Breaking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs) (5 page)

But I didn’t see this. So it’s the one question I’m interested in asking. “What brought you here?”

“Club business,” he says and triumph flashes across his expression. I’m talking; that’s a victory to him. I’ll let him have it because it’s the only one he’ll get. “Which I would tell you about if you were wearing the Few’s colors.”

I’m not that interested. “Is Muncher here, too? Six-Point?”

Benjamin and Isiah. I don’t care about seeing them—I just want to know how many of my brothers I might be up against if they force the issue of bringing me home.

Strawman shakes his head. Her face flushed, the girl squirms on his knee, but she might as well be a dog at his feet for all the attention he’s paying her. “This is an opportunity I’m cultivating on my own.”

“Mama must like that.”

She likes her boys to take the initiative. But only when their purpose falls in line with her own.

“She’ll like it when the money starts rolling in. But what she’ll like most is if you come home.”

“Not happening.”

“It will,” he says as if it’s a foregone conclusion. Not angry, not frustrated. In his head, my return is inevitable, so my answer doesn’t upset him at all. “You want a piece of this?”

Of the girl riding his leg. “No.”

“Bullshit.” He laughs because it truly doesn’t cross his goddamn mind that I wouldn’t. So I can only be lying. “Hey, girlie. You want to suck my brother’s dick?”

Surprise flares across her face, cutting through her heavy-lidded arousal when she looks at me. If that question shocks her, she hasn’t been with my brother long. Probably not more than a few hours.

Then interest narrows her eyes as she gets a good look, and her tongue darts out to lick her full lips. “I think I’d like that.” Her gaze slips to Strawman before returning to me. “I’ve never been with brothers. Are you twins?”

Twins.
A hot blade slices through my chest. I had a twin. It wasn’t Strawman.

“No,” I tell her flatly. “Not twins. And you stay right there.”

“I guess he prefers to watch,” Strawman tells her, but although his mouth is smiling I know his thoughts went straight to David, too. His death still festers deep, a wound the entire family feels—and they feel it all the deeper because it was their goddamn fault. That pain darkens Strawman’s eyes now and his voice is somber as he says, “Adam’s getting out.”

Rage stiffens every muscle. “Bullshit.”

“It’s true.” It’s not rage I see on Strawman’s face. It’s satisfaction. “He goes up before a judge this week and the lawyer says there’s precedent for getting his conviction overturned. Turns out the lead batch evidence they used to match up his bullets is bad science. So when Adam comes home, he’ll be taking his place as president—and Mama wants
all
her boys to come home.”

“I’ve got a home.” One I don’t intend to leave. Everything I want is there.

He dismisses that response like it means nothing, but the sudden intensity of his shark’s gaze puts my back up. He smells blood in the water.

“You got a girl, too?”

Brittle ice scrapes up my spine. I don’t show the fear that question brings—I don’t show a fucking thing.

And I don’t think about Anna. She’s not mine.

“No.”

“No?” A lazy smile curls his mouth. The girl on his knee gasps in pain, her brows knitting, her body going still. His hand under her top isn’t moving—pinching her flesh or her nipple. She’ll be bruised tomorrow. He likes to leave a mark. But she’s not protesting or trying to get away, so I’m not going to stop him. “Because you know Mama worries. So sometimes she sends the boys to check up on you.”

The boys. Members of the Notorious Few who come from outside the family—the ones I wouldn’t recognize.

“I know she does.” I usually don’t know when or who, but it is not surprising news.

“Well, it seems there’s one girl in particular you pay attention to. And spend a significant amount of time with her at work, at her house.”

I play so fucking dumb that my brain might as well have crawled up my ass. But it’s not all acting. I
am
stupid. So goddamn stupid for ever taking any kind of risk with Anna. For watching her. For not fucking every girl in sight, just to throw my family off the scent. Hell, stupid for befriending Stone and for joining the Riders. I should have kept running.

But that’s all just bullshit now. All that matters is keeping Strawman from believing Anna means anything to me.

Frowning as if I’m confused, I ask, “Whose house am I supposedly visiting?”

“A pretty little bartender’s.”

In an instant, my rage and fear go from hot to cold. So cold. I think about snapping his neck. It’d be easy. His hands are trapped under the girl’s shirt, his leverage gone thanks to her weight on his knee. He couldn’t even ward me off.

And if I was in prison for killing him, I sure as hell wouldn’t be going home and granting Mama’s wish.

But that’d only protect me, not Anna. Because my family might guess exactly what set me off. And I could get a warning to Stone, ask him to take them all out before they come for her, but there’s a more efficient way to make Strawman believe Anna’s nothing to me.

So I let my confusion ease into a smile. “You talking about Stone Wall’s sister? No.” I shake my head, chuckling. “She’s just around. They share a house, and the Wolf Den where she works is the prez’s bar.”

“Word is, she’s a looker.”

“Cute as hell,” I agree because no one would think anything different. “But she’s damaged.”

His eyes narrow. “Damaged how?”

I raise my fingers as I count off the reasons. “One—she had cancer. And she carries that disease in her blood. Two—the treatment left her barren. She’s never giving birth to any kids. Three—she was adopted. Doesn’t have a fucking clue who her parents are. Her mom could be a Mexican crack whore for all she knows.”

All those reasons don’t mean anything to me. But to Strawman, they’re everything. And he’s not good at imagining other people thinking differently from him. Especially if those people are his kin.

Slowly he nods. “You ain’t lying?”

“No.”

Because if he checks on those statements—and he will—a lie would fuck everything up. The only lie is pretending I give a shit about any of it.

“Good thing.” His hand slides under the girl’s skirt. “Mama’s got a woman picked out for you. Real pure. And still a virgin, at least in the ways that count.”

“Just what I asked for from Santa,” I say dryly, then glance pointedly at the girl’s lap, where his fingers between her legs are working her up. “How’s your wife?”

He grins. “Real good. About to have our fourth kid. Doc says another son.”

“Only four?” Not the way he fucks around.

“I always wrap up my dick with pussy from off the farm.” He nuzzles the girl’s brown hair before spearing another look at me. “You really got snipped? Mama says she’s sure you faked that report with your sperm count.”

Of course she did. It’s beyond her to think any Cooper might willingly sacrifice his legacy and future children. “I didn’t fake it.”

“I don’t believe it, man.” Laughing, he shakes his head—but his reason for doubting is different than my mother’s. He can’t imagine any man voluntarily undergoing the operation, because he never would. “But it doesn’t matter. Mama made sure those conjugal visits between Adam and his wife bore fruit. Benjamin and I took care of that; we can do the same for your woman.”

Just stand back and watch my brothers breed my wife. Jesus. Sometimes I think my family can’t sink any lower, then they surprise me by digging the hole deeper.

And I’m done here. I finish my beer, get to my feet.

I stop short when he reaches for my arm, his fingers wet with the girl’s pussy juices. Quickly he grins again, pulls his hands back in a placating gesture.

“Just a heads-up,” he says and I pay attention, because his amusement’s gone—and no matter how fucked up our family is, maybe because of
how
fucked up our family is, he’ll look out for me. A heads-up means there’s a threat lurking. “These fuckers I’m doing business with, they told me you were up in the ring today. You won your fight?”

“Yeah.”

“You ought to stop doing that. Winning, I mean.”

The back of my neck tightens. “Why?”

“You’ll need to wear a different kutte before I tell you that.” His smile is hard. “You come home and maybe we’ll talk.”

Fuck that. “Who you doing business with?”

“Blind fuckers, that’s who.” Now his amusement’s back. “But I guess I’ve got to thank them for that. They mistook you for me a little while ago and tipped me off to where you were.”

“Who?”

He shakes his head. “Come home.”

That’s not a price I’m willing to pay. And I’m giving him too much by pressing for the club’s name. It’s never smart to let the family know you want something.

I’m pretty damn sure I already know which club it is, anyway. All at once, my memory of the scene on the street with the Iron Blood starts playing another way. Paladin doesn’t watch us because he wants to fuck with Stone after losing to him in the ring. No, he’s looking at me, thinking I’m Strawman. And Chef doesn’t pull Paladin back because he’s smart enough not to start a fight. Instead the enforcer recognizes that I’m not wearing the right kutte.

Shit. It could be nothing.

But it doesn’t feel like nothing.

Still, I’m not giving Strawman any more of my time. Stepping around him, I head for the bar.

His farewell follows me. “See you soon, little brother.”

Not if I can help it.

My brain’s working over the heads-up again as I close out the tab. Old Timer’s going to have our ass when we turn in the expense report, but if my gut response to this info about the Iron Blood pans out, it’ll be the first new lead we’ve had in connection to the Cage. Well worth the cash we spent.

The motel lies a short hike up the main drag. Inside the room, the featured amenities are a shag carpet and a sagging mattress. I’ve slept in worse. And a short time ago, I wanted nothing more than to get my ass into bed, but my adrenaline’s still coursing after meeting with Strawman. My body’s not ready to settle, though the crash will come soon enough.

I don’t want to sleep with his filth on me, anyway. I’ve done some questionable shit in my time—hell, I even
crawled
through shit during a few combat operations—but nothing leaves me feeling dirtier than crossing paths with the family. Not because they rub off on me but because I remember how I used to be exactly the same. And how some part of me still is.

That filth doesn’t wash off, but I’ve spent seventeen years trying.

In the bathroom, the ancient pipes shriek and groan when I turn on the shower. Waiting for the water to heat, I grab my phone with the intention of texting Stone.

Anna’s face pops up after the security screen. The photo Stone sent me earlier.

My chest tightens. Jesus. What if I’d pulled this out while my brother was looking? Nothing I said about Anna would have made a goddamn difference if her selfie was right there in my hand.

So fucking careless. I always delete every photo Stone sends right after I get it. I look, I memorize, I erase. No matter how much I want to keep every single one. But I didn’t erase this.

What was I thinking? I
wasn’t
thinking.

Or maybe I was thinking that if I could take her out just once, if I could have one kiss, maybe I’d get to keep this photo, too.

But I won’t get any of those. Not with my family watching. Not with them already focused on her.

Fucking hell.

My throat’s a solid ache as I step into the shower and stand under the hot stream, head bowed, fists braced against the plastic tile. Eyes closed, I hold that image of Anna in my mind, slowly letting all the other shit go. I see her brown eyes, striated with gold and sparkling with irritation, her hair spread out on that big red rug.

A few months ago, she brought that rug home from an estate sale by tying it to the top of her Prius like a canoe, then she recruited Stone and me to carry it into the house for her. She’s never afraid to commandeer the use of our muscle in her renovation project. Over the years, we’ve hung drywall, wrestled solid oak furniture up the stairs, installed kitchen cabinets, and held steady a dozen big picture frames while she leveled them off. Each time she thanked us with a beer or a meal—or both, depending on how hard the job was and how much time it took.

Each time I imagined her thanking me a different way.

And it’s so easy to slip into that now, fisting my stiffening cock in a soap-slicked hand. Holding her image in my head, watching her eyes go from irritated to soft. Watching her bite her lower lip, like she does when she’s got something to say but isn’t sure if she should say it. Watching my fingers slide into her thick hair, feeling the rough texture of that rug against my knuckles, then claiming her mouth, because she doesn’t need to say anything. She sure as hell never needs to say ‘thank you’ to me.

But I’d take it. Because I’d take anything she gave.

I’d take her soft, breathy moans and the heat of her mouth. I’d take the grip of her hand stroking my thick cock, her palm softer than mine, her fingers teasing—not jerking on my shaft in the same rough pulls that I’m doing, savagely fucking into my fist, imagining her smiling up at me, knowing exactly how she’s driving me crazy, and looking as if she’s never needed anything more than she needs me.

Looking at me as if I’m everything.

And—
Fuck.

The orgasm rips the image away, rips everything away. Abs clenching like I’ve been punched, I curl over, my left hand slapping the tile as I come hard enough to see spots behind my eyes, my cock jerking in my fist.

For a long minute, I stand under the cooling water, my chest heaving. Jesus. I didn’t even get to the part where I’m buried deep inside her pussy. All because I imagined her looking at me as if she loved me.

With unsteady fingers, I angle the shower head down and rinse the cum away. The hell of it all is, as much as I want her to look at me like that, this is better. This torture—of wanting her, of knowing I’m just her brother’s friend, of staying away from her—is better than the alternative. Because if she loved me? If she was hurting like this, dreaming of a single touch she knew she’d never have, praying for a single loving look from me? I don’t know what the fuck I’d do.