Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC): Vegas Titans Series (6 page)

“Dominic?”

Something in Harper’s voice makes me pause on my way out. I
half-turn my head, catching a glimpse of her huddled on the bed in my
peripheral vision.

“At the lake,” she whispers. “My brother wanted to kill you.
I should have told you. He would have, then and there, but I begged him. He
made me promise to leave you and never go back, or he’d kill you. So that’s
what I did. I left. I gave you CPR, and left. I didn’t want to go, Dominic. I
never wanted to go, but he would have killed you.”

My skin goes hot, then cold, and there’s a burning feeling
in my throat. I risk a full glance at her, and those big blue eyes stare right
back at me without blinking. Deer in the headlights. Just like the Harper I
used to know.

Nope, not going there. Not now.

Without a backward glance, I spin on my heels and I’m out of
the bedroom and into the frying pan, so to speak. I’ve got work to do, dammit.

Downstairs, Stout has gathered the delegates from all the
MC’s into a tensely coiled mass the front room. The air is electric and tastes
like sweat and chili. A few of the guys are slurping it out of mugs and bowls
and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I’ve skipped a couple meals. But
there’s no time for that now.

Bogie, his Vice Prez Poncho Villa and my crew are perched
together on window seats, frowning. The rest of the clubs are bunched together
on sofas and chairs and leaning against the pool table or walls with their arms
crossed and their danger faces on.

Stout is wrapping up some sort of welcome speech, and turns
to wave me in. “Everyone,” he rumbles, “No more beating around the bush. I’ll
let President Dominic Thorne of the Sons of Lucifer Las Vegas charter take the
floor.”

I clear my throat and sweep my eyes around the room, locking
glances with the men staring at me. “I’ve never been much for public speaking,”
I start, “So I’ll keep this short and sweet. Thanks for being here: Lenny, and
the northwest Rebel Riders, Jax, and your delegation of the Midwest Hell
Chains, Remington and Babylon’s Horde boys nationwide, Diesel and the Hell
Chains, Dead-eye Denim and the Circle of Death boys all the way from New
England, Striker from the Dark Demons. And Bogie from our Sons of Lucifer New
York City charter. This is one hell of a prayer meeting, folks.”

The guys chuckle in acknowledgement.

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbles Diesel. “Whoop-di-freakin-do. It’s a
long ride from Maine, girls. I came as a good will ambassador to answer your
S.O.S. but my ass hurts and I’ve got a funny feeling you want something expensive
from me. So can we just get to the fucking point?”

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Let’s get to the point. The point is, we
wouldn’t all be here if we weren’t all up to our necks in shit creek without a
paddle. And that includes you, Diesel. We’re all here because fucking Leviathan
Corp’s black market franchise of Depraved Clubs for the billionaire bad boys
set is pushing into our territories and starting a war. It’s happening for Sons
of Lucifer in New York and Vegas, and I know it’s happening to the rest of you.
Slowly but surely. We’re here tonight to stop it in its tracks.”

There’s a rumble of acknowledgement.

“I’ve heard of an island off the coast of New England,”
announces Dead-Eye Denim, his famous black glass eye reflecting firelight like
a Halloween mirror. “One of our brother charters had some trouble with them. Turns
out Leviathan Corp’s got a cargo ship route that Depraved Club uses to carry
people and drugs down from Canada. They wanted Circle of Death MC to help them
take over the interstate routes for distribution stateside. It’s not pretty, or
simple. Besides, I don’t like the ocean.”

There are a few sniggers. “It don’t like you neither,”
laughs Jax. “Give me a highway any day.”

Bogie nods solemnly. “They’re a massive operation, alright. New
York City is riddled with them. I’ve seen their Depraved Clubs popping up all
over the five boroughs with the help of our kind gone wrong. I’m sure you’ve
heard by now that Death Layer Motorcycle Club is pussy-whipped by these
motherfuckers and run the Manhattan and Jersey Depraved Clubs themselves;
they’re nothing but a puppet MC now.”

“But it’s not just turncoat bikers protecting these assholes,”
I say, taking the reigns again. “They’ve got mob connections with the casinos,
street gangs, small-time pimps, not to mention their own global infrastructure
through Leviathan Corp. That’s why I asked you here. Leviathan thinks they can
control us just like they control Death Layer, and I think we’re all here
because we know that playing along ultimately means death.”

“Oh, and fighting back doesn’t?” Diesel’s tone is harsh.
“That why you’re here, junior, calling a summit like a big-shot—because you’re
so great at beating them at their own game? What the fuck happened to your President
Tate? Heard they baked him like a tater-tot, on your watch.”

Before I know what’s happening I’ve sprung on Diesel, my hands
squeezing around his neck. It’s a reflex: I can’t help myself. I’m seeing red,
and I slam his body against the stone mantle of the fireplace, stunning him. He’s
a big guy but I’ve taken him by surprise. The room falls quiet around us.

“Don’t say his name with such disrespect, motherfucker,” I
bark. “Heath Tate was twice the man any of us will ever be and I’ll gut you
like a pig if you disgrace his memory one more time.”

“Easy, Dominic.” Bogie’s voice is calm. “We’re here on a truce,
remember? Let’s not kill each other at a summit. Save the violence for the common
enemy.”

“Sure,” I grumble. “For the enemy.”

I wait until Diesel’s skin turns a little blue before
slamming him against the wall for good measure and shoving him aside. There’s
an awkward silence as Diesel gasps for breath and everyone in the room shifts
uncomfortably.

It’s Dead-Eye Denim who pulls the conversational threads
together again. “We were all sorry to hear about President Tate, Dominic,” he
says. “Our sincerest condolences. You know we all understand any steps you want
to take to avenge him. But we’re not here just to talk about Tate, may he rest
in peace, or help you with payback. I think we know we’re all here to discuss
an even bigger decision facing the Northeast territory, and now Vegas: how do
we fight back?”
            “Exactly.” I take a deep breath, burying my anger back down deep
until I need it again. “I called you all here so we can figure out how to
support each other, fight back and survive the greatest threat free riders have
ever faced.”

“Support each other,” drones Diesel. “What is this
kindergarten? Where’s the pony ride and face painting booth?”

Ignoring him, I raise my voice. “My club has already paid a
terrible price and if we don’t work together, it’s only a matter of time until
the same happens to all of you. The only way we can survive this threat is if
we all work together. So yeah, Diesel, I do want something from you—from all of
us. I want us to act like brothers and protect our hard-earned way of life from
the devil himself.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

“How?” Diesel demands. He’s still sagging on the floor, and
glares up at me resentfully. “If what Dead-Eye and Bogie says is true, and
Leviathan Corp is backing up these Depraved Clubs, that means they’ve got
trillions of dollars and a multinational corporation behind them. How the fuck
do you propose we compete with that kind of bankroll? Need I remind you that
most of us are humble blue-collar boys with a taste for expensive bikes and
guns? I don’t exactly got a million dollars or a fucking drone under my
mattress.”

“Or any pussy on top of your mattress,” mutters Jax.

Diesel lunges at him, but before the fists can fly, Striker
and I manage to separate them.

“Guys,” Striker shouts. “Knock it off! Jesus Christ it’s
like feeding time at the zoo. Wake up! I for one am with Dominic. The whole
reason that Depraved Club has become a problem is because we’ve been too busy
squabbling like dickwads with each other and sniffing our own assholes. If they
could get to Tate, who was as Dominic says twice the man as any one of us here,
we’re all definitely next. Act your age, not your damn shoe size.”

Finally, Diesel throws up his hands in surrender. “Fine,” he
bites out. “But I maintain my question: how the fuck are we supposed to band
together and take down Leviathan Corp? This isn’t a fucking Robin Hood movie.”

Bogie runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “Depraved
Clubs are like McDonalds—popping up fucking everywhere, every club is run like
a franchise restaurant with the same structure but a different manager. It’s
impossible to get at the head of the beast. I hate to say it, but Diesel’s got
a point—how do you fight the scale and budget and reach of a multinational
corporation? Even if we are all on the same page.” Bogie glances with distaste
at Diesel before he adds, “And that’s a big if.”

“We don’t,” I say. “We can’t. Our only chance is to do what
we do best: hit them where we live. Tonight we took out the LIC Depraved Club,
and we’ve got their club manager running. Colt. He’s the one that killed Tate.
We’re on him. I suggest the same strategy to all of you. Turn their own war
strategy against them and give them a taste of their own medicine: take out
their Clubs, crush their revenue streams, eliminate their leadership. Leviathan
Corp will get the message to move on to greener pastures, because above all,
this is about profit for them. We disrupt their profit, we disrupt their plans.”

Diesel is shaking his head. “It won’t work,” he grunts.
“It’s like a bee stinging a demon. They’ll just eat us alive and keep coming
back.”

“Maybe,” I shout, my blood boiling. “But maybe I’m not quite
prepared to sell my soul and roll over dead just yet like some assholes I
know.”

Diesel lunges at me again and this time the whole room
erupts into chaos. Striker is pulverizing Jax. Diesel and I are locked in a
wrestling match. Even Bogie and Dead-Eye Denim are shouting. Suddenly, there’s
an ear-splitting screeching sound.

“Jesus!” I shout, throwing my arms over my head. “What the
fuck!”

Everyone groans and turns to stare resentfully at Stout, who
is holding an air horn. I open my mouth to try and pop my ears, which are
throbbing painfully.

“God damn it,” Stout bellows. “I don’t want my fucking house
torn to pieces. I suggest we pause the proceedings and take this outside to
blow off some steam the old-fashioned way.” A slow grin spreads across his
face. “Take a night ride.”

“A night ride?” Diesel’s sardonic confusion is almost
comical. “Come on old man, get real.”

Stout grimaces and whips a Baretta out of his waistband,
leveling it at Diesel. “Did I stutter?”

“Night ride it is,” Diesel’s hands are in the air again,
surrendering.

Jax and Striker laugh and the room starts to clear as
everyone leaks out the exits toward the driveway. I linger, quirking an eyebrow
at Stout, who looks awful smug.

“Seems to me I remember that there are traditionally ladies
present at night rides,” I say, wiping my bloody knuckles on my jeans.

Stout quirks an eyebrow right back at me and shoves his
Baretta back in his waistband as he turns and clumps back toward the kitchen. “Seems
to me I recall seeing a lady here tonight. Somewhere.”

Chapter Six

Harper

Thank god that the pimply-faced teenager and the giant
mountain man that Dominic left here to guard me don’t seem to want to talk. I
close my eyes and pretend to sleep while the Prospect cleans up the mess I made
on the floor. When he finishes and settles into a chair by the window I roll
into a miserable ball on the other side of the bed and stare at the wall.

I can’t tell if we’ve been here for minutes or hours as I
mull over the day’s dizzying events; Danny’s shocking behavior and death…the
violence at the Depraved Club…Dominic suddenly standing there in front of me,
even more handsome and tough than I remembered him…Dominic’s explanations, so
dark and painful but somehow sounding so true…Dominic’s eyes, so cold and full
of the promise of death or life.

I just don’t know what to think. Or feel. My brain has gone
quiet, like the eye of a hurricane.

After a short while the bedroom door bursts open and Dominic
storms in. God help me, but he’s beautiful. He’s gained a lot of muscle since
we were kids and holds himself with the unconscious pride of a leader. The
sight of him in the doorway makes my stomach clench, maybe from fear. Or
something else.

Dominic motions the Prospect outside and rubs his face,
staring at Dirtbeard.

“Night ride,” Dominic grunts. “You better head down. We’re coming.”

Dirtbeard scratches his chin and grins. “Sure thing, Prez.”
Then he lumbers out the door.

I’m beginning to think that’s the only thing my surly
bodyguard knows how to say. They’re like automatons; doing anything that Dominic
tells them to with monosyllabic assent.

“What’s a night ride?” I ask, standing.

Dominic is staring at me with that same inscrutable look as
before. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. It used to be so easy for me to read
his thoughts, but with a lift of my chin I remind myself that that was a long
time ago, a different life. Back then I’d catch his eye across the room and it
would feel like we were alone, whispering. But now, we’re worse than strangers.

And at this moment my best guess would be that he’s trying
to decide if he wants to throw me out the window or kick me.

It hits me that we’re alone together again, but the pins and
needles I feel have more to do with suspense than hope. This Dominic, this
worse than stranger, seems just as likely to pull out a gun as a rose.

I’ve seen so much death tonight. And as if that wasn’t bad
enough, I’ve learned Dominic was behind it all. I don’t know what’s thrown me
deeper into shock: the violence, or seeing Dominic again. And on top of
everything, he’s made it painfully clear that he loathes me.

Why does that bother me so much? Why is that the thought
spinning in my mind like an obnoxious, desperate echo?

God, why wouldn’t he loathe me? I’d always known how it must
have looked to him, waking up on the shore of the lake alone without so much as
a proper goodbye. I’d always consoled myself with the fact that I hadn’t had a
choice: Haden would have killed Dominic, and I did the right thing. I protected
him. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, but it was the right thing. For
years, I’d repeated that to myself like a mantra: I did the right thing, I did
the right thing.

I tell myself that again, but it doesn’t make me feel any
better. It doesn’t solve my confusion and hurt. It doesn’t change the fact that
I’m here as a hostage in a gang fight, that my life is completely derailed. That
Dominic’s life has become a death trap.

Now, Dominic’s green eyes are hard and intimidating. He
sweeps them over me again, as if he hates the sight of me.

“The council’s on a recess,” he finally answers. Only it’s
no answer at all. “Come on.”

His hand closes around my wrist like iron. It’s so unlike
the touch I remember from when we were young and in love, so unlike that soft
warm give-and-take of our skin, unlike that intimate feeling of closeness I
remember. Now his touch is efficient and cool—and powerful. He uses it to drag
me out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the house into the free
night air again.

Bright porch lights and tiki torches light the gravel
driveway. When we came through here a while ago, the broad gravel mouth of the
circular drive looked like a motorcycle parking lot: now, it’s transformed into
a hybrid block-party/racetrack. What look like barrels of moonshine have been
rolled from under the porch and enormous, leather-clad bikers are scooping
giant mugs into them and drinking. Tattooed, bearded men clog the torchlight
like an ominous cloud of mosquitoes. Someone has moved some of the motorcycles
into a cascading line at the head of the driveway, reminding me of the Las
Vegas Park Speedway.

Maybe it’s just my imagination, but the hubbub of the crowd
seems to die down as Dominic drags me through to what seems to be the starting
line and takes his seat on his bike, pulling me without ceremony on to the tiny
leather seat behind him. I fall on clumsily, landing with a plop. My thighs are
pressed around his hips, my breasts crushed against his back. There’s no room
to shift away.

“No fair,” someone grunts at our right. I peek and see the
man has a dark glass eye that seems to soak up the torchlight, giving me the
jitters. “How come Dominic gets a real girl?”

“I always travel with a real girl in case of emergencies,” Dominic
jokes in return. “Don’t you? Mount your horse, Dead-Eye, and let’s start the
damn race already!”

“Race?” I gulp.

There are a few lewd laughs and comments and I feel myself
turn pink as Dominic revs up the engine. Nervously, I glance to either side of
us. Other riders have taken their seats on their motorcycles along the starting
line, including the guy with the glass eye.

The weird part is that every rider has a passenger.

“What’s this all about?” I shout to Dominic.

“It’s a two-up drinking game,” Dominic shouts back, as if I
know what that means. “President rides out with a passenger, the rest of his
club has to do shots until he gets back.”

“So…wouldn’t they want you to lose?”

Dominic grins at me over his shoulder before pulling on his
helmet. My belly does a backflip. The giant man named Stout appears at the edge
of the driveway and whips a revolver out of his vest.

“Gentlemen, pillions, and drinkers!” Stout shouts over the
engines. “I suggest we get this party started. Let’s get fucked up! Three, two,
bang!”

He fires a shot into the air and there’s a sudden burst of
acceleration as Dominic unleashes us from the starting line. It feels like we
go from zero to three hundred, and with a squeal I find myself digging in and
squeezing on to Dominic with all my strength. My body fits onto his like a
glove, tight and sleek, as the dark night air whips around us like a solar
flare. All I can hear is the roar of our bike and the wind in my ears.

We are going so freaking fast, and in spite of myself I feel
a wicked grin splitting my face. God, this feels awesome. I can feel the buzz
of the engine between my legs and up through my skull, and something more—another
buzz like wine-sweetened adrenaline, sweet and heady and primal. There’s a man
I’ve always loved between my legs, the smell of the forest and his skin around
me, the wind in my face.

For a minute I can forget that he hates me, forget he’s a
murderer, and even forget the ten aching years that have passed since I was
happy. My eyes flicker shut, but then open with a jolt as the bike shifts
dramatically to the side.

We’re in the mountains, and the road we’re on has bent upon
itself in a sharp, sharp curve.

And Dominic isn’t slowing down.

“Dominic!” I squeal.
“Hold on,” he shouts, unnecessarily.

I thought I was gripping him tight before. Now I’m on him
like white on rice. The angle of the turn throws my body a little to the side,
and I feel Dominic’s weight shift between my legs. Holy shit. It gives me an
excuse to adjust my grip, bringing it lower towards his waist. My head fits
just against his shoulder.

It’s not like before, when he dragged me out of Vegas. Now
it feels like I am holding him, and he’s holding me. The speed and the whipping
wind heighten this odd feeling that our bodies are one, our skins merging, the
heat from the bike radiating between our legs and searing us together.

The curve eases up and Dominic shifts the bike upright, giving
us another burst of speed until another curve takes us. My arms tighten around
his waist, tighter. Then another curve, and another; the road is like a
sidewinder, each twist pulling our centers closer together and teaching me the
way Dominic’s body moves. The motorcycle is like an extension of him: fast,
furious, and fucking elegant.

The heat building between my legs isn’t just from the engine
combustion.

We loop to the top of the hill and back, flashes of forest
and rocky cliff zipping past our headlights like a movie montage. Before I know
it, we’ve wound back down the mountain and back to the lodge.

Dominic brings the bike to a squealing stop in the driveway,
spinning in a 180 and shooting gravel like bullets from the tires. By the time
we grind to a halt, I can see that we’re the first ones back.

He’s won!
            Dirty, the quiet guy who had been guarding me all night, lumbers up
and claps Dominic on the bag. “Nice riding Prez,” he rumbles with what is
probably his version of a smile. “Now I can switch back to beer. Thank god.”

Dirty holds up a mug for Dominic, clanking it on his helmet.
Dominic laughs and rips off his helmet, shaking his hair out and grabbing
Dirty’s mug. He takes a long swig as the other racers spill in, their faces
fresh and happy.

Stout is standing on the porch and fires another shot into
the sky, silencing the crowd for a hot second. “Let’s hear it for President Dominic
Thorne and the Sons of Lucifer, Night Ride champions! The rest of you assholes,
keep drinking!”

“He did have an unfair advantage,” yells someone, who I
recognize as Lance Bogart. “He had the prettiest pillion in the game. And the
only one with boobs.”

“What about me,” jokes the guy who was riding behind him,
clutching at his chest trying to make cleavage. “Aren’t I pretty?”

I rip off my helmet too, letting it drop to the ground as I
try to will my legs to stop buzzing with excitement. It’s a futile attempt.
Even though the engine has stopped, I can feel the rush of the crazy midnight
bike race through all my bones.

“Let’s see a kiss, champ!” Bogie shouts.

There are cheers and jeers. Dominic chuckles, steps off his
bike, and in one fluid motion yanks me off by my waist. His hands are huge and
rough and I can feel his calluses rub my skin through my blouse.

I stare up at him, suddenly frozen. “Dominic…”

The sensory overload pushes to overdrive when without
warning he obeys the crowd’s demand and his lips cover mine, not waiting for
permission. He’s an animal, ravaging me with his lips, capturing me with his
arms. So warm, so soft—I’m suddenly standing in that lake, ten years ago. The
crushing weight of time and heartbreak lifts, and our bodies quake to life
together. His lips are velvet soft, the stubble on his chin prickly with
danger. There’s suddenly no distance between us.

But it doesn’t last. Dominic’s body stiffens and his lips
retreat too soon, leaving me breathless, dazed, and confused. I stare at him in
consternation and fear, a single tear spilling down my cheek. He raises a hand
to my face and brushes it aside.

“See what I mean?” he murmurs. “Team-building exercise.”

“What?” I stutter. “Oh, the, yeah, the motorcycle thing.”
He smirks, his lips twisting like my insides. “Yeah. The motorcycle thing.”

What is happening? Can I just freeze this moment in amber,
please, and never have to think again?

Before my brain can process Dominic’s quip or his shocking
kiss, there’s another roar of an engine and the crowd parts to let a new rider
in to the driveway.

Someone shouts, “Straggler!”

Another, “Loser!” And there are a few sniggers, but Dominic’s
face has gone wooden and he walks quickly away from me, toward the newcomer.

“Grindhouse,” Dominic shouts. “What the hell are you doing
here? You’re supposed to be at the safe-house.”

The newcomer jumps off his bike, rips off his helmet and
sprints toward Dominic with urgency. “Prez, you’re not gonna like this. There
is no safe house. Not long after you left, we got a call from River to divert
the rescues from the Depraved Club somewhere else—somewhere safe. I said, what
the fuck do you mean safe, that’s why we have the safe house? Then River says,
you
had
a safe house. The safe house is gone. So I sent the van to the
clubhouse and went to investigate. It’s burned to the ground, Prez. The
safe-house is burned to the fucking ground. Somehow Colt found it and showed up
with a handful of thugs and Molotov cocktails.”