Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(16)

Fuck, that face.

For a whore, she really was beautiful. It wasn't just the lighting or my own imagination. Hell no.

The woman was real, every damned inch of her. Prettier than the vapid party girls who normally sucked and f*cked every inch of me. They came to ride cock and put their lips on a biker boy when their dirty mouths weren't on the bottle, or some weaker man.

Yeah, the girl in front of me had sucked off too many strangers to count, and the only thing I saw on her lips was a rough desire for freedom. Something about that struck a cord, making me finger the gun near my holster.

Who the hell knew irony could be so sexy?

I kissed her on the forehead and turned, before the urge to walk out and blow the pimp's brains against the wall became too much to resist. The rat bastard stood in the hall, waiting for me like an impatient hall monitor, when I stepped out and gently pushed the door shut behind me.

“Well? Did you enjoy yourself?” The cut on his bottom lip was starting to dry, but he'd have a lot more swelling soon.

Good. It was the first punch of many the * deserved if even half of what she'd told me was true.

I didn't say shit. His scorned ass didn't deserve an answer. I walked right past him, heading for the beat up lobby, and found the rest of my brothers waiting there. Firefly gave me a look like he'd been waiting forever, wondering what the hell I was up to.

I pulled Ricky's gun out of my belt and jerked the clip off, then passed the empty shell to the pimp. “Just making sure you don't do anything stupid before we leave. Thanks for the bullets and the bitches, pimp. Are we ready, boys?”

“Yeah, we got what we came for.” Sixty winked and held up a black leather bag, flexing his arm, causing the flaming dice tattooed all over it to bulge.

I looked at Ricky. The seething look on the pimp's face told me we'd emptied every last penny we could find in this hole.

I nodded, motioned to Sixty and Crawl, and pushed open the door. Firefly lingered behind a second longer, and I heard his gravely voice warning the pimp on our way out.

“You keep this between us now, *. The Prez is letting you off light. If it were up to me, I'd charge you interest on top of your licensing fees. Consider yourself lucky, and don't breathe a word about this to the Deads, or you'll be seeing us again real soon. And next time, we'll bring our shovels.”

The pimp swore. He probably pissed himself at the thought of us digging his grave.

The boys laughed as the flimsy door slapped shut. I watched our Sergeant at Arms inside, shoving a shitty looking club card into his hands, the only evidence we'd ever been there.

We didn't worry about him showing our rivals anything. Hell, I hoped he f*cked up and did it. Then I'd have all the excuse in the world to kick his ass before I put a bullet in his head.

My brothers smoked and traded bawdy jokes while we waited for Firefly. Just before the Enforcer came stomping out and signaled us to get on our bikes, Crawl ribbed me, flashing his big, bright smile.

“Did you really get head from any of those bitches? Everyone I looked at was too damned greasy and run down for my liking, but shit, if their tongues make up the difference...”

“None of your damned business, brother. You know I don't kiss and tell.”

Sixty snorted. “Aw, shit. That's our Skin – silent and sensitive as a baby. It's okay, bro, if you don't wanna tell us how some chick tripped out on crystal gagged on your dick, I don't need to imagine it. Just hope you wrapped it up, or else you're smart enough to get a shot to make sure that shit doesn't fall off.”

He pointed between my legs. I reached over and elbowed him in the ribs. Both guys were still laughing when Firefly climbed on his bike and whistled, so loud and sharp it nearly burst my damned eardrums.

“Let's get the hell home, boys. No time to dilly-dally. Prez'll want the loot in the vault by sundown. We've got bills to pay. We didn't come here to drink and do stand-up comedy.”

Word. I climbed on my Harley and strapped on my helmet. A few minutes later, we roared into the mountains, satisfied that the club would live to fight another day with the dirty cash infusion.

I couldn't stop thinking about Meg, chained up in that grimy little room. This whole operation was about second chances. The MC deserved another chance, and so did she.

God willing, I'd give her one. And I never let anybody down on my word.

Back at the clubhouse, I crashed in my room with a beer, and lingered there 'til about midnight. I needed the break after I'd hit my laptop and looked her up.

Megan Willow Wilder. Heiress to a multi-f*cking-millionaire. One time prom queen. Missing person.

Everything she told me was the honest-to-God truth. I knew it from the dark edge in her voice, the desperation, but hearing it and seeing it on my glowing screen were two different things.

I ranged. I fought the urge to pick my computer up and smash it against the wall, then ride back to Ricky's dump and get her the f*ck out all on my own.

I shouldn't have waited another minute to blow the pimp's rotten brains out and take her home.

She'd been the number one missing person's case east of Nashville 'til the story got buried with time.

Her parents were as rich as she said – business barons with the cash to offer a quarter million dollar reward for any intel leading to her recovery.

That was a goddamned golden hoard for anybody short on cash. I thought about the reward money, but mostly I thought about her crying, hurting, sucking off nasty motherf*ckers for the pimp.