Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(23)

IV: Money, Money, Money (Skin)


This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Fuck.

Soon as I got her inside, Meg stopped talking. She wouldn't even look at me.

And who the hell could blame her? I'd stabbed her in the back and twisted it deep, the price of getting my boys on board to help save her life.

I couldn't have taken out all three motherf*ckers alone in that dingy parking lot. Crawl and Sixty did it for me as much as the reward money I'd promised the club. Now, the only way I could keep myself from letting them down was by letting this gorgeous, damaged, blue eyed babe down so hard I feared she'd break.

I put her in my room and locked the door, walking away with the heaviest rock in the world sitting on my goddamned shoulders. Guilt was always an absolute bitch, the shit hanging over me now made me wanna drive off the nearest cliff.

Whatever, this wasn't the end. Not by far. I'd get her home sooner or later, just as soon as my brothers were satisfied.

There was no Option B.

Meg couldn't just jump off at her parents' house. They'd never pay up the quarter million to an outlaw MC. I had to make 'em, one way or another.

Hell, I had to convince her, get her to help me string her folks along 'til the cash was in my hands, heading for the Prez's office like tribute.

It was only a matter of time 'til the others found out. The Prez would fly into a rage when he learned we'd killed three Deads across the state line. Shit, we'd be lucky if it wasn't already hitting the news.

And if just one person at that piss stained motel saw us, remembered our patches, or maybe just enough to give a sketch to the cops...

Fuck, f*ck, f*ck. I wanted to put my fist through the nearest wall.

Instead, I headed for the bar, where my brothers who'd been along for the ride were already drinking. I looked at the clock.

It wasn't even eight in the morning. Christ.

Didn't stop me from ripping the cheap booze outta Sixty's hand and sloshing the rest of it in a tall glass. He grumbled, cursed, and protested while I poured the vile brew down my throat, hoping the napalm fire in my guts would temporarily wash away the crushing disappointment waiting for me in my room.

“Easy, jackass. It's been a long night,” Crawl said, his eyes narrowed. “You running after the bottle because she's being a bitch, or what? Don't tell me she ain't even grateful?”

They both glared, demanding an answer. I shrugged and pounded my glass on the counter, turning around before I could say anything.

“I appreciate you boys having my back today, brothers. Really. I'll deal with her. I only need a day or two. Your job's done. Leave the rest to me.”

“You can say that again, bro,” Sixty said. “Remember the agreement – once the Prez or Veep find out about what went down, we're like ghosts. This shit was all you. We'll leave it to you, so long as you leave us the f*ck out of it.”

I nodded. Fair was fair, and I'd keep my word. I'd keep it with her, too, as soon as I managed to get her on board with getting her sweet ass home faster.

Too bad that was gonna be a helluva conundrum unless her loaded f*cking parents decided to unload some money in our club coffers.

There had to be a middle way to do this. We had to get her home, get Dust the money we needed to hang on, and stop the full force of the FBI or the Deadhands from raining hell down on us.

There wasn't any sugar coating this shit. I'd thrown the club into chaos over a strange woman who'd twisted my dick in more knots than any woman should. Worse, I'd never even f*ck her on top of it – not unless I wanted to land my sorry ass in a deeper pit.

The whiskey hit while I was out back, taking in all the fresh mountain air, the true drug I needed before I went inside to deal with her. I staggered inside, one hand on my guts, cursing myself for drinking so much of that cheap bootleg swill.

Fire tore through me, pleasurable and painful. I fumbled with my key in the lock for what seemed like five or ten minutes before I finally crashed inside, kicking it shut behind me.

She was huddled in the corner. The girl looked up like I'd just burst through the wall, her mouth hanging open.

The kindness in those blue eyes I'd always seen before evaporated. Now, those pearly blues shone nothing but hate, disgust, fear.

Fuck me. I'd given her enough shocks today, but what was one more?

Maybe the crude whiskey had more booze in it than I realized, or it was some sick combination of the long trip, the shootout, and taking this girl hostage. Whatever the f*ck it was, I couldn't stand up.

She whimpered as I collapsed, crashing to the ground next to her.

A boot to the ribs woke me up. I jerked awake and rolled, my head pounding, using the adrenaline surge to slough off the hangover and reach for the switchblade I always kept on me.

Who the f*ck was kicking me in my own damned room? If anybody wanted to come after me or Meg, I'd shred them wide open before they got in a second blow. I bolted up.

By the time I opened my eyes, I was crouched on one knee, my blade ready to disembowel the Prez.

“Shit!” I lowered it, ready to kick my own ass for my mistake.

He booted me again.

This time, I didn't fight. I f*cking deserved it. Every swift, brutal, rib bruising crack.

“You stupid sonofabitch,” Dust growled, motioning to Joker at his side. “Get him on the bed. Let's decide whether he deserves a chance to spill his guts about what the hell's going on before we gut him for real.”