Off Limits: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 2)

by Dixon, Ruby

  “Let’s do this,” he tells me, and slides his cut over his shoulders. “You know the plan?”

  I straighten his cut and smooth a hand over his patches like I’m his old lady or something. “Basically we sit in public, suck face and make a spectacle of ourselves. You boast about how good you are in the ring, and we hope to flush one of them out so you can give them the beat down, right?”

  “Right.”

  I don’t ask what will happen if they don’t take the bait, or if something goes wrong. Solo prefers what he likes to call Occam’s Razor—the simplest way is usually the best. But me? I know my luck. I know if there’s an opportunity for shit to hit the fan, it will. So as a Plan B, I have a small can of mace tucked under one breast in my overly-padded bra. Just in case.

  • • •

  We cruise in on Solo’s bike. I’m on the bitch seat, and Toxic and Blade are riding just behind us in case we get into any trouble on the way in. But we don’t, and we make it to the Meat Locker just in time for Friday Night Fights.

  A speciality of the Bedlam Butchers, Friday Night Fights start promptly at midnight and go until dawn. I guess that’d make them Saturday Morning Fights, but it doesn’t have the same ring to it. There’re all kinds of illegal fighting that goes down, and clubs from states away, like the Hellfire Riders or even the occasional Death Lord. Basically, if there’s a cross-club rivalry you want solved in the ring and feel like publicly beating the shit out of your enemy? You come to the Meat Locker. And while the Butchers make most of their books on plumbing gigs and shit like that, the real money’s in the Friday Night Fights.

  You’d think Gem and Dom would get into some shit with the cops over having a fight club, but rumor is that the chief’s on the take. And since FNF goes on every week, it’s a pretty sweet take. I do the books, so I know just how much money comes through.

  It’s not quite midnight, but there’s already a sea of bikes in front of the Meat Locker. Maybe a hundred, maybe two. They’re literally piled on top of each other, along the side of the road, and into the neighboring field (also owned by my brother). Gonna be a busy night tonight. I squelch the uneasiness in my stomach as I see a few bikes parked in the group with swastikas on them.

  God, I hate the Eighty-Eight.

  We head inside. It’s hot as fuck due to the press of bodies, and smoky from cigars and pot and God knows what else. It’s loud, too, and there’s a crush of people, mostly men. Truth is, most old ladies don’t head out for the FNF. I don’t come often—Gem doesn’t like it. Says I’m too young and innocent to see a guy get beat to death. Guess tonight’s an exception.

  As soon as we move in, Solo drapes an arm over my shoulders and we head for the front, where metal folding chairs have been set up ringside. All of the workout equipment that normally fills the space has been delegated to a back room, and folding chairs set up. There’s a ‘refreshment’ table in the back that has beer, harder shit, and some really, really hard shit if you’re in the mood for illegal substances. I look around to see if there are any Henchmen here, but it’s too crowded to make out familiar faces.

  “You want some refreshments, babe?” Solo asks me.

  I shouldn’t drink, but my throat is dry and I’m anxious as hell. “Beer?”

  “Got it.” He claims a chair in the front, kisses me long and hard in front of everyone, and then grins. “Be right back.”

  I’m left alone for a minute, and a little alarmed, but I’m surrounded by Butchers. Solo wouldn’t have left me if it wasn’t safe, so I’m good. My brother’s nowhere to be seen, but Dom’s sitting in a nearby metal chair with a curvy redhead on his lap. She’s sucking on a lollipop and giving him lascivious looks.

  At the sight of me, she bounds up from Dom’s lap. “Hey! You must be Lucky. I’m Kitty.” She grins at me. “And I suppose I should apologize for the way we met the other day, but your brother’s too serious and I was trying to get a reaction out of him.”

  My mouth curves into a smile. It’s only been a week and Kitty totally has him pegged. I see why they’re keeping her. “Nice to meet you face to face.”

  She grins at me and twirls the pop against her lips, trying to seem casual. She sees my gaze on the lollipop. “I’d offer you a taste but I just blew your brother before we got here, and you probably don’t want secondhand jizz from a relative.” She winks.

  “Well, that’s a visual I could have gone without,” I tell her.

  She shrugs, clearly the happy and shameless type. I still like her. She puts an arm around my waist and several guys catcall, obviously thinking we’re about to make out. But instead, she whispers, “I’m supposed to tell you that the guys are all packing heat tonight in case shit gets bad. You’re covered.”

  I blink. “Wow, thanks.”

  “No sweat,” Kitty tells me, swats my ass, and then prances back over to Dom, who’s only too happy to have her return to his lap.

  Solo appears with two cold beers and I beam at the sight of him. I still can’t get over how good looking he is. I really am lucky that I get all his attention. He sits down and pats his lap, and since we’re on display tonight, I straddle him, reverse cowgirl. It allows me to press my butt right up against his dick. As if this is something we do all the time, he hands me a beer and wraps his other arm around my waist. “Take the top off of mine, too, will ya?” he asks.

  I do, and hand it back to him.

  “Perfect. Thanks, babe.”

  I sip my beer as his hand adjusts at my waist. Then, I realize as he pushes past the laces and the leather holding the waist of my shorts together that he’s not interested in holding my waist. He’s pushing his hand into my tight leather shorts, past my bikini panties, and his fingers slide against my pussy.

  I gasp as he immediately brushes his fingers over my clit. We’re in public. I’m two seats away from Domino, my brother’s partner in crime, and their new old lady.

  “You look like you’re freaking the fuck out,” Solo murmurs against my ear. “And you keep watching the crowd. Someone’s going to think something’s up. So I’m putting your focus back on me, babe.”

  And he strokes my clit. In front of everyone. It should be obvious to the world what he’s doing to me. I’m sprawled on his lap and my clothes are tight and hide nothing. And I can’t help that I’m getting wet as hell knowing that all these men are watching him manhandle me. And maybe that makes me a pervert, but God, it feels good to be a perv.

  “You’re already wet,” he murmurs. “I think you dig this.”

  I try to drink my beer, all casual like, but his fingers are working me over, and my nipples are tight and chafing with arousal. I lean back against him, biting back my moans as he manipulates my pussy and drinks his beer like no one’s around us. Solo’s totally casual. I can just imagine the conversation he’d have if someone decided to sit and chat. What’s up man, not much, just giving my girl a little pet and rub. Nice riding weather tomorrow, eh?

  And then Solo’s fingers have found my slickness, and he’s pushing deeper to wet them in my moisture, and brings his fingers back to my clit and continues to work it. And I close my eyes, doing my best not to start moaning and coming in front of everyone.

  A bell rings.

  In a daze, I watch as the lights go down and a spotlight flicks onto the center of the boxing ring. Like he’s on TV or something, my brother swaggers into the center of the ring, looking lethal and dangerous.

  “Welcome to Friday Night Fights,” he drawls. His eyes scan the dark room. I know he can’t see me or Solo because of the spotlight on him, but I’m a little humiliated that my lover has his hands down my pants in front of my brother. But Gem continues. “You guys know the rules. Shit’s settled in the ring, and only in the ring. The fighters set the rules. You want to fight to the death? That’s on your ass, not mine. Like every week, we take volunteers. You got beef with someone? Bring it here and let your boys bet on if you can hold your own. Here’s how this works. We let the volunteers go first. Anyone that
just wants to fight goes into a pool, and we draw names for match-ups. Once the fights are established, we take time to let everyone place bets. Then, we start. Any questions?”

  Cheers meet my brother’s stare. The crowd’s hungry for a fight.

  “Gonna take that as a no,” Gem says. “All right, then. We got any volunteers tonight who need to settle a score?”

  I tense in Solo’s lap, half expecting him to jump up and offer himself. But he only continues to pet my clit, his hand moving in a big, circular motion that’s going to get me off if he keeps doing that. I whimper quietly and clutch my beer as if it’s a lifeline. As if Eric realizes how close I am, he pushes against my clit harder, determined to make me come by sheer force of will if nothing else.

  It’s someone else that enters the ring. A man hops up on the opposite side of the ring from us and enters the spot-lit area where my brother’s standing and waiting. It’s at that moment that my legs tremble and I can’t take the petting any longer. I give a little muffled cry as I come, my legs jerking against Solo’s as he presses a hot kiss to my neck and continues to rub the cascading pleasure through my body to extend my orgasm as long as possible.

  The man in the ring, I see through a haze of pleasure, is Grass. He’s wearing the Eighty-Eight’s familiar cut, and I see swastikas on his bare shoulders. He’s handsome, so I guess I can see why I fell for his good looks—but there’s a menacing glare on his face that makes me cold. He approaches Gemini and grabs the microphone from my brother.

  “I got beef,” he says with a growl. “Where’s that fucker Solo? He’s diddling what belongs to me.”

  I groan with embarrassment. Looks like everyone did see what we were up to. I know it’s part of the plan, but I’m still mortified. Mostly because I just came, hard, and I’m soaked between my legs and probably all over Solo’s hand from being ‘diddled’.

  Solo pats my ass. “Up, babe. Time to teach that shit a lesson.”

  I get up, trying to avoid eye contact with everyone since I know they’re all staring. I adjust my shorts and tie them tight again, since Solo’s hand has loosened my laces.

  Grass is glaring in our direction in the ring, so there’s no hiding. Solo gives me a hard, possessive kiss, then climbs into the ring to face off against Grass. He stares him up and down as if he’s a piece of shit, and I can practically feel the waves of distaste rolling off of Eric. Then, he deliberately licks his hand. “She tastes pretty damn good, bro—”

  Grass snarls and lunges for Solo, and I gasp.

  Gem steps in between them, and a few other Butchers join in the ring to keep control. Gem takes control of the mic again. “First fight of the night is between Grass and Solo. Eighty-Eight Henchmen versus the Bedlam Butchers. What’ll it be, boys? Blood, breaks, or buried?”

  He’s asking them the rules. I suck in a breath, wondering what they’ll choose. First blood? First broken bone? Or to the death? I don’t want anyone dying over me—I just want to be left alone by the Eighty-Eight.

  I hold my breath for even longer as Solo shrugs and gestures that it’s Grass’s choice. Please. Please. Please.

  Grass’s lip curls. “I ain’t dying for any cunt.” He spits at Solo’s feet. “Breaks.”

  “Breaks it is,” Gem drawls.

  “But if you want to sweeten the pot,” Grass continues, his gaze locked on Solo. “You’ll toss in the woman. Winner takes her home with him.”

  I hear Kitty gasp nearby, and my entire body goes cold. He’s basically cornered Eric. If Eric says no, it’s as if he doesn’t trust that he’ll win the fight. But if he says yes….there’s a possibility I’ll end up with Grass. My stomach recoils at the thought.

  Solo looks out to me and waits.

  He’s going to let it be my decision. I press my hand to my lips. I don’t want to decide. I don’t want to be up for bids. But if I say no, Eric loses face. Do I trust him enough to put my body on the line for him? Do I trust him to pound the shit out of Grass? I’m usually not present for the fights. I don’t know how good Eric is. I know he’s toned, but I also know he’s got a limp from A-stan that occasionally shows up when he’s tired or hurting.

  But…if I can’t trust him to have my back, who can I trust?

  Hoping I haven’t sealed my fate, I nod.

  A slow, delicious smile spreads across Solo’s face, and I feel like I’ve made the right choice despite the terrifying wager. From the look on his face, he’s utterly confident he can win; he just wanted me to be confident in him, too. “Lucky’s up for grabs too, then,” he tells my brother.

  For a moment, Gemini looks like he wants to murder both of them. But he restrains himself. “Fine. That’ll be our first match. Next up. Any other beef?”

  Solo jumps out of the ring and heads back to my side as more men enter the ring, more bouts are scheduled. But I can only see Eric’s smiling face in front of mine. And as he pulls me in for a hard kiss, I hope he pounds the shit out of Grass.

  • • •

  The next hour is the longest one of my life. We wait, and Solo keeps his arms wrapped around me as bids are placed and people bet on whether I’ll walk out the door with Solo or with Grass. I want to find out what everyone’s bidding on—if it’s Solo or the enemy, but I’m afraid to find out the answer. What if I don’t like it?

  But then the lights go down, the bell clangs, and Solo hands me his cut. “Keep this safe for me, babe. I’ll be back to pick it up in a bit.”

  “Okay,” I tell him breathlessly, and clutch it to my chest.

  He winks at me and then enters the ring, stripping his shirt off. He’s utterly gorgeous. The spotlight makes hollows of his defined muscles, and his Butchers ink across his shoulders makes me proud. He looks like a rough boxer of old, especially with those maddening sideburns. Grass, on the other hand, looks puny in comparison. I’m sure I’m biased, and I’m sure I don’t care.

  Gem steps in the middle as the two men begin to circle. “First to a break wins the match. Ready?” He looks at Grass.

  Grass nods, a sneer on his face.

  Solo nods, too.

  “Fight,” Gem yells, and then backs out of the way.

  Grass immediately comes in swinging. Solo ducks him and moves out of the way, his stance easy, his shoulders and body moving like a boxer. He’s dancing circles around Grass, waiting for the other man to swing. And when he does, Solo makes it look like a joke. Grass lunges for him again, and again, Solo sways out of his reach.

  Then, he turns, and quick as anything, he plants a bare fist into Grass’s face.

  The Henchman reels, blood spurting from his mouth, and everyone on the front row takes a collective step backward to avoid being spattered. Grass clings to the ropes, wipes his mouth, and turns around to go at Solo again. He lands a glancing hit, but Solo quickly shakes it off and keeps moving.

  Hits are traded back and forth, but it’s clear that Solo can run circles around Grass. The Henchman is fit, but Solo’s built like a prizefighter and it’s clear he’s done this sort of thing before. My heart hammers as he decks Grass across the face, and the other man flies around and lands on the mat, hard. But then he gets up again, and the dance starts over. Swing, feint, hit, recover.

  The next time he’s down, Grass grabs at Solo’s legs and manages to knock him off his feet. I gasp as Eric flies down to the mat, and then the men are tumbling together, hands flying. I barely know where to look as they roll across the mat.

  But then Eric’s sitting on top of Grass’s chest, and he plows a fist into the man’s face. Once, twice, three times. The third time, I hear something crack and blood sprays across the both the mat and Solo.

  Grass screams in pain, and his hands go to his face. “You broke my fucking nose!”

  “Good,” Solo snarls. He gets off of the other man as Gem and the enforcers enter the ring. But instead of letting Grass go, he flips him over and grinds his face into the mat, and Grass screams again as his broken face is slammed hard against the ring again. “You touch Lucky
again, and I’m going to break every goddamn bone in your body. You hear me?”

  They pull him off before Grass can answer, but it’s clear from Solo’s body language that he means it. I’m breathless with excitement as he scans the audience, looking for my face. He’s covered in blood and sweat and he’s got bruises purpling on his face…

  And I want to fuck the hell out of him.

  He bounds down to my side and it’s clear I’m not the only one on an adrenaline spike at the moment. I hold out his cut for him, but he ignores it and grabs me, instead. He drags me against him for a kiss, and his lip is split and he’s bleeding and I totally don’t care. I wrap a leg around him and he hikes me up around his hips and we could go at it right there and I wouldn’t care.

  “Gem’s got an office, right? Cause I need to fuck you right about now.”

  “In the back,” I pant. And I need to be fucked, too.

  People are whistling and slapping Solo on the back as we make out and stagger toward the back office. It’s not an easy thing to do when the entire Meat Locker is full of bikers hopped up on all kinds of shit, but we manage to fumble to the back, and there’s the door. Solo tries the handle. Locked. “Fuck,” he snarls.

  “Got a pressie from the pressies,” calls a voice, and I look over Solo’s shoulder to where Kitty is standing, a knowing grin on her face. She’s dangling the keys from one hand. Then she winks and tosses them to me. “You’re welcome.”

  I catch them and search the ring for the right key. My fingers are trembling with need, and Solo’s hot body is pressing me up against the door, as if he’s going to fuck me against it if I don’t open the office ASAP. He just might.

  But then the key turns in the lock and we fall inside. Gem’s desk is covered in papers, and I hesitate. “Where—”

  Solo slams the door shut and locks it. Then, he turns me and pushes me down on the desk, my belly on a stack of invoices. “Right fucking here, babe.” His fingers rip at my shorts, and the laces fall apart again. Then, he’s dragging them down my hips, and I barely have time to bite my lip before he’s unbuckled his pants.