Threat: A Blood Riders MC Novel (Book 1)

by Tia Lewis

  “Sure, sure. So who’d you hook up with, then? I didn’t see you sneaking off to the VIP room like you usually do.”

  The room went sort of quiet as the rest of the team listened in. I wished my teammates would all go back to what they were doing, and that Jared would keep his fucking mouth shut. I glared at him. “I didn’t hook up with any of them. I wasn’t in the mood last night.” I shrugged it off.

  “What? Hang on! Wait a minute!” Jared put a hand to my forehead, and I smacked his arm away from me. He laughed. “Are you sick? Are you dying? What the hell’s wrong with you, man? You! My hero! The man who never met a stripper he didn’t like!”

  “Ahh, maybe he didn’t think Layla would like it if she found out he banged a dancer,” Garrett suggested from across the room.

  “Please. Like I give a shit what she thinks.” I hadn’t thought about her since the day before … when I didn’t know Abby was joining the staff.

  “Okay, so what is it? Are you actually sick, man?” Jared looked a little more concerned. I shook my head.

  “I just didn’t feel like it, was all. That’s it. I wasn’t in the mood to fuck around. I had a lot on my mind—the way you all should have a lot on your minds. Like birds, and how we’re gonna kill them tomorrow.” That changed the subject, and the team pumped themselves up talking about how we were going to run right through the Eagles’ defense. I was relieved they were so easy to distract.

  My heart hadn’t been in it at the bar. That was the long and short of it. I stared into my locker for a minute, remembering how I’d felt when Abby pulled away from the restaurant. I knew I’d hurt her, and I wasn’t man enough to go after her to apologize. I could have—it’s not like I didn’t know she was on her way to pick up her car. I’d known where I could find her. But I didn’t go. I went to the strip club, instead.

  That had been a mistake. I hadn’t had fun. I’d only drunk as much as I could handle and then some, all in the hopes of driving Abby out of my head. I could’ve done that at home, alone, without having to pretend to be in a better mood than I was in.

  And then what happened? I had to look her in the eye on the field. And she looked so damned smug, too. I’d wanted to ask her who the hell she thought she was, but there was no use in letting anybody else know that things hadn’t gone well between us. I would never hear the end of it. As long as I didn’t make a big deal over her, only Jared and Garrett would ever need to know we’d gone out to dinner at The Private Harvest. I could handle those two.

  I finished drying off and got dressed. I needed to call Layla or something, spend a little time in bed … on the couch … in the pool … wherever I felt like having her. I needed to work out some of the frustration I felt, and a workout on the field wasn’t gonna cut it. I needed to sink myself into something hot and wet. She’d probably be pissed at me for not hooking up with her after practice the day before, but I knew how to get around her. She was always pissed about something or other. Typical woman.

  I sat around for a little while with the rest of the guys, just bullshitting. We promised each other we would take it easy that day and not go out like we had. There was a big game to prepare for so we couldn’t screw around. The coach was already pissed at us.

  I left the locker room maybe a half hour later, as the rest of the team got their things together. I had planned on going home right away but decided to stay behind for a little bit. I wanted to take a look at the footage we had on Philly’s defense from the previous season. I’d already watched it all a hundred times, but once more wouldn’t hurt. There was no such thing as being over-prepared.

  By the time I went back to the locker room to get my belongings, the building was like a ghost town. The halls were empty. No more sounds of laughing and joking from the rest of the team. Silence.

  I liked it best that way. I liked being able to hear myself think. Life was too noisy.

  Then I heard it. “Damn!” A crash from the therapy room. I ran down the hall, where the door to the therapy room was open. As soon as I looked inside, I saw what had happened. A shelf had fallen and with it a shit ton of gauze and other supplies. And there was Abby, hands in the air like she didn’t know where to start first.

  I cleared my throat, and she spun around, eyes wide. “Oh shit, I didn’t know anybody else was here.” She laughed a little, one hand over her chest. “Jesus, you scared me!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know anybody else was here, either.” I looked around. “Redecorating?”

  She smirked, arms crossed. “Yeah. I thought the boxes of gauze looked much better on the floor.” She bent over to pick them up, and I caught a glimpse of her perfect ass. She could try to hide it under khakis, but it was no use. She couldn’t cover up what she had going on.

  “Let me help you, for God’s sake.” I picked the shelf up off the floor. It had come away from the wall somehow. “What did you do here?”

  “I leaned on it when I was trying to reach the shelf above it,” she admitted. “I didn’t know they weren’t anchored to the wall. Only the supports are.”

  “Oh, I see.” There were two L-brackets on the wall, and the shelf rested on top of them. I put it back up there. “Leave it to you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Like you’re not the clumsiest person ever. You know you are.” I grinned, taking handfuls of boxes off the floor.

  “A lot has changed about me, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Not your clumsiness.” I snickered, turning around to stack what I had in my hands on the shelf. I heard what sounded like a muffled cry behind me, and when I turned around, I saw Abby with her hands over her face.

  “What happened?” I laid my hands on her shoulders. She tried to turn away, but I held her in place. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

  From behind her hands, she said, “Why do you do that all the time?”

  “Do what?”

  “Remind me of all the stupid things about me?” She lowered her hands—her face was red, blotchy, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Don’t you know how hard I had to work to put that person behind me?”

  “What are you talking about? What person?”

  “Abby!” She pulled away, then got her stuff together. “Leave it on the floor. I’ll take care of it when I get here tomorrow.”

  “Abby, come on. Talk to me.” I wanted to reach for her again, but I knew it would only piss her off more. I followed her out to her car, trying to get her to explain what the hell was wrong with her. She ignored me. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I watched her pull away.

  “Fuck!” I wished there were something around for me to slam my fists against, but I didn’t feel like replacing my windshield—or getting stitches in my hands. I looked around the parking lot, glad nobody had seen our little exchange.

  Only somebody had. I watched Layla get out of her car and wave to me.

  “Seriously?” I muttered. I watched her walk over, knowing I wouldn’t be able to get rid of her very easily. But I had to. I wasn’t in the mood anymore. Funny how Abby did that to me. But at least I didn’t start crying about it.

  “Hey, you.” She tossed her long, dark hair over one shoulder. “What took you so long?”

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” I asked. Jesus, didn’t she have anything better to do?

  “Well, yeah. I knew you boys would be here today, and I didn’t see you last night. You haven’t answered any of the texts I sent you, either.”

  I pulled my phone from my pocket. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I don’t get great reception in there.”

  “It’s okay. You’re here now.” Her full pink glossy lips curved into a smile. Damn, she was sexy. Her sea-green eyes stared into mine like she was trying to hypnotize me.

  It wasn’t working just then. “Yeah. I have to get back inside, though.”

  Layla looked around the otherwise empty parking lot. “Why?”

  “I was watching footage from other games to get ready for Philly. You kn
ow what a strong defense they have.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t take a little break for me?”

  “Layla.”

  “You’re trying to avoid me, huh?

  “Listen. Do you think the fans are gonna give a shit whether I spent time with you today? No. They’re gonna give a shit if I don’t score points tomorrow, though. I know that doesn’t matter to you since all you do is wave pompoms around and pretend to understand what’s happening on the field.”

  She gasped. “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I waved her off, turning to go back inside. I didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with her drama. There was already enough going on. She wasn’t helping.

  I waited another half hour before looking outside. Layla’s car was gone. But when I got to my 4x4, I saw she’d left me a little present before leaving. A nice stripe, right down the side of my nearly new car, courtesy of her key.

  8

  Abby

  I had to do a heck of a lot of pep talking to get myself in the headspace to go to work on Sunday. We had the one o’clock game, so I showed up at eleven to be sure everything was in order—especially since I’d left a mess in the therapy room the day before.

  Why did I let him do that to me? I asked myself that question a hundred times between leaving the facilities and heading back the next morning. How was it so easy for him to tear me down, even when he didn’t want to? And he hadn’t meant it, I knew he hadn’t. He was goofing off, joking around, remembering the old days. Just as I had when I reminded him of the time, I’d knocked his front tooth out with a wicked right jab.

  Just because you see yourself that way doesn’t mean everybody else does. Another life lesson I tried to teach myself by repeating it again and again. If I still saw myself as geeky, awkward Abby, that was how I would present myself to the world. I couldn’t project my insecurities onto Max or anybody else. It wasn’t fair to them or me. I was sure he’d have questions for me when we saw each other, though I hoped I could deflect. He wouldn’t understand, anyway—always the golden boy, always beloved. Perfect in every way, at least as a football player. And where we’d grown up, that was all he’d ever needed.

  The tailgating was already in full effect by the time I arrived at the stadium. I saw all sorts of set-ups—tents, campers, grills with ribs and steaks and burgers and shrimp. How people could eat like that so early in the day was beyond me. And beer. Lots and lots of beer.

  I was still chuckling over the revelers as I walked down the hall toward the therapy room. I heard voices coming out of every office, and a few coming from the locker room. The team was already suited up for the most part, ready to hit the field to warm up. I wished them all a good game when I passed them. I hoped I wouldn’t have to treat any of them for injuries that day.

  When I reached the therapy room, ready to clean up, I couldn’t have been more surprised to find the shelf and all its contents the way they’d been before I’d knocked it all to the floor. I looked around, stunned. So he’d stayed behind to clean up.

  I sighed, wishing I could hate him. The jerk.

  By the end of the first half, spirits were low. I waited for the team to file into the locker room, and I could feel the energy as they did. It wasn’t pretty. It was damned ugly, in fact. We were down 21-7, and the defense had been knocking Max back and forth all day.

  I could hear the coach hollering at the players. “Where the hell is my offensive line? What are you guys doing out there? You’re leaving your quarterback wide the hell open is what you’re doing! The man can only do so much. And when he gets the ball into the air, where’s my receivers? Where are you guys?”

  Nobody answered, of course, but I could have told him where they were. The defense had their number, plain and simple. We were too focused on the passing game and not nearly as focused on the running game. And they knew it. They were ready for us because they knew the coach was obsessed with Max’s arm. He wanted to pass, pass, pass. Hasn't anybody ever told him the man’s arm would eventually give out if he didn’t start using his running backs?

  But it wasn’t my place to say anything. Or … maybe it was.

  I stood outside the locker room door, waiting for the coach to finish screaming, then waved a little to get his attention. I had to do something. He was stubborn and ridiculous.

  “What is it, Morrison?”

  “I’m a little worried about Max’s arm, Mr. Cramer,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” His eyes were dark. He was in no mood to be told what to do. I needed to get around that, somehow.

  “He told me yesterday after the workout that he felt a little tight. I gave him a few exercises to do, and he said they helped.” I was lying out of my ass, and I could only hope my story wasn’t checked out.

  “Okay, So?”

  “So—I’m still concerned about the injury. He’s thrown how many passes so far today? And the defense keeps coming at him. One good hit to an already tight shoulder could be trouble.” I was making it up, thinking on the fly. “Meanwhile, Jared’s looking great, and he tells me he feels better than ever.”

  The coach stared at me through narrowed eyes. “I’m the head coach here, Morrison. Not you. Understood?” So that was how it would be—sweet, fatherly and respectful six days out of the week and a tyrant on the seventh. He was running Max into the ground, and it was only the first game.

  I let him do his job, reminding myself to keep my mouth shut in the future as I went back to the therapy room. He wasn’t the sort of man who took advice well, even if it meant losing the first game of the season due to his pride.

  I watched with bated breath as the second half started, praying the team had found it within themselves to rally. There had been much bigger comebacks before, of course. Fourteen points wasn’t such a big deal.

  Until it became twenty-one points early in the third quarter. I bent over in my chair, my head in my hands. It was on the first drive of the third quarter, too. Philly had marched the ball downfield with little effort on the part of our defensive line to stop them. I could almost feel the low spirits of the team as they took to the field. One good play might turn it all around—but with the Philly defense reading our offense like a book, that seemed unlikely. I could hardly watch as the players got info formation at the line of scrimmage.

  The hand-off. Max stepped into the pocket, looking downfield—then handed the ball off to Jared, who ran straight through a hole in the line and picked up thirty-five yards. I jumped out of my chair, shouting. That was how it was done, and just that one play was enough to put energy into the fans. They’d been waiting for their star linebacker to make a big play, and there it was.

  The cameraman caught a shot of Max’s grin as he trotted down to the new line of scrimmage, right up against the Eagles forty-yard line. “Be smart, be smart,” I muttered, staring at the wide-screen TV in the therapy room. I crossed my fingers. “Run it out. Run it.”

  And that was exactly what they did. Once again, Jared took the ball, this time carrying it out to the twenty-eight. First down. The fans were delirious—finally, they were getting a show. And the Eagles defense looked bewildered.

  “Okay. They’re gonna expect you to pass this time,” I said, pacing back and forth. Not like anybody could hear me—it was probably better that they couldn’t. They’d think I was insane. “You should run it again, but not with Jared this time.”

  Only they did try to use Jared, and the defense was gunning for him. They stopped him, causing a loss of yardage. It was second-and-thirteen.

  “I’d throw it now,” I mused, chewing my thumbnail. Philly’s coaches weren’t stupid, not by a long shot. It wasn’t easy to fake them out. We could at least keep them guessing—sure enough, the defensive line scrambled to get into position, and took a false start in their eagerness. We got five yards back. I clapped my hands, wishing I could be on the sidelines. There were already other members of my team out there—Chris and Mike, both seasoned vets with the
team. It was already decided it would be best for me to stay inside since the guys might get a little rough on the sidelines. Once again, I could handle it, but nobody believed me.

  I would still throw, and evidently, Coach agreed with me since Max completed a smooth pass to Trey, one of the team’s receivers. Another first down. The liveliness on the field had picked up considerably, and I saw smiles on the faces of the guys. It was all they’d needed, a string of good plays. One good drive and they already felt like they were back in the game.

  A touchdown on that drive. Then, an interception on the Eagles’ next possession which resulted in another touchdown. It was fun to watch them, finally. A field goal. A recovered fumble early on in Philly’s next possession, which was run in for a touchdown. We were ahead for the first time in the game. And we stayed that way for the rest of the game, with a final score of 24-21. We’d shut down the offense.

  Or, rather, they had. I couldn’t take credit, even though I felt a sense of joy and belonging when they team celebrated their first victory. They were still on the field, doing short interviews for local news stations. I waited impatiently, wishing I could tell Max how proud I was of him. It would mean talking to him again, but I didn’t mind since I knew he’d cleaned up for me when I ran out in tears. I felt like I owed him an apology for the way I acted before.

  I watched as one of the on-field broadcasters pulled Max aside to congratulate him and ask him a few questions. He pulled off his helmet, smiling hugely. Oh, that smile. My heart fluttered before I could tell it not to. Why did he have to be so sexy?

  “What do you think gave you the extra strength to get out there and win today, Max?” the broadcaster asked.

  “Well, knowing I had my team behind me went a long way,” he said, smiling. “But I have to give the bulk of the credit to a good luck charm who recently came into my life. She had more to do with this than she knows.”