Biker’s Pet: A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance (The Sin Reapers MC) (Dirty Bikers MC Romance Collection Book 2)

by Heather West

  I hoped it was still true.

  We ate quietly, but I couldn’t keep my thoughts to myself for long. He seemed…slightly different. More somber, quieter than usual, and it gave me hope that maybe he’d meant what he’d said last night. Maybe he really was ready to be done.

  When we’d mostly finished and were just picking at our plates, I cleared my throat to get his attention. He looked up at me and I made myself be brave.

  “I want out.”

  He stared at me blankly for a long moment, as though he couldn’t quite make himself process what I was saying. He couldn’t make himself understand. Then, when he did, he looked almost desperate. “You want…you want out?”

  I nodded. I reached across the table for his hand, squeezing it in mine. “Yes. I want us to go, together. I want us to finish with all of this and say to hell with it. Let’s just go.”

  Excitement bubbled in me, thrilled by my confession and the prospect that maybe he would go for it. But then I saw the hard line of his mouth and the sadness in his eyes. My hopes withered and died in my breast. This wasn’t going to go well.

  “I’m sorry baby, but we can’t.” He picked up his glass of milk and took a big gulp, like that was all he had to say.

  “What? But…why? You said—”

  He interrupted me. “I know what I said, but I’m telling you now, we can’t.”

  I felt anger swell inside me, starting slow, but growing in intensity quickly. I swallowed, trying to stifle some of it. I wanted to seem reasonable right now and a sudden angry fit wouldn’t help my case. “Why the hell not? I mean, what’s keeping us?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “It’s just not the right time. It’s not what your father would have wanted.”

  I froze. The anger that I’d been trying to keep down reared its ugly head viciously. “What did you say?”

  “I said—”

  But I cut him off. It had been a rhetorical question. “What the hell do you think you know about my father?”

  The line of his mouth grew thinner, sharper. “I know a lot, baby. A lot.”

  “You don’t know shit!”

  He shook his head. “I know why he died.”

  The air in my lungs left with a sudden whoosh, and for a moment I was so breathless that I felt lightheaded. Were we talking about his suicide? I knew what the note said, but that didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean a damn thing and I— “You…” But I couldn’t get anything else out of my mouth.

  He took a breath. “I know why he died, but I can’t tell you, not yet. Not now.”

  He looked torn, conflicted over something, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t interested in what he was feeling. “What right do you have?”

  “Cherry—” he tried, and that only made things worse.

  “I fucking hate that name!” I spat at him, tossing the dishes in the sink just so I could look away from him. “I’ve always fucking hated that name.”

  It was an old nickname from high school, one I’d picked up reluctantly. As a freshman, it hadn’t bothered me because I thought it sounded cute. But by sophomore year, I’d realized it was because guys were always talking about popping my cherry. They’d snicker behind my back and stare from across the courtyard; then when I caught them, you’d think they’d be ashamed, but all they did was stick out their tongues lewdly at me, implying what they wanted to do.

  It wasn’t fair for me to get pissed off at Max for that; he didn’t know what it meant or why I hated it. But I was already angry at Max. I was furious with him and then he used that fucking name and it was all I could do not to reach out and actually strike at him.

  I started to scrub at the dishes, turning on the water so hot that it all but scalded my hands, but I didn’t care. The spark of pain felt good. It felt better than the tearing of my heart at Max’s words. I wasn’t ready to talk about Dad or why he was dead. I just wasn’t ready.

  I heard the kitchen chair legs scrape across the linoleum floor and heard as Max’s heavy footsteps moved towards me, but I didn’t look back at him. My eyes stayed focused on the sink and the dishes and the water. I wanted to be mad at him, damnit, and I knew he was about to try to convince me not to be.

  His large, rough hands slipped over my upper arms, gripping tightly, but not so tight that I couldn’t jerk out of his grasp if I wanted to. Max was a lot of things, but he would never keep me somewhere if I didn’t want to be there.

  “Lucy,” he said soothingly, his voice apologetic and deep, though he would make no real apology. That much I knew already. “I need you to trust me, baby. I know it’s hard right now. I know you’re hurting, but I need you to try. I promise it’ll make sense in the end, but right now, we have to do it my way.”

  “Damnit, Max,” I whispered, feeling hot tears well in my eyes. But I still didn’t look at him. “Just tell me now. Please, just tell me.” I imagined him shaking his head, felt his grip tighten, then release me. He took a step away from me and I suddenly felt cold. I didn’t want him to let me go, no matter how angry or upset with him I was. “Max?”

  “I can’t. I’m working on it and I’ll tell you, I promise, as soon as I need help. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one, baby.”

  I pursed my lips tightly shut, knowing it was a lost cause. I wanted to push and push, to poke at him until he caved, but I knew better. Once Max made up his mind about something, that was it. If he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, he wouldn’t. Not until he decided otherwise. There wasn’t a damn thing I could say or do to change that.

  Even so, I couldn’t help the whisper that left my lips. “He was my father, Max.”

  I heard him sigh. “I know. You’ve just gotta hang in there a little longer, baby. I’ll make this right.”

  Except I didn’t believe him. I knew he meant what he said, but things were so fucked up that I didn’t think anything could make any of this right ever again. I heard his footsteps as he left the kitchen. He might have said something else so quietly that I couldn’t hear, or maybe he just left in silence, but it amounted to the same damn thing.

  Why won’t you just come with me? I thought miserably as I took the rest of the dishes to the sink. Why won’t you just come with me and we can go together?

  I couldn’t think of anything, anything in this world that would make staying worth it. And I couldn’t honestly believe that my father would have wanted me to stay. How could he have? How? He would have wanted me safe and happy, and that wasn’t the kind of things I would get here.

  I finished scrubbing the dishes and then rinsed them off. I dried them and put them up, thankful for the menial task and the distraction it gave my mind. Ultimately, I finished quickly and had to face the day. I headed up the stairs, resolving for a shower. The door to the bedroom was cocked just barely open and I knew Max was in there. I debated for a split second about whether I should try another go with him, but ultimately decided there was no point. I resigned myself to waiting, at least for a little bit, until Max told me what was going on.

  Dipping into the bathroom, I ran the water and stripped down to nothing. When I was naked and my hair was brushed out, hanging down my back, I stepped underneath the spray and, for a moment, pretended it was enough to wash away everything that had happened in the last six months.

  I finished my shower, then dried off. Max was lying down on the bed when I went to our room for some clothing. He had an arm thrown over his eyes and his breathing was even, though I seriously doubted he was sleeping. I didn’t disturb him, though, instead just grabbed a pair of skin tight leather pants and a baby blue top that was a button down, but low cut.

  Sending one last glance at Max, who hadn’t moved, I sighed and shook my head. I wasn’t sure how long I could wait.

  Turning away, I headed downstairs and grabbed my leather jacket from the closet, then went out the door. I walked towards my car, but, as I did, I caught something gleaming in the morning sunlight. Something silver and shiny.

  I froze.
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  It was a knife.

  I glanced back towards the house, thinking I should show Max. But I didn’t want to see Max again, couldn’t handle it right now, so I grabbed the knife, holding it by the very tip, pinching between my two fingers so I didn’t have to really touch it. Unsure, but knowing I didn’t want to take it back inside, I dropped it down into my purse.

  Then I headed back towards the car, because whatever else was going on, I was still the bookkeeper for the club, and I knew I had a day of long, boring paperwork ahead of me.

  I thought about Max and the knife that weighed down my purse and I wondered just what I thought I was going to do when it was all said and done.

  Chapter 10

  Max

  Violence.

  There were probably some people in the world who would go the rest of their lives without seeing what true violence was. People who lived in little suburban neighborhoods in cookie cutter houses, oblivious to what the real world was like other than the nightly news talking about things that made those people just shake their heads and mutter about how they just couldn’t believe how there were some people who could do things like that.

  I wasn’t one of those people and probably never would be. Violence was a dirty word, but it was in my vocabulary and used often. Did I like it? No, at least, I didn’t think so, but it was there, always lurking just around the next corner. It was part of the life I’d chosen to live and it was part of the life I’d lived before that.

  You didn’t avoid violence in foster care any more than you avoided jumping from home to home.

  But just because I was used to it and I expected it, didn’t mean I enjoyed it. I didn’t have to take pleasure from necessary things, I just had to do them.

  That was what had happened last night. I should have known things couldn’t go smoothly with Blade and the Slayers. They were into some bad shit and I’d started hearing that it wasn’t just hard drugs and arms deals that they were getting involved with either. It was worse than that, the kinds of things I had always promised myself I would never get behind. I wasn’t a pimp and I didn’t like the idea of human trafficking, but I had to do something. I told myself that whatever the Slayers were into, the Sin Reapers didn’t have to follow. We could coexist, split the territory and the profits, then go on our merry way.

  I told myself that over and over again, but it was almost impossible to believe. How could I claim I wasn’t a party to those sorts of activities when I was taking some cut in the profits they were making?

  It didn’t sit well with me. None of it did. But funds were low. Members were low. And if we didn’t make peace with the Slayers, we’d have to make war, and I wasn’t dumb enough to think we could win that. Not now.

  But even with all that knowledge—the Slayers, Blade, the drugs, and the prostitution—I never would have been prepared for last night. How could I have been?

  “What the hell is this?”

  “A present. I hope you like it.”

  I shuddered at the memory of our conversation that night. How eager and pleased Blade had been with himself. I still didn’t know if it was because he enjoyed torturing others—which wasn’t a bad guess—or if it was because he knew the guy had been lying all the while. The problem was, I couldn’t rule out the second possibility no matter how much I figured the first was true.

  “A good faith present. A favor, if you will.”

  “And why would this present of yours matter to us?”

  “Because this is the man who made the Preacher kill himself.”

  Those words would echo and rattle around in my mind like ghosts for the rest of my life. I would never be able to be completely rid of them, no matter how hard I might try. They’d been perfect, regardless of the truth. Just enough to get our blood and anger pumping, but not concrete enough to really give us anything.

  It was widely known that the Preacher had killed himself. There’d been a gun, a pool of blood, a hole in his head, and most importantly of all, a note. It hadn’t been detailed. It hadn’t given much by way of reasoning, but it had been there. And it had been in the Preacher’s handwriting. Both Lucy and her mother had confirmed that much and it didn’t matter how much everyone would like to argue: there was no denying the note wasn’t a forgery.

  If it were a suicide, as it seemed, the Sin Reapers were left floundering about. Code stated that the death of a member should be avenged, because members were family, but how did you avenge the death of a member when they killed themselves? None of us were quite sure, so to find some evidence, any evidence at all, that might suggest that there had been more at work here, gave us all a little hope.

  At least, it would when I told everyone about it. As of yet, I hadn’t.

  I was lying on the bed upstairs, staring blankly at the ceiling. Lucy had showered, dressed, and left, but I hadn’t even moved since breakfast. We’d argued and it’d been bad, but what could I tell her? The truth?

  That almost made me laugh, though it was hardly what anyone would call funny. Lucy was in a bad place right now, lost at sea after finding her father’s body, and I probably shouldn’t have told her the things I told her. But I didn’t have a lot of options. She wanted to leave; I couldn’t let her. Not yet.

  Now that Lucy was gone for the day, to work on something safe and boring, I couldn’t help but think of how it had gone down the night before. I’d screwed up, bad, but there was nothing to be done about it. I couldn’t walk away.

  Blade and the Slayers left, but Bills and I lingered behind. The man hung by his bound hands off a hook that was tied to the ceiling. He was already in bad shape and something in my stomach churned nauseously as I realized I’d have to put him in worse shape. Once the sounds of the Slayers’ bikes reached our ears, the revving followed by the squealing of tires, I knew it was time to start. If I lingered for much longer, there would be no excuse. Bills would start to wonder if I was man enough for the job, and that was a question I didn’t have the time for right now. Too much else was going on.

  Besides, however much I didn’t want to do this, however much I’d finally gotten tired of the violence, there was a part of me that wanted this. If this man really were responsible for the Preacher’s suicide, then damnit, I wanted to know. I wanted answers. It just wouldn’t be pretty how I was going to try to get them.

  My throat was suddenly dry and it was all I could do not to swallow heavily in nervousness to try to ease some of that.

  I cracked my knuckles to buy myself some time, trying to think of how I was going to do this, but I already knew. There was only one option to me now. I’d ask the questions, but it wasn’t really about them. It was about my fists connecting with his face and the knowledge that his beating was all that really mattered. In the eyes of the Sin Reapers—should they ever know what happened—he was guilty as sin. There wouldn’t be any trial for him, though something in my gut told me there should be.

  “Wake him up,” I told Bills, who was standing silently behind me.

  The man had already begun to rouse towards consciousness, but he was only halfway there. I imagined he’d already been through quite a lot tonight, courtesy of the Slayers, but it, unfortunately, wasn’t enough. He’d have to go through our punishment, too.

  Bills did as I asked. He was looking a little pale and his brow was dappled with drops of sweat, and for a moment I wondered if this made him as sick as it made me. The idea was almost laughable, however, and I quickly pushed it out of my mind. Bills wasn’t the kind of man to be squeamish; if anything, he was looking forward to this.

  There were several open water bottles on the table, remnants from our meeting, and Bills grabbed one quickly. He stepped up to the hanging man and grinned widely, his teeth gleaming an off white in the dim lighting, almost like a black light was illuminating them. He threw the water at the man’s face, emptying the bottle’s contents. It was effective.

  The man began to sputter and spit, coughing up water and maybe some swallowed blood; it was hard to
say. He was in rough shape. When he’d stopped, Bills stepped up and grabbed him by the face, pinching his cheeks between his thumb and fingers. Jerking the man so he was looking at Bills, my lieutenant grinned at him. “You’re in a bad way, my friend,” he said darkly. “So you’d better answer right if you wanna walk away tonight.”

  There was a hollowness in his words. I had the distinct impression that Bills didn’t expect him to walk away at all, regardless of what he said. I hadn’t decided yet if I could bring myself to do that. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d killed a man, but it would be the first time it was like this.

  Bills stepped back, letting the man’s face drop, and I stepped up to the plate. This was my show, after all. The man’s gaze whirled around quickly to me. He paled when he caught sight of my face, recognizing me instantly.

  “Oh, shit,” he muttered, and I nodded in agreement.