Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(8)

“Why?” I whispered, so hoarse it was painful.

He smiled. “I f*ck, babe. Skin and sweat – that's all I know. Never take it any further than that. Never f*ckin' will. The girls who hitch their hearts to this patch, they get f*cked and they get wrecked. You and me? Hell, we're not even hitching a damned thing. I'm letting you off easy.”

My lips trembled. I wanted to curse him, plead with him, reach out and slap him all at once.

What the hell was wrong with me? What was it about him? Why, why, why did I feel more alive with this rage and confusion?

“You think I'm a bastard. Go ahead, girl. You're right. I'm a dyed in the wool son of a f*ck, but I ain't a monster. You're a sweet girl, Summertime. Ain't breaking your heart by popping your cherry and taking off.”

Joker turned, reaching in his pocket for another cigarette. He started his bike, keeping his eyes trained on me while he held up his lighter.

“Promise me you'll try to be good, try to find a man who gives a f*ck. Hope to hell it happens, but if it doesn't...if you don't find him, if I come back to this town and you're down to get dirty, look me up. We'll finish what we started tonight, babe. I'll f*ck you and f*ck you and f*ck you 'til you're hoarse from screaming my name. Then you'll wake up the next mornin', and I'll be gone.”

“Asshole!” I screamed, finally caving. “Forget it! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

He rolled his eyes. “Fuckin' finally. I was wondering how many damned buttons I'd have to push to see. Listen, I know what kinda girl you are – you're a good girl. Too f*ckin' good for me, or any other bastard wearing this patch. You keep your f*ckin' distance, Summertime. Find yourself a boy who'll bring you heels and roses. It sure as shit ain't me, babe, and that's awesome. That's called me doing you a favor.”

I shook my head, totally blasted, trying to understand what the hell he was getting at.

“Don't f*ckin' look at me like I just stood you up at prom. I did you a solid tonight, saving you from a greedy prick who wanted your body, and nothing else. Those ratf*cks go down easy. Just takes a blow to the ribs to drop 'em. The boys who try to charm your * wet – they're the ones you really gotta watch out for. Only one of those motherf*ckers I can save you from is me.” He paused, looking me up and down, one final tease before he left me in the dust. “You're young, you're good, and I hope to f*ck you'll stay that way. Next time you get hot when you hear a bike humming or see a brother with this patch, you ignore that shit. You run.”

He thumped the skull with the blazing guns going up the side of his leather vest. As if I needed a f*cking reminder.

Then he took off, cutting way too close to our old storage shed. Just the perfect angle for making his motorcycle's steel glow on his way out.

My knees collapsed. I dropped to the ground and cried, utterly humiliated, knowing deep down I should be thanking him that he hadn't taken advantage of me.

The bastard was right, more right than he had any business being with his teasing, his arrogance, his good for nothing good looks.

Lord, I f*cking hated it.

I told myself if I didn't see Jackson, or Joker, or whatever the hell he wanted to call himself ever again, I'd live my life happy.

But life never goes according to plan.





2





Another Night (Joker)





Three Years Earlier





Piece had my back. My brother by blood and patch was always with me, every single trip we made to this dirty little town.

We rode in, heading for the bar before we hit grandpa's house, the only place that ever felt like home outside the clubhouse in Knoxville.

Seddon had gotten its f*cking skull caved in by the economy taking a dump. It showed in every tumbleweed blowing through the abandoned streets, in front of the boarded up buildings. Some desperate f*cks had broken the windows outta the old pharmacy – desperate ass junkies looking for their next fix.

We'd stopped hauling that shit around a couple years ago, when Early met a bloody end and passed the gavel to his son, Dust.

New Prez didn't want a damned thing to do with drugs, no different than the rest of us. So he'd sent us here on a different kind of club business.

'Course, we came for pleasure, too.

There was always somebody hanging around, waiting to get their ass kicked. The bar brawls out here were easy. They were fun. The motherf*ckers on the receiving end always deserved it.

Tina and Robby Olivers appreciated the regular cleanings we brought to their watering hole, knocking out the riffraff who threatened to chase away the drunks and the softer types passing through town.

Piece killed his engine and stepped off his bike first. I followed him, heading into the bar. My brother pushed straight through the old timey saloon doors without noticing the pink slip taped to the window.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when I stopped and read it. “Fucking shit,” I growled, taking it in.

GOING OUT OF BUSINESS was in big, fat bold letters near the top. Didn't need to see the f*ckin' fine print.

I almost ripped the saloon doors off on my way in. Only took a second to scan the small crowd, and found my brother in our usual spot, at one of the corner tables next to grandpa.