by Nikki Ryker
Ryker
Sleepless Spades MC Book 2
Nikki Riker
Copyright © 2019 by Nikki Riker
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Contents
1. Cleo
2. Ryker
3. Cleo
4. Ryker
5. Cleo
6. Ryker
7. Cleo
8. Ryker
9. Cleo
10. Ryker
11. Cleo
12. Ryker
13. Cleo
14. Ryker
15. Cleo
16. Ryker
17. Cleo
18. Ryker
19. Cleo
20. Ryker
Epilogue
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1
Cleo
My nerves jump like I’ve tap-danced on an electric wire. I can’t seem to stop my shaking hands and the drinks on my tray wobble, even as I wind my way through the booths at Rapture.
The place is dark and muggy, and as always, breathing’s like sucking air through a straw. The atmosphere is too oppressive, and any second I expect a foot to shoot out and trip me. No one has, but the fear remains.
Eden swings her nimble legs around the pole, silver bikini catching a violet strobe light as she swings past, smirking at a pair of college-aged men as she goes. They wear twin grins, and they fade when they glance up at me.
I tug my blouse down self-consciously, but there’s no hiding it. My belly balloons outward like a bowling ball jutting from my chest. The size tag on the shirt makes me cry every time I see it, and times like these remind me just how much I missed being a single, attractive woman at the bar in this joint.
In tandem, their eyes drop to the bulge, then flick to the foamy beers on my tray.
“Two Bud Lights?” I inquire, trying to keep my voice neutral. Raging pregnancy hormones demand that I whack both upside the head with my tray and let them wear their beers. Ever since I’ve started waitressing in the front of Rapture, the men seem to have this reaction every damn time.
The first man is blonde with a square chin and baby blues a woman could sink into. If he weren’t acting like a jackass, and I wasn’t hugely pregnant, I might have considered flirting with him.
“Yeah, we ordered that but...” He glances at my stomach.
“But what, sir?” I say, tilting my head to the side like a curious bird. If he’s doing to say it, he better damn say it and stop beating around the bush. “Did you want to order something different?”
Their eyes do that not-so-subtle flick down and my jaw flexes in irritation. I will owe my dentist a fortune, with all the teeth-grinding I've done in the last month. Spit it out already, I urge blondie. It'll make you feel better, jerk.
"Well, you shouldn't be serving beer while you're..." He trails off again and his buddy nods once for emphasis. I explode, slamming their drinks onto the small, round table that sits near the stage. Foam slops down their glasses and onto the table. I'll have to clean it up later, but now, I'm beyond caring. I've had enough of this crap.
I know that I'm not mad at the pair of chuckleheads at table five. I have centered my thoughts on the dark, imposing figure that skulks at the back table every night, eyes trailing me.
Trent, the Sleepless Spades co-president has come to Rapture every night for a week, and the barely contained violence that rolls off him scares me. With Bryan still curled within my womb, poking out of my body for the world to see, I feel vulnerable to harm. My shoulders are tight, heart’s racing, I've been hurting off and on all day, and the condescension from a pair of drunken frat boys is the icing on the cake of my shitty week.
"While I'm what? Pregnant?" I demand. "I'm serving it, jackass, not drinking it. It will not enter my body via osmosis. Do you want the damn beers, or not?"
"Uh...yeah," blondie's buddy pipes up, seizing his beer from the table. He sips at it, hoping to mollify me. I'm past that. I tuck my tray under one arm and stalk toward the kitchen. Well, waddle is a better word. I don't go anywhere quickly anymore with the little man inside of me.
It's at times like these that I miss Holly. Though her presence in my life is a double-edged blade, cutting me knowing I will never have Cruz, she would have known just how to handle the brazen men coming into Rapture. My recent outburst aside, I've never been good with confrontation. Plop me in an argument and I balk, tongue tripping over my words or freezing in my skull. Heavy breathing isn't far behind and then I feel faint.
Holly Madden, gorgeous blonde goddess that she is, never took shit when she worked here. She's now off with Penny, tending to the junkies and prostitutes that wander Spade territory. I suppose I'm happy for her. Holly had a shittier life than most, born with a heroin addict for a mother and a drunken asshole for a father. She's living her dream, helping others get sober. But it has us short-staffed, and I don't appreciate pulling double duty cooking and bartending. Though, I don't have to stay here. Cruz stuffed me into Rapture's kitchen to keep me away from Damian, my abusive and now very dead ex. I suppose I'm just lingering out of some misguided sense of loyalty to the only man who's given a damn about me.
The train of thought brings me back to the cause of my sudden outburst. Trent. Damian's father didn't buy the staged shootout that Cruz arranged after his disastrous confrontation here only a month ago. Word is, he's trying to sniff out the culprit and exact a bit of retribution on Damian's behalf.
And if he's here, he must think I had something to do with it.
The thought has me moving faster, banging through the set of double doors that lead into the back. The sooner I'm out of his sight, the better.
I'm so preoccupied by my thoughts that the touch on my shoulder makes me yelp in fright. When the grip tightens and spins me around, I freeze a hare before the gaze of a hungry wolf. Trent stands just behind me, face flat and expressionless, betraying nothing. Still, I can feel his rage in the bruising grip on my shoulder.
"Trent," I say, trying my hardest to keep my voice level. Showing fear to this man is like waving blood in front of a Great White. "Can I help you with something? I thought Vicky was tending your table."
Because I'd asked her to do it, too cowardly to face the powerful man myself.
I take a shaky half-step backward, realizing too late that there's not enough room for me to back away from him. The hall is narrow, and the pumping bass beat of the techno song would be enough to drown out any sound I made. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I move the tray in a futile move to protect my belly. My back hits the wall a second later and Trent advances on me, his steely gaze never leaving mine.
Just the sight of him makes me nervous on a good day. Damian was a dead ringer for Trent, with only a slightly softer chin to show he had another parent and hadn't somehow been cloned from Trent. In the light that peeks in through the windows of the double doors, the scar on his eyebrow shines white and prominent. The rumor is that he got it from a brawl with Calamity Gardel, the head of the Spade's rival gang. The fact he came away from the fight alive is a testament to how tough he is.
I don't stand a chance if he‘s gonna lay hands on me. I cringe into the wall, preparing for a blow. Trent's grip on me tightens, and I know I'll have an imprint of his hand later.
"Don't you pretend y
ou don't know what I'm here for, Cleo Sutton. You know damn well why I'm here."
I do, but like hell am I going to admit it. The less he thinks I know, the better. Perhaps he'll move on to terrorizing someone else.
I feel guilty for wishing him on anyone else in the club. Trent's looking to take Damian's death out of someone's hide, and I value everyone in the MC too much to inflict him on them. It's half the reason I haven't gone running to Cruz. He has enough on his plate as co-president to deal with this.
I draw myself up by a few inches and stare him full in the face even as I tell him a bald-faced lie. I know how Damian died. I witnessed the aftermath, even saw the body. The image still plagues my nightmares.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Trent. And I'm very busy. If you need anything, ask Vicky."
I slide across the wall and away from him, but his grip only tightens. A pained yelp escapes my mouth and tears sting the corners of my eyes. He has a grip to rival Damian's.
The slap comes so fast I hardly see it. One moment he's standing close enough that I can smell the stale scent of his chewing tobacco, and the pain explodes across the right side of my face. It stuns me more than anything. Damian hit harder than that, even while sober. With a half-pint of Jack Daniels in him, he could rival any champion boxer.
I'm stunned into silence because Trent just violated one of the two cardinal rules that govern the spades. The Sleepless Spades don't hurt women ever. Trent saved his son from expulsion when he hit me, almost a year ago. Now I know why. He's just as much of an abusive asshole as his son.
"Cut the shit," he hisses. "This whole damn thing started because you couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut, you little slut."
I cringe away from the word on reflex. I've heard it often enough from men who think being pregnant out of wedlock makes you easy. Damian was my first and to date, only boyfriend. Part of me worries what little man will be like when he has this shit swimming around in his DNA and his only living kin is a monster.
Something hard and cold presses into my belly and I freeze, staring in horror at Trent. I'm not sure if the point digging into my skin is a knife, but I'm not taking any chances. My entire body screams at me to do something, to protect little man at all costs.
"Please," I gasp, tears gathering in my eyes. "Please. He's your grandson. You can't do this."
"Tell me who killed my boy," he growls. "And I won't have to skewer you, Cleo."
The words leap to the edge of my tongue, loyalty to Cruz battling against the insistent need to keep my baby safe. Cruz would understand, right? He wouldn't blame me for this. If someone was menacing Holly, he would do the same, say anything he had to, to make sure she's safe.
Someone bangs through the double doors that lead into the back, voice already raised. The huge man blocks out the light from the club beyond, but I can tell just by the silhouette who it is. Six feet and change of solid, steely muscle make up the man blocking the way out. I can't see them in the darkness, but I know that he's dressed in white, beneath his club jacket, headed to his shift as an EMT with the South Hollens Hospital. It won't cover the inked expanse of his arms, and will barely cover the grinning skull that pokes out around his elbow. His dark hair will be mussed from his helmet, touchable and tousled in a sexy way that I appreciate, though I'll never say it aloud.
"Ryker," I gasp.
Trent's weight recedes and I expel a relieved breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My chest burns and the tears fall, streaking down my cheeks. I wipe at them before he can see.
"What the hell is going on here?" Ryker demands, shifting so that the light illuminates his face. His dark eyes are guarded and unfriendly as he stares Trent down. I barely catch the glint of metal as Trent tucks his weapon back into its sheath at his belt.
"Just a friendly conversation," Trent grunts. "Ain't that right, Sutton?"
"Right," I supply at once, too frightened to do anything else. I won't risk a fight in the narrow confines of the hall. Little man could get hurt.
So could Ryker, and that bothers me more than I like to admit. He's been a stalwart presence in my life, helping me out when I need it. I think he feels guilty for introducing me to Damian so long ago. He blames himself for what happened between us. I should tell him to stop blaming himself and tend to his girlfriend Eden, but I'm selfish. I value his help too much to send him away.
"Conversation's over," Ryker says, eyes never leaving Trent. "Buzz off Trent, I've got business with Cleo."
"I just bet you do," Trent says in a tone that makes my face heat. The implication in his tone is clear. Whore.
"Fuck off," Ryker hisses. "I won't say it again, Trent. Leave her alone."
Trent inclines his head in that age-old masculine symbol of deference. You win. This time.
I don't breathe easy until I spy Trent leaving out the front. Then I sag against the wall, a choked sob escaping me. This isn't over, and I know it.
At once, Ryker's arms are around me, pulling me into the broad expanse of his chest. He's chilled, and his jacket is beaded with water from his ride over. South Hollens exists under an almost constant slam of rain. It would be a miracle if he wasn't wet. I don't care. I burrow into the layers, pressing my nose close to his collarbone so I can inhale the woodsy scent of his cologne. It's the only thing that's been able to calm me in recent months.
Ryker's arms tighten around me and he relaxes a fraction, easing down from his defensive posture. "Shh, Cleo. It's okay. I've got you."
"Thank you," I sob. "Thank you so much. I thought he would hurt me."
"If he lays a fucking hand on you, you come to me or Cruz. Do you hear me? That shit doesn't fly here."
I shake my head at once. "I can't take this to Cruz. He's got enough to worry about on his own. I'll be fine once Penny gets back."
It chafes that I need a protector. But I'm not a fighter. Not like Penny. Hell, not even like Holly. I would never have the strength to cold clock someone or jab a shard of glass into their eye, how Holly did. Even if I didn't have little man to worry about, I'm just a useless lump in need of rescuing. First Cruz, now Ryker.
"That's bullshit," he hisses. "You can't depend on Penelope forever, Cleo. Just let me help you."
I push away from him, and he lets me slide from his grasp. I'm used to struggling with men, and the easy acquiescence is unexpected and welcome.
"I need to go," I breathe, turning away from him.
"Cleo wait-" he calls after me.
I don't pause. I yank the uniform off as quickly as I can when I reach the back room and don a flowing maxi-dress. It's one of the few things that I have that still fits. I offer Vicky a hurried apology before I bang out the back door and into the rainy back lot.
I have to get out of here. I have to get away from Trent and Ryker.
He wants to be my knight in riding leathers. But I can't allow him to be hurt on my behalf. I can't be the reason another man dies.
More tears streak down my face, camouflaged this time by the rain. I reach my battered car in a little under a minute and slide inside, shivering and sopping wet from the rain. The pain that writhes in my abdomen only seems to get worse, and there's only one thing I know that can calm my frazzled nerves.
So I put the car into reverse and back out of the lot, joining a steady flow of traffic. Sheltering in South Hollen's mall is cowardly, but the sea of baby clothing at the shopping outlet reminds me I've got one good thing left to look forward to.
Little man kicks hard, impacting with the steering wheel. I smile.
"Let's go get you some baby booties, Bryan. We'll worry about Trent later."
2
Ryker
I lean against the solid stone wall of the hospital, sheltering beneath the awning in the designated smoking area, far away from the rig and the oxygen it contains. It wouldn't do to blow it sky high because of my bad habits.
The end of my cig glows orange as I suck in a deep breath and hold it, the smoke curling in my lungs. I've been t
rying to quit this vice, given how much I've been over at Cleo's in the past months. She and the baby don't need the secondhand smoke. But after what went on today, I needed this more than I needed air to breathe.
I expel the smoke in a smooth line, glowering at the line of trees that surround the hospital. It's rare I get a quiet moment like this to myself. Between the accidents caused by the rain and the gang violence in the King's territory to the west, I'm never short on action. This moment of contemplation is unwelcome. My mind can only flit back to one thing, and it's the last thing I should think about during my work hours.
Cleo.
I only have to squeeze my eyes shut and there she is, dancing like some nymph behind my lids. Thick, dark hair piled on top of her head, exposing the tawny expanse of her neck. Her collarbones stand out, and I want to dip my tongue into them, taste the sweetness of her skin. I wonder if she'd gasp when I test my teeth against her throat.
I grimace and take another drag of the cigarette. And this was why I didn't enjoy the quiet. Better deal with a bleeding and battered body than dwell on Cleo. She's the itch I can't scratch. The forbidden fruit hung far out of my reach. I'm no fool. I know she's been in love with my best friend Cruz for at least a year, maybe longer. Even though Cruz is married now and expecting a kid of his own with Holly, it's hard not to miss the longing glances she casts him during club meetings.
I must be more delusional than I thought for thinking I had a chance once Damian was gone and Cruz was out of the picture. Cleo isn't mine and at this rate, she never will be. It doesn't matter that I've loved the hell out of her since the moment I laid eyes on her two years ago at the clubhouse. I've only had eyes for her. She has eyes for everyone else, her gaze skimming over me like I'm not even there.