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

by Wilde, Kati

  “I heard.” There’s no apology in his deep voice. “I wasn’t done.”

  “Not done telling me that I shouldn’t have gone up against Valentine? Or is it something else? Because I’ll listen to one.”

  “It’s other business,” he says but doesn’t go on. Instead he falls quiet when I tuck the towel between my breasts and exit the shower. I can feel his gaze follow me to the bed, where I dig through my bag and grab the prescription bottle.

  Normally I wouldn’t take a painkiller in front of him but it’s not like this injury is a secret. It’s hard to hide anything from him, anyway—Jack sees everything. He’s likely seen that I’m hurting. I probably give it away every time I move.

  I shake out a pill and swallow it dry. “What business can’t wait until the meeting tomorrow?”

  “It’s not club business.”

  “So it’s personal?” I fish clean underwear out of my bag and try to think of a single personal thing between us. There’s nothing. Just the club. I hardly know anything else about him, except that he was in the military once. I don’t even know which branch, though considering the way he fights and how ruthlessly he deals with the club’s enemies, I’d bet my ass he was special forces. Now he owns an auto repair shop in town, but I’ve never taken a bike or vehicle to him. I repair my own. “Is that why you need to bring it up while I’m naked—are we overdue for a hate fuck or something?”

  Jesus, he’s quiet. So quiet. I barely realize he’s coming for me before he’s here, a solid wall of muscle catching my hips and spinning me to face him, then crowding my body back against the wall so fast I can’t ram my knee up.

  Tension pulls the skin tight over his cheekbones. Everything inside me stills as his right hand grips the back of my neck. I’ve seen him snap a man’s spine like this but I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me. Instead of fear chilling my skin, heat rages through me again.

  This is how I knew it would happen—up against a wall. He’s hard against me. So hard and big. The thick ridge of his cock digs into my stomach and a dangerous edge sharpens his cold stare.

  He doesn’t look away from my eyes. Not a single glance at my lips or at the towel slipping away from my breasts. A shiver rips over my skin when his fingers slide up the outside of my thigh beneath the edge of the terry cloth.

  “Are you offering me a hate fuck, Lily?”

  I don’t recognize his voice—it’s so low, almost hoarse. And he’s not lifting me up and slamming into me. He’s waiting for my answer.

  God damn him. I don’t want to say no. I want him inside me, big and deep. I want to own him when he comes, I want to yank at his hair and make him see me when he does, so that he knows that he’s not fucking me but that I’m fucking him.

  But I can’t say yes. Not when he’ll use it to tear me down. I bare my teeth in a smile, instead. “I would, Jack, but you’re already doing it wrong.”

  His expression doesn’t change. His gaze doesn’t waver. So I don’t get any warning before his left hand slips between my thighs. Oh, Jesus fuck. I’m drenched. My body shudders as his long fingers slick through my aroused flesh, and he doesn’t need to say a word. My pussy is saying it for him. Obviously he’s not doing everything wrong.

  “So what?” I throw at him. “I get hot when I get pissed. Where you’re going…wrong…”—he’s rubbing my clit, oh shit oh shit—“is that when you’re hate-fucking someone…unh.”

  His two longest fingers thrust deep and I can’t stop my breathless grunt. My inner muscles greedily clench around him. My knees almost collapse. I clutch at his arms, my hands twisting in his cotton sleeves. Oh, my God. He feels so good inside me, thick and rough.

  And I haven’t even felt his cock yet.

  He releases my neck. Bracing his right hand against the wall behind my head, he leans in closer, his steady gaze still on my face. I have to bite back a moan when his thumb slides up to circle my clitoris. “When you’re hate-fucking someone…?”

  “When you’re hate-fucking someone—” You don’t ride his hand. You don’t. Even if you’re already so damn close. Jesus God. Gritting my teeth, I finish, “You have to actually hate them.”

  But Jack doesn’t hate me. Hate takes effort, it means caring about something enough to hate it, and I don’t think he actually gives a shit about me. His dick’s hard but I don’t know if he’s getting off on being with me or just getting off because he’s got me up against the wall. There’s almost nothing in his dark eyes, though his fingers are buried in my wet pussy. He’s just watching me, gauging every reaction.

  And that almost nothing in his eyes suddenly seems even emptier, as if my reply wiped away every vestigial emotion.

  “Then you’ll hate me enough for both of us,” he says gruffly and his fingers resume a maddeningly shallow thrust, his thumb teasing my clit. “So are you offering?”

  I want to. So damn much. But not like this—with me offering, telling him to take me. Because fucking him will be stupid enough. I’m not going to let anyone twist it around to say I was begging for it.

  My grip tightens on his tense forearms. His tendons are like steel beneath my fingers. “Ask me for it.”

  His expression doesn’t alter but his hand stills. So Jack fucking Hayden doesn’t like being the one to beg for it, either.

  Ice races through me when he grips the back of my neck again. “I don’t have to ask,” he says softly. “Because I’ve already won it.”

  Sick dull pain twists in my gut. Won it? There’s only one fight between us, only one thing that he could consider a victory—finally ruining me. Undermining me so completely that I have to leave the club. Is that what he came in here to do?

  My throat feels raw as I ask, “What did you win?”

  “Get the fuck out,” he abruptly growls—not at me.

  Someone’s at the door. Shit, someone’s at the door and Jack’s fingers are in my cunt and my towel’s hanging open. He doesn’t let me move and I realize his big body is blocking mine from sight. At least there’s that. Whatever he’s won, he’s not humiliating me with it.

  Yet.

  “Okay, man, but listen a sec first.” The nervous reply belongs to Hashtag, one of the Riders’ prospects. Shit shit shit. Hashtag is a smart kid but he talks a lot. In a rush he says, “Stone said you have to come because another club just rode into the lot.”

  Even with his fingers inside me, Jack is instantly all business. “What club?”

  “The Devil’s Hangmen.”

  Who? My gaze locks with Jack’s. A frown darkens his face and he’s searching my eyes, as if looking for a sign of recognition. I don’t think he’s heard of them, either.

  I shake my head and Jack nods. “We’ll be there,” he says and pulls away from me as soon as the door snaps shut. “We’ll finish this afterward, Lily.”

  Like hell we will. But I only grit my teeth and drag my panties on. He doesn’t glance back as he leaves—and as he walks out the door, he doesn’t wipe off his fingers but slides them into his mouth to quickly suck them clean.

  Enjoy it, Jack fucking Hayden. Because that’s the last time you’ll be tasting me.

  And no matter what he thinks, he hasn’t won anything.

  Chapter Three

  The Devil’s Hangmen. I haul on my jeans and shove my feet into my boots, trying desperately to recall whether we’ve dealt with them before. We meet up with a lot of other clubs at bike rallies. If we know they’ll be traveling through this area, sometimes the Riders invite other clubs to our house before we take a run together.

  But we prepare for those meet ups. Our prez and veep would be here to greet the club. We’d make sure our chrome was shining, the liquor was flowing, and our kuttes were looking sharp. We sure as hell wouldn’t be in our gym clothes.

  Another club showing up unannounced at our house is the equivalent of knocking on our bathroom door while our pants are down. And not just knocking, but knowing they’re knocking at a bad time. Which means they either ran into trouble on the ro
ad and are desperate for friendly faces to help them out—or they’re trying to catch us off guard, disrespecting our colors and trampling over our territory.

  If it’s the latter, there’ll soon be some serious shit going down.

  The gym’s empty. Everyone’s out in the lot. My kutte hangs on its peg by the door. Jack wasn’t wearing his a few minutes ago, but his peg’s bare. Most of the other brothers’ vests are still hanging, because they’d look like idiots in some ’60s biker musical wearing their kuttes over their shorts and sweats.

  This property used to be an old car dealership before the Riders took it over. Back then, this was on the outskirts of town but Pine Valley has spread out. Now we’re facing a strip of small shops, with a frozen yogurt joint and a laundromat sitting on either side of our fenced lot. The street’s become crowded and public, which are two of the reasons the club recently moved out to the Erickson ranch.

  Since the Devil’s Hangmen have come here instead of there, their intel is old. Not too old, but our prez would have verified his info before showing up at another club’s house.

  Or rather, Jack would have verified it for him. As the prez’s right hand, he makes sure there aren’t any fuck ups.

  He’ll be the one to make sure there aren’t any fuck ups now. Most likely nothing is going to go down here in town. But if it does, we’re outnumbered. The Devil’s Hangmen came in with two dozen bikers. The streetlights give me a good look at them in the dark. Though they’ve shut off their engines, they’re all still sitting on their hogs in a loose formation that instantly tells me who the prez is. He’s taken point; Jack’s talking to him. Every Rider who’s wearing a kutte is standing with Jack—Widowmaker, Stone, and Knucklehead. Gunner’s standing back with the others who are in their workout clothes. I pause for a second at his side. At first glance everything in front of us appears amiable, but judging by the tension in Gunner’s stance, I’m guessing it’s really only as amiable as Valentine and I are.

  “Heard of them?” I ask under my breath.

  His reply is just as low. “Out of Nevada.”

  Nevada, yet when one of the Hangmen turns to glance at the street behind him, I see he’s sporting a bright new Oregon rocker beneath his back patch. So they’re not riding through; they’re establishing a chapter in-state. “Are they bad news?”

  His chin dips in a slight nod. Great. I keep my eyes sharp as I stroll forward to join Jack and the others. Instantly almost every Hangman is looking my way. Some start to grin like I’m a welcome fuck-wagon. There’s a lot of younger guys, maybe twenty to twenty-five years old. Probably hoping to make their mark in the new chapter and move up the ranks. They’re going to be following orders so I focus on the Hangmen with more miles under their belts. They’re the ones who are frowning, as if they’re trying to figure me out and disliking every conclusion they’re drawing.

  I’ve seen those looks before. Nine times out of ten they decide I’m club pussy who didn’t know enough to stay in my place and not to wear my man’s colors, because the alternative conclusion—that a woman has been patched in—is too much for the tiny little brains housed in their dicks to take in.

  The officers all have shiny new patches. The enforcer is a big dude with a long brown beard and thick biceps ringed with tribal ink. Pure muscle, but I’d put my money on the blond guy beside him. He’s not an officer but he’s been around a while. The patches on his kutte tell me his road name is Creek, that he’s spent time in prison, and that he’s killed four men. His eyes tell me more. His gaze only flicked my way to take my measure before he started watching Jack again.

  Smart. Keep your attention on the guy who’s most likely to fuck you up.

  The veep’s not as smart, staring at me before wagging his tongue in my direction. I dub the veep Dickhole, because his road name, Sherlock, obviously doesn’t fit him as well. He’s young, too. Too young to have earned the position. So I’d bet my ass that he’s actually Dickhole, Jr.—the son of some higher-up in the Nevada chapter.

  The prez was probably one of those higher-ups. Maybe the vice president or enforcer. Someone who could be trusted to establish the new chapter and keep the young brothers in line.

  One look and I have no doubt they picked the right guy. Croc, his name patch reads. Rough edged features, weathered skin, his dark hair and short beard showing slivers of gray. Mature but not slowing down. Tattoos sleeve arms thick with muscle. He sits low on his chopper, body at ease. Appearing friendly, but he’s scoping everything out, as if weighing weaknesses and strengths.

  Though he’s still talking to Jack, his expression freezes when he scopes me coming toward them. His gaze shoots to my kutte before returning to my face. I know what he’s debating—not just whether a woman has been patched in but whether anyone with a face like mine has a brain in her skull. I’ve got a mirror and I’ve got no illusions about my appearance. I turn heads. Partly because I’m tall and partly because I’ve got my dad’s sharp features and high cheekbones combined with my mom’s lush mouth. Guys like it, girls like it—hell, even I like it. I’d screw myself in a hot second.

  Considering the number of toys I keep in a drawer at home, I guess I already have.

  Whereas Dickhole doesn’t think past my lips, though, the Hangmen’s prez does. His gaze slides head-to-toe, assessing—not how fuckable I am, but taking in my height, the lean strength of my legs and arms, and resting on the livid scar above my elbow.

  He comes to the right conclusion but he’s not any less of a dickhole than his veep. I catch the tail end of his response to Jack when I stop next to Knucklehead.

  “—you ask your prez to call me and we’ll arrange a meet up.” His gaze shoots to me again before returning to Jack. His brows raise a little and his voice drops into the bro zone, like the Riders’ warlord is suddenly his best friend. “Is that shit serious, man? You put your colors on a pair of tits?”

  Jack’s already wearing his don’t-fuck-with-me face—it’s basically the only face he has—but his stare goes from hard steel to dead cold. “Zoomie earned her place.”

  And that’s why I can’t hate-fuck him properly, either. He pisses me off and his doubt hurts, but I don’t hate him. I can’t. Because he might tear me down but at this second he’s behind me, one hundred fucking percent.

  Not all of the brothers are. Beside me, Knucklehead’s gone scarlet and he brings his elbows in a little as if to put distance between us.

  Croc doesn’t miss that reaction but he doesn’t push. Instead he holds up his hands. No harm, no foul. “All right, man.”

  He’s chuckling when he says it. As if taking Croc’s amusement as his cue, Dickhole pipes up, grinning. “We can guess how she earned it.”

  The other Hangmen find that hilarious. Me, I’ve heard it a million times, so it’s nothing. Jack isn’t the only one with a don’t-give-a-fuck stare; mine has gotten plenty of use.

  My lack of response dampens their laughter. Croc quiets them all and reaches for his starter. Getting ready to leave. “Only joking, of course. I’m sure your prez knows what he’s doing. So you ask him to contact me and—”

  “I’ll tell him you showed up at our house,” Jack interrupts. “But if you want a meet up, you request one. The club e-mail is on our website.”

  For a long second, it’s as silent as a church on Friday night. A muscle jumps in Croc’s cheek and he stares at Jack like he’s weighing whether to put a bullet in his head. Finally he nods. “Will do.”

  His engine roars to life. My fists clench as he pulls out, riding in a circle around our little group before heading toward the exit. Anger boils in my blood. He might as well have just spit on our boots and now his brothers are doing the same. The others start up and follow his path, exhaust blowing into our faces and tongues wagging—

  What the fuck was that?

  Creek rode by and his eyes caught Jack’s. Not just the same old ‘I’m trying to look like a badass to intimidate you’ glance, but a ‘I recognize you, too’ glance. Jack’s g
aze stays on him for a long second.

  We’re all quiet until the last Hangman rides through the gate. Then Knucklehead mutters, “You couldn’t have stayed in the goddamn shower?” before stalking off.

  Asshole. Those fuckers were disrespecting us before I came out. But his comment still puts my throat in a knot, and I’m just as pissed at myself for letting Knucklehead affect me as I am at Croc and his buddies. I don’t care when someone from another club shits on me. But when my own brothers add to it?

  Yeah. Sometimes that gets to me.

  I don’t expect us to hold hands and sing Kumbaya. I expect the trash talking and the fighting and the backstabbing, just like there is in any family. I never liked my dad much and I don’t like some of these guys, either. But you don’t side with another club against one of your own. You just don’t.

  Not everyone did, though. So I stand with Jack and Widowmaker as Gunner closes in. Stone is texting, his scarred face washed pale by the light from his phone. Probably sending a message to our prez.

  “This is going to be real fucking ugly,” Widowmaker says quietly.

  “Uglier than the Eighty-Eight?” I wonder. After they killed one of our brothers, we spilled a lot of blood taking those skinheads out, and we walked away all right—but not before our prez took a shotgun blast and I took a bullet.

  “Or uglier than Stone?” Gunner asks, nodding toward the enforcer. “Because that would scare me more.”

  Stone flips him a middle finger before looking up from his phone. His gaze narrows on Jack. “You had no idea they were coming?”

  Jaw tight, he shakes his head. We all stare at him for a long second as that sinks in. Jack didn’t know they were coming. He always knows when clubs are moving through the state. And moving into the state? He’d never have missed that.

  “So what does that mean?” I ask him. “They flew under your radar? They knew to fly under your radar?”

  Yet didn’t know that we’d moved out to the ranch? Probably not.

  “It means they moved fast and quiet after we took out the Eighty-Eight. They’re grabbing that territory. And probably the supply routes the Eighty-Eight were running.” He glances at his phone when it lights up. “Gunner, Stone—the boss wants us at his place. Widowmaker, you let the board know their asses better be in their seats tomorrow.”