OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC)

by Naomi West

  The door leading into the clubhouse opened and shut. Cutter glanced back, grunted at the newcomer in acknowledgment. “Howdy,” he said.

  “Evening,” Smalls replied, heaving himself over and grabbing another folded lawn chair that leaned against the clubhouse's exterior wall. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Free country, brother,” Cutter growled, but didn't take his eyes from the sky.

  They'd talked about Jersey's state of affairs earlier in the day, and about the chances of Big Jack coming home. Everything seemed dark and grim on all fronts, and Michael Hunting hadn't exactly painted a pretty or optimistic picture for them.

  “You holding up alright?” Smalls said as, beer in hand, he unfolded his chair and collapsed into it. “With this whole Jersey thing?”

  Cutter shook his head. “Kills me, man. Us being out here, under the open sky, drinking a beer ...”

  “While he's sitting in there,” Smalls said, finishing his thought. He took a big swig of beer and smacked his lips. “Yup. Kills me, too. Think he's gonna be safe?”

  Cutter nodded. “One of the guys got the word out, talking to people. Don't worry.”

  Smalls grunted in agreement. The unspoken subtext between them was that this needed to stay out of any discussion. The phrase ‘one of the guys’ meant it was in a different compartment, one that wasn't necessarily legal to be in the know on. This, though, was the first time they'd had a chance to really discuss the earlier bail hearing. He'd simply informed the MC about what had happened, not had a full meeting. Unfortunately, he'd made that decision for the worst reason possible: he'd wanted to spend time with his woman.

  Smalls sucked down some of his brew. “How's the girl?”

  Cutter nodded, took a drink of his own beer. “Good, I guess.”

  “You're spending a lot of time with her.”

  “Yep,” Cutter said, kicking a piece of gravel away from his boot. “Guess I am.”

  “You care about her?” Smalls asked in a conversation tone.

  That was uncharacteristically forward of him, though. Bikers didn't fit all the stereotypes out there. Cutter as chef at the Farm to Fable proved that. But the trope about the brotherhood and the guys playing things close to the chest when it came about their relationships, that generally held true.

  To Cutter the question was completely out of the blue. He blinked his eyes and, with a half-smile, shook his head. He looked back up at the stars. “Yeah, I guess. I dunno, though. She burned me real bad, back in the day. Dunno if I can do that again.”

  “We all get burned,” Smalls said, taking another drink of beer, “every once in a while.”

  “And for some reason, we all keep playing with fucking matches, don't we?”

  “Lemme ask you a question. A serious one, now.”

  “Alright,” Cutter said, not sure what he was going to ask. “Shoot.”

  “How many times you laid your bike out. Five, six times?”

  “Well,” Cutter said, beginning to see his point, “maybe not that much. But, quite a bit, yeah.”

  “And you got back on that fucking bike every single time, didn't you?”

  He drained the last of his beer and picked up the next one from beside his chair. “Yep, suppose I did,” he said as he popped the cap off it.

  “So, lemme ask you this, then,” Smalls said, his words more emphatic. “Why'd you do something so damn stupid, boy?”

  He thought about Smalls's words before he replied. Really gave them some consideration. Why had he gotten back up on his bike afterward? What could have possessed him to be so stupid as to do climb back on his hog, even after it had almost put him in the hospital, or damn near killed him.

  Simple. It was in his blood. He could still remember the first time he'd climbed on a bike, had felt the power virtually at his fingertips, felt the wind in his hair as he raced down the highway. The heat rolling off the exhaust, the sun beating down on his skin and coming up off the pavement as he and the rest of the guys rode under the afternoon sky. He'd felt alive for the first time, had felt as close to complete as he had since high school ... since he'd last seen Liona. Everything seemed to come together in that moment, like he'd been born to ride a bike. Cutter shook his head again. He didn't want to answer, because if he spoke the words they might be real. Especially the part about Liona.

  Smalls, like the old codger he was, took the initiative and spoke them for him. “You got back on, man, because you're supposed to get back on. No matter how many times you fall down, you got it in your gut to get back on the damn thing. That's why you're who you are, now.”

  “So, you're saying I should get back with her?”

  “That ain't what I'm saying,” Smalls said. “What I'm saying is, if it's in your gut, go for it. Women like that, they don't come around every day. And you sure as hell don't find 'em on the side of the road more than once in a lifetime.”

  Silently, Cutter nodded and took another drink of beer. He settled down deeper into the lawn chair, letting it swallow him up as much as it could, and gazed deeper into the field of stars that splayed out over the night sky. Beside him, Smalls kept drinking his beer in silence. They stayed that way for a little while longer until his second-in-command decided to call it a night. The room was dark when Cutter succumbed as well and returned to this dorm where he slipped beneath the cool sheets and pressed himself against Liona's warm body. It felt like a lover's embrace, this feeling of ease that settled over him as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close against him.

  “I got tired,” Liona mumbled, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

  “It happens,” Cutter said and kissed the top of her head.

  He tried to go sleep, but it didn't come for hours. His thoughts were too heavy with visions of Jersey shivering on a cold bunk, of Big Jack sleeping with one eye open. He had no right to be in the arms of this beautiful woman, stretched out on this comfortable bed.

  Cutter would get them out. Come hell or high water, damnation or the end of days. He'd get his men out of jail, no matter what. That was his silent promise to them, just before exhaustion finally took him and he drifted off into his dark dreams.

  Chapter 24

  Cutter

  Cutter woke to an empty bed. Confused, he patted the cold spot next to him, where Liona should have been. Wondering where she was, he sat up and looked around the room. Around him, the clubhouse was even more silent than normal. She'd probably gone for a walk, or something. He got up, performed his morning ritual, and pulled on some fresh jeans and a Vanguard emblazoned tee shirt. Ears open, he stalked out of his room and headed out to the rec room.

  He stopped at end of the hallway and listened. There was a noise, coming from his kitchen. The rest of the clubhouse was silent, though, with most of the guys already gone for the morning shift. He still had an hour or so before he had to be there for the lunch rush. As he made his way across the rec room, and to the door leading to the kitchen, the noises grew louder. Was that Liona? Cooking for him?

  He pushed through the door and poked his head inside. The smell of burning bread hit his nose immediately, and the sound of sizzling grease filled his ears. Liona frantically scraped at a pan with a flat spatula, making scrambled eggs. In the corner, their little toaster had a plume of smoke billowing from the top like the barbarian hordes had just razed it and stolen all their women. At the sound of his entering the room, she spun, a mildly worried look on her face, the flat spatula raised like a deadly weapon. A little startled by her response, Cutter froze in his tracks.

  “Hey!” she squawked in surprise, clearly flustered. “I'm trying to make you breakfast.”

  “Smells like it,” he said, trying to get past the burnt taste that was filling his nostrils and mouth. “Your toast is burning.”

  “Shit!” she yelped, almost dropping her flipper as she scrambled over to pull the crisped and blackened bread.

  He fought the urge down to jump in and save the day. She was trying to cook him breakfast, even
if she was ruining all the food in the process. Instead, he just asked, “Need any help?”

  “No, no,” she said, clearing the smoke from the toaster with a waving dish towel, “I've got it.”

  He just shrugged and went over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. To her credit, it tasted just fine. He took his coffee black, just like his old man had, and went over to perch himself on the edge of the bar stool.

  “What am I having for breakfast?” he asked, his voice still drawling with sleep.

  “Bacon, scrambled eggs, toast,” she said, making a face as she dropped the burnt toast briquettes on a small plate. She went back over and began trying to save the eggs.

  “Sounds good,” he replied. He could already tell, though, that the eggs were going to be dry little nuggets, and the bacon was going to be slightly undercooked. But, whatever, he'd forced the guys to eat worse when he'd first been starting out. “How long you been cooking?”

  “Not very long,” she said, laughing nervously. “I tried to learn once, like you did. But, that didn't go over so well ...” she said.

  Cutter knew “with Wyland” was the unspoken ending to that sentence but he kept his mouth shut and steeled his resolve to eat every last crumb he had. When it came to food, he lived by the Grandma Rule, something a much more famous chef than he had once said. If anyone cooks you food, and they do it with good intent, you eat it and you fucking love it. Food's the gift of life, and you don't just throw it away.

  When she finally set his plate of overcooked eggs, burnt toast, and floppy bacon in front of him, he just covered the little, pale nuggets in pepper, and the burnt effigy of bread in as much butter and jelly as he could handle. She hovered over him with a wary, nervous look on her face as he choked it all down and contentedly began to chew the bacon for the five minutes it took before he could swallow it.

  “What'd you think?” she asked, coming around to his side.

  He belched a little and smiled. “Delicious, honey.”

  “I thought the eggs were a little overdone,” she said as he put an arm around her waist and pulled her to his side.

  “A little. You just need practice, that's all. I can teach you, if you want.”

  She shook her head. “I don't think I'll get much better,” she said, looking away.

  “I've taught bikers how to be chefs, babe,” he said, grinning. “I think I can teach a cute little thing like you.”

  “You really think so?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he assured her, squeezing her tight, “how about we start with dinner tonight?”

  She nodded. “Yeah,” she said, her voice a little brighter, “I think I'd like that.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding. He checked the time and let out a low whistle. “I gotta hop in the shower real quick and head out of here. Think you'll be okay alone for the day?”

  “You've got plenty of books to read,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “and there's always TV. You'll only be a few hours, right?”

  “Shouldn't be any more than just a few,” he said, grinning. He reached up, stroked her cheek.

  She looked back at him with the most adoring eyes he'd ever seen, and something shot into his heart right then. Something he'd never really felt before, something he had no point of reference for. It felt almost the same as when he was out riding on a perfect summer day, the cool wind blowing in his face, the road stretched out before him. He smiled again, this time even more genuinely.

  “Want me to hop in there with you,” she asked, touching his chest as she made the suggestion. “Scrub your back?”

  “No, can't this morning,” he said and laughed, before kissing her softly on the lips. “Smalls's already bending over backwards to cover for me, and I don't think I'd leave on time if I took you up on your offer.”

  # # #

  Cutter slipped back into the daily dine and grind of the Farm to Fable line like he hadn't missed a shift. Even with their staff shorthanded as it was, and business as busy it could possibly be, the prep went smoothly and the food got out of the kitchen with only minor complications or confusion.

  In fact, he even had a customer wanting to thank the chef personally. Just towards the end of the shift, Squirrel, who had been waiting tables for them, came back and got his attention. “Hey man,” he said, a strange quality to his voice, “got a customer out there wants to talk to the chef.”

  Cutter glanced from Squirrel to Smalls, then back again. “Me?” he asked, sighing. Honestly, he really wanted to finish up his last bit of prep on this dish, but a compliment from a customer was still a compliment. You didn't want to snub someone who might leave a shitty review on some website out there.

  “Sure,” Cutter said, nodding as he wiped his hands clean on a kitchen towel, “lead the way.”

  Together, the two men walked out to the front of the restaurant. Cutter looked around the small eatery.

  “Over there,” Squirrel pointed. “That guy.”

  Cutter's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched tighter than a bear trap. His chest tightened and his heart began thumping double time. Seated at the corner table, all by himself, was Wyland West. With a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of Cutter's tomato bisque soup sitting right in front of him. In the Vanguard MC's restaurant of all places. His hair was as perfect as the day before, his charcoal gray spotless and well-pressed. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world.

  Cutter stalked over to him, his fists clenched, simultaneously thankful and pissed that he hadn't brought a chef's knife with him. He'd love nothing more than to slit the motherfucker's throat and drop him face first in that bowl of tomato bisque, to see his heart's blood pump out with each dying breath into the reddish-orange tomato soup as he slowly gurgled to death in front of God and everyone.

  But, that wouldn't help anything. No, it'd just set Cutter up for a one-way ticket to the gas chamber. “Hello Wyland,” he growled as he approached the table.

  “Oh, are you the chef today, Desmond?” Wyland asked, feigning surprise. “I had no idea! It was great seeing you at the courthouse yesterday, by the way. Sorry I couldn't stay to chat, had a long list of meetings.”

  “What do you want here?” Cutter growled through gritted teeth, his fists squeezing so hard his knuckles popped.

  “Just getting my favorite, a grilled cheese with some tomato soup. You guys really do an excellent one here, you know? Par excellence, if you ask me.”

  “Thought you hated grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Cutter said, but quickly regretted his words. That was something Liona had confided him just recently.

  “Oh? Is that what Liona told you?” Wyland asked, laughing. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth clean with it. “No, no, I get it every chance I can when I'm out to eat alone. It was one of the only things she could cook without fucking up, so I made a rule about never having the stuff for it in the house. Had to keep her on her toes so she wouldn't get too comfortable, you know?”

  No, he didn't know. Cutter shook his head. What kind of sick fucker had this man turned into? He stayed silent, just put his hands on the back of the chair that sat across from Wyland.

  “And, don't worry,” Wyland said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He put up one hand, pretending to shield his words from anyone who might be watching. “I know you've got her, Desmond, hiding out in your little clubhouse,” he whispered and gave an exaggerated wink.

  Cutter squeezed the chair so hard he was almost worried it would begin to splinter.

  “It's so adorable you think your brotherhood, or whatever, can keep her from me, Desmond. Your little gang, you're all so cute.”

  Squirrel and one of the other waiters stepped up beside Cutter, their arms crossed as they leveled their gaze on the assistant DA.

  “Oh,” Wyland said, that fake mirth still in his voice, “great job today. Really knocked it out of the park, considering how shorthanded you were today. What's his name, Big Jack? He not show up for work today? Oh, that's right! Word around the
water cooler was that he hit a spot of legal trouble and had the cops cart him out of here.”

  Cutter growled, deep in his chest, vibrating the chair. “Get. Out.”

  “Really, Desmond?” Wyland asked with a grin, flashing those perfect teeth of his. “Don't be that way,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “It's been so long since we had a nice chat. Since school, I think.”

  “Out,” Cutter said again, this time louder. “And never come back here again.”

  The clinking of forks and scraping of knives stopped behind him, as they were merely a water faucet that someone had turned off. Cutter could feel the eyes in the small restaurant all turn to him and land squarely on his back. Wyland gave him a gratified self-congratulatory grin as he pushed his chair back from the table. The legs scraping across the tiled floor might as well have been rictus fingers tearing over a gravestone it was so ominous. He stood and straightened his tie as if getting thrown out of diners or antagonizing biker gangs was something he did on a daily basis.