Biker's Bride (Demons MC)

“He said you stay,” Ford said. “Club business.”

“So that means I just shut my mouth and do whatever you say?”

Larkin gave Ford a look. Ford stepped up to me. “Caralee,” Ford said softly, “please stay here. Talk with Janine. We’ll be back.”

“Fine,” I said, “but don’t keep me in the dark.”

“I won’t.” He gave me one last look and then turned, and the four men disappeared outside.

I sat back down at the table, my head a mess of confusion and anger.

“That was ballsy,” Janine said. “I thought Larkin was going to slap you down.”

I gave her a sharp look. “He wouldn’t.”

Janine laughed again. “You don’t know Larkin.” She paused, grinning. “Welcome to the Demons MC, sweetie.”

I stared at the door, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

Chapter Twelve: Ford

We rolled out in formation, heading west of Austin. The Rebels had their clubhouse there, a little piece of shit, hole-in-the-wall bar in the middle of their tiny territory.

We’d been on decent terms with the Rebel MC for a few years. Back when we were slowly expanding our territory and eating up the other local clubs, the Rebels had been our only ally in the fight.

But since then, the relationship had soured. They had begun competing with us, importing cheap weapons from China and even cheaper drugs from South America. We were doing the same thing, and making way more money, but they were beginning to cut into our bottom line.

The only reason they hadn’t been destroyed yet was because they had helped us back in the day. Their current leader was a former member of our own club. He had defected during the war and violently taken over the Rebel leadership. Rumor was that he had backing from Larkin and the Demons MC, but I didn’t think that was true. From what I knew, Larkin fucking hated Jetter, but maybe that was just a front.

Anyway, we may have been violent bikers, but we had a sense of loyalty. And so we let the Rebels have their little piece of territory, so long as they didn’t try to push any farther into ours. True, Jetter was a traitor, but he wasn’t a little punk bitch.

That shit worked, more or less. There were some minor border skirmishes now and then, but nothing that couldn’t be solved.

Larkin clearly didn’t trust the Rebel motives for this meeting. Clutch and Spoil were our best-known enforcers, though I’d been known to murder a piece of shit or two in my time. They were coming along for backup, and I was coming along to speak for Caralee. I had no clue what the Rebels wanted, but I assumed it had something to do with their corpse.

Even if your dead guy was a low-level fucker like that guy Rod probably was, you still couldn’t let violence like that stand. As soon as other clubs thought they could kill your guys whenever they wanted, you’d be neck-deep in a fucking territory war. Strong clubs stayed strong by showing strength.

We pulled up outside the Rebel Lounge, their little clubhouse. We climbed off the bikes and headed toward the entrance.

It was pretty empty inside. Sitting at the bar were four men: three I didn’t recognize and Jetter, their leader. He stood up as soon as we walked in.

“Boys,” he said, smiling. “Good to see you, Larkin.”

“Jetter,” Larkin grunted. “What’s this meeting about?”

He laughed. “Right to business as always, Larkin.”

We stood in front of them, Clutch and Spoil looking menacing. The three other guys with Jetter were all probably enforcers themselves. Two of them were big, tattooed, and muscular, pretty much the spitting image of Clutch and Spoil. The third guy, though, was shorter, maybe only five feet four, and bald. He had a crazy look in his eyes, and I suspected he was the one to be afraid of.

“Have a drink first,” Jetter said. He looked at the bartender. “Four whiskies for our guests.”

The bartender nodded, pouring the drinks.

“We’re not here to be social,” Larkin said. “Business is business.”

“Why so stiff?” Jetter asked. “Got something to hide?”

Larkin grunted. “We don’t have to hide shit from a bunch of gnats like you.”

Jetter just smiled and handed us our drinks. Once we were all holding them, he held up his own. “To our special relationship.”

He drank back his whisky. We didn’t drink.

“Enough,” Larkin said. “What do you want?”

Jetter nodded. “Okay, okay.” He sat back down, leaning against the bar. “We had a boy killed last night during a little drug deal. I was hoping you might know something about it.”

“We weren’t involved,” Larkin said.

“I figured you weren’t. The deal was with the Snake Spits. I didn’t think you’d go up against them.”

“Why are you selling to them?” Larkin asked.

“Trying to start up a new business relationship,” Jetter answered. “You know how it is. But still, I had wondered if you guys weren’t involved somehow.”