A Ride or Die Kind of Love

by Chelsea Camaron

There was so much activity going on around me that I didn’t see the good-looking agent until he was standing right in front of me, breathing hard, his face red with rage. “Where are they?” he bellowed, sending spittle flying in my face.

  Wiping off my cheek, I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I whispered because really I didn’t know.

  He grabbed my arm and shook me hard. “Where. Are. They?”

  Tears burned in my eyes. The Horsemen must not have any Feds on their payroll, or this wouldn’t be happening.

  “Please,” I begged. “I really don’t know.”

  Pain exploded throughout my face. My mouth flooded with blood. His punch had landed on the left side of my jaw, the force of which had me stumbling backward into the wall. He closed the distance between us, and I turned my head into the wall, bracing myself for another punch. His fist barreled into my stomach, and my lungs exploded. I doubled over, clutching my midsection, gagging and gasping for air.

  “GOT ’EM!” a voice boomed. “Trap door! Basement!”

  The brothers were led single file into the room, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Individually, they were shoved up against the far wall.

  Deuce was directly in the middle of the lineup, nonchalantly scanning the room full of people. His gaze landed on me—lying on my side, holding my stomach, trying to breathe—and he went ramrod straight, his eyes blazing with fury. More tears flooded my eyes, and the room went blurry.

  I recognized the good-looking agent’s voice.

  “I have witnesses placing your L.A. boys meeting with Curtis’s boys in Vegas. I know for a fact you’re distributing for them. I also know you haven’t moved it yet. So let’s make this easy. You tell me where the fuck you stashed the weapons, you blow in Curtis, and I’ll go easy on you.”

  “No fuckin’ clue whatcha talkin’ ’bout.”

  I thought that sounded like Cox, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Really?” the agent sneered. “AK-47 rifles, AK-47 pistols, FN 5.7x28 millimeter pistols, and .50 caliber point rifles—twenty-five hundred in all and all from fucking Curtis—isn’t ringing any fucking bells?”

  “Nope.” That was Deuce.

  “How about the twenty thousand grams of cocaine, a thousand grams of crack, and a pound of methamphetamine? All intercepted yesterday. Got your handiwork written all over it, West.”

  Holy crap. That was going to come straight out of Deuce’s pocket. I didn’t know the Horsemen’s finances, but that would hurt anyone.

  “You got any proof of that?”

  Several heartbeats passed. “We will,” came the biting reply.

  “Good fuckin’ luck with that, asshole.” Definitely ZZ. This was followed by a large whoosh of air and familiar gagging and coughing. ZZ had just gotten slammed in the gut.

  “Where’s Davis’s team?” an unknown voice bellowed.

  “Still searching,” was the answer.

  “Tell me someone found something!”

  “Aside from a few females hiding in bedrooms, the place is clean. The assholes have permits for all the weapons found. There’s nothing here. Not a goddamn thing. Not even a dime bag of weed.”

  If I wasn’t in so much pain, I would have laughed. Who called weed “weed”? Too funny.

  “You run IDs on the girls?”

  “All of ’em except the one on the floor over there. But check this shit, one of them is the daughter of a senator and the heir to the Carlson Food fortune.”

  I swallowed. They were talking about Kami. If her parents found out about this…things would not be good for her.

  A pair of dress shoes stopped in front of my face, and the toe of one poked me in the leg. “Name?” a man’s voice demanded.

  “Eva…Fox,” I croaked.

  The man’s legs bent. His pudgy, blotchy red face came into my field of vision. “Eva Fox?” he repeated slowly. “Who’s your father?”

  This was either going to go very bad for me or very good. I didn’t know which, so when I answered, it was very timid and terrified sounding. “Damon Fox.”

  “Shit,” he muttered. His arm slipped around my back and under my armpit, and then I was being lifted and settled onto a barstool. Still clutching my stomach, feeling like at any moment I was going to puke, I slumped forward and put my forehead on the counter.

  “Who the fuck beat the shit out of Damon Fox’s kid?” Pudgy Face demanded.

  The entire place had gone silent.

  “I did.” I recognized the good-looking agent’s voice. “She was playing us, stalling.”

  “You fucking moron!” someone else yelled.

  OK, so it was going good. Either they were on my father’s payroll, or they were scared shitless of him.

  A gentle hand came down on my shoulder. “Ms. Fox?”

  I turned my head slightly. Pudgy Face bent his head to mine.

  “I’ve written down the name of the asshole who hit you on the back of my card. You give it to Preacher; you tell him what he did. And I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him that no one else touched you.”

  Definitely on his payroll. Probably getting a hefty percentage of the sales from the weapons they were supposed to be confiscating. Probably sending half the weapons they did confiscate straight to my father for redistribution.

  “OK,” I whispered, knowing I wasn’t going to tell my father anything. Me disappearing only to show back up beaten by the ATF…

  That would not go over well. For me or the ATF.

  The hand patted my back. “OK,” he whispered. He slid his card across the bar and walked away.

  • • •

  Deuce carried Eva down the hall to his bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind them, he laid her out on his bed and stared at the growing bruise on the side of her face. Since she told him her old man didn’t have a clue where she was, he knew she wasn’t going to tell him what happened. That meant it was up to him to take out the agent, which was fine with him. This fucking girl had just taken a beating for him and his club.

  “I’m OK,” she whispered. “He punched like a girl.”

  Fuck him. She was perfect. Perfect old-lady material. Perfect heart-shaped face, big gray eyes, smooth skin, and fuck-me lips. Perfect tits, long legs, and a flat stomach. Perfect curves to run his hands over and long hair to grab hold of.

  And he’d gotten angry, let his temper get the better of him, and completely fucked everything up.

  Sighing, he sat down on the bed beside her. “’Bout earlier,” he started. “I—”

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “I get it. I was stupid for expecting anything from you. I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.”

  His chest went tight. He’d been too hard on her. He had a horrible temper and couldn’t think straight when he was angry. Add Eva Fox to the mix and his brain was just a big lump of idiot.

  “No, babe. You’re not leavin’.”

  There. Now she wasn’t leaving.

  Fire flashed in her eyes. “Yeah, Deuce, I am. You made it clear that I couldn’t hang at the club, that you didn’t want me around your boys, and I refuse to be locked in some cabin for an entire summer. Besides, Kami and I had planned on going to Hawaii after this.”

  She was lying. He could see it in her eyes.

  “Babe, calm down. You can come to the club with me when I don’t have to work.”

  She snorted, and then winced in pain. “Sorry, babe. I’ve already made up my mind. You pretty much sealed the deal when you decided I had to share you. My daddy’s going to be angry enough when I return; I’m pretty sure bringing back an STD as a souvenir would result in me being locked up in a nunnery.”

  Fucking shit. She was running her mouth again, and he was getting pissed.

  “Woman, if you think I’m gonna let you walk outta here, you’re fuckin’ crazy. You showed up outta nowhere ’cause you fuckin’ wanted me, so you fuckin’ got me. And I’m gonna tell you straight up that a few fuckin’ days of you hasn’t been enough. So you reel that fuckin’ attitude in ’caus
e you’re fuckin’ stayin’!”

  Her face wiped clean, no expression whatsoever. “Get the fuck away from me,” she said evenly. “Now.”

  He curled his hands into fists. “Eva,” he growled. “Stop it.”

  She rolled to her side, facing away from him.

  Stiffly, he got off the bed and stalked to the door. He shot one last look at her. She was staring off to the side at nothing.

  • • •

  I woke up in darkness as the bed dipped, and Deuce slid in beside me. Instead of curling up next to me, he stayed on the opposite side of the bed. I couldn’t let it end like this. Not with him. My stomach was sore, but nothing like my face and nothing I couldn’t handle, so I rolled over and crawled on top of him.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  His arms wrapped around me. “You still mad, darlin’?”

  Instead of answering, I kissed him. When I pulled away, we were both breathing heavily.

  I rubbed my lips across his and whispered, “You want it hard, or you want it slow?”

  “Babe,” he said thickly. “I want it fuckin’ slow.”

  So I gave it to him slow.

  • • •

  He woke up alone.

  Deuce rolled over and hit air. He patted around for a moment looking for Eva and came up empty. He clicked on his bedside lamp. No Eva. No iPod on his nightstand. No Chucks by the door. No backpack on the floor. His stomach clenched.

  Pulling on a pair of jeans, he headed straight for Cox’s room and kicked open the door. Ripper was snoring loudly, his long body draped over an armchair. Cox, lying belly-down in bed, jerked his head up.

  “Prez?”

  He scanned the room. No Kami.

  The vice around his chest went painfully tight.

  “Where’s your fuckin’ bitch?”

  Cox looked right, then left. “Shit,” he muttered. “I thought I heard something earlier. Figured she was fuckin’ Ripper again. Fuckin’ hell. I was gonna ask her to marry me.”

  “You’re already married, shithead. This ain’t fuckin’ Utah.” He slammed the door shut and took off down the hall.

  He found Blue sitting alone at the bar in the dark. Seventy-two years old, two-pack-a-day smoker, and a raging alcoholic, yet healthy as a twenty-year-old.

  “Eva?” he asked.

  Blue swallowed down a shot of Patrón. “Gone.”

  His chest went so fucking tight he had to slap his palm over his heart and rub before he could breathe again.

  “When?”

  Blue poured, and then threw back another shot. “’Bout two hours ago.”

  Fuck.

  FUCK.

  “Sorry, Prez, I woulda woken you up, told you what she was doin’, but she was cryin’ her fuckin’ eyes out. Hysterical. Beggin’ me to open the gate. Beggin’ me not to wake you up. Can’t deal with hysterical women myself. Makes me want to drink.”

  “Right,” he said numbly.

  “Left you this.” Blue held out his hand.

  He took the small, folded piece of paper and opened it.

  Deuce,

  I’m sorry.

  I shouldn’t have come and imposed on your life.

  <3, Eva

  P.S. Take care of yourself.

  “Prez?”

  “What?”

  “She’s a good girl,” Blue said. “Sweet, too. Knows her way ’round a club, took two fuckin’ fists for it. Fuckin’ adores you, too. Woulda thought you were the king of fuckin’ England the way she looks at you, and she’s good to the boys, not givin’ ’em shit ’bout the girls, bringin’ them beers, talkin’ and jokin’ with ’em, makin’ friends with Jase’s piece of ass. Didn’t much like Miranda…”

  Blue tossed back another shot and chuckled.

  “But I don’t much blame her. I were you, I woulda done everything I coulda to keep a girl like that in my bed.”

  What else could he have done short of tying her to the bed or drugging her?

  “Yeah,” Deuce muttered. “Too late now.”

  His hand fisted around the note, crushing it.

  “Pour me one of those,” he muttered, taking a seat beside Blue.

  Fuck Eva Fox and her perfect face and her perfect tits. He had a life to get back to.

  • • •

  So he got back to it.

  For three long years, he lived his fucking life.

  His miserable fucking life.

  And then he saw her again.

  And miserable got a fuck of a lot worse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Groaning, Frankie collapsed on top of me.

  “Off,” I demanded, pushing at him. “I can’t breathe.”

  He lifted his head, grinning. “Like you where you are, babe. Fuckin’ naked and underneath me.”

  Frankie was insatiable. I almost wished he would start whoring around at the club and give me a break.

  “Frankie! I can’t breathe! Get off!”

  Grunting, he pushed himself up a few inches. “I’m tryin’, babe, but you’re not lettin’ me back in.”

  “Ahhh!” I yelled, shoving him as hard as I could—which wasn’t very hard, but I did manage to shove him off to the side, so I was able to roll away.

  Frankie rolled, too, reaching for me. I jumped backward and slapped his hands away. Glaring at him, I headed into the bathroom to dress.

  “Remind me why we had to sleep at the club?” I asked, stepping into my underwear, and then slipping my jersey cotton sheath dress over my head.

  “Got a meetin’ this mornin’.”

  I pulled my hair up and turned on the faucet. Scooping water in my hands, I started washing my face. “So why did I have to stay at the club?”

  “Can’t sleep without you, babe.”

  Grabbing Frankie’s toothbrush, I loaded it with toothpaste and shoved it in my mouth.

  “What’s the meeting about?” I mumbled around the toothbrush.

  “Bunch of MCs havin’ trouble with Angelo Buonarroti. Seems the douchebag put out a coupla bids for the same jobs. Things got messy; brothers got buried. Need to get this shit straightened out. Maybe Buonarroti needs to go to ground. We’ll see.”

  I spit, rinsed the toothbrush, and put it back in its holder. Then I grabbed my makeup bag and set to work making myself look presentable.

  “Gonna go have breakfast with Kami while you’re working.”

  “At her place?”

  I leaned forward, dotting some cover-up underneath my eyes. “Probably.”

  “Don’t like that fucker she married,” Frankie muttered.

  I grinned. “Who does?”

  Chase Henderson was a high-paid lawyer for a very successful leading law firm and had made partner by the age of twenty-five. We all went to prep school together, but he went to Harvard, whereas Kami and I stayed in Manhattan to attend NYU. Their parents had arranged their marriage a long time ago. It was ridiculously old-school, but it wasn’t unheard of in their circle. There were many wealthy political families that still practiced arranged marriages.

  Chase was extraordinarily good-looking in an all-American Calvin Klein underwear model kind of way. Never once had I seen him not clean-shaven and without one of many designer outfits on. He never had a single gelled hair out of place and always wore a pissed-off, haughty expression. There was nothing simple or comfortable about him. He reminded me of a house that was too expensive, too new, too clean, and too perfect to feel comfortable in.

  Kami despised him.

  She had been cheating on him with her personal trainer since they got home from their honeymoon. He cheated on her with a variety of women, none of whom lasted longer than a few weeks, if that.

  It was ridiculous.

  “Don’t like the way he looks at you, babe.”

  I snorted. “Frankie, you don’t like anyone looking at me. Period. You didn’t like my college professors looking at me when I raised my hand. Remember Professor Reynolds? Daddy had to pay him off big-time for the beating you gave him. Besides
, Chase thinks I’m biker trash.”

  “Bitch, get a fuckin’ clue!” Frankie yelled. “Asshole looks at you like he’s fuckin’ starvin’, and you’re a goddamn steak!”

  Letting my hair down, I rolled my eyes. Men. Always hungry.

  “Don’t you have a meeting to get to?”

  “Waitin’ for your sweet ass, so I can walk you out.”

  I shook my head and smiled at him.

  Frankie was a great-looking man. Long brown hair, a scruffy beard, a body made for sex, and covered in tattoos and sexy scars. He was good in bed, too. A good combination of attentive and demanding, and he didn’t stray. This I knew because wherever I was—at home, at the clubhouse, in the supermarket, in the shower—Frankie was there, too. Or somewhere nearby. Or on his way there. Or Skyping me. Or tracking me through my cell phone with his cell phone.

  Three years ago, I came home from Montana and was met with insanity the likes of which I’d never seen before. The club was in an uproar—first, because I was missing and second, because Frankie completely flipped his shit and was beating on anyone who got near him, beating himself with the butt of his gun, bashing his head and fists into walls until they bled, and screaming, swearing, and cursing me to hell.

  Ignoring my father’s temper tantrum and responsibility speech, I went straight to Frankie’s room and found him curled up in a corner covered in blood.

  “Shit,” I muttered, getting to my knees beside him.

  “Frankie,” I whispered. “Baby, look at me.”

  He moved fast. His hands shot out and gripped both my forearms. Dragging me down to the floor, he rolled over on top of me. Blood-encrusted eyelids blinked down at me.

  “Eva,” he croaked. “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “I just needed some breathing room, baby. I’m sorry I left you.”

  He cupped my cheeks, ran his fingers through my hair, then down to my shoulders, and up and down my arms. Before I knew it, his hands were all over me, pulling the top of my sundress down, baring my breasts. He took one in his hand and the other in his mouth.

  “Fuck,” I breathed. “Frankie, no…”

  “Not waitin’ anymore, babe,” he muttered around my breast. Lifting his hips, he pulled the hem of my dress up.

  I tried to push him off me. “I’m not going to leave you again!” I promised. “We don’t need to do this!”