by Dixon, Ruby
DOUBLE TROUBLE
RUBY DIXON
• • •
In the world of motorcycle clubs, a snitch is a dead man. And the Bedlam Butchers have a snitch who’s intent on taking down one of the newest members of their club.
Shy knows just who the snitch is, too–it’s her older brother. But she can’t do anything about it, because Shy’s got no one to protect her. If she tells what she knows, her brother’s going to sell her out to his new, dangerous buddies. If she keeps quiet, she’s still at risk from the Butchers. She needs someone at her back. Enforcers Muscle and Beast are the perfect solution… if she has the guts to make a play.
Beast’s big hulking form and a face only a mother could love drives most women away. Muscle’s pretty as could be, but he’s got a nasty attitude and a brick wall around his heart. No one wants to get in their bed…which means they’re perfect for Shy’s needs. When the three get together, it’s obvious that these men need Shy just as much as she needs them. And now she wants to stay for entirely different reasons than just safety.
But what’s going to happen when they find out Shy has been withholding information?
THE MOTORCYCLE CLUBS • THE BEDLAM BUTCHERS #3
The Motorcycle Clubs Series
His Wild Desire by Ella Goode
Off Limits by Ruby Dixon
Wanting It All by Kati Wilde
Her Secret Pleasure by Ella Goode
Packing Double by Ruby Dixon
Taking It All by Kati Wilde
Their Secret Need by Ella Goode
Double Trouble by Ruby Dixon
Coming Next
Having It All by Kati Wilde
Their Fierce Love by Ella Goode
Double Down by Ruby Dixon
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Chapter One
It’s hard to keep a secret in a trailer.
For one, the floors are thin, almost as thin as the walls. Some trailers are made heavy-duty. Not the one I live in. This one could pretty much be a cardboard box with a fancier door, but it’s the trailer my parents left me and my brother Stuart, so I can’t complain. It was free, and free’s good right now. My job at the Taco Shack doesn’t pay enough to cover rent at a new place, so I make do.
Right now, make-do means living with Stuart, even though we don’t get along.
Okay, ‘don’t get along’ is a mild choice of words. Stuart doesn’t like me and I’m terrified of him. My brother’s twelve years older than I am. I’m the ‘oopsie’ mistake that my mom had when she was forty during a conjugal visit with Dad. Unfortunately, Dad shanked some guy while in prison and is now serving a life term. Mom decided she couldn’t handle that and killed herself.
We’re a fun crew, we Hamiltons.
That was three years ago, though. Three years ago, right after I graduated from high school and was about to head out to college. Then shit hit the wall and there was an estate to be settled, and before I knew it, I was spending all my time in the same small shit town I grew up in and hiding from Stuart, who was thirty, a thug, and hanging with the wrong kinds. Now I’m twenty one and Stuart’s thirty three and he’s still a thug. I gladly take the shifts at the Taco Shack that allow me to avoid him, give his buddies with the Bedlam Butcher patches my employee discount when they come in, and try to stay under the radar.
Here’s the thing. I’ve seen my brother kill a man before. He doesn’t know I saw it, but like I said, trailer walls are thin. The guy owed him money, and Stuart just pulled out a gun and plugged the guy. Happened not long after Ma died.
I learned real fast to keep my mouth shut.
I’m pulling my Taco Shack clothes out of the dryer for my shift today when I hear the sound of angry voices through the floor vents, though. Our trailer’s a double-wide with a battered, rusty skirt that keeps little noise out. On windy days, it whistles like mad. On calm days, it carries conversations.
Like right now.
“Bitch works at The Meat Locker most nights,” I hear my brother saying. “By herself sometimes. The guys head out early but she stays late, works on the books.”
“Ain’t there a lot of patches hanging ‘round there?” An unfamiliar voice says. “Hate to think you’d be setting us up, Taco.”
Taco’s my brother’s road name. I heard him tell a girl once that he got it because he likes to eat pussy, but in all honesty, I’m guessing he got it because of the connections to the Taco Shack. The owner has connections to the Butchers. I think it’s the only reason I got a job there—everyone else is too scared to hire trash like me because they know of my brother.
“Naw,” my brother says. “Here’s the thing. There’s a panty raid Friday night instead of the usual Friday Night Fights. Boys are gonna clear out and get themselves some fresh pussy. Lucky should be there all by herself.”
Jeez, that sounds ominous. I try not to listen in but I can’t help it. I stand in front of the dryer and change out of my t-shirt and jeans into my plain blue work slacks and my Taco Shack t-shirt as I snoop on their conversation.
“Ain’t the prez gonna be mad if I touch his sister? How do I know you’re not setting me and my boys up?”
Stuart laughs. “Don’t trust me? Send some of your boys out to Chrome to scope things out. You’ll see the place fill up with Butchers on Friday night. Then you’ll know I’m telling you the goddamn truth.”
“Fair ‘nuff,” the other man says. “How much I owe you for the info?”
“Pound and a half,” Taco says.
“Boy, you crazy,” the man laughs. “For a pound and a half I’d kill my own damn sister.”
I hear Taco chuckle. “You and me both, brother. Mine’s available if you want her. For that pound and a half, of course.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the other voice says.
I grow cold. I guess I know my worth.
“I’ll give you half a pound of crystal,” he says.
My brother’s dealing outside the trailer now? Jesus. If the police catch him here, they could confiscate our home and then I’d be out on the streets. Or worse, in jail with him and Dad. I shake my head as I pull my socks on. It’s not like I can say anything to Stuart about it. Best I can do is stay far the fuck away.
“I’m selling out my patch, bro. I need at least a pound.”
That causes me to stumble as I yank a sock on, and I crash into the washing machine. It emits a noisy creak. My life flashes before my eyes. Fuck. Oh fuck. If Stuart knows I’m listening, he’ll sell me out for that extra pound of crystal.
But what I’ve just heard is the worst possible scenario. Worse than my brother slinging meth on the stoop of our trailer. Worse than my brother killing someone.
He’s snitching on his club. That means he’s a dead man, and everyone around him, too. Me included. For a moment, I think about dashing for the gun I keep hidden in my clothes drawer. It’s the only safety-net I have.
But it’s quiet outside.
Too quiet. One of the men says, “What the fuck was that?”
I still. Please oh please oh please.
Just then, one of the ferals that run around our trailer races past me, another one hot on its tail. They yowl as if death itself is chasing them, then bolt out the pet door.
“Fucking cats,” my brother says.
The other man just laughs.
By the time I tiptoe out of the laundry room, they’ve agreed on two thirds of a pound of crystal meth, kicked one of the ferals that my brother lets
roam our trailer, and I’m about to pass out from holding my breath. I manage to make it back to my room, where I try to relax. The gun is waiting in its drawer, for ‘just in case’ and this is the closest I’ve ever come to needing it.
I have a nervous stutter that comes out when I’m anxious. I’m beside myself with fear right now, but I focus on taking deep, calming gulps of air. If my brother comes in and I stutter at him, he’ll know I was listening.
He’ll know I know he’s a snitch. And then I’ll be sold off to whoever he’s been snitching to for drugs. My brother knows I’m a virgin. He’s made crass comments about giving me to one of his brothers before, or to his ride partner, Lock. Ain’t right for a twenty-one-year-old to be a virgin, he says. I tell him it’s none of his damn business. Usually.
I wait until I think it’s safe, then escape my small, tidy room. I’m almost out the door when an arm grabs me and spins me around.
“Hold up there, Shy.”
Shit.
I hate my nickname on his mouth. He’s always called me ‘Shy’ instead of Cheyenne because I stutter. Sometimes only ‘Shy-shy-shy-shy’ comes out instead of the full name, and it’s stuck.
I turn to look at my brother, trying to remember to breathe in and out. Be calm. Be cool. My brother looks the same as he always does—sandy blond hair, roguish grin, slightly crooked teeth. Cruel eyes. He nods at me. “You going to work?”
I nod.
He doesn’t let go of my arm, though. “I was talking to a friend outside.” His gaze roams over me. “You hear anything?”
I shake my head.
“Then why don’t you fucking speak up?” His smile is ugly.
“I-I-I-I-I d-d-didn’t—”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says in a lethal voice. His hand clamped on my arm feels like a vise. “Here’s the thing, Shy. If even a sniff of this shit gets out, I know a lot of boys who’d pay for some sweet virgin pussy. There’s some out there that like to break their toys. And they don’t put them back in the toy box when they’re done with them. They bury them in the desert where no one ever finds them again. You feel me?”
My eyes wide and frightened, I nod again.
“Good,” he says, giving my arm a brutal squeeze before flinging me away. “You got any cash on you?”
I gladly pull out my wallet and hand him everything in it. Normally I bitch when he gives me a shakedown, but today? Today I just want to get out of here.
He takes the cash with a grunt and then flops down on the shabby couch in our living room. “Bring home some fucking tacos.”
I nod mutely, and then race out the door.
I make it to my car before I start crying. Huge, wet tears slide down my cheeks as I examine my arm. It’s already purpling where Taco grabbed me. Fuck him. I hate him. I hate him so very much.
I don’t know what to do, either. I’m terrified. If I say nothing, some girl’s going to get killed and my brother will go on snitching until they find out it’s him and bury him six feet under. I’ve heard horror stories of snitches whose entire family was taken down with them, as a lesson or as revenge. Taco won’t give a shit if I get killed as collateral damage.
I can’t go to the police, either. The Bedlam Butchers aren’t exactly on the up and up; I don’t know of a single club that is. If I run to the police, I’ll be strung up from one of the nearest trees as a lesson to others that go to the cops.
And if I say something to anyone else? Taco’s going to sell me to his buddies who’ll rape me and bury me in an unmarked grave. There’s lots of open rocky soil in New Mexico that never gets investigated. Too barren. Too uninhabited. No one would ever know I’m gone until it’s too late.
I have to do something. But what?
• • •
It takes me a few days, but I come up with a battle plan.
I’m going to keep my damn stuttering mouth shut, of course. I’m not stupid and I don’t have a death wish. I don’t know the girl they’re plotting against, and I try not to think about her. I can’t even save myself, much less a stranger. But I have an idea. There’s a panty raid Friday night. From overhearing conversations in the past, I know what that is. The Butchers let the local girls know they’re in the mood and anyone that feels like partying with them needs to show up with a red thong on. That tells them she’s interested in being club sweetbutt, aka club pussy. Lots of girls get laid. Some stick around, some don’t.
But showing up with a red thong on will give me the chance to approach one of the Butchers. Well, two actually.
The thing with the Bedlam Butchers? They’re kinda kinky. They have some weird bro thing going on where they do everything with their ride partner, right down to fucking. I’ve heard my brother and his ride buddy Lock nailing a girl in my brother’s room before. It’s always two guys and one girl. Sometimes two girls.
I think that’s why I’ve always avoided my brother’s friends when he’d bring them by the trailer. Two guys at once? That’s a lot for a shy girl like me. No thanks.
But I need to suck it up, because I need a protector. Preferably two. If I can find the biggest, scariest Butchers, maybe then my brother won’t be able to hurt me. Maybe if I get some guy hypnotized by my mouth, I’ll be safe until things shake out.
All I need to do is suck a dick so well that someone wants to keep me.
While the idea freaks me out a little—I’ve barely even kissed guys because I’m so shy—I’m out of options.
So Friday night, I call in sick to work. I head to the nearest Wal-Mart and buy myself a fancy red thong. I put on red lipstick and fix my flat, baby-fine blonde hair into some decent waves. I wear a short little slip-dress with spaghetti straps and my favorite cowboy boots, and I think I look pretty good.
Good enough for someone to fuck, Cheyenne Hamilton? I ask myself as I stare in the mirror at Wal-Mart and scrutinize my appearance.
I sure hope so. If not, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Stuart’s acting more and more ominous toward me by the hour. Yesterday, he showed up at my job just to scare me. It’s clear he doesn’t trust me.
It’s clear I don’t have much time left.
So I lick my lips and stare at the pale girl in the mirror. I try to smile, because no one’s going to want their dick sucked by someone who looks that frightened.
Chapter Two
By the time I pull my battered 1993 Geo Metro up to the designated panty raid bar, the parking lot is full of bikes and cars are lined up along the highway and out into the neighboring field. I squelch the momentary panic I feel. The crowd will be good. It means I can blend in, despite the fact that my brother’s here tonight. My plan doesn’t involve staying and hanging out. I need to get in, find the biggest and baddest, offer my mouth (or any other holes they might enjoy) and leave with them.
I park at the end of the road, then change my mind and pull around to the back of the building. My purple rust bucket is a noticeable sort of car, and if my brother sees it, I’m screwed. I park in the unloading zone next to a dumpster. I’ll feign ignorance if anyone questions things. Besides, this is biker central tonight—no one’s going to be scheduling a shipment. I get out of my car, steel myself, and then begin to walk around to the front of the building. Loud music is thumping from inside. From the outside, it looks like a run down, run of the mill brick building. There are small, horizontal windows near the roof, and all of the signs wink neon and advertise types of beer. The roadside sign reads CHROME with a hubcap for the O. It’s not the most upscale place. Then again, I’d probably feel more out of place if it was.
Clutching my tiny handbag, I head for the door. There’s a few people loitering around the front, and I do my best to stay out of their way. They’re pretty drunk. The women are climbing all over two men in leather, patch-covered vests that seem to be enjoying the attention. I pull the door open and slip inside while one grabs the ass of a brunette with big, um, hair.
The interior of Chrome is wall to wall with people. There are more g
irls than men here, and for a moment, I feel a shot of pure despair. I’m tiny and average looking. My boobs are unimpressive and I’ve got no ass to speak of. How on earth am I going to get the attention of two big burly bikers when I have this as my competition? I watch as a stacked red-headed waitress swings past, her skirt short and tight. She’s gorgeous.
I’m so out of my league.
I’m also out of options. Ignoring my panic, I force myself to scan the room for Stuart. His braying laugh gives him away—he’s in the back at a table, seated with his buddy Lock and what looks like three cougars dressed for a raunchy night on the town. All right, I’ll avoid that section. I head for the bar and take a seat, the only free one in the place. I’m squished between two much taller women, and there’s spilled alcohol all over the bar, but I don’t mind. If I’m partially hidden from sight, so much the better.
I scan the room, considering each man wearing a cut. Lock is nice enough, and he knows me, but he’s out because he’s with my brother. I don’t know if he’s snitching, too, and it’s not something you can ask. I don’t need nice, though. I need big. Brutal. Scary. Someone that would make my arrogant brother stop in his tracks and think twice before fucking with them. Or me.
My gaze swings to the far end of the bar and I still. Perfection. I know who I’m aiming for.
There’s two men at the far end of the bar, quietly talking. One’s nursing a bottle of beer, the other’s got a mug of draft in front of him. They’re the only two not crawling with ladies. One’s utterly gorgeous, tall, stacked with muscles and thick, short blond hair. I immediately think what’s wrong with him. Shouldn’t women be flinging themselves at this god of a man? But I remember that Butchers go in pairs, and I focus on his buddy.
Bingo.
The man sitting next to Gorgeous is frightening. He’s huge, for starters. Like, linebacker huge. His face is broad and deeply tanned and speaks of mixed heritage, and his hair is jet black and brushes his shoulders. His big, beefy arms are covered in tattoos and he’s thick. Not with fat, but with pure bulk and strong muscle. He reminds me of a Samoan warrior I saw on a documentary once. He looks mean as hell, too. Thick, dark brows frame deep-set eyes and a mouth that doesn’t look as if it ever smiles. He’s the reason why Gorgeous isn’t attractive to women—it’s because they know they have to take Monster with him.
