FOLLOW THE HONEY (Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance Book 4)

by Cathryn Cade

  After a while, Stick walked in. He walked to the pool tables, and shook hands with the strangers. Then all of them followed Pete back into the brewery. Oh, God. Something was going on, something Pete did not like. Some kind of Flyers’ business, no doubt.

  Her stomach knotting, she wondered if the strangers’ arrival had to do with the thefts, and Pete’s secret plan that he wouldn’t discuss with her.

  Whatever was going on, it gave her a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  * * *

  The door of the brewery closed behind him, and Pete shoved the deadbolt across, blocking anyone from the bar from coming back here.

  Then he turned to face his brother and their unexpected visitors.

  The Seattle Flyers’ were looking around at the vats and the tanks. The Sgt-at-arms of the Seattle chapter, Laser, was a short, lean man with a gray ponytail and a deep scar down the side of his face.

  He’d brought a chunky ginger biker named Hook along with him.

  Pete wanted to tell both of them to turn the fuck around and get out of his brewpub, but club protocol said he treated them with respect. Didn’t mean he was gonna kiss their asses and smile. Especially not when they’d casually revealed that Stick had called them over to deal with ‘his little problem’, without even consulting Pete.

  “Nice setup you got here,” Hook said, thumbs hooked in his belt as he looked at the vats and equipment. “All the brew you can drink, what a fuckin’ deal, huh?”

  “It’s a good deal,” Stick agreed. He stood in the center of the walkway leading back by the big, stainless steel tanks, arms crossed. “And my brother brews excellent beer.”

  Pete glared at his brother. If the over-bearing asshole thought compliments were gonna smooth this shit over, he could think again. “Ty che, blyad?” he snarled. What the fuck was going on?

  “English, bratish,” said Stick calmly. “All right, let’s talk.”

  Laser scowled around him. “You sure this place is clean?”

  “Sure as it’s winter out there,” Rocker said. “Swept it myself, not ten minutes ago. And I have the best tech you can buy under the table.”

  Which was to say it was the best, because Rocker knew his shit.

  Stick spoke again. “So, you ready to help us clean up our little problem?”

  Laser jerked his chin. “We can. You deliver ‘em, we load ‘em up and wshhht! Problem solved, three for the price of one. Nobody knows who grabbed ‘em. And won’t Uncle Vlad be surprised to have ‘em show up in one of his very own warehouses with a load of illegal weapons.”

  Hook snickered. “Trying to horn in on his business—that’ll piss him off, but at them, not us.”

  Right, because Smetanin would never figure out who made it all happen. Pete turned and paced away, rubbing his hand over the logo on one of his vats. But this time it failed to soothe him.

  “Relax, bratish,” Stick said.

  Pete gave him a look. “Da, I’ll remind you of that when the bratva is on our doorstep.”

  “That won’t happen,” Stick told him. “Because Smetanin won’t just find his nephews, he’ll find a load of illegal weapons, the same brand he smuggles across the border. And he’ll get a phone call from me, that I don’t appreciate them going into business over here in our territory. That he should take them in over there, and teach them how to do business the right way. They can whine and cry all they want that they were set up, but with their fingerprints all over the load, and a supplier I know ready to swear that he sold them the weapons … don’t think Uncle Vlad will listen to them.”

  “Say it works, and he takes them in, you’re gonna set them up for life in Seattle, right where they can get to us anytime they like?” Pete demanded.

  Stick gave him a smirk. “Bratish, family only goes so far. My guess is, those boys will be on a very, very tight leash for a while, with unfriendly keepers. Or on a slow boat home to Russia.”

  “Well, if you’re wrong, this could go bad fast,” Pete said.

  Stick said nothing. But then, he knew better than anyone, this decision was on his shoulders. Good thing they were broad. The others were waiting on them, watchful and silent. Finally, Pete shrugged. Too late to go back to his plan without losing face in front of the Seattle chapter. So once again, Stick would get his way.

  Rocker broke the heavy silence. “Your delivery truck isn’t on any hot sheets?”

  Laser shook his head, but with a sly grin “You ex-cops. Always worrying about license plates an’ shit.”

  Rocker shrugged. “Been a lot of big operations brought down by a traffic stop. SUV goin’ through North Idaho a few weeks ago carrying a million-five in pot. Shit-for-brains driver couldn’t keep it under the speed limit. Cops pulled him over, and netted themselves a nice, big haul. We cannot afford that to happen with this problem.”

  “That’s the damn truth,” Pete muttered. His plan would have been legal in appearance, if not intent. At least it left out actual kidnapping. Rocker had sprung this shit on him only a few hours ago. Wise of Stick to send him as his emissary, ‘cause Pete would’ve laid into his older brother, club pres or not.

  Stick smiled faintly, as if reading his thoughts. “We’ll have the cargo ready by three am. The truck is out back?”

  Pete nodded, scowling. The two Seattle Flyers—clad in white coveralls and baseball caps—had pulled in and parked their vehicle just before dark.

  A white delivery truck with an enclosed back, and on the cab doors the logo of a big ag co-op based in Seattle. The kind that might make a delivery of grain to a small brewery, and then break down in their back parking lot, to be left for the night.

  They’d come in the back door and stripped off the coveralls, revealing their cuts and street clothes, and asked for Stick. Which was when Pete’s mood had headed south. The way they’d treated Sylvie, like some club whore who'd do anything to hang around bikers, had clinched his dislike of them.

  But his deepest irritation was reserved for his own brother, who had come up with this plan and set it into action, all without consulting him, T-Bear or Moke. They’d a plan in place, and so it hadn’t worked yet, it would’ve eventually, without putting them all at risk.

  “All right, then,” Laser said. “Let’s go pick up our spare part.”

  “Hold on a minute, brothers. Stick, talk to you for a minute?” Pete said.

  “Sorry,” Stick said. “Later, at the club house. Now, we move.”

  “We?” Pete gritted. “You mean you, right?” Then he turned on his heel and walked away, slamming back the bolt on the door and moving back into the pub. If he had to look at Stick’s smug face another minute, he was gonna say something he couldn’t take back, or just flat-out punch him.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Since the party that evening was Lesa’s first venture into the Devil's Flyers' club house, she was so nervous her tummy was rolling. And when Pete barely spoke, driving with his glower focused out at the snowy night, she finally slapped her hands on her thighs.

  “Pete, can we just go home? You’re obviously not in the mood to party, and I don’t want to go if you don’t.”

  He looked over at her as they turned into a big parking lot half full of vehicles. He pulled into a spot near the front door of a long, low building with music pulsing through the walls. The lights were on inside—behind windows with bars on them, which did not help her relax.

  But people were moving around inside, partying and laughing, and other vehicles pulled into the lot behind them.

  He turned the truck off, and blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, moye. My pissy mood has nothin’ to do with you, I swear. Just … club business.”

  “Well, do you even want me here tonight?” she asked, frowning uncertainly at him. “And—is everything going to be okay? You’re not in any danger, are you?”

  His expression softened, and he reached to put a hand on her thigh. “Yeah, I want you here. And no, no danger—not to us. You can party with the old ladies, I’ll ge
t my shit taken care of, and we’ll have a good time.”

  “Okay.” She wasn’t entirely reassured, though, and it clearly showed, because he gave her thigh another squeeze.

  “Moye, we’re safe here. Wouldn’t put you, or any of the other old ladies or club hangers in danger, I swear it.”

  She nodded, and he gave her a look she knew well, one that melted her core and sent a shiver of pleasure through her. “And have I told you how hot you look? I like that little sweater—although not sure I want the brothers lookin’ at your tits in it.”

  “Really? When you’re always telling me my Hangar tees aren’t tight enough?”

  “Changed my mind,” he said instantly. “I want you wearing XLs from now on, so I’m the only one who gets to see your curves.”

  They walked between piles of snow. The plate glass from the flooring showroom still made up the front doors and huge windows beside them, but now it was reinforced with steel bars, and shutters that looked as if they could withstand a military attack if closed.

  A big, old airplane propeller had been mounted over the front doors. Icicles hung from it now, glinting in the lights.

  Lesa was smiling as they walked into the club house, Pete's arm around her. Heads turned, and she saw more than one woman’s gaze light up when they saw Pete—but she was the one with him. She was the one on whose back he kept a possessive hand as he guided her through the big space.

  The main room of the Flyers' club house was big, with a long bar running along the right wall, pool tables and foosball along the left, and tables and chairs scattered throughout the middle. Ceiling fans moved lazily overhead.

  The biggest flat-screen TV Lesa had ever seen hung on the back wall, with speakers on either side. Right now said speakers were playing Zach Brown. Several big leather sofas slouched before the TV, along with low tables.

  People thronged the room, drinks in hand. Lesa recognized several as Flyers, and some as customers of the Hangar. Most of the men wore cuts, a couple with no shirt underneath—yikes, macho even in the middle of winter. Jeans and boots were the norm, which she had to admit worked for them.

  The women rocked the biker chick look, with big hair and earrings, lots of makeup and jewelry, and tight, skimpy tops over their jeans or skirts. She recognized some of them too—as Pete's former hookups.

  Her tummy tightened, and she returned one redhead's glare with interest. Unfortunately, Lesa didn’t get to stay at Pete’s side for long.

  They got drinks at the bar, from another club prospect, this one a lean young guy with mocha skin, a curly black faux-hawk and gauges in his ears.

  Then Pete leaned down to press a kiss to Lesa’s temple, and give her waist a squeeze. “Gotta go take care of that business, moye. You go hang with Sara and the other old ladies, yeah?”

  Seeing her new acquaintances in a laughing group at a table nearby, Lesa nodded. “Okay. Be back soon.”

  He patted her ass. “You bet.”

  Then he was gone, prowling around the end of the bar and back into the wide hallway. Lesa couldn’t shake the uneasiness that made her want to run after him and beg him to leave with her.

  But she took a swig of her drink, then choked because it was strong. She turned back to the bar and raised her glass to the bartender. “Hey, can I get more Coke in this, please?”

  The prospect gave her a cheeky grin, a dimple popping in one cheek. “Not up to club strength?”

  “Not when I have to drive later,” she said. Smart-ass. “I’m Lesa. And you are…?”

  “Lesa, meet Drew,” T-Bear boomed at her shoulder. “He don’t have a club name yet, but I’m thinkin’ Crack, ‘cause that dent in his face looks like an ass crack. Whaddya think?”

  She reeled back from the whiskey fumes the big biker was emitting. “I’m sure you guys can do better than that. Besides, I thought your club names were about stuff you’re known for, not how handsome you all are.”

  T-Bear nodded. “True dat. Guess we’ll have to wait on a name then, ‘cause the kid ain’t done anything spectacular yet. Helluva bartender, though. Set me up again, prospect.”

  Her refreshed drink in hand, Lesa smiled at them both. “Okay, see you later. Gotta go hang with the ladies.”

  “Good call,” T-Bear approved. “’Cause you look way too hot to be loose in this crowd, mama. Pete’ll give a beat-down to anyone who tries, or I’ll do it for him.”

  Eek. Lesa did not want that to happen. She skirted a trio of bikers she didn’t recognize, all of whom were openly eying her, and scurried for the safety of the other women—the nice ones.

  When she reached their table, she was very glad she’d taken time with her hair and makeup after her shift at the Hangar, and that she’d worn her best sweater and jeans, with her fresh-water pearl dangle earrings and bracelet. They were small and cheap, but made her feel festive.

  Her new friends were all dressed up in biker babe chic, with tight jeans, darling tops and their hair and makeup night-time dramatic.

  They all greeted her with smiles and hugs. Sara took her purse from a chair at her side. “Sit here, Lesa. You know everyone but Velvet.”

  Lesa said hello to the older woman at the table. She was thin as a whippet, with her frosted blond hair in an eighties bouffant, her eye-makeup blue as the summer sky, and her nails the same hue with sprays of fake gems on her index fingers. She had an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She looked Lesa over and then nodded. “Always thought Pete would catch him a blond, but you’re real pretty. You like kids?”

  “Um, yes?” Lesa answered. Across the table, Kit grinned and made an 'eek' face at her.

  “Good, ‘cause I need me some babies to spoil,” the older woman said. “Stick's twins are gettin’ too old to cuddle, and Sara here ain’t gettin’ with the program, so somebody better.”

  Sara laughed and shook her head. “Velvet, you’re gonna scare her right out of here.” She turned to Lesa. “Velvet is our boys’ honorary grandma, on Stick’s side of the family. She and Webb love kids.”

  “We do,” Velvet agreed, tapping her cigarette against her drink glass. “And here I’m sittin’ at a table with four girls who got biker men boinkin’ you five ways to Sunday, and not one baby among you. There's something wrong with this picture.”

  Sara, Kit and Lindi all laughed, and Kit leaned over to hug the woman. “We’ll get to it one of these days, Velvet, pinky swear. We just need some time to enjoy uninterrupted boinking.”

  Velvet reared back and gave Kit a look. “Well, you’re certainly getting more than your share, so you shouldn’t need as long as these other gals.”

  Lesa choked on her drink, and then laughed with the rest of them. Wow, the woman said what was on her mind. But her frankness was refreshing. They were all getting ‘boinked’ by biker men, so why not admit it?

  Although, speaking of bikers, where was hers? She peered back into the shadowed hallway that led to parts unknown on the north end of the club house, wondering what Pete was doing.

  "They won't be long," Lindi said, leaning close. "They have a meeting room back there—probably doing shots and bragging about their motorcycles, or something."

  "What else is back there?" Lesa asked.

  "Oh, they have a garage where they work on their bikes, bedrooms for the officers and a couple of spares for guys who wanna stay the night. Also a kitchen, and a weight room." Lindi rolled her eyes. "Y'know, all the stuff guys find essential."

  Lesa nodded. She hoped that was all that was back there. And that Pete wasn't doing anything that might get him in trouble.

  * * *

  Pete stood in a back room of the club house, hands fisted on his hips, irritation and distaste fighting for space in his gut.

  The small room had been a delivery bay for the carpet and flooring showroom for which this place had been built. The Flyers still used the garage door on the outside wall, but not for flooring.

  Stick, Rocker, Bouncer and the Seattle Flyers ranged beside Pete.

 
And before them, seated on cheap plastic chairs, bound with their hands behind them and their ankles cuffed, blindfolds over their eyes, sat the Sokolov brothers. All three of them looked the worse for wear. Their trendy club jeans and shirts were scuffed with dirt and dark smears of blood. Their styled hair was mussed, hanging in their faces.

  Dmitry had a swollen jaw, Yvgeny had blood running from his nose, and Mikhail’s mouth was swollen, blood running from one corner. They’d arrived here with bruises, and Pete had given them each a blow as well. Now he flexed his stinging hands.

  “Nothing personal,” he said. “But we don’t like thieves. We especially don’t like thieves who don’t have the courage to steal themselves, but send their sister to do it for them.”

  Stick had decided they had nothing to gain by hiding who they were, so Pete was taking the opportunity to tell the three exactly what he thought of them.

  “Our uncle will have you killed,” Dmitry raved, his words garbled as if his jaw wasn’t working right. “You can blindfold us, but we know who you are, the Devil’s Flyers.”

  “Yeah, we’ll tell him and he’ll send men to kill you all,” Yvgeny added.

  Rocker shook his head in disgust. “He ain’t gonna do any such thing, kid. Not for you three.”

  Mikhail moaned, writhing in discomfort. “Make them let us go, ‘mitry. I’m hurting.”

  “Shut up,” his older brother hissed. “Be a man.”

  “Yeah, be a man, like your big brother,” Pete mocked. “Such a big man, he sent your sister to steal, instead of having the balls to do it himself. Where is she, by the way? I might wanna fuck her again, you never know.”

  “Where you’ll never see her again, khuyesos,” Yvgeny snarled. “And the next ones to be fucked will be you Vankos. You’ll be taking it in the ass from our uncle’s biggest men. And you think we’re bad, they are worse.”

  The Flyers all laughed. “Naw, we’re too ugly to appeal to bratva soldiers,” Rocker drawled. “I hear they like pretty boys like you.”

  “Here’s how this is gonna go down, little man,” Stick said. “We used your phone to reach out to Marta, let her know she needs to be on the road to Seattle tonight. You three are on your way to join her. Except you’ll be bringing some extra gifts with you. And good luck explaining them to Uncle Vlad.”