Never Love an Outlaw: Deadly Pistols MC Romance (Outlaw Love)

by Snow, Nicole

  Fuck, my dick ached like it was recovering from a lightning strike. Guess it was – thinking about Missy's warm pussy without having it hurt just as bad.

  I tipped my bottle to my lips and poured more napalm down the hatch, stopping in front of Rabid's half-cracked door to watch him empty his nuts in Red. His bare ass bobbed between her legs, twitching with pleasure as he cursed and tweaked her nipples, blowing his load deep in her cunt.

  Shit, shit, shit...

  The flap of my boxers was soaked. I'd lost so much pre-come thinking about her, wandering around like the drunken fuck I was, that I was starting to figure out how strippers felt after dancing in their thongs all night.

  Halfway down the hall, a hand reached out and jerked my cut. I couldn't resist the pull, growling as I spun and hit the wall. Whoever the fuck did it put their hand way too close to my name patch. Nothing pissed a brother off more than having his colors messed with, front or back. I was just as ready to fight for 'em with my life as anybody here.

  “Hey! You better have a damned good reason for fucking with me like –“

  Before I could get another word out, a small flash of curves smashed against me, and lukewarm heat covered my lips. Twinkie's kiss was all tongue and teeth, so warm and wet my dick jerked in recognition.

  Fuck me if my arms didn't fold right over the small of her back. Big mistake. The slut took that as a signal to grind right into me, pushing her pussy against my jeans, nothing between her slick little slit except a pair of lacy black panties with GRIZZLIES MC stamped in red on the ass.

  I knew those panties well. I'd ripped them off and pushed them in her mouth while we'd fucked a dozen times before.

  Her tongue was darting in and out my lips, urging me to tongue-fuck her back, when I finally opened my drunken eyes. The door was still open. Somebody was standing out there watching us, and my vision narrowed on her standing there, mouth hanging open and eyes wide in shock.

  Missy looked like she'd seen a fucking ghost. Her fist wrapped around the broom so tight her knuckles were like ivory.

  The raging bull in my pants collapsed and started to go soft. I tore my mouth away from Twinkie's and gave her a rough push. Bitch had a powerful hold with her fingernails. She spun around and was still hanging on me when I was halfway into the hall, her bare legs sliding seductively on mine.

  Enough.

  I bucked my hips hard, shoving her to the wall. I'd never hurt a woman, but I wanted her the fuck off me. I used one hand to steady her, making sure she wasn't gonna fall, and then ripped myself away.

  “Baby? What the fuck!” Her face wrinkled up in confusion and disappointment.

  “I can't do this shit tonight. Find somebody else to suck and ride...”

  “This is fucking insane! She's not even your old lady...not really...god damn it, Brass! You're really going to say no for some bitch who won't even get you laid?”

  Fuck. Even the slut knew it. I almost turned around and marched back over to her, making her say that shit to my face. But I had to go after Missy, who'd bolted toward the bar like a startled cat.

  It was tough going through the club. Too many bodies packed into too small a space. Brothers, bottles, and girls everywhere, standing or else lying on the floor, too fucking easy to stumble on.

  A bottle caught me right as I saw her through two big Sacramento dudes gabbing away. I slipped and fell on my fucking ass. My body spun, the whiskey slowing my reflexes. Hit my head on a chair's leg and slumped.

  Missy! God dammit.

  I tried to call to her, but my lips wouldn't work. The whole world was just spinning, spinning, collapsing in on itself. My vision darkened just as I started to feel the wicked bump by my temple.

  My head rolled and I saw the Prez sitting on the old sofa, two sluts on his lap, his hands pinching their thighs so hard they looked like they were in pain. Fang looked right at me and smiled, showing the broken, oversized canine in his mouth. He'd supposedly used it to bite a few men to death in the old days. Same fucked up snaggle tooth that gave him his road name.

  Shit, why did he look so fucking evil? His eyes were always dark with anger, and stress pulled his face tight. But he never looked like this...he looked like Satan himself, high and pompous on his throne somewhere in hell.

  He lifted a hand. The dim light overhead reflected off the blade in his hand. He pressed it dangerously close to one girl's thigh, sliding higher between her legs, ready to sever a critical vein or shoot up and split her in two if he chose.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck...

  That's when I knew I was losing my mind. I was fucking hallucinating. Had to be!

  Too much Jack and grief on an empty stomach could really twist a man's brain to knots. I blacked out on the floor, right next to two more girls thrashing with pleasure on the ground, drooling the same way I used to when I felt the heroin's coarse purr surging through my veins.

  Somebody was crying.

  I rolled, threw my hands on the ground, and tried to stand up. The liquor in my veins became a half-faded hangover. The weird near silence in the bar told me I must've lost a couple hours – brothers were long gone with their girls, or else in an even deeper coma than I'd been in a second ago.

  I looked at the sofa. The Prez was gone, if he'd ever been there at all with those poor scared bitches.

  “Let me go! I'm just here to work. I'm not a whore!” I turned toward the high, feminine distress.

  “Heh. Could've fooled me with that fucking mouth, begging to be tamed. He hasn't done shit, has he, girl?” The rough voice paused. “Nobody's buying Brass' bullshit, least of all me. I've seen through that asshole from the very beginning. Fang fucked up failing to burn his junkie ass back in Montana, and now he thinks he's gonna get one over on his brothers, claiming your pussy's his when it really isn't? Shut the fuck up, beautiful, and enjoy yourself. You're nobody's old lady, and that means it's open season on your sweet looking ass.”

  “Let. Go.”

  “Not 'til you give it up on top of this bar, baby girl. I'm gonna rip you right open. Show you what a real man wearing these fucking colors can do. You owe me anyway for not pulling the trigger on your little girl...”

  “No! No!”

  My screwed up brain finally got its shit together. I recognized those voices.

  Missy. Serial.

  Fuck!

  I shot up, ignoring the savage vertigo twisting my brain upside down. Couldn't see anything except pure blood red when I saw him backing my girl against the wall, trying to pull her toward the messy bar top, one of his evil hands pinching her thigh.

  I charged him from the side and knocked his ass flat on the ground. Missy screamed. I fell on top of him, hoping like hell I could aim my fists at his face, knock him out before he knew what hit him. I got in two good punches before I felt him moving beneath me, one hand in his pocket.

  Motherfucker pulled his switchblade and hurled it at my guts. I barely swerved again, deaf as another one of Missy's screams ripped through my ears. I caught a blur, just her circling around us, shaking and holding an empty beer bottle like a club.

  Serial tried to stab my ass again. Too fucking slow. Adrenaline howled through me and I caught his wrist with both hands, forcing the bundle to his throat. It was all down to arm wrestling now, and I wanted to push that knife through his jugular so fucking bad.

  “Brothers, no! Get the fuck up! Both you assholes!”

  Two hands caught my shoulders and shook. I kicked like mad as they tried to pull me to my feet, throwing my head down one more time. I slapped Serial's forehead so hard with mine the sickening slap echoed in my skull, followed by the dull pain.

  More hands landed on me. Dark shapes moved all around us, cutting me off from Missy, taking me away from my target.

  I wouldn't stop flipping my shit 'til Blackjack and Rabid had me pressed to the wall, holding me down with everything they had.

  “Let me fucking go! That asshole tried to rape my old lady. I'm gonna put his ass in the ground!”


  “You've lost your mind, son!” Blackjack roared in my face. “If you think you're gonna deal justice without running it by your brothers, we'll take you out to meet the Mauler right now. Stop it!”

  Rabid's eyes met mine. Come on, man. I don't wanna fucking hurt you, they said. Calm the fuck down.

  Damn it. I started to relax, but I didn't stop kicking 'til I saw Missy behind all the brothers staggering around us. The men were either laughing or giving me the evil eye.

  She was safe – for now.

  I tried to relax, much as I wanted to break their hold and continue beating the fuckface on the floor. He tried to take her, against her fucking will. He tried to take what's mine.

  “I'll leave his ass alone. Just let me fucking go,” I growled, forcing myself to break eye contact with Serial.

  His lip was bloodied and a couple brothers helped him up. He shot me one more vicious look with those dark, merciless eyes. The urge to rip 'em outta his head and blind his evil ass forever was overwhelming.

  “Jesus.” Blackjack spat contempt in my face. “I can smell the whiskey rolling off you. Drunk as a damned skunk. I'm gonna let this ride, long as I don't find out you hit that other shit.”

  I shook my head. “You know I wouldn't do that. I'd rather die, brother.”

  “Nobody's fucking dying here today,” he snapped. “In another couple seconds, I'm gonna let you go. Rabid's gonna walk you out to the garages with the girl, and you're heading straight home. Got it? Don't show your fucking face around here again until you sober up and know how to handle everybody in this club – including the brothers you don't like.”

  I snorted. Blackjack's fingers tightened on my shoulders and he cocked his head, studying me, a stark warning written in his weathered face.

  “Really, Brass? You know this kinda shit happens in this club all the time. Brothers get drunk. Some of them let their girls stray. And that baby faced brunette back there isn't even yours. Nobody believes this stage show you're putting on. It's gonna be a long time before we ever turn 'em loose. I'll tell you that much. You don't trust this bitch as far as you can throw her – how do you expect us to?”

  My heart sank. Fuck. Saving Missy in the scuffle just brought another consequence that activated pure fire in my chest. My heart slapped my ribs like a heavy pendulum, ready to kill and crush.

  He eased up. My cue to turn, rip myself away from him. Rabid still had me by one arm – annoying as fuck.

  “I'll go,” I said, giving Blackjack one more icy stare. “I'll get my shit together like you want. But, you know, it's a sad fucking day around here when you're admitting defeat and letting rapist lunatics fuck this club over from the inside out. Big surprise we're easy pickings for the cartel. We're rotten to the goddamned core.”

  Blackjack's mouth twisted in a frown. He was about to lay into me, but my parting shot to Serial set the maniac off. He threw himself at me, too slow for the brothers surrounding him.

  “Knock it off, asshole! I'm not gonna tell you again!” Blackjack howled, getting in his face as the brothers held him back, trying to bring some permanent peace for the night.

  Rabid kept his grip tight while I circled around and grabbed Missy with my free hand. She followed along limply, matching my steps with Rabid toward the door.

  It was a huge relief when the stink of grease and motor oil outside coiled up my nostrils.

  I headed for the truck. When we were a few steps away, I let Missy's hand go and reached into my pocket, handing her the keys.

  “You drive. I'm too fucked up to get us home.”

  She blinked, and then nodded. I hated looking into her eyes too long, not when they were all red and shocked to hell after Serial worked his black magic.

  At the passenger door, Rabid still hadn't let me go, so I jerked hard. He flew forward, knocked himself into the truck's metal before he released my leather.

  “Shit, dude. Take it easy. I'm following orders.”

  “I know. I just wanna get the fuck outta here.” I put my hand on the door handle and felt my knuckles throb where I'd pounded Serial's face.

  It hurt like hell, but damn if it didn't feel good too. Just wished my fists had gotten a chance to finish the job before these other fucks broke it up.

  “Hey,” Rabid threw his hand over mine on the door, causing me to growl. “I'm hoping you can figure this shit out, brother. You know I would've been right with you, kicking Serial's ass, if everybody knew she was your old lady? I mean, if that's what she really was, and you weren't just doing this for show.”

  “Yeah? Well, thanks for the support.” I stopped just short of adding 'asshole.' There was no point in alienating the last man here who really had my back, even if he half-assed it.

  “Brass, you know it's not like that,” he said, stepping away. “I'm trying to put the club first, same as Blackjack. You and these girls...it's one more fucked up complication. I want them gone just as quick as you do...but not if there's a tiny chance they're gonna fuck us by blabbing to the police.”

  “And I'll tell you the same thing I told Blackjack.” I paused, pressing my teeth together tight. “This club's fucked up. Rotting, from the inside out, infested with junkies and psycho assholes like Serial. Ask yourself how fucked up it is that you care more about keeping shit together to fight the cartel when we've got guys who are supposed to be our fucking brothers acting just like a buncha thugs from below the border.”

  His face tightened in anger, but it faded fast. My eyes were fixed on him the whole time as I climbed into the truck and Missy started the engine, slowly putting some distance between us and the hellish scene.

  Fuck it. Everybody who still had a soul in this club needed to hear the bitter truth, and I hoped I'd lodged it so deep in Rabid's brain tonight he wouldn't be able to go back to his carefree fucking.

  Finally, I looked at her, reaching up over her head to tap the button for the gate clipped to the visor. It opened up and then we took off.

  I mouthed a few directions to give her some idea. No blindfold this time, obviously.

  I was so tired of fighting, playing this fucking game with her and the club. It hadn't gone down like I wanted, but I was done. So goddamned finished.

  If the girl sitting in the driver's seat was gonna screw me over, then there wasn't shit I could do about it. I wasn't gonna drive myself nuts over her knowing where the clubhouse was or pissing off my brothers.

  If they came for her again – Serial or anybody else – I wouldn't hesitate to swing my fists 'til I couldn't anymore. I'd die fighting for something. Right now, protecting her was a helluva lot more attractive than fighting for my own club, even if she never gave me a shred of thanks.

  She had a good reason for despising everything I'd done. The club was behind all this shit. Stress and siege weren't gonna cut it as excuses neither.

  Truth is, my band of brothers turned into a pack of wolves a long time ago. Fuck, they'd been like that since I showed up in Redding, and I was too fucked up to admit it. I couldn't see it 'til now, but when I finally did, it was blinding.

  They were gonna kill her. Serial was gonna force her, sure as he would've blown her little sis' head off in the basement that night. Whatever fucked up sins her daddy did for the cartel against my MC, they shouldn't have been paid for this way.

  My guts churned, rougher than any other time tonight. Raw, hot bile spasmed in my intestines, rage incarnate, vile as whiskey mixed battery acid.

  I reached for her hand on the wheel, gently covering it. “Pull over, babe. Right fucking now.”

  V: Broken Heartbeat (Missy)

  What a night.

  Listening to him in the ditch dry heaving was just the cherry on top of my crap sundae. I shook my head, wondering when he'd finally be done. I wondered even more why I didn't just take off, fleeing into the forest that flanked the little strip where we'd pulled over, and not stopping until I touched Mount Shasta looming in the distance.

  My brain was still trying to process
the evening. Too many bombs exploded in my head too close together.

  I was cleaning, trying not to dwell on all the rough brutes all around me enjoying themselves. Then I had to stumble in on him with that blonde bitch's tongue down his throat.

  Jealously shouldn't have thundered through my veins. And I definitely shouldn't have taken off running, crazed to get away from him while he pursued me.

  Of course, it did, and no reason or wishing was going to make me feel any different.

  I didn't want to hear his crap – especially when he didn't owe me any apologies whatsoever.

  I couldn't want this man. He was a means to an end, a way to navigate this sector of hell and find my way out of the deep, deep pit daddy dug for Jackie and I.

  I was hiding behind the bar, just waiting for him to come out of his stupor on the floor, when Serial attacked. He was so insistent, so fast, his eyes like a guard dog's before it lunges.

  I tried to fight. I wanted to believe I could get him off me, get to safety by myself, but the man who threw me against the counter and pressed his nasty hand between my legs was too strong.

  That was when I broke. I begged for Brass to wake up and help me. Prayed for it.

  The problem with wishes and prayers is that sometimes you actually get what you want.

  He fought for me like nobody ever had. When they piled onto him and forced him off the creep, I thought he'd break out like a bull and keep going, even if it meant his own destruction.

  More than anything else, he'd put me above his own club, and after I'd treated him like total shit too.

  Sure, I could try to ignore these raging uncertainties tearing through me. I'd tried to do that plenty when the liquid heat flowed through me every time I looked at him too long, studying the fierce dark ink scrawled on his hard skin.

  But I couldn't ignore the fact that he'd done me right. He'd truly protected me, and not just for his own selfish reasons.

  A man fighting for himself wouldn't fight like Brass did. He fought for me, and only me, putting himself against blades and blows without a care for himself.