Biker B*tch

by ANDIE J. CHRISTOPHER

  After the case of wine, she’d been getting calls from the prison. She’d only picked up the first call. But, as soon as she saw the Diablos cuts, she thought he was stepping up his efforts to reconcile. Somehow, she didn’t feel better knowing it wasn’t her dad. “What else can I help you with?”

  “I can think of a whole hell of a lot,” the young man, JP, said. He looked her up and down and licked his lips.

  “I’m afraid we’re not pouring anything today. We’ll have to harvest some grapes and ferment them first.”

  “This one’s feisty, Deac.” The short, fat, old man cracked a smile.

  “Where’s Roy?” Deacon ignored the other man.

  “Not doing his job somewhere else.” Skyler relaxed a little when she realized they weren’t here looking for her.

  “If you see him, tell him to call me.”

  “What do you want with Roy?” She couldn’t help blurting it out. Instantly, she knew the question was a mistake. Outlaw bikers didn’t tease and make naughty promises when people—especially women—questioned them. Most of the people she knew who’d questioned a Diablo were dead.

  Deacon came closer, likely an attempt to menace her into silence. This time she didn’t back down. She looked up at his face, knowing better than to show fear, even if it was warranted. The other men looked to Deacon to see what he’d do.

  She racked her brain for any way she could save the situation, and she came up empty.

  “Didn’t the good doctor teach you any manners?” He put one finger under her chin and lifted until she looked him in the eye. Oh, shit. “Do you need me to teach you some?”

  She’d be lucky if she didn’t piss her pants before they killed her. “Nope. I’m good. I’ll just tell Roy you’re looking for him.”

  The door to the tasting room opened. “No need, Ms. Clark, they’ve found me.”

  “Ms. Clark?” Well, that’s better than his usual “mad bit of fluff.”

  Deacon took his hand away from her face, and she would have sat on the floor but for her pride.

  “Walk with me, Roy. We’ve got business.” Any business Roy would have with Deacon and the Diablos wouldn’t be good. She was going to have to find a loophole in his contract and fire him. Soon.

  “I need a minute with the lady of the manor first.”

  “Make it fast.” All four Diablos Santos filed out of the tasting room. From inside, she could see them lounge on their bikes, like they had all the time in the world.

  Roy got very close to her—close enough that she could smell his bourbon lunch on his breath—and said in a low tone, “You’re to stay away from them.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” She poked his chest. Now that the outlaws weren’t in the room and threatening her, she was angry. “You brought them here. What are you into?”

  “Nothing. It’s my son.”

  If his son was mixed up with Deacon and wasn’t part of the club, it meant he was into the Diablos for drug money. “Dealer or customer?”

  “He was one of their best customers until he lost his job. Apparently, I’m now securing his debt.”

  Hell, she couldn’t fire the foreman now. They’d kill him and his son if they couldn’t pay up. Roy might be a pain in the ass, but she didn’t want him dead.

  “How much?”

  “None of your business. I’ll take care of it.” The older man sighed, and lowered his voice. “You should call your man and tell him about this.”

  Skyler knew that, but she resisted. She didn’t want to be that girl—the one who hoisted all her problems on her boyfriend.

  Was Travis her boyfriend? And now, she was that girl?

  And would Travis think she was involved in her dad’s old club if she told him about Deacon’s visit? Would he clean it up, or pull away? That primal fear she’d be abandoned—again—made her chest ache and reminded her she couldn’t rely on anyone, not really.

  “He’s not my man. Do what you have to do to get rid of them.” Damned if she was going to rely on Travis—or anyone but herself—to clean up her messes.

  15

  Travis had a blowtorch in his hand and two giant pieces of rusted steel in front of him. Melting down one into the other seemed like a less monumental task than trying to convince Skyler that he was a good bet in the long run.

  Work, Travis. You’ve got shit to do that doesn’t involve a fucking girl. She was the only woman who’d interfered when he was making shit. She was the only woman who’d ever tangled him up more than the twisted metal he molded.

  The door between his studio and the garage was open, and Chevy worked on his Concours bike on the other side of the combined room. It was going to be a beauty—if his buddy didn’t win for that bike, the judges were on crack.

  They didn’t talk, they were too busy working, but the room wasn’t silent. Chevy had turned on “Bitch, I Love You,” by Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears. Travis had given him a hard look, but Chevy just smirked and said, “I really wanted to play this song the other night. But then I’m pretty sure your woman would have punched me.”

  Travis almost said Skyler wasn’t his woman, but that wasn’t exactly true. At least not in his head. Every time he rewound his brain tapes and played her soft, freckled skin and needy moans through his head, a hard kick of possession booted him in the gut. He shouldn’t want her as much as he did; she wasn’t in this thing between them, not for real.

  He could tell she would use the club as an excuse to leave him because she just didn’t understand. They needed to have a real conversation with some fucking clothes on for a change. He needed to lay it all out for her. If she couldn’t get it through her head that he wasn’t Doc Clark, that he was the opposite, they wouldn’t work out. He wanted to explain it to her, but he couldn’t. Because, every time he looked into her heated, moss-colored gaze, all he could think about was getting his hands on her.

  As the scent of burnt rust wafted underneath his metal safety mask and sweat from the heat of the blowtorch ran over the back of his head into his shirt, he tried and failed to remember why he and Skyler were a bad idea.

  She hated the fact he was a biker, but, in a weird way, the Sinners were what had come to define him. They were the brothers who had stepped up and replaced what he’d lost. His first loyalty ought to be to them.

  He felt it when the metal really started to give in the way he needed it to, the way he told it to, so he set the blowtorch aside and started twisting the piece with giant pliers and one of his fire-proof gloves.

  The glove was worn a little between the thumb and forefinger and, in a flash, his skin started to burn. He jumped back and took off the glove so he could run cold water on his hand.

  “Shit.”

  Chevy didn’t even look up because Travis burned himself at least once a week.

  “Suffering for your art, yeah?” Ethan Summers stood there looking like he needed something, and Travis was half tempted to tell the guy to shove it up his ass. But the stick there probably wouldn’t leave much room for whatever bullshit the sheriff was coming to him with.

  “What the fuck do you want this time?” He sidestepped him and got to the sink and cranked the cold water.

  Summers followed him, looking smug. “You’re going to want to put some ointment on that.”

  Travis smiled to hide his annoyance. “Hey, Chev, do we got any burn ointment in the first aid kit?”

  Chevy had stopped working and sauntered over. “Yeah, I think it’s right next to the hemorrhoid cream.” He actually managed to deliver the line with a straight face, looking directly at Ethan. Must hate the fucker for sniffing around his sister more than Travis thought.

  Ethan backed off and assumed the cop stance—legs wide like he was making room for a prize cucumber and thumbs looped in his belt. Douche. He narrowed his gaze at Chevy for a split second then turned his attention back to Travis.

  “I need you to find out what the fuck Deacon’s doing back in town.”

  So, Ethan wanted
Travis and the Sinners to do more dirty work? Double shit; Travis would rather go run his bare hand over the red-hot metal than give Skyler any more reason to label him an outlaw. “Why are we getting stuck doing your job again? Last time I checked, you’re the one wearing a badge.”

  Ethan’s cheek twitched, and the three men stared at each other for a few long moments before Summers spoke again. “I can’t figure it out. You know the county commissioner doesn’t want to hire a bunch of extra bodies for my office. They’re too busy in Santa Rosa trying to staunch the bleeding.”

  What Ethan left unsaid was that a lot of the drugs causing the bleeding in Santa Rosa were coming from Sebastopol.

  “What about the lab we clued you in to a few weeks ago?”

  “They moved.” Ethan’s posture loosened and he ran his hand through his hair. Travis was surprised it didn’t get stuck in the gel he had going on, but he didn’t think it would help his street cred to point that out.

  “What’d you find in the trailer?” Travis cursed himself when he realized he’d taken Ethan’s bait. He was involved in this because it mattered to him to keep outlaws out of Sebastopol. And, as much as he wanted out of that messy business, Isaac’s death made certain he never could be free of it.

  Chevy stood next to him, his massive arms crossed over his chest. He might not care as much about whether there were drugs in town, but his best friend would follow him into hell itself.

  “We found a few empty boxes of cold medicine. Nothing we could take anybody in on because the guy who lives there claimed he had a bad cold.”

  “You haul that guy in for questioning? He was probably the cook, and if he was a user he’d roll on the Diablos Santos.”

  “I told him to get a flu shot and left.”

  “Why are you even fucking here?” Travis’s irritation grew.

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “The Winemakers’ Association thinks it’s a bright idea to assure developers and tourists that Sebastopol is crime-free. Every time I pick up a junkie from the trailer park and it ends up on in the police blotter, I get a concerned visit and a reminder I was elected because the old sheriff told them I would play ball.”

  “And play ball means that you shouldn’t do your fucking job?” Travis gritted his teeth. He loved this fucking town, but that old boys’ club didn’t figure into why he loved it. After Isaac died, they’d even frozen his father out—stopped inviting him to meetings and closed him out on promotional dollars. Travis blamed them for his father’s heart attack almost as much as he did Doc Clark.

  Ethan dropped his head, and Travis recognized the bind he was in. He could go balls to the wall and be the police, even call in the feds if necessary, but he would lose the next election if he did. Travis and the Sinners would get stuck with the bag either way. And having Ethan to work with would be better than some numbnuts the Winemakers’ Association would install.

  Travis glanced over at Chevy. His friend gave him a nod. “How do you suppose we figure out what Deacon’s up to?”

  “Someone told me you all used to be friends. Before.” Had to be Sara. She was seeing the sheriff, and God knew she liked to talk.

  “My sister should keep her mouth shut.”

  Ethan smiled. “I’d hate it if she did that.”

  Chevy took half a step toward Ethan then stopped before Travis had to intervene. But he let out a disturbing growl.

  “But we’re not friends anymore, Summers. It’s not like I can call the guy up and ask if he wants to chat over coffee.”

  “What about your girlfriend? She’s been associated with the Diablos since she was a juvenile.”

  “Her record was supposed to be expunged.”

  “You can never expunge people’s memories in a small town. And you can’t prevent them from talking about something, especially when that something comes in like a wrecking ball and ruffles everyone’s feathers. There are quite a few people who’d like to see your girlfriend run right out of town.”

  A surge of white-hot rage on Skyler’s behalf almost had Travis tossing Ethan out on his ear, but he managed to stay rooted to the floor. His hand, which had cooled under the water, started to burn again. Like the feelings he had for Skyler were right under his skin, a visceral reminder of who she’d become to him again after a few weeks in town.

  It made him feel edgy and out of control. He had to make her belong to him or get her out of his system. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do either. Or that claiming her would make this feeling go away.

  But he would prevent anything involving the Diablos Santos from touching her. That, he would guarantee. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s all I can ask of you.” Ethan saluted with two fingers, like a Boy Scout. Travis managed not to salute him back with one finger, but he and Chevy didn’t talk until Ethan was out the front door.

  Chevy slapped him on the shoulder. “How the fuck are you going to get inside Deacon’s head?”

  Travis shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe buy him some flowers.”

  “Don’t bring him roses. Those thorns will be a bitch when he shoves them up your ass.” Chevy sauntered back over to the bike frame. “Or at least bring plenty of goddamned ointment.”

  When Skyler walked out of her trailer, a week after Deacon and his buddies showed up to shake Roy down, Travis was sitting on his bike and looked at her like she was everything.

  She hadn’t told him, and she knew he’d blow his top if he knew what kind of secrets she kept. But she didn’t know what this was. She didn’t think he did either. Whenever they were together, things were so intense they never got the words out—the ones they needed to figure out whether they could actually make a go of this.

  She was more apprehensive about taking their fling public than she’d like to be. Part of her felt like being out in public with him would be enough of a warning to keep Deacon away. Another part of her felt like it would just make things worse. If word got back to her father, or Deacon and the other Diablos Santos decided that she and Travis together was a challenge to their authority, then shit could blow up.

  It felt like ants were crawling around in her stomach. She was glad they were going out for drinks instead of food. She couldn’t eat anything if she tried.

  His staring at her didn’t help her nerves. It was if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to haul her off to his cave or push her back into the trailer and ravish her. She didn’t know which one she wanted more.

  “Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to climb on?”

  “What’s your rush?”

  “I want to get out of here before I push you in your trailer and fuck you until we can’t stand. Or drink. Get a move on, Carrots.”

  She smiled at him, warmed to her toes by his desire for her. No one had ever wanted her more. Not with the feral, insatiable need she could feel when he looked at her.

  She sauntered over to the bike, putting a little extra swing in her step for his benefit. She wore a pair of skin-tight black jeans he’d sworn about a couple of nights ago because they were very hard to remove.

  One side of his mouth quirked up in a half-growl, and she giggled. She climbed on behind him and fitted her body to his backside. She sniffed the leather at his back. It was so well worn that it smelled like his body.

  When they got to Ed’s, Travis put his hand on the back of her neck as they walked through the Friday night crowd. The heat from his hand warmed her and melted the tension in her shoulders. That simple touch managed more than a million spoken affirmations ever could have.

  They walked over to where Chevy was standing along with some guys she didn’t recognize, wearing matching cuts. She hoped Chevy would keep last week’s intrusion private. The look on his face told her she wouldn’t be that lucky.

  “Carrots, is that you? I hardly recognize you with clothes on.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Chev,” Travis said before Skyler could answer.

  “You’re just mad because you didn’t get to see m
y bodacious tatas.”

  She’d clearly said the right thing because Chevy’s face broke into a huge grin. “You’ve got yourself a keeper, Trav.”

  Travis rolled his eyes. She could feel his body tense and his hand tightened on the back of her neck even though his face was impassive. “Have you met the rest of the guys?”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  Travis grimaced. He wasn’t just angry; anger rolled off him in waves. But he was also nervous. It meant something to him, introducing her to his guys. “You do know Chevy more than I wish you did. These other assholes are Duster, Phillips, and you know Gabe.”

  They all looked at Skyler like she was a yeti. And, in a sense, she was. She’d learned over coffee with Sara that Travis didn’t go on dates. Ever. He only hooked up.

  “Is one of you going to get me a beer, or are we going to stand here staring at each other?” she asked. All four guys laughed. Travis cracked a half-smile, and his hold on her loosened. In moments, they both had cold beers.

  They were an imposing group. Duster was a giant Brit—Chevy told her that “Duster” was slang in the UK for brass knuckles. “What are you doing dating this wanker?” He pointed at Travis.

  “I’m not. He’s kidnapped me.”

  He laughed, and instantly became less intimidating. “Well, if you’re ever interested in dating less of a caveman, you find me.”

  “How’s your head?” Gabe asked.

  “All better.”

  “No headaches?”

  “Just the ones I have to fake with this one.” Skyler pointed at Travis, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate the sarcasm.

  Travis dipped his head so his mouth was close to his ear. “Be careful, Carrots. You haven’t gotten a spanking in a while.” Then, he nipped her earlobe, and she yelped.

  Gabe winked at her and joined Duster in talking to a pretty girl a few feet down the bar.

  Someone poked her in the side from behind. She was ready to punch that person in the face when she turned and saw it was Bishman. More of a father to her than her biological one after her mother died. He used to be a member of the Diablos Santos, but he left before the drug stuff. And Isaac.