Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(89)

That got another muffled sob in Serial's palm. Poor girl. No bullshit, I honestly felt bad for her. Dragging kids into this shit was always rough.

I wondered who the f*ck the kid was – the feisty chick looked too damned young for a daughter. If the girl was hers, then she was officially the hottest MILF I'd ever gawked at in my life.

We waited. After awhile, Splitter came trundling downstairs, a fat duffel bag in hand. He pushed through us, plopped it on the dryer, and flung open the first.

Glorious cash lay inside, stuffed to the seams, rolls upon rolls of crisp hundreds bundled together.

“Must be a full million here, maybe more,” he said, looking up at Blackjack. “Don't think she's bullshitting. It's all here.”

The Enforcer nodded. He walked over, zipped the suitcase, and then passed it to Rabid.

“Let's get this over with,” Serial said, reaching for his gun and stepping in front of the stairs. “Come on, brothers. We'll make this quick and clean for these bitches.”

Serial and Splitter had their guns out in a flash, aimed at the girls. Rabid hesitated. Blackjack stared at me, like he was gauging my reaction.

I hurled myself across the room before anyone could pull the trigger, shoving both hands out like a f*cking scarecrow. Trying to cover both girls at the same time wasn't easy.

“Brass? What the f*ck are you doing, son?” Blackjack sounded pissed, but amusement flickered in his old eyes.

“We don't have to do this! The chick kept her word...she gave us the f*cking money! We got what we came for, right? What's the f*cking point of this?”

“You gotta be shitting, brother.” I hated hearing that word from Serial's f*cked up mouth. “What do you want to do with these bitches, then? Leave 'em free to run off to daddy's old friends in the police? Sending every dime to the fight with the cartel's already got us strapped. We can't afford bigger bribes to keep pigs' mouths shut. Tell him, Blackjack.”

“Never said they'd get turned loose, *,” I growled, trying to make up an alternative on the spot.

If I didn't, these girls were sure as dead, and I'd never find out what those wide soft hips were like naked.

Think, dammit! Alarms blasted in my head. You've got about five seconds to start talking and stop the guns.

“Come on, Blackjack. You know this shit's unnecessary. We don't need to start wiping people up like the cartel f*cks. They'll keep their mouths shut if we bring 'em with us. The clubhouse is a shithole...we need somebody to clean house. These girls are perfect for that.”

Sweet Ass shot me a vicious look. No gratitude whatsoever. Guess I was gonna f*ck myself one way or another and end up on somebody's shitlist, but being on hers was better than seeing her and the kid dead.

“You're outta your f*cking gourd, Brass,” Serial growled, tightening his hold on the young one's shoulders. “I'd love to see you bring these bitches back. Fucking love it! Prez would kick your ass right up your throat. You're damned lucky Blackjack's not that stupid.”

I looked over. The older brother wasn't moving. His lips were curled – curiosity or confusion, I couldn't tell which.

Fuck. I wracked my brain at light speed, trying to find something, anything that would save them from ending up underneath the old warehouse like the Mexican and so many more.

Then it hit me. A crazy, stupid idea so outta bounds it just might work. Effective or not, I was about to make myself a f*cking laughing stock to every brother in Redding, and maybe beyond.

Whatever. I'd be glad to have the humiliation if it saved these chicks from holes in their heads.

“You can't snuff her out,” I said, reaching for Sweet Ass and throwing my arm around her. “This is my old lady. Right here, right now, I'm claiming her.”

She flinched when I said the c-word. If those eyes were stormy honey colored oceans before, now they were full of tsunamis, spinning with hate and confusion and disbelief.

I pointed. “Don't touch the little girl neither. She's family. You f*ck with my old lady's blood, you f*ck with me. I'm dead serious.”

Splitter lowered his gun, busting a gut. His nose ring swung as he let it pour out, the only brother laughing at my pure insanity.

Rabid looked at me like I'd lost my f*cking mind. Serial snorted, waving his gun at his side. Whatever, at least he'd lowered it – but only for a second.

Next thing I knew, the f*cker had it up again, this time pointed at me. “So much for being clean. You must be back on that shit if you're seriously doing this, Brass, you junkie *. Just give the order, Blackjack. I'll put this * outta his misery so we can –“

“Put the damned gun down,” Blackjack growled, taking a heavy step forward. “The brother's right. Crazy and stupid as this is, I'm gonna allow it. We got what we came for, and we've gotten ourselves a good laugh too. There's no need for a massacre. Yeah, sure, that'd be the neat and clean way, but this f*cking club's been stuck on that track for too damned long. We're trying something different.”

Serial's jaw dropped. Dunno how I held onto mine. My arm squeezed the chick I'd claimed, pulling her closer, burying her face in my chest so she wouldn't have to look at my brothers anymore.

“I'm gonna give you a week to find a place for these girls,” Blackjack continued. “They can't stay at the clubhouse forever. Serial's right, Fang'll tear everybody involved to shreds if we pile this kinda shit on his plate with everything else he's dealing with. Now that you've claimed them, they're you're problem, Brass. If they start to become a problem for the club again, then I won't hesitate to finish the cleanup we started here today. Got it?”