by Joanna Wylde
“You good in here?” Boonie asked.
“Under control,” Painter replied. “Other team is already down the other hallway.”
“Okay, I’m joining them,” Boonie said. “Puck will cover me while I go back. Then he’ll do a sweep and hold the fort with you.”
“Sounds good,” Gage rumbled. One of the customers spoke up hesitantly.
“We don’t want any trouble,” he said. “This is between you guys—we haven’t seen anything. Let us go and we’ll never talk about what we saw here. I promise.”
“Sit tight and you’ll be fine,” Boonie said. “You’re right—it isn’t about you. You keep your mouths shut and in an hour it’ll be like this never happened. Of course, you talk, you die. We’ll hunt you down no matter where you go. There are hundreds of us, all over the country, so silence is really your best option.”
One of the waitresses started sobbing quietly.
“Shouldn’t have started working for the competition,” Boonie snapped, his voice heartless. “Shut the fuck up.”
She shoved her arm across her mouth, muffling the noise. Time for us to move on. I followed Boonie across the room, gun in hand. The door to the second hallway was propped open, with Ruger and Horse standing guard against the far wall. Two more bouncers lay on the floor in front of them, hands folded behind their heads.
“It’s clear,” Ruger said, nodding at Boonie. “They’re in the office.”
Boonie started down the hall as I turned back toward the main floor.
“How clear are we?” I asked, moving on to the next phase.
“Double-check the bar, then hit the champagne rooms,” Gage said. “We’ve kept count—nobody’s back there but Becca, unless someone’s been hiding since before the club opened. Clear the rooms then come back to help with the hostages.”
All according to plan.
I ran back into the hallway and started opening doors. There were six of them, and the first four were empty. Then I opened the fifth. I almost missed Becca at first—she’d tucked herself into the corner behind the door. When she saw me her face turned white.
“I can explain,” she whispered. The sight of her—half naked—should’ve set me off. Instead I went totally cold. Five years. Five fucking years I’d waited for this woman, treated her like she was glass. Held back. Now she was waving her tits in a fucking strip club. How long had she been coming here? Had she ever been in school at all?
No, she couldn’t have worked here long—someone would have seen her. None of it made sense—not that it mattered right now. I had to get her out of here and finish clearing the rooms. I’d figure out what the hell was really going on after we finished up.
Fucking bitch.
“Get out of here,” I said, grabbing her arm and jerking her into the hallway. “Go out the back door. You’ll see a van there—get inside and wait for me.”
She nodded quickly, stumbling as she ran toward the emergency exit.
I turned to the final door.
That’s when shit got real.
FOURTEEN
BECCA
I’ll never forget the look on Puck’s face when he found me hiding in the champagne room. Not disgust, or anger . . . Not even betrayal.
Much worse.
He’d looked right through me, eyes as dead as Painter’s. Up to that point I’d managed not to think about him, not to consider the consequences of my actions on our relationship. It wasn’t that I’d expected to take off for California and then come back to pick things up where we left them.
I really hadn’t been thinking at all.
Now—as I reached for the bar on the exit door—reality struck. I’d destroyed us. Whatever “us” there had been, I’d killed it because I was fucked in the head.
More evidence that everything I’d fought for in Callup was a lie. Girls like me didn’t get happily ever afters. We got dark strip clubs and men with guns, right up to the point where it all ended in an orgy of violence. If we got very lucky, we got to be the murderers and not the victims.
From the look in Puck’s eyes, I might’ve landed on the wrong side of that equation.
I turned to look at him one last time—no way I planned to go sit quietly in that van and wait for him. The MC had a job to do here, and it didn’t include chasing me down. If I could reach my car, I still had a fighting chance.
Puck was reaching for the final door when it slammed open between us. Crouse came out swinging, catching Puck under the chin and knocking him across the hallway. The gun flew and then it was in Crouse’s hand. He pointed it at Puck, holding him pinned to the floor.
Holy. Shit.
What the hell should I do now?
“Get outside, girlie,” Crouse said over his shoulder, his words a growl. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you. Get out and run away before shit gets worse.”
My eyes darted between him and Puck. This was it. Crouse had given me a shot and I should take it. I couldn’t do anything for Puck anyway.
Push through the door and run for the car. You don’t have any choice.
Shouting came from the main room, then Painter appeared at the end of the hallway. He had his gun out, pointing at Crouse. The big man kept his own weapon on Puck, hands steady.
Standoff.
“The girl can go,” Crouse said, jerking his head toward me. “She’s not part of this.”
Painter’s eyes caught mine, and he nodded sharply. Britney Spears’s voice burst out through the sound system, perky and happy and so out of place I wanted to smash my head against the wall.
Smash my head . . .
In brackets right next to the door was a nice big, shiny red fire extinguisher. Suddenly I knew exactly what to do. I reached for it, popping it free as I held Painter’s gaze. His eyes stayed blank, revealing nothing. I slid out of my heels silently, lifted the metal canister over my head and raised it high.
The noise it made when I cracked Crouse over the head was loud enough that not even the music drowned it out. Puck exploded into motion, rolling to the side and jumping to his feet. Damned good thing, too, because Crouse’s gun went off, punching a hole right where he’d been only seconds earlier.
That never happened in the movies.
Of course, in the movies Crouse would have been knocked instantly unconscious, which also didn’t happen. He was pretty damned wobbly, though, so when Puck tackled him and grabbed for his gun, it wasn’t exactly a fair fight.
Then it was all over.
Crouse stood unsteadily in the center of the hallway, hands raised.
“Out with the others,” Puck growled at him. The big bouncer glanced at me one last time, and then to my shock he winked.
What the hell was that about?
Apparently Puck wondered the same thing, because I saw him studying us closely. Great. Just what I needed.
“Get out while you can, girlie,” Crouse said again, then he started lumbering down the hallway. “Men like us are no good for you.”
“Take her out to the van,” Painter snapped at Puck. “Something’s wrong here. Maybe she’s in on it.”
Puck nodded, catching my arm with hard, unforgiving fingers. Bright sun hit as we opened the door, stepping out of the dark underworld of the club into the clean, fresh air.
“You have a lot to explain,” he said, shoving me into the van. I fell down hard, and then he was handcuffing me to a rail mounted on the side of the rig.
Well. So much for stripping.
PUCK
We drove in silence, following the van that held Jamie Callaghan and his buddies. Boonie sat up front with the prospect, while Painter and I covered the back. Becca huddled against one side, shivering. I kept expecting her to cry or beg or show some kind of emotion.
She didn’t even look at me—totally lost in her own world.
Why the hell had she been in that club? None of it made sense. The worst-case scenario was that she’d been working for the Callaghans, but it didn’t add up for a lot of reason
s, not least of which was the fact that she’d tried to kill a man to save me.
(Had to admit—the image of Becca in her bra and panties fighting was gonna feature heavily in my future fantasy life. Felt the stir of a hard-on every time I thought about it.)
Sexy wasn’t a defense, though. I needed to face reality. If there was the slightest chance she was spying for the Callaghans, blood would flow. Was it possible? No. Becca was a local girl, zero connections to them. Not only that, if she’d been working at the Vegas Belles regularly instead of going to school, I’d have known about it. We didn’t have the place under 24/7 surveillance, but we had our spies inside. They’d given us a list of employees.
She wasn’t on it.
According to Maryse, she’d only been in there once before. She’d told me right before we dropped her off, and the woman had no reason to lie.
The van swayed as we turned off the highway and onto the gravel road to the Armory. The old National Guard fortress belonged to the Reapers, serving as a clubhouse, flophouse, and makeshift prison. They owned the land for miles around it, too.
Jamie Callaghan was going to have a very unpleasant night.
Thankfully this wasn’t my problem—my part of the raid was done. As soon as we unloaded I planned to throw Becca onto my bike and take her home to get some answers. I glanced at her again and revised my plans. Get her some clothes first. Then throw her on my bike. Maybe I should fuck her, too. Yeah. That was a plan. After that, though, I’d definitely be getting some answers. The van stopped and we slid the doors open. Painter and I hopped out, slamming the doors behind us.
Boonie walked over to me, frowning.
“You gonna leave her in there?” he asked lightly.
“No, but figured I should check in before taking off,” I said. “You feel like this needs to be club business? Otherwise I plan to treat it like a personal issue.”
“The bouncer had a thing for her,” Painter chimed in. “But I don’t think he even knew her name. Just thought she was pretty and Maryse backs that up. Becca was only there to make a quick buck—no reason to get the club involved.”
Boonie nodded.
“I’ll talk to Pic about it, but I tend to agree,” he said. “This is your problem, Puck. Any idea why she’d want to get a job stripping? Can’t wrap my head around it.”
“Puck, can I talk to you?” a woman’s voice called. I looked up to see London, Picnic Hayes’s old lady, walking toward me. The others were “escorting” Callaghan and his men out of the other van right in front of her, but she didn’t pay any attention. Instead she frowned at me.
Fucking great. Picnic was gearing up to torture a guy, but London wanted to give me shit.
“What?” I asked, knowing my tone bordered on rude because I’d never liked her. Stick up her ass, and she’d betrayed Pic. I’d never quite forgiven her for that.
“I got a call from Darcy earlier,” she said.
“What’s going on?” Boonie asked. “Everything okay?”
“It’s about Puck’s old lady,” London said. “Darcy didn’t call you guys because she knew you were busy, but something bad happened.”
I waited. “What?”
“She said that Becca went crazy earlier today. She threw a sewing machine out of her apartment into the street, right through a window. Bunch of other stuff, too. Then she took off in her car and hasn’t been answering her cell phone. They’ve got no idea if she’s still in the valley or what happened, but her entire apartment is destroyed. No signs that anyone was in there with her, or that she was attacked—Darcy said she did it by herself.”
Jesus. This shit just got weirder.
“Fuck,” Boonie muttered. I rubbed my forehead. Whatever had happened to send Becca to that strip club, it was extreme.
“One last thing,” London said, digging around in her pocket. “They checked the history on her home phone. Before she left, she got several calls from this number.”
She pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over. Southern California area code. All the pieces fell into place and sudden rage filled me. Christ, I wanted to punch something. So obvious.
“It never fucking stops. It was her mother—that bitch is like a disease.”
“What’s going on?” Boonie asked.
“Cunt’s been after her about money,” I growled. “Just bullshit games, but Becca falls for it every time. If something went down, she probably wouldn’t talk to me, either. We got in a fight over it.”
“Darcy’s worried,” London said. “If you’ve got any idea where Becca is, you should call and tell her. I guess there are other people who want answers, too.”
Fucking great—just what I needed. A committee.
“She’s in the van,” I said, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. I wanted to shout or kick something. God, I hated that bitch. “Will you call Darce and let her know everything is okay?”
London stared me down. “When you have to haul women to the Armory in the back of vans, everything is not okay.”
That caught me short. Fuck.
“Completely different situation than yours was, London,” Boonie said. “Believe me. Keep us posted, Puck.”
“Sure,” I said, turning back to the van. I caught the door and slid it open, climbing in to unlock Becca. Sensing we had more of an audience than we needed, I slid the door shut behind me again.
“What happens now?” she asked, her voice dull. Why did she keep letting her mom do this? I’d hauled her ass out of there five years ago, yet she still danced whenever the woman called. Bullshit.
“You’re going to start by telling me why you destroyed your apartment and threw your sewing machine out the window,” I said, unsnapping the handcuffs. Becca sat up, rubbing her wrist. “Then we’ll move on to the whole stripping thing.”
“I wasn’t trying to cause trouble for the club,” she said, avoiding the first question. “Whatever was going on down there, I wasn’t part of it. I don’t know anything about the Vegas Belles.”
“I know. Just get your ass outside.”
I opened the door and she slid out, still barefoot. London glanced between us, then shook her head.
“You want some clothes for her?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Take the room on the second floor,” she said flatly. “I’ll send Mellie up in a little while with something for her to wear.”
“Mellie’s here?” Painter asked.
“Yeah, I’m watching Izzy for her tonight,” London replied.
“Why?”
“None of your business.”
Painter narrowed his eyes. Fuck this. I had enough of my own drama.
“Let’s get out of here,” I snapped at Becca. She followed me silently, ignoring the curious looks from the Reapers and Silver Bastards still milling around the courtyard.
BECCA
“In here,” Puck said. I walked into the room and turned to face him, still feeling numb. I’d had that one burst of energy when he’d been in danger, when everything had gone sharp and clear. Then it faded back into the dull pain of grief and guilt.
Puck shut the door, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall. “Okay, tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“My mom is dead,” I said, deciding to lay it all out. “I needed enough money to go to California. Figured I’d work for an afternoon at the club, see if I could make some quick cash.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin.
“Sorry about your mom,” he said finally. “I’m assuming that’s why you lost your shit and threw your sewing machine out the window?”
“In my defense, Eva was walking by outside. I was hoping to hit her.”
“This isn’t a joke, Becca.”
“Oh, I think it’s a joke all right,” I replied bitterly. “Do you know what I’ve spent the last five years trying to do?’
“What?”
“Not turn into my mother,” I replied. “Yet here I am in an
MC clubhouse in nothing but my underwear. What’s that bed for?”
He looked at it, puzzled—the thing was old and battered, the blankets so thin they hardly qualified.
“This is one of those rooms the old ladies won’t clean, isn’t it?” I asked, raising a brow. “I know what this place is. You run trains in here, don’t you? You and all your friends and whatever poor whore is stupid enough to let herself get sucked in. I swore I’d never see one of these rooms again, Puck. Then Teeny called me and I’m right back where I started. I have to fix it.”
Puck’s face hardened.
“You’re not thinking straight,” he said coldly. “I’m sorry your mom is dead but you need to shut your mouth.”
“Fuck off, Puck.”
He started toward me, grim purpose written all over his face.
“If you needed money, you should’ve come to me,” he said. “I’m your old man. Shit like this happens, you’re supposed to call me.”
Seriously?
“Couple problems with that scenario,” I snapped. “One, you’re not my old man, yet you keep telling people I’m your old lady. I haven’t agreed, Puck. Takes two people, did you know that?”
“Becca—”
“Don’t condescend to me,” I continued. The anger was pushing through the numbness. It felt good. Really good. “I’m an adult and I’ve been taking care of myself for years now.”
“And a fucking great job you’re doing, too. Where are your clothes, Becca? Oh, wait. You lost them during a raid on a strip club. Was that before or after you threw everything you owned out the window?”
“Teeny murdered my mother!”
Puck froze.
“What?”
“He killed her,” I said, my throat tightening. Shit. I was going to cry again, and I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be strong and angry. Focused. “She warned me. She said he’d kill her unless I sent money for her to get away, but I didn’t have the money. I even went to the strip club earlier this week—figured I’d try to earn it for her. But I couldn’t go through with it because I had my precious dignity and school and you, asshole. Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t want to lose you, so I let her go instead. Now she’s dead. He killed her.”
