Burning It All (2 page)

“You don’t have a fucking name? A contact?”

“Croc used to talk to someone called Red Eye. I assume Sherlock’s talking to the same. And now you know what I do.”

Bullshit. “No, I don’t.”

He watches me, his posture loose, his expression giving nothing away. But I know he’s waiting. Creek didn’t come here just to give info. He wants an exchange.

Fair enough. “You tell me what you have. I’ll reach out to other clubs, see what they’ve heard.”

“But you don’t act on that info until you’ve shared it with me.”

Fuck that. “Then you best make sure Sherlock doesn’t touch Lily, because if anyone comes after her, I will fucking
act
.”

Creek nods. Probably he already knew that. It just needed to be laid out clearly between us. “These guys are ghosts online,” he says. “The geeks have been tracing them back to Malaysia, Colombia, Austria—the digital trail goes cold every single damn time. But we think they’re centered in-country and we know they’ve got people on the ground. People like Red Eye.”

Because money is good whether it’s transferred by hand or by a computer. But when taking on a new job, MCs will want a face-to-face.

Someone like Red Eye probably doesn’t have a lot of power in the cartel. He would just be a messenger, a face to make the deals. But he’d know more about the organization behind him than the MCs do. “Why aren’t you finding them?”

“They’re smart. And they keep shifting shit around. We’ll escort cargo and one time we’ll hand it off to the Eighty-Eight. Next time, it’ll be to the Desert Kings. Next time, someone else. Then they’ll hand it off to another club. Never the same order. And tracing the route—backward and forward—is like untangling a fucking five-thousand-mile wad of fishing line.”

“But the girls end up in a shithole somewhere.”

“A distribution point. The end of the pipeline. That’s what I’m looking for. That or the cage.”

“What cage?” If they’re moving a lot of girls, there sure as hell won’t be just one.

He shakes his head. “
The
Cage. It’s the one real connection I’ve been able to bring in. Cage fights.”

“There’s a lot of cage fights.”

“To the death,” he says. “Broadcast online. A ticket to watch starts at a million. But they make the real money on the gambling. They pick up the muscle on the underground circuit, basically put a gun to their head, tell them to fight.”

Now that rings a fucking bell. A lot of clubs set up a ring during bike rallies. The fights are mostly friendly, just pounding chests and blowing off steam. But I’ve heard shit. That some of the patchholders who win in the ring disappear not long after. Most people put it down to some asshole sore loser from another club getting revenge—I know of a few wars between MCs that started because of that belief—or they assume the fighter took his prize money and rode off into the sunset. Bikers aren’t exactly known for sticking around.

But running muscle isn’t the same as running girls. “What was the connection?”

“When we were still part of the Vegas chapter, we got to watch one of the fights as a reward for the work we’d done. Or maybe it was a warning.” His jaw tightens. “The prez of a club who’d pissed off Red Eye was in the cage. The prez lost.”

I nod, thinking it over. The kind of questions I’ll need to ask my contacts can’t be asked over the phone. I’ll need a face to face. But I’m not leaving Lily here alone, and she’s not up to traveling yet. Especially not if we end up in unfriendly territory. “I’ll get more info. But it’ll take time.”

He blows out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I’ve got six years in. A little more time doesn’t matter. It’s best you stick around the next week or two, anyway.”

The back of my neck tenses. “Why’s that?”

“We’ve got cargo coming. Maybe live cargo, maybe not. No firm schedule yet, and we don’t know yet which club is bringing it in, because they keep that info to themselves until they’re right on us.”

Making sure word doesn’t leak out. “And you think Lily might be added to whatever’s coming.”

His chin dips in a slow nod. “It’d be the time to do it. Sherlock knows better than to try holding her for long. Not with the Riders so close.”

Close or far, taking Lily is a real fucking bad idea. But I see Creek’s got more to say, so I wait.

“We could bring her in on this,” he tells me. “She’s tough as hell. She can hold her own while she’s in. And we could find out where the pipeline goes.”

Let Lily be taken, so that we can track her route? Then head in, guns blazing, rescuing her and the other girls, while getting our hands on the person responsible for distributing the women and collecting payments.

Yeah. Good fucking plan. Except that’s never how it happens. What really happens is that they shoot Lily up with heroin or some shit, get her hooked, rape her and sell her. And even if we try to track her, that shit goes wrong too easily, too. Maybe the tracker gets found and we find it in her body later. Or they cut it out. Or we lose the fucking trail and she’s gone.

I don’t say a goddamn word but Creek’s already backing off, holding up his hands, his gaze wary.

“Just throwing it out there,” he says. “We’ve tried to get women inside before. Good agents. We just can’t fucking…” His voice roughens and he stops, shakes his head. “These fuckers are always ahead of us.”

So he thinks there’s a leak in the FBI—and by putting in someone like Lily, someone unconnected, it might put his investigation ahead for once.

Good thinking. It’s still not fucking happening. A plan like that, there’s only one way it can go right, and a thousand ways it can go wrong. Those aren’t good odds. Creek knows it, too. If he didn’t, he’d have already taken this to Lily. He’s only tossing it at me so I can tell him what he already knows: he needs a better plan. “You just make sure I get a heads-up when the time comes.”

“I’ll do what I can.” With that, business is done. Preparing to leave, he dips his paddle into the water, then pauses. “I helped torch your place.”

Because I crossed the Hangmen’s prez, so he had his men burn down my auto shop, along with my apartment above it. “I guess you owe me one.”

His gaze stays on my face for another second. Then he nods and glides off, leaving me alone with a cold coffee and my fishing pole.

He doesn’t owe me shit. I already knew he helped burn my place. And it didn’t matter.

But I wouldn’t tell him that. Being owed a favor is worth more to me than my garage or apartment were. They were just places to work, to sleep. A business. It didn’t mean more than that, and insurance will cover the cost of building it again.

Some of the Riders would have taken it personally if the Hangmen had burned their place down. Hell, the brothers took it personally when
my
place burned down. But I can’t feel anything like that, and I don’t have many attachments to people or to things.

Just to the Riders. Just to Lily.

Emotionally, mentally, I’m fucked up. I know it, Lily knows it. Not all of my switches are flipped in the right direction and I don’t feel some of the shit that other people feel. I know hurt well enough. My own family dealt out some deep fucking hurt, and I wear it tattooed on my skin. But I kill easy and the blood washes off without staining. No guilt, no remorse.

I’ve got lines I don’t cross, though. A code. I don’t touch anyone who’s not a danger to the club. And I always go straight for the asshole who’s causing the problem. No bullshit like threatening their wives or their kids or their homes.

For Lily? There’s not a single line I won’t cross. And there’s no ache in my chest when I think of crossing them. Only when I think of losing her.

So all these fuckers better be real careful, making sure they don’t push me over that line. Because even I don’t know exactly what I’m capable of. But I do know these bastards don’t ever want to find out.

Lily

As soon as I hobble through the doors of the Riders’ clubhouse, I realize that coming tonight was a huge fucking mistake.

Most of the brothers are here—and less than a week ago, they all watched as I beat the shit out of Croc. They all saw the damage he did in return.

Last week, those injuries were battle wounds. They were proof that I was a fucking machine. Unstoppable. Broken ribs? No big deal because I kept breathing, kept swinging. Croc stomps on my leg and snaps my ankle? Doesn’t matter, I turn it around and take him down. My fingers swollen and the bones cracked? Shit, that’s just what happens when you pound a motherfucker’s head in. My lips busted and bleeding? Gives me more to spit in his face.

But I see the way the brothers near the door are looking at me now. I see the grimaces, hear some sharp breaths sucked in between teeth. Because the fight’s over. They’re not seeing
Lily Burns, Asskicker
now. They’re seeing
Lily Burns, On Crutches
.

Five goddamn years, making sure they can never call me weak. Five goddamn years, proving that I can hold my own in this club. Last week, I finally cemented my place as a Rider, finally belonged.

Now I’m afraid I’ve ruined it all…and all because I was so damn tired of lying on my couch.

I shouldn’t have come. But if I’ve fucked it up, it’s too late now. And it’s not like I can take off. With a cast on my ankle and splints on four of my fingers, I couldn’t ride my bike here. Fuck, I couldn’t even
drive
myself here. Instead Jack had to leave his bike behind and chauffeur my ass out to the ranch in my dad’s old pickup.

Until this second, I hadn’t thought twice about him driving me here. Hell, I enjoyed it. A few months ago, I’d have said nothing compares to a sweet ride on sweeter bike. But every minute I spend with Jack is just as good.

No. Every minute with him is
better
.

Except this minute. He’s holding the door open for me but I can’t even make myself look up at him. Not while I’m wishing I could turn tail.

The woman who fought for her place in this club never ran away. The woman Jack hooked up with doesn’t back down. At this moment, there’s nothing in me worth calling a Rider—and nothing that Jack would want to call his, either.

Christ. Right now I’m not
anything
he’d want to call his. I can’t ride. I can’t fuck. Croc clocked me in the jaw so hard I can’t even open my mouth wide enough yet to suck Jack’s dick. He pulled me off him when I tried to yesterday, after my split lip started bleeding again. Maybe he’s wishing he could pull away completely, because this sure as hell isn’t what he signed up for.

His voice low, Jack says, “You about to run scared?”

What the
fuck
? Does he think I’m a coward now?

Sharp pain shoots into rage. Instantly I want to fight. But when I snap my gaze up to his, his eyes aren’t flat and empty. They’re warm and teasing.

Because running scared is what I did before I told him I loved him. Somehow he saw the same thing happening now. Maybe recognized it.

Maybe he knows it’s because this club means so much, because
he
means so much—and I’m so fucking afraid of losing either of them.

Warm and strong, his big palm settles against my lower back. “Trust us, Lily.”

Not just him.
Us.
All the brothers.

It’s hard. So fucking hard to trust that some of them won’t use this weakness to tear me down. Or that seeing me like this won’t change how they always look at me. I preferred the way they looked at me last week, when I was still bleeding.

But I’m not going to run, goddammit.

I’m just going to hobble through the door with my head up and not a bit of pain showing on my face. I can’t hide everything, but the bruise on my jaw is mostly gone, my lips no longer swollen. My ribs are covered by the thin hoodie and kutte I’m wearing; they don’t need to know about the mess going on underneath.

My spine goes rigid and my hobbling gait falters when I see Saxon Gray heading toward me, a bottle of beer in hand. Our prez is a mean son of a bitch, but he’s had my back this week, making sure being laid up isn’t putting my job at the airfield in jeopardy and telling me to send my medical bills to the club’s treasurer. He’s always had my back in one way or another. But his reaction now will set the tone for every other brother. If he treats me like I’m fragile, I’ll probably just break.

He stops in front of me, and my heart pounds when he slowly looks me up and down, eyeing me over the bottle as he takes a swig of his beer. He’s starting to get that pissed-off look in his eyes; I know it well. This isn’t the first time he’s aimed it at me.

Then he turns his head and the cold steel of his gaze rakes over the brothers. “There’s about fifty bastards who ought to be scrambling to be the first to put a drink in your hand. But it’s still fucking empty.”

“We thought you’d want to be first, boss!” Stone calls out.

“So I do.” The prez points to a prospect, snaps his fingers, then meets my eyes again. “What’ll it be, Zoomie? Bottlecap will bring it to you.”

“Whiskey.” My throat’s so tight, I can barely even get it out. “It’ll pair nicely with the Vicodin.”

The prez grins. “Enjoy that shit while it lasts,” he says before his expression becomes serious again. “You’ll never pay for another drink at the Den.”

The Wolf Den. He owns that bar, which serves as the Riders’ primary hangout outside of the clubhouse—and it was part of the territory on the line when I went up against Croc.

“Thank you, boss,” I say, still choked up. Beside me, Jack is suddenly laughing. Probably because he knows Saxon is going to regret that offer when he tallies up how much I drink.

Then again, maybe the prez has already prepared himself for the number. There’s a slight smile playing around his mouth when he glances at Jack. “You got time, Blowback?”

The prez never asks. He just orders. But he’s not deferring to Jack tonight. He’s deferring to me, just in case I need Jack at my side.

I don’t. I’d love to keep him there, but club business comes first. Jack didn’t say much about his meeting with Creek. He just told me what we already knew—that the Hangmen will come after my ass, which means constantly watching my back. Not here at the clubhouse, though. Here, my back is covered.

“Go on,” I tell him. “I’m going to park my ass by the pool table and pretend I’m wearing a crown.”

“Bottlecap’s yours,” the boss says. “Not just tonight, not just for fetching drinks. You need anything while you’re healing up, he gets it for you.”

So I’ve got a flunky at my beck and call for the next few weeks. This night is already turning out a hell of a lot better than I expected.

Making my way over to the pool table is slow as hell. Not because of the crutches, but because the brothers are stopping me every few seconds to bump fists—or in my case, the back of my left hand—and to congratulate me for kicking Croc’s ass. Bottlecap shadows me all the way, carrying my drink. Good kid. Quiet but steady, and slowly finding his place among the Riders.

Tonight that place is by me, and with the assholes I’d call my brothers even if we didn’t wear the same colors: Stone, Gunner, Picasso, and Spiral. Each one more of a dick than the next, but I wouldn’t trade them in.

Gunner leans on his pool cue as he looks me over. His gaze lingers up top. “So you went for the buzzcut, huh?”

I didn’t have much choice. Before the fight, I hacked away my braid with Jack’s switchblade, then went after anything long enough for Croc to get his hands on, cutting some areas down to the scalp. Now my pale hair is about as long as peach fuzz, but I think it looks pretty badass. And as soon as it grows out a bit? I’ve worn my hair short before. It’s sexy as all hell.

“Still prettier than you,” I tell him and he grins, instantly making me a liar. The bastard is so damn pretty it hurts.

Shit. The truth is, everything hurts me right now, not just his pretty face. That short trek across the clubhouse felt like ten goddamn miles. When Bottlecap pulls a wide leather club chair up to the nearest table, I’m glad to finally take a breather.

Sipping my whiskey, I sink deep into the chair and set my crutches aside. Coming out here tonight
is
just what I needed. This old clubhouse used to be a lodge on a dude ranch, and although it hasn’t been the Riders’ home very long, this is right where I belong. Some shit loud music is pumping through the ancient sound system. It’s Saturday in October, so all the widescreens are playing clips from today’s college games, and half the clubhouse looks like a sports bar—but I suppose you don’t see a lot of girls sucking dick in a sports bar. Beaver’s sitting on one of the couches, eyes glued to the Oregon State highlights, hand resting on the blond head bobbing up and down on his lap. I haven’t bothered to turn around since sitting down, but I can hear someone else jackhammering into pussy behind me, the heavy grunts and slap of flesh. Spiral’s got his arm around a new woman, watching in turns the pool game and the fucking. It probably won’t be long before he’s got her bent over the table.

And, Jesus. Whoever it is behind me has got some stamina. They’re still going at it as I finish my whiskey, and I’m halfway through my second, feeling warm and loose when Jack and the prez emerge from the boss’s office. The prez is wearing a frown that says he didn’t like whatever Jack had to tell him, and Jack…he’s just wearing his standard
Don’t fuck with me
face.

Holy shit, he is one goddamn sexy bastard. Built like a motherfucking eighteen-wheeler, long and tough and so deliciously rough, he’s just one deadly, fucked-up combination of muscle and brains and hard, thick cock. In a club full of badass motherfuckers, he’s the baddest. Most of the brothers will go out of their way to avoid him, as if they think Jack might casually reach out and kill them if they get too close. Not me. I know exactly who he is. And he’s all mine, from his big neck-snapping hands to his dark eyes, all the way down to his shit-kicking feet.

Those dark eyes meet mine from across the clubhouse. He tilts his head, as if asking how I’m doing. I tip my glass in his direction. Doing just fine, baby.

A smile touches his firm mouth, then Jack heads to the bar with the prez, giving me a sweet view of a perfect ass encased by black jeans. Christ Almighty, I could just bite that ass. I
have
bitten it. Just sank my teeth into taut muscle—and the next second he flipped me onto my back, slammed his cock deep, then rode me hard.

I want another hard ride. My pussy’s a hot, wet ache. Squeezing my thighs together doesn’t help. Watching Jack makes it better and worse, all at once. Drink in hand, he leans against the bar, catches my gaze.

Oh, fuck yes. It’s not just me. I don’t even have to look at his crotch to see if he’s hard. His face tells me. There’s sex all around us, and I know what he’s thinking of. Riding between my legs. Or imagining my lips wrapped around his dick.

I’ll get to it as soon as I can. Because God knows I love the way he goes utterly still when I’m sucking his cock into my throat, his entire body tight as a tripwire. Hit it just right and he fucking explodes.

My smile’s a tease. I know it. Maybe even a little cruel. But he loves that, too.

Then a pretty pair of tits blocks my view of Jack and a light weight lands in my lap. Oh, shit. My fucking ribs. Sasha barely weighs anything but the painful jolt of a near-naked body against mine bursts into white stars behind my eyes. I suck in a breath that just makes everything hurt more, and my smile becomes a gritting of teeth.

“Hey, Zoomie,” she says, her fingers slipping over my peach-fuzz hair.

I want to shove her off my lap but I hold it together. She doesn’t know my ribs are fucked and she doesn’t deserve that kind of shit. We’ve had fun together. I’ve taken her to bed once or twice—though I was so drunk the second time, I’m not sure if we actually made it to the bed. I just remember a friend finding her panties the next morning, stuffed down behind the front seat of the pickup truck I was borrowing. “Hey, Sasha.”

Her thumb slides across my bottom lip, gently running over the still-healing split near the corner. “I hear you’re the hero of the day. And that you might be missing a softer touch…and something a little tastier than whiskey.”

Ah. So one of the brothers sent her over. Maybe even thinking they were doing me a favor. Everyone knows I love pussy just as much as I love dick…and they all like the idea of me eating pussy more than they like to picture me sucking dick.

But although Sasha has a sweet pussy and a sweeter laugh, I love Jack a hell of a lot more than anything between her legs or in her head.

I brush her hand away from my face. “You know I’m with Blowback, right?”

“Yeah, I heard.” Her smile’s a little sad at first. Maybe because some of the partners she’s had don’t think that being with someone means being faithful. Attached or not, a lot of the brothers will fuck anything that opens their legs. Then she grins and pulls back, lifting up onto the table in front of me and setting her feet on the arms of my chair, giving me a look at the strip of red lace covering her cunt. She’s already wet. No surprise. She’s always liked performing—though before now, it’s always been with the brothers. “But you can’t tell me you aren’t missing this, or that you don’t deserve a little reward.”

Her fingers dip into her panties and begin stroking her clit. That’s hot as hell and bumps my simmering arousal up to burning, no lie. But I’ve got zero interest in joining in. Looking will do just fine.

But of course the brothers can’t keep their fucking mouths shut. “Lick it!”

It takes one drunken shout and some others join in, chanting
Lick it
over and over, like they’re all assholes in a fucking college fraternity. Goddammit. This is the kind of shit I always want to avoid. Not licking pussy—I’ve done that more than a few times where they can see me—but these stupid scenarios where backing down takes something away from me. Where backing down tears apart all the hard work I’ve put in.