Lead (The Brazen Bulls MC, #8)

by Susan Fanetti

  “Not for me. I’m odd man out on votes like this. I’m gettin’ dragged kicking and screaming into all this Russian shit.”

  Becker leaned back. “But you’ve come along. You came back to the club after McAlester, and you’ve walked with the club through everything since. Why draw the line here?”

  “There’s no line lower than this, Beck. Nothing left to hold back. We do this, and we fall all the way into the filth.”

  Becker stared at the gavel sitting before him on the portable table. The plastic of the table had a granular texture, and after only a few weeks of use, the white had become mottled with the grime of their hands and the tenacious dust of the room.

  “We’ve been all the way in the filth for a long while, Mav. We’re down here on the bottom, no better than anybody. The first time we handed off to the Abregos and didn’t blink, we were on the bottom. When D gave you that hit for Irina, laid it on you to take out a guy we had no beef with, we were on the bottom. Even our war with the Hounds, that was Russians and Italians in the background. If we take on this work, it changes nothing about the risk, except for the frequency. We deal with the same filthy bastards we’ve been dealing with for years, because we’re just as filthy as they are. But at least we’ll get paid like we should for taking all that on.”

  He looked up and fixed his eyes on Maverick’s. “You’ve been out five years, Mav. We’re no dirtier than when you put that kutte back on.”

  Since he’d sat down, Maverick’s posture had been aggressive—meaning to stand his ground, whatever fight Becker put up. Now, the angle of his shoulders softened, and he leaned back a bit. Becker had found a crack to seep into.

  “It weighs on me, Beck. Every goddamn day—who I am, what my kids see when they look at me, what Jen sees, if what we do is gonna get them hurt. It all weighs so fucking heavy.”

  “You are who you are, Mav. Your kids see their father. Jenny sees her old man. What you do to earn, that doesn’t make who you are. Who you are is why you earn the way you do. The club never changed you. It welcomed you.”

  Maverick blinked, and his face shifted into a look Becker couldn’t read. He’d heard the words coming from his own mouth and, surprised, stopped to think about them. They were good. They were true. So he added to them. “Down deep, you’ve always been the man who took the patch in the first place, Mav. We all are. All of us, together. And this is where we are now.”

  Now. At the beginning of Becker’s lead. He was figuring out what kind of president he wanted, needed, to be, and how he needed to get there. “Mav, I need you.”

  “You don’t. I’m nothing but gunk in the works.”

  “That’s why I need you. Just a few months ago, you voted to put this flash on my chest. I didn’t want it, and I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing half the time, but I’m working it out as I go. I need somebody at this table I trust to fight with me if I’m getting ahead of myself.” The next thing he needed to say felt like a betrayal, and he took an extra breath to power the words. “I don’t want to lead like D. Not like he was the last few years. I want to be sure I have the true will of the table at heart. I need somebody telling me no. I don’t want to just outvote you. I need you to make me convince you. If I have you, I’ll know I have the table.”

  Maverick stared down at his hands and didn’t answer. Becker studied him, trying to read his thoughts. His attitude had calmed during this talk. Had he been convinced?

  “Mav. On the question of the new Russian work. Do I have you?”

  When he looked up, Maverick was clearly no less conflicted, and Becker thought he’d missed his mark. The thought of losing him wrung his stomach out.

  But then Mav sighed. “I don’t like it. I’ll never like it. But I guess you’re right. We’re already drowning in filth. Might as well make as much as we can while we can, make it do something good. You promise me that we will always keep our families safe, and we’ll keep our shit in bounds, and I’ll vote with you.”

  “You have my promise, brother.”

  ~oOo~

  Becker knocked the gavel on the table. He still didn’t feel entitled to hold that wooden mallet, and the muted thud it made on the plastic seemed to reverberate around his head, a metaphor for the inauspicious beginning of his presidency. Homeless, jobless, wounded. That was the club he led.

  But as if that thud had had all the impact of Delaney’s gavel on their true table, Becker’s brothers settled and turned to him. “I know everybody’s wound up for this vote, but I got a couple pieces of good news I want to share first. “Fitz is gettin’ sprung on Friday.”

  The table erupted in cheers, and Becker laughed with them. “He’ll be out of commission for some time yet, doing PT, gettin’ his feet under him again, but the docs say he’s looking at a full recovery.” More cheering. “We should all be there when he rolls out, and the old ladies should probably do something to help Kari out, yeah?” The woman stuff was beyond him, and no one had stepped up to take Mo’s place in managing it. But he knew the women did shit when people were sick, or there were new babies. They made food and ... did shit.

  He looked to his officers, finally landing on Simon, his VP. “Can Deb take lead on that, whatever it is?”

  “I’ll ask her, yeah. But she’s got her farmer’s market on the weekend, so I don’t know how much time she can give.”

  “Willa’s on shift all weekend,” Rad added, “but she’ll be there to roll him out.”

  “I’ll ask Jen,” Maverick said. “She can take point.”

  Becker nodded—and took a deep, relieved breath. He hadn’t added losing a long-term patch to his list of failures and losses as president. Maverick was still in.

  “What about your little chick, Prez?” Wally asked, his grin wide and his tone full of shit. “Shouldn’t the queen be running shit like this? Or is she old enough to be queen? Maybe a queenlet? Or princess?”

  The rest of the table greeted Wally’s snark with muted chuckles and wary curiosity. All week, since Apollo had heard him talking to her on the phone while they were in Chicago, Becker had been dealing with questions and remarks about Sage, the first woman he’d brought to the club in years. He’d lost count of how many times he’d assured someone that he wasn’t technically cradle-robbing, that she was of age. He’d been called ‘Daddy’ and ‘Grandpa.’ Not one patch would ever have ribbed Delaney like they’d been going at him. He couldn’t decide whether it was disrespect or camaraderie that fueled it. Did he want them to feel comfortable giving him shit?

  He didn’t know. But he definitely wanted this particular line of shit to stop, and he knew how to get that done. Wally was bigger than he, but he was also slower and dumber. Becker had kicked his ass in the ring, recreationally, a couple times. So he glared down the table at the blond kid now. “Watch your mouth, boy, or I’ll take you in the ring and tear it off your face.”

  The mood of the table changed at once. Becker saw several furrowed brows—he’d given them some more information about who he was as president, and they were trying to sort it out.

  “Sage isn’t my old lady. Not now, and maybe not ever. It’s too early to know, and you don’t have to tell me how fuckin’ young she is, so keep your gobs shut about it. I’m not talkin’ about her at this table anymore. All I want to know is if we’ve got Fitz and Kari covered this weekend.”

  “We do. I’ll put Jenny on it.”

  “Thank you, Mav. Next up—I heard from the suits. We get the clubhouse back next week, and we can start on the demo and rebuild of the station then, too.” That got cheers even louder than the round for Fitz; everybody was tired of this crappy storefront. But Becker held up his hands and calmed them down. “It’s a nightmare, on top of everything else, we gotta sink new tanks, and it’ll be months before we’re open again, but we can finally get started.”

  “Thank fuck!” Gunner slapped his hands on the flimsy table, and the whole thing shook.

  Yeah, they needed to get back home. Beck
er knocked on the table and pulled everyone’s attention back. “Okay. Unless anybody’s got something new, it’s time to take on the big question. Do we start muling drugs for the Russians? Before we vote, we’re gonna lay out the routes and schedule, talk money, crews, all of it. If you have a question, don’t hold back. If you have an argument, I want everybody to hear it. I want everybody to know what this means when we vote, and I want you to own your vote. Clear?”

  His eyes went first to Maverick, who looked right back and held there for a beat before he nodded. Thank fucking Christ. When Becker got a table full of nodding heads, he turned to Apollo. “Apollo, you’ve got the table. Let’s lay it all out.”

  ~oOo~

  Though they’d kept eyes on it nonstop in the weeks it had been fenced off, Becker nevertheless prepared himself to find the clubhouse ransacked. Tulsa law was friendly to the club, and they had enough goods on the county sheriff to keep him amiable as well, but there were Feds involved in the cleanup, and he didn’t believe they’d pass up a chance to get a good, deep sniff of Bulls business.

  But as he walked through the building, the rest of the club following and spreading out into their home, Becker saw little evidence of anything more than their own quick exit.

  In the chapel, he went to the head of the table and set the gavel where it belonged. His fingers trailed over the scarred oak. This table had seen some shit.

  “Looks like they left us alone,” Rad said, standing at his side.

  “Or they want us to think they did. Get Apollo. Let’s do a bug scan.”

  “On it.” Rad turned and headed back to the party room.

  Alone in the chapel, Becker sat down. He spread his fingers over the table, impressing the textures of the wood—the grain, the gouges, the worn spots in the finish—into his fingertips. Could he deserve this seat? Could he do right by the club? Was he worthy of their trust?

  Would he ever know the answers to those questions? Or would he always feel this reluctance, this doubt? Would it always be a performance when he sat here and took the lead? Or would he someday inhabit the role?

  “Prez.” The nickname chafed, as always.

  “Yeah, Si.”

  “Your girl is here.”

  They’d called the families in to celebrate the return of their home. Willa was helping Kari bring Fitz over, and Deb and Leah had been volunteered by their men to put a meal together. The other women were ... probably doing something. All that shit was too much for him to think about.

  Becker hadn’t thought to give Sage anything to do; he wasn’t sure whether he should, or she could. She’d gotten along well at the party the night they’d come back from Chicago, but she hadn’t talked much about meeting any of them. Just that they were nice, and she’d had a good time. He’d quizzed her a few times about names and relationships, and she’d finally gotten them all down. But today was only her second time with the club.

  Tradition was, the old lady of the most senior Bull ran the clubhouse. Mo had ruled since the club’s inception, and she’d left a fucking black hole when Delaney retired out. Since Becker had been single, by rights, the clubhouse should have been Deb’s, but she was too busy. So was Willa, and Jenny, and on down the line. None of the women wanted to rule the clubhouse any more than any of their men had wanted the gavel. That had fallen to Becker almost by default.

  Could Sage ever be a clubhouse queen? At her age? Would the sweetbutts respect her? Would the other old ladies?

  Becker thought about the shit he’d gotten for being with her. Goddammit, he didn’t think she could run the women. They’d see her as he himself still did sometimes, when he cast a sidelong glance and caught her chewing on the end of her ponytail, or bopping around the kitchen while she cooked: a little girl.

  But he also saw the thoughtful woman who’d shone a light on his darkest memories and in her quiet acceptance had brushed some of the soot off his soul. The tough chick who knew what his life growing up had been like because hers was much the same. The stubborn little shit who got right in his face and fought him without fear.

  Nobody saw all those women in her but him.

  When they knew her, they’d respect her. Maybe someday she could be queen.

  Becker left the chapel and saw Sage kneeling on a barstool, leaning over the bar, talking to a hangaround who was setting up the taps. She wore little jean shorts, cuffed just under her ass, and ripped fishnets with her ubiquitous dark red Docs. Up top, she had on a skimpy, tight, black lace shirt that showed a whole lot of her inked back and belly. A whole lot of all of her showed, in fact. He felt simultaneously aroused and protective.

  He stepped up behind her and put his hands on the bar, on either side of her. “Hey, shortcake, careful you don’t fall.”

  “Hi there, babycakes!” She’d picked up that annoying pet name recently. He’d stopped complaining about it because she used it more often when he bitched. Maybe she’d get bored of it. Soon, he hoped.

  She turned on the stool and wrapped herself completely around him, arms and legs both. Becker got hold of her ass and took her weight. He tipped up his head, and she grinned and kissed him. “This is way cooler than across the street.” Her cute little nose wrinkled up, and the ring through her nostril gleamed. “Kinda stinks, though.”

  It had smelled a lot worse. After a barnstormer of a party, the place could get to reeking like an outhouse. “Needs airing out, yeah.” He nuzzled her neck. “You smell great, though.” His house was starting to smell like this. His bathroom especially; she had her brand of shower soap and shampoo on his tub shelf. And the kitchen kept the aromas of her cooking.

  She felt his cock rise up in his jeans. Purring like a cat, she writhed in his arms and shoved her hands into the sleeves of his t-shirt. She scratched her blunt nails lightly over his back, making him shiver. “There any place that needs to be christened on this day of celebration?”

  “My office. There’s a couch back there.”

  “What’re you waiting for, then? Giddyup!”

  “Hey, Sage?”

  Becker growled softly at Cecily’s voice. Sage giggled against his ear. “Yeah?”

  “How are you in the kitchen?”

  She leaned back and looked over his shoulder. “Depends. If you want, like, fancy French shit, all I can give you is merde, but I do okay with normal food.”

  “Fried chicken? The smell of the hot oil is making me heave all of a sudden. I guess the baby has opinions about fried food.”

  Sage kissed Becker’s cheek and did a little jackknife move that broke his hold on her before he actually let her go. She landed with feline grace and rocked her hip against his leg. “Later, babycakes. I have a pregnant woman to save with my frying skills.”

  Cecily grinned at him. “Sorry for the cockblock.”

  Becker laughed. “No problem, Ciss.” He grabbed Sage’s hand and pulled her close again. “You come find me when you’re done.”

  “Make it worth my while.”

  “Oh, I will.” He kissed her hard, getting two full handfuls of that pert little ass.

  And then she was gone, sauntering off to the kitchen, chatting with Cecily.

  She was comfortable here. With his people. Already.

  Yeah, maybe she could be queen someday.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sage came awake to the brilliant sensation of Becker’s scruffy cheek on her shoulder. One of her favorite things in the world was waking into sex, the threads of sleep unraveling as Becker wove her into the new day with his fingers and his mouth, his arms and legs, his cock.

  He was like some kind of mythological sex creature in the morning—always sporting a tree trunk, always hungry for her. In the night, he got wild. After he’d been riding, especially if he’d done some kind of work for the club, he landed on her like a storm. But in the mornings, he wanted it slow and sweet.

  A deep breath rolled luxuriously all through her until it found its way out as a sigh. She rolled to her back, offering herself up to his lo
ve—but now she was awake enough to understand that he was dressed.

  Oh shit. Right. He was going on a run today. Gone two days and three nights. She hated these days, because it meant she had to go back to her mom’s house or camp on Dylan’s sofa. And this was the longest run yet since they’d been together.

  “Mornin’ shortcake.”

  She huffed out a much less pleased sigh and opened her eyes. He sat on his side of the bed, one denim leg folded up before him. His kutte was on already—he was leaving in mere moments.

  “Morning. You’re leaving already?”

  “Yeah. I gotta get to the clubhouse and finish some shit before we head out. I’ll call before we hit the road, though.” He brushed her bangs from her temple and drew his fingertip over her lilies. “You’re at the library today, right?”

  “Yeah. Nine to three.” She grabbed the edge of his kutte and gave it a petulant tug. “This sucks.”

  He grinned and held up a little white cardboard box. “Got you a present to make it better.”

  Sage sat up and grabbed for the box, but he yanked it back from her reach. “Hey, mind your manners.” He tapped his lips. “I want one of these first.”

  She lifted her arms, and he came in and laid a kiss on her, his free hand holding her head so he could go hard and deep and fast. When he backed off, she felt woozy and wet, and doubly sad at his leaving. “You’re really good at that,” she gasped.

  His grin had hardly left his face. Now he handed her the box, and she lifted off the lid. On a bed of cotton batting lay a Kwikset key. The mate to his own—his house key. She turned her eyes up to his and found them alight with warm pleasure.

  “Don’t go rearranging my shit or anything, but I want you to have a safe place to be when I’m not around.”

  Her heart pogoing around inside her chest, Sage surged up onto her knees and threw her arms around him. “This is awesome! You are awesome! Thank you!” She hadn’t said the words I love you to him since that night of the horror movie failure, because he hadn’t said them to her, and she didn’t want them to pile up and make things weird between them. But god, she loved him so much. He was the safest, warmest, homiest place she’d ever known.