by Nicole Snow
The girl wouldn't win any beauty contests, but she knew how to fuck.
I grunted and walked on, closing the door behind me, just as Marianne purred and flopped in bed one more time. Better to think about sex than the way I was gonna lay into Tank when I got in the exercise room.
The neon lights and photographs hanging in the long hallway were like memory lane decked in devil red. I walked right past the most recent ones at the end, pictures of my last day as VP. My brother Maverick had his arm thrown around me, that pretty little thing he'd rescued at his other side, ready to ride off into the sunset to fuck knows where.
He was gone, and I was in charge now. Time to assert my fucking authority.
Nobody was stirring at the bar, even though it was getting close to breakfast time for some guys.
Slap-slap-slap.
The noise drew me closer. Sounded like a barely padded jackhammer the closer I got. I reached for the handle to the exercise room and tightened my hand around it. I threw it open so hard it hit the wall.
The machine in human flesh inside wasn't fazed. He looked right through me, throwing his huge fists into the old punching bag again and again. Sweat rolled down his shirtless flanks, right over the fading bullet wound that almost killed him last month.
“Hey, dumbass! What the hell did I tell you about doing this shit so early in the morning?”
He couldn't hear me over his fists. He was in manic mode, grunting and pummeling the big black slab in front of him. His huge head flushed bright red, and my jaw fucking dropped when both his fists disappeared inside the punching bag.
Next thing I knew, sand was spilling out all over the damned place. Tank looked down in surprise, panting and woozy from the psycho exertion. He staggered backward several steps and flattened his bulky body against the wall.
What were you thinking? I thought to myself as I approached him. This is the fucking guy you backed for Sergeant of Arms?
He finally looked up and focused his beady eyes on me. If he wasn't a giant who could pull my arms off, I would've slapped him clean across the head.
I settled for jerking forward, pressing my hands to both sides of his sweaty face, and staring him right in the eyes.
“Let's try this again. GOOD MORNING, ASSHOLE. Is anybody home in there?”
“Sorry, boss. I didn't know you were there...didn't see you coming. Didn't mean to make a mess either.”
“Obviously, asking you not to start this shit up before the ass crack of dawn isn't working. If you won't do it for me, then do it for yourself. Are you trying to rip your fucking guts open again? You know what the nurse told you...”
His eyes glowed a little when I mentioned his crush. Jesus, the boy needed to get laid. If he'd blow off some steam with Marianne or the other whores we'd just recruited, rather than pining for the unreachable dove we kept on payroll, maybe he wouldn't be shitting up our exercise room before sunrise and waking my ass up.
“You're right. I wasn't thinking, boss. Bad habit.” He smiled sheepishly.
I couldn't resist. I gave him one quick smack, right in the forehead, before I let go and turned away. My frustration was about to overflow like a badly shaken beer.
“Needs to change real soon, brother.” I folded my arms and faced him. “You're an army vet, so I think you'll understand – this is my unit, my club now. I appreciate what you did during our fight with the Grizzlies as much as anybody. Doesn't mean I'm gonna put up with the same slapstick shit you put Maverick and Throttle through.”
Tank lowered his eyes like a puppy. Make that a big, beefy, shirtless puppy covered in dark ink.
I shook my head. The boy still had a lot of learning to do.
He'd come a long way since screwing off at our mother charter in North Dakota, when Throttle got sick of his shit and dumped him on my brother while we were all Nomads. But he hadn't come far enough. Now, the giant was my problem, and I was convinced I could whip this fucker into line, the same as everything else I had in my grip.
My club now. Mine. That includes you, army boy.
“Grow a brain,” I said coldly. Didn't take my gaze off him, even when he looked up. “We're not finished just because we settled with the Grizzlies. Those fucks are right across the border, and it's up to us to put some teeth into this truce while we make our money. Can't do that if you're fucking yourself over and everybody else because you can't follow simple orders.”
He nodded. I moved to the door, satisfied I wouldn't need to have this talk a third time. I left him alone with his mess, glad the fucking punching bag was finished.
I headed for the bar. It was too damned early for Jack. Just black coffee and something to settle my stomach after last night.
I filled a mug from the thermos we always had stashed near the counter. Felt Lady Luck giving me the finger while I tried to pry my eyes open and shake off the hangover. Nothing else explained why I had to deal with such bullshit after my first night off since getting this place set up.
The new glossy marble countertop sparkled as I sat my cup down. I saw my PRESIDENT patch in the reflection.
Oh, yeah. Luck or not, that explains it pretty fucking well.
A hand clapped my shoulder. I swigged my coffee, pivoted on the stool, and looked at Stinger shooting me a grin that would've given a Cheshire cat a run for his money.
“Morning, sunshine. Thought you'd crash a lot later after last night.”
“Whatever, man. Doesn't always work out like that. Hard to get any shut eye around here at all between Tank and our whore waking me up.”
“I'm glad you're awake, Prez. We've got that vote on patching in Stone and Smokey.”
I growled. I wasn't in any mood to talk about expediting our two prospects. Normally, we would've waited, but the Missoula charter needed every able bodied man it could get.
The operation out here was growing crazy fast. In just a few weeks, we had a few new legit businesses going up plus the blackhat stuff that brought in the real bucks moving through. Throttle wasted no time sending his boys on long runs up to Canada, and we were the crucial last stop before guns and drugs went north.
Hangover or not, my VP was right. He slid into the seat next to me, grabbing some coffee of his own. At least I was confident in one pick I'd made to lead this club.
“You think those boys are ready? Never heard of anybody being patched in with barely a month under their belt.”
“They've been hang arounds for a full season when we were down in Python. Nothing's fucking ideal out there. We all found that out real fast last Spring. Gotta make do. You Dakota boys have had it too good for too long.” I chugged my coffee and looked at my VP.
Stinger grunted and gave me a thin smile. Fuck, I didn't think it was possible to really insult this guy. Good thing too because my tongue was full of venom today.
“We've had our wars too,” he said. “You know that. You were a Nomad long before you put on the Montana patch. Hell, these prospects will be the first native Montana blood we bring into this club. Might be good for ramping up our ties with the locals.”
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for church, Stinger. What time is it, anyway?”
His hands slid over his pockets, and then twisted in frustration. “Shit. Must've left my phone somewhere else during the big bash last night.”
I rubbed my cut, my jeans, and growled when I only felt my wallet and keys. I was just as fucked as him.
Downing my last swigs of coffee, I slammed the mug on the counter and jumped out of my seat. Despite being near dawn – or so I thought – it was dark as hell with all the lights turned low. The floor was a fucking mess.
I started crawling around in the overturned chairs, tossing empty bottles aside, hoping I wouldn't stick my hand right in somebody's mess from the night before. There'd been enough whores and groupies to bed every brother. More than that, actually, because we had a few guys with old ladies who stayed honest to their girls. I saw Roller running off with two girls last night.
“Fuck
ing shit.” I snarled, brushing aside a gnawed up chicken wing. “This is why I'm in no hurry to patch those boys in. We lose our prospects now, we'll have to hire a fucking maid to keep this place in order.”
I heard a loud buzz. Right beneath the nearby sofa, a little ways away from the bar.
Stinger looked at me and shrugged. I dove for it, flipping over the couch. A cheap burner phone sat between popcorn kernels and grimy change.
I snatched it up and instantly recognized the scratch on the front. I put it there for just this reason, so nobody would confuse the damned thing when they were stinking drunk on whiskey or pussy.
“It's mine,” I told him, flipping it open. “What the hell?”
Sixteen missed calls. All within the last two hours, starting at about one in the morning and going until three. It was almost four o'clock now, and there had just been another.
Hair prickled at the back of my neck. Either somebody was screwing around, or something was seriously fucked up.
My mind went through the possibilities. Didn't even have anybody out on patrol tonight since Grizzlies territory had been pretty quiet over in Idaho. Had something happened back east, maybe in Dickinson or Cassandra? When mother charter squawked, everybody came to her aid.
I didn't recognize the number. Stinger came up behind me, nosy bastard, and pointed.
“Says you've got three voicemails. You know how to bring it up?”
I punched the keys. Hard.
“Sure do, asshole. I'm not a fucking idiot.”
This was the third burner phone this year, and they were all pretty much the same. I glared at my VP as I tapped keys and listened to the robotic voice begin to drone.
His only problem was thinking he knew better than everybody else sometimes. Yeah, maybe I would've needed a lesson if I had an i-whatever in my hands, but everybody in this club could operate a simple fucking flip phone.
I ignored him, flexing my muscles and waiting for the pounding headache to stop. Almost as agonizing as waiting for this stupid drone to get to the messages.
Finally, a voice came on the line. Small, frantic, and female.
“Blaze...it's Shelly Reagan...um, Saffron. You've got to help me! Please, you're the only one who can. I'm in the woods all alone outside town. I'm ruined if you don't. Call me back when you get this!”
End of message.
The next message made my blood run cold. “Oh, God. I really, really need you out here. Call me. Please.”
There was no mistaking her whimper. It sounded even more strained than the way I'd heard her ooze pain when I tended her black eye. Something awful had happened out there, wherever the hell she was.
The last message hit me right between the eyes, and then went straight to my heart. Not an easy thing to do simultaneously.
“I killed him!” She sobbed, right before I heard a sound like something heavy being pulled on rough ground. “I'm fucked. Hopeless. You were my last chance...I was an idiot for calling you at all. Forget everything. You'll hear about it soon enough.”
Her voice faded into more terror, more tears. I clenched my jaw, cleared the screen, and stuffed the shitty phone into my jeans.
“What's up, Prez? Everything kosher back home?” Stinger asked.
“It's not mother charter. Come on,” I said, reaching for my keys and stepping toward the side door that led to the big garages. “See if anybody's awake in the back and get the truck. We need to get out there.”
I whispered the name of the park. Seriousness crept across his face, and he moved fast.
So did I. A minute later, I had my helmet fastened and plugged the key into my brand new Harley's ignition.
The engine roared to life, dependable and calming. Saw my patches gleaming back at me, slightly distorted in cold steel.
This is it. This is what a President's business is all about in this MC.
Missoula and the surrounding counties were my territory. I was responsible for everything that happened here – all of it – and if this shy, sweet hottie was desperate enough to reach out, saying no didn't enter the equation.
I took off toward the light just beginning to turn blue on the horizon. It was a big park, reaching straight into the wilderness, but my whole life was an exercise in tracking down trouble. I'd find her, and I'd fix it.
Same as if some asshole's brought the trouble to her, I thought. After this morning, my hands were fucking ready to punch some fuck's lights out.
The whole drive beyond city limits, I thought about her.
Her short stint working at Pink Unlimited seemed like a small lifetime ago. Then the fucking place burned down and all hell broke loose with the Grizzlies. We lost a few battles, won the war, and set up shop in Missoula, a more stable place to control our new territories after the bears agreed to leave Montana for good.
Before, I rolled out of bed in a bad mood. Now, hot rage boiled in my veins, some seriously bad mojo every time I thought about poor Saffron suffering.
Wasn't the first time I'd thought about her since that night I took care of her at our old clubhouse in Python. My hands tightened on my handlebars, and my whole body stiffened at the memory.
Let it go, you dirty fucking dog...this is serious.
It was easy to hear good advice. Not so easy to act on it.
The girl obviously looked up to me. Saffron thought I was so kind, so sweet, so manly for tucking her in after that fuck with the Grizzlies patch put his fist in her face.
She was dead wrong.
Yeah, I was pissed, eager and ready to help her get some shut eye and patch up her beaten face. Too bad the thoughts rattling around in my head were less than charitable, and a million miles away from pure.
I wasn't a good humanitarian. I helped her because she was hot, keeping her warm and comfy while evil fantasies rattled in my brain.
If it were anybody else I had to look after, I would've done it. But I wouldn't have been so attentive, ready to kiss away her bruises if she asked, and then kiss, lick, and suck everything else on her tight body.
Thinking about her sent a whirlwind tearing through me, straight to my cock, tight like a fucking leash.
Saffron wasn't just another stripper, another whore, another throwaway.
She was absolutely beautiful, an innocent diamond in a dirty fucking rough. How she'd gotten caught up in this shit, I didn't have a clue.
I just knew one thing: this was the kinda girl I'd always had a thing for, the kind who made me twist and pulse in my darkest dreams, the one I saw when I was fucking the whore this morning.
Marianne said it was the hardest I ever came. If only she knew I was thinking Saffron, Saffron, always fucking Saffron while I swelled and unloaded in her pussy.
I had to do more than save this woman today. I had to have her, or else I was gonna end up in a goddamned straight jacket.
Blood pooled between my legs and circulated through my muscles, deadly as distant lightning.
Fuck, if anybody hurt her again...
I gave the bike more juice. The long ride past Missoula took half as it should've. I whipped around the mountains, navigating this beast with a growl that echoed what I was feeling in my veins.
I recognized her shitty Toyota from the road. It was up a ways on a hill, parked in a weird position next to an old cabin.
It bothered me that nobody was home. Even worse, the passenger door was open.
Aiming the bike up the path, I rolled on, then threw off my helmet and got off it in the early morning stillness. I drew my phone out of my pocket and dialed her number.
Damn it, there was no answer. The cautious thing would've been to wait for my backup, or at least dialed Stinger to tell him I was going in the woods.
Caution had never been my strong hand though, especially when people's lives depended on action.
I walked down a narrow path. Didn't take long to notice the flattened brush along the side. Followed it all the way until I saw the blood.
Fuck.
W
ait.
If some asshole hurt Saffron and not the other way around, he probably would've done a better job covering his tracks.
This was an amateur job. And saying anything was covered at all here was being damned generous.
I reached into my other pocket, feeling for the switch blade stashed there. Wished I grabbed my nine millimeter before going out here, but I'd brought a knife to a gun fight plenty of times and came out on top.
Slowly, I moved forward, following the blood trail. Honestly couldn't tell what was worse: not having a clue what happened out here, or knowing whatever it was lay out in plain view for everybody to find.
The light on the horizon wasn't getting any darker. Just one old man out for an early morning walk with his dog would land us in a world of shit...
I got my ass into gear and hustled. Found her about a minute later, slumped against the body. Her face was puffy and red, but not any worse than the blood streaked on her hands, her knees.
“Blaze?” she looked up in disbelief, as if she'd just stepped off the plane from a long trip.
“Holy shit.” I held out one hand, helping her up, and then instantly pushed past her.
A tall guy with some serious muscle was dead on the ground, wrapped in leather. When I saw the bloody Grizzlies patch, I fingered my blade, stiffening at the lightning surging through my nerves.
This is fucking bad, I thought with a growl.
“What happened out here?” I turned, grabbed her by the wrists, and pulled her close until we were face to face. “Tell me the truth.”
“He got my keys...forced me to ride way out here with him. I couldn't say no –“
“Did he hurt you?” My hands tightened on hers. “Jesus, you weren't dating this piece of shit, were you?”
“N-no way!” she sputtered, furiously shaking her head. Her pretty chestnut hair flopped along her shoulders, flowing right down to those perfect tits.
No, dammit, this girl was too beautiful to lie. I trusted her.
“And you're okay? He didn't lay a hand on you?”
Dead or not, I was scared for what I'd do to the asshole at our feet if she told me what I didn't want to hear. I'd make Tank's little meltdown that morning look like a toddler pitching a fit.