Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series (5 page)

The man damn near raised me from the dead.

Heath was the one good thing I’d ever had, the only person
besides my mother who ever really cared.

Former President Tate, that is—may he rest in peace. My
predecessor. My mentor. My savior.

Heath Tate. Thinking of his name jars me back into the
present moment, into the flaming wreckage of the Depraved Club warehouse. I’ve
got to think of Heath, the reason I’m here tonight and the reason we raided
this fucking twisted sex club. He’s the reason we’re at war.

I can’t afford to let anything or anyone distract me from
what needs to be done.

A dark, hollow voice accuses me inside my head:
Heath
died because of you, Dominic, because you weren’t good enough to save him.
You’re never good enough.

Letting out a bellowing roar, I slam my fist into the sheet
metal wall a few inches from Harper’s face, denting it and bloodying my
knuckles. Stupid. At least I get the gratification of seeing Harper scream and
jump about three feet in the air, shaking, as she squeals like a scared piglet.

“You don’t know shit,” I repeat to her. I feel a cruel smile
play over my mouth. It would be so fun and easy to mess with her, to make her
pay for what she did to me.

But I shake my head at myself. I can’t lose focus now over
something so stupid and personal, something as trivial as the reappearance of
the girl who broke my heart as a fucking teenager. That was ten years ago, damn
it. I can’t jeopardize everything my brothers and I have worked for over a pair
of ruinous blue eyes and perky tits.

I’m not eighteen anymore.

I sigh and stare at Harper with fresh loathing, swallowing
the impulse to wring her neck. I find myself grimacing like there’s a taste in
my mouth that I just wasn’t in the mood for. Heck, that’s pretty accurate: I
can practically taste her, and I don’t like it.

I clear my throat. “Harper, you are either the most unlucky
or the most stupid woman I’ve ever met and your timing fucking sucks. I’m in no
mood for you, or for any prissy princess throwing a diva fit. You’re in over
your head and there’s no going back. Since you haven’t the sense to shut up on your
own, we’ll just have to help you.”

“What do you mean?” She says in a wobbly voice.

Ooh, guess I scared her. Good.

I grab Harper by the wrist, spin on my heels, and drag her
behind me as I walk towards the bikes, not bothering to be gentle or explain.
Ignoring her protests and feeble attempts to resist, I march with her over to
the guys, who are waiting for me with carefully schooled expressions.

Dirtbeard, Pete, Grindhouse Gus, Wheely and Charlie Foxtrot
stare at me with twinkling eyes but keep their comments to themselves. Spike
pretends to fix the zipper of his hoodie.

“I’m keeping this one,” I announce. “Little souvenir. She’s
my property and no one touches her. Understood?”

“Sure, Prez,” Dirty grunts. His lack of expression says a
lot. “Whatever you say.”

There’s a hell of lot to be done. Not only was our target
M.I.A. tonight, now I’ve got a conscience-stricken witness to babysit, one who
happens to be my messiest ex.

“Alright,” I nod curtly. “Show’s over. Colt bolted tonight,
but we’ll catch up with him one way or another. The council is meeting in three
hours.” I check my watch and quickly delegate tasks. “Pete, Grindhouse, Spike:
escort the rescued ladies and the van over to the half-way house. Dirty: text
Stout that we’re on our way to the lodge. Charlie, you better head back to the
clubhouse and help Dez with lockdown in case of retaliation tonight. The rest
of you losers saddle up and follow me. And keep the fuck up.”

“Yeah boss,” Pete shouts. “Let’s ride!”

The guys disburse to do their assigned jobs, and I drag Harper
along to my waiting Harley Iron 883. The moon light glints off the black and
chrome body. The sight of my waiting bike makes me feel calmer, more in
control. This is my reality: my bike, the Las Vegas night, and a mission.

Without warning Harper sinks to the ground behind me like a
toddler throwing a tantrum, and I’m forced to turn around and face her. I’m
reminded of an old dog too tired to finish its walk.

“Dominic, no, please,” She sobs, fruitlessly trying to twist
her wrist out of my grip. “No way I’m getting on that thing with you. Let me
go!”

Let her beg. I don’t give a shit.

“No can do princess.” None too gently I jerk her back up to
her feet, but she goes deadweight in my arms. “Fuck,” I grunt, “You are a pain
in my ass!”

I tilt my head back to study her face. My eyeballs are
inches from hers, her little nose flaring in anger as she stares right back in
defiance. There’s a light of panic in those blue eyes and I can almost see the
wheels turning.

Fuck if I’m going to feel sorry for her.

“This ain’t gonna work, Miss Sinclair. You may be used to
getting whatever you want in your schmancy high roller suite but Las Vegas is
my turf. Here, what I say goes. You’re coming with me. Now I don’t particularly
care if you’re conscious or not, but you’re getting on this motorcycle with me.
Understand?”

She’s so warm and pliable in my arms, so feminine. So
helpless. I could crush her with my bare hands…or do plenty of other things to
her.

Her full lips are so close to mine, parted by her jagged
breathing. I wonder if they still taste the same, like sunlight and
strawberries. Fuck, I can feel every contour of her body against me. My arms
are wrapped around her shoulders and waist, and now that she’s stopped
struggling, it feels achingly familiar.

I clench my jaw, shoving the memories away and forcing my
brain back on track.

“So I have to knock you out and tie you to that bike,” I
hiss, “Or would you like to increase our chances of survival by riding behind
me like a rational adult with no other option?”

Harper swallows, staring up at me, and her eyes change
again. The icy defiance in those baby blues fades, replaced by something akin
to fear.

“I’ll sit behind,” she says, her voice tiny.

“Good.”

I hold her a second longer, can’t say why. Proving my point?
But then I shake myself out of it. With my vice-like grip around her wrist, I
lift my leg and straddle the bike. I start the ignition and the engine turns
over, the sound and vibration stirring my blood with the excitement that never
gets old. I kick up the stand and find my own balance, then tug on Harper’s
hand.

“Get on,” I shout.

She obeys, gingerly swinging one of those long legs of hers
over until I can feel her body against my back, her legs wrapped snug against
the outside of my thighs. I pull her wrist to guide her arm around my chest.

The feeling of her arms around me sends a cold spike of
resentment through my body. For some reason, it flashes through my mind that
she’s the first woman I’ve let on this bike.

I’ve got to get it together. Holding her grip steady around
me, I use my free hand to steer as I kick us into gear and roar away into the
dark streets. This night is far from over and it just got a hell of a lot more
complicated.

And I really, really hate complicated.

Chapter Five

Dominic

By the time we reach the cabin high up in the La Madre range
of the Spring Mountains, my brain has cleared enough to mull over the business
ahead of me at the national Motorcycle Club summit I’ve planned. It smells like
pine and rain and my helmet’s visor is spotted with water. Through the blurry
plastic I see there are about twenty bikes parked in the gravel driveway. I angle
in my Harley and shut off the engine, and the smell of exhaust is overtaken by
the scent of Stout’s home-cooked chili wafting in the air.

“Get down,” I order Harper, as the rest of my crew parks their
bikes nearby.

I keep my grip firm around her wrist as she hops onto the
gravel, and then I follow. Her eyes are wide and scared and she’s practically
shivering with cold. Yeah, it’s cold. There’s actual snow at this elevation. Momentarily,
my conscience berates me.

Well, if she’s cold it’s her fault. Who wears nothing but a
thin white blouse on Las Vegas’ only rainy day?

A thin white blouse is now sheer with rainwater.

A thin white blouse that’s clinging to that body of hers
like saran-wrap, showing me every contour of her curves. I can just make out the
pattern of her lace bra and the shape of her nipples poking through the thin
material. There’s a little belly-button ring too. Fuck, I’d like to suck on it.

Forcing myself to look away from Harper’s chest, I lead the
way up the wooden steps of the porch.

Dragging Harper behind me, I pass a string of guys keeping
guard outside the cabin. Thank god our security detail is here: I know in total
there are twelve guys with AK-47s, three on the porch and the rest disbursed
around a perimeter in the woods. It’s good to see that my orders are being
followed.

Ahead, I see a familiar face smoking a cigarette. “Hey
Bogie!” I grip hands with the President of the Sons of Lucifer New York City Charter,
Lance Bogart. We go way back, and little needs to be said as we quietly check
in with each other.

Bogie nods and grunts, raising an eyebrow at Harper. “Didn’t
realize it was friends and family night,” he quips, flashing her a predatory
grin. He’s always been a fan of the ladies.

“It’s not,” I grunt. “Just a little hiccup.”

     I tug my hostage into the massive log cabin, leaving a
laughing Bogie to greet the rest of the boys. Now that I’ve got Harper here,
I’m annoyed at her presence. The last thing I want to do is babysit. I’ve got
to pawn her off on somebody else, and fast.

A low rumble of conversation and laughter greets us when I
tug open the front door. The lodge’s entrance hallway runs between a large
sitting room with a fireplace and the kitchen, with stairs to the bedrooms
straight ahead.

Brothers from other charters of Sons of Lucifer are
everywhere, mingling with the visiting dignitaries from other MCs. Our patch with
the flaming devil’s horns design is splattered on leather jackets, mixed among patches
with crossed guns, naked ladies, skulls, grim reapers, dice. There are officers
here representing charters all of the major northeast MCs: Circle of Death,
Rebel Riders, Dark Demons, Babylon’s Horde, Hell Chains.
            There’s never been a council this diverse or serious.

Chills run up my arm as I realize the enormity of the
problem that could bring so many squabbling clans together. It tells me that my
gut instinct was right, that my club and I have crashed into something way
bigger than protecting our Charter or avenging Heath.

Harper’s hand in mine has gone clammy and trembles with
fear, something that gives me no small sense of satisfaction. She should be
afraid of us, take us seriously. She should understand that running to the law
to rat out what she saw at the Depraved Club would be a mistake. She should
understand that this is bigger than her or her comfort.

I should understand that, too.

Someone claps me on the shoulder and I turn to see Stout.
He’s built like a mountain with a beard like a lawn gnome. Crow’s feet wrinkle
his eyes, obscuring the tear-mark tattoos on his face.

“Hey man,” Stout grunts. We pound fists.

“Stout,” I reply. “Thanks for lending us the lodge, man.”

“Least I could do. Now that you’re here, we’ll get started
in, like, fifteen?” His cloudy eyes flicker suspiciously over Harper, whose
eyes are deer-in-the-headlights wide. She hasn’t made a sound since we left Las
Vegas. “What’s with the chick?”

Stout was always a man for cutting to the chase.

I sigh. “Unexpected complication. Need a room and a guard
for her; she’s a flight risk. Who’s handy?”

Stout’s gaze over Harper clearly says he doubts she’d make
it far in the woods if she tried to escape, and I smirk in agreement. But I’m
not taking any chances.

“Why don’t you take her to your room upstairs,” Stout
suggests. “I’ll send up one of my prospects.”

“Thanks,” I grunt. I start up the stairs as Stout explains
and sends a gangly kid with a Prospect patch tripping eagerly after us.

“This way, sir. Ma’am.” The Prospect guides us up the
staircase to an open, loft-like second floor hallway that wraps around the
perimeter of the house and looks down on the crowded front room below. There
are doorways all along the hall that must be bedrooms. I guess Stout has done
pretty well for himself up here; the place could be a bed and breakfast if he
wanted.

The Prospect opens a door at the end of the hall, revealing
a comfortable room with a double bed and a fireplace.

I shove Harper ahead of me into the room and glance at the
Prospect. The kid must be eighteen, covered with pimples and a pathetic dusting
of hair on his chin that’s supposed to be a goatee. A girl like Harper could
eat him for breakfast. No way I’m leaving her alone with him.

“Wait in the hall, Prospect,” I order, and when he steps
outside I shut the door behind him.

I shoot a text to Dirty telling him to come upstairs and
supervise the guard. He won’t be happy about it, but I can trust him. Then I pocket
my phone and glance around the place. It’s pretty nice, with a down comforter
on the bed and a nice blaze in the stone hearth, very different from the
dorm-like rooms I call home at our clubhouse.

Harper has come to a standstill in the middle of the room
and is clutching her arms around herself, shivering.

“You’ll be safe enough in here,” I mutter, going to inspect
the windows. We’re on the second floor, and the shutters are locked from the
outside. She couldn’t get out that way, that’s a relief. “Just don’t do
anything stupid.”

The words are barely out of my mouth when something slams into
my head from behind. “Jesus!” I clutch my head and whip around.

Harper is holding one of her shoes in the air and brings it
back down again towards my forehead, but I catch her hand in midair and glare
down at her. “This would count as stupid, Harper. Don’t be fucking stupid. What
were you planning to do, knock me out and then fight your way through biker
central with a stiletto? You’re not thinking.”

“Let me go!” She hisses.

“With pleasure,” I bark. With a shove, I send her stumbling
backward until she collapses on the bed, bouncing like a ragdoll. She scrambles
to the headboard, pointing her shoe at me.

“Don’t come any closer!” She squeals. Her hands are shaking
and her eyes are wild as she stares from me to the bed and back.

I laugh at the ridiculousness of her fear, but then feel
myself bristle at her implied accusation—as if I’m going to pounce and ravage
her at any moment. What do they teach these rich white bitches—that all
off-white people are uncontrollable animals with raging sex drives that defy
sense? Annoyed, I slip out of my jacket and toss it on the bed.

“Relax,” I growl. “I meant what I said: I wouldn’t touch you
with a ten-foot pole. That ship sailed ten years ago sweetheart. I’ve seen the
light.”

To prove my point, I take my Glock out of my
over-the-shoulder holster and wipe it down before re-loading. At first the
sight of the gun makes Harper go pale, but she seems to calm down as she
watches my deliberate motions with those huge eyes. The task helps me calm
down, too. Action always makes me feel better.

“You always had such gentle hands,” she murmurs out of
nowhere.

I slam the cleaned chamber back in place and glare at her. My
hair is standing on end, must be the combination of rage and unwanted memories.
“What the fuck are you playing at, Harper?”

“Nothing,” she hiccups, with a frown.

“Shit.” I tuck the Glock back into my holster and cross my
arms, studying her. “You must think I’m really fucking dumb if you believe you
can bat your eyelashes and wrap me around your little finger again. I’ve seen
your true colors, honey, ten years ago when you left me for dead. As if that
wasn’t enough, I got another glimpse of your character tonight when you showed
up at slime central. So don’t bother making conversation. I’d just as soon rip
out your tongue as listen to your sweet-talk.”

She stares at me, mouth open, and I can see the furious
color pour back into her face drop by drop until her cheeks are flushed.

“My character?” She squeaks. “You don’t know anything about
my character. And even if you did, who are you to judge me? You’re a murderer.”

“Nah, I’m an exterminator honey. Know the difference? A
murderer kills people. I kill cockroaches. I’m not ashamed of it. I serve
justice to perverts and gangsters and murderers because that’s where I live—in
the place where there’s no law to protect the weak, where you have to stand for
something yourself. And that’s why I have a right to judge you, because I stand
for something good. And you and your boyfriend tonight? You’re the enemy.”
            “You mean Danny?” Her voice is suddenly low, her eyes brimming with
tears. “What do you know about Danny, and that place?”

I laugh harshly. “What don’t I know? He was one of Depraved
Club’s most loyal and regular customers, a real class-A prick. He was a college
buddy of Colt’s, the boss we were after tonight. Your boy Danny had an appetite
for opiates and minors of both genders. Colt ran special shipments of fresh
underage virgins just for him, since they were such good friends. Damn near
kept the place in business single-handedly.”

“Oh god.” She cups her hand to her mouth and curls into
fetal position, heaving as if she’s going to throw up. “Danny? No. It can’t be
true. How could he? But then, he took me there tonight, he was going to…Oh god…”
She’s gasping, tears streaming down her face. She’s trembling from head to
foot. “Kids? Danny?”

And then she throws her head over the side of the bed and
barfs.

“Terrific,” I groan.

But something flickers in me, some whispering instinct. On
top of the mess she’s just made, I’m really fucking confused. Either she’s a
really good actress, or she really didn’t know about Danny and the Depraved
Club. And if she really didn’t know, she might not be quite the soulless
monster I think she is. My gut is telling me she’s on the level.

But still, what was she doing there tonight?

I ease myself to sit on the foot of the bed carefully, not
taking my eyes off her. Her breathing is returning to normal.

“I’m sorry,” she groans, “I’m sorry, that’s so gross. I’m so
sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

I chuckle in spite of myself. “You’re the property of a
biker gang that considers you an enemy and you’re worried about cleaning your vomit?
I’d get my priorities straight if I were you.”

She swallows. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know…anything. Before
tonight. I swear to God, Dominic. I’ve been so blind. I just wanted to see what
I wanted to see, you know?”

Yeah, I know something about that. Isn’t that what I’d done
with her, ten years ago? Seen only what I wanted to see? Guess we all take our
turns.

Now those blue eyes of hers find me, searing into me. I
stare right back, but this time it’s harder to convince myself that she’s a
phony. This time, I see a tiny piece of the old Harper blinking at me, the
innocence and longing. It cuts through me like a blinding pain and I have to
push to my feet and pace the room. I gotta get out of here, away from her and
those fucking huge eyes and the questions they stir inside me.

“Where the fuck is Dirty,” I grumble, checking my phone.

Harper is still curled in a ball on the bed. “Is that why
you hate me so much?” She asks in a small voice. “Because of Danny? You think
I’m like him?”

There’s a knock at the door.

“About fucking time,” I grumble, jerking it open. Dirty and
the Prospect stand there, ready. “Get in here,” I order. I hand my Glock over
to Dirty and nod at the Prospect. “Shut the door behind me. Keep her alive and
in this room. No one but me comes in or out. Got it?”

Dirty nods. “Sure thing, Prez.”

“Yes, Mr. Th-thorne,” stutters the Prospect.

I turn to go.