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

by Wilde, Kati

  At the executive board meeting. Apparently that’s when I’ll hear more, too. I haven’t been summoned so I’m not heading anywhere but home.

  “I’m going to snag my clothes.” Gunner raises his fist and bumps mine. “See ya, Zoomie.”

  “Yeah.” My stomach drops as I look back toward the building. I’ve got to grab my bag, too—which means walking right past Knucklehead, who’s jawing with Valentine and a few other brothers. I don’t miss the resentful looks a few of them are casting my way. They probably didn’t hear what Croc or Dickhole said but Knucklehead is making sure to fill them in.

  Well, screw them. I lift my chin and head that way, then spot Hashtag standing off to the side, frowning. I veer toward the prospect and get in close, our eyes on level. His shoulders go back like he’s facing a drill sergeant.

  “Hey,” I say quietly. “We’re going to vote whether to patch you in pretty soon, right? Maybe a month or two?”

  He nods, his gaze suddenly wary. “That’s right.”

  “One vote against you and you’re out,” I tell him. “And you know what I admire in a brother? The ability to keep his mouth shut about things he sees in private rooms. A loose tongue is a reason to turn down a bid for a kutte, because if we can’t trust a man to keep quiet about something trivial, we can’t trust him to keep quiet about the shit that will bring us down. Don’t you agree?”

  His eyes hold mine, steady. A good kid. A smart kid. So of course he has the right answer. “I do.”

  “Right on.” I see his relief and have to laugh. “Hang in there, soldier. The worst is almost over.”

  “I will. Thanks. Hey, Zoomie,” he says as I start to go. When I pause, he tells me under his breath, “Nice takedown earlier.”

  Against Valentine. I grin and thump his shoulder in thanks as I head past. I’m expecting to take some crap as I pass Knucklehead and the others but no one says a word. I’m feeling triumphant about that until I realize Jack’s on my ass.

  Oh, shit. We’ll finish this afterward, Lily. It’s afterward but I don’t really want to know what Jack thinks he’s won, because I’m feeling pretty generous toward him right now and I don’t want that ache in my gut to return. “Aren’t you supposed to be heading out to the boss’s place?”

  “I will.” He comes up beside me, matching my pace. “We’re not done.”

  We will be if I can throw him off. “How do you know Creek?”

  He doesn’t seem thrown. “The Bamboo Bowl. It’s been two years.”

  What? I stop and stare at him in disbelief. The Bamboo Bowl is a vegetarian restaurant down on Oak Street. Word is that Jack eats lunch and dinner there every single day—and considering how often I’ve seen his bike parked outside the place, I assume the rumors are true. But he’s saying he remembers Creek coming in two years ago?

  “So you saw him ordering a tofu burger way back when, and that’s why he looked at you as if he knows you? I didn’t realize vegetarians had such deep spiritual connections. Did you hum together over hummus or something?”

  That amuses him. His lips twitch. And the sight doesn’t make my gut ache. Warmth spreads through me instead. He’s so damn big and gorgeous. But I’m still wary, because he braces his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. I know that stance. He’s determined, immovable.

  So I’m in deep shit.

  His flat gaze holds mine. “You said the place wouldn’t last in a red-meat town like Pine Valley. You bet that within two years, a burger joint would be standing there, instead.”

  What? That does sound like something I’d say, but… Oh, holy fuck.

  I remember. We were at the Wolf Den. At the pool table. Gunner, Stone, Jack, and me—all of us talking shit. Well, Jack wasn’t saying much. But we’d been talking about that new restaurant opening up. Jack had quietly mentioned that it was a good business investment in a growing town like Pine Valley and I’d replied with almost the exact words he just used to remind me. A red-meat town. A place like that wouldn’t last. But that wasn’t all I’d said. I’d gotten up into his face and told him, If that place is still in business two years from now, I’ll let you tie me up and have your way with me all night.

  I can’t believe he’s serious. “You’re going to hold me to that?”

  His chin dips in a slow nod. His eyes are dark and empty, just watching me.

  My chest is tight as fuck. “I was drunk off my ass.”

  “But you’re not now.”

  Is he saying I have a choice? That I could back out of the bet?

  Because I can’t. Just like I couldn’t back out of the fight with Valentine after Jack shoved my injury into it. If I go back on my word and the brothers find out, then my word is shit. Then I’m shit.

  Jack has to know that. He’s got me backed against a wall. And not in the hot-as-fuck rough and sexy way I’ve imagined; not the way he had me against the wall before. Instead my guts are spilling out over the floor.

  Not that I’d ever let him see it. “Okay,” I tell him, adding a careless shrug. “Whatever. I’ll let you know when I have a night free.”

  He catches my wrist as I turn away. Immediately my fist clenches, though I know I can’t beat him—I just want to pound him, to hurt him as much as he just hurt me. But it wouldn’t matter. I’d only be exposing all of my anger and pain, and a few punches would mean nothing to him. To really hurt him, he’d have to give a fuck.

  Obviously he doesn’t.

  “Creek and I served together until about eight years ago,” he tells me and I stare blindly ahead, not looking back at him. “When he got out, he headed to Quantico. To the academy.”

  The FBI academy? I pull in a sharp breath. Shock snaps my gaze back to his. “You think he’s undercover?”

  “I’ll find out,” he says but I’m certain he’s already sure, that something about Creek already gave it away. He wouldn’t have said anything otherwise. “Hold it to yourself for now.”

  I nod. His thumb slides over the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. Involuntarily I shiver, then anger hits again and I yank my hand back.

  “Just so you know,” I warn him. “You should have screwed me in the shower. Because doing it like this? I’m going to make sure it’s the worst fuck of your life.”

  Something sharp and bleak moves through the emptiness of his eyes. “I’ve already had the worst. Now I’ll just take whatever I get.”

  “You’re also gonna get the Asshole of the Year award. You’ll take that, too?”

  He actually grins. “If you give it.”

  “Well, I was going to hand it to Valentine. But, hey. You’ve earned it.” I give him a double thumbs-up and start backing away. “Don’t forget to bring the lube. I’m sure I’ll need a full tube.”

  His grin vanishes, his expression suddenly dark and intense. “I’ll make sure you’re wet enough. Then you’ll come for me. Repeatedly.”

  Want to bet? I almost say. But I’m not setting up round two. “I’ll make it the Delusional Asshole of the Year award.”

  “I’ll take that, too. As long as I get a night in your bed with it.”

  He’s going to get that. And what am I going to get? I don’t know. I can’t see his end game.

  But I think I can manage the hate part of a good old hate fuck now.

  Chapter Four

  My night with Jack will have to be a fight. Not with feet and fists, but when we’re in bed, I need to beat him at his own game. I just have to make sure I’m beating him at the right game.

  So what does he want to win? Not just sex with me. He could have asked for that a long time ago.

  The question twists through my head most of the night but my brain’s too cluttered to think straight. I keep feeling the heat of his skin and the rough pleasure of his fingers inside me. I keep hearing him tell Croc I earned my place. I keep seeing the emptiness in his eyes when he said that he doesn’t need to ask because he’s already won.

  He hasn’t. He won’t.

  I’m up before my alarm goes o
ff. On the road, I open the throttle. The engine roars in the pre-dawn light. Nothing cleans me out like miles of asphalt and the wind in my face. If I could, I’d keep going all day. But the sky calls—and flying a helicopter is almost as good as riding the road. There’s no time to brood or sit around with my thumb up my ass, so by the time the afternoon rolls around and I’m back on the ground, my head’s back where it should be.

  This uncertainty and doubt isn’t me. As soon as I decide to do something, I’m all in.

  I am going to spend the night with him. I am going to win.

  I’m also suddenly looking forward to following through on this bet—and really looking forward to denying Jack fucking Hayden any kind of victory. Somehow, he must be looking to tear me down. It’s what he’s done for five years, so I’ve got no reason to think he’ll do anything differently now.

  So how do I beat him? First I’ll make sure there’s no question whether I’m keeping my word. Easy enough to take care of that in the board meeting.

  And what else did he tell me? That I’ll come. Repeatedly.

  Normally I’d be cheering if a guy wanted to make me come all night. But if that’s what Jack wants, then he must have a reason for wanting it. So I’ll deny him that, too. I’ll probably get wet—God knows I can’t help that—but getting off? Pfft. If I’m not focusing and working for it, an orgasm is as likely as catching a unicorn. I’ll just close my eyes and think of repairing my bird’s engine.

  I’ll be the lousiest lay he ever had. It’ll be great.

  • • •

  Except for when special gatherings are called, the club meets once a month. The executive board used to meet every two weeks, but ever since the Riders and the Titans merged, the prez has been holding the meetings every week—keeping his thumb on the club’s pulse and making sure everything stays amiable. The club’s officers all sit on the board, along with a few non-officers appointed by our prez. Together they manage any conflicts cropping up outside the club and between the brothers. If rules are broken, the executive board acts as a court—with the understanding that the prez’s word outweighs every other patchholder’s.

  I didn’t sit on the board until the Titans joined us. Saxon appointed me along with two new patchholders—Bull, the Titans’ enforcer, and Duke, who hadn’t been one of the Titans’ officers but had once been a Rider. He’d turned in his colors when I was patched in. Duke and I get along all right now, but I assume his appointment to the board is also why the prez brought me in. He’s making sure the Titans are represented, but he’s also quietly telling anyone who questions his decision to patch me in to fuck off.

  I’d rather have earned my spot on the board, but I’ll take it like this because keeping my spot has to be earned. Saxon will toss me out if I’m not pulling my weight—or if I become one of the conflicts they always have to manage.

  Today I am. Or rather, Valentine is. But since Jack asked me what the hell I was thinking, fighting Val after he’d given me a bullshit “out,” I know some of the blame will come down on my head. It pisses me off but I’ll deal with whatever comes.

  It might be worse than I expect, though. Widowmaker’s already giving me the eye as I come in—a warning not to mouth off. So I zip it and sit.

  In the old clubhouse, the board met in the Crib—a loft reserved for the officers’ use, which included a crowded conference room. We’ve got a lot more space out here at the ranch clubhouse, and the building’s former life as an overpriced lodge where tourists forked out hefty amounts of cash to ride a horse for a weekend has left a classier mark on the place than the car dealership left on the clubhouse in town.

  The conference room is like something out of an old boys’ smoking lounge on the east coast, with leather club chairs surrounding a carved oak table, dark paneling on the walls and thick rugs over gleaming wooden floors. Big windows look out over tall pines and a rocky creek bed—dry now that it’s late summer, but I’d bet it’s like a postcard in the winter and spring.

  Typically the executive board meetings are more casual than the club meetings. At club meetings, nobody eats or drinks unless the prez calls for a break—and even then, anything stronger than water is rarely passed around. I don’t know how the board meetings went at the old clubhouse, but here frosty pints of ale are always waiting for us, and our new veep’s old lady lays out a hell of a spread. Today it looks like she fired up the grill. Some of the guys are at the sideboard, loading up their plates with thick burgers and all the fixings.

  My stomach rumbles but I sit tight. Valentine’s here, too, though he’s not on the board, and his glowering mug kills my appetite.

  Shit. I knew I’d see Knucklehead, because he’s the club’s road captain and always at these meetings. But I hoped the prez would discuss Valentine’s behavior without him here—there were enough witnesses that he doesn’t need Val to tell the board how it went down. Instead Saxon must have called him in.

  Now the prez takes his seat at the head of the table. He’s a big, mean-looking fucker and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him—partly because he’s the one who opened the club’s doors for me, and partly because he would never ask us to do something he wouldn’t do himself.

  Red Erickson claims the seat beside him. The former Titans president, he wears the Riders’ colors now, and I have a hard time knowing how to feel around him.

  Growing up, my dad used Red Erickson as an example of everything a biker shouldn’t be. He called Red disloyal and yellow. Years passed and I figured out my dad was an egotistical prick. I also found out that the bad blood between the Titans and Riders fell squarely at my dad’s feet. But that early image of Red stuck, and every time I looked at him, I saw something that shouldn’t be respected.

  Until recently. We’ve fought together against the Eighty-Eight. I know he isn’t yellow; I know he’s fair and smart.

  I also know he’s a better dad than mine ever was, and when I look at him now, I don’t see something to hate, and I don’t see the Titans’ prez—I see his daughter’s face. Jenny and I have been hanging out ever since she hooked up with Saxon. But each time I see her lately, she seems a little more tired and heartbroken, because cancer is eating away at Red’s chest and he’s got maybe a month or two left. Saxon’s helping her hold on but it won’t be easy when Red takes that final ride. Hell, I despised my dad and his death still knocked my heart onto its ass. So all I can think when I see him is how much my friend is going to be hurting.

  The two presidents sitting is a signal to the others and they start settling into their places. A pint thunks down in front of me. My pulse trips as Jack takes the chair to my right, his own beer in hand. I didn’t even see him come in.

  I reach for the glass and shoot him a grin. “A full tube of lube. Right?”

  He regards me with that flat stare for a long second. His voice is too low to be overheard when he replies, “Only if I fuck your pretty little ass.”

  “Do you plan to?” God, I hope so. Chances of an orgasm would be zero. “Because I’m not a fan of anal.”

  “You will be when I’ve finished.”

  I snort into my beer. “Because you’re so good at it? Or because you’re so bad, every time previous will seem like sweet angels were pounding my ass, giving me a newfound appreciation?”

  The corners of his mouth quirk in amusement. I wish he wouldn’t do that. I immediately picture myself licking those wide, firm lips, then we both shut our yaps when Widowmaker reads the first item on the agenda.

  As club secretary, Widowmaker sends everyone an email listing each item of business we’ll be discussing, but the list is hilariously brief. Each item is given a vague one- or two-word description, so half the time we don’t know what the actual topic is until we get here. There’s the treasurer’s report—listed as “Money”—and it always goes first. The next item is “Ride.” I assume that’s regarding plans for the Labor Day weekend ride, and “Hashtag” is most likely about setting the date to patch in the prospect. The f
ourth item is “Altercation.” That’s probably Valentine and me. The last piece of business will be “Hangmen.”

  I’m right about the ride; I’m wrong about Hashtag.

  “Next up,” Widowmaker says before looking to Stone. “This is yours.”

  Because Stone is the prospect’s sponsor and responsible for him. The enforcer gives a heavy sigh and spreads his hands. “He’s been shadowing one of the La Pine girls.”

  Oh, crap. The girls aren’t from La Pine—that was just where we took the women we found chained up in the Eighty-Eight’s compound when we burned down their meth kitchen and clubhouse. We busted our asses making sure we couldn’t be connected to anything that went down there but we didn’t expect to stumble across women being sold as sex slaves. We couldn’t leave them. We couldn’t let them identify us. So we blindfolded them and dropped them off at a church in the next county over.

  But some of the women weren’t able to walk out on their own. I remember the girl who’d been clinging to Hashtag, sobbing in relief. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Hashtag’s noble little heart probably didn’t stand a chance. “It’s the one he carried out, isn’t it?”

  Stone nods. “Turns out she’s local—she lives up in Bend. I didn’t see the harm at first. I told him to keep his distance but that he could make sure she was all right. But if she connects him with—”

  “End it,” Saxon breaks in. “Do it without losing him.”

  “That’s why I’m bringing it here. I can forbid it but I think he’ll walk. So other suggestions are welcome.”

  “Throw pussy at him,” Spiral says. Like me, he’s one of the non-officers on the board, and that’s typically his solution for everything: more fucking.

  Stone is already shaking his head. “Not going to work with him.”