Take the Honey and Run: Sweet & Dirty BBW MC Romance, Book #6 (Sweet&Dirty BBW MC Romance)

by Cathryn Cade

  Rocker's front chair legs hit the floor with a clunk. T looked at him in surprise, and stiffened when he caught sight of the look on Rocker's face.

  Whatever was in his friend's mind, it was not good.

  "Rezan Faro," Rocker repeated, in a deep snarl. "Finally, remember where I heard his name. Listen, T, that little shit is bad news. Very bad news.’

  ‘He hooked up with one of the strippers from the Line last summer. Pretty gal, not real bright. Pearl, or Opal or some such. She was found beat half to death, out behind the club there. She wouldn't finger him for it, too scared, but some of the other strippers, Candy for one, says she knows it was him. Says he tried to sweet-talk her and Shar into turning tricks for him. Said he did not like it when they turned him down. Only reason I forgot about him was he left town. Guess he's back."

  "And shitting in our territory," Pete added, an ugly look in his eye.

  "Fuck!" T groaned as anger roared up through him, along with the sourness of regret. He’d left Manda there with that kind of pscho? "Fuck me, Faro’s kinda slimy, but then so are plenty of guys we know. This is bad, this is real bad.”

  “That girl he beat up, she okay?" Moke asked.

  Rocker grimaced. "Let's just say she ain't stripper fantasy material anymore."

  "Fuck!" T shoved back his chair and rose, towering over the table and the other men. Rage built in him, a fiery furnace. "I gotta get Manda out of there—now!"

  Rocker held up a staying hand. "Whoa, settle, brother. Don't go off half-cocked now. We got the meet with the Wolves here in a bit. Wait till Bounce, Stick and I are done with that, and I'll ride with you."

  "I'm in," Pete said. Then he closed his eyes, and sighed. "Wait, fuck, no I'm not. Got our bi-annual Veterans' event today, free meal and beer for vets and their women. Lesa and I gotta be there, respect. In fact, we better haul ass."

  "Yeah, you gotta go be there for the vets," T said absently, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Should he wait for backup, or just head back to the Pine Cabins by himself?

  "I'll go, brah," Moke said. "We'll get your woman out, and any others Faro's got up there. Then, cops can't make him pay, we'll do it island style."

  They all stared at him. "Almost afraid to ask, but what's island style?" Pete asked.

  Moke smiled, showing his big white teeth. "Feed him to da sharks, brah."

  "Got no sharks here in North Idaho," T said, baring his teeth right back. "But we got big, fuckin' bears, like me."

  "Close enough."

  "All right," Rocker said. "But we go in easy. Like we heard T had a good time, and we're just stoppin' by to have a look at the girls, see if we want us some. If Faro has any cronies up there, I don't want one of us gettin' shot in the back over this. And you two—" he pointed at T and Moke. "You wait for us."

  T growled under his breath. "C'mon, man. Manda's up there alone with that creep."

  Rocker gave him a hard look. "Yeah, and you ridin' in there in a temper may get both you and her hurt, or dead. You wait." He palmed his phone and then rose, jerking his head toward the door. "That's Stick. Our guests are almost here. I gotta go."

  "He's right, bro," Pete said from the doorway, his gaze on T. "You ride in there all pissed off, showing your teeth, could end badly. You need backup."

  "Fuck's sake, I heard him," T grumbled. "Rock, go have your meet. I'll wait." The club had a hierarchy, founded on solid tradition and blood. A brother went against the orders of the pres or other officers, he'd better be good at talkin' his way out afterward.

  He helped Moke stow the leftovers in the big refrigerator, and then stomped off to clean up. If he was gonna see Manda, he should at least smell decent.

  But, much as he loved a good, hot shower, today it failed to soothe him.

  Nerves were jumping under his skin, and his mind raced. What if she was already in trouble? What if she was hurt? What if Faro chose today to hand her over to some abusive fuck-head of a john, or went psycho on her himself? Logic told T trouble was unlikely to strike quite so swiftly, but he could not rid himself of the nagging itch to go after her now.

  He needed to do something to keep busy.

  He pulled an old shirt over his clean tee and jeans, and stomped out to the garage. Moke was already there, with an array of parts spread around him from an old bike he was rebuilding.

  T moved to join him, and without being asked, picked up a dirty gasket and a rag, doused it carefully with solvent and went to work cleaning it. They worked in silence for several moments, punctuated only by the clink of parts and the rub and creak of damp rags on metal.

  Moke lifted his head, listening, and T heard the cargo bay doors going up next door.

  "Black Wolves are here. Hope they got their shit together, so Stick can make a deal with them fast."

  Moke nodded, and they went back to work.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  The arrival of the Black Wolves MC of Sturgis, SD was remarkably discreet.

  Instead of rolling in thunder through Spokane and Airway Heights on their bikes, the veep, sgt-at-arms and two of the brothers drove into the Flyers' parking lot in a big, new, black, passenger van. The van had a logo on the side with a wolf's head howling at the moon, the words 'Black Wolf Casino & Resort' circled around it.

  The van was splotched with wet snow, the windshield wipers working, for fat snowflakes had begun to fall, dusting the ground and sticking to the fences.

  When the Wolves pulled up before the north cargo bay of the Flyers' compound, the doors rolled open, and after a half a moment to ascertain the bay was clear except for Stick, Rocker and Bouncer, the driver pulled in and parked, the van dripping melting snow onto the oil-stained cement floor.

  The van doors opened, and four men stepped down. The Wolves' veep, a lean man in his fifties, with Plains Indian evident in his hawk-like features and ebony hair, walked around the front of the van, and nodded to the Flyers.

  "Welcome to Flyer territory, Hawk," Stick said. He looked to the Wolves' sgt, who moved forward to join his veep. "Clapper. Good you made it."

  "Long drive," said Clapper, a tall skinny man with graying hair and an ugly scar that twisted up one corner of his mouth. "But at least Idaho's narrow this far north. Took us a long fuckin' time to cross Montana, but Idaho, not so much."

  The Flyers chuckled. "That’s why they call it the Panhandle," Stick agreed. "This is Rocker, our veep, and I think you know Bouncer, our sgt."

  "We do," Hawk Firewalker agreed. He beckoned the other two Wolves forward, a younger version of himself with long braids, and a stocky blond with acne scars under a deep tan. "This is Chaske, my oldest, and Wheels, our driver."

  "Nice van," Bouncer commented. "Next time we'll invite ya in summer, so y'all can enjoy the ride, stead of cooped up in a cage."

  "That would be good," Chaske Firewalker muttered, looking sulky.

  "Wolves know when to run in the open, and when to use the cover of the brush," his father said, with a twinkle in his eye. "The law dogs had no reason to notice us in our van."

  "You got a casino on your tribal lands now?" Rocker asked. "There's a moneymaker."

  "We do. Couldn't beat the white man in direct battle, but we might bankrupt him."

  "True that.,” Stick said wryly. “I see the buses pullin' in to the tribe's casino here, full of people who can't wait to drop their money in a machine."

  "We're staying at their hotel," Hawk said. "Do a little spying while we're in enemy camp."

  Rocker's brows went up. "No enemies here in Flyer territory, just allies."

  Hawk shrugged. "It's a Native thing. Few of the tribes trust each other."

  "Well, come on in," Stick invited. "Doors are locked, so your van is safe here. No one around but our brothers."

  He led the way into the club house, and along the hallway, knowing Rocker would bring up the rear and have his back.

  The Wolves followed him into the main room of the clubhouse, where Streak stood behind the bar. Stick
and Rocker's favorite whiskey was set out with shot glasses. Bouncer poured for Stick and Rocker, then for himself.

  The Wolves stuck to beer, and Streak poured them all one of The Hangar's blond ales.

  "How's Chains?" Stick asked. He'd known the Black Wolves' pres several years, although not well. The man had gotten his club name by beating to death a would-be rival for his woman. Chains had finished the job by garroting the guy with a length of chain. Since the other man had tried to kill Chains first, Stick saw nothing wrong in this.

  Hawk took a drink of beer and made a face of pleased surprise at the taste. "Chains? He's good. Busy with the casino, you know." He smiled. "Hear you got yourself an old lady now."

  Stick nodded. "Da. My Sara is made of lace and steel. A fine choice for me, my boys and my club."

  "It's an epidemic 'round here," Bouncer said, lifting his second shot. "Rocker's claimed now too."

  Rocker grinned slowly. "No regrets here."

  Hawk saluted him with his beer. "A good woman makes it all worthwhile."

  "Our old ladies have a spread planned for later," Stick said. "Then we'll party. Now, what say we get our business out of the way?"

  "And the shit into your possession," Clapper said wryly. "In case any of your local law dogs come sniffin' around."

  "They won't," Stick said. He made it a point to be friends with those he could, and keep club business on the down-low, out of sight of the unfriendly law officers.

  "Heard you got a new top cop in town with a hard-on for you boys," Hawk said.

  "Just for me," Rocker said. "Which is why I keep my nose real clean. Nothin' for you to worry about."

  "Good," Hawk said. "'Cause if any word was to get out about our deal, Chains would be real unhappy."

  "Not nearly as unhappy as me," Stick assured him, his gaze cold and hard. "Now, are we on, or not?"

  Hawk looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. "We're on."

  Stick held out an arm toward the garage bays to the north. "Then let's go."

  As they walked out to the garage, Chaske Firewalker pulled his cell phone out and sent a text. A few moments later, a car horn sounded outside.

  "That'll be our merch," Chaske said, smirking.

  Streak jogged over and looked through the walk-in door to one side of the cargo door. "It's a chick in a Lexus, South Dakota plates."

  The Flyers looked to Hawk, who shrugged. "Didn't think we were stupid enough to travel with it, did you?"

  Stick nodded to Streak, who hit the power button to raise the cargo doors. They opened to reveal a new gold Lexus SUV, driven by a woman. She parked behind the van, and turned off the motor, waiting until Chaske opened her door to step out.

  She was pretty, with a mass of dark hair streaked dramatically with red and gold, wearing tight jeans and tee. Her body language said she belonged to Chaske.

  Stick turned his gaze to Hawk. "All right, let's see it."

  They all gathered around the back of the Lexus, and the two younger Wolves pulled out a couple of girly suitcases, then the bottom liner of the cargo area, and the spare tire. Chaske pulled on a lever, and the bottom of the tire well opened, revealing case upon case of ammo stacked in tightly.

  Rocker whistled. "Nice. Haven't seen a set-up like this since I worked a drug op out of Cali."

  "Got some more rigs just like it," Clapper said proudly. "Law dogs keep an eye on delivery trucks coming in and out of the Casino. They can't watch every passenger vehicle. Ain't never been any weed or blow near these rigs, so K-9 drug-sniffer won't raise any alarms, either."

  Stick filed this information away for a chat with Moke and T, see if they'd be interested in working up some modifications like this on a couple of vehicles.

  Not that Stick would even consider letting his woman drive a vehicle loaded with contraband. He knew most all of his men would agree.

  Snake being the exception. His woman Darlene had grown up in the life with a father in one of the most notorious Cali clubs. She hadn't turned a hair when her Vegas' vacation a few weeks ago had included transporting two drugged and bound low-lifes in the back of his van.

  The pair had been turned loose and promptly got themselves killed trying to outrun the Vegas cops in a stolen car. They hadn’t died in Flyer territory, that was all Stick cared about.

  "Let's talk price," Stick said. "I like your deal, we'll take more shipments."

  With the scarcity of legal ammo in their area, they could sell as much as the Wolves delivered. And this way, the Flyers did not have to deal with getting it over the border from either Mexico or Canada. Stick had little respect for laws that limited the amount of ammo gun-owners could buy for legal firearms. But he also had zero interest in international smuggling. The Wolves wanted to do it, or had contacts who did, that was fine.

  He was a family man now, and he couldn't afford to do prison time. Stick had feelers out to the Seattle chapter of the Flyers for deliveries smuggled into the Port of Seattle, but so far Sound had been able to sell all he got in his own territory.

  Stick and Hawk haggled. When they reached an agreement, Streak brought a dolly, the brothers unloaded the ammo, and it was wheeled away. Chaske's woman headed for the casino hotel.

  The bikers trooped into the meeting room for drinks, cigars and more talk about possible alliances in other areas. Although Stick trusted the Wolves about as far as he could throw them, he respected that they, like the Flyers, did not run hard drugs or whores.

  In their world, a club had to take the allies they could get.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  * * *

  T had waited for Rocker for nearly two hours. He and Moke heard voices, the garage doors going up and down, and vehicles arriving and departing.

  Since Rocker wasn't back yet, that likely meant the officers had settled in for a long parley with the other club.

  T could hold off no longer. Worry buzzed around inside him like an angry hornet. "I'm going.”

  He set down the part he'd been polishing, and tossed the rag in a bucket.

  "All right." Moke stood, wiping his hands on a rag. "It was snowing, changed to rain little while ago. Roads are good and wet."

  "Yeah, I'll take my truck," T said. "Can't put her on the back of my bike without protection anyways." By which they both understood he meant warm, windproof riding gear. Helmets were optional. He rarely wore one himself, preferring a skull-cap or a beanie, and a good pair of shades.

  "We goin' in packin'?" Moke’s gaze, hard as ebony, said he was ready to do what it took to back T.

  T nodded shortly. "Got my zombie stomper under the seat. Don't trust that little shithead Faro any farther than I can toss him."

  Which was actually quite a ways, with T's strength and Faro's weedy build. T hoped he got that chance to find out. He'd rather use his fists than his sawed-off shotgun. More satisfaction, less noise.

  "You take your truck, I'll follow on my bike," Moke decided. "That way we're ready for any kine action."

  "Good enough."

  T grabbed his leather jacket, shoved his automatic in his back-of-belt holster, and they headed out.

  The heavy, spring clouds spit rain as T drove east through Spokane. As he headed north across the valley, his tires whined on the wet pavement, and a passing semi spit dirty spray across his windshield. Traffic was heavy, everyone busy on Saturday errands.

  The rain quit as he reached the forest around Rathdrum, but fog was collecting low over the saturated ground. White fingers of fog seeped through the trees, reaching for the truck tires as he wound along the narrow drive into the Pine Cabins. Despite being mid-afternoon, the woods were gloomy.

  T pulled his truck to a stop in the drive of the Pine Cabins and studied the area. Yesterday, Faro's red-and-black Charger had been parked in front of the office. Today, a tricked-out, silver Chevy truck sat there.

  His gut tightened. Had Faro already found another john for Manda?

  He could see a light on through the front window of Manda's cabin. N
o movement inside, though.

  Moke rolled slowly past him on his black-and-silver Harley, and turned down the lane in front of the cabins. Behind his leather mask and shades, T knew his bro was scanning the place, just as T was.

  When the big Hawaiian turned and cruised back to meet him, T rolled down his truck window. "See her?"

  "Nope. No movement in her cabin, bathroom's dark and bed's empty. There's a red-and-black Charger parked behind the office, though."

  T grunted. "That'll be Faro." He’d drive a flashy car like that.

  "Looks like there's another way out of here," Moke added. "Want me to block it?"

  At that moment, the door of the office opened.

  They both turned to look as a man stepped to fill the doorway—or tried to. He was average height, but looked like he spent most of his waking hours pumping iron, and the rest in one of those fake-tanning places.

  Despite the chilly morning, he wore striped sweatpants and a skin-tight tank top.

  "Hey!" he barked. "Whaddya want?"

  Anticipation curled T's mouth up at the corners. "That little asshole’s mine."

  He pulled up and parked, crookedly so that his truck was a little behind the other—and if it belonged to a would-be john for Manda, T was gonna smash the hell out of it, as soon as he had her safe. For now, he slid out of his own truck, and stalked around it to face the man in the office doorway.

  The dude had a mashed-in baby face, which maybe explained the body-building. He probably got no respect until he bulked up.

  Not that T would give him any now.

  One look into the dude’s freaked-out eyes told T he wasn't ready to fight, that he relied on his steroidal bulk to frighten others.

  T strolled closer. "Hey, man. Just lookin' for Manda. She around today?"

  The dude twitched, like he wanted to look behind him. Instead he scowled, which sadly for his attempt at intimidation, made him look like a baby about to pitch a howling fit.

  T had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. Honest to fuck, was this the best Faro could do for muscle?