by Cathryn Cade
“Sure don’t want that to happen again,” Pete said. “Maybe you oughtta run across the road and try the vending machines at the truck stop. Might be more your style.”
“No, we’ll go to the casino, and dine five stars,” Dimitri shot back, his smile freezing. “They know us there, what we like. You Vankos, you don’t have anything we want.”
“Not a single thing,” Mikhail snickered. Yvgeny elbowed him sharply, and he shut up, scowling.
The Flyers were scowling back. T-Bear growled under his breath, looming beside Pete, and Rocker moved in on the other side, radiating menace.
“Then get the hell outta here." Bouncer brandished his pool cue. “Before you get what’s comin’ to you, buncha little pissants.”
“Stand down, brother,” Pete said, gaze still locked with Dimitri Sokolov’s. “Not sure why you bothered to come in, Sokolov, but you know where the door is. Use it. And you come back, I won’t be askin’ my brothers to stand down. I’ll let ‘em use your faces to mop my floors with.”
Dimitri Sokolov glanced from one of them to the other, then back at Pete. He smiled again, a rictus of faux good humor. “We’ll leave. But as for fighting you? No, we don’t need to. We have family to do that for us.”
“Who, your sister?” Bouncer sneered. “She may be good for things like spreadin' her legs, doubt she’ll do your fightin’ for you, boys.”
Dimitri gave him a hate-filled glare. “Nyet. I mean other family. You can tell Ivan Vanko that Uncle Vlad sends his regards.”
Astonishingly, he winked at Pete before turning and sauntering out as if he and his brothers owned the place, not the Flyers.
“Who the fuck is Uncle Vlad?” Rocker asked.
“I got no clue,” Pete said, ice forming in his gut. “But I know who will.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit quick dial as he strode back through the bar. He started talking the instant he hit the quiet inside the brewery. “Stick? Just had a visit from the Sokolovs. Who’s their Uncle Vlad? ‘Cause Dimitri just used him to threaten us.”
On the other end of the call, Stick muttered a curse. “Fuck, I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Listen, I’m at the clubhouse. Come. You, me, Rocker, Bounce. T-Bear and Moke, if you want ‘em.”
The icy fist pressed deeper in Pete’s gut. “Right,” he said slowly. “On our way.”
He put his phone away and shook his head to Rocker’s inquiring look. “He won’t talk on the phone.”
“That ain’t good,” Rocker's face hardened. “He set up a meet?”
“Yeah, now.”
“Let’s ride.”
T-Bear and Moke offered to stay and watch over the Hangar. “I’ll bartend,” T-Bear offered.
“Now would be good,” Streak called urgently. “Got orders stackin’ up.”
Pete looked to Streak. “You and T are in charge. Back soon as I can.”
Streak lifted his chin, his hands busy pulling beers for Sylvie, while Lesa hurried by with loaded plates of fish and chips. Pete nodded to her, and she frowned, cutting her gaze away.
They’d be having a chat later, about her attitude and what it was gonna get her.
Now, he had more urgent business to take care of.
* * *
Stick was waiting by the Flyers' clubhouse bar, thumbing his phone and ignoring Candy, a stripper from State Line putting on an impromptu performance for a few of the brothers and club hangers-on. Cigar smoke and the smell of whiskey, sweat and perfume hung in the air, mingling with a blues guitar and catcalls from her audience. She gave the newcomers a come-hither look as she dropped her tiny bra.
Bouncer leered back at her. Pete kept moving. They followed Stick into the meeting room. The door closed behind them, and they all found chairs, Stick at the head of the table under the club banner, his two officers assuming their usual seats. Pete dropped into a chair at the other end.
“Vladimir Smetanin,” Stick said. “The Sokolov’s uncle on their mother’s side. He’s bratva.”
Shock hit Pete in the gut like a cold fist. “Bratva? The Sokolovs are tied to the Russian mafia?”
“Da. And those little pissants are right. If they’re bragging about Vlad, they’ve probably told him we’re after them.”
“So we hit them, we hit at him,” Pete said.
“Da. We piss him off, he’ll come after us, and not just us, but our families and friends.”
“Russian mob?” Bouncer repeated. “We’re fucked.”
“Not entirely,” Stick said. “There’s one thing that cold bastard understands, respects. That’s honor—his idea of honor. The boys dishonor him, he’ll kill them himself.” He looked to Pete, his eyes knife-sharp under his heavy brows. “So all you have to do, bratish, is figure out how to make that work.”
“Right.” Pete scrubbed a hand over his face, which was hot. “Shit.” And ... he had nothing.
Rocker leaned back in his chair, lifting a hand. “Pete, brother, chill. They brought trouble into our house. Stick, sounds like this guy is big on his family’s rep, what the Asians call ‘face’. Suppose we just find a way to ensure the boys embarrass the hell out of him?”
“That shouldn’t be that hard, cocky as they are,” Pete said.
Stick smiled slowly. “Rock, brother, you may not have been born Russian, but you have the instincts of the wolf. I like it.”
He tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “We could meet with him,” he decided. “Tell him we are having a problem with the boys, that we ask him to keep them out of Flyer business. Then, if that don’t work, we find a way to prove it.”
“And I say we ride in numbers,” Bouncer rasped. “Remind him that there’s a whole lotta Flyers in the west, and that we have alliances with the Timber Wolves and the Hell Riders too, both over there in Seattle and Portland, right where his operations are. When he agrees to rope in his boys, he looks good, like the big boss doing us a favor. Then … we bait the trap for those little shit-heads. And we let them do the rest of the work themselves.”
Pete looked to Bouncer with renewed respect. Their Sergeant-at-arms might be a foul-tempered one-percenter with the personal hygiene of a goat, but he had the canny instincts of a warrior.
“That could work,” Stick said. “I’ll reach out to Smetanin, then the other chapters. Bad fuckin’ time of year for a mass ride, though.”
Rocker sighed. “Yeah, I’m not takin’ my bike out with winter storm warnings on for the coming week. Seen too many motorcycle wrecks on slick roads. And, Snowqualmie Pass is just as likely to close as stay open. We could truck the bikes over there, but we’ll still have to deal with Seattle. No snow, but ...” he shrugged. They all knew Seattle in winter was guaranteed wet.
“Just shitty rain,” Bouncer groused. “Fuckin’ Seattle.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to chance getting stuck on the west side of that pass, away from Sara and the boys,” Stick decided. “The Sokolovs could make trouble here while we’re gone.”
“They likely would,” Pete agreed. “What if you phone Smetanin? Think you can get through to him?”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’ll have Seattle chapter pres get me through. Smetanin’ll know Sound Whittaker, or of him.”
“So we’re back to our original plan.”
Stick shrugged. “If Rocker’s tech catches the Sokolovs breaking into the old upholstery shop, we can still use that. Change out the shit we left there for weapons, and make sure their fingerprints are all over the pieces. Cops will love it, and have no idea we’re involved. Neither will Smetanin.”
Rocker chuckled. “Yeah, I got a set of black stocking masks we can wear to follow them in, knock them out. I may have kept them from the evidence room when I was fired.”
“Nice,” Bouncer said. “Pete and Stick’ll just have to keep their mouths shut. Still got the accent from your folks. Betting your fellow Russkys would pick up on that in a heartbeat.”
Pete rose, stretching. “I can keep my mouth shut when I need to. Now, we
done? I gotta get back to the Hangar before T-Bear drinks my new batch down to the dregs.”
“And in time to give your ‘honey’ a ride home,” Bouncer ragged him. “You get her that French maid outfit yet?”
“Not yet,” Pete drawled. “But then, we haven’t missed it, either.”
“She still stayin’ at your place?” Rocker asked.
“Yep. ‘Cause I don’t trust Marta not to pull some shit on her, and maybe use her brothers to help. My fault Lesa ended up in the crazy bitch’s sights, so I’m keeping her safe.”
He looked to Stick, received a nod of approval, and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lesa spent the rest of her evening staying as far away from Aysha as she could. The blond had purposely whacked into Lesa’s back with her tray after Pete left, then given Lesa a spiteful glare.
“Now I see why you’re still here,” Aysha said. “You’re putting out for Pete, so he’s keeping you on even though you’re a thief.”
Lesa gritted her teeth. “No, but I’m guessing you offered and got turned down, and that’s why you’re so jealous.”
Aysha’s face flushed under her makeup. “Who says I got turned down, bitch?”
“Anyone who watches you chase after him. And here’s a clue—you touch me again, and I will take you down. .”
“Like you even know how to fight.”
Lesa smirked. “I have two sisters, so yeah, I do. Now stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Aysha muttered something else, but Lesa marched away, letting the sounds of classic Springsteen mask the bitch.
Pete came back from his mysterious errand later in a foul mood. He emerged from the back and went back to tending bar with Streak, while his biker brothers resumed their seats.
But although he still smiled and chatted with customers, Lesa noted the line between his brows and the darkness in his gaze as he pulled beers.
“Hey, boss,” she called, moving to the bar with an order. “What’s the matter, someone turn you down?”
The instant his gaze met hers, one of his brows flying up, her cheeks flushed. Oh, geez, he was taking it all wrong—although, even she wasn’t sure what she’d meant. Just that he looked as if he’d had some rotten news of some kind, and she'd instinctively wanted to distract him. Now he’d say something horrible back, and she’d have only herself to blame.
But he merely gave her a slow wink. “Not yet,” he drawled. T-Bear and Moke looked to her, and laughed.
Lesa rolled her eyes and loaded her tray with the beers that were waiting for her. “O-kay. Next I need three ambers and an IPA.” She hurried away, leaving Pete and his biker buds chuckling behind her.
She didn’t know whether to congratulate herself for lightening his mood, or spank her own ass for drawing his attention back to herself. Her own fault for opening her big mouth. It was just … for some dumb reason she did not like seeing him in his head like that. Like he was wrestling with a weighty problem too heavy even for his broad shoulders.
She wondered if his dark mood had to do with the mysterious plan he had in the works.
Whatever, for now, she arrived at a high-top near the pool tables with the beers, set them out and received a pout from one of the young women, a blond wearing skinny jeans, trendy top and enough hair product to stock a salon. “Where’s my Simms light?” she demanded.
“You just said light. I brought you the brand we carry.”
The blond’s two friends, both enough like her to be clones, moved up beside her, watching Lesa with smirks that said they knew what was coming.
Ms Mousse turned to one of them. “I said Simms Light, didn’t I? Did you hear me say I wanted a Simms Light?”
They both nodded. “We totally heard you, Mitzi.”
Mitzi raised her brows, looking around as if to say, ‘See, what did I tell you?’
Except no one was listening except Lesa. “How about if we comp you your beer?” she asked, gritting her teeth. “Or you can order something we do carry. We have quite a listing.” She picked up the standup tri-fold menu and held it out to the young woman.
The blond sneered. “How about if you comp all of us our beers and bring me something worth drinking?”
Her friends smirked. But then their smiles slid away, and their eyes widened as they focused over Lesa’s shoulder.
“How about if you finish the beers you got—or don’t, makes no difference to me,” Pete said, his voice hard. He stood so close Lesa felt his heat and strength against her back. “And then you can go find another bar that doesn’t mind how you talk to the staff. This one ain’t your playground, and these people are not your friends, they’re hers. They’re here for a good time, not to put up with entitled little bitches like you. You hearing me?”
Mitzi Mousse nodded quickly, her face pale in the bar lights. She and her friends backed up, colliding in their hurry to get away from Pete, then turned and scurried away through the tables toward the front door.
Lesa looked over her shoulder, her mouth open to thank Pete, but he was already turning away. “Get their table cleared, we got people waitin’ for it.”
She frowned after him, then got to work. He was giving her whiplash—nice to her one moment and growling the next. Saying the people here were her friends. She wished.
Well, Streak, T-Bear and Moke were sweet, in their extremely forthright biker way. And Sylvie, if not friendly any more, was at least not downright mean as Aysha.
But him … what was she supposed to think of an arrogant, hot, annoying biker who wanted to have sex with her and kissed her publicly, at the same time as he was basically blackmailing her into being his stooge?
Luckily she had more than enough work to do, because if she spent any more time trying to figure him out, her head would explode. Her tray full of empties, her mind full of new orders and refills, she hurried back to the bar.
Pete drove them home—that is, back to his house that night in near silence. He looked preoccupied, that distant frown back on his face. But since Lesa was tired and conflicted, his silence suited her fine. She wrapped one arm around Dima. Leaning her head against her other hand, propped on the truck’s passenger window frame, she closed her eyes.
“Moye, wake up.” Pete's hand touching her face—no, wait, his fingers weren’t cold and damp, that was Dima snuffling her cheek.
Lesa straightened with a start, and shoved Dima’s nose away. “Down, girl,” she mumbled. “I’m awake.”
Pete led the way to the house, Dima dashing off into the darkness of the yard to do her business.
Lesa plodded past Pete into the house, pulling off her coat and mittens.
“Go on up to bed,” he told her. “I got shit to do, be up in a while.”
She looked back at him, standing in his kitchen in the lamplight, tall and broad and implacable.
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked, irritably.
He shook his head, thumbing his phone. “I’ll be up when I’m finished here. And you better be in my bed.”
“Bossy,” she mumbled, and yawned again, then made her way up the stairs.
She managed—just—to shower and brush her teeth before climbing into his bed. She spent a few moments scrolling sleepily through messages on her phone, but she was asleep before Pete came up.
February 4th
In the morning, Pete was already up when Lesa woke. For a moment she wondered if he’d slept at all, but his side of the king bed was mussed, and his pillow bore the indentation of his head. And no wonder, as it was already nine thirty.
But she had nowhere to go until they left to open the Hangar, so she wanted a shower, breakfast and then to talk to someone who was in no way associated with The Hangar.
At least nothing had happened between them last night. That was a relief.
She did her morning ablutions and dressed in gray skinny jeans, a blue tank layered under her cap-sleeved Hangar tee, and a short, silvery cardi that was fitted over her arms and sho
ulders, draped from her breasts to above her waist.
She loaded her hands with mousse and finger-styled her hair into loose curls, then caught back the top and sides with a clip. With her silver water-fall earrings and a pair of thin silver chains around her neck, she was ready.
To her shock, Pete was making breakfast. He stood before the stove, barefoot, his wet hair pulled back in a tail, his tight black tee stretching over his muscles as he laid bacon in a skillet on his big, gas stove. Dima sat at his side, watching raptly.
“You cook?” Lesa asked.
He set the last piece of bacon in the sizzling skillet, laid a splatter screen over it, and turned to look at her, swiping up his coffee mug as he did so.
“Yeah, I cook. Don’t do a lot, since I own a place with a fuckin’ fantastic grill cook.”
She poured herself some coffee in a big, dark blue mug that had ‘Life is Good’ embossed on the side, added creamer and took a long sip, then another. She looked up to find him watching her. “What?”
“You take that first drink like you’re getting a taste of sex,” he told her bluntly. “And enjoyin’ the fuck out of it. You look like that when I have my fingers in your pussy?”
Her cheeks burned, and she glared at him. “First, how would I know? And second, that is so …”
“Honest?” he put in helpfully, grabbing a pair of cooking tongs from the drawer at his hip and tossing them on the counter. “Or real?”
“How about crude? Or how about ‘don’t you ever think about anything but sex’?” She set her coffee down on the island to sketch quote marks, then perched on a stool, holding the mug in both hands to drink. Although maybe she should slip a shot of his whiskey in it to deal with him.
“Don’t give a shit about being crude, and I’m a guy, so no. ‘Cept when I’m riding, then I keep my mind on what I’m doing so I don’t wind up ass down in a ditch. I’m betting you do look like that. Soon as I find out, I’ll let you know.”
“You won’t.”
He chuckled, the deep sound audible over the sizzle of the bacon he was turning in the pan. She growled under her breath, and pulled out her phone, checking her messages as she drank her coffee. Ignoring the fact that he could piss her off hotter than that bacon.
