Slow Ride: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 18) Read online

  “I think I want this sweet pussy clenched tight before I fuck it,” Solo says, and his hand slides free, then spanks my pussy lightly inside my panties. It’s just a tap, but I gasp in shock at the sensation. His fingers push deep inside me again a moment later, and I feel his mouth brush against my ear. “You going to come for me, Lucky?”

  “Keep…rubbing,” I tell him. He does, his fingers stroking my folds and clit over and over again.

  “You’d better be a good girl for me,” he says, and then bites my earlobe. “Or I’m gonna have to give you something that’ll make you think of me all day long.”

  “Like what?”

  “Bought you a little pair of vibrating panties,” he says. “And a plug for this naughty ass.” He pushes up against me from behind, and I can feel the heft of his cock. “But you only get those if you’re very good…or very bad.”

  I rock against his hand and he changes directions, beginning to circle my clit. The variance of the movement sends prickles of sensation through me, and I lean against him, breathless and full of need. “Please,” I whisper.

  “You gonna be good for me, Lucky?” He taps a finger against my clit. “Or you gonna be very, very bad?”

  Oh, I want to be both. So bad. I lose my breath at the thought of what it means if I choose.

  “Not answering? That’s naughty.” His tongue traces my ear again, and then he shifts his hand in my panties, thrusting his two fingers deep inside me. I gasp, and then I’m riding his hand as he starts to pump into me. I moan over and over as he fucks me with his hand, and then his thumb goes to my clit, and I lose control. I cry out with my release, an orgasm ripping through me hard and fast. “That’s my girl,” he growls. “My naughty, naughty Lucky. You’re gonna get worked over when I take you home. You—”

  There’s a cough nearby, and then someone knocks on the booth next door. “Hate to interrupt,” Epic calls from the other side. “But it’s business.”

  Solo cusses. I do, too.

  His hand slides out of my panties and he grabs my hair and pulls me back for a long, hard kiss. “Hang on, babe.”

  Dazed, I button my pants and straighten my clothing as Solo licks his fingers clean of my juices - God, that’s sexy - and walks away. I hear him and Epic talking in low voices, and I catch my breath.

  Then…wait a moment.

  If it’s club business, I’m in the goddamn club. I frown to myself and emerge from the shooting booth, leaving my gun on the counter behind me. The crotch of my jeans is wet from our love play, but fuck it. This is important. “If you guys are talking club business, I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  Epic looks startled at the sight of me, and Solo’s mouth just thins. Epic looks at Solo.

  “Damn it, I outrank you, Epic,” I say, pushing forward. “I have a patch, don’t I?” I tug at Solo’s vest and point at his treasurer patch above his breast. “Mine has the same shit this does. Don’t sit here and exclude me. Either I’m in this club or not.”

  Epic still looks at Solo, waiting for orders.

  Solo leans in and gives me a kiss. A gentle one, right on the mouth. “Someone found Handlebar’s bike at a chop shop. Me and a few of the guys are going to go check it out. Ask some questions.”

  “Was it stolen?” I think of Handlebar. He’s a good guy, always laughing. Never takes a single thing seriously. And he’s got a crazy souped-up bike. It’d be easy to identify. He’d also never leave it behind.

  “That’s the hope,” Solo says flatly.

  But it’s not likely. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go back to work,” Solo says, and touches my jaw in a gentle caress. “I’ll handle it.”

  “I can come,” I say. “I don’t have to pick up Becka for a few hours—“

  “No. I don’t want you there if it’s dangerous.” He kisses me again, and then whispers in my ear, “Keep your Glock with you.”

  I nod, even though I’m burning with resentment. I don’t like the idea of being left behind…but I’m not going to argue in front of Epic, who’s watching both of us closely. “Be careful,” I tell him.

  He nods and then gestures at Epic to join him. Epic turns to me. “Lock up when you’re done?”

  So the newly patched kid gets to go, but because I have a vagina, I can’t? My jaw clenches. I can only imagine how bad the misogyny will get when the guys find out I’m pregnant.

  Why bother to fucking patch me if I’m still just going to be the club’s underpaid secretary? Fuck all this.

  I’m still seething when I finish my practice rounds. I reload my gun, put on the safety, and then tuck it into the holster that fits perfectly under my cut. I flip the ‘Open’ sign on the door to ‘Closed’, turn off the lights, and lock the door as I leave. I’m halfway back to the Meat Locker and at a red light when my phone gets an incoming text.

  Solo’s not answering his phone. It’s from Domino, one of the co-presidents.

  I pull over into a nearby parking lot and text him back. Solo never answers his phone. He hates texting.

  Which is why I texted you. :)

  Funny that a big biker guy would text me a smiley. What’s up.

  Street Kings need to pay a little protection money for this month, and they’re holding out on us. That’s Crash’s normal domain, but he’s MIA so I need Solo to step in and say hello.

  He’s out on business.

  Yeah, I know. Just when he gets back.

  K, I send, but even as I do, I’m pissed. So now I’m taking notes for my man for business he needs to handle? Should I go home and fix him dinner? Maybe go stand barefoot in the kitchen since I’m pregnant?

  Instead of heading back to the gym and my desk, I turn the car around and head in the opposite direction. If I’m in the club, and I’m Solo’s partner, I need to carry my weight or hand back my patch.

  Chapter Two

  Lucky

  The Street Kings have a dangerous-sounding name. In reality, they’re a piss-ant gang trying to scrape a little territory here in Duke City, and the reality of it is that they can’t wipe their asses without getting approval from the Butchers. They meet up in an old, run-down garage where you can get your oil changed and a couple hits of meth, no questions asked. They deal their shitty product in Butchers territory, which means they owe us protection fees. It’s so we allow them their corner of the world, we keep the police off of them as much as possible (courtesy of a few crooked cops) and make sure other rival gangs don’t fuck with them too much. Basically they’re our lowlife pets of choice.

  But that comes with a cost, of course. I do the books for the club, all of ‘em. Even the super shady stuff. I know how much money we have going out, and I know how much we have coming in. The Street Kings pay chump change compared to a couple of other dealers, so them not wanting to fork the money over isn’t a question of whether or not they have it. It’s either that someone should have paid and pocketed it, or they’re stretching their wings and seeing what happens if they don’t pay on time.

  Even though television would like for the world to think that one percenters have to swagger and throw their weight around, the truth is that our cuts carry a lot of weight. Usually all you need to do is show up and ask about what’s due, and it’s handed over, along with a few excuses. They just need a reminder of who they’re working for, and that we don’t forget.

  And that’s something I can handle. I hope.

  I slide out of the car, wishing it wasn’t overcast and spitting rain today, or I’d have been on my bike. It’s a lot more impressive when a Butcher shows up on chrome than in a sedan. But this is an impulsive thing, and I won’t turn around now. I straighten my cut letting my patches display, and pull my long hair up in a ponytail so there’s no mistaking my colors. I suck in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head inside.

  There’s a couple of guys sitting on folding chairs at the back of the garage as I walk in. They both have beers and cigarettes, even though it’s early. There’s a car up on
the lift but no one’s working on it. The two guys sitting are covered in tattoos on their necks, arms, and all visible surfaces not covered by a dirty wife-beater. Charming. They both start grinning as I come in.

  “Hey little girl,” one says and then sips his beer. “You need your oil changed, baby?”

  The other sniggers. “Or a lube job?”

  Gross. “I’m here to pick up the Bedlam Butchers’ money.” I step forward until I’m a few feet away from them, and then put my hands at my waist. “I’ll wait.”

  One looks me up and down, and for a moment, I think he’s going to comment on the damp crotch of my jeans. But then he just grins. “They sent an old lady to collect? What the fuck?”

  Honest mistake. “I’m not an old lady. I’m patched.”

  They look at each other, and then burst out laughing. “Sure you are, honey,” one says. “Might wanna give your boyfriend his jacket back before he realizes it’s missing.”

  The other grins into his beer.

  “You owe the Butchers five k for this week,” I tell them, glad my voice is still strong even though I’m starting to waver. If they don’t believe me, how am I going to convince them? It didn’t occur to me that no one would believe me simply because I’m a girl.

  The one on the left raises his eyebrows at me. He nudges his buddy as if to say watch this. “If you’re a Butcher, where’s your bike?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “Where’s your fuck buddy?”

  “He’s busy with club business.”

  “Uh huh.” He grins and grabs his crotch. “I got a club for ya right here, baby.”

  “Look,” I say, and then pause. They tilt their heads at me, waiting. “You guys need to pay up.” God, where are my fierce arguments? My ‘a girl can do anything a guy can’ motto? Truth is, I’m totally flustered by these two guys.

  “You gonna spank me if I don’t?” One leers, and the other chortles.

  “No, but I’m going to stop being nice.”

  That just makes them laugh harder. It infuriates me, and my cheeks grow hot with humiliation.

  “What are you gonna do, sugar? Come beat me with your purse?”

  I think of the gun holstered under my arm. It’s not visible under my cut, but if I show it, shit’s going to hit the fan. Am I prepared to pull a gun on these guys just because they’re laughing at me? Am I prepared to shoot?

  I waver. I try to think of something to say that will make them listen. I’m going to bring my boyfriend back and then you’ll be sorry? I’m really a Butcher, honest. You guys should listen to me. All of that sounds even worse. Quit treating me like I’m a girl.

  But…I am a girl. And I don’t know what to do. I swallow hard. “You guys owe the Butchers money. It’s time for you to pay up.”

  “Come and get it,” the one says, and grabs his dick again.

  I stare at them, frustrated and angry. What would Solo or even Beast or Muscle do in this situation? They’d probably start with their fists, and beat up people. But I’m smaller than both of these guys, and it’s clear they’re not intimidated by me.

  I’m also pregnant. No matter how much I want to forget about that, I can’t.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m frozen with indecision, which just makes things worse. So I turn on my heel and leave.

  Their laughter echoes in my ears as I slam back into my car and peel out of the parking lot. Humiliation burns, and then after that come the emotional tears.

  I’m a fucking coward. It doesn’t matter that I’m a Butcher if no one respects the fact that I’m wearing a patch. What am I going to do? Cry and tell Solo so he can fix it for me? That’ll just make things worse. I hate that I’m crying over it, too, because that seems like a girly thing to do.

  Right now, I hate that I’m a woman. I hate that I’m pregnant, and that no one respects me, and that my hormones are so out of whack that I want to sob into a pint of ice cream and some pickles. I hate that I can’t do a job that even the lowliest patched member of the Butchers gets called out on.

  But not me. Not Lucky, because she’s a girl.

  I thought when I got patched, that I’d be respected. Part of the team.

  Guess I must be fucking stupid.

  • • •

  A few hours (and a drive-thru stop) later, my tears are dry and I’m mostly composed. Mostly. I head to the airport to pick up my little sister, and before I can even get out of the car, Becka’s at the curb, waving cheerily at me. She’s got a huge bag slung over her shoulder and gestures that I should pop the trunk. I park the car in the fire lane, put my flashers on, and then pop the trunk and get out to help her.

  I hug Becka the moment her bag’s tossed down. My sister’s younger than me by four years, and she’s almost a foot shorter. I’m tall and lean like Gemini. Becka takes after my mother’s side of the family, and she’s short and waifish. She’s also not too keen on the club lifestyle, and she wrinkles her nose when we pull away. “Are you wearing a cut? Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” I say, forcing the smile to stay on my face. “I’m patched in now.”

  “Not you, too.” She gives me an exasperated look. “Please don’t tell me you have two boyfriends.”

  “I just have the one, and I told you about him. Eric, remember?”

  “Vaguely,” she says, shutting the trunk.

  “Don’t you read your email?”

  She gives me an impish look and then bounds over to the passenger side of the car. “Sometimes. Not if it’s sent before finals, though.”

  My brother likes to joke that Becka has selective hearing. Guess she has selective reading, too. It’s hard not to love my younger sister, though. She’s always happy and carefree and utterly sweet. I miss her when she’s half a country away at college in New York, but she got a full chemistry scholarship to Cornell.

  “So how’s Ithaca?” I ask when we get back in the car.

  “Boring,” she says. “I barely leave the dorms. All I do is study and sleep.” She yawns to punctuate this. “So, am I going to get to meet this Eric guy?”

  “Considering that I’m living with him and you’re staying with us this summer? It’s a safe bet,” I tease. “Did I tell you that Gem has a girl now?”

  “He does?”

  “Yep. Him and Domino have an old lady. Her name’s Kitty.”

  The look on her face is aghast. “They’re sharing her?”

  “Uh, yeah. You know that’s what the Butchers do.”

  “Yeah but I thought that was like, for kicks. Not like long term stuff. Are they serious?”

  “Serious as can be. You’ll like her.” Kitty’s a flirt and a half, but she adores both Gemini and Domino, so I hope that Becka likes her. Otherwise it’s going to be one awkward summer. I look over at my sister. “Quit making that face. This isn’t new to you. The club’s always been like this.”

  “Yeah, but now I’m picturing our brother and another guy…with the same girl at once.” Her eyes widen. “You think he and Domino…”

  “If they do, it’s none of my business,” I say flatly. “Grow up a little, Becka.”

  She reaches out and fingers my cut. “I can’t believe you joined the crime syndicate. They let girls do that?”

  My stomach lurches unhappily. “I’m the only one.”

  “Wow. That must make you special.”

  Special…or useless.

  I think of the baby I’m carrying. I feel utterly helpless. I don’t know what to do. I’ve worked so hard to get respect from the club and now I feel like it could vanish in an instant. I think of my run in with the Street Kings earlier, and my belly protests my drive-thru stop. I pull over into a gas station just in time to fling my door open and puke out the side of the car.

  Becka squeals in horror.

  • • •

  Solo

  I love Lucky with all my fuckin’ heart. She’s beautiful, gorgeous, generous, smart, and is wild in bed.

  But it’s been a few hours and her si
ster’s already on my goddamn nerves.

  Becka’s a yapper. Yap yap yap all afternoon long. Right now she’s chattering on to a distracted Lucky about nail polish, of all things. We’re sitting in my tiny living room, relaxing after dinner. Well, it’s not really relaxing, because I’m wound up tense and Becka’s non-stop nattering isn’t helping. I peel myself off the couch and out of Lucky’s casual embrace, heading to the kitchen for a beer. I might stay a few extra minutes, just to get away from Becka’s talking, and I flip through my phone looking for messages. I hate fucking texts, but sometimes it’s quieter than a phone call. A phone call would make Lucky ask questions, and I don’t want to worry her.

  Any sign? I send to Domino.

  Nada, he sends back instantly. Epic and Locke are watching the chop house, but they say it’s all quiet. You’ll know the moment we hear anything.

  Got it. Thanks.

  I put my phone away and grab two beers from the fridge. I’m troubled - such a pussy word - by the day’s events, and I can’t even talk them over with Lucky because her sister’s jabbering about whether or not gunmetal looks good with frog green or if she should pair it with sapphire. I want to tell them that shit doesn’t matter, but Lucky’s being nice, so I guess I have to be. It’s not Becka’s fault that shit’s going down the moment she comes into town.

  Fact is, I’m worried about Handlebar and Crash. It was Handlebar’s bike at the chop shop all right, already torn into a million bitty pieces that were going to end up on a dozen other bikes. It gives me a sick churn in my gut to think about it. That bike was his baby. Some people lavish care into their houses, or their gardens. Handlebar loved his goddamn hog and kept it so waxed your ass would slide right off of it. Seeing it in bits meant something bad.

  The guys with the bike had no clue, though. They bought it under the table, no questions asked. We bought back the pieces we could, and they promised to let us know if more surfaced.

  No sign of Handlebar, though, and the bike was in perfect condition, like always. That meant no foul play. No gunshots, no skids on the tires, no nothing.

  No sign of Crash or his bike. No word from them.