Rough Justice

by Sarah Castille

  He caught the flash of disapproval in her eyes before she sighed. “If you think that scares me, you’re dead wrong. Except for the prospects, I don’t think there are any Jacks without blood patches.”

  “What about you?”

  Her eyes flashed, amused. “If I were the kind of woman who spent her time earning blood patches, you’d be the one in handcuffs, and your friend over there would be dead on the floor.”

  Laughter welled up in his chest, and he fought like hell to keep it back. Damn. This was the kind of woman who should be in his bed. Sassy, sensual, and full of fire. And with her wrist handcuffed above her head, her sweet body stretched out on the sheets and affording him a glimpse of her creamy thighs, his mouth watered at the thought of taming her.

  Zane snorted in disbelief. “Given you were wearing riding leathers, drove a high-end Kawasaki into our yard, made a suicidal escape attempt, and then proceeded to give us lip, I’d say there is a strong possibility you might have earned a blood patch or two.”

  “Well, I haven’t, but I’m happy to start with you.” Her chin lifted. “Just toss over the key … unless, of course, you’re afraid of me.”

  Of all the fucking cheek. Jagger couldn’t help but admire her moxie, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. “The cuff stays on. I don’t want to worry you’ll try to earn your patch at my expense while I’m asleep.”

  “I must have ‘killer’ written all over me,” Arianne huffed.

  This time he couldn’t hold back the laughter. She was many things—sexy, beautiful, and brave—but “killer” didn’t fit. “Not anywhere I can see.”

  Color rose in her cheeks and she shifted on the bed, her shirt riding up almost to the juncture of her thighs. Jagger’s groin tightened and he forced himself to look away. He should have given the doctor one of Gunner’s oversize shirts, or sent Sherry, the house mama, to buy their captive something decent to wear. He couldn’t afford to think of her as anything but a prisoner, an enemy. With a glare at Zane, who had also been studying her with interest, Jagger grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her up.

  “So … how did you get so many blood patches?” Her lips curled in disdain even as she tucked the blanket around her sides with her free hand. “Women? Families? Civilians?”

  “You know better than to ask.” Club business was never shared with outsiders, and yet her derision sliced through him, a knife in his gut.

  What the hell? He barely knew her, and he was acting like her opinion mattered. Better she knew he was a happily blooded member of the MC than a man who regretted every life he’d had to take. Scowling, he spun away and stalked toward the door without a second glance at the woman on the bed. Regret was a weakness. As was compassion. And he’d extended too much of that already.

  THREE

  The mission of the club is to foster the ideals of honor, truth, loyalty, and brotherhood through a common interest in motorcycling.

  Handcuffs.

  Arianne pressed her lips together to keep her laughter in as she worked the lock with the underwire from her bra. How often had she and Jeff timed each other as they each took a turn escaping from her father’s handcuffs? Biker kids didn’t play with normal toys. They didn’t learn normal skills. They were patched in at birth and expected to learn how to survive in the biker world. And she had taken those lessons to heart.

  With a soft click, the lock gave way.

  Free. Well, sort of. And it had taken her a disappointing hour and a half, according to her watch. Jeff would have laughed.

  She tried the door first, but it was securely locked and bolted from the outside. The window yielded more success. After pushing it open, she looked out over the porch overhang, fighting back the memories of another night, another roof, and a fear so overwhelming, her knees shook. She could almost feel Jeff’s small body shivering in her arms as they plastered themselves against the cold brick chimney, and prayed someone would hear the screams and yelling inside and call the police.

  Yes, she could escape, but where would she go? Small perimeter lights revealed a vast overgrown lawn, dry flower beds, and a crumbling brick wall around the property. A moonlit forest stretched as far as she could see in front of her, and the shadows of the Bridger Mountains lay to her east. Isolated, as Jagger had said. Definitely miles from town. But at least she had her bearings. Conundrum and the highway lay to west.

  Still, she couldn’t see any city or traffic lights. She had no clothes, and although she could hot-wire a bike, the Sinners would be riding 1,200cc hogs, heavy to push, slow on the road, and hard to manage without shoes.

  Drawing in a deep breath of crisp autumn air, she stared out into the night as a cloud passed over the moon. God, she hated the darkness. Almost as much as she hated her father.

  “Looking for something?”

  Panic shot through her and she whirled around to face the intruder. How had she not heard the door open? An unforgivable loss of concentration, and one that could have cost her life.

  He flicked the light on and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. Young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three—and handsome in a baby-faced way, the biker who stepped into the room had long blond hair cut to hang across his face, rock-star style. But with a gun in one hand and a girl tucked under his arm, he clearly wasn’t there to entertain her.

  “Name’s Wheels.” He motioned to the curvy redhead beside him. “And this here is Sherry. She’s in charge of keeping house. I’m in charge of looking after bikes, guests, and doing whatever it is the bikers need doing. Jagger sent us up to make sure you were okay.” He gestured to the cuffs still hanging on the bed. “Looks like you made yourself more comfortable.”

  Ah. He had to be a prospect. Only club pledges were given the menial task of looking after the club’s bikes and doing the dirty jobs no one else wanted to do—like looking after prisoners—to earn the respect of the club and their full-patch status. And yet he didn’t have the officious attitude the usual prospect showed when talking to someone from outside the club.

  “I needed some air.” She pressed her back to the window, wary of being alone with two strangers in the room, and disconcerted that she hadn’t felt similarly cautious when she was alone with Jagger earlier.

  “We’re not going to hurt you.” Sherry pulled away from Wheels and leaned against the now empty dresser. Zane had removed Arianne’s gun and Jagger’s gym bag on his way out.

  “Jagger won’t hurt you either,” she said. “He doesn’t hurt women.”

  “Unless they burn down our clubhouse and kill one of our brothers.” Wheels scowled, but with his baby face, the scowl was more of a scrunch and just made him look cute.

  “It wasn’t me.”

  Sherry laughed. “I’d say that, too, if I were trapped in a rival MC’s clubhouse with one hundred angry bikers downstairs calling for my head.”

  She must have paled, because Sherry was instantly contrite. “Hey, don’t worry. I meant what I said about Jagger. I know him well … probably better than anyone here. He never takes a life unless it’s justified.”

  Arianne grabbed the window ledge for support. He was the enemy—a ruthless, merciless biker who led the only MC in Montana her father considered a true threat—and she needed to keep that fact foremost in her mind.

  “Well, that didn’t reassure her,” Wheels said. “Now she looks like she’s about to faint.”

  “Kinda like you when Zane and Cade told you the Devil Dog VP’s old lady was a sweet butt who wanted into your pants.”

  “That wasn’t funny.” Wheels’ nostrils flared. “I’d been a prospect for only a week. No one told me old ladies were totally off-limits, even to talk to. He almost killed me.”

  Sherry winked at Arianne, then looked up at Wheels. “I don’t think it was the ‘talking’ part that pissed off the VP; it was when you put your hand up her skirt and pinched her ass right in front of him.”

  Arianne laughed, and her tension eased. Even the Black Jacks loved t
o haze their prospects. It was a favorite biker pastime.

  “Who took off her handcuffs?” Jagger’s deep voice cut through the laughter, and the room stilled. He braced one arm on the doorjamb and one overhead filling the doorway with his lean, muscular body.

  “That would be me.” She gave him a cool smile, amused by his assumption she’d required assistance to get free.

  Jagger glared at Sherry and Wheels. “No one thought to put them back on her? After I told you only twenty minutes ago that she was a flight risk?” He crossed the room and slammed the window closed behind her, the loud bang shaking the glass panes. “And you’re letting her stand by an open window no more than ten feet off the ground?”

  Wheels and Sherry shared a terrified glance, and Arianne felt a twinge of annoyance. Despite her situation, she had to admit they’d been nothing but friendly. Not that she would jump to their defense. Political savvy had saved her neck time and again in the Black Jack clubhouse, and no one, but no one, challenged the president. At least, not in public.

  Jagger dismissed Wheels and Sherry, waiting until the door closed before he circled Arianne’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, his voice dropping to a sensual growl. “When I cuff you to the bed, I expect you to stay there.”

  If his intent was to throw her off balance, it had worked. Mouth dry, every nerve in her body focused on the soft brush of his thumb over her skin, her body came alive with sensation. She toyed with the hem of her shirt as she tried to get herself together.

  “I wasn’t really in the mood to be restrained.”

  His eyes glittered, and electricity fired the air between them. “What were you in the mood for, little vixen?” He dropped his gaze to her lips, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her. Instead he tugged her in the direction of the bed.

  “Escape. That’s usually what people want when they’ve been captured.”

  “You think you’re a prisoner?” He spun to face her, filling every inch of her personal space.

  Arianne forced herself to look away from his broad chest and rippling abs. He had a warrior’s body—taut, hard, and without an ounce of fat. “Can I leave?”

  “No.”

  “Then, yes, I think I’m a prisoner.” Arianne scowled, no longer flustered by the proximity of his body or by his direct stare. “Kinda fits the definition, since you’re holding me here against my will.” She stifled a curse and tried to shake off his hand. During her years with the Jacks, she’d learned the hard way how to stay cool around dangerous men. Problem was, except for her father, she’d never met a man so dangerously attractive as Jagger.

  A high-pitched whine from the hallway broke the spell. Jagger released her wrist and crossed the room to open the door. With a sharp bark of delight, a midsize collie bounded into the room.

  Jagger’s face softened in an instant and he bent down and ruffled the collie’s fur. “This is Max. We found him abandoned when we took over the property a few months ago. He’s not supposed to be in the house, but tonight has been unsettling for everyone.”

  Arianne knelt down and held out her hand. After much sniffing, Max licked her palm. “He’s beautiful.”

  “You like dogs?”

  “We had a golden lab when I was growing up,” she said wistfully. “If I didn’t live in an apartment now, I would get another one. But they’re big dogs. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Dogs need their space.” Jagger went thoughtful, staring at her, and Arianne tugged her shirt down over her knees, self-conscious about being hunkered on the floor beside Max, wearing only the oversized T-shirt and a pair of panties.

  “Max and I come out here a coupla times a week to run.” He patted Max’s head. “Gives me time to check up on the property and we get some time away. The minute the vehicle stops, he’s gone. Only way to get him back is to whistle. He can hear the sound almost a mile away.” When he held two fingers up to his mouth, Arianne put up a warning hand.

  “No need for a demo. I like my eardrums unbroken, thank you.”

  Jagger chuckled and held out a hand to help her up. The small courteous gesture sent a warm tingle through her body that turned into a full-on tidal wave when skin touched skin and he pulled her up.

  For a moment, neither of them moved, and then Jagger dropped her hand. “Better get some sleep.”

  “Well … good night.” She stood beside Max, waiting for Jagger to leave, but instead he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots.

  Arianne’s palms grew clammy. “You’re sleeping here?”

  He licked his lips and smiled. “Not many of the bedrooms are furnished, and since you clearly can’t be trusted on your own, this is the only option. The bed is big enough for both of us, but I’m not planning to do anything more than sleep. It’s been a helluva day.”

  “I’ll sleep on the floor, then,” she said. “Maybe Max can keep me company.”

  “Unacceptable. You’re injured and a woman. You’ll sleep in the bed.”

  Irritation chased the filaments of Arianne’s fear away. “Women can sleep on floors.”

  “Not under my roof and not in my club.” Jagger removed his cut and then stripped off his T-shirt.

  Arianne’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. Oh God. Why did he have to do that? He had the kind of chest she’d seen only on billboards or in men’s underwear ads. Well, except for the Sinner’s Tribe tattoo that spanned his broad chest, the wings surrounding the skull reaching up and over his shoulders to join the intricate tat sleeves that covered his upper arms. But it was the scar down the center of his chest and not totally concealed by the tat that gave her pause. Not a knife scar—she was well acquainted with those—but something more precise. Surgical.

  But she knew better than to ask. At least not right now. Her gaze slid down, over his washboard abs, following the dark silky shadow of hair leading below the belt.…

  Jagger’s hand dropped to his buckle, and her eyes widened. Did he know what she was thinking?

  “Please.” Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. “At least keep your jeans on.”

  Seeming amused he unbuckled his belt and yanked it off with a loud crack. “If it’ll make you more comfortable.”

  “It will.” But likely not in the way he was thinking.

  * * *

  Hell came in many different forms: from trying to survive enemy fire in a sweltering desert to the mind-numbing pain of shrapnel piercing flesh, and from the helplessness of being intubated in a hospital bed, to burying the bodies of his biker brothers during the feud.

  Jagger threw a stick for Max as he walked off their morning run, irritated that not even fresh air and exercise could calm the fire raging through his blood.

  Last night had been a different type of hell altogether.

  What had he been thinking? Lying beside Arianne all night was a torture worse than he could ever have imagined. With her silky hair strewn across the pillow, her face soft with sleep, lips so invitingly pink and plump, it was all he could do to stay on his side of the bed. And when she kicked off the covers, revealing just how high her shirt had ridden up, he almost lost it right then. God, she was beautiful. From her exquisite oval face to her softly rounded breasts, and from her graceful curves to her toned, lean legs, she was perfection with a kick-ass attitude.

  His body had hardened when she moaned in her sleep and licked her lips, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to lean over and take her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. But nothing could stop the throbbing in his groin when she curled up, treating him to an unimpeded view of her beautiful rounded cheeks covered in frilly pink polka dots.

  Pink polka dots. He’d first caught a glimpse of her panties when she’d been cuffed to the bed, but he hadn’t been in a mood to appreciate them. His prickly tough biker chick had a soft girly side. And seeing something he wasn’t meant to see—hell, that did things to a man. Dangerous things. He’d been forced to go out and find her clothes, then shake her awake and make her get dressed.

>   He’d never reacted this way with any other women. Not even Christel. Although not his old lady, they’d been together long enough for everyone to treat her with similar respect. But then the Wolverines MC had found her. The upstart MC, hell-bent on challenging Sinner dominance in Montana, had used Christel against him. And when Jagger gave them what they’d wanted, they left her broken body outside his clubhouse and she’d died in his arms.

  Destroying the Wolverines hadn’t brought her back, nor had it eased the ache in his heart. Time was not the great healer so many claimed it to be. Instead, time had made him more set in his ways. Christel’s fate was the reason he allowed himself only casual relationships. His enemies would find no weakness. His lovers and his heart would suffer no risk.

  Max returned with the stick and Jagger threw it again, watching it disappear into the cool morning mist. The air was fragrant with the scent of rich earth, and dew clung to every leaf and blade of grass. Mornings were his favorite time. Quiet. Peaceful. With all the promise of the day ahead.

  He looked up at the window to the bedroom he had shared with Arianne, half expecting to see her sliding down the roof. But with two guards outside her door and two more outside the building’s entrance, she would be going nowhere fast. He chuckled as a memory tore through him: Arianne wearing only his T-shirt, shivering by the window, beguiled by the loquacious Wheels and the effervescent Sherry as they thwarted her attempt to escape.

  He should have warned her that no one ever escaped from the Sinners.

  Or from him.

  The soft thud of footsteps on grass and the rustle of autumn leaves alerted him to Cade’s presence well before his former army buddy joined him on the front lawn. As the MC’s treasurer, Cade carried out his duties with ruthless efficiency, and like Zane, he always had Jagger’s back.

  Cade gave him a quick update on the status of the old clubhouse and the local authorities’ investigation into the fire. Then he glanced up at Arianne’s window, smirking at the guards stationed below. “So, what are you going to do with her?”