Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(5)
Except Jagger didn’t really have to try. From the authority in his voice to the power oozing from his pores, he was every inch the dominant alpha male. A natural leader. She doubted anyone ever challenged him. And that traitorous lick of heat deep in her core? Simply an instinctive primal response. Easily rationalized away.
“Arianne.” The name dropped from her lips before she could catch it. Almost immediately, she realized her mistake. She’d given him her real name. Her birth name. The name she hadn’t used in the biker world since her mother died. What the hell was she thinking? “I mean, Vexy.” She firmed her voice. “Vexy is my road name.”
His rugged face softened. “Arianne is a pretty name. Soft. Suits you. Vexy, not so much. Makes me think of a sexy woman who’s got a temper.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. As if she didn’t know what the word “vex” meant. But bikers didn’t get to choose their road names; those names were bestowed by the club. And although women weren’t allowed to be an official part of the Black Jacks, she had status, a road name, and a cut simply because of who she was.
Jagger lifted an eyebrow. “That you, Arianne? You got a temper?”
Her cheeks heated. Was he teasing her? With his face an impassive mask, and his tone cool and even, she couldn’t tell. But she liked the sound of her name on his lips—his soft rumble over the second syllable—so much that she didn’t correct him. The temper part, however … Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes. “Try me.”
Jagger tilted his head to the side. “I didn’t see a property patch on your cut. You got someone to keep you in line? You a mama or a sweet butt? Or did the Black Jacks change the rules and allow women to ride in their club?”
Arianne glared. Nothing rankled her more than the misogyny that permeated the biker world. Wives and girlfriends were supposed to feel honored to be deemed a biker’s “property” or “old lady,” the equivalent of a civilian wife. “House mamas” and “sweet butts” who looked after the bikers’ needs, both in and out of the bedroom, and took care of the clubhouse in return for housing and protection were considered communal property, but usually hooked up with one biker at a time. And the “hood rats,” “hang-arounds,” and “lays” who came for the parties and the thrill of a one-night stand with a badass biker were free for the taking.
“I’m nobody’s property and I’m no sweet butt.” She straightened her posture and met his gaze full-on. “I was born into the Jacks. My dad is … a biker.” She caught herself just in time. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t a talkative person at the best of times, and now, when keeping her mouth shut mattered the most, she was about to tell him the one thing that could get her killed, no questions asked. And yet, perversely, there was something about Jagger that put her at ease. Maybe she’d hit her head harder than she thought.
“So, how is it you’re patched?” He pointed to her cut, hanging off the footboard of her bed, the two-piece Black Jacks patch, missing the bottom rocker that only full patch members were permitted to wear, a reminder of her vulnerable position. She wore her cut only on club business, and she tried to do as little of that as possible.
She shrugged her answer, digging her nails into her palms. What was with all the questions? Either he was going to kill her or he wasn’t, and odds favored the latter, since honor dictated that someone had to pay for the destruction of his clubhouse. So why didn’t he just get on with it—or give her a chance to try to escape or die fighting instead of beguiling her with his winning personality, charm, and good looks?
“How about an easier question then.” His face grew pensive. “Did you burn down my clubhouse?”
Emotion welled up in her throat, fed by fear and tension and a disconcerting attraction to the ridiculously handsome man who held her life in his hands. “No, it wasn’t me.”
“But it was the Black Jacks?”
Arianne fought to stay calm. Was there any point denying the Black Jacks were involved? No one else would have dared step foot on Sinners’ property much less burn down the clubhouse. Or was this a test? Had a member of his club already identified the Jacks before they fled?
“Arianne?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body tense.
She shook her head, wary of revealing too much. Although she hated the Jacks with a passion, she wasn’t about to break the biker code of conduct that had been drilled into her since she could walk, especially when her brother’s life was at risk. And the number-one rule was that club business stayed in the club. “You know I can’t answer that question.”
“Justice won’t be served if I take an innocent life.”
Her life. His not-so-subtle threat shattered her fantasy that he was just a normal man, and not the president of a vicious one-percenter outlaw motorcycle club, who handed out death sentences the way she handed out drinks at Banks bar. He had just claimed he wouldn’t hurt her, and now he was threatening to take her life. Was this some sort of a game to him?
“But honor will be,” she said. “Isn’t that what you’re getting at? Or are you saying I’m not innocent? Guilty by association?”
When his brows drew together, she tightened her grip on the sheet. Bastard. He was toying with her. Lulling her into a false sense of security before moving in for the kill. Well, he was about to discover she wasn’t going down easy. Her father’s cruelty seemed almost a kindness now: He’d made her strong. He’d forced her to learn how to survive.