Betting It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 11)

by Wilde, Kati

  I think it bothers assholes like Valentine because they know I lick it better—and because when I want dick, I don’t ride theirs.

  This time, my shrug is hard enough to dislodge his arm. “How about this reason: Maybe I don’t feel like it?”

  “Why?” His eyes narrow. “Afraid you’ll lose? Or afraid the first time was pure luck?”

  Hardly. “I just don’t like watching a man cry.”

  I say it with a big smile. Everything’s staying friendly. Just a few Riders messing around, joshing each other.

  Even if I want to pound his fucking head in.

  He snorts like my response is funny, but I just hit a real sore spot on his inflated ego. His smile is a baring of teeth. “Then let’s get in the ring and see who’s crying—”

  “Stand down, Valentine.”

  Jack. The ache in my gut instantly sharpens, the knife slipping in. My gaze shoots to his face. His dark eyes have Valentine locked dead in his sights. I pray he’ll stop there, but he just keeps going and his voice is never amiable. Instead each word fires like a round from an assault weapon.

  “Her arm is fucked and she’s been at it with Gunner for an hour. You’ve been parked on your ass. You want a rematch, wait until she’s fresh and uninjured. Make it equal.”

  A thick knot twists in my throat. God damn him. I didn’t want to fight tonight. I’m so fucking tired and my arm is screaming and I really don’t give a shit about Valentine’s ego. But now I don’t have a choice. And just like always, Jack’s making me work harder than I should have to.

  Because it’ll never be equal. And now that Jack’s brought my injury into it, the next time someone’s asking whether I can hold my own, they’ll bring this incident up, but they’ll make it sound like I backed down. They’ll say that if I’ve got a scratch, I won’t be good for anything, that I’ll take an easy out. No one would say a damn thing if I were one of the brothers and passed on a fight until a bullet wound healed. But if I use an injury as a reason to skip a fight, without a doubt, someone’s going to say I can’t be relied on to watch a brother’s back, because all it’ll take is my period to put me out of commission.

  Screw that. And screw Jack fucking Hayden, too.

  I stare at him so he can’t mistake exactly what I think of him. He just stares right back, his gaze flat. Like he doesn’t give a damn.

  Swallowing the hurt and anger, I look to Valentine. “Fuck my arm,” I tell him. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Two

  If I were nice, I might feel bad for Valentine. But I’m not nice. So instead I silently wrap my hands and enjoy the way some of the brothers suppress their grins when Valentine glances their way. He’s already in the ring, warming up, and looking cocky as hell.

  He shouldn’t be so confident, but that error isn’t really his fault. The two clubs only recently merged so we’ve only been working out together for a few weeks. In that time, I’ve been taking it easy in the gym. It might have appeared like Gunner was pushing me hard, then leaving me behind to get a real workout with Stone or Jack, doing the kind of hardcore sparring that makes everyone else in the gym stop and watch. But if I hadn’t been shot, I’d be sparring with them, too.

  The guys who came over from the Titans wouldn’t know that. And because we’re all a bunch of assholes, no one’s rushing to tell Valentine that he’s in over his head. They’ve seen me fight. Valentine hasn’t seen me do anything but hit a mitt—but I’ve seen him up in the ring several times now. I know exactly what he can do.

  Gunner checks my protective headgear. In a real fight, we wouldn’t be wearing anything but gloves, but we’re keeping this amiable. Satisfied, he slaps me upside my padded head. “Make it quick.”

  I intend to. I strip off the loose tank I was wearing over my sports bra. My gym shorts cling to my ass and upper thighs like a second skin. My braid is tucked up under my headgear. Fuck if I’m going to give Valentine anything to grab. As I climb up to the ring, Widowmaker pounds his big fist against the canvas, calling for attention.

  “This is a rematch,” he says. “So same rules as five years ago. If your back hits the mat, you’re out. Match over. No crotch shots, no eye gouges, no hits to the spine. All right?”

  “All right,” Val says quickly. Eager to get this going.

  I nod when Widowmaker looks to me. He’s giving me the same repressive stare that he used to give when I mouthed off to my dad. It’s his way of telling me not to go overboard. To keep it friendly. This isn’t just Valentine versus me. Humiliating one of the former Titans isn’t going to be good for anybody. I nod again to tell him I got his message, then glance over at Jack fucking Hayden, who hasn’t said a word since I agreed to fight. Instead he just glowers at me.

  Bastard. But though I know exactly what he is, there’s still that damn ache in my gut. And it’s stupid for me to be looking at him when I should be focusing on Valentine.

  So I focus. Val and I are about the same height but he outweighs me by seventy pounds. Big, heavy—a little slow. That’s why I’ll win.

  Widowmaker taught me to throw a punch; he also taught me that a punch would never be enough. It’s physics, pure and simple. Force equals mass times acceleration—and I don’t have the mass. I’m fast and strong, but my body runs lean. I don’t pack on muscle like some of these guys do, so I’ll never hit as hard as some do. Instead I have to be quick and smart and use my opponent’s mass against him, because if I went toe-to-toe against Valentine in a boxing match, trading punches back and forth, I’d be toast.

  But this isn’t a straight-up boxing match. Pretty much anything goes.

  I know how Val will probably go. When he spars, one combination gets more play than any others. He’ll start with a left jab and a right uppercut, then he’ll pivot on a spinning hook kick followed by a roundhouse kick. Tossing him onto his back during the hook kick would be easy-peasy. I’ll let him get a few more swings in first, though.

  His blue eyes are narrowed as we bump fists in the center of the ring. “You can back out now, if you like—being injured and all.”

  Fuck off, I think, but reply, “You can back out, if you like—being outclassed and all.”

  Valentine snorts out a short laugh and I dance back, grinning. He can’t say he wasn’t warned.

  Despite not wanting to fight, despite the ragged pain in my arm, I’m feeling pretty good. My fists are up and I’m watching his eyes. He’s improved in the past five years, when he thought fighting meant swinging as hard as he could, but he still telegraphs each punch.

  And there it is, a left jab. I avoid it easily and expect the uppercut but his gaze flicks to my left arm before he whips his right fist around. A haymaker. He’s going for my bullet wound.

  Not just aiming to win this fight but aiming to hurt me.

  My amusement bleeds out like it’s been gutted. The stupid fucker. He’s giving me all that momentum to play with.

  I snap hold of his swinging wrist. Pivoting, I shove my hip into his stomach, lifting his weight off his feet. His arm is still swinging and I keep all the mass behind it moving.

  His back slams into the mat. He looks up at me, stunned and blinking.

  My blood’s pounding in my ears. Laughter explodes from some of the brothers watching. Crap. Widowmaker’s going to be pissed. Keep it amiable. Even though this asshole tried to hurt me. It’s damn hard but I offer him my hand.

  “Sorry, brother. Maybe next time—”

  Valentine comes up swinging. Shit. Jerking my hand up, I dance out of the way. The brothers’ laughter drops into uneasy silence.

  I don’t take my eyes off Valentine. His face is as red as a blood blister. Was that swing just an angry reflex or was he really going at me? Holding my hands out, I say, “Val—”

  Roaring, he charges. I’ve got a split second to decide—dodge or take him down. Jack’s already at the ropes. Gunner’s right behind him. Widowmaker’s shouting something, probably for me to get out of the way.

  To let the guys h
andle it. Screw that.

  I shift my weight onto my back foot and Jack slams into me, shoving me out of Valentine’s path. I try to counter but my balance is fucked. My feet tangle. Steely hands pin my arms and whip me around, facing Val again, but Gunner’s between us. I can’t see anything but his back.

  Anger roughens Jack’s deep voice. “Stand down, Lily.”

  Like hell. I try to rip out of his grip but my arms will tear off before his fingers let go. “I have him, goddammit!”

  “Your match is over. This is Gunner’s job.” Jack yanks me back against his chest, his muscled arms locking around me in an iron cage. “So stand the fuck down.”

  Frustration rises like a scream but I bite it down. Gunner’s job. He’s right. As the Riders’ sergeant at arms, it’s Gunner’s duty to keep order between the club’s members.

  And Valentine’s standing down, too. Through the roaring in my ears I hear Gunner ask Val what the fuck he was thinking, but I don’t care to hear the answer. I know what it is. A girl beat him and he lost his goddamn head.

  “Let me go,” I say, and my voice is mostly even. Only a little rage shakes through it.

  After a short hesitation, Jack’s grip loosens. I pull away without glancing back at him, without glancing back at Gunner or Valentine. Ripping off my gloves, I head for Widowmaker. The old man’s mouth is tight, his eyes hard. My chest feels like a leaden block is wedged behind my ribs.

  “Sorry,” I tell him softly.

  He nods, still looking up at the ring, and I realize he’s not pissed at me. “He went straight for your arm.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You had a clean win. So hit the showers and get the hell out of here.” The words are rough but I hear the affection beneath them. “We’ll deal with this shit at the meeting tomorrow.”

  Not the club’s monthly meeting, but the executive board. Great.

  My stomach’s in a knot as I grab my bag and head into the rear of the building. My injured arm is on fire. My adrenaline’s still surging, the anger still burning. I’m going to be in the shower a long freaking time before I cool off. At least I won’t have to deal with anyone until I do.

  When this was the clubhouse, they had bunks back here, communal showers, and a few private rooms for anyone who needed a place to crash for the night. Mostly the private rooms were used for fucking, but I use them to change. I would visit the communal showers—I don’t care if the brothers see me naked—but some of them act all shy because they can’t stop their dicks from getting hard when I’m bending over or soaping up, and watching them scurry around with their hands over their crotch is a sad, sorry sight.

  But mostly it’s because Widowmaker once walked into the showers while I was naked and that was just too freaking weird.

  I don’t realize Jack’s following me until I try to slam the door of the private room and the wood hits his palm with a dull thunk. My gaze shoots to his face. His jaw is locked and his eyes are flat. Pissed.

  But unlike Widowmaker, Jack’s pissed at me. If he wasn’t, he’d still be outside, glaring at Valentine.

  I toss my bag to the narrow bed. “Say whatever the hell you want to say and get out.”

  Softly he closes the door. Apparently whatever he has to say is going to take a while. Shit. Well, he can talk. I’m going to take a damn shower. Turning my back to him, I strip off my bra.

  His voice is dangerously quiet. “What the hell were you thinking, Lily?”

  My jaw clenches. I screwed up by losing my temper and taking Val down so fast. I know I screwed up. But I already apologized to Widowmaker, who’s one of two men in this club I owe anything to. If our prez wants answers and a sorry from me, I’ll give it to him. But I’m not going to answer to Jack fucking Hayden. Instead I drag the elastic band out of my hair and start pulling my fingers through my braid.

  The silence only lasts a second before he’s going at me again. “Val had blood in his eyes before you stepped into that ring. His balls were on the line. He’d have done anything to win, and if he hadn’t gone for your arm, he’d have gone for your knees or your head. It was going to turn ugly no matter what you did. So why the hell didn’t you take the out I gave you?”

  “Are you kidding me? An out?” Disbelief sharpens each word as I face him. “After you stuck your nose in, I didn’t have any other choice but to fight him.”

  His eyebrows shoot together, his expression darkening. “Bullshit. I told him to wait.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Like he doesn’t know exactly how that left me with zero options. Too disgusted to reply, I shake my head and grab my towel.

  The room is small and he crosses it fast. His strong fingers snag my wrist and spin me to face him. My neck’s so tense that my muscles feel like they might snap and suddenly I’m aware of my bare tits, my heaving chest, my tightening nipples, but his flat gaze never veers from my eyes.

  “Bullshit,” he snarls again. “So explain that fucking answer. How is it no choice?”

  “Gee, Jack—what do you think? Maybe it’s just like every other time you ‘have my back’.” My air quotes around have my back suck because he’s got my hand trapped between us but the sarcasm gets through. His eyes narrow like he’s about to call bullshit on that, too, but I don’t give him the chance. “And instead you give an opening to every brother who wants to take a shot at me. And this time, it’s, ‘Ooooh, poor fragile Lily can’t fight if she has a boo-boo.’ Fuck that, fuck you, and now get the fuck out.”

  I yank my wrist away and he lets me go. Anger blinds me as I step into the shower. It’s a concrete box with a frosted glass door that conceals me from shin to shoulder. I flip the towel over the top of the door and realize I’m still in my shorts. Swearing, I rip them down my legs with my panties and toss them outside.

  The water starts out freezing but I stick my head under the spray anyway, closing my eyes. Damn him. Jack fucking Hayden. I slam the heel of my palm against the concrete wall. I wish it were his goddamn face. Fuck him. Just fuck him.

  Fuck him.

  I grit my teeth. No, no, no. My brain’s not going down that road today. I’ve imagined sex with him before and I’ll probably imagine it again, because I like rough, I like big and gorgeous, and he’s always right there. Always pissing me off. And I think of how sweet it would be to have all that power between my legs and to make the bastard beg for more.

  Because I’m not nice. And I’d love to see big, dangerous, Jack fucking Hayden fall apart at the touch of my hands, my mouth.

  But he wouldn’t. The world would end before he fell apart. And me? Jesus, I’m trying not to fall apart right now.

  I brace my hands against the concrete wall beneath the showerhead. The water’s finally hot, beating down on my bowed head and shoulders. My hair hangs in a thick blond curtain on either side of my face, pale even when it’s wet. I can’t see anything but my tits and my feet—toenails painted a cherry red—and the stainless steel drain.

  Did Jack leave? I don’t want to turn my head and look. I haven’t heard the door close behind him. That doesn’t mean anything, though. The bastard’s so quiet he could probably slip into this shower without me noticing.

  And damn it. Damn it. I didn’t mean to think of that. Didn’t mean to think of him slipping in. Because he’s angry and I’m angry and the only possible outcome would be my back slamming against the wall with my legs around his waist and his cock shoving deep inside me. Then I’d bite his shoulder and he’d pin my hands and ride me hard, so hard, until I came with my teeth clamping down on thick muscle and my pussy squeezing his dick.

  God. Now every nerve in my body screams for that shower door to open. My skin’s tight with anticipation and need. I know what this really is, though. Five minutes ago I was pumped up, ready to roll over Valentine’s ass. Then Jack comes in with his “I was giving you an out” bullshit. All the rage is churning around inside me and congealing into sexual frustration.

  I don’t want him. Because in an hour I’m not going to be ho
t when I think of him; I’m going to be hurting again. How many times has he slipped that knife into my gut, trying to cut me down? If I took him to bed, I’d be sharpening the blade for him. Fucking a brother—any brother—could tear apart everything I’ve earned in the club. With just a few words I could be reduced to a pussy and a pair of tits.

  But I know myself. If Jack did step into this shower right now, I’d screw the shit out of him.

  My fingers curl against the wall, the concrete scraping my knuckles. I don’t turn my head. Maybe he’s still here; maybe he’s not. It doesn’t really matter.

  Nothing matters but holding it together now. To walk out of here cold and hard, as if I don’t have a single fuck to give. Some days, that’s easier than others. I’m not cold by nature. I’m too much like my dad, who only lived to fuck and fight and ride.

  My dad was also a raging egotistical asshole. I’m not nice, but I don’t want to cross that line. I never want to be that much like him. The Riders already have their share of egotistical assholes in the ranks. Add one more, now that Valentine is back.

  Valentine. Holy shit, his face. Stunned and staring up at me, as if his thick brain couldn’t process that I’d flipped him like a dirty mattress.

  I grin at the wall for an endless minute. Remembering his shock is never going to get old. But I will if I stay in here much longer—and my arm is hurting like a motherfucker. All I want right now is my bed and a Vicodin. Not in that order.

  Steam fills the small room when I shut off the spray. Jack is still here, standing with his back against the wall adjacent to the shower door. His gaze pierces straight through me as soon as I look up.

  My heart stutters against my ribs but my movements remain smooth as I squeeze the water out of my hair and reach for my towel. Maybe he’s been watching this entire time. I don’t know. I study him over the frosted glass while I dry off. He’s not pissed anymore. Instead he’s regarding me steadily, dark brown eyes unreadable.

  “You must not have heard the ‘get the fuck out’ part,” I say easily. I’m not looking for a fight now.