Slow Ride: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 18)

by Ruby Dixon

  Lucky gives me a curious look. “This club business?”

  “Nope. This is our business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The door opens, and Jim’s not wearing a shirt. He’s in nothing but a pair of jeans, and grins at the sight of me and my girl. He nods at me in greeting, and then his gaze moves over Lucky with a bit too much familiarity. He opens the door and gestures for us to go inside.

  Lucky just gives me a wary glance.

  “Go on, babe. I’m with ya.”

  She enters the room and notices there’s only one bed. Her gaze goes there for a long minute, and then she turns to the new guy, thoughtful. “You’re a prospect, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he says with a grin, clearly pleased that she remembers him. “But I’m willing to live the Butchers lifestyle.” And he leans in to kiss her.

  My fists clench.

  Lucky leans deliberately away from him, shooting me a shocked look. “What the fuck is this?” When he leans even closer, she puts a hand to his face and pushes him away. “I’ve got a partner.”

  I cross my arms, because it takes everything I have not to deck him. I asked him here. That’d just be bad manners. “You said you wanted to be more traditional,” I say gruffly. “So I thought you might like him.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” Her shocked gaze goes from Jim to me.

  “More traditional Butchers,” I say. Isn’t it fucking obvious?

  She shoots me an outraged look, and gives Jim a fierce shove when he leans in again. “You are fucking kidding me with this! Eric, this isn’t what I meant at all!”

  It’s not? Relief so overwhelming it feels like an orgasm rips through me. “Then I don’t know what you meant. This,” I say, gesturing at Jim, “is traditional Butchers. Two dicks and a chick.”

  She just shakes her head at me, as if she can’t believe me, and turns around and leaves.

  “Sorry,” I say to Jim, and then head off after my woman. Except I’m not sorry. I’m fucking stoked. She doesn’t want another guy in bed with us. What the hell does she mean, then?

  She’s stalking down the hall, and hammers at the elevator button when she gets to it.

  “Lucky,” I say, trying to sound reasonable and not like I’m gloating. “Talk to me, baby.”

  “You are an asshole, Eric Taggart,” she hisses at me. “I don’t want to talk to you at all. Just leave me the hell alone.” Tears well in her eyes and when I reach for her, she pummels me with a fist. “No! Fuck off. I can’t believe you thought I’d want someone else.”

  “Baby, right now, I don’t know what you want.” It’s taking everything I have not to grin, though. I’m just so goddamn relieved that she’s all mine.

  She shakes her head and wipes tears from her eyes. “What I want right now is not to talk to you for the rest of the evening.” Her lower lip trembles. “Everything’s such a mess.”

  “It’s gonna be fine, I promise. Jim’s feelings aren’t hurt, and if they are, I don’t give a fuck—“

  “Not him,” she says, and her arms hug her torso tightly. “Everything.”

  I want to ask what that means, but she turns away from me and shuts me out. She shuts me out on the ride home. Fine. I guess I deserve that for fucking up.

  She shuts me out for the rest of the evening, and it’s a miserable night in bed when I can’t put my arms around her.

  When I wake up the next morning, she’s already gone, with a note that she went to work. At four in the morning? I call bullshit on that. Lucky normally sleeps late. She hates waking up early — I’m the early riser. This is a deliberate avoidance of me.

  Maybe if she won’t talk to me, she’ll talk to Becka.

  • • •

  Lucky

  I stare at the spreadsheet I’ve doctored, feeling queasy. The Street Kings weekly payment shows paid in full. My total accounting for the Butchers bank account is off by the amount. I haven’t decided if I’m going to move the money in myself out of my personal account, or if I’m going to plead ignorance and pretend it’s an accounting mistake.

  Both make me want to vomit.

  Could be morning sickness, though. That makes me want to vomit even more. Your mom’s a fuck-up, kiddo. And you’ve got shit timing.

  I don’t dare run to the ladies’ room to puke, though. Not with Solo standing nearby with one of his personal training clients, watching me and pretending not to.

  He knows I’m mad at him. Good. Let him stew for a bit. I’m still so freaking hurt and grossed out that he tried to pass me off to another guy last night. I thought what Eric and I had was special, just for the two of us…and he surprises me with a prospect? To fuck? It’s not that I’m against sharing. Hell, my brother has a boyfriend and a girlfriend, so it’s not like I’m not used to threesomes. If the time were right and the person were right, I’d be open to exploring that with Eric. Maybe. That he decided it on his own and tried to spring it on me is not cool. And I have no idea where he got that shit from, either. It hurts me to think that I’ve misjudged the person I love the most so very much.

  How’s he going to react when I tell him I confronted the Street Kings and then chickened out?

  Hell, how’s he going to react when I tell him there’s a baby?

  I swallow my moan and pull my garbage can out from under my desk, just in case I lose whatever’s in my empty stomach. The smell of coffee reeks this morning, so I’m chugging water despite the early hour that clearly calls for caffeine.

  The gym’s starting to clear out as the early birds head off to their day jobs. That’s going to leave Solo with free time, and we normally spend it chatting together while he does arm curls or works his legs. Normally, I’ll take any excuse to fawn over my man and admire his delicious body.

  But normally he hasn’t tried to offer me up to another guy. So there’s that.

  The double doors to the Meat Locker open and in saunters my little sister. Becka’s got a cheery smile on her face and she’s carrying a box of donuts. She waves at a few people and then makes a beeline straight for my desk. She’s wearing my favorite sea-green peasant blouse and it looks better on her than it does me. Bitch, I think fondly. She looks cute, too. Her dark hair’s pulled up in a messy knot that somehow looks artful, and she’s wearing a pair of tiny jean shorts and sandals. Albuquerque casual.

  She plops those donuts down on my desk, and the smell of glazed sugar and chocolate waft through the air. I expect my stomach to protest, but instead, I’m suddenly ravenous. “For me?”

  “You left early,” she says, dropping into the chair across from my desk. Her gaze moves over a few of the guys working out in the ring. “Thought I’d get breakfast and see if you wanted to go shopping.”

  I open the box and my mouth waters. Chocolate-covered chocolate cake donuts. It’s a chocolate feast. It’s all mine. I take one in each hand just in case someone else decides to steal them from me and scarf the first one down.

  Becka’s eyebrows go up. “Hungry?”

  I nod, swallowing. “Got any milk?”

  She produces a bottle of chocolate milk from her purse. That’s why I love her. I guzzle it down as she starts talking about an accessory sale at a local jewelry store, and do I have any accent scarves she can borrow or should she buy some? I don’t even know what an accent scarf is, so I just shrug and listen as she chats. I eat donut number two and move on to number three as Solo swings by, grabs one, and then keeps right on walking.

  I lose my appetite, just like that. I toss my half-eaten donut into the trash, cap my milk bottle, and then grab my purse. “Want to get out of here and go to that store now?”

  She bounces out of her chair, eyes lighting up. “If you’re not busy, sure.”

  “I’d love to go,” I tell her. Escape? Yes, please.

  Chapter Four

  Lucky

  We’ve gone to two shops and are pulling into the parking lot of the third when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. I park the car and glanc
e at it.

  Solo: Club shit going on. Hard Nine are up to something, being seen around town. Keep yourself safe.

  Solo: Thought I’d text you this since I know you won’t answer my call. I love you.

  Solo: You’re going to have to talk to me at some point.

  Well. That’s more texts than I’ve gotten from him in all the time we’ve been together. I think about answering, but I’m still pissed about the Jim thing, so I ignore it and toss my phone into my purse. I have a gun on me, and I’m driving our ‘cage’ today, so we’re safe.

  “So,” Becka says, her hand on the door handle. She doesn’t get out of the car. “You okay?”

  I shoot her a look.

  “You’re just not really acting like yourself,” she adds. “And you seem mad about something.”

  I glance out the window, not looking at Becka. “Do we have to do this right now?”

  “We don’t. But I just worry about you. And Solo’s worried, too. He asked me to see if I could find out what’s going on. He’s really upset.”

  I snort. “He’d better be. He tried to spring another guy on me, Butchers style.”

  She gasps. “He didn’t.”

  “He did,” I say flatly, and give her a quick recap of the sordid affair.

  “Why on earth would he do that?” She’s appalled on my behalf. “Is he crazy?”

  “I don’t know what he’s thinking.” I stare miserably at the steering wheel. “I thought we were good. Now I don’t know what’s going on in his head.”

  She wrings her hands and looks unhappy. “Penny…” she begins, using my real name. Becka’s never been real into the whole Butchers thing. “So I talked to Eric last night.”

  A hot stab of jealousy shoots through me. I push it aside - this is my sister. She wouldn’t do that to me. “Oh?”

  “He told me a bit about what is going on, but he omitted the Jim part.” She makes a face. “He told me he was trying to make you happy because you told him you wanted to be more traditional Butchers. I didn’t realize that was what he meant.”

  I gape at her. He thought I wanted to be ‘traditional’ like Gem and Dom traditional? Two guys on a girl? God. It makes a bit more sense now, though I’m still furious. “That wasn’t what I wanted at all!”

  “Then what is it? Can I help?”

  I chew on my lower lip, thinking. I desperately need to talk to someone about my situation. Someone that won’t judge. Someone that’s not in the club and won’t be affected by club politics. I rub my thumb on the leather of the steering wheel, considering. “You know how I got patched last month?”

  “Yeah?” Her casual tone makes me wonder if she realizes what a big deal it is for a chick to be patched.

  “So…I just found out that I’m pregnant.”

  “Uh, I don’t know if I should say ‘Congrats’ or ‘Oh shit’.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” I say, and then the waterworks begin. Damn it. I start wiping at my eyes, hating that I’m crying. No tears in a Butcher, I tell myself. I need to be tough and strong.

  Becka slides over and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Wow. No wonder you’re so emotional. How’s the baby going to work with the club?”

  “Hell if I know,” I say, with a weepy laugh. “That’s part of the problem. I don’t know what the guys are going to do when they find out. It’s hard to look tough when your baby belly’s sticking out from your leathers.” I shake my head. “I’ll get even less respect than I do now.”

  Her brows draw together as she rubs a hand on my back. “What do you mean? They don’t respect you?”

  “They go around me,” I say bitterly. “I might be patched, but they’re treating me like I’m an old lady. Just a girlfriend. If there’s club business? They keep me out of it.” I shake my head. “And it’s just going to get worse if I’m pregnant.”

  Her fingers tap on my shoulder. “So don’t take that shit lying down. Prove to them that you can do anything a guy can do. Show them that it doesn’t matter if you’re pregnant or not.”

  I think of my disastrous run in with the Street Kings, the one time I tried to assert myself as a club member. They laughed at me and grabbed their dicks. “Just because I think it doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

  “What about Eric? Doesn’t he support you?”

  I avoid her gaze. “I haven’t told him yet.”

  She makes an exasperated noise. “Why not? It’s his too!”

  “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”

  “You mean like keeping it? Don’t you think that’s his decision too?”

  “It’s my body.”

  “I know it is. But I’m just saying…he deserves to know either way. You can make the decision, but if you guys are together, he deserves to know what’s going on. He’s trying to make you happy.”

  “It’s not that simple.” I’m afraid that Eric will be thrilled about the baby…and not so thrilled about me being in the club, suddenly. Then what happens to us? Or worse…he decides I’m patched and thus it’s not right for a baby and I need to get rid of it? What happens if I don’t agree with that?

  Becka gets a mulish look on her face. “You’re being stubborn. He deserves to know.”

  “I know that. I’ll tell him.”

  “When?”

  “Soon,” I hedge. Soon as I figure out what my place is in the club. Soon as I figure out what I’m going to do about the Street Kings. Soon as I decide if I need to give up my patch because I’m too girly to hack it.

  She reaches for my phone. “If you’re not going to tell him, I am.”

  I gasp and grab my purse away from her. “Becka, no!”

  “You need to tell him,” she says, a stubborn look on her small face. “This isn’t right.”

  “This is my life,” I say to her tightly. “You don’t get to decide shit for me. Understand?”

  She gives me the stubborn little sister look I’m so accustomed to. “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “It’s because I’m pregnant,” I say sarcastically.

  “I’m going to get out of this car,” she says, pointing at the floorboards, and then the windshield. “And then I’m going into that store. And when I come out, you and I are going to call Eric and tell him the happy news.”

  “It’s not your decision! I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready.”

  “When is that? Ballpark me.”

  “…In a few months.” Maybe. By then, my position in the club will be a little more cemented.

  She just glares at me. “Don’t be a child, Penny. This isn’t about the club. This is about you and your boyfriend making a baby and now having to deal with it like adults.” She hauls herself out of the car, grabs her purse, and then peers in through the window. “You have until I get out of that shop to get used to the idea of telling Eric, or I’m going to tell him for you.” Then she storms into the shop.

  I watch her go, utterly furious. I’m so damn pissed at her, and I feel helpless. I have no doubt that Becka will tell Eric, because she thinks it’s what is best for us. She’s stubborn as a mule like that.

  She’s going to ruin my life. I need more time to get used to the idea of a baby…and to get my feet under me in the club. Telling Eric about the baby today might ruin everything.

  Panicked, I start the car, put it in reverse, and drive away, leaving my little sister at the jewelry store.

  She’s going to be super pissed at me, but I don’t care. She can call a taxi. I just can’t handle her crap right now. I’m so frustrated and pissy and so angry I can’t see straight.

  And for some reason, I think of that jackass in the Street Kings. The punk that must be no more than twenty with the shitty neck tattoos and the dirty shirt. The one who grabbed his crotch at me and told me, more or less, to suck his dick.

  He disrespected me and my club.

  My car peels out of the parking lot, and, full of hormones and righteous girly anger, I speed down the road toward their piss-ant
little garage. They want a piece of the girl Butcher? They’re gonna get her.

  Chapter Five

  Lucky

  I’m good and pissed off by the time I pull up in front of King’s Garage. I get out of my car, toss on my leather cut, and get my gun - safety off - just in case those dicks try to disrespect me again.

  I’ve had it up to here with everyone trying to run my life.

  With everyone trying to tell me what to do. Going around me.

  And me being scared that everything’s going to be taken away from me. I’m sick of it all. It’s a slow ride into madness, and I’m tired of letting other people drive.

  My conversation with Becka - while infuriating - has just proven one thing to me. I either let everyone else run my life, or I put my foot down.

  Right now? I’m about to plant my foot in the ass of the next person that tries to treat me like a little girl.

  I storm into the garage.

  The two idiots that were here last week are sitting in their favorite chairs, watching a TV show. The exact same car is still up on the rack. Not surprising. If these two jerks ever do a day of hard work, I’ll be surprised. I’m pretty sure there’s a lab somewhere in the back, or this is just the front where the drugs are sold. Doesn’t matter to me. These are the two chumps that I want to deal with.

  “Looky here,” one says, lifting his chin and then nudging his friend. “It’s Biker Barbie.”

  “Hi Barbie,” chimes in the other.

  “I want my money,” I say flatly. No hello, no acknowledging the Barbie comments. I’m all business, because I’m tired of the jokes. These guys are being disrespectful dicks, but no more or less than my own club. And all because I’ve let them. I haven’t said word one.

  Well here is word one: Fuck all that. Actually that’s three, but screw it.

  When they laugh again, I repeat myself. “You have five minutes to get me the money you owe the Butchers for last week, plus the money for this week.”

  One rubs the corners of his mouth. He’s the crotch grabber, I remember that. “Well, you see here, Barbie, we’re a bit behind. I’m afraid no can do.”