Double Dare You: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance

by Ruby Dixon

  Maybe it’s because he feeds into the side of me that I try to keep buried.

  I joined the Butchers after I left active duty in the Marines. Couldn’t get work that paid the bills. I ain’t much for conversation and all that, and when you interview for jobs and all you have is a military résumé and a hard look in your eye from seeing too much in the war? You don’t get called back. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Gem and Dom were old buddies of mine from ’Stan and so I visited them in Albuquerque, on my last few dollars. Turned out they were running some small game in the city and had started a motorcycle club. I signed up…and learned that the Butchers were a different kind of club. A partner kind of club.

  It felt like home for the first time in my life. Always been bisexual. Always had a thing for men as well as women. Maybe I just appreciate a muscular body and nice form no matter the gender. Whatever it is, I thought for the first time I was gonna slide right in and feel like I belonged.

  I did. Mostly. ’Cept the Bedlam Butchers? Turns out they weren’t interested in nailing ride partners as much as they were in just doubling up on chicks. I learned that real fast when they paired me up with my ride partner, Taco. He was a good friend but not exactly the kind of guy that was my type. So I kept the whole ‘bi’ thing to myself, nailed club pussy when it was offered, and did my job for the club. Most times it’s no big deal, because the Butchers are my brothers, and you don’t normally want to nail your brother.

  But Epic gets under my skin in a way that both irritates and fascinates me, and that’s a bad combination. I should have told Gem and Dom that he couldn’t be my ride partner when they patched him. Should have told them to pick someone else for me. Thing was, though, Taco died a few months back—executed for betraying the club.

  My club. My brothers.

  He stabbed them—and me—in the back.

  Hard to recover from shit like that. Hard to trust your footing. Hard to know if people still look at you as a solid member of the club or if they’re doubting you. Even harder when you’re a solo Butcher, because the lack of a ride partner sticks out like a sore thumb. So even though I should have protested when they stuck me with Epic, I didn’t.

  I just need to get over this shit.

  I glance back in the rearview mirror again, and Epic’s brows are drawn together in confusion as he watches the girl wipe her eyes, sobbing. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do. He shoots me an equally helpless look, and I feel a surge of affection for the guy. White knight? More like overeager puppy.

  Guess it’s good they stuck him with me, then. I’m a tired fucker who just wants to get shit done and go home and rest.

  2

  BECKA

  “Time to go, ladies!”

  The cheerful bellow rouses me out of my nap. I sit up in the prickling hay, rubbing at my skin. For guys that are obsessed with us looking hot enough for buyers, they’re shitty housekeepers. A blanket to protect me from the worst of the hay would have been nice.

  “Get up! Undress! I don’t want you to make me go in there and strip you down,” the stable-master yells as he walks down the line of stalls. “Don’t worry about your make-up, because you’re heading to the showers.”

  I creep to my feet, my stomach knotting. A shower isn’t the wonderful favor they make it sound like. I’ve had one daily since I arrived, and it’s been a humiliating affair. I’m shoved into a stall with a few other girls, handed soap, and then hosed down like an animal. I’d actually prefer not to shower at all, but I guess that would ruin the whole ‘look hot at all times’ thing they want us to keep going. I pull off the slinky little black dress they have us wearing and carefully fold it and set it on the floor. A week ago I’d have freaked out at the thought of undressing in front of strangers, but I’m numb to it at this point. I just know it’s better to obey.

  A hand bangs on my stall door, and the stable-master’s head pops up over the slats. “Hey, Bloody Mary. You’re clean now, right? It’s been five days.”

  I don’t answer right away. Should I lie? Say I’m still bleeding? Will that buy me a day?

  “Don’t make me check you,” he warns.

  “Clean,” I say softly, and hate myself for it.

  “Good. You’re shipping out tonight.” I hear keys jangling and then a moment later, the lock on my stall is unclipped and the door rolls back. He gestures, indicating I should move forward. “Leave the bra and panties.”

  I strip them off quickly as well, and then hurry out to join him. He’s got a nightstick he’s tapping against his leg, and I’m always wary when he holds a weapon, because he likes to use them.

  He points down to the far end of the stables, and I cross my arms over my breasts, heading toward the other sobbing girls. There’s six of them, all naked and clustered together. Two other men are helping the stable-master today, and I hate how they leer at me as I join the others.

  “Into the showers,” the stable-master calls. “As for trouble, don’t cause none and there won’t be none. Get you a bar of soap and a razor. I want all the hair gone from the neck down. Once you’ve shaved everything, soap up and then we’ll rinse you off. Today you even get a towel. It’s ’cause we’re so generous.”

  His sarcasm makes a chill ripple over my skin. They’re never generous. If ever I needed a slap in the face that I’m being sold today, it’s this. I take the cake of soap and step into the stall designated for showering, bracing myself. A moment later, the cold water slams into me like a freight train, even though I was ready for it. My muscles clench up and my teeth begin to chatter immediately, so I rub the soap over my skin fast, and then shave just as quick. There’s a bottle of shampoo in the corner, and I know the drill at this point. Once I’m done with my skin, I shampoo my hair and put my soap back in the designated spot, then move forward so I can be hosed off again. The frigid water blasts me again, and I lean into it to get my hair rinsed clean. When I can stand the spray no longer, I step to the side.

  Someone offers me a towel, and instead of being taken back to my cell, I’m pointed to follow a third, scary-looking guard. I do, even though he’s creeping me out with the looks he’s giving me. “This way.”

  I wrap the towel tight around my body and trot obediently after the guard. From there, I’m taken into another room and sat in a salon chair. There are two women working, and things get even more bizarre when one spreads a cape over my shoulders and begins to comb my wet hair. The other immediately starts to work on my toes. In a short space of time, I’m given a manicure and a pedicure, my hair is blown out and teased until it falls on my shoulders in bouncy waves, and then I’m given subtle make-up with a smoky eye. Once that’s done, they pull off the cape and one points me toward a rack in the corner. “Go pick out a dress and shoes.”

  My choices are exactly what I expect—tight, black bodycon dresses in a variety of sizes. The shoes are Lucite stripper heels, but I dress because it’s what’s expected of me. As I slide my feet into the six-inch heels, I gaze around the room, looking for an escape route. The other girls are huddling on a bench in their towels, miserable expressions on their faces as they wait for their turn to be beautified. There’s a curtain at the back of the room, but I don’t know if it leads outside or to another area. The guard’s at the front door of the small, weird salon. I try to ignore the fact that he’s got a gun sticking out of the back of his jeans. If I’m going to escape, I need to pick my window, and this is about the best window that I’ve got.

  I hesitate. I can’t rush the guard, but no one’s looking in my direction, either. I circle the dresses, pretending to look for a different size, and then take a step or two closer to that long curtain. It’s baby blue and sticks out like a sore thumb against the ugly wood paneling of the room. It might be a way out. I look over at the guard, but he’s staring off into space, not even looking in my direction.

  Now or never. I slip the shoes off again, in case I need to run, and edge toward the curtain. I pull it back…

  …And
it’s not an escape route. It’s a small kitchenette, with outdated green appliances. Even worse, there’s a man there, holding a poker against a coil burner and watching it turn red with heat. He glances up at me as I surge forward. “You my first one?”

  “F-first one?” I stammer, the trapped feeling increasing. Shit. Shit shit shit.

  He pulls the poker off the burner and blows on it. It glows bright red, and as it does, I can see there’s a word on the end of the poker. It’s not a poker at all…it’s a brand. “Come sit down,” he tells me. “It’ll go a lot easier if you don’t struggle.”

  The numb state of fear I’ve been living in vanishes. I can’t do this. Real terror shoots through me, and I turn and bolt back under the curtain. Fuck this! I’m not staying so they can brand me. I—

  I run right into the arms of another guard. “Uh uh, sugar. Everyone gets a brand of sale before they go out the door.”

  “No,” I whimper, pushing against him. His hands are like iron around my wrists, crushing the bones as I try to break free. “You can’t do this!”

  “Looks like she’s gonna make it difficult,” the man with the brand sighs, ignoring my protests. “Bring her over here and hold her down, Mike. And watch her feet. The last one kicked me and messed up my artwork.”

  EPIC

  Waiting is bullshit.

  I wiggle my fingers. If we weren’t sitting in the cab of a rental car, I’d be pacing. Maybe shadowboxing or doing some knife-play. Hell, push-ups. Something to get all this nervous tension out of my body. Instead, we’re stuck in this stupid car in the heat, and we’re not even running the A/C. So I sweat, and I fidget.

  We’re parked in the trees a short distance away from the ranch. Trespassing, most likely, but I doubt anyone would expect a couple of dumbasses to drive a sedan right through the underbrush, but we’re exactly the kind of dumbasses that did that. It’s not like it’s an important vehicle. It’s a damn rental, not a bike. But bikes are too obvious for this sort of work, so Ford Taurus it is. Across the way, there’s an eighteen-wheeler humming in idle, the trailer hitched and the back of it open. I guess the whole ‘horsey’ pretense doesn’t work as well for shipping out the cargo. Maybe because most horse trailers are pretty open, and the last thing they need is the highway patrol spotting seven crying girls stuffed into the back. That’s all right, though. A semi’s easy enough to take out.

  I get all twitchy just thinking about it. I’m ready to go already. Doesn’t matter that it’s broad daylight. Just give me the word and I’ll fly in there like a motherfucking superhero and save the day. I crack my knuckles.

  “Stop it.”

  I grimace. Locke’s like a fucking slab of granite. Doesn’t matter that it’s hot as fuck and we’ve closed in on our prey. His face is expressionless, and he doesn’t move a muscle. I don’t know how he does it. There’s so much about to go down, I can’t possibly sit still. I’ll go fucking nuts if I do.

  “Three guns,” he says calmly, holding the binoculars to his eyes.

  I crack my knuckles. I’ve got a gun, but I’ve also got fists, and I’m better with those. “Then we need to be fast.”

  “Three guards and seven girls.”

  “Becka?”

  “Hard to tell, but I think I saw a brunette that was her.”

  “She have big tits?” I remember my glimpse of Becka from the stable. Real pretty, with a full pink mouth and real nice handfuls of tits. Not that I’m supposed to be looking.

  “Fuck if I know. They all look the same from this distance.” Locke glances over at me and offers the binoculars.

  I shake my head. I’m good. I know all I need to know. Three guards with guns. Seven girls. I crack my knuckles again. “So how’s this going down?”

  Locke stares out at the truck, his expression thoughtful. Not for the first time, I’m grateful that he’s my ride partner and the Butchers paired me with him. He’s a tough bastard, older than me by about a decade. Quiet, which sometimes is aggravating, but real good with a gun. More than anything, he knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t get ruffled by shit, which I appreciate. I get the impression he’s seen it all and done it all.

  I also get the impression he doesn’t like me much, but I’m working on that. By the time my leathers are worn in, we’ll be best buddies.

  “Refrigerated truck,” is all he says.

  “So?” Am I supposed to know what that means?

  “Means the girls aren’t going to bake in that box, so they’re not in a hurry.” He puts the binoculars back to his eyes. “They’re not going to leave until sunset, is my guess. Ride out under the cover of night and pull in as little attention as possible. They’re heading for Vegas, for the Cage bullshit. Once they take off, we’ll let ’em drive for a bit, and then we’ll attack.”

  The Cage.

  “You think Handlebar and Crash are okay?” I ask. Our club VPs haven’t been heard from in days now, and everyone’s freaking the fuck out, myself included. You can’t just take down a ride team and no one know about it.

  “I think I’m going to concentrate on the mission at hand and not worry about other people’s jobs. Someone’s looking for them.” He gestures at the truck. “Our focus is there and on Gemini’s sister.”

  “Right.” Focus is not one of my strong suits. I crack my knuckles again. “So, like last time?” We ripped off a truckload of guns a few weeks ago on one of my first official patched runs. Shot one tire out, then another, and another, until the truck was disabled and pulled over. From there, I climbed in and took care of action while Locke backed me up from outside. My part’s a little more dangerous, but I’m fast and I’m good.

  Least, I think I’m good. If the others don’t, well, they just haven’t seen me in action yet.

  Locke nods. “You got your piece on you?”

  “Yeah. But I won’t need it.” I pull my fists close to my face and mock-punch at the air. “Gonna give those guys a few good jabs and make ’em cry for their mommies.”

  Locke narrows his eyes at me. “This ain’t a video game. We get in, we get out. If you have to put a bullet in their brains to do this fast, that’s what you do. Don’t be a fuckin’ hero.”

  “Speaking of,” I say, ignoring his lecture. “We gonna save all the honeys in there? I bet they’d be real grateful.” Not that I’m thinking about anyone but Becka. Becka and her nice, bouncy, off-limits tits. But still, I’m a big pussy when it comes to chicks. Hate to see one in danger or in need, and this is bothering me something bad. I think of the girl we let go earlier and the nasty, bubbled-up brand she had on the inside of her arm. That shit just ain’t right. You don’t brand girls like they’re cattle.

  “Just Becka,” Locke says flatly.

  “What about the others?”

  “I don’t care about the others. I care about retrieving our prez’s little sister and getting out of there with our hides intact.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve got a big-ass cage here,” I say, gesturing at our boring rental car. “We can squeeze them into the back seat and drop them off at a bus station—”

  “No.”

  “—And it won’t take any time. It ain’t right to leave them, you know. They’re someone else’s sister or girlfriend—”

  “No.”

  I frown at him. “You seriously don’t give two shits if all those girls get killed?”

  “I seriously don’t give two shits,” he says in a toneless voice, picking up the binoculars again.

  I lean over and peer at him. “You’re bluffing.”

  He just looks over at me and frowns, his gaze flicking to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “What the fuck are you going on about, Epic?”

  “You’re lying.” I nod at the binoculars. “You don’t like the direction the conversation is heading, so you’re bluffing and pretending to look busy to distract me. I’m taking psychology in college, you know. I can see right through you.”

  Locke just stares at me for so long that I forget all about the sweaty, dri
ppy heat of the car and the stakeout. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or about to laugh; he’s impossible to read. He gives his head a shake and puts the binoculars to his eyes. “You don’t know shit.”

  I laugh, because I know I’ve won. I settle back in my seat, staring at the truck in the distance. Gonna be a long afternoon waiting for dark. I crack my knuckles again—

  Locke’s hand goes over mine, stopping me. “If you crack your goddamn knuckles one more fucking time…”

  “You’ll what?”

  He reaches out and smacks my face with the back of his hand. Just a bitch-slap. Hard enough to sting, but not so hard that I don’t laugh anyhow.

  One of my favorite things about being Locke’s ride partner is needling him. He’s so easy to fuck with.

  LOCKE

  Epic’s chomping at the bit to get things moving by the time it gets dark. I don’t blame him, because the waiting’s the hardest, and we’ve been sitting and sweating in this damn car all day. Pretty sure I’ve drunk six bottles of water just to rehydrate what I’ve sweated out. But still, the truck isn’t moving. It’s been at least five hours since we staked out our prey, and still no movement. I thought for sure I’d called this one correctly, but I’m starting to have more doubts with every crack of Epic’s knuckles and every impatient twitch of his feet.

  But then the headlights flick on. The truck stops idling, and I hear the gears shift. Gravel crunches, and it starts to pull out. Epic sits up and taps my arm, as if I didn’t notice. His hand goes to his gun, and he shoots me this excited, cocky grin. “Shit’s about to get real, man.”

  “Patience,” I tell him. It’s a good thing they partnered him with me, because he’d get his excitable ass killed with anyone else.

  I wait for the truck to slowly pull down the gravel drive, and then count to twenty. Epic makes impatient noises next to me, but I ignore him. We get caught on their home territory and it’s the end of us. So I count, and when the truck is out of sight and my count is done, I start the car and roll slowly down the road after them. I don’t catch up with the truck again until we’re on the highway, and then I’m able to pull right up behind it.