by Nicole Fox
“Does Spike know you’re Draven’s kid?” I ask. I twirl a knife through my fingers, a habit I picked up when I was younger. I thought it made me look menacing or something back then. Now, it just helps me calm down.
“I think so,” she says, eyeing the knife. “He seemed to have scoped me out. I was in our territory. My mom’s place is just inside the border. She hates my dad but she also knows if she moved out, she’d be a target.”
It surprises me how much information this girl is sharing. As Draven’s daughter, I’d expect her to be less forthcoming. Simply telling me that her mom lives on the border of GR’s territory is information I could use. Divorced or not, Draven would still provide for his ex. He’d still want her to be safe. Anyone raised in the club would know better than to be so trusting, to share so much information and so willingly.
It confuses me, because this girl just spit in my face and swore at me before telling me who she was. I assess her for a moment. I can tell my staring makes her uncomfortable, because she stares at the knife in my hands before her gaze timidly moves to my face. When she makes eye contact, she looks away quickly, picking at some imaginary something on the comforter.
I take several deep breaths, trying to calm myself. First of all, I make it my business not to involve the children of club members—mine or anyone else’s. I want my daughter out of club business and assume others do, as well. So, while I might have known peripherally that Draven had a family or a kid, I would never have made it my business to know their names or ages or locations. It pisses me off to know that Spike not only made it his business to know, but also to seek out this girl and take her right out in the open, without provocation, and without permission from me.
Spike has pulled quite a bit of bullshit these past weeks. At first, I wanted to let it slide. He’s got a different style than I do, but every leader needs a second in command that won’t fuck around. He’s been with me since the beginning, and though he’s a wild card, the other guys respect him. Lately, though, he’s erratic and drug-fueled. He’s not thinking clearly or making good decisions. Abducting Draven Williams’ daughter is just one more nail in Spike’s casket.
My temper is raging now, deep into the pit of my stomach. Spike orchestrated this. He planned it. He willingly went into another club’s territory to take this girl. And he pretended it was under my orders. This is different than nabbing some club girl and letting the guys claim her for themselves. This is an act of war. What’s worse? It’s an act of war without my consent.
“I won’t say it again,” the girl says, pulling me out of my internal conversation. Her eyes are huge in her pretty face. “You need to take me home. My father will rip your balls off if you touch me.”
I grab something out of my closet without looking and turn sharply, heading back to her in just a few steps. She skitters back against the headboard like she’s expecting me to hit her. Instead, I throw one of my jackets at her.
“Cover yourself up,” I order. “Your tits are hanging out. And for the record, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think your father will do to me. I’ve got a business to run. Try to run and I’ll personally make your stay here a living hell. Stay and be good, and you’ll be treated like a guest.”
“Do all your guests get bound and gagged before they visit? Not very hospitable,” she sneers.
“Don’t push me,” I say, opening the door and slamming it behind me.
I call one of my guys and order him to have one person assigned outside the window and one outside the bedroom door. I didn’t want this little brat, but I’ve got her now, and I’ll be damned if I let her run out the door and back to a rival club.
No, I’d best do what I can to use this new development to my own advantage.
Chapter Two
Tanner
The door slams and I flinch. Griz’ temper is palpable and he’s taken it right out the door with him, leaving the room about twenty degrees cooler.
I stare at the jacket he’s thrown at me. It’s a dinner jacket, like a businessman would wear. It seems so contrasting to the tattooed, knife-wielding MC president who was just in front of me, yet I can envision him in it, dressed up, hair freshly washed, beard freshly groomed. I can see him in the candlelight of a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. The image does weird things to me, makes my stomach flutter. I jump around a little, trying to rid myself of the image. This man is not my friend. He’s not for me. I need to think my way out of this situation, not think of what it would be like to go on a date with him.
But still … he didn’t claim me. He didn’t force me into sex. He didn’t beat me. There was something … decent about him. Something that makes me want to trust him. That’s probably dangerous. I hear my father’s voice in my head, telling me not to trust him. But Draven, by nature, is actually a pretty trusting guy. I think I must have gotten those genes.
My father never really let me get involved in club business. He’s old school and in his world, women don’t lead. They don’t do business with the boys. I’m around it, sure, but only when he is and never in any official or useful capacity, because he doesn’t want his members to mistake me for some club girl. He’d rather pawn me off in some arranged marriage to “keep me safe.” Whatever.
Oh, I’ve snuck out a few times and had a grope session or two, but my dad is an eagle-eyed, iron-fisted fascist when it comes to his only child, so any attempts to rid myself of my V-card have gone unfinished. And any dude who even gets close enough to try ends up with a new scar or two.
No fun.
But my V-card is not the issue right now, especially since I now know there was never a plan for Griz to claim me, as his vice president threatened. That means I need to figure out a plan to get past the huge-ass dudes stationed at my window and at the door. If that big animal thinks he can keep me locked up in his bedroom like some simpering little whatever, he can forget about it.
The thing I don’t get is, if Griz didn’t order my kidnapping, then why the hell is he keeping me here?
Look, people talk in motorcycle clubs, and no one has ever said that David Grisham is impulsive. They say he’s intense and intelligent and that if he loses his cool, there’s a damn good reason for it. I know this guy’s story. He built the Chained Angels from the ground up. He’s one of the youngest motorcycle club presidents in the area. He’s got a little empire built here, and everyone says he’s a success because he doesn’t sample the product; he doesn’t compromise his values for a buck; and he doesn’t make stupid mistakes.
Stupid mistakes like kidnapping a neighbor club leader’s daughter.
He sort of reminds me of my dad, I suppose. They’d probably be friends if they weren’t about to blow each other off the map.
I pace back and forth for a while, but then I have to pee. There’s a huge bathroom attached to Griz’ room, so I pad my way in, finding the giant, two-person soaker tub very inviting.
Then it hits me. How I’ll get out of here.
# # #
Griz
Spike is taking a shot on the eight ball as I storm into the game room. He looks up and opens his mouth as I approach, but I don’t even give him time to speak. I just slam my fist right into his mouth. I hit him so hard that I feel his teeth loosen inside his mouth.
He stumbles back, his leather-clad ass hitting the floor as he laughs, hyena-like, teeth stained red with blood.
“Fuck, yeah!” he hoots, scrambling to his feet. “That’s what we need to see more of around here!”
I punch him again, an uppercut to the jaw, and he stumbles but stays on his feet. I jab three times, fast, into his gut, the air rushing from his lungs in a “whoof” sound. He dodges my next blow, sticking a leg out to hook the back of my leg. I use it to my advantage, grabbing his leg and body slamming him. Once I’ve got him down, my fists pummel his face. His nose cracks and blood splatters across his cheek. He’s still smiling, though, so I punch him straight in the mouth. He turns his head and spits out a tooth.
&nb
sp; With every punch, I retreat further into my base self. David Grisham is controlled and calculating and smart and careful. Griz is not. Griz is predatory. Hungry for blood. Griz is unforgiving. The animal that begged to get out when I was with that girl is now fully uncaged. Spike is nothing but lunch to me right now.
I’ll kill this motherfucker. I’ll fucking kill this crackhead piece of garbage. Why the actual fuck did I ever allow him to ascend to vice president of the club? What the fuck kind of leader allows a wild-card piece of shit like this in leadership? Fuck this guy. Fuck. Him.
His face is bloody and swollen and he’s still hooting and hollering like he’s watching a goddamn football game. Just as I pull back, ready to unleash a blow to knock him unconscious, someone grabs my arm. Two more hands encircle my chest and I’m pulled away from this cock sucking son-of-a-bitch, thrashing and growling like some wild creature. It takes a third member before they can control me enough to get me away.
Two of my members, Jake and Dex, shove me back while Dex’s old lady, Anna, runs to Spike’s side. She’s a nurse, so she checks him out, declares that it’s mostly cosmetic damage, and gives me a dirty look. Not something I’d tolerate on a normal day. Club members’ wives and women do not get to give me attitude about how I run my club.
As it is, I snarl at her. “Get your fucking eyes back in your head,” I snap. “Mind your fucking business or get out of my club.”
“You nearly killed him,” she shoots back. “That what you want?”
Dex sees this interaction and tells Anna to back off. They both help Spike to his feet. That piece of shit has the nerve to smile at me again. It’s like a horror movie in real life. My lips turn down in disgust.
“How’s my hair?” Spike asks one of the club girls, the one he’d been beating at pool a moment earlier. She’s got one hand holding her stick, still, but the other clutches at her flimsy tank top. Her eyes are wide, but she otherwise seems frozen in place.
Spike waves a hand at her in dismissal. He runs a hand through his blond hair, placing it back in his usual ponytail. Then he swaggers up in my personal space, as if I didn’t just beat his ass and hand it to him for dinner.
“That was a good ass-whoopin’, boss. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
My nostrils flare. “Where do I begin? Bragging to a police informant about our upcoming deal with the Juarez family? Snorting product meant for another buyer? Trafficking girls to Mexico? Oh, or maybe kidnapping the daughter of a rival club leader and leaving her in my bed? I mean, to start.”
Spike wipes his nose on the back of his hand. The skin below his eyes is puffy and bruised and one eye is nearly swollen shut. He says, “Hey, I just helped some girls get across the border.”
“We don’t traffic people,” I say, leveling him with a stare. “Especially not underage ones. You want to do human trafficking, you go find another club.”
Spike’s hands go up in surrender. “All right, okay, I gotcha. Won’t happen again.”
“What won’t happen again?” I ask, my voice a growl.
“Any of it. I am here but to serve you, my liege.” He sneers at me, bowing, half of his mouth quirking upward.
I make eye contact with every single member as I look around the room, finally focusing my gaze back on Spike, who has stopped grinning and now seems to realize I’ve done some rather painful damage to his face. Good. He’s bracing one hand on the pool table to hold himself up.
I give him just the slightest smirk before speaking.
“This asshole,” I say, pointing at my second-in-command, “chose to abduct and rough up the daughter of the Grave Robbers. He left her bound and gagged in my bed to claim.”
Jake smirks at this. Anna and Dex both frown at Spike. There’s a ripple of uncomfortable shifting and murmuring among the people in the room. People shift on their feet, look away, anything to keep from getting caught in my crosshairs right now.
“It’s not as if we haven’t laid claim to people before, but there is no reason for this. We want to invite respect from other clubs, and there is no reason to openly incite war by taking someone’s daughter. And I don’t personally enjoy fucking dirty, scared, barely-adult women after they’ve been accosted. Call me crazy, but taking a woman when she’s wet and begging is so much more enjoyable than taking her when she’s begging me to stop.”
“I’ll bet no one’s ever asked you to stop, boss,” one of my club members says, laughing.
I level him with a stare and he stops laughing right quick. “If anyone ever laid a hand on Shannon, I’d expect every one of you motherfuckers to be out with weapons. I don’t care who it is; anyone who touches my daughter ceases to exist. If you think Draven Williams isn’t thinking the same thing right now, then you’re dumber than I thought.”
“Boss is right,” Dex says. “That was a bitch move, Spike.”
Some of the guys mutter words of agreement. They know how I feel about my daughter. They know I’d rip the fingernails from anyone who ever hurt her. Some of the guys have kids of their own. Those are the guys nodding in agreement right now.
“The point is, we need to be smart and vigilant,” I continue. My gaze settles back on Spike. “We now have a rival club’s princess in hand. There is no doubt in my mind that someone will come to reclaim her, and soon. And I won’t stand in front of a bullet for someone who didn’t have the common sense to think through what was a shitty, useless decision. You were thinking with your dick, and I’d happily let Williams cut it off for what you did.”
“She was a gift for you,” Spike says, a little less cocky and looking like he’s about to fall to the floor. “Go unwrap her and enjoy the spoils of war.”
“You fucking moron,” I snap, “there was no war. Grave Robbers aren’t friends, but they weren’t foes either. Now they are. Now go get yourself cleaned up, get some sleep, and I’ll expect you in my office first thing in the morning. You’re going to help me clean up the messes you’ve made.”
“Fuck you very much, then, too,” Spike mutters, trying to get the other guys to laugh.
I take two long steps and punch him right in the nose I’ve already broken. This time, he has the decency to pass out cold.
I look around and say, “Any questions? Alternative opinions? Power plays?”
No one says a fucking word.
“Then get him to the infirmary,” I say, jerking a thumb toward Spike’s lifeless body as I walk out, “and clean up this fucking blood.”
# # #
Tanner
I open the bedroom door and poke my head out. The meathead guarding it turns, his hand on the weapon he’s packing at his side. He’s big and pink-faced and red-haired. His eyes narrow, but he looks more concerned than suspicious. I’m used to big motorcycle dudes, so it’s hard to find one that truly intimidates or scares me. This guy is like a three on the scale, not even halfway to scary. He’s totally going to be easy to manipulate.
When I open the door and reveal myself in only a thong and white lace bra, his eyes go wide. First he looks at my breasts, then he blushes a deeper shade of pink and looks away, finally allowing his eyes to flit back to my face.
“I’m not trying to make trouble,” I say, forcing a wobble into my voice, allowing my eyes to shimmer with tears, “It’s just that I ran a bath and Griz said he’d send up some clothing and I’ve tossed my ruined clothes into the fireplace. I’m really scared and I thought maybe if I took a bath I might feel better. And I’m … I …”
I start bawling. Not a little fake cry, but huge, heaving sobs. I’m an ugly crier and I can cry on command. It’s a useful trick when you’ve got a father whose favorite word is no.
When I look up at the guy, he just looks really uncomfortable. He has a hand out like he wants to comfort me, but he knows he can’t lay a hand on anyone in the boss’s bedroom. He’s biting his top lip and his eyebrows are scrunched up in the middle of his round, pink face.
I sniffle and take his outstretched hand. “Could you find me a
sweatshirt or something?”
“Boss asked me to stay right here,” he answers. “I’m really sorry.”
I take a few shuddering breaths, tears still streaming down my face. “Look, um …”
“Chip,” he says.
“Look, Chip … I’m Tanner, by the way,” I say. “I know you’ve got a heart. I can see it. I just need to take a bath to calm my nerves. I need a big hooded sweatshirt to wrap up in. Please. Can you just help me with this one tiny thing?”
His lips purse to the side and he bites his top lip again. This must be his tell when he’s conflicted. His eyebrows are cinched together again.
“I really shouldn’t,” he says, “Boss’ll murder me if I leave my post.”