Having It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 9)

by Wilde, Kati

  “That’s what she has.” What she’ll always have.

  Red nods. “She might need you to move out here before you get to Reichmann.”

  Because Red’s sick and going to get worse, and she won’t have anyone else. “If she needs me, I’ve already told her I’ll come.”

  “That’ll do.” Smoke billows up when he opens the grill lid. “Now, prez to prez—how do you want to move forward? You want to patch in the Titans right away?”

  “I want to wait. There’s bound to be friction now that the clubs are sharing the same house. We’ll let that settle down, go on a few rides together, let them start to feel like brothers. That way it’ll mean something when we give your men their new colors.”

  “And my role?”

  “You’re the Titans’ prez. I’ve no interest in pushing you out. The Riders aren’t taking over. We’re just coming together. So we’ll ride side by side until you can’t.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, just turns the brats over. I’m not looking for an answer, anyway.

  Except this one. “When the time comes, I’d like to patch you in first. Unless you plan to remain a Titan.”

  Now he looks up. “I’ll tell you what—if Reichmann’s in the ground, I’ll die a Rider.”

  Works for me. “You’ll look damn good in our colors.”

  “He always did,” Thorne says as he crushes out his cigarette. “So we’re down to one problem: How are we taking out the Eighty-Eight?”

  Chapter Two

  Saxon

  Taking out the Eighty-Eight Henchmen won’t be the hard part. The hard part is getting to them. The how of that is still eating at me later that night while I’m working the speed bag in my garage. Though I’ve got the main door raised and a fan going, the air’s stifling. The muscles in my arms feel like hot iron, but I want the pain. It burns away the frustration of not knowing how to get at the Eighty-Eight, helping to clear my head and refocus on the problem.

  And, Christ—I miss Jenny.

  I should be hearing from her soon. My phone’s sitting on the weight bench. Any time now, she ought to be calling to say that she made it home all right. A week without her is too damn long. Next time she has one of these festivals, I’ll try to arrange at least a few days away and go with her.

  But not until the Eighty-Eight are gone.

  And this is not focused. Shaking my head, I pick up my gloves and move over to the heavy bag. The light in the garage spills down the short driveway. There’s no sound from outside but crickets. The street’s quiet. My place is on the tail of a dead end, with retirees living on either side of me. The lights in their houses went dark almost before the sun was down. Around eleven, Mrs. Caffee will come out in her robe and wait while her Pomeranian pisses on the Yoder’s flower beds. If I’m still out here then and she sees my garage light on, she’ll walk by and look in—just checking to make sure I haven’t accidentally left the garage door open, she always tells me. Jenny says the older woman’s probably just checking to see whether I’m wearing a shirt while I’m lifting.

  Fuck. Maybe I should just ride out to the ranch house. I’ll see Jenny and get rid of this hollow ache in my gut.

  But she’s been working her ass off all week. She’s always working her ass off, yet she’s never sounded as tired as she did on the phone. So I’ll let her rest—and keep my hands off her until tomorrow.

  Anyway, I still haven’t earned that spot in her bed. And never will if I don’t focus on the fucking Eighty-Eight.

  Their greed is going to take them down. Lots of outlaw clubs get mixed up in shit like they have. The Hellfire Riders haven’t—but we don’t have clean hands. When we’ve got a problem, we take care of it and the law wouldn’t look too kindly on some of the methods we’ve used. But we’re here to ride. We’re here to fuck and fight. We’re not here to get rich, and I’m careful about who the Riders ask favors from and who we end up owing.

  But the Eighty-Eight started in California with a supremacist agenda and then began chasing the cash, adding chapters in other states. The local Eighty-Eight settled here about twenty years ago. Mostly they cook meth and supply the more powerful chapters. They’ve probably added other shit—hauling guns or whatever else—but it’s the meth that’ll bring them down. Because I don’t have a single fucking illusion about how brotherhood works in those clubs. If the supply doesn’t come, Reichmann and everyone else is dead.

  I don’t want the bigger chapters to do my work, though. I just need the Eighty-Eight panicking. If I get rid of their cook, their kitchen, and the club’s officers, the others will scatter—afraid that they’ll be the ones to pay for the shipments that didn’t come.

  It’ll have to be hard and clean and quick. And that’s the fucking trouble. The Eighty-Eight has a compound out in the boonies. Word is, there’s booby traps laid all around it. Maybe that’s just to scare people off, but I’m not betting my brothers’ lives on it. Some of the Eighty-Eight’s members make Ted Kaczynski look sane. And although we outnumber them, a head-on confrontation isn’t going to work. Riding in on fifty bikes is probably just asking to be gunned down from some fortified tower.

  Or maybe gunned down from a few log cabins or tin shacks. Because we don’t know what we’d be heading into. None of the Riders have had eyes on the place.

  We’ve got to get some info before heading in. Because the only other choice is trying to take out the Eighty-Eight somewhere else. Some kind of ambush while they’re out riding. But there’s too many variables in that scenario. Best to keep it simple. Burn down their kitchen. Take out Reichmann, the cook, and the officers.

  I’ve got to get eyes out there.

  My lungs are burning when I stop to wipe the sweat from my face. My arms are like hot rubber. I glance at my phone, then back toward the street when headlights cut through the dark. I squint against the glare before I recognize the rig.

  Jenny’s truck.

  My blood surges. My dick is hard so fast it hurts. I toss my gloves and head out of the garage as she pulls into the drive.

  Her interior lights come on and the sight of her is like a punch to my chest. All that dark hair to wrap around my fist and those pink pouty lips already curved into a smile, as if the exhaustion bruising her eyes is nothing. She’s got on the black T-shirt and short black skirt that she wears at her brewery storefront, which means that after the festival was over, she didn’t even head back to the hotel and change into her regular clothes before coming home.

  Before coming home to me.

  Her green eyes are bright as she opens the door. “Look at you, all sweaty and half-naked. I must be a very good girl to deserve this.”

  I grin and catch her waist before her boots touch the ground, pushing her back into the driver’s seat. “Mrs. Caffee will be coming out in a little while,” I say against her mouth. “I thought I’d give her something to dream about.”

  Her lips part on a laugh and then I’m licking my way in, tasting chocolate and the coffee that kept her alert during the drive. Need is a hot fist in my gut, with fingers reaching up to squeeze my heart. God, this woman. She fucking owns me. I’m standing in my own damn driveway and somehow I’m the one coming home.

  Her breath shudders when I raise my head. Her lips glisten.

  Arousal hoarsens her voice. “I missed you. So much.”

  “How much?” I grip her hips and slide her forward. Her thighs widen to make room for me and a hungry little moan escapes her when the hard length of my cock wedges against her pussy. “Because when I get you out of this truck and into the house, I’m gonna have you bent over the kitchen table as fast as I can—and maybe I’ll last one minute.”

  Her small breasts jiggle a little when she laughs. Her nipples are like bullets beneath her tight shirt. “I’m not going to last much longer than that. I was thinking of you the entire way.”

  “Yeah?” I run my fingertips up the inside of her thigh, watching her lips part. “Were you thinking of me licking your sw
eet pussy?”

  She shivers. “Yes.”

  “And taking my cock?”

  “Yes. You were holding me down and fucking me so deep.” Her head falls back as she lifts her hips, grinding against my shaft. “Making me take all of it.”

  Christ. Only her panties and my sweatpants are keeping me from sinking into her. “Were you wet?”

  “I’m wetter now.”

  And she’s trembling and breathless. Fuck. I’m not joking about how quickly I’ll have her and how long I’ll last. The second she’s in my house, I’m going balls deep into her juicy little pussy and filling her with my cum. But no matter how wet she is, her cunt never takes my dick easily; not right away. Better to get her ready now.

  “Holding you down?” I grip the back of her neck and she stills, looking up at me. There’s no doubt in her eyes. Only need. “On your back or on your knees?”

  “My knees. With you behind me.”

  Standing here with the truck’s door open and Jenny sitting on the edge of the seat, I can’t get her into that position now. But it doesn’t matter. I back off a little, easing the pressure of my cock between her legs, and push my hand between us.

  Her panties are soaked. Just fucking soaked. And I’m going to lose it.

  “Tell me,” I say. It’s harsh but I can’t help it. I’m barely holding on. Her pussy’s so hot and wet and as soon as I get my fingers inside her I know she’ll feel like heaven. “Why was I making you take it? You didn’t want it?”

  “I did. So much. But I shouldn’t.”

  “Why?” I tug her panties aside and slick my middle finger between her pussy lips, plump and swollen with need.

  She moans. “Because you’re a Rider. And it’ll cause so much trouble.”

  Oh, fuck yeah. So much trouble—at least it would have a month ago. And I love where she’s going with this.

  My grip tightens on her neck. Her breathing is fast and shallow as I push in to my first knuckle. Her inner walls clasp my finger as if she’s sucking me in. “How many times you imagine this, Jenny? The big bad Rider making you take his cock?”

  She flashes a wicked little smile. “About every night for nine years.”

  Since I got out of prison. The first time after the trial that we ran into each other. She’s been needing me almost as long as I’ve been needing her. “And your daddy’s the Titans’ prez.” So I couldn’t touch her for so damn long. “If I make you take it, you don’t have to feel bad, do you? You’re not disloyal, even when you beg me for it.”

  Her hips rock forward. “I won’t ever beg.”

  “Even when I hold you down, princess? When I tease your tight little cunt? When I make you come?”

  “I won’t come. I won’t give in.”

  Her body shakes when my thumb glides over her clit. “You want me to make you come now?”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m going to make you.” Her cunt grips my finger as I push deeper and she cries out, her back arching. “I’m going to make you come so fucking hard. Then your hot pussy is going to take every inch of my dick. Tell me you want it.”

  “No.”

  “No?” I snarl against her lips. “You’re riding my hand, princess. Your pussy juice is all over my fingers. You want more?”

  “No,” she says and I give it to her, sliding a second finger in, forcing her snug inner walls to stretch, working her clit faster. She clings to my arms, her fingernails digging into my biceps. “Saxon. God. God. Please.”

  Not playing anymore. Her whole body’s trembling and stiffening. About to come.

  “I’m going to get you inside and fuck you, Jenny.” Voice rough, I pump harder into her. “You are going to take every fucking inch. Then I’m going to suck on your clit until you come again. You want that?”

  “Yes.”

  Christ, she’s so beautiful when she comes. Her green eyes glaze over and her cheeks flush before she curls closer, her mouth hot and open against my neck. Her cry is muffled against my throat. My balls tighten with the need to come when her pussy convulses around my fingers, and I keep pumping, keep sliding my thumb over her clit until her hips buck and she’s suddenly pushing me away.

  “No more.” She’s panting. “I can’t again.”

  She will when we get inside. But I ease back for now, slipping out of her pussy and sucking the wetness from my fingers. My right hand smooths down her spine, holding her against me as she catches her breath. Her forehead’s pressed to my shoulder and little shudders run through her every few seconds.

  Finally she lifts her head and looks up at me. “Well, that was a fun little hello.” Her voice is as soft and as warm as the expression in her eyes. “God, it’s been a long week.”

  “Too long.” I push her hair back from her face. “You’re tired as fuck.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’ll be doing all the work when we get inside; I can just lie there and fall asleep, right?” She gives me another wicked smile when I grin, then tugs at my waistband and runs her fingers over my cockhead. That light tease is torture. “Though I can’t say I’m looking forward to dragging myself out of bed and driving out to the ranch later. So I’ll make you a deal. You carry in my case and I’ll lie there all night.”

  That’s a deal I’ll take. I drop a kiss to her mouth and back up. Her overnight bag is in the bed of the truck, strapped in with a bungee cord. As I unhook the cord, movement by the Caffee’s fence makes me glance in that direction.

  Not a gray-haired woman in a robe. Not a little white dog. Instead it’s the dull gleam of a shotgun barrel, swinging up and taking aim.

  “Jenny—”

  The blast drowns out my roar. My ears are ringing and for a second I’m not here, it’s not hot but cold and my shoulder’s like crushed glass, and I can smell the burning fuel and my blood and hear Anderson screaming because his leg’s been blown off—but it’s not a marine screaming. It’s Jenny, begging.

  “Oh, Jesus, help me. Please, please.” She’s pulling at my arm and I’m on my knees.

  Gotta get up. But my head’s spinning and my legs won’t steady.

  “He’s down!” The shout comes from across the yard. “Go grab the girl. The boss wants his whore.”

  Jenny. Reichmann sent his men for her.

  “Get in the house,” I tell her roughly. I’ll slow them down here. “Run.”

  Tears streaking her cheeks, she shoves her hands under my arms and pushes. “Get in!”

  I stagger up and suddenly there’s some skinhead fucker with a swastika tattooed into his neck coming around the nose of the truck and looking surprised that I’m alive. Quick, I’m on him, my fist in his gut and my elbow slamming into his back. He’s down and I grab his skull and drive his face into the concrete, then my shoulder’s on fire and Jenny’s screaming, pulling at me.

  “Get in!” She throws her shoulder into my gut like a linebacker, knocking me back against the truck cab. “The other one’s coming with the shotgun!”

  And I’m fading. I slide across her seat and there’s blood dripping all over me. Then she shouts “Down!” and the cab’s back window explodes, showering glass, and Jenny’s crouching low in her seat and shifting into reverse.

  We bump across something, the curb or a body and I don’t give a fuck. My arm’s not moving. I can’t lift my head and my neck’s raining blood. I fall against the passenger door when she whips the truck around, then she’s sitting up, the streetlights racing by in long bright ribbons as she tears off her shirt.

  “Hold this against your neck. Saxon! Please, please.” She takes a quick glance at the road. Then she’s leaning over, cramming the wadded shirt against my throat before taking my hand and lifting it to press against the same spot. “Keep it there. The hospital’s only five minutes away. Just hold on.”

  I’ll hold on. Because now she’s crying, smears of blood mixing with her tears, and she’s not talking to me but just sobbing over and over please I can’t lose him please don’t take him too please don
’t.

  I don’t know who she’s begging but there’s no one who could take me away. I’ll never leave her.

  But I’ll tell her that later, when I can. I’m too tired now. I’m just going to sleep.

  It’s been a damn long week.

  Chapter Three

  Saxon

  Everything’s so fucking bright. The light’s drilling into my skull. I squint against it and turn my head, and there’s a ragged draw of breath beside me. Jenny.

  She’s leaning over me, her face like a bleached sheet stained by raw pink around her eyes.

  “No crying. I’m not leaving you,” I tell her and there’s a desert in my throat. Nothing but a rasping whisper comes through. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” Despite what I told her, those green eyes are filling again and I can hear the thickness in her voice. “So are you.”

  That’s good. But she doesn’t give me a chance to say so, leaning in, her breath hot against my ear.

  “I said I didn’t see who it was,” she says softly, so softly, then her lips press to my cheek and she’s lifting her head again. “The sheriff’s here to ask you a few questions, and the nurses will probably poke you again, so I’ll be back when they’re done.”

  I nod and realize she’s holding my hand. She starts to pull away but I tighten my fingers.

  “You all right, Jenny?” I think I already asked. I don’t think I believed her answer.

  She smiles and her tears spill over. “I’m all right.”

  • • •

  Jenny

  I’m not all right. My chest feels like an iceberg is lodged inside it, heavy and cold. But I’m not numb. I wish I was. Because then I wouldn’t be hurting so much. Then I might not be seeing blood explode from Saxon’s shoulder and neck every time I close my eyes.

  I thought I lost him.

  The Henchman used a shotgun, the favored weapon of motorcycle clubs because the ballistics are harder for the cops to trace—there’s no rifling on the shot pellets—and you don’t have to aim carefully, which is perfect when you’re firing while driving by on a bike. You just have to be close to a target for a shotgun to be effective. That probably saved Saxon’s life. The Henchman was just far enough away and hit mostly muscle; they had to dig a pile of lead shot out of Saxon’s left shoulder. But the pellets also ripped a big chunk out of his neck and there was so much blood. I thought his artery was torn open. I thought he was as good as dead and I was just watching him bleed out.