by Megan Crane
And Chaser could have told Digger that Luther was pissed and restless up there in North Dakota and making noises about coming down for a visit. The men might be old friends and longtime brothers, but power games were power games no matter who was playing them, and Digger preferred that the few men in the DKMC with more power than him stay the fuck out of his domain. In fact, it was that thought that gave Chaser an inkling as to why Digger might have been making nice with that one-eyed fuck Fat Irish. If Digger was doing the unthinkable and planning to merge the Lagrange DKMC charter into the Black Dogs one way or another—which was the thing no one wanted to admit they worried he was doing—then he’d go into the Black Dogs a king. The bastard Dogs had been nursing a hard-on for the Devils’ cartel connections and routes for decades. They wanted the money and the respect, and if Digger handed that shit over? They’d worship him.
Because there was only one king in the Devil’s Keepers, and it wasn’t Digger. It was Luther. It had always been Luther. Maybe that resentment went a lot deeper than anyone had ever imagined. The more Chaser had thought about it, sitting there in church, the more likely it had seemed.
But he held that ace in reserve.
And then, to divert attention from his brother Uptown, he’d given up a woman who shouldn’t have meant anything to him anyway. He’d told himself he didn’t give a shit, because he shouldn’t have.
What do we know about the Brothers of Goliath MC? he’d asked. Are we carrying any ongoing beefs with them?
He’d already known the answer. He knew all the ongoing vendettas the club carried and who they were aimed at. It was his job to know. But he hadn’t stayed alive this long doing the kind of shit he did by showing all his cards just because he had them.
Digger had shifted his attention from Greeley then, a spark of interest in his canny old gaze.
They made a little noise out in Cali maybe fifteen years ago, he said, sounding more like his old self than he had since he’d rolled back into Lagrange. But Chaser refused to allow himself a moment of regret for the old man he’d once viewed as a kind of older brother. As family. That man had never existed if Digger was making nice with the Black Dogs and selling out his own. But they never amounted to much. They’re small and tucked away in some shithole desert town in Bumblefuck. As close to Arizona as they are to Mexico, and no kind of competition for any of the big clubs in LA. Not much going on nationally. Definitely not a factor in business.
Poor as fuck, if I’m remembering it right, Roscoe had agreed, leaned back in his chair like casual discussions about the disloyalty of his friends and brothers were nothing to him, and pivoting around to a chat about random MCs was normal. But he was good at stepping up to the plate, whatever the plate might be. That was why he was such a great VP. And would make an excellent president, if it came to that. When it came to that, the way Chaser knew it would. Roscoe had kept his gaze on the ceiling while he talked, like he was ruminating on life out on a fishing boat the way the Cajun in him liked to do as often as possible. No connections, just a bunch of assholes fighting over bragging rights in some podunk town. And always on the hustle when they crawl out of it. There’s no point carrying a beef against an outfit like that. It’s like stamping on ants.
Turns out there’s a girl in town with some ties to the Brothers of Goliath MC, Chaser had said, ignoring the part of him that raged at that. The part of him that wanted Lara all to himself, and not just so he could keep her naked. But so he could make sure she was safe. Even from these men he trusted above all others. Well. Most of them. And he didn’t know where to put the fact he wanted to protect her. Or worse, that these were the people he wanted to protect her from. It had messed with his head—but he’d kept going, because she was a piece of ass and Uptown was his brother and what other choices were there? Might be worth a little talk with her to see what she really knows about their shit.
Do we care? Digger asked.
I don’t care about some assholes out in a desert no one visits unless they have to, Greeley had muttered. Does anyone?
With respect, Dig, Chaser had said evenly, only flashing a hard look at Greeley, there’s been a lot of noise while you were away. The Black Dogs have been sniffing around more than usual. He’d had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if Digger had any insight into that, given his suspicious relationship with the president of the Black Dogs, because this wasn’t the time. Not yet. And besides, the only “proof” they had was the word of the disgraced mayor of Lagrange who’d stolen money from the club and was currently only alive because he’d inadvertently helped them out. Not exactly a smoking gun. It wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to start cultivating some hungry, motivated allies that close to the cartel’s favorite route into the United States.
Digger had eyed him for a long moment, one hand on his gray beard, the other beating out a fidgety rhythm on the table before him. As if he could tell that Chaser had pulled that out of his ass. And probably doing his own math in his head. Dismissing Chaser’s idea then and there was too suspicious, because it was a good one for all it had come to him out of nowhere. Blowing it off might lead to the kind of follow-up questions the old man wanted to avoid, because the fact was, there was always room for allies—especially ones the Devils could use as cannon fodder if necessary. The DKMC had lived many times when they should have died on the backs of their support clubs, spread out across the country.
Digger was the president, so at a full church meeting of all the brothers, the club officers had no choice but to toe the line, not only following his orders but acting like they were fully on board with each and every one of his decisions. But this was private, and in private there was likely to be a little more conversation and speculation if Digger made a weird call on something that should have been simple. Like having a chat with a woman who had ties to a club that could be useful to the Devils.
Chaser didn’t think the old man wanted to risk it. One minute had passed. Then another. And Chaser had been a whole lot more tense than he should have been.
Bring her in, was all Digger had said.
But it had worked. It had shifted the focus off Whale—and Uptown—and back onto club business.
All it had taken was Chaser’s willingness to use Lara like a pawn. Something that shouldn’t have mattered to him one way or another. Hell, he should have been delighted. What was a piece of ass next to the life of a brother?
But it had been sitting on him all day, making him restless and mean. Especially when he couldn’t find her.
Here, in the ominous dark out in front of the clubhouse, he swung off his bike and liked how far she had to tip her head back to keep looking at him straight in the face. It made him want to discuss things with her another, far more eloquent way, one that involved picking her up and settling her on his dick. Again.
Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he wouldn’t ever get enough.
Like she wasn’t a pawn to him at all.
“The club is thinking about making some friends,” he told her, maybe a little more grimly than necessary, because he didn’t like this itchy, edgy thing inside of him that made him want his hands on her more than he wanted his next breath. “And it turns out you’re wearing the tattoo of a potentially very friendly organization, given their geographic position.”
Lara considered him for a moment, and there was something about the contrast between her smart, sad gaze and the vulnerable cast to her mouth that made his chest ache. He went to rub it and stopped himself, not sure why. Only certain that he didn’t want her to see the effect she had on him.
“If you mean you want to leverage my uncle, you should know that I didn’t exactly leave him or his little fiefdom on the best of terms,” she replied matter-of-factly. Her gaze was still sad, as if she’d expected this, but it was the matter-of-factness that got to him. Especially because she’d used the word “leverage.” Did she think this was some kind of hostage situation? “I’m not the best choice if what you want is bait.”
> Chaser had a premonition then. It snaked down his neck and halfway down his back, then gripped him hard in the guts. Because there was no reason a disposable biker whore should imagine herself worthy of being held hostage after being passed around one club and then finding her way to a new one. That wasn’t something that happened. Because who would care? Pussy was endlessly replaceable. He’d figured that the most she could offer was a breakdown of the power structure and some insight into how the club operated, which would help them decide if they should fold the Brothers of Goliath into the DKMC operation. And more than that, how to go about it.
“Who’s your uncle?” he asked her. But on some level, he already knew.
“Ray Ashburn,” Lara said quietly, her gaze on his, making no attempt to evade the question. Her blue eyes were darker then. As stormy as the brooding night all around them. “Better known as California Ray, the president of the Brothers of Goliath MC, Southern California Imperial Valley charter.”
Chaser couldn’t have described how he felt then. What that thing was, that heavy weight, that wanted to crack him open from the inside. He only knew that the idea that Lara had potentially been playing him from the start—maybe here to spy for her uncle or who knew what the hell else—was…unacceptable. No matter how little sense that made when he was throwing her under a different kind of bus himself.
“Are you in Lagrange for him?” he gritted out, and he had to fight to stay calm, which never happened. “On his orders?”
Her mouth twitched into something a little too bitter to be a smile. “My uncle and I are not close.” When he only glared at her, she shifted from one foot to the other, managing to look impatient rather than nervous. “I went away to college when I was eighteen. I spent four years going back and forth for uncomfortable holidays until I graduated. Then I never went back because oddly, the charms of a biker town in the middle of nowhere and its psychotic overlord were lost on me.” She shrugged. Defensively, he thought. “I never told my uncle another thing about my life after I left. I doubt he knows where I am.”
Chaser didn’t want to read between the careful words she’d chosen. He didn’t want to feel any kind of sympathy for her, growing up hard under a harsh man’s hand. He didn’t want to relate.
He wanted to be pissed. He wanted the anger. He knew what the hell to do with anger. It was all the rest of that shit that made him uneasy. That he didn’t want to face.
“How did you end up in another biker town, then?” Chaser demanded.
He didn’t realize he’d moved, but then there he was with his hands wrapped around her shoulders, holding her to him. Holding her at all. That should have freaked him out. Maybe it did. But he didn’t drop his hands. He didn’t step away.
“I happened upon it.” She was lying. He knew it, even if he hadn’t been able to see that gleam in her gaze or read the way she tilted up her chin, more smartass than sense. “I was enchanted by the swamp. Isn’t everyone?”
“You understand that if I bring you in and it turns out you’re working an angle for another club, I can’t help you.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it was true enough. It just assumed that she was nothing but a piece of ass to him and he would go ahead and let her twist the way he would have—and happily—if she’d been, say, Destiny. The way he would have without a second thought if she was anyone else. The way he should have anyway, no matter who the hell she was.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that she didn’t know he had no intention of throwing her to the wolves no matter what she did. Because he didn’t know why that was true himself, so she couldn’t possibly have a clue.
In any case, she didn’t look grateful. She looked pissed. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Maybe you should have,” he pointed out, his voice a growl.
“Just like I didn’t ask you to look at my tattoo, much less tattle on me to your president,” she continued, even moving a little closer to him, with that same complete lack of any sense of self-preservation that he found as confounding as he did hot. He wanted to scare her a little, remind her where the hell she was. Then he wanted to feast on her like a starved man who had no hope of ever filling his belly. He wanted that most of all. “This is on you and you know it. You could have left me the hell alone.”
“Like you wanted that,” he scoffed.
She pointed a finger at him, stopping a scant inch from actually poking him in the chest. If she was a man he would have ripped it off and shoved it down her throat for the projected insult alone. But this was Lara, so all he did was scowl.
“I didn’t hunt you down. I didn’t lurk around your door, weird and jealous because you were out on a date. I didn’t stay the night in your house and then sneak out before dawn the next morning. I am not the one with a problem.”
He felt his scowl deepen. “You called me.”
“To discuss your daughter.” She dropped her finger and pulled herself straight, like she was about to start dispensing Holy Communion to the faithful, that was how self-righteous she seemed in that moment. “And now you’ve hauled me back to your lair because you shared something private about me with your cronies. You know, you could also just leave me the hell alone. It’s what I want.”
But he was so close to her. He could see that heat in her gaze. He could feel it under his hands. He could even smell the sweet musk of her arousal, and he knew she was lying.
“Bullshit,” he whispered. “Just looking at me makes you wet. I can smell you. I remember how you taste. You want me so bad it hurts, baby. Who are you trying to fool?”
He saw goosebumps break out along the delicate line of her neck, telling him the truth he already knew. But she still lifted that chin, like the need to fight with him was as heavy in her blood as that other, more basic need he could read all over her. And his problem was that he found that just as hot. More than hot. It was like he craved her defiance. When he never, ever put up with that kind of shit from anyone, not even his own kid.
“I hate to break it to you, sport, but it’s like sandpaper down there,” she threw at him. He couldn’t help the laugh that rumbled out of him at that, so she doubled down, because she still seemed to think she was tough. Despite what a little-bitty thing she was, all wild hair, intent eyes, and that gleam of desperate provocation. “A dry, arid desert of total disinterest.”
That was when Chaser knew he was fucked. And hard. Because he wanted to laugh some more. Then he wanted to wrap Lara up and take her far away from Lagrange, from this world of his, where he’d thought hauling her in to see his untrustworthy president was a better option than the rest. He wanted to keep her for himself, smart-mouthed and sweet and hot and wet.
Most of all, he wanted to keep her his.
Oh yeah. He was fucked straight through.
“Listen to me.” He shifted a hand from her shoulder to her jaw, liking the way she fit against him. Liking the heat that punched through him at the touch, greedy and insistent. “You need to trust me.”
She didn’t exactly scoff at him. “I think you’ve already proved that I can’t, not that there was much doubt. Or I wouldn’t be standing here outside your clubhouse talking about my uncle, would I?”
“Lara. Do it anyway.”
There was the thunder rumbling above them, off in the distance. It was the kind of summer storm that couldn’t quite commit, throwing down a little bit of rain in a tantrum and then retreating to more dark mutterings. Still, there was a breeze for a change, and it kicked up Lara’s hair. It looked black like ink in the dark, the red only shimmering every now and again when the light from the clubhouse hit her.
And Chaser wasn’t an idiot. She didn’t trust him, and she shouldn’t. He couldn’t trust her because he didn’t know who she was or what secrets she was keeping. But he remembered the way she’d focused on him last night, her small hands tracing patterns over his skin as she’d knelt over him in a hushed kind of silence and learned the shape of every tattoo on his chest, as if she expected to get te
sted on it later. He remembered how she’d clung to him, not only when she’d come, but long after that, when she’d curled around him like he’d have to break her in half to make her let him go.
He remembered what it had been like to tell her stories he never shared these days. Or what it had been like to wake up with her tangled around him like that, so he couldn’t tell if she was holding on to him or if it was much more complicated and dangerous than that. If he’d been the one holding on to her.
None of this made sense. It was one thing to want her. He knew what to do with that. He knew how to handle sex. A lot of sex.
But this…
Chaser wasn’t good with words. He was better with his hands. He moved his other one then, so he was cupping her face and holding her there, letting the heat of her skin seep into him. He didn’t want to think about why he liked it. He didn’t want to tell himself any more lies.
“Trust me,” he said again, more gruffly this time. “No matter what happens in there.”
And it occurred to him that he had no idea what she would do. That unlike almost every other person in his life, she was completely unpredictable. He couldn’t plan how to react to her in advance. He couldn’t push her in the direction he wanted her to go. She wasn’t wearing her uniform of prissy teacher clothes tonight, but it didn’t matter. Even in jeans and boots and a baggy T-shirt that made him ache to get his hands beneath it she was something else, something different. Uncontainable, something in him whispered. Like that was a blessing instead of a problem.
Lara swallowed hard, and that was when he felt her hands against his belly, right there beneath the edges of his cut. Like she couldn’t bear to be this close to him and not touch him, either, no matter what else might be going on.
