Rough Ride Read online

  Like that made a fucking difference. “I didn’t see you shoving him off you.”

  “He’s crazy.” Amber shivered despite the warm August night. She crossed her arms over her chest in a stance similar to mine, but where I was pissed, she looked so small and vulnerable—like she was trying to protect herself. Until she opened her mouth and the sass poured out. “I was doing whatever I could to get the hell out of there.”

  “You shouldn’t have been there in the first fucking place. Howl is not a goddamn college hangout. There’s a reason why it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. You don’t belong here.”

  “I had to be here. I wanted to know what happened to my dad and his killer. And you guys kept stonewalling me. Because men and their business was more important than fucking family.”

  “Bullshit. How’d you even know to come here in the first place?” What happened with Stitch and his killer was club business. No one outside of the club and the Bratva knew what went down. Or should’ve known. So how did Amber know to show up here to ask questions?

  She shook her head and scowled but didn’t say anything. I could respect the balls it took to come here on her own, but she was too young and inexperienced to play on the same level as Ruslan and his crew.

  Which reminded me.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “Are you even old enough to be in a bar? Let me see your ID.”

  “Of course I am. I work in a casino.” Amber patted her thighs before she looked up at me with another scowl. “But I don’t have my ID. Ruslan’s goon took my purse, along with my phone and house keys. I would’ve had them back and been on my way home but for you three and your fucking caveman routine. Now what am I gonna do?”

  “Fuck,” I muttered as I grabbed my phone out of my pocket. I tossed off a quick text to Tank. Lord knew Axle wasn’t in a frame of mind to look at his phone right now.

  Me: R still has A’s stuff. Grab it for her.

  Tank: K

  Ever the eloquent guy. Although, given the fact that he was probably in the middle of a Mafia standoff, probably not a bad thing, either.

  I jerked my chin in Amber’s direction. “Tank will get your shit for you. Did you drive yourself out here or am I taking you home?”

  She seemed calmer now, which was the only reason I was offering to let her drive herself. That and I don’t ever have women on the back of my bike. Ever.

  “I left my car at home and took an Uber. And even if I had my car, Ruslan has my keys so how would I even start it, Einstein?”

  Fuck me. This was the night that kept on giving. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”

  Given the way she was glaring at me, I didn’t need to go into a spiel about what being on the back of my bike didn’t mean. She wasn’t my woman. Amber wasn’t a club girl. She had no hopes or expectations with a guy like me.

  This was the night from hell. As soon as I got this wildcat home, the better. I just wanted to crawl into my bed and get some fucking sleep already.

  Amber’s lip curled as she looked from me to my rough Indian motorcycle. My Indian had more scrapes than paint at the moment, but she still purred like a content cat when I started her up. I put all the spare money I had into maintaining her engine and making sure she ran like the well-oiled machine she was. One of these days I’d get around to making her look as good as she sounded.

  I take that back. Judging from Amber’s current expression, her only expectation was getting the hell away from me as soon as possible.

  Which was fine by me.

  After tossing my helmet to Amber, I swung a leg over and waited for her to climb on behind me. Then I cranked the ignition and let the vibrations from my bike wash over my soul. Nothing filled me with peace as much as sitting on my motorcycle. Even if it was to run to the other side of town with a hellcat on my back.

  “You living with your mom in South Reno?”

  “Yes.” The word hissed from her lips like it pained her to either admit she was still living at home or accept a ride from me. Probably both. “Near Damonte Ranch.”

  I jerked my head in recognition. I’d been to Stitch’s house a few times back when I was a prospect, but it’d been a while. We tore out of the parking lot, and a few moments later I was speeding down side streets. Since I didn’t pack a loaner helmet and I’d given mine to Amber, I had to avoid the main roads and highways, which would hopefully let me avoid the cops. Although the way tonight was going, getting pulled over would be the nugget on top of this shit sundae.

  It was different to have a chick on the back of my bike for once. The way she tightened her thighs around my hips when I accelerated. The way her body felt pressed against my back. I might’ve been wearing my leather vest, but I could still feel the warmth from her body. The way her fingers clutched at me when I took a corner too fast. I could almost imagine her clutching at me in a different setting. The way her scent enveloped me when I slowed at a stop sign. Something citrus and sweet. Almost like those orange cinnamon rolls my grandma would bake every Saturday.

  Fuck. What was wrong with me? I was giving an annoying chick a ride home, not…whatever the hell this was. I wasn’t made for happy times and families and fucking stability. I was the opposite of all that. And the sooner this wildcat got off my bike, the better.

  The second half of the ride felt so much longer than the first. But finally, after a few eons, I pulled up to the house I remembered from my prospecting days.

  Only it never looked like this while Stitch was alive.

  The grass out front was dead and yellow—what there was left of it. Huge patches of dirt filled in the yard here and there. I doubted anyone had watered it in a year. And the house itself had seen better days. It looked like someone started scraping the old paint off, but only got halfway through before they quit. And the wood beneath was dingy and sun-bleached like it’d been exposed a while ago. Maybe a job from when Stitch was still alive?

  But the thing that filled me with horror was the sight of Stitch’s pride and joy—his Harley-Davidson Fat Boy—sitting on the side of the house with a huge puddle of dried and cakey oil beneath it. The leather seat was cracked and broken since it’d been left exposed to the elements, and a huge scrape marred the finish of his custom paint job. Like someone had purposefully scratched it.

  I cut my engine, put my kickstand down, and waited for Amber to get off.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said grudgingly. “Tank or whoever can just leave my stuff on the front step. No need to ring the bell or whatever.”

  “What the hell happened?” I waved a hand at her house and her dad’s bike. “How did—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? What happened? What happened?” Amber’s face turned a shade of red I’d never seen on a woman’s face before. Her voice rose until she was screaming. “You and your goddamn club happened. My dad died because of your oh so sacred club business. What do you think happens when the person holding your family together dies? The family dies, too!”

  Dogs barked in the distance and the lights next door turned on, but I couldn’t look away from the pure anguish on Amber’s face. It felt ridiculous to say, but I hadn’t thought much of Stitch’s family over the past year. I was the low man on the totem pole and hadn’t known him very well. I think I’d met his wife once or twice at club functions, and maybe Amber once, too, but she wasn’t the kinda girl I’d hang out with. I knew better than to sniff around a club princess—girls like Amber were off limits to guys like me—so I hadn’t given much thought to how they were handling his death.

  But clearly the answer was—not well. I looked at Stitch’s pride and joy rotting on the side of the house. Not well at all.

  Fuck, if this was what the outside looked like…

  I swung off my bike and held a hand out to Amber. “Come on.”

  “What? No. I’m going inside. You can go to hell or back
to your fucking clubhouse. I don’t really care which. In fact I’d be happy if we never saw each other again.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first woman to tell me that today.” I gave her my most charming smile. “But my grandma taught me to treat every woman like a lady. Which means I’m walking you to your door.”

  Amber rolled her eyes. “Whatever. It’s ten feet. But just know you’re not coming inside.”

  I shrugged a shoulder and didn’t take offense when Amber ignored my offered hand and started up the driveway. The streetlight in front of their house cast enough light to let me enjoy the view. Her tight little jeans cupped her firm legs and ass, outlining them to perfection. And when she bent down to grab the key hidden under an empty flowerpot, I had to clench my fists. Because one, that was a ridiculous location for their key—so obvious, and anyone could grab it—and two, her ass looked so amazing when she crouched, I had to check myself.

  As if she knew where my mind had wandered, Amber stood up and tossed a glare over her shoulder at me. I smirked back. Facing the door again, Amber unlocked it, then turned to face me. As she pushed the door slightly open, I caught an outline of something that made my heart drop.

  “Here I am. Safe and sound. So you can—”

  “Brittany?” I cut in, shoving my way past Amber and through the doorway. I stooped down next to a prone Brittany unconscious on the floor.

  “Mom!” Amber shouted from somewhere behind me as I took Brittany’s pulse.

  She was alive. Her breathing was so slow and soundless I was afraid there for a second. Then I rolled Brittany onto her side and the pool of vomit beneath her filled me in on the story.

  I sat back on my heels and turned to Amber. “She’s just passed out.”

  “Yeah, I put that together myself, Sherlock,” Amber muttered as she stomped into the kitchen then reappeared with a roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, and a plastic bag. She dropped to her knees next to me and began mopping up the mess. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here.”

  Given the slump in her shoulders and how quickly prepared she was to clean up, this wasn’t the first time Amber had come home to her mom passed out in a pool of vomit. Fuck me, that was wrong. Amber should’ve been the one getting drunk at a college party and having someone else cleaning up her puke. She was what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Where was her brother, Jackson? He was a little older than Amber. Shouldn’t he be here helping out his family? I knew he’d become a prospect for the club after his dad died, but this was his family. How could he not know what his mom and sister were going through?

  Did any of the Brothers know what was going on here? Stitch had been one of us, and now his whole family was falling apart. Shit, someone somewhere dropped the ball.

  I sighed and rubbed at my tired eyes. “I’ll help you get her in her bed.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got it.” Amber said as she gathered up the clumps of used paper towels.

  Brittany let out a loud snore then rolled onto her back.

  I looked from Amber’s small frame to Brittany’s more voluptuous and, well, larger body. “She outweighs you by what? Twenty? Thirty pounds? Just let me carry her into her bedroom, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “I said I got it, all right?” Amber rocked back onto her heels and scowled up at me. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from your club. You True Brothers have done enough for my family, don’t you think? You guys only care about yourselves and fuck what comes after. Do you know not a single one of you has been here in months? Including my loser prospect brother? You guys only care about the club and your Brothers. Women like me and my mom don’t matter. I’ve figured out how to get by on my own. So I got this. You can go back to your club and your drinking and your women and forget everything you saw here tonight. Your kind seem to be especially good at that.”

  Amber rolled her mom onto her side, and after some cajoling and a surprising amount of strength from someone so tiny, got Brittany to her feet. “Come on, Mom. Time for bed.”

  They stumbled down the hallway.

  “I love you so much, Ambah.” Brittany belched. “Is Jackson here? JACKSON? Where are you, boy-o?”

  Amber sighed. “He doesn’t live here, Mom. Remember? He moved out after…when he started prospecting for the club.”

  The rest of their conversation was muffled as they’d reached the bedroom. I stood silently and alone in the living room. The scent of vomit and floral carpet cleaner hung heavy in the air. Amber’s words echoed in my head. No one had checked in on them in months? Including her brother?

  Shit was gonna hit the fan. And after what I’d seen here tonight, it was months late in coming.

  Chapter 3

  Amber

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Ugh,” I groaned. I opened one eye and looked blearily at the clock on my nightstand. It was either six or eight o’clock in the morning. Either way it was way too early for some dipshit to be knocking on the front door so forcefully. Maybe if I ignored it, they’d go away. My head fell back onto my pillow, and I was just starting to get back into my dream about a Viking with long blond hair, a matching beard, and ridiculous muscles when the sound came again. But louder.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “Fine!” I ripped the sheet off my body and climbed out of bed. Mr. Viking and his dirty lovemaking would have to wait.

  I stumbled down the hall into the living and the scent from last night slammed into my face. Lavender carpet solution tinged with vomit. I could still see the darker patch on the rug where I’d applied the cleaner. “Cleans and refreshes, my ass.”

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  “I’m coming. Keep your pants on.” Reaching the front door, I pulled it open and swayed sleepily in the doorway. “What do you want?”

  Needless to say I wasn’t a morning person. Quite the opposite, actually. I needed at least an hour and two cups of coffee before I was somewhat presentable. But this asshole was persistent.

  A man I’d never seen before stood buried beneath a mound of at least four dozen bloodred roses with a dozen or so white hydrangeas at the base. It was the largest floral display I’d ever seen. The blood froze in my veins as I started at the ridiculously large arrangement. There was only one person I’d ever met who could afford to send it. Please let me be wrong. Oh God, please.

  “I think you have the wrong address,” I said weakly, hoping that was the case.

  The man scowled at me from over the mass of flowers. “Amber Bennett?”

  My heart did a freefall in my chest. Oh God. “Yes?”

  “No mistake. Sign here.”

  “Who are they from?” I asked as I signed the clipboard he awkwardly juggled with the flowers. I already knew, but I hoped like hell I was wrong.

  “Client information is confidential, but there should be a card.” He nodded toward the tiny envelope facing me. “Are you going to take them or not? I have more deliveries to make today.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course. So sorry.” I grabbed the large vase from him. “Let me get my purse.”

  “No tips. The person ordering does the tipping,” the man grumbled, then turned and walked away.

  “Sorry, I’ve never gotten flowers before. Thank you!” I yelled at his back as he walked toward his box van.

  He lifted a hand in my direction then climbed into his van.

  I looked anywhere but at the extravagant floral arrangement as I closed the door behind me. They smelled amazing but felt like an albatross in my hands. Taking a deep breath, I set off for the kitchen then placed the vase on the high countertop. Unable to look anywhere else, I stared at the flowers in dismay. It felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I dreaded opening the card because then I’d know. The longer I waited, the longer I could naively believe they were from someone, anyone, but him.

  After what felt
like forever, I finally got the nerve to grab the tiny envelope and rip it open.

  Red for your luscious, plump lips

  White to match your pure heart

  There was no signature, but I didn’t need one. There was only one man I’d kissed in the past month. Only one man who’d send flowers like this to me.

  Ruslan. Bratva kingpin, scariest guy I’d ever met. Ruslan.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  What do I do? I didn’t want to encourage him. But on the other hand, he was too scary to discourage, too. A man like that would not take rejection well. And I did kiss him back last night. Although in my defense it was more of a reflex reaction than actual interest on my part. Not to mention the fact that he was really good at it.

  But then I remembered what his eyes looked like when I’d pissed him off. Or the way I felt when he’d marched me down that hall, and I’d been sure he was going to off me. Ruslan was not a man to screw around with. I could very well end up in a small unmarked grave if I didn’t handle this right.

  Crap.

  Why did I ever think it was a good idea to go to Howl alone? What the hell had I been thinking? I wasn’t Nancy Drew. This kinda thing always ended bad. Like it had for my dad.

  I was fed up with the runaround I’d been getting from my dad’s club, and I had so much anger stored up. I wanted to do something about the shitstorm that my life had become. I was so frustrated with the lack of answers. All I knew was that my dad had been shot in a parking lot, and that the club had turned his killer over to the Bratva. That was it. I didn’t even know the asshole’s name or why he’d shot my dad. I’d been hoping Ruslan would tell me something, anything more than the tiny bit I knew.

  But he hadn’t.

  Hell, Ruslan knew the party line better than anyone in my dad’s club. So instead of answers it seemed that I’d picked up an ardent admirer instead. An ardent, scary admirer.