Chaos Bound (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #4)(74)

Say nothing. Say nothing. Say nothing. This was his game, not hers. He just had to remember how much trouble he’d gotten into already by thinking with his dick.

“Dunno. We didn’t talk much. I’m gonna organize a welcome-home party—the best damn party the MC has ever seen.”

“He’s lucky to have you,” she said.

“And you’re lucky to have me here tonight so f*cking jacked with happiness I’m gonna give you the time of your life.”

She bit her lip, sighed. “I can’t, baby. I was just on my way to the studio. There’s a breaking news story tonight, and I got called in.”

“Dressed like this?” He slid his hand over her robe, soft and silky to the touch.

“No, silly.” She smiled her TV smile, all teeth, and no warmth. “I was sleeping when the studio called, and I was just on my way to the shower when you knocked.”

“Just one drink.” He squeezed her ass, buried his face in her neck. But his nose wrinkled when he breathed her in. Instead of the heady scent of Poison, she smelled of smoke and leather, and something musky, manly … like cologne.

She stiffened in his arms. “Really, James. You need to go. I don’t have time.”

Tank jerked back, scowled. “You got a man in there, Ella?”

Her eyes widened, and she swallowed hard. “No.”

The skin on the back of his neck prickled. She’d been so keen to get him inside before, but now she was pushing him away, and that scent … maybe he could work with it. Fly into a jealous rage like he’d seen Cade, Zane, and Jagger do when someone was sniffing around their old ladies.

“Out of my way.” He shoved her roughly aside, pulling up short when he saw the state of her normally pristine living room—beer bottles and cigarette butts littered the tables, cushions were strewn across the floor. His gaze fell on the shards of glass, balled-up tissues, and empty pizza box on the thick, white carpet.

“It looks like a bomb went off in here. What happened?”

“I had a party,” she said, dismissively. “It got out of hand.”

Tank heard the creak of the door. A thud. He followed the sound to the kitchen where the back door swung open on its hinges. Pushing it open, he heard the unmistakable roar of a Harley in the distance.

The Harley.

Who the hell was on that bike? And was it the man who had been in Ella’s house? He didn’t buy the party story. Not with the lingering scents of sex and cologne, her disheveled appearance, and the fact there was only one pizza box on the floor.

He took off around the corner, belting it for the road. When he spotted the Harley in the distance, he jumped on his bike and punched the throttle. And although he was fast, he wasn’t fast enough. The distinctive rumble faded, and by the time he hit the highway, it was gone.

Determined to find out what was going on, he returned to Ella’s house, only to find the lights out, the doors locked, and her car gone.

Something didn’t sit right about the whole situation.

But damned if he knew what it was.





TWENTY

If Tank hadn’t been waiting in the hotel lobby, Holt would have skipped town with Naiya, never to return. He still hadn’t managed to get his head around the fact that his brothers hadn’t betrayed him. They had come and Viper stole him away.

“I knew you’d want your bike,” Tank said, leading Holt and Naiya outside. “So I had Shooter and Benson drop mine off this morning so I could bring yours into town.” He hesitated, grimaced when Holt frowned.

“We saved it from the fire. After Viper took you, he burned down Evie’s shop.”

“I knew about the fire.” Holt put a hand on Naiya’s back as they stepped out onto the street, part of him involved in the conversation, and the other part searching the street for danger.

“I kept it cleaned and polished and safe in Evie’s new shop.” Tank stopped and gestured to the bike. “It’s good as new. Maybe better ’cause I had the mechanics give it a real good work over, and I detailed it myself this morning.”

Emotion welled up in Holt’s throat as he drank in the sight of his ice and teal Heritage Softail Classic. He and Tank had gone to the local Harley dealer to buy the bike the day after he’d been patched into the club. Honest. Clean. Uncluttered and unaffected by passing fads, the Softail Classic dripped nostalgia, from the horseshoe oil tank to the classic lines of a vintage frame. This bike was all about class and tradition.

Holt nodded. “It looks good. Real good.” Damn he’d missed Tank. He was always doing little things that meant a lot.

Tank smiled. “I filled it up, too.”

“Appreciated, brother.” He mounted the bike, sat for a moment remembering the feel of saddle between his thighs, the hard rubber grips, and the weight of the bike. Naiya slid onto the pillion seat behind him and even she felt right—her arms around his waist, her breasts pressed up against his chest, her soft whisper that it was going to be okay.

“Something’s missing.” Tank jogged over to his bike, parked in front of Holt. His black denim Fat Bob took its styling cues from the barrel of a tommy gun and was one sweetheart of a ride. Tank pulled a cut from the saddlebag and held it out to Holt.

“Naiya gave this to me last night. You’ll—”