Riot (Rebel Riders MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

  Riot

  An MC Romance

  Book 2 in the Rebel Riders MC

  By

  Zahra Girard

  Copyright © 2018 by Zahra Girard

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  Want More Steamy Action?

  The Rebel Riders MC:

  Book one: Thrash

  The Wayward Kings MC Series:

  Book one: Bear

  Book Two: Ozzy

  Book Three: Hazard

  Book Four: Preacher

  Other books by Zahra Girard:

  His Captive

  Liar

  Chapter One

  Emma

  “Are those reports done yet? How hard can it be to put your signature on a stack of papers and put them on my desk?” Bob Richardson — my boss — says.

  I flinch focus on my work. I’ve only been at my job for the Port of Redwood City for a few weeks, and I’m not in any place to talk back to my boss. I need this job. And, besides, he’s not always like this, only when the weekly cargo reports are due.

  “It’s just, I’ve noticed there’s an irregularity here. Something doesn’t match up and I just want to look into it a little more before I sign it.”

  His eyes flash at me from across the open-plan offices of the Port of Redwood City. The fluorescent overhead lights give his eyes an unnervingly lifeless shimmer and make his pale, paunchy face look even more pallid.

  None of my other coworkers even stir. Not that there’s many here in the office; it’s nearly the end of the day on a Friday. Anyone with a life or a valid-sounding excuse has gone home already.

  “I know the guy who prepares those reports. Dan’s worked here for almost thirty years. He knows what he’s doing. Sign them off and bring them here,” he says, pausing only to take a sip of his afternoon coffee. He doesn’t usually drink coffee this late, I’ve learned, only when he’s planning on staying late. I was planning to stay late, too, so I can look into these reports and get caught up on the other projects I’ve put aside to deal with them. “We hired you because your counselor or whatever is friends with Gaby in HR, and because your graphic design experience is going to come in handy when we need to prepare next year’s promotional material. That’s it. So don’t make yourself disposable. Sign those papers, because I’m willing to deal with a pissed-off Gaby if you keep wasting my time.”

  The errors on the reports are glaring at me about as much as Bob is and I care too much about keeping this job to lose it to some stupid clerical error.

  “There’s something really wrong here. I think there’s more cargo being sent out than is listed. I really want to look into it more.”

  “Emma, just sign it. Now. You have thirty seconds to get those papers on my desk before I fire you.”

  I flinch. I can tell he’s serious. I quickly sign the papers and speed-walk across the office to drop them on his desk. I need this job, it’s the first bit of stability I’ve had in almost a year. And I don’t have it in me to face another angry man who wields some power over me and my well-being.

  “Here you are,” I say as I drop them carefully on his desk.

  “Took you long enough,” he mumbles. “Next time, just sign them and move on, got it?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  My deference seems to calm him down. Guys like him love having the slightest bit of affirmation that they’re important — it makes them feel like kings of their own petty kingdom, a little bit of power to compensate for their many massive deficiencies. Like lifted wheels on a truck or those mudflaps with nude women on them, or… lots of things involving trucks, actually.

  “That’s better,” he gloats. The look on his face tells me that the way he’s acting now isn’t an anomaly — he’s going to be a horrible boss for as long as I work here.

  I make a mental note to check with Gaby if there are any other openings I can be moved to.

  I’ve had more than enough of men like him in my life.

  “Oh, and Emma,” he says as I turn to go.

  “Yes?”

  “I need your other reports before you leave. And the first draft mock-ups for next year’s logo redesign. If I don’t have those ready for her first thing Monday, Cheryl in Marketing will be uppity all damn day.”

  “I was just planning to get to those, Bob. And you’ll have them before I go today.”

  “You know, if you hadn’t wasted all your time whining about these cargo reports, you’d be done by now.”

  “Sorry.”

  I get back to my desk and bury my head in my work. Thankfully, the next couple hours pass quietly and without any more bothering from Bob. He’s mostly lost in his own work and leaves me alone, though I hear the occasional ESPN highlight video play at a whisper-quiet volume from his speakers. I try to keep my attention on the work I know I need to do, but I can’t help but think back to those manifest reports and how off the numbers seemed to be.

  What is he hiding?

  What do I need to do to protect myself?

  Bob’s voice and the sudden darkness that overtakes the room as he shuts off the main office lights takes my attention away from my computer screen.

  “Remember to lock the door on your way out, Emma.”

  “Got it,” I reply, and put my focus back on my work. Even though Bob’s an asshole, I want to get this logo work done for him because anything I can do to distinguish myself early on means I’ll have a better chance of keeping my job and, hopefully, transferring to a position where I’m not under his thumb.

>   The office is quiet and peaceful for a moment. And then the lights flare back to life and I blink away the fluorescent glare.

  “Forgot my cup,” Bob says, hustling across the office to grab his “World’s Best Boss” cup from his desk.

  I don’t say anything, just watch him from the corner of my eye as he grabs his things, hits the light switch, and leaves.

  I sneak to one of the office windows to watch out over the parking lot.

  I want to make sure he’s gone.

  He’s out there. Walking through the parking lot like he really believes the slogan on his coffee cup.

  But he’s not alone.

  Sitting at the edge of the lot is a dark-colored lowrider sedan. It rumbles alive with an engine powerful enough that I can feel the bass vibrations from the office, where my face is pressed up against the glass window.

  The car edges forward.

  Bob looks up at the noise and his step quickens.

  But his rotund, fifty-something body isn’t fast enough.

  The lowrider comes to a stop right behind Bob’s car, blocking him in. The passenger door flies open and a man steps out. He’s tall and wiry-thin, with his hair slicked back and the number ‘45’ tattooed on his face. The streetlamp in the parking lot shines white light down on his face and the gun that’s held steady in his hand.

  Bob manages to say ‘Please’ before the first bullet catches him in the head.

  Then he goes down like a big bag of rocks and the “World’s Best Boss” coffee mug shatters on the pavement.

  I duck a little lower until my eyes are barely above the lower frame of the window.

  But I keep watching.

  The driver’s side door opens.

  The man who gets out is a little different. Thick, muscular, and heavyset, like a renaissance marble statue with a beer gut. He’s wearing a leather cut, though it’s too far away to make out the emblem, other than seeing that there’s some of the ubiquitous skull imagery that practically every MC uses. With the way he’s standing, I can’t get a look at his face, but it’s obvious just by how he moves that he’s the one in charge. And he’s definitely not associated with the same gang as the man with the tattoo on his face.

  This man walks over to Bob’s body and towers over it for a moment, before gesturing to the wiry man, who tosses him the gun.

  Three more rounds go right into Bob’s head. One after the other. Without hesitation.

  Bob’s body shudders and twitches with each shot, the concussive force of the bullets forcing his dead body do a macabre dance.

  I have to put both hands over my mouth to keep from vomiting.

  The two men stay there in the empty parking lot for a short while, the wiry one glancing around furtively while the other man kneels down over Bob, laser-focused on my dead boss. His lips move with violent expression and there’s a smile on his face when he isn’t spitting bile at the dead body.

  Finally done, the thick man stands up and fires one last bullet into my boss. Then, satisfied, he nonchalantly tosses the gun to the wiry man and motions for him to get back in the car.

  They drive off.

  I stand. Frozen in disbelief.

  They’re gone for several minutes before the fullness of what I’ve witnessed hits me. My shaking hands grasp the receiver of my desk phone. I dial 9-1-1 and hold the receiver to my ear in a grip so tight it makes my knuckles pop.

  And I hesitate.

  Do I really want to get involved?

  I know where this will lead.

  I’ve done it before.

  My name will get out there and I’ll have to deal with the police and their pointed interrogations; I’ll have to fight to stay out of the life I worked so hard to escape; a life filled with violent men and fear.

  I got out once. I’m not going back.

  “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

  I slam the receiver down.

  On the way out, walking on shaky legs to the distant, pitch-black edge of the lot where my van is parked, I glance down at Bob’s body and his shattered coffee cup. It’s a reminder. A warning. There’s no way in hell I’m talking.

  I’m staying the hell away from anything involving an MC.

  Chapter Two

  Riot

  The Steel Horse is so alive tonight the walls and every bit of furniture is shaking. The booze is flowing, the club girls are making their rounds looking to catch the eye of any club member they can, and Thrash’s cousin and the rest of his band are rocking out on stage.

  Nights at The Steel Horse are usually rowdy, but tonight takes the cake.

  Off in one corner, Creole’s got a cigar in his mouth and he’s sharing a booth with Wrench, Micro, and Duke. Cards and cash are spread out on the table in front of them and, from the looks of things, Creole’s striking it rich. As usual.

  Hawk and Bull are off in a different booth, their heads down in muffled conversation and sheets of paper on the table in front of them. Ever since the grow operation got up and running, they’ve been burying themselves in figures and projections and planning for the financial future of the club.

  Over at one of the pool tables, in front of a crowd of prospects, Rooster and Piston, two of our newer members, are locked in a neck-and-neck game. Piston is lining up a pivotal shot and Rooster is jawing at him like a madman.

  “What if I told you I was going to shove this pool cue up your ass right now?” He says, trying to distract Piston’s shot.

  “What if I told you I’d like that?” he shoots back.

  Rooster doesn’t skip a beat and won’t back down. “What if I told you it’d only cost you twenty bucks?”

  “What if I told you I’ve got my wallet right here?” Piston says, patting his back pocket.

  “What if I told you to meet me in the men’s room in five minutes?” Rooster says.

  “What if I told you I can’t wait that long?”

  “Enough you two. Either you fuck each other or you take the damn shot,” Bull yells out across the room.

  Suddenly, a bell rings from behind the bar and our bartender, ‘Banshee’ Betty, calls for our club’s attention using a brass bell that hangs right next to the shelves of liquor. Banshee’s worked for the club for years and started with us Rebel Riders the second she turned old enough to legally serve alcohol.

  And about as long, she’s flirted with, teased, and tempted every single member of the MC. While keeping herself just out of limits.

  “Get ready for another round, boys. Thrash is feeling mighty generous tonight,” Banshee calls out above the raucous noise of tonight’s party.

  Every man in the room claps and hoots his appreciation and Thrash smiles and waves.

  Ever since the heist that he pulled against Hammer and the Reaper’s Sons MC — the heist that Creole and I helped him with behind our club’s back — he’s been extra generous when it comes to buying people in the MC drinks. Though he’d never admit it, I’m sure he feels a bit guilty about going behind everyone’s back. All of us that were involved know it was something that had to happen; one look at the amount of drug money that Hammer had pulled together for our enemy MC told us we’d made the right choice. The Reaper’s Sons had enough cash that they could’ve wiped us out and it was only a matter of time before the truce between our two clubs was broken.

  What the three of us did, we did for the right reasons.

  Though I still feel some guilt.

  And I still feel like I’ve got something to prove to the rest of the MC, to make up for going behind their backs.

  “You’re looking lonely over here, Riot. You want some company, darlin’?” one of the club girls, Janessa, whispers in my ear as she sidles up beside me at the bar.

  Janessa puts a slender, tattooed hand on my leg and flashes me a wicked smile.

  I shake my head. “Not tonight, Janessa. The only company I want is my beer.”

  That’s my answer most nights. I don’t usually go for fucking the club girls even on the nights where I
don’t have guilt chewing at my insides.

  “You sure ‘bout that?” She says, still smiling at me and moving her hand further up my leg. “To me, you look like you could use some cheerin’ up.”

  “Janessa, you get your bony ass over to the pool table. I’m sure Piston could use some consolation once Rooster finishes kicking his ass,” Banshee snaps.

  Janessa silkily slides off the barstool and saunters on over to the pool table, where Piston is cursing — loudly — in his rough, Boston-Irish accent. He looks about ready to snap his pool cue in half.

  “You doing okay tonight, Riot?” Banshee says. She’s got a smoky-smooth voice that’s just like whiskey and is just as good at solving problems.

  I shrug. Of everyone here, Banshee’s probably the only one I could talk to about the guilt that’s gnawing at me, but I sure as hell can’t do that here in the middle of the clubhouse.

  “I’m fine, Banshee. Just working through my own shit, is all.”

  She nods, then pulls two empty highball glasses from behind the bar and fills them with whiskey. She holds one up in a toast and I take the other.

  “Here’s to leaving our problems behind us and finding our better tomorrows,” she says.

  “Fucking amen,” I say, tapping my glass to hers.

  “Okay, enough with the noise,” Hawk bellows from the booth he and Bull are sharing. “I want every patched Rebel Rider to grab your glasses and head into the chapel. It’s time for church.”

  Everyone stands up to follow our president’s orders, except for Bull. Bull’s got his cell phone to his ear and his finger plugging his other ear to drown out the noise of the party. His face looks as dark as a thundercloud and I get the distinct feeling that church this Sunday night isn’t going to be an enjoyable experience.