STEEL: Night Rebels Motorcycle Club (Night Rebels MC Romance Book 1)

by Wilder, Chiah

  “Are you for fucking real? What the hell were we just doing before your damn phone rang? Baby, you’re more than involved.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed, but I just can’t. I’m sorry I led you on.”

  He laughed wryly. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m not gonna beg you. I don’t have to. I got plenty of pussy, more than I want. I just feel sorry for you. You’re so fucked up that you don’t even see it.” He stormed over to the door. “No worries, Ms. Quine. I won’t touch you again.” He stepped out, but then turned around. “I’ll send a prospect over to fix your door. Right now I can’t fucking stand the sight of you.” With that, he walked away.

  Breanna ran over to the door ready to call him back, but she stopped and stared at his retreating back.

  He roared his cams and sped off, leaving a trail of noise without a backward glance.

  Heaviness engulfed her as she watched him disappear. He was right; she’d acted like a scared little fool. Why do I lose all reason and decorum around him? Am I a cock tease? She didn’t think so. She was a scared little girl who didn’t want to get her heart broken by a biker like her mother had. She wasn’t her mother and he wasn’t her father, she knew that, but the crack he made about having a bunch of women to screw reinforced her fear that all bikers wanted was easy sex.

  Sighing, she closed her door the best she could, hoping the prospect would come fix it before it got dark. She went into the kitchen and took out another wine cooler. From the freezer she pulled out a box of macaroni and cheese and put it in the microwave. Ten minutes later she took her dinner and drink to the living room, switched to one of her favorite TV shows, and tried to ignore the creeping regret that wound its way around her body.

  I should ask for a transfer from the rez to the Alina office.

  But she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Steel was already in her blood, and she didn’t have any idea what to do about it.

  She wanted him, yet she didn’t.

  He’s right. I’m fucked in the head.

  She blew on her forkful of mac and cheese and stared at the TV.

  Another night in paradise.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nicholas Quine waited in the shadows by Centennial Park, his entire body tingling in anticipation of meeting with his dealer. He needed a fix so bad that he could almost feel it coursing through his veins, bringing him that high that he craved. He looked at his phone for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes. The dealer was now thirty minutes late. A cold sweat broke out over him as the notion of not getting his fix pricked at the edges of his mind. He pushed it away; he didn’t—couldn’t—go there.

  He looked at his missed calls and a sliver of guilt broke through his desperation. Sixteen missed calls from Breanna. He blew out a ragged breath. Why can’t she let me be? He knew she meant well, and he appreciated that she was the only one in his fucked-up family who gave a damn about him, but this was his life, his choices. Even though she may not agree with those choices, he had the right to live his life the way he wanted to.

  “Where the fuck is he?” he muttered under his breath. He knew he should at least text Breanna to let her know he was okay, but he couldn’t even focus enough to do that. All he could think about was getting the drug. The craving was so strong that it was like life itself was dependent on getting and consuming heroin.

  Then he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel. His heart pounded, his eyes brightened, and his mouth went dry. He stepped from the shadows, a wide grin spreading over his face. “I didn’t think you were going to show, bro.” His insides exploded with joy; he’d get his fix. All was very good.

  “You got the money?”

  “Yeah… well, I don’t have cash. I heard you’re good with food stamps.”

  “How much do you have on your card?”

  “A hundred bucks. That can buy me a couple of ounces, right?” Nicholas picked at the dry skin on his lips.

  “With EBT cards, you get thirty cents on the dollar. So that’d be thirty bucks. That gets you a half gram for Mexican Mud.”

  “Fuck, I wanted an ounce. How much is that?”

  “Forty bucks. If you can cough up ten bucks cash, you’ll get your ounce.” The man kept looking around as he spoke. “You got the extra cash? I don’t have time to fuck around.”

  Nicholas shoved his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out two five-dollar bills along with his EBT card. The dealer snatched them from him, switched on a penlight and examined the bills and the card, and then handed Nicholas a baggie. “Enjoy.” He turned around and walked away, disappearing among the black maple trees.

  Shoving the baggie in his pocket, Nicholas sprinted to his car parked in the alley and sped away to the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. His synapses jumped like lightning strikes against the sky. When he arrived at the warehouse, he slipped in through a space in the boarded-up door. The random lighters looked like glowing eyes in the darkness. Trash was strewn on the concrete floors, and the walls were scrawled with graffiti. Nicholas made his way to a corner at the far end of a large room, leaned back against the crumbling wall, and took out his baggie.

  As he prepared his drug, his phone rang and Breanna’s name flashed on his screen. He turned off his phone, a tinge of guilt weaving through him. But the drug was too big a pull for him; it trumped everyone and everything. In a few seconds he’d be soaring and nothing would matter.

  Nothing at all.

  Life was good.

  Chapter Twelve

  The following morning, Breanna kept looking out the window, expecting to see Steel and his Harley come by, but it was quiet. Several times she went to call him, but she pulled back. It was better that they didn’t have any contact with each other. She’d secured his number from his mother in case she had to get a hold of him in regard to her or Chenoa, but she also liked having it. As crazy as that was, it made her feel connected to him.

  The landline on her desk rang and she picked up. It was her supervisor returning her call. She’d phoned her late the night before and left a message saying that she thought it would be in the best interests of Chenoa if she could spend more time with her father, possibly live with him. She didn’t expect that the department would go along with it, and was pleasantly surprised when her boss agreed that it may benefit Chenoa to have more access to her father.

  “You’ll have to interview him and find out where he’s staying. The department doesn’t want her living or spending extended periods of time at her father’s motorcycle clubhouse,” the supervisor said.

  “I’m sure Mr. McVickers would move away from the clubhouse if he had to. He definitely wants his daughter with him. He’ll do anything it takes.”

  “Let’s start with the interview. Then you can put your report together and present it to the panel. We’ll reevaluate the situation at that point.”

  The minute Breanna hung up the phone, she took out her cell and, with trembling fingers, dialed his number. Her pulse quickened with each subsequent ring.

  “Yeah?” His deep voice made her skin tingle.

  “Mr. McVickers?” she said in a firm voice. She was proud that she could hide the way her body responded to him. Even his voice had her shaking all over.

  “It’s you. I told you my name is Steel. Use it.”

  She gulped. He’s such a jerk. I have to keep remembering that. “Whatever. I’ve decided to write a reevaluation report to the department recommending that Chenoa be allowed to have more interaction with you. I called my supervisor about it, and she’s amenable to the reevaluation.” A long pause ensued. “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you. What do you want, a medal?”

  Her nervousness dissipated and a slow burn started deep within her. What an asshole! “Hardly. I need to ask you some questions and come see your clubhouse before I send in my report. It’s a requirement.”

  “You wanna hang with me? I can go for that, baby. I’ll just have to remember not to touch you,
but after last night, that won’t be too hard.”

  She gripped the phone tightly. “I’m doing this for Chenoa because I think it’ll be good for her. I’m not doing this to ‘hang with you.’ Does later this afternoon at around four o’clock work for you?”

  “Four it is. I’ll text you the directions.”

  “I’ll see you then. Thank you.” She hung up before he could respond. He pissed her off so much. Just when she thought he was a decent guy, his true jerk came out. Her phone pinged and she opened the text to read the directions. She’d only been inside a biker clubhouse once, when she’d gone to look for her dad when she’d been sixteen years old. Her mother had passed out on the bed from taking too many pain pills and she’d called 911. Since she’d been a minor, she hadn’t had any authority to make decisions for her mother’s medical care.

  When she’d entered the clubhouse, the stench of body odor, beer, stale smoke, and sex had washed over her. It’d been so dark inside that she hadn’t been able to see much until her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim lighting. Several men checked her out, hunger brimming in their gazes. Barely clothed women were performing various sex acts with several men. She’d been ready to turn around and hightail it out of there when she’d spotted her father sitting on a chair. His pants were down and a woman knelt in front of him, sucking his dick. Her face must have been a mask of horror because a few of the men had guffawed, which made her dad turn toward her. He’d seemed pissed to see her, even when she’d told him that he had to come to the hospital. That moment had marked the beginning of her hatred for him.

  And in less than two hours, I’ll be entering another biker clubhouse, but this time I’m prepared. I know what goes on behind the darkened windows. She was pretty sure Steel would act like a jerk and try to embarrass or shock her. No chance in hell. Dad already broke me into the biker lifestyle.

  She pulled out some files and began updating them, wanting to catch up on her backload as much as she could before she met with him.

  Later that afternoon, as she turned down the barely visible road, she wondered if this was a good idea. She knew the department would ask if she’d been to the clubhouse to assess it, so she did have to go, but the flutter in her stomach told her she wanted to go. As crazy as it sounded, she wanted to see him again. She’d even spent twenty minutes before she’d left fixing her makeup and hair.

  Don’t get caught up in his masculinity. Stay focused. You’ve got a job to do.

  The clubhouse, a white stucco two-story building, loomed in front of her. She stopped at the metal barricade, and a man of barely twenty years old motioned for her to roll down her window.

  “Why’re you here?” the tattooed man asked.

  “I’m here to see Steel. My name is Breanna Quine.”

  He looked at his clipboard. “Hang on.” He picked up his phone and dialed. “Yo, a Breanna Quine is here to see you…. Okay, sir.” He pushed a button and the gate slowly opened. “Go on in.”

  “Thank you,” she said to his retreating back.

  Breanna parked her car and walked to the front door, taking a breath before she opened it and walked in. A few men sat at the bar, some played pool, and a few were on the couch watching car racing on a big-screen TV. Several of them glanced her way, their eyes roving up and down her body. Before she felt any real discomfort Steel came into the room, his gaze locking on hers. His lips twitched into a small smile. She waved and walked toward him.

  When they met in the middle of the room, his gaze boldly traveled up her body, but instead of feeling indignant, she was flattered that he found her attractive and desirable. She threw her shoulders back, making her breasts strain against her sleeveless knit top. Jerking his head back slightly, he snorted. “Follow me.” He turned around and strode out of the room.

  She trailed behind him until he stopped in front of a door. Opening it, he looked over his shoulder. “We can talk in my office.” He stood aside and she brushed past him, preparing to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Over here,” he said.

  She whirled around and saw him seated on a couch. “I’d prefer to sit here,” she replied, holding the back of the chair.

  “I wouldn’t. Get over here.” His tone left no room for argument. Grudgingly she went over to the couch, sitting on the far end. “That’s a good girl.” He gave her a cocky grin, and she bit the inside of her cheek. “Now what can I do for you?”

  She began by asking him basic questions, like how often he was at the clubhouse and the workings of the club. Of course he was evasive about the club’s business, but she’d known that would be the case.

  “If the department wanted you to have a home away from the club, would you get one?” she asked as she jotted down some notes.

  “If it meant I could have Chenoa with me, fuck yeah.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” Whoa. Where the hell did that come from?

  He stretched his long legs out. “Does the county wanna know, or do you?”

  Crimson colored her cheeks. “The county,” she lied.

  “I got a lot of women, but no one special… at least not yet.”

  “How long have you and Mika been divorced?” The department doesn’t give a shit about that either. I’m so out of line.

  “We were never married. Did she tell you we were?”

  “She led me to believe you’d been.”

  “Nah. I was sixteen when she got knocked up. I dropped outta school to work on a ranch full time to provide for her and Chenoa. We were planning to get married when she turned eighteen. I got my GED and the rancher promoted me to supervisor. I thought I had the bull by the horns.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “I’ve learned when you have that feeling it means something’s gonna go to shit. I went over to her house one day and found her and my best friend fucking up a storm. I beat the shit out of him and walked away from her, but never from Chenoa.”

  “That must’ve been awful.” She uncrossed her legs.

  He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

  “How did you end up in the Night Rebels?”

  “I started the club about twelve years ago. I left Alina and went to Pinewood Springs, where I joined up with the Insurgents MC. I’d still be there if my mom hadn’t gotten sick. I left to take care of her, but I missed the brotherhood a lot. I called up Banger—he’s the president of the Insurgents—and told him that I’d like to start an MC in Alina. And here we are. We’re affiliates with the Insurgents.”

  “And no doubt you’ve given yourself to the brotherhood wholeheartedly.” Her words came out harsher than she’d intended.

  He stared fixedly at her. “Did a biker fuck you over?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve had an attitude toward me since we met at the hospital that first night. Lady, you don’t like bikers. Did you date one and he preferred his Harley over you?”

  Her face reddened as she crossed her arms over her chest. “First off, my name is Breanna not ‘lady.’ And no, I didn’t date a biker. My father was one and he chose the MC, his Harley, booze, and women over his wife and four kids.” Satisfaction spread through her when she saw his face fall slightly.

  He whistled softy. “Fuck…. It must’ve been tough growing up like that.”

  “You think? Anyway, it’s in the past, but I do have a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to bikers.”

  “I get it, but not all bikers are jerks like your dad. I’m a biker and I’m dying to have my daughter in my life full-time. There’re a lot of lousy dads and they’re not all bikers. I know. Don’t squeeze all of us out because of your old man.”

  “We’re way off topic here. I’ve said too much. This interview isn’t about me.”

  “You scared to talk about yourself? Why the fuck do you keep hiding behind your cool exterior? The way you kissed and responded to me last night told me what I already knew—you’ve got a raging fire inside you, babe.”

  “That’s inappropriate.” She
ignored him when he sneered and shook his head, glancing down at her clipboard instead. “Chenoa’s doing well so far. I hope she can stay clean. I know how hard this has been on you and Mika.”

  “You’re just Chenoa’s caseworker. You don’t know shit, Breanna. You have no clue how we feel about our daughter’s addiction, so don’t play the fake empathy card with me. It’s really beneath you.”

  Her nostrils flared as a poker of white-hot fire prodded her insides. “I know exactly how it feels to have someone you adore hooked on drugs. I know how it feels to have your heart shatter every time your loved one walks out your door, wondering whether or not you’ll get that dreaded call that he ODed. What the fuck do you know about me? My brother is an addict. I raised him, but I was a poor substitute for a mother or father. While my parents were having their selfish crisis, we were all falling apart. So don’t you fucking tell me I don’t know what it feels like.” Her voice cracked and she turned away quickly. She didn’t want him to see the tears in her eyes.

  Get a grip. Take deep breaths. Slowly. Again.

  Then she felt his strong arms around her and she jerked her head up. His face was inches away from hers, his hot breath washing over her. His stare pierced right through her like a sword. Before she could pull away, his lips crushed against hers, moving, tasting, kissing her with such passion that she almost burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry you have a brother who makes you worry. Let’s stop fighting each other,” he whispered against her lips.

  Being in his arms made her feel so safe and protected, like nothing bad could happen to her. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, messy, and passionately. He drew her closer, his kisses searing her lips, the heat of his body pressing against her. His fingers caressed her curves and landed on her rounded ass. “Fuck,” he said against her lips.

  The reality of the situation hit her and she pulled back. “How do we always get into this position?” she said as she smoothed down her hair.