THE MAN WITH ALL THE HONEY: Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance #3

by Cathryn Cade

  All of which proved he was the last man on earth for her.

  * * *

  When Rocker came back into the club, he avoided Stick's gaze, picking up his drink in silence.

  "Is she gone?" Stick asked.

  Rocker drained his scotch and leaned over to pick up the bottle. "Yep. And I don't believe you have to worry about her comin' back your way, either." Then he walked away, taking the bottle with him.

  Stick stared after him, something unpleasant curling in his gut. It felt uncomfortably like shame.

  Well, that was too bad, because he'd only done what needed doing. There was no place for a woman like her here, with her ladylike airs and her sarcastic tongue. The way she flashed those eyes at him. Yeah, he could piss her off faster than he could down a shot of good vodka.

  Too bad she was so much trouble, because he fuckin' liked pissing her off. Almost as much as he'd enjoyed fucking her. Just the thought of her going wild in his arms made him harder than all Tawni's squirming and licking.

  But this time he'd done more than piss her off. This time he'd hurt her, humiliated her in front of his club. Shoved her away for good.

  With an impatient curse under his breath, Stick surged to his feet, taking his bottle of Stolichnaya vodka with him. He took a drink from the bottle and then set it down. The club and all the people in it were as stale as old cigar smoke. Might as well go home to bed. The boys would be up early, ready to rip and tear into a new day.

  He'd take them fishing in the morning. No women there.

  But Stick's day of fishing was not to be. Bouncer walked outside to take a call, then held up a hand to keep Stick from walking to his bike.

  "Bullet called from the Tri," his Sergeant-at-arms announced. "We got trouble down there."

  Stick strode back into the club house, put two fingers to his lips and whistled. When heads turned and voices cut off, he spoke one word. "Church, now."

  Rocker pushed his blonde from his lap, and rose to follow Stick into the hallway, and through the double doors of their meeting room. Once it had been one of the display rooms, but now it held a long table and chairs. On the north wall hung an American flag, with a Devil's Flyers banner below, and several cuts once worn by brothers now passed on. The windows were shielded with heavy shades.

  Stick moved to the big chair before the flag, and waited for his brothers to file in and close the door.

  Rocker took his right hand, Bouncer his left. The brothers who were present filled in. Snake, a skinny, bald biker who hung out with Bouncer and was as mean as a snake when drunk, thus his club name. Moke, the big Hawaiian who was quiet but had a formidable temper when riled. Cooler and Toro followed.

  "We got a situation in the Tri," Stick told them. "Bounce?"

  "It's those mother-fuckin’ Rattlers. They done a drive-by last night just after dark, shot Bullet's neighbor," Bouncer told them. "Neighbor is near Bullet's age and build, but he's a retired electrician, don't do nothin' but fish. Bullet thinks the bullets were meant for him."

  Bullet lived in a Kennewick trailer park where he shared his double-wide with Deni Weeks, Kit's mother.

  "They finish the neighbor?" Rocker asked.

  "Nope, he's gonna make it. But that wasn't the only attack. Streak's cousin Poker lives 'cross the river in Pasco. His apartment was blown to kingdom-fuckin’-come, cops say it was a home-made bomb. Luckily he wasn't home."

  "Anyone die there?" Toro asked. "Shit, I got cousins in that area of town, too."

  "You got cousins all over the damn Tri," Cooler muttered, gaze still on Bouncer.

  Bouncer shook his head. "Nope, but get this shit—dudes in Rattler cuts were seen ridin' away from both scenes. The bastards ain't even trying to cover their tracks. It's like they're tryin' to start a war, or somethin'."

  Stick snorted. "They're not important enough to go to war with. But sounds like it's time to head down there and step on a few puny snakes."

  "I'm with you all the way on that," Bouncer agreed.

  "Hell, yeah," Snake agreed, throwing up a fist, revealing the striking adder on his inner arm. "Only snake that needs to live is me."

  "I'm with you," Rocker said. Moke agreed, as did Cooler.

  Stick nodded his approval. "All right, brothers. We ride. I'll let Seattle and Portland know."

  "I say we bring up some brothers from Cali, too," Bouncer said. "And southern Idaho. Remind those sons-of-bitches nobody messes with a Flyer, even if our brother wants to live right next door to their goddamn clubhouse."

  "Truth." The brothers all nodded.

  Not that any of the Flyers was that stupid, but it was the principle of the thing. Anytime a Flyer was attacked, he had brothers behind him, a hundred or more deep. The Rattlers had just brought down an army of hurt on themselves.

  Stick gauged his men. Adrenaline was pumping, no sense in wasting time.

  "We ride tonight," Stick decided. "Get in, scout around, and then hole up tomorrow until dark. By the time the others ride in, we'll have a plan."

  "Hell, yeah."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Stick called Velvet and Webb to come over and stay with the boys, as Marta was working tonight at The Hangar, filling in for a sick barmaid. The older couple arrived soon after, Velvet strutting into the house in full makeup, lace and denim as if due for a night out rather than a sleep-over.

  Webb followed more slowly, and sank into one of the big leather chairs in the living room, his lined face pale.

  "Wish I could ride and back you up," he told Stick. "But I ain't feelin' up to it, an' that's the sorry truth. Ate somethin' bad."

  "Need you here more," Stick reassured him. "I want one wise head around here while I'm gone. And it's probably nothin', but keep an eye out. I got a itch on the back of my neck."

  "Nobody's dumb enough to mess with us here," Webb told him, slapping a hand on the arm of his chair. "They know what'd happen."

  This was true, so Stick nodded. But once his saddlebags were strapped on, he started up his big Harley and headed over to The Hangar.

  The brewpub sat on the north side of the main road through the Heights, surrounded by a paved parking lot in front and on the sides, with a gravel overflow lot behind.

  The one-story building was sided in corrugated white steel, with a deep blue metal roof. A neon sign towered in the parking lot, a silver, old-fashioned prop plane with the words 'The Hangar' arcing over the top in big red letters, and 'Brewpub & Grill' below in smaller red letters.

  Inside, the atmosphere was casual and comfortable, lots of wood, padded booths around the sides, high-top tables throughout the middle of the big, L-shaped room, and a long, L-shaped bar with taps and ranks of bottles up against the mirrored back wall.

  On the walls hung old black and white photos of planes and pilots from the early days at Fairchild Air Force Base, along with old photos of Flyers on Harleys, and a few ‘Nam era photos.

  Pete was bar-tending. Stick nodded toward the office door behind the bar. Pete followed him inside the other room and closed the door.

  Stick filled his brother in on what was happening in the Tri.

  "You're riding down there," Pete said.

  "Yeah. Gonna step on some snakes, grind them under my boot-heel if I need to. This shit cannot stand."

  "Who's going with you?" Pete asked, frowning.

  "Bounce, Rocker, Snake, Cooler, Moke and Keys. Streak, 'cause this is his fight."

  "What about T-bear and Moran?"

  "Moran's staying to keep eyes on Coeur d'Alene. T-bear's pukin' his guts out, he got food poisoning or some shit. Knife laid his bike down on the gravel a few weeks ago, his leg's still bad. He and the others will keep eyes on the compound. Gates are closed, with a man on them until we get back." Stick cuffed his brother on the shoulder. "Don't worry about me, maladshiy. Worry about the Rattlers."

  Pete snorted. "Da. Forgot who I'm talking to, bratik. Good hunting."

  "Keep an eye out while I'm gone. Velvet and Webb have the boys, but
Webb's feelin' puny too. Must've eaten same place T-bear did yesterday."

  Pete nodded back. "I'll head over there soon as I lock up. I'll get up earlier than usual tomorrow, so I can take the boys out for a while."

  "Da. And stay armed, okay?"

  Pete's brows went up. "Why, you got a ghost on your grave?"

  "More like a snake crawling over it."

  "Hey, you want me to keep an eye on your new neighbor for you? Happy to do that too." Pete's eyes twinkled.

  Stick shrugged. "Do anything you want, I'm done with her."

  Pete looked disappointed for an instant, but his younger brother knew better than to say anything. When Stick was done with a woman, he was done.

  "All right. Good hunting."

  "Spasibo." His mind moving on to the ride ahead, across the Washington prairie, Stick strode back through the pub, and out into the summer evening.

  * * *

  Sara had fully intended to drive south to stay with her mother, but when she called from the side of the road near an entrance ramp to I-90, Carlene answered her cell with static in the background.

  "Hi, sweetie! I'm on the road, headed down to Boise with my friend Francine. We're going to a huge swap meet. What are you up to?"

  "Oh," Sara said, disappointment weighing her shoulders along with all the other negative emotion. "I was going to drive down and visit."

  "Oh, shoot. Well, how about next weekend, instead? Say, have you heard from Seth yet? That boy still has not answered any of my calls. I'm about to go over there."

  "Huh." Sara chewed her lower lip as she thought about this. "Maybe I'll go and check on him."

  "Well ... you should call first. See if you can catch him. You don't want to drive all that way for nothing."

  "Right. Have a good trip, momma. Bye."

  "Bye, Sarey. Call me if you hear from Seth."

  "I will."

  Sara ended the call and flopped her head onto her hand, her arm propped on the open window of the Caddy. Now what was she going to do? Out of habit when she was under stress, she hit one of the two top names on her 'favorites' screen. It happened to be Kit's name.

  "Hey, girl," her friend answered immediately. "What's up?"

  "I'm ... headed over to the Tri-Cities," Sara said, surprising herself. But she could drive over, scout around Seth's apartment, talk to his friend—Josh, or Joel?

  "You're going to the Tri?" Kit asked. "What, to see your brother?"

  "Yes. Want to come?" Kit's company would be immensely cheering. They could trash talk Stick, strip him verbally until she felt better.

  "Well, no, I—hey, gimme that—" Kit's words ended in a garble of static.

  "Sara?" It was Keys' voice, hard and decisive, a tone she'd never heard the laid-back biker use. "You talkin' about headin' over to the Tri?" In the background, Kit said something indignant. "Hush, Red. This is important."

  "Uh ... yes?" Sara said. "Why?"

  "No," he said. "You do not go. You need to stay here, babe, stay safe. There's shit goin' down over there, an' it's gonna escalate before it lays down."

  "What's happening?" she demanded, alarm curling her free hand tight on the steering wheel. The Tri-Cities was a fairly sleepy trio of towns flung out on both sides of the Columbia River and the interstate. Nothing much happened there, as far as she knew.

  "I mean, shit you don't need to know about. The Flyers are ridin' out tonight to take care of it. Don't need any of our women involved."

  "My little brother lives there," she blurted. "And I ... we haven't heard from him in days. I was gonna go check on him. I'll just drive down and stay out of your way, okay? You won't even know I'm in the same town."

  There was a short silence.

  "Name, address, phone number, where he works," Keys rapped out. "I'll look him up, check on him. Report back soon as I get a chance."

  "But I—"

  Kit's voice came back on the line. "Sara, honey. Please, listen to Keys. If he says it's not safe for us there, he means it. The Rattlers club holds territory over there, north of the river. And they're one percenters—they have zero respect for women. If they learn a friend of the Flyers is there, unprotected ... it would not be good."

  "I'm hardly a friend of the Flyers," Sara protested.

  Keys was back. "Babe. We already covered that. Now you gonna listen to me, or am I gonna send Jack to chase you down and bring you over here? 'Cause I don't have time for this shit—Stick's ridin' out, and I'm goin' with him."

  Stick was riding out? What did that mean?

  "Okay," she said slowly. "If you promise you'll call me as soon as you see Seth."

  "Already said I would. Later."

  Sara was pissed now. Where did Keys get off speaking to her that way?

  "Sara? Sorry about that," Kit said, sounding breathless. "Keys can be a little bossy when he's on a roll. Listen, I'll call you back in a bit, 'kay? Gotta say goodbye to my man."

  The call ended, leaving Sara sitting in the summer evening. A truck hauling a flatbed loaded with hay trundled by, headed for the interstate. A few wisps of hay flew back, drifting across the broad windshield of the Caddy.

  Sara shook her head. Guess she wasn't going anywhere this evening. She put the car in gear and made a wide turn, heading back the way she'd come. As she turned onto the quiet county road leading back out to her place, her phone burbled again.

  It was Kit.

  "What is going on?" Sara demanded, keeping a careful eye on the road as she spoke. There was only one pickup truck far ahead of her, so she could talk and drive.

  "The Rattlers went after two friends of the club," Kit explained. "My mom’s boyfriend Bullet, and a prospect's cousin. It's bullshit, throwing their weight around, but it's dangerous."

  Sara nearly drove off the road into the borrow pit. She braked on the verge of the road, dust flying up around the car. A pair of prairie birds flew up from a clump of roadside weeds, calling in alarm.

  "Dangerous?" she echoed. "Oh, my God! Is your mom okay? And Bullet?"

  “Yeah, they’re fine. Mom is stashed where no one can find her, and Bullet’s okay. They shot his neighbor by mistake, and blew up the other guy's apartment. The Flyers are moving on them, making a statement. They'll be riding in from all over, and since Stick called them in, he'll take point. It's not gonna end well for the Rattlers."

  Sara gripped the steering wheel, her heart galloping. “Stick is taking point—as in, he's in charge? Does that mean ... they're going to be shooting at each other?"

  "It's possible," Kit said. "But Stick is smart, and so are Rocker and Bouncer—when he's not being an asshole. They'll figure a way to make a statement without blood, if possible. If not ... well, let's hope it's Rattler blood that flows."

  Sara moaned. "Oh, my God. I can't even ... what if he gets shot? I mean—what if one of the guys gets shot?"

  She clapped a hand over her mouth as she pictured Stick reeling backward as bullets struck him, his big, powerful body falling limp in the dust outside some ratty club house on the prairie, strange bikers watching malevolently. She shivered despite the warmth of the evening.

  Kit sighed. "We have to know the risks when we hook up with a biker. All I can do is have my man's back, send him off with a smile and hope he comes home safe."

  "Oh, my God." Sara knew she sounded like a parrot with one phrase, but ... this was a little too much biker reality for her to take in. "Did Jack go too?"

  "Nope, he's here to keep an eye on Lindi, me and our places. There will be people at the compound too, looking out. Even the Rattlers aren't stupid enough to come into Stick's territory looking for trouble, but still, everyone is on alert."

  Sara shivered. The idea of some sleazy bikers riding out here trying to cause trouble for the Flyers sent a cold chill down her back.

  “Well, your mom needs to get out of there.”

  "Yeah, I talked to Deni. She's shook up. She's gonna try and talk Bullet into moving over here," Kit said. "Hope it works—I don't like having
her so close to the Rattlers."

  "Of course she will," Sara said quickly. "And there are plenty of mobile home courts around here. Although I never thought of the Tri-Cities as exactly a hotbed of crime."

  "Yeah, I don't think it is, for ninety-five percent of the populars," Kit said.

  "Populace," Sara corrected automatically. "Right, I suppose not."

  "Okay, I'll call if I hear from Keys," Kit said. "Before you do, I mean."

  "Anytime, doesn't matter," Sara told her friend. "Four a.m., I don't care. Just call me. And I'll say a prayer for all of them—heck, who am I kidding? I'm not going to sleep tonight. I'll say lots of prayers."

  Kit drew in a snuffling sigh. "Good. Me too. I feel like that line from that song, 'If I ain't a Christian, ma'am, I sure am tonight.'"

  "Right. Okay, talk soon."

  Sara ended the call, and put the Caddy in drive. And as she turned the corner into the shared lane that led to hers and Stick's places, she saw lights on in the house. Someone was there with the boys, then.

  She squashed the impulse to go knock on the door and check on them. After Stick had booted her out of the club, she doubted she'd be welcome at his home. Because it would be someone from the club watching the kids, one of the old ladies most likely.

  She pulled into her own drive and back to the rear garage, maneuvering carefully around the other. She stopped the big car before the closed garage door, the headlights shining on the building. She clicked the garage door opener, and the door slid up, she drove in and got out, sucking in her tummy as she did so, because there wasn't much room between the big car and the wall.

  She pulled her overnight case from the trunk, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out into the summer twilight. The garage door creaked down, leaving her in the hushed yard, only the sleepy twitter of a bird settling for the night, and a cricket singing from the base of the other garage. Despite the lighted house right on the other side of the hedge, she suddenly felt very alone, and vulnerable, as if someone was watching her.