Chaos Bound (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #4)(13)

“Gonna take a shower.” A cold one.

“Okay.” She swallowed hard. “Do you … need help?”

Yes, he needed help. Dehydrated, starved, beaten, and injured, he couldn’t stop thinking about stripping her down to those sexy red panties and then talking her into a shower for two. But did he really want to find out how deep the injuries went? Performance had never been an issue for Holt. But what if it was now? Better to find that out with someone he would never see again.

“I’m good.” He took a step, wavered, and forced himself to go on. Enough of the damn weakness. He had a woman to protect. A predator to lure.

A Viper to kill.





FOUR





TANK


James “Tank” Evans hated the dungeon.

He’d decided this after the call this morning that had taken him away from the club’s newest sweet butt, Julie—the roundness of her body, the wetness of her *, and the constant stream of chatter, that should have been a warning sign it was going to be a long night. Most of his brothers liked their women chatty, but not Tank. Talking wasn’t his thing. He’d been brought up in a family where children were seen and not heard, hit and not hugged. When he brought a woman to his bed, he wanted to get down to business without gossip or chitchat. For that reason, he stuck with the club sweet butts who knew his predilections. But Julie was new, and the only woman available to bring up to his room in the clubhouse last night.

He also hated the Black Jacks. Not just the ordinary kind of hate that he felt for watered-down beer, refried beans, and those small dogs that had to be carried around in handbags. He hated the Black Jacks with every ounce of his soul, every cell of his being. The Black Jacks had stolen his brother, ripped away the best friend he had ever had. T-Rex … no … Holt was dead because of the Jacks.

And now he had a piece of Black Jack scum in the chair in front of him, all ready to enjoy his new accommodations in the basement of the Sinner’s Tribe clubhouse.

Tank punched Snake in the face, just a light tap to get him warmed up before Dax, the club torturer, arrived in the dungeon. The dark, windowless room the Sinners used for interrogations was well sound-proofed and located just off the clubhouse games room where the brothers could cool off between sessions with a couple of cold ones and quick game of pool.

The Black Jack idiot had been caught skulking around Sinner property. A stupid move considering the clubhouse was located in the far reaches of Conundrum, at the base of the Bridger Mountains, and there was nothing around them for miles except trees, scrub, and the odd wolf. No reason to be out here unless it was a bad reason. And bad reasons meant for good times, at least if you had put down your marker for being involved in anything that had to do with hurting the Jacks. If Tank couldn’t have T-Rex back, he would spend the rest of his f*cking life making sure every single Black Jack was wiped off the face of the earth.

Starting with Snake.

“How’s that feel, Snake? You feeling warmed up? You don’t want to meet our club torturer cold.”

Snake spat on Tank’s boots. Tank smashed his fist into the bastard’s nose, enjoying the crack of cartilage when Snake’s head snapped to the side. With his broad chest, wide shoulders, and thick arms, Tank had been pegged as a linebacker in high school, but sports cost money, and his family had none to spare.

T-Rex had a similar build, although he was blond where Tank was dark, his eyes blue where Tank’s were brown. T-Rex had missed out on high school football, too, spending time in juvenile detention when he lived in Laredo, although he’d never told Tank why. Not that Tank would ever ask. T-Rex did the talking. Tank did the listening. And yet T-Rex had understood him better than anyone in his life. Maybe because they spent all their time together. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, one of the sweet butts had called them. Jagger had called them “the Twins.” Tank figured that was about right ’cause with T-Rex gone he felt like half of him was missing.

And yet despite evidence to the contrary in the form of a body found in the dungeon of the Black Jack clubhouse, Tank hadn’t given up hope. He couldn’t shake that niggle of doubt that had him riding as close as he dared to the Black Jack clubhouse every week, scouring ditches and forests where they’d been known to dump bodies, checking out hospital emergency admissions … T-Rex was strong. Tough. No one could take him down in a fight. He always had Tank’s back, and Tank always had his. T-Rex wouldn’t go down this way. He had to be alive, and if he was, he would need Tank’s faith, his persistence, and his dogged determination to find his best friend.

He heard T-Rex’s voice in bars and in the executive boardroom where he’d been called to fill T-Rex’s seat as the junior full patch member-at-large. He saw T-Rex’s broad back and his mop of hair on the mandatory Sunday Sinner rides. So he kept looking. Hoping. Because he knew T-Rex would never give up on him. If he could have just one wish in his life, it would be to see T-Rex again.

Snake moaned and Tank tugged on the ropes, testing them for give. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but his mind was still on T-Rex. His buddy would have liked Julie. He was always attracted to loud, bubbly, curvy women; the ones who weren’t afraid to go up to a biker and drag him onto the dance floor; the ones who were the life of the party, making everyone laugh; the ones who were the loudest in bed. Tank went for quieter women, often with hidden depths or vulnerabilities, women who needed protecting and could handle his need for control in the bedroom.