Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(17)

No woman captivated me like she did. It wasn't just my sex starved dick talking either.

I had to bust her out, and I needed help to do it. I'd lean on the greed motive, whatever it took to get my brothers on board, maybe even the Prez himself.

Any talk about money brought Dust out of his hole these days. I expected him to come rapping on my door in a couple hours anyway, and I'd have a late night ahead of me talking to him about the club's bleak financials.

I got up, exited my room, and crushed the beer can into a nearby trashcan next to Dust's office. I heard him in there, shuffling around, agitated and deep in thought.

The rest of the boys were at the bar, minus Joker, who was probably off laying on a bed of needles or something.

Our Veep's road name was the most ironic one in the club. He'd never been anything but a stiff, deadpan, fish-eyed motherf*cker from the moment I'd been patched in. Having him out for the evening always eased tension in the clubhouse.

Crawl and Sixty looked up at me as I reached over the bar for a bottle of...what the f*ck?

“Smoky Mountain Bronze? What is this shit?” I popped the cap on the half empty bottle, took a long whiff, and instantly recoiled.

“Fuck me. Doesn't smell like any whiskey I know.”

Truthfully, the shit smelled like bootleg, brewed in some empty farmhouse.

Sixty smiled. “Shut up and drink it, brother. It's all right if you mix it with something...f*ck do I miss drinking the good stuff straight.”

Bad sign. The bastard was still sober. That's what told me the booze was really sour.

Crawl suppressed a hiccup as I sat between them, reconsidering the shots I'd planned to nurse while we huddled. Screw it, I was better off sober for this talk anyway.

If I wanted Meg out ASAP, then I had to be reasonable. I had to whip them into line and convince them to ride with me on this crazy ass mission underneath the leadership's nose.

“I gotta talk to you guys about something,” I began, lowering my voice and looking back and forth to make sure they were paying attention. “You gave me shit about seeing a whore, and I shrugged it off. Well, truth is, I did see one in the back – but she wasn't a drugged out ice queen like all the others.”

“Shit, I knew you were too damned wound up not to have gotten your dick wet,” Crawl growled, the stink of that cheap whiskey on his breath. He shrugged. “Where are you going with this, brother? We got what we came for. Prez is counting it out right now.”

“Listen good. Both of you.” I paused, ready to put my hands around their throats if I had to. “I didn't f*ck her. This girl's no ordinary whore. She's a prisoner. She's a virgin. And that bastard, Ricky, wants to auction her off to the highest bidder.”

Sixty's face twisted and his loud, rowdy laughter burst out. I gave him the death stare.

“Holy f*cking shit. Sorry, bro. But you're expecting us to believe you bought this fairy tale?” He snorted, pulling on his goatee in amusement. “Girl must've been hooked on some wild shit. How many teeth was she missing? The more space there is in her mouth, the more she's got in her head, and it sounds like she fed you some f*cking crazy off her junk.”

“That's the funny thing about having a brain in your skull – it makes you double-check the facts. Everything this chick said checks out. She's Megan Willow Wilder – some rich kid from Knoxville – and there's a fat reward for bringing her ass to safety.” Both my hands shot up, silencing them before they could give me any more crap. “I know, I know. You're gonna tell me she's not our problem, that she's some rich bitch who probably wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. You think she's just another whore, feeding me lies. I'm telling you right now I don't give a single f*ck. I want this girl out, brothers, and I'm counting on your help.”

“You've lost your damned mind, Skin.” Crawl slicked back his dark hair, wearing the same look I'd seen on him the night we killed three dirty drug dealers trying to f*ck with our club because we cut their supply route down to Johnson City.

Typical Crawl. My eyes darted to Sixty. He stared down at his glass. The man hated disappointing me because we were so tight, and I could see it in his eyes, gathering his thoughts for a few seconds before he finally looked up.

“Crawl's right. This isn't our damned problem. Hell, this club's got one too many on its plate. We're trying to un-f*ck ourselves and get back to the times where we could have a little fun, remember? Don't see how playing hero to pull this whore outta the fire's gonna change that. She ain't club business, and there's no reason to make her any.”

“I'm not doing this for charity,” I snapped, jerking their drinks away from them and standing up.

Both men shouted, ready to fight. I had a point to make.

“Come on, guys, we don't wear this patch because we're here to f*ck and booze, or even to stack up cash. It used to mean something, back before the old timers got lazy and then passed the torch. You think my old man would've even let a snake like Ricky operate in this territory?”

“Doesn't matter, bro. Things change. We've barely got the funds to keep our own asses sheltered and fed. We can't go gallivanting off after girls.”

Crawl smiled. “I'd wax Ricky in a heartbeat. Piece of shit deserves it. Trouble is, he's in with the Deads, and if he doesn't go whining to them about our little visit today, I'll be surprised. He'll wind up dead sooner or later anyway – what the f*ck's the hurry? It's not worth going behind Dust and Joker. Even if we wanted to help you bust this chick who's got your dick in a knot outta her hellhole, we'd all get whipped raw for going behind their backs. You know that.”