serving. The Hard Riders MC is behind that shit. Makes our neighbors honorary brothers and so we watch their backs since we’ve served, too. We’re more sinner than saint, but our territory is as free as we can make it from the drugs and violence that plague the rest of Las Vegas.
You prospect and then you patch in and get your colors. Get club ink, too. Our club president likes to call that our bar code—Vik jokes it’s our expiration date. You remain in the club until the day you die, and if you screw up, the club cleans up the mess. Locals respect our vests and the club patch. When they see that MC cut, they know we mean business, and they usually get the hell out of our way. You don’t disrespect us.
Unless you’re Rocker Kent, Eve Kent’s baby brother, who rides with the Black Dogs and who’s recently decided he and his crew should run illegal street guns through Hard Riders territory. He’s the reason we are here. Idiot compounded that brilliant plan by networking with the Colombian drug cartels (he’s had a busy fucking month), and that’s trouble the Hard Riders plan to shut down if we can run him to ground long enough to talk. We’re mature like that—gonna start with words and then work up to fists. Practically deserve the key to the city for that restraint, but we may have to make do with Eve. Word on the street is that her brother checks up on her regularly.
She’d make one hell of a hostage.
“You really think she knows where Rocker’s at?”
Vik swings off his bike and leans against it. “Give it a minute and we’ll ask. The show’s winding down.”
While the knee-high crowd stampedes into the house after the lady carrying the cake, I keep my eyes peeled for Rocker. He’s shown up at three of his sister’s last four gigs according to a girl who works for her. Usually slinks in quietly because apparently Eve has a no-bikes rule—something about us big, bad biker types scares her mom crowd. If I can catch him now, it will solve all sorts of problems. Of course, since the girl in question provided this information after Vik banged her silly, she may have been just babbling shit. All that mileage on his dick? Plenty of it is repeat business from happy customers.
My phone buzzes, distracting me from the rapidly emptying front yard.
How’s the party?
Fucker.
“Sachs is checking in.”
Vik nods, his eyes are glued to a mom in a pair of pink sweats, a white tank and flip-flops. She looks curvy and sweeter than the cake her kid is mainlining as they disappear into the house—and Vik has always had a sweet tooth. Momma better watch out, or he’ll take a bite out of her.
What’s up?
Shrieks sound from the backyard, the purple castle rocketing back and forth like it’s about to take off. Princess and the dragon disappear inside. I’m getting impatient when Sachs finally texts back.
Had another drive-by. Heading over to check it out. Save me a cupcake.
Ever since the Black Dogs MC hopped into bed with the Colombians, our streets have been heating up. This is the second drive-by in as many weeks, and it’s two too many. This shit ends now, and the best way to accomplish that is through Rocker. I don’t care if he tenders his resignation to his drug-dealing buddies, or if they take it out of his ass in trade, but he runs no more drugs or guns in Hard Rider territory. It’s gonna take the entire club to bring him down without escalating shit to a full-blown war, though—and Sachs has a hair-trigger temper. He’s more likely to Rambo his way inside the other clubhouse and do his discussing with his fists.
I text him back.
Wait for backup.
Sachs’s only response is a kissy-face emoticon. Someday, his lack of caution is going to bite him on the ass.
“Time to get serious.” I throw a leg over my bike. “Take one for the club.”
Vik grunts and motions me forward. I may be joking about the kiddo’s party, but we both know I’d lay everything on the line for the club. So would Vik. That’s how we roll—the club and our brothers come first.
When I stride up the walk, what’s left of the peanut gallery hanging over the fence turns to stare, because six feet of former SEAL in motorcycle boots and a club vest makes an impression. Fuck them. I don’t try to hide what I am. I’m the MC’s muscle. I make some stuff happen—and I make other stuff go away. Whatever my club prez needs, I do—and right now he needs Rocker’s buy-in on getting the hell out of our territory and the drug trade.
Since staking out a birthday party for kiddies isn’t getting me any closer to this goal, I need to find another way to get to Rocker. I do another quick survey of the house, but there’s still no sign of that asshole, and I don’t have his number. But I bet Evie knows how to call her brother—and I bet I can motivate her to share. I’m fucking awesome at motivating.
And today’s my lucky day because turns out that I don’t even have to go in after her. She pops out of the house alone and heads for the pink monstrosity parked by the curb, juggling a plate of cake in flapping plastic wrap. She looks like Christmas and the fucking Tooth Fairy rolled into one, with a dash of Tinkerbell and porn star. Okay. That last bit may be pure fantasy on my part, because she looks as sweet as Vik’s MILF in that fluffy-ass get-up. Unless my luck has changed, she’s not hiding a dirty girl underneath all that sparkle. I change course and wait on the other side of the pink RV for her.
Eve
“GOING SOMEWHERE, SUNSHINE?” The deep voice comes out of nowhere and I whirl. Off balance, I promptly trip on my dress and head for the pavement.
An arm fastens around my waist, rescuing me from my imminent face-plant. The plate of cake is plucked from my hands and set down by my feet. Huh. The arm tightens briefly as we dip and it’s a big, hard, tattooed, scary-as-shit arm, although the tattoo actually isn’t bad. Bold black ink covers the skin between his sleeve and his wrist... Is that a dragon? The animal looks almost Viking. Or as if the beast is seriously contemplating eating anyone who gets too close. If I need to file a police report, I have plenty to say when they ask about distinguishing marks.
The arm’s owner is sun-bronzed, and when I inhale, I breathe in leather, oil and something else. That something else spells trouble because the scent is hot and male. What my head can’t describe, my body recognizes, my libido perking up and demanding we revert to our former bad girl ways. Immediately. My princess costume works better than a chastity belt thanks to all that material, so it’s difficult to fully appreciate the hard male body pressed up against my butt, but I make an effort.
Maybe I’m hallucinating because men like this don’t exist.
I pinch his arm hard.
“The fuck?” Those two offended words rumble in my ear. I guess he’s real after all. He sets me carefully back on my feet and backs up, giving me twelve inches of space. Maybe a whole eighteen. And I mean the distance between us, not anything else, because...
This man is a whole lot of wow. I brace myself against the side of the RV. Knees don’t fail me now.
His face is way better than his arm. He’s a big guy, tall and broad-shouldered, traits that tick all the best boxes on my sexual wish list. He’s also more rough than good-looking, with short, dark hair and a cold, watchful expression that never leaves his face as he takes in the happenings on the lawn. Almost military, except that the local air force base would never let this bad boy in. He wears a leather vest covered with patches, a dark T-shirt and jeans that are white around the seams. Despite the full-sleeve tattoo on both arms, I spot no visible piercings, but trust me—he doesn’t need the metal to shout trouble.
He braces an arm on either side of my head. Despite his not actually touching me, it suddenly feels like we’re naked and he’s got his dick inside me. Under other circumstances, I might not mind. Since keeping up appearances in front of my paying public matters,