HIS PROPERTY: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Iron Bandits MC)

by Zoey Parker

  Billie raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Sounds exciting. What's up?”

  Panzer shrugged his wide shoulders. “Probably nothing. But about an hour ago, an APB came over the fax down at the office. Some bikers knocked over a bank up in Boise City earlier today. Apparently, it's their fourth robbery in the past month, and all of them have been banks in little nowhere towns like this one. The state and federal boys seem to think they might be headed this way based on the places they've hit so far, so they want local cops like me to keep an eye out. Not that they've ever got proper descriptions of the guys,” he snorted derisively. “They wore masks, just like anyone would.”

  “Jesus,” Billie said, popping open a bottle of beer and taking a sip. “You really think they'll show up here?”

  “Nah,” said Panzer, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his ruddy face with it. “There's about a million towns like this one around here, so the odds seem pretty damn astronomical. I've never had to draw my service weapon in the six years I've been a peace officer here, and I doubt I ever will.” He rapped his knuckles on the bar's wooden surface.

  “You're probably right,” Billie agreed. “Besides, we get so many bikers in off the road around here, how could you tell it was them?”

  “Yeah, the whole thing seems pretty silly.”

  “Still, though,” Billie sighed wistfully, “if they came through here, at least a little shoot-'em-up would liven things up around here. You could finally have a chance to act like a real lawman, instead of just rescuing kittens from trees.”

  Panzer stared down at the bar. “Is that what it would take to get you to like me, Billie?” he asked, almost too quietly to hear.

  Billie was taken aback by the question, and for a moment, she considered pretending she hadn't heard him. Instead, she said, “I like you just fine, Panzie. You know that.”

  “You know what I mean,” he retorted, shaking his head. He still couldn't make eye contact with her.

  Billie didn't know how to answer him. She knew he'd had a crush on her ever since the second grade—hell, everyone in town knew that. But even though she had a soft spot for the big, lumbering, well-meaning lunkhead, she'd never been attracted to him that way, and she'd always been grateful that his shyness had prevented him from ever bringing it up directly.

  But now that he had, would she be forced to tell him outright that she wasn't interested? He was still a good friend, and she didn't want to hurt him.

  Before she could think of a proper response, the door jangled again and she silently thanked God for the interruption. She turned and saw three men in black leather MC vests. Each of them carried a saddlebag.

  The bar got plenty of visitors like these most nights, but Billie couldn't take her eyes off the man in the middle of the group. He was tall and lanky, with long brown hair and piercing eyes. His movements had a casual grace to them, almost like a dancer's body. The muscles in his arms were lean and taut, and Billie could tell that beneath his vest and t-shirt, his chest and abs were firm and chiseled.

  He was the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen.

  “Three beers,” the biker in the middle called out to her, leading the others to a small table in the corner.

  “Coming up,” Billie answered, watching his tight ass as he walked.

  Panzer followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing with jealousy. His entire body grew tense, and the patches of color reappeared high on his cheeks.

  “Well, well, well,” Panzer growled suspiciously. “What have we here? Three bikers, just like the APB said.”

  Billie laughed. “What, you think that's them?”

  “Could be,” Panzer said, nodding. “I'd better go over and ask them a few questions, make sure they're not here for any trouble.”

  Billie couldn't believe her ears. One minute Panzer was about to confess his feelings for her, and the next minute he was willing to prove it by shaking down some random bikers just because he thought it would impress her?

  “So what, you're going to go over there and demand to search their saddlebags for masks and big bags of money?” she asked incredulously. “Just because they happen to be riding motorcycles?”

  “If it comes to that,” Panzer replied, sliding his bulk off the bar stool and touching the handle of his gun. “That's what they gave me this for.” He was trying to sound tough, but there was an unmistakable tremble in his voice.

  She didn't like the idea of Panzer causing a scene in her bar and embarrassing himself. Besides, the more she looked at the handsome one, the more she hated the thought of seeing him get shaken down for no good reason when he probably hadn't even done anything wrong. The idea that the three robbers they'd just been talking about had suddenly decided to walk through the door seemed completely ridiculous to her.

  Billie put her hand on Panzer's shoulder. “Look, why don't you save yourself some trouble, okay? I recognize those guys. They were in here a few hours ago, so there's no way they were up in Boise City knocking over a bank. They're just some thirsty road hogs passing through town.”

  Panzer looked at them again, but his hand withdrew from his gun. “You're sure it was them?”

  “Positive,” Billie assured him. “So relax, okay?”

  Panzer looked sheepish, but somewhat relieved, too. “Okay. Guess all this talk of bank robbers has me wound a bit tight. Anyway, my shift's done, so I guess I'll head off now.”

  Billie felt bad for lying to him, even though she knew it was probably for the best. “Now that you're off, are you sure I can't pour you that beer?” she asked.

  “Nah, you've got other patrons to look after,” Panzer said, loping toward the door. “See you tomorrow night, Billie.”

  “See you then,” she answered, putting three beers on a tray with small napkins under them.

  As she did, she wondered where Panzer would go next. Would he patrol the town aimlessly in his squad car even though he was off-duty, half-heartedly looking for crimes that weren't there so he could prove himself to her as a tough lawman?

  Or would he go home to look through old yearbook photos of them together, re-reading the innocent notes they wrote to each other in the blank pages and pretending there was something more behind them?

  She shook her head to clear these thoughts, put on her most flirtatious smile, and headed over to the table in the corner.

  Chapter 4

  Carter

  As the Metal Monsters swaggered into The Boot Hill Saloon, Carter immediately noticed the beautiful barmaid in her skimpy denim top and cutoff jeans. Years of playing it cool with the opposite sex had given him the discipline to check her out in his peripheral vision without looking at her directly and betraying his interest—but even so, he found himself struggling not to stare openly at her petite frame, cascading reddish-brown hair, and prominently displayed cleavage.

  The three bikers had been riding so hard for the past few months—fighting the Naggias, running from them, riding from state to state while trying to avoid the law—that Carter suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd felt a woman's touch.

  So long, in fact, that it took an extra few seconds for his brain to register the fact that she was talking to the local sheriff.

  He felt an electric tingle of dread tip-toe up his spine. Even before their current spree of robberies, he'd always gotten this feeling when he was this close to a cop, as though he'd accidentally stepped into a cage with a hungry tiger. In the animal kingdom, cops were the natural predators of bikers, even the ones who weren't outlaws. Any sudden movements, any outward indication of fear, and the creature wouldn't hesitate to tear its prey to shreds.

  His fight-or-flight instincts kicked into high gear, screaming for him to turn right back around and walk out of the bar—calmly, without any sense of urgency, as though he'd left his wallet with his bike or something like that—so that he and the others could hop on their bikes and make tracks for the next town. But no matter how natural they tried to make it look, Carter knew it could still mak
e the sheriff suspicious enough to go after them, especially if he'd heard about the previous robberies they’d committed.

  Nope. The only way to safely navigate this situation was to sit down, have some drinks, and act like they had nothing in the world to be nervous about.

  Carter tossed what he hoped was an offhand glance toward the bar. “Three beers,” he said.

  “Coming up,” the barmaid answered.

  As Carter led Hazmat and Oiler to a table in the corner, he could feel eyes on his back. He wondered whether they belonged to the barmaid, the sheriff, or both.

  When Hazmat and Oiler sat down across from Carter, he could see his own tension reflected in their eyes as they tried to look casual.

  “He's lookin' at us,” Oiler murmured, trying to keep his lips from moving.

  “Of course he's lookin' at us, stupid,” Hazmat said in a low voice through clenched teeth. “We're fuckin' bikers. And he's gonna keep lookin' at us if we keep whisperin' and doin' half-assed ventriloquist acts like we got somethin' to hide.”

  “So what should we talk about?” Oiler asked quietly.

  “Nothing,” Carter said. “We're not a fucking book club for housewives. We're just three dudes who came in for a drink. We don't need to talk about anything. We just need to sit here and act normal for a few minutes, so chill the fuck out, both of you.”

  The seconds ticked by like hours as the three men sat, trying not to make eye contact with anything in particular. Carter felt like an idiot just drumming his fingers and staring off into space, and with each passing moment, he could feel the sheriff's eyes drilling holes in his back. The tension kept building inside him like a boiler with its pressure valve increasing past the danger levels, threatening to explode him from the inside out the longer they stayed.

  Finally, the sheriff lumbered over to the door, shooting a dirty look at them before leaving.

  “There, you see?” Carter said, smiling. “No trouble at all. Now we can relax, enjoy our beers, and go over the plan.”

  “Are you nuts?” Oiler asked, his voice going up an octave. “After what just happened, you still want to go through with this?”

  “Nothing happened, asshole,” Hazmat sneered. “Didn't you see? He doesn't suspect a thing. He was just here to get a look at the chick behind the bar before he goes back to his trailer park and beats off to her. He barely even noticed us.”

  “He noticed,” Oiler insisted, shaking his head. “He was staring. You saw that, didn't you?” He turned to Carter imploringly. “Look, we've had a great run, okay? Four states, four banks, that's impressive enough to build a rep on. The money's not perfect, but we can make things work with what we've got. Maybe that last job went so smoothly as a warning for us to just be grateful for what we got away with instead of pushing it too far and fucking it all up.”

  Before Carter could respond, the barmaid sidled up to their table, placing their beers down in front of them. Now that the cop was gone, Carter allowed himself a more deliberate look at the woman, taking in her vivid green eyes and the dash of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She was sexy as hell, but there was also something impish and mischievous about her expression and mannerisms that he found alluring.

  “Here you go, fellas,” she said. “Sorry you got the greasy eye from the sheriff. It's nothing personal. He was just having a John Wayne moment, trying to impress me.”

  “Did it work?” Carter asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nah,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “It takes a lot more than that to get my motor running. Anyway, that's nine bucks. You guys want to pay now, or start a tab?”

  “We'll pay now...” Oiler began before Carter raised a hand, cutting him off.

  “Actually, we're going to go ahead and start a tab,” Carter said, sizing her up. “Now that we've been here a few minutes, the place is starting to grow on me.”

  “Suit yourself,” she answered, shrugging. “When you need another round, just give me a yell. My name's Billie.”

  “Kind of a boy's name, ain't it?” Hazmat grunted.

  Billie rolled her eyes. “It's spelled with an '-ie' to make it more feminine, genius.”

  “Oh yeah?” he snickered, sipping his beer. “Like Johnnie or Timothie or Harvie?”

  “Well, if you're such a good judge of names, how about telling me yours?” she countered.

  Hazmat opened his mouth reflexively, but Carter spoke up quickly. “Whatever he tells you is going to be a lie,” he said evenly. “His real name is Yorick. That's what it is.” Carter shot a steely glance at Hazmat. “Isn't that right...Yorick?”

  Oiler stifled a giggle, putting his hand to his face and pretending it was a sneeze.

  The muscles in Hazmat's jaw twitched angrily as he glared back at Carter. Finally, he said, “Yeah. Yorick. Sure. That's me.”

  Billie threw her head back and laughed loudly. “I stand corrected, then! Clearly, you're an expert on shitty names, so you're free to discuss them with impunity.” She took a few steps toward the bar, then repeated the name and cackled again.

  Hazmat's huge fists clenched on the table top. “Yorick? What the fuck, man? Why Yorick?”

  Carter leaned in, his smile frozen on his face as his voice lowered dangerously. “Because if you ever come that close to blurting out your real name again when we're about to pull a job, you moronic shitkicker, I'll make you into a skull in the fucking dirt. Understand?”

  “Okay, jeez,” Hazmat said sheepishly, backing down. “I wasn't gonna give 'er my real name anyway.”

  “Yeah, I'll bet, Yorick,” Oiler giggled.

  Hazmat stared down Oiler coldly. “Carter can get away with that shit. He's president. But if you keep titterin' at me like a spastic little girl, I'm gonna rearrange you so you'll have to unzip your fly to eat.”

  Oiler nodded, snorting and trying to suppress his laughter.

  I'm the president of a three-person MC, Carter thought. One of them's me, and the other two are these knuckleheads. God help me.

  Hazmat pulled the napkin out from under his beer and removed a pen from his pocket, handing them to Carter. “So, you wanna sketch this job out for us, since you're supposed to have all this 'inside info?'”

  “Hey, now wait a minute,” Oiler interjected. “Since when did we decide we're still gonna go through with this, after that thing with the sheriff? I still say we quit while we're ahead, instead of being dumb an' greedy.”

  “An' I still say you might as well be wearin' a diaper instead've a cut, if you're gonna keep cryin' an' pissin' yourself every five seconds,” Hazmat spat.

  “Oiler, you heard what that hot little barmaid just told us,” Carter said evenly. “That sheriff doesn't suspect us of a damn thing. He was just trying to make his balls look big. The job tomorrow's no more dangerous now than it was when we walked in fifteen minutes ago. It's foolproof, and the money we pull out of it's going to make what we've taken so far look like pennies.”

  “Yeah, I know a lot 'bout foolproof plans,” Oiler sulked. “I heard about 'em every day from the fools who were in the slammer with me.”

  “Look, just hear me out,” Carter insisted, starting to sketch out a basic diagram on the napkin. Hazmat and Oiler leaned in closer to see what he was drawing. “This bank we're hitting tomorrow has never been robbed once since it opened in 1904. Now, I happen to know for a fact that the bank's manager, Coop Scanlon, has been embezzling money from the place for years...”

  “How do you know that?” Oiler asked.

  “Never mind that now,” Carter said. “The point is, to cover up what he's been stealing, Coop has cut corners on their security measures. The cameras are just there for decoration...they aren't hooked up to anything. Their only security guard is a retired, half-blind cop whose arthritis is so bad he can barely draw his gun anymore. Oh, and they mostly hire high school kids as tellers, so they can pay them minimum wage and work the shit out of them.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hazmat gr
umbled impatiently. “But if they're such half-assed idiots, then how come you keep sayin' this bank's gonna be so loaded?”

  “That's the best part,” Carter said, grinning. “See, all the farmers and yokels keep their money in this bank, and most of them tend to make deposits just about every week. They're small amounts individually, but after a while they start to pile up. And Coop's such a penny-pinching asshole that he only pays for the bank's armored car service to come pick up the surplus cash once every month, unlike the weekly pick-ups a lot of banks have. This bank's pick-ups are always scheduled for the same day and time—the third Wednesday at two o'clock.”