VENDETTA: A Bad Boy, Motorcycle Club Romance (24 page)

Chapter Two

Jack was already having a shitty night when he spotted the massacre at the Easy Bake. The daughter of a man who pushed heroin for the club had reported a break in at the shop her family owned, and Ace had sent him to check it out.

“It was three men,” Becca said. “I didn’t really get a good look at them.”

“They weren’t violent?”

“I carried Daddy’s shotgun down the steps with me.”

“Why did they target you?” Jack wondered aloud. The shop sold food and wasn’t particularly large or profitable. It was a front for the drugs the family sold and a way to justify the money they made. Now that things were changing for the Storm Runners, it was time to cut ties with Minute Mart, but Jack wouldn’t let them fend for themselves in downtown Detroit. He’d known Becca since they were both kids and her family raised her right, keeping her out of the worst of the drug shit.

She’d looked at the ground then, not willing to meet his eyes. “Dad had a visit recently from a man who wanted money for protection.”

“What? Why didn’t you call the club?” Jack placed a hand on her arm. “You’re our friends. We’re still going to look out for you.”

“He didn’t think it was a good idea. Now that Max is gone…” She trailed off, still not looking at him. “I guess he thought it would be better to consider our options. I’m sorry.”

Jack nodded. The same shit was going on in his head. Since Max, the founder of the Storm Runners, was killed, nothing made sense. He told Becca to call if anything came up and left without another word.

It was cold for a summer night in Detroit and the streets were empty. He drove slowly through downtown, taking his time. He was really just stalling, Jack admitted to himself. He didn’t want to tell Ace, the new president of the Storm Runners Motorcycle Club, what had happened, what Becca had said. Everything was a clusterfuck and he just didn’t feel like dealing with it.

He thought about stopping at a greasy spoon diner for coffee and maybe taking a second look at the waitress who’d served him and cleaned up a wound he’d gotten in a fight a few months before, then rejected the idea. They were probably closed anyway. Besides, driving slow was one thing, but actively stopping was a completely different beast. Ace was having enough problems getting the club under control. He didn’t need Jack creating more. Max would have expected more from his adopted son and Sergeant-at-Arms.

He thought about the waitress, a cupcake of a woman with wavy blonde hair, perky tits and bright blue fuck-me eyes. The week after Max and half the club was slaughtered, Jack had gotten into a knife fight with a low-level dealer downtown. The fucker was holding back information and tried to slice out Jack’s heart when he didn’t like the questions he was being asked. Jack pulled his hunting knife from his boot and dug it into the man’s jugular—quietly thanking the Marine Corps for the training while the man died without time to retaliate—but his arm was bleeding like a stuck pig.

He’d been close enough and the Easy Bake had been open, so he’d gone in to use the bathroom. Instead of screaming and calling the cops, the cupcake had sighed, pushed back his sleeve and gone to get a medical kit.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened,” she’d said, swabbing the cut with something that burned like fire. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Best you don’t,” he’d said.

“I am going to recommend you get this to the hospital.” She used some kind of bandaged to hold the wound together. “An infection here could get nasty.” Jack watched her from the corner of his eye, saw the blood staining her hands. His blood. She knelt down to grab something else from the kit and he was struck by just how pretty she was. Nothing like the women who hung around the club. Fresh, clean. Too pure for the likes of him.

Half-formed plans to get her on the back of his bike evaporated. The woman gave him a cup of coffee—on the house—and chatted with him about movies while he gained his equilibrium. No sense in taking off early and crashing, he’d reasoned, staying for an hour more than he needed to just so the pretty waitress with the bubblegum lips could lean on the counter and make small talk with him.

The lights at the Easy Bake were still on, even though it was late. As he approached, he saw Axel, Axel’s enforcer Dominic, and a wiry man he recognized as Alvaro, Axel’s younger brother, enter the building. He sighed and prepared to give them a wide berth. Axel was a piece of shit who hurt women for fun. When the Storm Runners found out what he did behind closed doors, they’d kicked his slick ass out of the club with a warning about what would happen if he ever laid his hands on another woman hard enough to leave bruises. Axel hadn’t ever been patched, but they’d all been embarrassed that a piece of shit like that even made prospect.

Then Axel had gone into Detroit and gotten a gang together. Though the Storm Runners and Axel’s gang had an uneasy peace between them, Jack knew the scum had never gotten over the indignity of being ejected from the club. He may have smiled when they did business together, but he did it with his teeth bared behind his lips.

His gang was well placed to help move heroin and guns in the city, but Jack couldn’t fucking stand being around them. Seeing them would be even worse now that Ace had decided to clean up the operation. Jack didn’t feel like getting his hands dirty if they were pissed about the lost income and decided to turn it into a fight. Especially not when it was three-on-one and the cupcake waitress might get caught in the crossfire.

They entered without seeing him and he pulled over, cutting off his engine and pulling out his mobile. He messaged Ace: Axel +2 downtown. Easy Bake. Jack swiped his finger over the screen and dragged up his email, read through a few offers on aftermarket parts and then opened the response from Ace: Don’t engage. Took it well, but not worth the risk. Come home.

He flipped the switch on his Harley to engage the engine, then took one last look at the Easy Bake. He was just in time to see Axel’s bulky enforcer blow the head off of a man in a cook’s apron.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dialing the police on his phone and reporting the incident. He hadn’t seen the woman who’d helped him in the restaurant, hoped she was off and not a corpse. Jack hung up the phone after making the report and prepared to leave. Before he could move, Dominic pushed through a pair of swinging doors with the woman held tight in his grip. She struggled against him, but it was like watching a kitten try to fight off a rabid dog.

“Fuck,” he said again. Going in to the restaurant was a good way to die, and he wasn’t ready to die today. But the men didn’t shoot her right away, seemed like they were toying with her. He had a chance to save her. He didn’t want to see her die.

He cursed again and turned on the bike, steering it into the alley behind the Easy Bake. The solid weight of the knife in his boot and the gun in his coat were little comfort when faced with three men who were just as heavily armed. He grabbed a stun grenade from the leather bag that hung over the back of the Harley.

After he’d come back from overseas, he’d taken to stocking his bags with shit that probably wasn’t legal—but it had been necessary more than once.

The metal door at the back of the restaurant was cracked open and swung outward silently when he pushed it. Scents of smoke and greasy food combined to make the kitchen almost unbearable, and Jack barely caught the cough before it erupted from his lips.

Axel, Dominic and Alvaro had their backs to him. The two older men were moving the body of a woman across the floor. Alvaro was holding the blond woman, who struggled against him until he backhanded her and she sagged in his arms. She was still conscious though, which was one bright spot in an otherwise dark train wreck of a situation.

Jack waited, peering through the portal window until Axel and Dominic were behind the counter, separated from Alvaro and the woman. He pulled the pin on the flash grenade, said a silent prayer, and tossed it through the door to land in the middle of the three men and the waitress.

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STRIKE

Chapter 1

“
A
re you ready to go on?”

Grace turned and stared at Kiki, who’d already done a reach-around to grab Grace’s lipstick off the shaky vanity in front of her. Screwing up the cheap red wax, she pursed her lips and applied a generous layer before pressing them together and throwing it back down. It rolled right off the edge and disappeared into the dark beneath.

“Sorry,” she said, shrugging. The motion made the beads on her dress clack together and Grace thought about reaching out and wiping the lipstick right off her pursed mouth. Instead she sat back in her seat and took a deep breath.

“I’m ready,” Grace said, reminding herself to replace the lipstick. There was no way she was going to share anything that went on her mouth with someone she loathed as much as Kiki. It was the third lipstick lost this month.

“Good, because Mandi didn’t show up, and Peter wants you out on the stage as soon as Chrissie is done.”

“What?” There was nothing she wanted less than going out before it was her turn. Putting up the barriers that allowed her to strut onto the stage and grin at the crowd took time, and she hadn’t slept well last night as it was.

Even after months of working at the Ladies Night, Grace wasn’t used to performing in front of the half-drunk crowd. The yells, lascivious taunts and gropes were half the reason she got to work early, giving herself a chance to prepare internally while she teased her wig and painted her face before walking out into the smoke and lights.

“Mandi. Didn’t. Show. Up.” Kiki enunciated each word like Grace was an idiot, her red lips pursed and begging for a fist in the face—but that was standard. Ever since one of Kiki’s favorite clients had gravitated toward Grace, Kiki had morphed from a power hungry annoyance to a power hungry bitch.

It wasn’t unexpected, though. Territory was everything, and it was a lesson Grace took just a second too long to figure out. Not that she could have avoided the men anyway—not when they were the whole reason she walked into the cheap dive every night and poured herself into too-tight outfits that were made to be taken off with a single pull.

“Where is she?”

“Like I know? She was supposed to be here to relieve Chrissie, and Chris stayed all through the beginning of tonight to cover that moron. She missed a date. Mandi is probably in bed with that weather guy and can’t be fucked to get up and get her ass in here—or even call in. Who gives a fuck? Just get your shoes on and get ready to go out.”

Kiki fancied herself the second-in-command of Ladies Night, though she had no more power than any of the other dancers. Grace raised her eyebrows, then rolled her eyes. It wasn’t worth the fight.

“I’m going,” Grace said, pulling out her phone while she slid her feet into the super high pink heels she had to wear on the stage. Dialing Mandi and holding the phone to her ear, she looked in the mirror to make sure the bright blonde hair was perfectly in place. Her call went straight to voicemail.

“This is Mandi! I can’t get to you now, but I might have time later. Leave one!” The bubbly voice that came through the speakers made Grace smile.

“Hey, it’s Dakota. You’re not here, so I’m heading out early. Even if you’re going to ditch your shift—and who could blame you?—at least call me and let me know that you’re snuggled up with your hot man. Soon, girl. Love you.” She ended the call and placed the phone in her bag, securing the lock that kept it zipped when she was on stage.

She didn’t make enough to replace another phone.

Ignoring the spike of fear that shot down her spine when she looked at the empty vanity where Mandi usually prepared herself, Grace walked toward the stage doors. The last booming lines of the current song came through the heavy, dull velvet curtains. With a deep breath, she waited until the first discordant notes of her song started. Pushing aside the curtains, she grinned and headed for the pole on the center of the stage.

CHAPTER 2

A
nother wasted night, Tom thought as he ordered a whiskey from the bartender. Of course the brand they had on the shelf was the same stuff his father used to drink at night. Just another reminder of his continued failure to avenge the man who’d given him everything.

Like it hadn’t already burned him to ashes.

He threw back the liquor, letting the welcome burn in his throat clear his mind a little. He’d already had enough that the place was blurry at the edges, but it was late enough that it didn’t matter. He’d have to stop if he wanted to take his bike instead of calling for a lift—again.

Besides, this shithole would close soon and he’d have to go back to the Storm Runners clubhouse. It was too late to go to the home he’d once shared with his parents and sister—all of whom were out of reach now, in one way or another. So he’d wake up at the clubhouse drunk again after missing his shift at his own damn bar and have Ace on his ass. Again.

Fucking great.

He didn’t spend his nights at strip clubs and dive bars to watch the dancers, though he appreciated a nice set of tits as much as the next man. No, while women were dropping clothes on stage, he was scanning the audience. His eyes moved from a group of excited business men to a tired looking suburban dad who’d probably had a fight with his wife and would go home feeling a little more bad ass after his light beer and close encounter with a naked woman.

But the one man he was looking for wasn’t here.

He’d come close the month before, finding one of Butch’s top lieutenants with his face buried in a woman’s cleavage at the Top Hat. The man was tweaking so hard that he’d missed the punch he’d thrown when Tom pulled him off the woman and screamed when his knuckles made contact with the wall. Tom just rolled his eyes and smashed his fist into the man’s face until he was too dazed to fight back, then dragged him out of the club and questioned him in the alley until he couldn’t get another answer from the man.

Another waste of time.

Fuck sobriety. He’d walk off the booze and see what he could find out on the streets.

With a finger, he signaled for another drink. Finished it. Threw $50 down on the counter and headed for the door. This place wasn’t going to do anything for him tonight.

Then the music changed. The tune drew his attention to the stage lit with bright lights in shades of white, pink and purple.

And Tom saw her.

Something about her face was arresting, like it didn’t belong here with the laughing men and bubbly women who moved from group to group. Her eyes, especially, raised her above the rest of the people in the Ladies Night—they were like simmered gold, clear and free of any drugs or other substances—something he rarely saw in places like this.

She was beautiful, but that wasn’t the only reason he stared. Her hands seems to shake for a moment when she raised them to her vest. She drew in a hard breath, then her hands went rock steady as they worked down the line of buttons, revealing smooth skin with each motion. It was mesmerizing. Her hands. Her face. He slid into a chair instead of walking out of the club and froze when she turned and met his eyes.

They locked and it was like the lights went brighter and the music dulled. The whiskey in his stomach was suddenly warmer, so heated he could feel it in his chest. Something shook in him while he stared into her deep, unblinking eyes.

Then she closed them, breaking the connection and everything came rushing back. The wave of sound and the press of the crowd was near overwhelming. He stood up, deciding to get out before the bars closed and check a few more while he let the liquor work its way out of his system, but as he turned he heard a commotion and jerked his gaze to the left.

A man in a rumpled suit extended his arms over the edge of the stage and grabbed hold of the dancer’s leg, jerking her toward the edge of the stage and making her lose her balance. From across the room, Tom could see the white stress marks around where his fingers bit into her skin. His friends laughed around him, egging him on as the girl grabbed the pole and tried to cling onto it. She kicked out with her free foot as Tom pushed through the crowd, and would have made contact if her heel hadn’t slipped sideways on her foot.

“Get the fuck off her.” He grabbed the man by the collar, yanked him back and gave him a short punch in the face. Then another. The man’s grip on the dancer slackened before he hit the ground. When his friends moved to defend him—a group of drunk, aged frat boys who didn’t stand a chance—Tom raised his eyebrows and turned the bulk of his body toward them.

Like deer facing a rabid wolf, they knew they had no chance of winning and chose retreat.

They gathered their friend and left the club. One of the bouncers who’d been only steps behind Tom showed them the way, nodding a thank you to Tom as he passed.

“Are you okay?” he asked the girl, who tightened the laces that wound up her exquisite legs, securing the heel back on her foot.

“Thanks to you,” she said, her generous lips curving in a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He offered her a hand and helped her to her feet.

“I should finish the song,” she said, looking toward the bar at what he assumed was her boss, “but I think I’m done for the night.” Her eyes met his again and he felt that same sideways lurch in his stomach.

“Understandable,” he said.

“Thanks for saving me,” she said again, and her voice was still breathy. It made him think of soft sheets and dark nights. Something more than a quick giggle and fuck with a sweet butt. Things he suddenly wanted for the first time since he found out what happened to his father.

The shock was like cold water being dumped over his head, and he drew back.

“Anytime,” he said with a casual tone he didn’t feel. Then he forced himself to turn away from her and let her walk back over the stage and through the curtains at the back. But though his eyes strayed to the door, there was another hour left before the place closed and he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave.

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