Victory Rising

by Blaine, Destiny

  Victory really didn’t need to threaten Gaylord or utter his name in any informal setting. Let alone, a formal clubhouse gathering. Doris was wise to the fact they’d been fooling around. She understood what happened behind closed doors. She’d been confined behind enough of them.

  Oh no, Victory didn’t have to issue warnings, or make promises. Doris had always wanted Gaylord for her own, and she’d later use what she knew about Victory and Gaylord to try and permanently remove the wedding band from his hand. The dumb bitch wasn’t smart enough to understand any effort to split up Melinda and Gaylord would be in vain. Melinda liked money, and Gaylord made sure he kept plenty of cash in her pockets.

  Still, Melinda would soon learn of their affair, and that’s when Victory would know what it meant to stare down the wrong end of a gun. Melinda possessed a notorious temper, and when it came to protecting what was hers, she’d take extraordinary measures, even if it meant killing one of the club’s own.

  The time had come to find greener pastures. It was time to get the hell out of dodge, or at least the Devil’s Angels’ clubhouse.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Victory slid away from the wheel of her vehicle. “Fuck!” she screamed, kicking her flat tire.

  Placing her hands on either side of her head, she shoved her palms up, bunching her hair in clenched fists. “Why me!”

  She didn’t even bother retrieving her cell. She was right smack dab in the middle of a dead spot. She’d traveled Beech Creek Road enough to remember where cell phones were of no use. Dropping to the front seat again, she leaned over and opened the glove box, hoping there were some instructions she could follow.

  She was twenty-five years old and didn’t know how to change a flat. Ridiculous. She rummaged through a bunch of paperwork. Hearing the faint rumble of an approaching motorcycle, she slammed the compartment shut and rose from her seat, immediately standing with her arms draped over the top of her car door.

  The biker drove right passed her, leaving her to glare at the Heroes and Rogues patch and colors. She rushed to the trunk of the car. Using her natural gifts to draw a man’s attention, she arched her back, flattening her palm against the surface behind her. Placing her other hand in the curve of her waist, she pushed her chest forward and swung her hip out to the side.

  Come and get it, sucker.

  She wasn’t a bit surprised when the red brake light flashed and the bike turned around, especially when she recognized the motorcycle. She’d seen that particular bike once or twice and would know its unpardonable scream anywhere. Its motor hummed with a definite roar. Those chrome wheels sparkled a little more than any other, but she wasn’t interested in the bike. The biker gripping the lowered handlebars was worth his weight in leather and club colors.

  He wasn’t a sucker by a long shot. In fact, he was a real keeper.

  There were some women a man knew to avoid. Victory Rising was one such gal, but fact was Devon Kardashian had been awaiting his moment, contemplating the perfect approaching hour and wondering when their paths might cross.

  Apparently, his day had come. As much as he’d tried to turn over a new leaf, Devon couldn’t avoid trouble. He was happiest when he was right smack dab in the middle of a danger zone. He particularly liked his life a little better when a woman was involved. He loved living on the edge.

  Victory, God love her heart, represented a cliff-hanger. She could keep things interesting.

  He gave his bike a little gas and eased up beside her car. God, how he loved a damsel in distress, particularly one capable of soliciting sex and all sorts of promising excitement. He gave his kickstand a swift boot, swung his leg over the leather seat, and shook his hair free of his helmet.

  “Well, well well,” she drawled, that country accent thicker than ever. “If my luck hasn’t changed for the better, I don’t know when it will.”

  “How ya doin’, Victory?” Devon swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, instantly aware of how he responded to her.

  “I’m makin’ out. How about you?” she asked, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her forefinger as she batted those long lashes over startling blue eyes.

  “Not yet, but I’d say our chances are improving by the minute,” he said, not at all referring to how the past had been treating them. He was more interested in how her broken down predicament had opened up a world of opportunities and appealing possibilities.

  Her pretty smile widened. “You don’t waste any time coming on to me.”

  “Never have,” he agreed, leaning over and giving her a peck on the mouth.

  She rubbed her lips together. “Mm hmm. You still know how to greet a gal, don’t you, Devon?”

  He winked. “Some women are unforgettable.” That was an understatement. She’d given Devon one of the best experiences of his life, riding his face while Addison—God rest her soul—had blown him from here to kingdom come.

  “Some men mark their place in a woman’s mind and stay etched there forever,” she said, giving her waist a push as if she were trying to take a more appealing stance.

  “I never took you for a poetic type,” he said.

  “I never thought you’d wait this long to come find me.”

  “Good things happen to those who wait, Victory.”

  “And lookie here. The waiting is apparently over.”

  “Keep talking like that, and you and I won’t be able to concentrate on the issue at hand.” He walked to the front of her car. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “You have seen a flat tire before, haven’t you, Devon?”

  He circled the convertible. Stroking his chin, he returned to stand in front of her. “Changed a few in my time, but rarely had more than one within the same hour, let alone on the same car. You have three. Who’d you piss off?”

  “What?” she asked, apparently unaware the other side of her car was riding on rims.

  Immediately, her face twisted into one of stark fear. The color washed out of her high cheeks.

  “Fuck,” she muttered, not at all the reaction Devon had expected.

  “We’ll get around to that,” he said, kneeling at the back tire located on the passenger’s side. She didn’t respond, and he didn’t care.

  Immediately, a few slash marks drew his attention. He ran his fingers over one gash then another. Glancing up at Victory, he said, “I’m not kidding.”

  “I know you aren’t,” she bit out. “But first things first—”

  “I’m talking about the damn tire, Victory. Who’d you piss off?” He rose to his feet and stalked the front wheel. He inspected the rubber. “Somebody definitely wanted you roadside.” Immediately, his gaze wandered. He searched the hills and the lay of the land behind them, cautious and perhaps a little paranoid. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. Were they nearby watching them?

  “Who did this, Victory?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “Other than Damsel, I can’t think of anyone who would want me on the side of the road.”

  “I’d say Damsel would like you a lot of places right now. Roadside doesn’t come to mind.”

  She halfway laughed. Then, her face washed white again. “I… Devon, I really don’t have a clue. Are you sure someone did this on purpose?”

  “Yes.” He pursued her. “Come on, baby. You can do better than that. Everyone knows you’re fucking Gaylord.” And that bothered the hell out of him.

  “I’m not.” She twitched from head to toe.

  If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear she was Sassy Road’s sister, developing visible tics as time wore on. “Don’t play me for a fool, Victory.”

  “Really. It’s a rumor.”

  Bullshit. Her facial expression gave away the whole foreplay and lay. “You’re not, huh?”

  “No.” She shook her head in adamant denial.

  He leisurely dragged his thumb across the swell of his bottom lip and sniffed. “Yeah, right.”

  She took a deep
breath and studied him like lying to him had pained her. Finally, she conceded. “He’s fucking me.”

  Yeah, buddy. He pegged that one right.

  “That’s about what I figured anyway,” he admitted, a passing image cluttering his thoughts. He remembered the way she’d worked her way around his tongue the night he and Addison had asked her to join them. He’d been dying to taste her, after Addison had claimed Damsel talked about her having the “sweetest tasting puss he’d ever had under his lips”.

  Devon didn’t know if her cunt was the sweetest, but it was by far the most talented piece of pussy he’d ever experienced. And her body was second to none. Her five-foot-four frame was nothing more than sex striking a pose. Plump breasts, curves and hips, and good God almighty, she was simply a man’s gift.

  “How’d you know about Gaylord?” she asked.

  “I keep up with women of interest,” he confessed, pointing to the trunk. “I don’t reckon you have a few spare tires in there. Do you?”

  “No,” she replied, immediately returning to the more interesting topic. “Who told you about him?”

  “Word gets around.” He looked her up and down. Stay focused. “We have two choices. I can have one of my boys haul your car over to our clubhouse or you can call Gaylord and see what he wants to do.”

  “I’m not Gaylord’s woman,” she informed him. “And I don’t care about the damn car. I’ll probably need another one soon anyway. It’s in Damsel’s name. It’s due to be repossessed.”

  “From what I understand, Gaylord still has a wife,” he said, watching her. She suddenly looked ill and acted as if he were discussing a topic designed to make her physically sick. “And if the car belongs to Damsel, what are you still doing with it?”

  “Gaylord didn’t take it from me, but the club stopped paying Damsel’s bills.” She looked at him crossly. “And Melinda, Gaylord’s wife, is a friend of mine.”

  “With friends like you, no one needs to worry about meeting up with a snake in the grass, huh?” Carrying on two conversations at one time suddenly lost its appeal.

  “There’s more to it than meets the eye.”

  “There always is with the Devil’s Angels and their women.”

  “I don’t belong to them.”

  Devon stuffed his hand in his pocket and retrieved his cell. As soon as he confirmed he didn’t have service there, he cursed under his breath. He didn’t know why he checked the damn phone in the first place, perhaps killing time, making the most of a few extra seconds while he decided what to do about Victory.

  “Any chance Gaylord’s wife did this?”

  “I guess there’s a good possibility.”

  “Hmm,” he muttered. “So you don’t belong to Gaylord?”

  “No.”

  “Well then,” he said, taking a good deep breath of country air. “How about Damsel?”

  “He’s in prison for life,” she said, grinning. “I thought you knew.”

  “Yeah, I heard something about that,” he teased, reliving the moment he read the news in the local paper. It was a satisfying moment, to say the least. “I seem to remember the day he was arrested. You promised to come see me.”

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by.”

  “Uh huh. I reckon you were on your way when your tires went caput,” he said, gaze-groping. Good Lord, she was one fine woman. With tan legs and short shorts cupping her perfectly round behind, Victory flaunted what she had with ease. Wearing a fitted navy camisole top, Victory seemed unaware that her red bra straps weren’t quite tucked away out of sight. Devon loved a sexy gal in red lingerie.

  “I would’ve eventually made my way out to your place.”

  “I stopped looking for ya a year or so ago. I figured you were waiting on Damsel, hoping he’d eventually be released.”

  “Damsel is where he belongs,” she assured him.

  Thank God. At least she appeared to have her head on her shoulders again. A gnawing sensation immediately reminded him of where her head had recently been—in Gaylord’s lap—but that didn’t stop him. “A gorgeous woman once told me, ‘He was the club president. You know how it is. You take what’s yours and everyone else’s.’ Do you remember that conversation, Victory?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, grabbing her purse from the front seat. “We were talking about Damsel.”

  “Well, now, I’m talking about me.” And she knew better than to put up a fight. “So what do you say?”

  “About what?”

  “You ready to leave your car on the side of the road and generate a few whispers?”

  “Do I look ready?” she asked, eyeing him with stark determination.

  “Baby, I hope you are because I’ve waited nearly eighteen months to take what apparently belongs to someone else. And quite frankly, I’m tired of putting off what I should’ve picked up over a year ago.”

  “Hmm,” she purred, grabbing hold of his arm. “I see someone is still a flirt.”

  “Whatever works, darlin’.” He winked. “You ready to ride?”

  “Why, Devon, I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter Two

  “Oh boy,” Cara sang, leaning over the bar as soon as Devon and Victory entered the Heroes and Rogues clubhouse.

  Devon had expected as much. Cara didn’t like new broads entering her den, much less one known to rub leather with a rival club.

  Tigger twisted around on his barstool and crossed his arms, studying them as they approached him.

  After a minute, it apparently struck him who accompanied Devon. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck are you thinking bringing her here, man?”

  “That took you longer than normal, Tigger,” Cara said, wiping down the bar like she didn’t have another care in the world. Once known as nothing more than another club broad, Cara was the club’s mama. She took care of the fellows, and they looked out for her, but lately, Devon had noticed a change in Cara.

  Mama looked happier, healthier, and had a special glow about her, not to mention an added sparkle in her big blue eyes. The biggest change he’d noticed was random disappearing acts, and generally when Cara went MIA, Tigger was nowhere to be found.

  “I’ve got this, Cara,” Tigger said as he stood. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Tigger didn’t acknowledge Victory, and she didn’t seem to mind. She strolled over to the pool table and struck a conversation with Old Red, the club’s Bluetick Coonhound. Old Red wagged his tail, and Victory immediately oohed and ahhed over the blasted mutt.

  Damn dog was a lady’s man.

  About that time, Britt approached Victory. A club broad for over three years, Britt had been passed around quite a few times before Devon paid her any attention. One night with her and he’d almost been hooked, but Britt had a few addictions, problems Devon didn’t want or need.

  “Who are you?” Britt asked Victory before shooting Devon a sour look.

  “Victory,” she replied. “You’re Britt, aren’t cha?”

  “He tell ya that?” Britt asked, tilting her chin toward Devon. For a split second, she appeared well satisfied as if she thought a mere mention of her name might mean something extraordinary. If Britt only knew the truth. Her name was synonymous with a number of unattractive nouns.

  “No,” Victory stated flatly. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one the Angels passed around at a biker rally. Gaylord brought you back to Fall Branch, made you believe you’d found a home, and our boys set you out on your pretty little ass before you had time to select a room, bed a full-patch member, and work out the terms and conditions of an extended stay.”

  Cara slammed her hand against the bar. “What a fucking—”

  “Cara!” Tigger yelled, barely glancing over his right shoulder.

  Cara cursed. Britt snarled and quickly averted her attention away from the messenger, looking at Devon as if she thought Victory might have shared some news he hadn’t previously known. Thinning her lips, Britt stamped her foot and left the room
. Victory returned to doting on the hound.

  Without a doubt, Victory had been around the clubs enough to know how to handle the women found there. The MC’s broads were obsessive, possessive, and downright jealous when a new female arrived.

  Victory apparently wanted to be there. She walked in and commanded attention, demanded respect, and was more than willing to pick a fight and earn some.

  “I’m talking to you,” Tigger said, obviously determined to keep Devon focused.

  “I hear ya,” Devon grumbled, wise to the fact he couldn’t quote the first word prior to the last four Tigger had spoken.

  “We don’t need this shit, man. Since Damsel’s been inside, we’ve been able to get along with the Devil’s Angels. You bring her in here, and you’re asking for trouble.”

  “Who said I was taking her anywhere?”

  “What the fuck is she doing here then?” Tigger demanded, barring his teeth like a Pit bull.

  Noncommittal, Devon said, “You mentioned the word, and by damn, you gave me one hell of an idea.”

  “Damn, man,” Tigger continued, glancing up and acknowledging Logan Marcs with a tilt of his head when the other man entered the building. “Oh boy, Marcs is gonna love this.”

  “What’s she doing here?” Logan asked, picking up his pace as he strolled across the concrete floor.

  “Seems to be the universal question,” Cara called out.

  Victory pretended not to notice him. She kept rubbing Old Red, stroking him between the ears.

  “In case the two of you have forgotten, I’m this charter’s president. If anyone has a right to bring a gal into this club, I do,” Devon said, squaring his shoulders.

  “Not when the broad in question is Damsel Road’s old lady,” Logan said, always ready to question Devon’s authority.

  “I’m with him on this,” Tigger remarked coolly.

  “Imagine that,” Devon muttered.

  “I’m serious, man. She’s no good, and we can’t cope with the fallout. We have a bunch of guys out of town this week. If shit comes down, we’ve got no way of handling a war.”

  “You made your position known before Logan ever got here,” Devon reminded him. “And we’re only ten short. Half of those guys are prospects.”