Double Or Nothing: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 15)

by Dixon, Ruby

  DOUBLE OR NOTHING

  RUBY DIXON

  • • •

  Everything is on the line...

  I’ve found a fragile happiness with my two men, Beast and Muscle, Warlords of the Bedlam Butchers. Our threesome works so well that I can’t imagine a day without them…or a night without both in my bed.

  But a rival MC has decided that what’s in the past shouldn’t stay there. With loads of blackmail information on the line, Beast might be going back to prison unless we can make a deal. But what the other club is asking for is nothing less than me, in a stranger’s bed.

  And Beast is going to sacrifice himself for me unless I find a way to save him…

  THE MOTORCYCLE CLUBS #15 • THE BEDLAM BUTCHERS #5

  The Motorcycle Clubs Series

  His Wild Desire by Ella Goode

  Off Limits by Ruby Dixon

  Wanting It All by Kati Wilde

  Her Secret Pleasure by Ella Goode

  Packing Double by Ruby Dixon

  Taking It All by Kati Wilde

  Their Secret Need by Ella Goode

  Double Trouble by Ruby Dixon

  Having It All by Kati Wilde

  Their Fierce Need by Ella Goode

  Betting It All by Kati Wilde

  Double Down by Ruby Dixon

  Their Lasting Claim by Ella Goode

  Risking It All by Kati Wilde

  Double or Nothing by Ruby Dixon

  Coming Next

  Burning It All by Kati Wilde

  His Mad Passion by Ella Goode

  Slow Ride by Ruby Dixon

  Newsletter

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  Click here to purchase or borrow Double or Nothing at Amazon.com.

  Chapter One

  Shy

  I wipe my sweaty palms over my skirt as the man on the opposite side of the desk smiles at me. He glances at my resume, then at me again. “Your resume is very professional.”

  “T-thank you.” It should be; I’ve been working on it for a week now, and Lucky’s proofed it for me twice. It needs to be utterly stellar, and I cross my fingers that he’s impressed enough to not notice that it’s a bit light on content.

  He glances down the page. “I see your last job was at the Taco Shack and you worked there for two years. Can I ask why you left?”

  My brother got caught double-dealing on his club and wanted to sell me to a meth dealer so I had to get protection. “Um, p-p-personal conflict.”

  “I see.” Mr. Green skims my resume again. “Miss Hamilton, while you seem very eager, I’m not sure if you have the proper credentials for accounts payable. It looks like your prior jobs have all been in the fast food industry.”

  My heart sinks. He’s not wrong; I don’t have any office experience that I can put down on paper. Other than Lucky showing me how to work spreadsheets and tallying receipts for Muscle and Beast the last few weeks, I don’t have anything that an employer will want. “I know,” I say. “I’m a r-real hard worker, though, and I know my way around a sp-sp-sp-spreadsheet. I promise. Give me a t-t-test.” My stutter’s going a mile a minute due to my nervousness. I hate that. “P-p-please.” Great, now I sound like Roger Rabbit from that old movie.

  He adjusts his glasses and frowns, and I know what’s going to come out of his mouth next. I’m sorry, but we want someone with experience. I’ve heard it several times already in the last week. It doesn’t matter that the job I’m applying for is entry level clerking. It doesn’t matter that the pay is slightly better than minimum wage and the benefits are shit.

  Nobody wants you for an office job if you don’t have office job experience. How do you get an office job? Have office job experience. It’s the world’s most unfair catch-22. But I don’t want to work fast food anymore. I’ve been doing the receipts for Muscle and Beast for the past few weeks, but there’s not enough work and I feel bad for mooching off them. I want my own job, not one they’ve made for me because their girlfriend is bored.

  Just before he’s about to reject me, there’s a knock at the door.

  Mr. Green looks up from my resume. “Come in.”

  The door opens and a guy stands there in a recognizable leather vest covered in patches. He’s clearly a biker. He’s wearing jeans, has long, shaggy hair and is probably a few years older than me. He gives me an interested look and then turns to the man on the other side of the desk. “You got a visitor, Dad.”

  “I’m in a meeting.” He gestures at me.

  The biker grins down at me, which makes me prickle a little uncomfortably. I hate being the focus of attention. “I know. I didn’t want to interrupt but there’s something about cancelled orders and I thought you’d want to know.”

  Mr. Green groans and gets up from his desk. “I’ll be just a minute,” he tells me. Then he rushes out as his son presses himself against the door.

  I clutch my purse and stare straight ahead, hoping that the biker guy will take the hint and go away, too.

  “You interviewing?” He asks.

  I nod. I have to be polite to him because his dad is (hopefully) my boss. I look over at his jacket, but don’t recognize the patches. “Nice c-cut,” I say. “What’s your club?” I really, really hope it’s not the Eighty-Eight, because if it is, I’m going to have to walk out right now. White Supremacists and general assholes, I avoid anything the Eighty-Eight might possibly touch.

  “Hard Nine,” he says.

  I nod, a little relieved to hear that. “My boyfriends ride with the Bedlam Butchers.” I’m hoping that the mention of a boyfriend will make him go away.

  Instead, his eyes gleam. “Butchers, huh? They double up, don’t they?”

  I look at him warily and nod. That means two big men protecting me, and I’m not ashamed of it. But I don’t like the speculative look in this man’s eyes.

  “Who are your guys? Maybe I know them. I’ve met with the Butchers from time to time.”

  “M-Muscle and B-b-b-Beast.” I hate that I stutter. I’m proud of my guys. The stutter always makes me feel like a timid chicken.

  He nods thoughtfully. “They’re good guys.”

  I brighten a bit at that. “Thank you.”

  “Lucky to have you.”

  I say nothing.

  He lifts his chin at me. “I’ll tell Dad to head back in once he’s done with business. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.”

  I nod and turn back ahead.

  The door closes behind me and I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s nothing but silence now, and the low hum of machinery in the background. The place is a metal shop with an office in front. I applied here because I was hoping they’d be more forgiving of a lax resume, but it doesn’t sound like it’s the case. I quell my disappointment and check my phone absently.

  Several minutes later, the door opens again. “Thank you for being so patient, Ms. Hamilton.”

  “Of c-course.”

  “While I was gone, I was thinking about your situation,” he says, moving to the other side of his desk. “Since it’s an entry level position, I’m inclined to give you a trial period to see if you can learn quickly.”

  My eyes widen.

  “But you might be required to work after hours and potentially on weekends.” The look he gives me is stern. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I breathe. “Thank you so much.”

  “Now,” he says, picking up his pen. “We won’t be able to pay you as much as
someone with experience, but we are also going to look at this as on the job training, and I think that will play a factor in your wages…”

  I’m only listening halfway. I’m giddy with excitement.

  I have a job. A real job. An office job. Won’t Beast and Muscle be proud? I can hardly wait to tell them. I can’t stop smiling, even after Mr. Green tells me he’s going to pay me minimum wage.

  I’m employed.

  • • •

  Beast

  I straighten my tie and try not to rip the damn thing off my throat. At my side, Muscle fidgets, looking equally out of place. “I can’t believe you agreed to this,” he tells me. “Such a fucking pussy move.”

  “You don’t want to do this, feel free to stay home,” I tell him.

  “Fuck that.” He straightens his dark jacket. “If she wants to celebrate, we’ll celebrate.”

  Good call. I probably would have made his ass dress up just to please Shy. Because she doesn’t ask for much, when she does ask for something, it’s my duty to make sure she gets it.

  And tonight? She wants a date. A fancy dinner celebration because she has something to share with us. Her happy texts have been peppering my phone all afternoon and it’s clear she’s excited. Seeing her bubbling with enthusiasm instead of scared and frightened is one of the things I love best about being with Shy. That she feels safe and secure with me and Muscle, despite who we are, well, it fucking pleases me like no tomorrow.

  I have a dominant streak. It’s not something I talk about, because it’d probably freak Muscle out. But the dominant in me enjoys running the show. Muscle doesn’t realize it, but I usually top both him and Shy. Her from up close, and him from afar. He thinks I’m just bossy in the bedroom and like to watch. I do, but I also like it when he obeys my instructions. Muscle may be the mouth of this relationship, but I’m the one pulling the strings.

  It works out well for all three of us. Shy likes for us to be in charge, Muscle thinks he’s in charge, and I know I’m in charge.

  Thing is, I’m protective of Muscle, too. Not in a sexual way, but he’s my partner and my best buddy, and I’ve got his back. Protectiveness is just something I do. Maybe it falls back to the years I spent in prison. I went there to protect my club. While there, I protected some of the smaller, weaker guys from some of the bigger prison bullies. Now that I’m out, I’m still protecting those I love best.

  We climb on our bikes and head to the Meat Locker. For some reason, Shy wanted to meet us at the gym. It’s a short drive outside of the city, and we park our bikes up front. There’s six other bikes parked, and a few cages. Muscle makes an unhappy noise and adjusts his jacket again.

  “Shut up,” I tell him.

  “Like a fucking monkey in a costume.”

  “Whatever. You look good.” It’s me that looks ridiculous. With my big ugly mug and my longer hair, I don’t look like I belong in a suit. I still see myself in a prison jumpsuit, and wonder what I did that made me lucky enough to get the family I have now.

  Like I knew he would, Muscle takes the compliment with a cocky shrug of his shoulders, but he stops complaining. He even ignores the catcalls the other Butchers in the gym make. In the ring, Epic and Lock are sparring, though Epic (recently patched and still reckless as hell) makes a few kissy faces that earn him a middle finger salute.

  “Shy-girl here?” Muscle asks.

  Epic slams his boxing gloves together. “Ask Lucky. She and Kitty have been hiding in the back, painting their nails and shit.”

  “Lucky’s going to kick your ass if she hears you say that,” Lock drawls.

  “My bad,” Epic says, and bounces around in the ring, like a puppy. “She spar?”

  “She does, and she’s dirty about it,” Lock says, and swings at Epic’s grinning face.

  I grunt and nod at the back offices, and Muscle heads there with me. Lucky has a back office now, though she prefers to sit out on the floor and work at one of the desks in the back of the gym. I secretly think she just likes watching Solo when he works out. She’s lusting after her partner, hard. It’s a good thing they’re together, I suppose, because that would make it plenty fucking awkward for anyone else.

  Muscle knocks on Lucky’s office door, and it opens. Except it’s not Lucky inside, but our Shy-girl.

  And she’s fucking stunning.

  She’s wearing a red halter-dress that ties behind her neck, curving her small breasts into tight, high cleavage. The skirt nips in at her waist and flares out, and she’s wearing tiny, strappy little sandals that make her a little taller and that much more dainty. Her flat, pale blonde hair isn’t tucked behind her ears like usual. Instead, it’s clipped back off one side of her face and curled into a riot of waves. Her lips are plump and red, and her eyes are lined and look incredibly blue.

  “Well, goddamn,” Muscle says in a pleased voice.

  I don’t say anything, but I’m thinking it, too. God damn, she cleans up real pretty.

  She smiles bashfully and gives a little twirl in the dress. “You like? Lucky helped me.” She peeks over her shoulder where Lucky’s putting away a bunch of girly cosmetic shit.

  “You look sexy as fuck,” Muscle says and takes her hand to pull her forward.

  She grins at him and then looks at me, hoping for more compliments.

  “Mouthwatering,” I agree.

  Her blush deepens. “I just figured we could go out on a real date, you know? We haven’t had one.”

  “Hell yes,” Muscle says, tucking her hand into his arm. “Just as long as someone gets laid at the end of this date.”

  She chuckles and then offers her other arm to me. And again, I feel like the big lummox next to her smaller form, but this is about her, not me, so I offer her an elbow.

  And off we go to dinner.

  Shy rides with Muscle, a helmet crushing her curls, and she spends a good minute fluffing them once we get to the parking lot of the restaurant. It’s a fancy steakhouse out in the middle of nowhere, and judging from the looks of things, isn’t that busy. While she prepares herself, I go in to talk to the hostess. She gives me a nervous smile — probably the neck tattoos freaking her out.

  I slide two hundred dollar bills down on the counter. “Think you can tell people the patio’s closed for a private party tonight?”

  She looks around at the half-empty restaurant, puts her hand over the money, and slides it into her pocket. “I’ll make sure it’s noted on the charts,” she tells me. “How many people are in your party tonight sir?”

  “Three,” I tell her. “One table.”

  There’s a little confused frown on her face as she picks up the menus, but she hides it when Muscle and Shy come in. “Of course. Let me show you to your table.”

  The patio area’s a little nook off the side of the building, with a stone wall on one side and a line of windows into the dining room. The hostess seats us at the far end of the patio, which suits me just fine. It’s private, and private means an opportunity to play. I go to pull out Shy’s chair for her, earning a pleased smile from her and a roll of eyes from Muscle.

  Shy sits down and her hands go to the long white tablecloth covering the table. “This is nice.”

  It is. It also gives me ideas. I’m full of ideas tonight, it seems. “We’re going to get wine tonight,” I tell her. “As a treat for you.”

  Her face glows with happiness. “This is such fun. Thank you both so much. I wanted the experience of dating you both, you know? The whole experience.”

  I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles, then go sit in my seat. She’s going to definitely get an experience tonight. This is her date, but I’m in charge of the entertainment, so to speak. I sit down across from her, my chair equidistant from both hers and Muscle’s. “If you want the full experience of dating us, you’re going to have to let me lead,” I say. It’s a test to see if she’s in a playful mood or not.

  She bites her lip and looks so damn pretty that my cock gets hard at the sight. “Of course.”


  The waiter’s heading over, so I lean in. “I’ll order wine for you. Go in the bathroom, take off your panties, and bring them back to me.”

  Her eyes widen in shock. Muscle just grins, and I manage to keep my expression deadpan as the waiter arrives, introducing himself and discussing the wine list for the evening. Muscle pretends to be very interested in wine, while Shy sits in her chair, her eyes wide. Her nipples are hard under her dress, though, a sign she’s aroused by my command.

  I arch an eyebrow at her since she’s not moving. Well?

  Shy blushes. “Excuse me,” she says, getting up from the table. The waiter helps her with her chair, and then goes back to extolling the virtues of his favorite red as Muscle just grins and grins. I eventually pick a wine and the waiter goes away.

  Muscle looks at me. “Gonna be one of those nights, huh?”

  “Yep,” I say. “Got a problem with it?”

  “Hell no. Sounds like fun to me.”

  And that’s why I’m the one in charge. Because it’s fun for all of us when I am.

  She returns to the table a few minutes later, her face crimson. Her nipples are still pressing against the fabric of her dress, and they look like delicious little pricks of excitement to me. She sits down and squirms in her seat a little, and then leans forward, handing something off to me.

  Her panties. They’re a tiny scrap of black fabric, and damp. I tuck them into my pocket as the waiter comes over with a bottle of wine and proceeds to tell us all about it. He pours three glasses for us and then suggests appetizers.

  “Salad for me,” I say. “Nothing for these two.”

  Everyone gives me a puzzled look, including the waiter. “Very well,” the server says after a moment. “Would you like it before your meal or with it?”

  “With it’s fine,” I say, and I order for all three of us again. Steaks, medium rare for myself and Muscle. Salmon and asparagus for Shy, because she loves fish but won’t order something pricy for herself. Then the waiter takes our menus and disappears.

  Muscle gives me a disgruntled look. “He’s gonna think I’m your goddamn boyfriend.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Goddamn it, don’t say shit like that,” he retorts, then rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “Now it really sounds like you’re my boyfriend.”