Cutter's Claim: A Bad Boy Biker Romance (The Demon Squad MC Book 2)

by Monique Moreau

  He approached her slowly, hands out, so as not to rattle her any further. “I’m gonna do right by you. Meanwhile, you’ve got three days to settle your ass down. Then, we talk. I gave an oath to take care of you, and that’s what I’ll do.”

  Tension vibrated off her as she crossed her arms and tapped her foot. Lines of disapproval bracketed her pursed lips. Any other day, that attitude would have ended with her in restraints and a crop to her ass.

  He placed a finger on her lips as she was about to respond and cautioned her, “Hush, before your mouth gets you into trouble. Ya know, I could easily fuck you into submission, but I want you clearheaded.”

  He traced the line of her cheekbone. She swiped at his touch, but he dropped his hand in time to avoid her nails. He’d have to start clipping them his damn self. “This is a concession on my part,” he noted. “I’m trusting you not to abuse it.” Cutter cupped her jaw. She recoiled slightly, but then raised her eyes to meet his. Pain was there. Fear, as well. Yet, she didn’t shy away from him. Thank fuck, their connection was intact. They’d survive this and come out of it stronger.

  “Three days,” he repeated.

  She turned away from him, staring at the far wall, and gave him a curt nod.

  Good enough.

  He rolled his shoulders, shrugging off the unease weighing them down. Without a last backward glance, he stepped across the threshold.

  ※※※

  She’d ghosted him.

  Cutter had blown up her phone, but two days later, still no word from Greta. The Fourth of July party at the club was poppin’, but he ignored everyone as he combed through the clubhouse and raked through the crowds in the front and back yards. She was a no-show. Shit got real when she didn’t show up for the Squad’s notorious Independence Day bash. He hadn’t taken her for a runner. Red haze distorted his vision as his fingers balled up into fists, itching for a pound of her flesh.

  Cornering Sage by a table laden with food, he asked tightly, “What’s with Greta?” He barely contained the fury poking at the surface of his mask.

  Sage searched his expression, and being Sage, laid a gentle hand on his arm. Worry laced her tone. “Why? Has anything happened?”

  “Nothing,” he grumbled.

  “Our client didn’t show up at one of her designated meeting sites. She was distraught so I suggested she take time off and visit her mom.” Pausing briefly, she went on. “You didn’t know.”

  Fair enough, but finding out from another source that she’d gone out of town, without his permission, was a blow. The urge to jump on his Harley, track her down, and strap her over his bike to bring her back rode him hard. The arrest was raw, but he suspected that she got spooked for more than that reason alone. Grabbing his nape, he rubbed a crick in his neck.

  “She seemed alright the last time we were together.” Not a total truth, but truth enough.

  Canting her head to the side, Sage’s gaze roved over his face. “I see.”

  She looked around the party, her lips turned inward and pressed flat as she contemplated something. Finally, she said, “Greta is one of a kind. I would say the same about Marianne. When I stayed with Marianne, I learned more about Greta than she ever revealed to me on her own. She’s kept quiet about how far things have progressed between the two of you. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s ashamed about her sexual preferences or because you’ve burrowed in deeper than she’s comfortable with.” Sage took his hand into her clasp. “She has many reasons for being distrustful. Be patient with her.”

  Sage’s gaze cut to her left, and a blush bloomed across her cheeks. Cutter rotated in a semicircle to find Kingdom glaring at them from across the room. Sitting on a worn couch as if it were a throne, his eyes were glued on Cutter’s hand, enveloped in Sage’s. Sage quickly released him, but Cutter called out, “For fuck’s sake, we’re just talking!”

  Kingdom hollered back, “You’re done talking.” His harsh gaze swept over Sage possessively, then he turned away to speak to Puck sitting beside him.

  “The man is pussy-whipped,” said Cutter.

  “He may not be the only one,” quipped Sage. Cutter grunted, causing her to laugh.

  She waved a delicate hand in the air. “Never mind. My point is that behind her perfect face and bitchy attitude, Greta is a sensitive soul.”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  “Perhaps, but I suspect there’s more involved than you are aware of. You’re a good man, Cutter, and you’ve matured in the past few months. Despite the posse of women who follow you like trained puppies, I believe in you. My advice is to tread carefully because she won’t take to being controlled like the women you’re used to having around.”

  He nodded grimly.

  Sage stepped away but turned back toward him for a moment. “Oh, and one last thing. If you hurt her, you’re a dead man. Kingdom may not show his feelings, but Greta has become like one of his own.”

  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and joined Kingdom, who captured her roughly, hauled her onto his lap, and buried his muzzle into her throat. Cutter had a ways to go before Greta was in such a familiar position with him, in public.

  As bad as he wanted to run her down—and he badly wanted to—a man had his pride. Christ, he was a biker. He had an image to protect and it sure as fuck did not include roping in an old lady. While bitches dropped to their knees at his command, she’d betrayed his trust. It stung like hell, but he wasn’t gonna let any bitch tear him down.

  Bending over the bar top, he snatched the nearest bottleneck. Without checking the label, he twisted off the cap and tipped it to his mouth. Cheap vodka flooded his tongue. He almost spat it out but forced himself to swallow the liquor down his gullet. Stalking through the crowd, he reached the dance area and snatched the closest female to him. She spun around and smashed into his chest. Fingers slapped away strands of sweat-plastered platinum-blond hair and revealed a pair of baby-blue eyes. Blinking up at him, a smile spread over her red-lacquered lips.

  Angie. Young, submissive Angie. She’d do fine as a replacement. She was bent, like Greta, but not salty or defiant. His soul howled in rejection, but fuck if he cared. His soul is what got him into this wreck. Angie was a biker bitch, through and through. She’d never stray from his word. Never contradict him. Never make him doubt her. Why? Because he was a biker, and she knew to respect that. Digging into her narrow hips, he smashed his mouth down on hers.

  Chapter Thirty

  The verdant fields of the Green Mountains of Vermont were alive with the riotous colors of wildflowers, surrounded by dense evergreen trees. From her window seat on the Northeastern train, Greta watched the scenery pass her by, her heart thumping with pain as each mile whisked her farther away from Cutter. She was wearing leather suspenders beneath her oversized, button-down, short-sleeve shirt, the kind that attached to a belt around her waist. Her bare nipples chafed against the leather, keeping them erect through the journey.

  She had no idea how she was going to survive the aftermath of Cutter, but she wasn’t going to sit by helplessly while his life went down the drain. As silly as the bar fight may have seemed to him, his arrest had triggered the deep-seated fears that stemmed from her past. Knowing the Squad’s illegal dealings, it was only a matter of time before brothers showed up at the clubhouse beaten or dead. She couldn’t forget that. Thankfully, Trucker and the Green Mountain Boys had the wherewithal to stay clean. It had been a requirement before joining the secret network to help DV victims.

  The train slowed down and eventually cranked to a halt with one last low screech. She hauled her duffel bag over her shoulder and staggered down the metal steps, almost tripping over the strip of bumpy treads wrapped around the edge of the platform like a yellow ribbon. She quickly moved aside for the passengers behind her to disembark and then dragged her bag over the wet pavement and into the station. She plunked down on an ancient wooden bench and texted her mother that she’d arrived.

  Moments later, Trucker breezed into
the station, dressed in faded jeans and a tee topped off with his Green Mountain Boys MC cut. Whimpering under her breath, she stood up and flew into his arms. He hugged her tight and kissed the crown of her head.

  “Hey, kid.”

  They stood in the middle of the near-empty station until Greta got her bearings. Sneaking a hand up to dry her tears, she sniffed and said, “Geez, what took you so long? I’ve been waiting around for, like hours.”

  Chuckling, he checked the large circular clock above the ticket counter. “You haven’t been waiting more than five minutes.”

  “Sure, sure, easy for you to say, but it felt long to me.”

  Trucker pulled her in for one last hug, and said gruffly, “Good to see you, too, sweetheart.”

  Spotting the duffel bag on the floor by the bench, he lifted his chin. “Good thing I brought the truck. You do this shit on purpose. Bringing bags too heavy to strap onto a bike. Lucky I know your ways already.”

  She gave him a woeful smile. Yeah, no riding for her. “You know me too well.”

  Teasing was his way of commenting on her unspoken rule. After leaving Scorpion, they’d eventually holed up in this town. A few days after they’d settled in, Trucker asked her to hop on the back of his bike for a grocery run. Greta stood numbly, rooted to the ground. The only sound she heard was her pulse going boom, boom, boom. Edging away, she turned tail and took off. He jumped off his bike and raced after her. Held her until she stopped struggling and asked her, in an incredulous tone, if she was afraid of riding. Because no one loved riding more than she did. With the Horsemen, she was constantly begging and pestering the brothers to take her on rides. It got so bad that Scorpion intervened. Propped her up on his bike, slid in behind her, and taught her to ride himself. She took to it immediately. Their mutual love of riding was one of the few things they shared. He refused to have her wear a helmet because, as he once told her, he’d never let her come to harm. Not on his bike. Not on his watch.

  “Anyway, I’m not a kid anymore. A woman has needs, like blow drying her hair. Do you think this hair,” she held up her tresses for his inspection, “does itself? Yeah, no. So, I’m not putting a helmet on my head and ruining hours of hard work to get on some bike.”

  To fit in with the natives, she’d teased her hair within an inch of its life. After Shadow, Greta stopped fixing up her hair. She took to dying it instead, hoping that she wouldn’t be able to recognize herself. Yeah, good luck with that, she snorted. The tat stamped on her leg like a branded heifer proved that she’d always be owned by the devil.

  They settled into the cab of the truck and Trucker’s quiet timbre interrupted her stroll down memory hell. “What you been up to?”

  Greta dipped her chin and hunched her shoulders forward. “Nothing much. You know, the usual.”

  Trucker didn’t respond, and the silence between them gave her solace. Trucker had always taken her as she was.

  The engine of his truck was as loud as the pipes of his bike, so by the time they reached the cabin, her mother and several brothers were waiting outside. Around these parts, the MC was as respected as the famous American Revolution patriot militia they were named after.

  Jumping out of the truck, she was greeted with hugs and what-ups. Her mother elbowed her way into the circle of men until she was on top of Greta. She snuggled into her mom’s chest, and murmured, “It’s good to be here, mama.”

  Taking hold of her shoulders, she pivoted Greta toward the entry of the cabin, and hollered behind her shoulder, “For Pete’s sake, don’t stand around like lumps of wood. Get Greta’s bag already!”

  The tension gripping her heart eased. With a shrug, Marianne said, “What else are they good for? With the amount of time they spend here, I should be charging them rent. Only time they go down to the clubhouse is for business and women. Pfff. They gotta earn their keep.”

  The sun began its descent behind the mountaintop, dimming the light of day, darkness falling like a swath of curtain. Once inside, her mother unburdened her of her jacket and marched her into the kitchen. Her domain. Hands on her hips, she scanned Greta with a critical eye.

  Hot under the collar, Greta spun away and chided, “Mom, stop staring at me.”

  “Marianne!” One of the prospects popped his head through the swinging door of the kitchen. “Where do you want Greta’s bag? It’s heavy as hell.”

  Greta blew out a quick breath of reprieve from her mother’s attention.

  “Upstairs!”

  The door swung on its hinges behind him as he called out, “Alright, you don’t gotta shout!”

  A moment later, another voice came from the doorway. “Hiya.”

  Bolt, a brother about her age, stood with his hand wrapped around the molding of the door, his eyes drinking her in.

  “Get out of here, you,” said her mom with a wave of her hand. “Track her down later because this is mother-daughter time.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Greta’s mother pointed to the door. “Out!”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “You don’t need to bust a man’s eardrums.”

  Undaunted, her mother raised a spatula and waved it at him. “This one’s metal and it stings like hell, so don’t make me use it.”

  Greta slapped her hand over her mouth, but he heard her laugh anyway. Throwing her a cocky smile and a wink, he said, “Check you later, babe.”

  A chuckle rolled out of her. Man, she hadn’t laughed since the arrest. Sobering, she responded, “Yeah, for sure.”

  “You’re done flirtin’ with my daughter. Now, out!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Greta stared at her mother wielding the spoon in her hand. To think this was the same woman she once found buried under blankets, hiding from Scorpion. Here, she was a queen. Although she may not have been the oldest of the old ladies, she was by far the mightiest. After all, she had to make up for years of silence.

  She lost her smile when her mother swiped a thumb across the circles under Greta’s eyes and observed, “You’re tired.”

  She tore herself away gently, and explained, “We’ve had an uptick in clients, and we’ve begun working on DV cases. A client vanished on us. It’s been rough.”

  “You mean the domestic violence cases. You don’t need to sanitize it with an abbreviation. It is what it is.”

  Lines of tension slid off her mother’s forehead. At the sideboard, she lifted tops covering plates of food. Plucking out a few pancakes, she added different toppings and smothered them with maple syrup, the way Greta liked it.

  She deposited the loaded plate in front of Greta and prodded her with an elbow. “Eat. You look like you’ve been eating about as well as you’ve been sleeping.”

  Flashing her a grateful look, Greta said, “Thanks.”

  Removing her apron, her mom hung it on a hook near the sink and sat down across from Greta. She sank her teeth into the spongy pancake and the burst of blueberries in her mouth was divine. Between munches, she complemented, “So good.”

  Relaxing back into her chair, Marianne beamed down at her. Trucker waltzed into the kitchen for a refill of coffee and kissed her mother on the cheek. Greta paused midchew, and her throat closed. Trucker treated her like gold. The same as Cutter, except he added a dollop of discipline to the mix. Swallowing the lump of food halfway down her constricting throat, she clasped the glass of orange juice and guzzled until the obstruction was cleared. On his way out, Trucker ruffled her hair. All she could do was nod in return. Wearily, she said, “I love that guy, even if he is a biker.”

  “I love him too, and being a biker doesn’t factor into it.” Her mother gave her a pointed look. “I don’t hold fear in my heart anymore, so I’m not prejudiced.”

  “There’s a lower percentage of good men in MCs.”

  “Three women became old ladies in the past year, and their men are loyal to them.”

  Looking down at her favorite meal, she stabbed her fork into the top pancake and forced another mou
thful between her teeth. “I doubt it.”

  “Hold your tongue, young lady.”

  Greta coughed up a chunk of food. Grabbing a paper napkin from the table, she spit it out.

  “You’re making judgments about couples you haven’t seen together. I taught you better than that. What about Sage and Kingdom?”

  Her shoulders drooped, and she pulled her chest inward. Apparently, Marianne wasn’t pulling punches today. Greta tossed the napkin down and slapped her hands on the tabletop.

  “You saw what Sage went through,” she seethed.

  “What I saw was a woman in love. What I saw was her processing her pain. What I saw was her making it work between them. The choice was hers. Only hers.”

  “How could you want that for her after what he did? Sage was a broken woman. After everything you’ve been through, you seriously wanted Sage to go back to that cheating bastard?”

  “She healed. They love each other.”

  Trembling, she grasped her silverware and blindly cut into the pancakes. “He didn’t deserve a second chance. He got one, but he didn’t deserve it.”

  “You came to trust him again,” her mother rebutted. “Not that your opinion counts. Kingdom cares for her. He fell for her and freaked out when she disappeared. He got scared off, like you, right now.”

  Greta’s fingers flexed around her fork and knife. She was going to throttle her mother. Between clenched jaws, she replied, “I am not running from anyone.”

  “You sure about that? I didn’t think my daughter would scare so easily.”

  Drawing herself up, she threw her shoulders back and glared at her mother.

  Marianne rose from her seat and said, “I’m going to leave you and check in on our guest. Yes, we have someone here. Get off the pity-pot because she’s staying for a few days, and I don’t want her getting spooked. She’s scared enough as it is. You remember that, don’t you? Having life-and-death problems?”