Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(8)

The mission of the club is to foster the ideals of honor, truth, loyalty, and brotherhood through a common interest in motorcycling.

Handcuffs.

Arianne pressed her lips together to keep her laughter in as she worked the lock with the underwire from her bra. How often had she and Jeff timed each other as they each took a turn escaping from her father’s handcuffs? Biker kids didn’t play with normal toys. They didn’t learn normal skills. They were patched in at birth and expected to learn how to survive in the biker world. And she had taken those lessons to heart.

With a soft click, the lock gave way.

Free. Well, sort of. And it had taken her a disappointing hour and a half, according to her watch. Jeff would have laughed.

She tried the door first, but it was securely locked and bolted from the outside. The window yielded more success. After pushing it open, she looked out over the porch overhang, fighting back the memories of another night, another roof, and a fear so overwhelming, her knees shook. She could almost feel Jeff’s small body shivering in her arms as they plastered themselves against the cold brick chimney, and prayed someone would hear the screams and yelling inside and call the police.

Yes, she could escape, but where would she go? Small perimeter lights revealed a vast overgrown lawn, dry flower beds, and a crumbling brick wall around the property. A moonlit forest stretched as far as she could see in front of her, and the shadows of the Bridger Mountains lay to her east. Isolated, as Jagger had said. Definitely miles from town. But at least she had her bearings. Conundrum and the highway lay to west.

Still, she couldn’t see any city or traffic lights. She had no clothes, and although she could hot-wire a bike, the Sinners would be riding 1,200cc hogs, heavy to push, slow on the road, and hard to manage without shoes.

Drawing in a deep breath of crisp autumn air, she stared out into the night as a cloud passed over the moon. God, she hated the darkness. Almost as much as she hated her father.

“Looking for something?”

Panic shot through her and she whirled around to face the intruder. How had she not heard the door open? An unforgivable loss of concentration, and one that could have cost her life.

He flicked the light on and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. Young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three—and handsome in a baby-faced way, the biker who stepped into the room had long blond hair cut to hang across his face, rock-star style. But with a gun in one hand and a girl tucked under his arm, he clearly wasn’t there to entertain her.

“Name’s Wheels.” He motioned to the curvy redhead beside him. “And this here is Sherry. She’s in charge of keeping house. I’m in charge of looking after bikes, guests, and doing whatever it is the bikers need doing. Jagger sent us up to make sure you were okay.” He gestured to the cuffs still hanging on the bed. “Looks like you made yourself more comfortable.”

Ah. He had to be a prospect. Only club pledges were given the menial task of looking after the club’s bikes and doing the dirty jobs no one else wanted to do—like looking after prisoners—to earn the respect of the club and their full-patch status. And yet he didn’t have the officious attitude the usual prospect showed when talking to someone from outside the club.

“I needed some air.” She pressed her back to the window, wary of being alone with two strangers in the room, and disconcerted that she hadn’t felt similarly cautious when she was alone with Jagger earlier.

“We’re not going to hurt you.” Sherry pulled away from Wheels and leaned against the now empty dresser. Zane had removed Arianne’s gun and Jagger’s gym bag on his way out.

“Jagger won’t hurt you either,” she said. “He doesn’t hurt women.”

“Unless they burn down our clubhouse and kill one of our brothers.” Wheels scowled, but with his baby face, the scowl was more of a scrunch and just made him look cute.

“It wasn’t me.”

Sherry laughed. “I’d say that, too, if I were trapped in a rival MC’s clubhouse with one hundred angry bikers downstairs calling for my head.”

She must have paled, because Sherry was instantly contrite. “Hey, don’t worry. I meant what I said about Jagger. I know him well … probably better than anyone here. He never takes a life unless it’s justified.”

Arianne grabbed the window ledge for support. He was the enemy—a ruthless, merciless biker who led the only MC in Montana her father considered a true threat—and she needed to keep that fact foremost in her mind.

“Well, that didn’t reassure her,” Wheels said. “Now she looks like she’s about to faint.”

“Kinda like you when Zane and Cade told you the Devil Dog VP’s old lady was a sweet butt who wanted into your pants.”

“That wasn’t funny.” Wheels’ nostrils flared. “I’d been a prospect for only a week. No one told me old ladies were totally off-limits, even to talk to. He almost killed me.”

Sherry winked at Arianne, then looked up at Wheels. “I don’t think it was the ‘talking’ part that pissed off the VP; it was when you put your hand up her skirt and pinched her ass right in front of him.”

Arianne laughed, and her tension eased. Even the Black Jacks loved to haze their prospects. It was a favorite biker pastime.

“Who took off her handcuffs?” Jagger’s deep voice cut through the laughter, and the room stilled. He braced one arm on the doorjamb and one overhead filling the doorway with his lean, muscular body.