Breaking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Kati Wilde

  “Fuck that,” Gunner grits out, striding forward and crouching in front of me, fierce eyes locked on mine. “I swear it’s not going to fucking happen.”

  Nodding, I say, “That’d be great. So if you could let Stone know that it’s time to blow that whole undercover thing apart now, I’d be grateful.”

  No agreement from the Riders—just silence for a long, empty second that rolls my stomach into a tight knot.

  Then Blowback says, “You said he had brown eyes. How tall, how big?”

  “Um, as tall as Saxon, but, uh, bigger. Rounder. Not soft fat, but hard fat over muscle. Like Widowmaker is.”

  The Riders’ warlord nods. “Anything more?”

  Too much more. “I think he had a beard because the mask seemed…pillowy around the jaw.” I close my eyes, picturing him. “He had crooked bottom teeth but I never saw his upper teeth. And he took off his right glove when he was stroking himself. He had a word inked on the back of his fingers. RIDE. And he was uncircumcised.”

  “He’ll be circumcised by the time we’re done,” Lily promises grimly. “Circumcised all the way down to his fucking balls.”

  “The tattoo said RIDE? You sure?” There’s a dangerous note in Gunner’s voice that I’ve never heard before. Low and cold and utterly terrifying.

  “There’s lots of bikers with that tattoo, pretty boy,” Lily says evenly—as if she’s talking him back from the edge.

  “But not the whole package.” His pale gaze is feral as he looks to Blowback. “That’s the enforcer with the Iron Blood. I’m going to tear his goddamn—”

  “You’re going to do nothing yet,” the warlord cuts in, his voice like steel. “We go after Chef and every path to the Cage will vanish.”

  Gunner abruptly shoots to his feet and paces to the island and back, his jaw locked, every muscle tense. “Who’s your contact in the Hangmen? Are they telling us everything they know about the Cage?”

  “Unlikely.”

  Gunner snarls in response to that easy admission. “Then maybe you don’t have the balls to do what needs to be done to get the information.”

  Blowback just looks at him. Lily’s staring at him, too, her face a picture of disbelief. Probably because Gunner must have really gone over the edge if the thinks Blowback doesn’t have the guts to fuck someone up. I don’t know the warlord well but most of the Riders act like they’re walking barefoot through a minefield covered in broken glass when they’re around him.

  Yet they know who this guy is and Blowback is telling Gunner to hold off? Why? And why the hell do they need a trail leading to the Cage if my brother is there, pretending to be one of their fighters?

  Unless…my brother can’t lay a trail. Unless my brother isn’t pretending.

  Unless Gunner lied to me and Stone isn’t doing some undercover thing at all—and instead my brother simply disappeared like all the other fighters did.

  A ragged breath rips from my chest as the truth hits me. At the sound, Gunner’s head whips around and his body stills when he sees my face. I stare up at him with accusing eyes.

  “What really happened to Stone? And don’t say that undercover bullshit again. Where is he? Do you even know?”

  “Anna—” He starts toward me and abruptly stops when I jerk back in my chair. I don’t want him coming close. I don’t want his nearness fucking with my head—or my heart. A flash of pain seems to tighten his features and he roughly continues, “I told you, it’s club business.”

  “Of course it is. Except fuck you and fuck the Riders. You aren’t the only ones who call him a brother. Stupid me, thinking that meant something to you. That maybe me, my mom, and my dad were more than random assholes who just happen to be in Stone’s family.”

  Tension whitens the edge of his mouth. “You are.”

  A hard laugh bursts from me. “Really?” Because only a few hours ago, I wasn’t more. Fingers scrabbling, I dig my phone out of my sweatshirt. “So that’s why you did this, yeah? Why you lied for a week and then lied to my face when I asked if he was okay!”

  “Just to keep you—”

  “From worrying about my brother!” I shout. Daisy cringes at my feet but I can’t hold back the fury. “My brother! Who I have every right to worry about if there’s reason to worry! And there is reason, isn’t there? I mean, Jesus. I’m not asking for details about the Riders’ business. I’m just asking for the truth! Is he in trouble?”

  His face an emotional wasteland, Gunner stares back at me. And that bleak silence is answer enough.

  My throat burning, I look to Lily, whose full lips are pressed into a thin line, her jaw tight. “And you, too.” My voice cracks. “Hugging me after the funeral, pretending everything was fine when my brother is…”

  Going to have to fight to the death so that some rich fuckers can bet on him. Oh god.

  Gunner pushes in front of me, leaning in and bracing his hand on the table, his broad shoulders blocking my view of Lily and the pain in her eyes. “We’re going to get him back, Anna,” he says gruffly. “And we won’t let anyone touch you again.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s what you tell me. But is that true or is it more of this shit?” I lift my phone, scroll back through the messages and read, “‘Everything’s all right, pipsqueak. Just taking longer than it should.’ I can’t believe a single word you say.”

  “Then don’t believe what I said here, either.” Gently his big hand covers mine, his thumb sliding down the screen. “‘Gunner’s a useless fucking asshole.’”

  A huffing laugh escapes me. Shit. I want to hold onto my anger, because the anger’s the only thing keeping my fear for Stone from taking over. But seeing that message, I know exactly what Gunner must have been thinking—all last week, searching for my brother and not finding him, so angry and frustrated…and blaming himself.

  Just like he’s been blaming himself for everything tonight. But this isn’t his fault. And even though I’ve got every right to be pissed off by his lies, it’s not right to lay more blame on him.

  I know he’ll look for Stone. I know the Riders will protect me. He’s not lying about any of that. Maybe everything else, but not that.

  Gently he cups my cheek, tips my face up to meet his eyes. “And I’m so damn sorry, Anna. Sorry I lost him. Sorry we didn’t see this bastard coming for you. Sorry I didn’t get Stone back before you realized he was gone.”

  I believe all of that. Raggedly I say, “Just tell me the Riders are going to find him.”

  “We will.” His callused thumb sweeps across my trembling bottom lip. “And we’ll keep you safe, too. All right?”

  I nod into his hand. His pale gaze holds mine for a long moment, steady, as if imparting his promise not just with words but with that look.

  Finally he turns his head and says to Blowback, “I’ll take Anna to my place tonight, watch over her. You want to update the prez? And maybe you and Zoomie stay here in case that fucker comes back.”

  “We’ll do that,” Blowback says.

  Lily nods and her gaze is on me, even as she asks Gunner, “You still heading out tomorrow?”

  “As soon as Anna’s settled.” Gunner meets my eyes again, his voice low. “You’re all right, coming with me tonight?”

  Even though he’s leaving tomorrow. That knowledge twists painfully in my chest. But I won’t cling to him—even though I want to. Even though I feel so safe with my face cradled in his palm and his eyes searching mine.

  Stone is his priority. And I’m just Stone’s sister.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I’ll come with you tonight.”

  “Good.” His hand slips from my cheek when he straightens, and without his touch I feel cold all over, a shiver racing over my skin. Until he turns away and I hear him say softly, “Because I don’t know how I’m ever going to let you out of my sight again.”

  15

  Anna

  I jolt out of a nightmare of eyeless masks and gloved hands and into an unfamiliar bed—flat on my back, Daisy’s weight ac
ross my ankles, and my heart pounding. With sweat-slicked hands I grab the phone laying beside my pillow.

  No missed calls. No messages.

  It’s only three a.m.

  At the end of the bed, Daisy lifts her head. With a shuddering sigh, I shut off the phone and stare up at the ceiling with the afterimage of the screen floating in front of my eyes.

  I’m in Gunner’s bedroom. In his bed.

  This wasn’t how I hoped to get here. I haven’t been to his place before. I knew where it was, of course—a one-bedroom rental at the edge of town. But he doesn’t seem to spend a lot of time here. When he’s not out riding, he’s either working, at the gym, at the clubhouse, or at Stone’s place…which really means my place, since Stone doesn’t pass a lot of time upstairs and Gunner always comes down with him.

  Gunner doesn’t seem to spend a lot of time here, but he must. Because, Jesus—the books. They’re everywhere. He doesn’t have much in the way of furniture and everything is clean in the “there’s no dirt” sense. But the way the books are shoved into shelves—and on top of the coffee and side tables, and stacked beside the nightstand—the only word for it is “cluttered.” This is the house of a nerdy professor, not the Hellfire Riders’ lethal sergeant at arms.

  How does he fit it all in? Work, the gym, the club, these books? Maybe he doesn’t sleep much.

  I don’t know if he’s sleeping now. If he is, he’s probably out in the living room. As soon as we arrived, he tucked me into his bed to rest, then told me about Cherry and the drugged beer, about finding Stone’s phone in a Dumpster, about spending a week tracking down different clubs and asking for information. All the while he was packing—a small bag of clothes and two long duffles holding weapons he pulled from the huge gun cabinet standing against the wall opposite the bed.

  Then the shock and the whiskey caught up to me and I was out. Not for long, though. I don’t know exactly what was in the nightmare that woke me but I don’t want to expend any mental effort remembering.

  My body is making the effort, though. Despite the covers and Daisy’s warmth against my feet, despite my hoodie and pajamas, I begin shivering. Clenching my teeth, I roll onto my side—

  And look straight into Gunner’s pale eyes.

  My breath catches. He’s not in bed with me. Instead he’s crouching beside it, still wearing those loose sweatpants—but he shucked the shirt, revealing miles of tanned skin and sculpted muscle.

  “You’re all right, Anna.” His big hand cups my cheek, giving me a warm anchor. In a voice roughened by sleep, he says quietly, “You’re safe.”

  Teeth chattering, I glance over the edge of the bed. There’s a sheet spread out on the carpet under him, and a pillow smashed up against the foot of the nightstand. “Were you sleeping down there? Why not the couch?”

  “I’m not going to leave you alone.”

  Those words would have melted me if I weren’t a block of ice. “Then get up here.”

  “I’m fine on the floor.” Tension adds a taut edge to his reply.

  “Maybe, but I’m not fine. I’m f-freezing.” As if to emphasize my claim, my teeth click together harder. “I c-can’t even t-tell if I’m really cold or if it’s just a d-delayed reaction.”

  “Ah, sweetheart. You’re killing me.” With a low groan, he grabs his pillow. “Scoot over so I can stay between you and the door.”

  He had a gun within reach under the bed, I realize when he transfers the pistol to the nightstand. Daisy whines as if I’m torturing her when I roll across the mattress, taking my pillow and my phone with me. Through the dark, I glimpse chiseled abs and flexing biceps, then the sinuous stretch of obliques before I roll another quarter turn, facing the wall. The mattress sags under his weight and I slide right back into him, my spine against his chest. I pull my legs up to make room for Daisy at the foot of the bed, the curve of my bottom against Gunner’s rigid stomach. He’s lying lower on the mattress than I am—his feet must be hanging off the end.

  His heavy arm wraps around my waist. His breath sweeps over my nape as he says gruffly, “Better?”

  “Y-yes.” So much better. God, he’s like a furnace, the heat already sinking into my skin. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t say sorry.” He pulls me tighter against him when a shudder races through my body. “You’ll be all right. It’d be a damn miracle if this shit didn’t hit you hard even after it’s done.”

  “Like PTSD?”

  “Something like that. Though hopefully it won’t stick more than a few nights.”

  His voice is so soothing, so deep. Every word he speaks sends a faint vibration into me, and all I want to do is keep him talking. He’s possibly said more to me today than in the past six years combined.

  “Did it ever happen to you during your deployments?”

  “I had some bad nights,” he admits. “And I’ve had some bad nights since. But it never settled in. I know plenty of others who weren’t so lucky.”

  “Including a couple other Riders.” I can think of a few off the top of my head. Some old ladies, too. Though they probably weren’t traumatized in combat—more likely by the men in their pasts. A few of the women, I think they hang around the bikers because even with all the fighting and the dangerous shit that goes down now and then, the Riders are still less terrifying than what’s in those ladies’ heads.

  “Yup,” he says in the same tone Stone sometimes uses when he acknowledges the truth of something I’ve said but has no intention of talking about other patchholders behind their backs.

  That’s all right. I don’t really want to talk about any other Riders, either. But I can’t dredge up another subject yet, because I can’t focus on anything except his hand. He’s not moving at all—his long body like a steel beam behind me—but his taut forearm is an iron bar across my torso, only a few inches beneath my breasts. His long fingers curl around my ribcage as he holds me securely against him.

  And all I can think is how close his hand is to my breast. Every tiny fluctuation in the strength of his grip, every subtle change in the pressure of his fingertips is an agonizing tease, my nipples stiff and begging for his touch.

  Or begging for him to slide his hand south, over my belly, slipping beneath the elastic waist of my pants—

  On second thought, maybe not south. Not for another day. A little blood might be great for scaring away would-be rapists. Not so great for sexy times.

  But Gunner doesn’t move north or south. Just holds me as my shivers slowly ease.

  The quiet is killing me. I cast around for something innocuous, something a million miles away from my sensitive breasts and the fire between my legs.

  Like something hanging on his bedroom wall. “You really did put up that stupid painting.”

  There’s a smile in his voice. “I did.”

  Because he has terrible taste, apparently. It’s a peek-a-boo landscape I painted almost five years ago and called “Playtime’s Over.” At first glance, it’s just a forest scene. But look close and there’s a naked Barbie swinging through the trees like Tarzan. A rabid Furby lurks in a hollow beneath a rotting stump, its glassy eyes reflecting an amber glow. Amid a pile of rocks, a Magic 8 Ball says to “fuck off.” It was the first and last painting of its type that I made. It was supposed to be funny but just felt cynical, and I would have painted over it and re-used the canvas if Gunner hadn’t offered to take it off my hands.

  “I like the fireflies,” he adds, and for a moment I can’t remember any fireflies at all, until I realize I spelled out Anna was here with the glowing bugs. A squeeze of his hand against my side almost distracts me from his, “And now they don’t lie anymore.”

  Because I am here. For the first time. But although I smile into the dark, my mind goes straight back to the brewery. Straight back to writing on his chest in lipstick. Straight back to telling him not to come around anymore.

  A long, shuddering sigh escapes me. I’m so glad he didn’t listen.

  “Anna.” Concern deepens his voic
e. “You all right?”

  “Yes.” Not really. “I was just thinking…at the funeral today, I realized—a gravestone is the ultimate version of that, isn’t it? When all of Red’s friends are gone, when Jenny is gone, when no one remembers him, that gravestone will still be there, saying, ‘Red was here.’”

  His grip tightens. “No.”

  “No?”

  Against my neck, I feel him shake his head. “That’s not what it says. ‘Beloved father and husband’ was engraved on it. So when all those people are gone, it doesn’t just say he was here. It says he was loved.”

  Oh my god. I choke up so fast, my eyes fill so quick—and I don’t know why. Except that Gunner just ripped open something inside me.

  Silence falls as I fight back the tears and Gunner waits for my reply. Abruptly he seems to realize it’s not coming.

  He sits up. Without his chest to support me, I roll onto my back and suddenly he leans over me, his right hand planted beside my shoulder, his face close to mine—searching my eyes through the dark.

  “Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not.” It’s thick and clearly a lie but I don’t quit telling it. “I’m not.”

  He groans and hangs his head. Tension cords the powerful muscles of the arm braced against the mattress and holding his upper body above mine. “What’d I say?”

  “Nothing. Just, I don’t know—” I’m still working it through. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. Leaving gravestones all over the place. Desperately telling myself that I’m loved.”

  “Damn it, sweetheart. That’s not what I meant for you to take away from that.” He sounds tortured. “You are—”

  “I know.” I do know. I’m loved. By my family, by friends. “I’m just tired. And feeling sorry for myself. And a little vulnerable. You know, all that fun stuff.”

  He nods, his face shadowed, but I can feel him watching me. “So that selfie in the brewery—was that a gravestone?”

  Agony constricts my lungs. I strive for a light reply but I only manage a strained whisper. “It was definitely the end of something.”