I climbed on behind Bam as best I could, given that I was wearing a dress and heels, then wrapped my arms around his waist. Trying not to notice how good he felt in my arms and between my legs, I closed my eyes. Again, I felt as conflicted as I had when I stood in the locker room only minutes ago. He started the engine, and my words were lost beneath the rumble of his bike.
“Breathe, Amber. Just breathe.”
Chapter 6
Bam
Nothing like waking to a fresh blast of cat asshole in your face first thing in the morning.
“Get off me, Pixie,” I grumbled as I rolled over and blinked blearily at my alarm clock: 4:22. I still had roughly half an hour before I had to get up. Stupid cat.
Meanwhile Pixie took the opportunity to burrow into my pillow behind me as a pffbbbbt sounded in the same vicinity.
“Son of a bitch!” I bounded off the bed and glared down at my grandma’s bitchy and gassy purebred Persian. “Fine. Take the damn bed.”
I grabbed the pillow she wasn’t burrowed into and stomped down the hall, muttering to myself. “Maybe there’s one thing I won’t fight my mom over when she contests that damn will.”
It would serve that bitchy cat right to have to live with my mother. Persians might be known for their sweet dispositions, but that one had always had it out for me, ever since I moved in with my grandma. I don’t know why I still kept the damn thing around.
Tossing my pillow onto my couch, I grabbed my cell phone off the coffee table, then reclined on the couch as I thumbed through my texts. There was no way I’d be able to sleep now. I was up. Goddamn cat.
Hatchet, 2:30 A.M.: All’s fine at Stitch’s place. Car delivered before two. Passed the keys onto the next watch. Wanna get a beer tonight?
I knew he was probably still sleeping off guard duty, but I fired a text back.
Me: Fuck yeah. This has been the week from hell. Meet up at the clubhouse after my shift at 3? Or are you working tonight?
Hatchet worked as a line cook at a Mode Lode restaurant. He’d started there just washing dishes, but had worked his way up the ladder to prep cook and now line cook. Our own little Gordon Ramsay. Or at least that was one of the suggestions Axle had when they were tossing around road names for Hatchet.
He didn’t immediately reply so I moved on.
Reb: Need to talk. Call when you’re up.
Fuck, that couldn’t be good. Despite the early hour I toggled through my contacts and called the club president back.
“What?” Reb groaned.
“It’s Bam Bam.”
“Yeah?”
I waited a beat, but when Reb didn’t say anything more I clued him in. “You wanted me to call you when I woke up.”
“Fuck. I did? Hang on a second.”
I heard a feminine voice murmuring in the background and some rustling. A few moments later, Reb came back on the line.
“It’s four in the morning? Fuck, man, I thought you’d call at, like, six at the earliest.”
“You know I work construction, right? We’re like farmers—up with the sun. At least that’s what my foreman says. He’s an annoyingly cheerful fucker.” I don’t know why I kept talking. Reb unnerved me like no one else. The chapter president had so much power over my life. I finally felt like I’d found my home with the True Brothers MC, and I didn’t want anything to fuck that up. Although if I kept talking, I might do that all on my own.
“Christ, you’re a cheerful fuck, too. You’ve been hiding that from us all this time?”
“No, sir.” I swallowed and kept my damn mouth shut. Like I’d done for months while I was a prospect.
Reb snorted. “Right. Anyhow, I want to know what happened last night. With Amber. And Ruslan.”
Last night I’d sent Reb a quick text telling him that R showed up with a new car for A, but didn’t go into detail. When he didn’t reply, I figured he was asleep or busy with club business. I’d passed on the intel to Hatchet, since he was on watch duty, then I got my ass into bed.
I quickly filled Reb in on everything that went down in the parking garage last night, including Ruslan’s Escalade present and the flowers he’d sent that morning.
“Fuck me. The last thing we need right now is to tangle with the fucking Bratva. We already have enough enemies to keep us busy for the rest of the decade.” Reb sighed heavily. “She didn’t tell anyone about the flowers?”
“No, sir. And given the escalation of his gifts, I’d say we have a huge problem on our hands.”
“Shit, I think you’re right. She has a huge problem on her hands.”
“Er, no, sir. I think we do.”
Reb was silent for a long moment. “So, it’s like that, is it?”
“Like what? Amber is family. Her and her mom are still considered club property, with all the rights and protection that entails. She’s one of us. Isn’t she?”
“Denial, denial, denial. You can play it like that, son, but it’s gonna bite you in the ass sooner or later.”
“Huh? I don’t know what that means.” Reb must’ve been working on little to no sleep because he wasn’t making any fucking sense.
“Nothing, kid. You’ll figure it out once you pull your head outta your ass. Hopefully before the guys get wind of it. But you’re right. We have a problem on our hands.”
“Any suggestions on how we should handle it?”
“I’ll have another talk with Ruslan, maybe bring his daddy in on it, too. I’m gonna have you keep eyes on Amber when you’re not working and are available.”
“I can do that. But, um…speaking of eyes…do you know what she’s doing at the Mother Lode?”
“Jessica got her the job, so she’s working at the hotel reception desk.” When I didn’t immediately reply, Reb sighed. “Isn’t she?”
“No, sir. She’s a cocktail waitress.”
“Fuck me. So, they’ve got her prancing around in one of those tiny skirts and serving drinks to lonely gamblers?” Reb’s voice rose a bit more with every word until he was practically shouting. “What the fuck?”
“I got the impression that Amber’s the sole provider now. Brittany isn’t firing on all cylinders. And what the fuck is with Jackson? Where’s he? His whole family is falling apart, and he’s not doing a damn thing.”
Reb was quiet for a minute after my little impassioned speech. Then he murmured to himself. “So much fucking denial.”
“What’s that, sir?” My pulse thrummed in my ears, and my chest felt tight. He wasn’t talking about what I thought he was talking about, was he? Fuck me. I wanted to babble something in my defense about how I wouldn’t ever cross a fucking line like that, but what if I didn’t need to? I didn’t want him to know I was having thoughts about Amber. So instead I kept my mouth shut.
“Nothing, kid. You seem to have a lot to say about how Jackson is handling this mess.”
“I happen to know something about moving on after you lose a huge part of your family. And Jackson is apparently too fucked up over losing his dad to pay attention to his mom and his sister.” Silence reigned on the line, and like a dipshit, I rushed to fill it. “I’m just speaking on Amber’s defense. Sir. I don’t like that she has to work at a job like that, but she’s doing all she can for her family. And Jackson—”
“Isn’t.” Reb sighed as he finished my sentence for me “I get your point. I’ll talk to him.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to talk to him. I have some experience with this kinda thing.”
“Fine. Let him know that it’s not coming from only you. The whole club is behind Stitch’s family, and it’s high time Jackson started pulling his weight. Brittany’s ultimatum be damned.”
Before I could ask about that last cryptic comment, Reb continued.
“I’m gonna head back to bed. Let me know how your talk with Jac
kson goes. Later.”
“Later,” I echoed, then tossed my cell onto my coffee table.
Pixie meowed as she prowled down the hall toward me. A moment later she was rubbing against the couch and purring loudly. I reached down and gave her a rub behind the ear.
“All right. All right. I’ll get you some breakfast.”
She might be the most fucking annoying cat ever, but she was the last living link I had to my grandma. When I closed my eyes, I could almost hear her crooning to Pixie. That soft, mellow voice that let me know I wasn’t alone—even if she was talking to the cat and not me.
Damn, I missed her.
“Come on, Bitchy. Let’s get you fed. You woke me up early enough I can swing by Denny’s before my shift starts.”
* * *
—
Later that afternoon, I leaned against the clubhouse bar as I waited for Tank to fill my beer order. All the guys took turns behind the bar—usually it was the prospects’ job, but it was still a bit early for them to be on shift. Most were still working their day jobs. For me, it was the end of my workday/week. Others like Tank, who worked as a bouncer at our secretly owned nightclub, had a few hours to kill before their workday even started. I had yet to find out where Jackson worked.
“You on guard duty tonight?” Tank asked as he pushed a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale toward me.
“No, thank fuck.” I took a long drink from my beer. “Between the meeting at Howl a few days ago and my shift at Mother Lode last night, I am burned the fuck out. I need a little R and R.”
Tank chuckled. “Amber hand you your balls? She’s her mother’s daughter, that one.”
“I’ll take your word for it. She’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of fucking Lake Tahoe. I never thought a MC princess could hate bikers as much as that one does.”
“Everyone handles grief differently.” Tank leaned against the back of the bar and took a long drink of his beer. “And Stitch was the best of all of us. Anyone who comes after him with that girl will have big shoes to fill. She was a daddy’s girl.”
Axle pulled out the stool next to me and snorted. “You can’t replace a man like Stitch.” Rubbing a hand over his face, he contemplated the display of beer taps like they weren’t the same fucking kegs we’d always had. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Before I could wrap my brain around that, Tank pushed away from the bar back and grabbed a glass for Axle. “Coors? Or are you feeling wild?”
“Coors,” Axle replied. “It’s a bit early for wild.”
I cleared my throat. “Speaking of Stitch’s family, have you guys seen Jackson lately?”
“He’s across the street at the shop.” Axle replied as he tipped his head in thanks at Tank for the beer.
I picked up my mug and drained the rest of my beer. Tank and Axle talked quietly in the background as I set my glass down on the bar and stood. “Thanks for the beer, man.”
“See ya, Bam,” Tank said.
Axle shouted at my back as I walked toward the back door. “You coming back for round two?”
“Hell yeah. Gotta take care of some business first. I’ll be back in a few,” I replied.
“Going to let the prairie dog out of its cage.” Axle nodded solemnly. “Got you.”
Rolling my eyes, I didn’t bother to correct Axle’s assumption of toilet humor. With a wave behind me, I left the clubhouse and made my way across the gated parking lot to the club-owned motorcycle shop across the street. It’d taken a year, but we’d managed to rebuild the business that our rivals, the Wild Riders MC, torched during Reb’s wedding last year. My gut clenched every time I looked at the building. I had been the one on watch when it went up in flames. I was the one who missed the signs and didn’t notice the fire until it was too late. I was the one who let my Brothers down.
It’d been hard to face the club after the fire. But if anything, Reb had blamed himself. With every club member attending the wedding, there hadn’t been enough prospects to guard everything. I’d been tasked with watching both the clubhouse and the motorcycle shop across the street. When the fire started, I was around the back side of the clubhouse rousting a few cats that’d been clunking around in the dumpster. Meanwhile a Wild Rider had been hosing down our shop with gasoline and lighting the match.
We’d get our revenge. It’d taken us months to plan, but we were a few weeks away from stage one of the eye-for-an-eye plan. They fucked with our business, we were gonna fuck them right back, but in a way they’d never forget.
I walked through the big roller door at Dirty Side Down Mechanics. It was probably my imagination, but a tang of smoke mixed with the engine oil and metal odor. Looking around, you’d never know that the building had been a smoldering shell only a year ago. Aside from the freshly painted walls, everything looked exactly the same. Club insignias mixed with motorcycle brand posters on the walls; Reb’s pride and joy—a fully rebuilt 1962 Indian Motorcycle—was displayed on a rack on the far wall; and as always, tools were scattered everywhere.
“Hey Bam, you need something?” Zag asked from behind one of the five motorcycle lifts.
“I’m looking for Jackson. Axle said he was here?”
“Yeah.” Zag tossed a socket wrench aside then wiped at the grease on his hands with a rag. “I got him in the back, cleaning the john.”
“Don’t we have a cleaning service for that?” In all my time as a prospect for the club, I never once had to clean a bathroom. Guard duty, bartending, gofer, and a few other embarrassing jobs I’d rather not remember, but toilets? No.
Zag smiled mockingly at me. “Gotta haze the newbies. You remember how it goes. Everyone gets their own special little task. Jackson is really good with a toothbrush. Whereas you had that amazing falsetto to serenade us with.”
I tilted my chin, but didn’t respond to that little dig. “I need a minute with him.”
“Have at it. Those toilets aren’t going anywhere.”
Shaking my head, I walked to the back hallway and found the door to the men’s restroom propped open and Jackson down on his hands and knees with a toothbrush in his hand and a can of Comet at his side. Fuck me, I was suddenly glad none of those embarrassing jobs I’d been given as a prospect included this shit. The bathroom might’ve only been a few months old but the stains were already visible. And disgusting.
“Jackson. I need to see you out back. Now.”
Jackson’s head wiped up at my barking command. Relief etched his features. “Thank you, Jesus. Prayers really do come true.”
I bared my teeth at him in an expression nowhere near a smile. “The piss stains will be here waiting for you when we’re done.”
Jackson’s shoulders slumped, and I caught the edge of his grimace as he pushed away from the patch of scrubbed floor and rose to his feet. At least he was smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself.
I led the way out the back door, and Jackson followed silently behind me. Stopping a few feet from the door, I rested my shoulders against the brick wall of the shop and surveyed the prospect in front of me. Physically, Jackson was only a few years younger than me, but judging by the annoyed expression on his face, he was eons behind me in maturity. This was a punk who’d never had to wonder where he was going to sleep tonight, and I doubted he’d ever had to dodge the fist of his mom’s annoyed boyfriend. Up until a year ago, Jackson had a mostly functional and loving family. And it would all fall apart if he didn’t step up soon.
“We need to have a little talk about your sister, Amber.”
Jackson lost the annoyed-little-boy expression as he narrowed his eyes. His lips curled with his sneer. “What the fuck do you know about my sister.”
It was phrased like a question— except with the way he bit out the words, it was anything but.
“I know that she’s been wiping up your mama’s vomit and carrying her to bed ni
ght after night, with no help from you.” That hadn’t been how I’d planned to start this conversation, but the way this prospect was looking at me—like I wasn’t worthy to speak Amber’s name—pissed me off like nothing else. “While you’ve been having a fun time whoring around and playing prospect, your sister is the only thing keeping your mom together. Amber should be going to college and having someone else clean up her puke, not working as a fucking cocktail waitress, letting old men grope her for tips, and then going home to mop up your mama’s mess. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“She’s doing what?”
“Taking care of your mother. Something I thought maybe you should lend a hand with.”
“Not that shit. I know all about my mom’s drama. I wanna know about what you said before—Amber’s working as a cocktail waitress? Since when?”
I wasn’t really happy with her job, either. It’d been hard as hell to watch her prance around in that tiny skirt and not carry her out of the fucking casino and into my bed. But that wasn’t what this little powwow was supposed to be about. “Maybe if you took care of your fucking family, you’d know what the hell is going on at home.”
Jackson huffed out an annoyed breath and looked away.
I sighed. “Look, man. I came at you hard, and that wasn’t how I wanted to handle this. But I’ve seen the shit that your sister is dealing with, and she needs some help. If you’re having a hard time balancing work, your family, and your prospect duties, then speak up. We don’t know you need help if you don’t ask.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. I can’t just…” Jackson groaned and punched the wall. “It sucks. It fucking sucks.”
Jackson’s immature reaction pissed me off. Like my life was all club girls and whiskey with no worries about anything. Christ, he was so young and stupid and immature. Was there ever a time in my life when I got to be a whiny little bitch like Jackson? Just thinking about it pissed me off even more.
Rough Ride Page 7
