-like formation as eight of us travel along backroads to drop off the “load” Tristan picked up from some extremely scary-looking dudes with tattooed faces and bad attitudes. Few words were exchanged. I noted the large bundle Tristan loaded into the big leather saddlebag on the side of his bike. I wanted to get a picture of it to send it to RCPD, but there was no way to snap one without being noticed.

  Especially since Mitch has been glaring at me all night.

  Where we’re headed now, I’m not sure, but I know that whatever awaits us will be taking the bundle and giving Tristan a mountain of cash.

  It’s about a twenty-minute ride until we reach our destination—another warehouse on the edge of town. A black van with heavily tinted windows idles beside it. We come to a stop about fifteen feet away.

  “I’ll bet some real nice guys drive that van,” I joke.

  No one laughs. Mitch gives me a malevolent stare.

  I shrug. My sparkling wit is apparently too much for this crew.

  Tristan swings a leg over his bike and pops open the saddlebag. Package in hand, he walks toward the van.

  A moment later, the door slides open and another very scary-looking dude who appears to be having a shitty day steps out. They exchange a few words, then the guy hands Tristan a bulging envelope.

  A moment later, he’s back on his bike and motioning for us to head out.

  I ride with the gang back to the hangout, feeling a little disappointed. I thought there’d be more to it. Thought I’d have more to report. At least I can tell the detectives I’m working with that the Draconians are definitely into drug dealing.

  We arrive back at the bar. The rest of the crew that rode with us immediately head to the pool table or the dart board on the wall or grab beers and sit at tables. No one seems to be particularly concerned, as if what just went down was no big deal. As if it was just…business.

  Gemma’s at the bar again, but she doesn’t seem to be working particularly hard. She’s scrolling through her phone and intermittently glancing up at us. At me.

  I wander over to her and smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” She’s not smiling. “How was the run?”

  I shrug. “I discovered no one has a sense of humor. Other than that…no big deal. Kind of boring, actually.” I lean on my elbows.

  “That’s better than the alternative. Trust me.” She sets her phone down. “Want a drink after all that hard work?”

  “Sure.”

  “Beer? Liquor?”

  I grin. “I want the Gemma special.”

  She arches a brow. “What is the ‘Gemma special’?”

  “You tell me.”

  Gemma braces her hands on the bar and leans toward me. “What’d I tell you about flirting with me?”

  I resist the urge to look at the cleavage peeking above the neckline of her white, scoop-neck T-shirt, but I indulge myself in reaching for a strand of the long, silky black hair that slips over her shoulder. Lightly twirling it around my fingers, I meet her pale eyes. Up close, they’re more of a steely blue, rather than the ice I thought I saw yesterday.

  “I can’t help it,” I murmur. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  Those large eyes narrow. “If you think I’m falling for any of your lines, you’re delusional.” The words are sharp, but she doesn’t move away from me.

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who falls for much,” I tell her. “Least of all some douche bag saying sweet nothings.”

  “Did you just call yourself a douche bag?”

  I smirk. “I don’t do sweet nothings. I mean what I say. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  Her throat bobs. I immediately imagine running my tongue up and down it. Imagine her shivering under my touch.

  “Then maybe you need to get out more,” she says, her voice velvet.

  “And be sorely disappointed?” I shake my head. “I think I’ll stay right here and annoy you.”

  A throat clears behind us. I turn around.

  Tristan shifts his gaze from me to his sister, then back to me. “I assume you’d like to get paid,” he says.

  “That’d be nice,” I reply. “If you don’t mind.”

  Tristan rolls his eyes and hands me a roll of money. “That’s a stack. I won’t be offended if you count it.”

  I tuck the money in my pocket. “I trust you.”

  Before Tristan can reply, a voice behind him says, “I don’t trust you.”

  I sigh. Mitch the Bitch.

  Mitch walks up to the bar and stands in front of me. I stay seated, looking up at him.

  “Can I help you with something?” I ask.

  “Where the fuck did you even come from?” he sneers. “You just waltz in here and think you belong?”

  I shrug. “Your boss didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Mitch, step off,” Tristan says.

  Mitch ignores him and leans toward me. “You seem to be getting real cozy with Gemma. Let me tell you something—she’s off limits.”

  “Fuck you, Mitch,” Gemma snaps. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

  Mitch lifts his gaze to her. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling him what to do.”

  “But, well,” I object, “that doesn’t work for me, either. I like talking to Gemma. Is that breaking a law?”

  “When it’s the president’s sister, yeah,” Mitch says.

  I lean around him to look at Tristan. “Do you mind me talking to your sister?”

  Tristan looks like the perfect cross between irritated and amused. “I learned a long time ago not to tell my sister what she can and can’t do.”

  I peer up at Mitch and spread my hands. “So, you were saying?”

  He’s practically red with rage. “I don’t fucking like you.”

  I knit my brow. “Why not? I’m a goddamn delight.”

  “Get the fuck up.” He stands back and kicks my stool. “No one puts their hands on me and walks away.”

  “Oh,” I say, drawing out the word and making no move to rise. “That’s what this is really about. Understandably, you’re unhappy with how I humiliated you in front of everyone last night. I’d hate to have to do that again.”

  “Ryan,” Gemma hisses behind me.

  I lean back and smile at her. “It’s okay. Really. Let me just handle this real quick—”

  Before I can say another word, Mitch yanks me up by the front of my shirt and punches me dead in the face.

  4

  Gemma

  What an idiot.

  “You’re an idiot,” I inform Ryan, rummaging around in my cupboards for a first aid kit. While Tristan dealt with Mitch, I dragged Ryan out of the bar and into the Black Automotive garage behind it. I live in an apartment above the space. It’s small, but I’ve turned it into my own private sanctuary, and it has all the comforts of home. Including basic triage supplies for idiots.

  “That hurts,” he mumbles, or at least that’s
what I think he says. He’s sitting on the toilet in my bathroom, his head tilted back and a clean dish rag from the bar pressed to his face to stop the flow of blood from his nose.

  There’s not much I can do for that bloody nose other than let it run its course, but I find a bottle of hydrogen peroxide for the cut on his cheekbone.

  Sighing, I turn back to face him and yank the rag away and toss it in the sink. “Looks like the bleeding has stopped, at least.”

  “What a relief.” He flashes me a cocky little grin. “I didn’t want to get any on my jacket.”

  “You’re an idiot,” I tell him again, soaking a cotton ball in the peroxide. “What was the point?”

  He shrugs. “Guys like that have to feel big. I let him shoot his load. Hopefully he’s gotten it out of his system now.”

  “If it weren’t for Tristan, I’d be mopping you off the floor in there,” I exclaim.

  “I doubt that,” he says, as if we’re actually having a logical conversation and I’ve just posed some kind of hypothesis about the world to him. “I’m pretty fast—ow!”

  He jerks his head away from the cotton ball on his cheek. I smirk and grab his chin.

  “Not so tough anymore, huh?” I say. “Hold still and stop being a baby.”

  “It stings,” he complains.

  I shake my head. “You just got your face mangled by a guy twice your size, and you’re complaining about hydrogen peroxide stinging?”

  “Well, it stings,” he whines.

  I smush the cotton ball to his cut. “Well, good. Hope it’ll remind you not to be so dumb next time.”

  He shifts his mossy green eyes to me. “At least I’ve been downgraded from an idiot to dumb.”

  “No, not downgraded. I’m just making sure I run the breadth of insults. You moron.”

  He grins. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

  I roll my eyes and toss the cotton ball away. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Is that a fancy way of calling me dumb?”

  I plant my hands on my hips. “Do you take anything seriously, Ryan?”