Evil’s Price: Devil’s Outlaws MC: Book One

by Dark, Raven

  “What’s wrong?” He turns his head to the side, the smoke between his lips.

  “Nothing. Your vest is hot.”

  He snorts. “Did you just call this thing a vest?” he nods to the leather garment, making a face as if I’ve suggested he’s donned a tutu.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly.

  “Okay, let’s shut that shit down right now. Don’t call this a vest.” He says the word as though it’s deeply offensive. This,” he pats the leather, “is called a cut.” His voice sounds rough, but I can hear the amusement in it.

  “Sorry. Your cut is hotter than this desert. How can you stand wearing that out here?”

  He shrugs and puffs on his smoke. “I like it. I thrive off the heat. I always have.” He offers me a butt.

  I shake my head, but then realize he can’t see it. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself.” He pockets the pack.

  I glance back at the clubhouse front yard where several women are hanging off the men drinking there. All of them are dressed in not much more than my Devil’s Den uniform. “How come the women never wear cuts or have those patches like you?”

  Spider laughs. Sitting on the step in front of Casper’s, Cap must have heard me, because he grins and shakes his head at me.

  Obviously, I’m showing my ignorance again.

  “I’ll have to clue you in about the way things work around here sometime,” Spider says. “Women aren’t members, Wildcat.”

  “Ever?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Why?”

  He takes another puff and tosses the butt. “It’s just how things are.”

  I wince. Another boy’s club.

  I can’t count how often the pastors gave that answer when very young members of His Holy Peace asked why women couldn’t have certain jobs, like running a tractor, driving to their jobs without a man at the wheel, or becoming a guard. That was their answer, too. Well, they usually said, “It’s God’s will,” or, “It’s not a woman’s place,” but I can hear it in his voice; the meaning is the same.

  Still. At least he’s talking to me. This is probably the first real conversation I’ve had with Spider—the first one that I want to have, and which doesn’t feel like he’s shutting me out or trying to get something out of me.

  It’s stupid, but I feel the first real connection with him since I met him, as if, for a fraction of a second there, he opened up. As if I’m not just a thief he’s using for his pleasure, but something more.

  The guilt that took root in my belly earlier for lying my way out of the clubhouse stretches out its tendrils, wrapping around my heart.

  “Hold on now,” Spider says, cutting into my thoughts and staring the bike.

  The motorcycle rumbles, vibrating heavily between my legs and easily drowning out all else. And effectively ending the conversation.

  I rest my cheek against his…cut, ignoring the burn of the hot leather on my skin, and squeeze him tight without considering my actions. He massages my hand as if he likes the closeness, then rolls out of the tavern lot.

  This is only the second time I’ve ridden with him. I swear I’ll never get used to being on a motorcycle.

  We ride through the sweltering desert at a breakneck speed. Every time he steers the bike around a turn on the dry road, I lean into the curve the way he instructed before we left the clubhouse. The bike dips on the turns, and I cling to him for dear life, expecting the vehicle to tip over. It doesn’t.

  I’d be lying if I said the ride was all bad. It’s kind of exciting to feel the warm wind in my face, the rumble of the huge, heavy motorcycle’s engine between my thighs. To be wrapped around Spider’s powerful frame, all muscle and man in my arms.

  Spider speeds down the road, reducing the desert that whizzes past us to a red-gold blur, the clay formations to monolithic shadows. Clearly, he knows what he’s doing. He leans smoothly into the curves, not at all phased by the speed at which we’re tearing up the road. Sometimes, he touches my thigh, as if to make sure I’m okay. I squeeze him, letting him know I am.

  In his speech about his life before His Holy Peace, Deacon Harmon talked about how much he loved his bike, what a thrill it was to ride the open road. He talked about how he missed it, how hard it was to let go of that life. I didn’t really know what that meant until now.

  Though Spider obviously knows what he’s doing, there’s no denying that there’s an element of danger here. One I didn’t feel when Dee drove me around in her car to shop, or when the pastors took us around the Colony grounds in their big vans. Life in the Colony must have seemed painfully boring to Harmon compared to this.

  It’s a thrill to ride with Spider, but it’s more than that. Every time he touches my knee or squeezes my hand, I feel the connection between us deepening.

  That’s ridiculous, I know. Spider is all hardness and violence and danger. He can’t possibly care about me. And I can’t care about him.

  Spider is my captor.

  I can’t care if he wipes out on the road and cracks his head open.

  I can’t care how tough he is or respect him for it.

  I can’t give a hoot why the club excludes women from membership.

  And I absolutely can not feel guilty for lying to him about why I wanted to start working again.

  The more distant he is, and the less I know about him, the easier it will be to leave him.

  Until those few minutes before we left the clubhouse, Spider hadn’t said more than a handful of words to me since the night of Diesel’s party. Except in bed, and then it was only whispers of what a perfect fuck I am, reminders that he owns me. The entire week and a half that I’ve known him, I’ve always felt as if he’s a million miles away even when I’m in his arms. Even when he’s inside me.

  Time and time again, I’ve tried to find some common ground with him, to form a connection. He’s told me nothing about himself or his club, and he asks me nothing about me in return. Today is the closest he’s come to talking to me like an equal.

  It’s a strange thing. On one hand, it’s just as well that he doesn’t ask me anything personal. I can’t tell him where I came from, or anything about my life without revealing the Colony. His knowing my real name is not an option. But on the other hand, I get the feeling he doesn’t want to know anything about me as a person.

  I let that knowledge sink in, severing the feeling of connectedness I feel with him now. He doesn’t care about me. I’m nothing to him. That stings, but that’s the way it has to be. He’s unattainable, untouchable, and it’s better that way.

  We pull up at The Devil’s Den just as its getting dark. As Spider swings off, anxiety wells up. I haven’t been back here since Deacon Jacob showed up. Chances are, Seth or my parents would have someone looking for me. Would they send someone here again?

  The likelihood of someone from the Colony showing up here on my first day back is slim, but I can’t help thinking they might. I give a quick glance around the busy lot, but I don’t see any vehicles that look like they belong to members of His Holy Peace.

  “Problem, Wildcat?” Spider asks, taking my helmet off my head.

  I glance up to see him watching me with that familiar calculating expression. He’s picked up on my nervousness.

  His tone is also mocking, the comparative gentleness I felt in him earlier now gone.

  So much for feeling connected.

  Not about to tell him that I’m expecting to be dragged away from him by a violent cult, I give what I hope is an uneasy glance at the building, and then shrug my shoulders shyly.

  “You don’t like this place, do you?” His fingers push a lock of hair behind my ear.

  A week ago, I would have pulled away, but now my head tilts of its own accord, seeking more of his touch. Pathetic.

  “No.” I climb off the bike, not having to fake my answer. “But at least I don’t have to take my clothes off.”

  A grin splits his face. “I’d bet customers would line up around t
he block to see that sweet body of yours naked on a stage.” He pulls me to him and his palms slide down to my butt, cupping both cheeks. He doesn’t seem to care that everyone in the lot can see us. When I instinctively push at his hands, he flicks them away, hauls me closer, and grabs a handful of backside. “I’d love to see you dance for me,” he growls in my ear.

  And there he is. Before we left, he’d been just a man talking to the girl on his ride, a hot biker who thought it was funny that I was so out of the loop about his life. Now, he’s the bad guy again. The devilish, manipulative outlaw who’ll use every opportunity he can to break me to his will.

  My head shoots up, panic seizing me at the thought of his putting me on a stage, naked for all to see. “Spider,” I drawl. “Please don’t even joke about that.”

  His grin gets bigger. “Relax. No way would I let a bunch of horny creeps gawk at what’s mine.”

  And yet, last week he had me tied to a tree so that half his club could get an eyeful.

  He unties my bag from the bike and pushes it into my arms, then sets his hand on the back up my neck and starts toward the club’s front door.

  “Tell me something,” he says on the way in. Customers stand in line waiting to pay the cover charge, making it loud enough that he has to raise his voice a little. “You never swear, you don’t drink or smoke, and no man has ever touched you before me. How does an eighteen year old girl who looks like Jessica Alba end up so straight-laced?”

  I have no idea who Jessica Alba is, but I can tell by his tone she must be attractive, and that I’m supposed to know the name. I also know that there’s no way I can answer him, at least not with the whole truth. I’ve already given him more than I’d like by telling him my age last night, but I hadn’t had a choice.

  “Does every girl have to have a mouth like a sailor and like getting sloshed?”

  “Most do in my world, sweetheart.”

  Near the changing room, he stops me. “Hold on. Here.” He hands me a laminated card.

  I glance at what he’s given me. It’s an ID card that has the fake name I’ve been using, Stephanie Johnson, and an image he had the MC’s tech guy, Rat, take last night. My age reads twenty-one, the legal age for working in a place that serves alcohol. Spider had asked my age for the ID, obviously thinking I was old enough. He’d looked surprised when I said I was eighteen.

  “Keep this on you at all times while you’re here. Authorities have been cracking down on places like this for letting in people who are under age. If this place gets checked, I don’t want you talking to them, but just in case you can’t get out of showing them, you’ll need it.”

  I glance at the card, but don’t get a chance to take anything in before he clamps his hand on my shoulder.

  “And the MC has several cops on their payroll, so don’t even think about telling them anything about what’s going on between us.”

  I sigh, but force my face to remain impassive, nodding my acceptance of the situation. He doesn’t need to know that I wouldn’t go to the cops anyway.

  Looking over the card again, I lick my lips nervously. “And you’re sure no one would know this is fake by looking at it?”

  “Fuck.” He shakes his head. “You’re such a pearl-clutcher. Most women I know your age would kill to score a primo fake ID. What are you, a pastor’s daughter or something?”

  I almost swallow my tongue. He’s merely pulling from a cliché that explains what he sees as my prudishness, but I can’t help feeling as if he can somehow see right through me. That his lucky guess means he’ll somehow figure out the rest of my secrets.

  Involuntarily, my eyes roll with dread.

  A slow smirk toys with his lips. “Oh, wow. That’s not it, is it?” He throws back his head and laughs. “The outlaw biker and the pastor’s daughter. I love it.” He cups my nape and reels me in. “I’m going to have so much fun corrupting you.”

  See, this is partly why I can’t tell the man anything. Aside from exposing my past, I know he’ll gleefully use anything I tell him against me given the chance. Now that he knows, he’ll go out of his way to play on my fears.

  “May I go now?” I ask him miserably. “I have to start my shift.”

  He chuckles into my hair and then releases me. “Yes. And as to the ID, relax. Rat’s ID guy is the best in the business.”

  “Fine,” I mumble.

  In the changing room, I quickly throw on my uniform. My hands shake as I slip the fake ID card into a small pocket on the side of the skirt that’s usually used for tips. The idea of anyone checking into my identity makes me nervous, and not just because I’ll end up in jail if they find out I’m underage or because they might somehow trace me back to the Colony.

  I know that most of the bull the pastors told us about government agencies being corrupt is a pack of lies. Police aren’t likely to use any excuse they can to throw people in jail, or tap people’s houses for no reason. Uncle Sam isn’t using people’s information from government databases in order to keep track of their every move, and the World Wide Web is not just a giant tool used to watch people through spycams on their laptops. This was the kind of nonsense David Gild rambled on about in his sermons. I know that was all part of the church leader’s attempts to scare us into believing we needed the Colony to protect us. But after spending eighteen years of my life being told that the world’s organizations can’t be trusted, the idea of being faced with questions from any authority still terrifies me.

  Besides, while violating the law might be a way of life for Spider, the idea of ending up in jail fills me with dread.

  I’m surprised to find Spider waiting for me in the hall, talking to one of the security guards. I’m about to slip that wretched collar around my neck, but he stops me.

  “Allow me.” His eyes sparkle as he holds out his big palm.

  I sigh and hand over the collar.

  Spider fits the leather strap around my neck, buckling it at the back, taking his time. His fingers graze across my skin, trailing along the front of the collar as if he’s savoring the feel of it there.

  “I love this thing on you.” His voice is low and throaty with desire as he hooks the loop on the front with his finger.

  Yeah, I’m not surprised that he gets off on seeing me in a slave’s collar. Sick jerk.

  “I have to go,” I tell him, pushing at his chest.

  Spider tugs on the collar’s metallic loop, pulling me forward until I’m pressed against him.

  “You’ll go when I tell you.” His hands cup my buttocks, shamelessly kneading them through the skirt, not caring that the customers walking down the hall can see him manhandling me.

  The smell of him, a mix of leather, exhaust, smoke and a spicy masculine scent that’s all his own, is addictive. Unable to help myself, I inhale deeply, squirming against him, almost moaning at the way my muscles turn to putty in his hands.

  The head of his shaft jabs into my stomach, hard as steel. He makes a deep appreciative sound in his throat and crushes me to him, his smirk wicked. “What would your dear old daddy say if he saw you here, like this, huh?”

  I wish he wouldn’t remind me. Dad usually got me out of it whenever Seth or one of the other pastors called for me to be punished. If he saw me here, being groped by an outlaw biker in a strip club, he’d probably lock the door to the isolation shed himself.

  Anything I say is only going to encourage him, so I press my lips together, waiting him out.

  “I’d love to see your dad’s face if he got a load of me,” Spider growls with delight.

  Of course you would.

  I say nothing, blinking at him, waiting for his next move. His mouth quirks, and I almost wonder if he senses my thought somehow.

  Spider jerks my chin up and his lips rake mine, a single, long, searing kiss I just know is meant to show anyone who sees us that I’m all his. His tongue flicks in, toying with mine. My sex tightens in response.

  By the time he lifts his head, my senses are reeling. The man’
s kisses are like a drug. A dangerous, addictive, poisonous drug.

  A couple of young men come out of a private party room following one of the strippers, and they whistle at us as they pass. My face heats and I glare at Spider. He grins and puts his mouth to my ear.

  “You might as well get used to this.”

  “Get used to what?” I rasp into his chest, adding a smile and injecting respect into my tone as if I’m just trying to understand the way things work. “You breaking the law just like you did with that card, or you thumbing your nose at social moors every chance you get?”

  And no matter how it makes others feel, I add silently.

  “Both. Outlaw life is what it is. We don’t just flout the law. We make it our bitch. And we don’t put up with tightwads or pussies. Any man who rides with us learns to kiss social graces goodbye the minute he puts on a cut, or he doesn’t last long.”

  He releases me, and I loathe myself when my body mourns the loss of his warmth.

  “You remember the rules we talked about last night?” he asks in a low voice.

  I suppress a sigh, feeling any last vestiges of the connection I felt between us fade away to nothing. I work here, but it’s just a façade. I’m still his prisoner.

  “I remember. Don’t talk to anyone unless I have to. Don’t leave this place without an employee present. No phone calls to anyone for any reason. Put all my tips in the jar.”

  “Good girl. I’ll be checking to make sure you follow that last one…thief.”

  The name hits me like a stab through the heart. I am nothing to him. Nothing. But he’s also making it easier to run. I drop my shoulders, forcing a nod.

  Acceptance.

  “Cap and I will be back to pick you up after your shift. Be at the door waiting.”

  I hate the control he imparts in those words, but I nod. “I will.”

  “Good.” He swats my ass just hard enough that I almost forget my role and glare at him. “Get gone.”

  I leave, heading into the front barroom, his words branding themselves into my head. He told me to be at the door, waiting for him. How rip-roaring mad will my outlaw captor be when he shows up and discovers that I’m gone?