She took a step forward, but Holt didn’t move. Couldn’t move. She kissed the bastard. Those soft pink lips had touched his grizzled cheek. And all so Holt could have a bed for the night like the fucking pussy he was.
Jesus Christ. He had been better off in Viper’s dungeon. At least then he’d felt like a man. No matter what Viper did to him, he didn’t break. But this … his damn emotions were all over the place. He wanted to steal a vehicle, chase after the truck, and show him just what happened when a man fucked with a Sinner’s woman.
Except that he wasn’t a Sinner. Naiya wasn’t his girl. And he could hardly walk without her help.
“Let’s get a couple of rooms,” she said quietly.
“One room.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.” She pulled to a stop and he almost lost his balance. “I don’t care how long you were in that dungeon. Or how nice you scrub up. Just so we’re clear, I’m sticking around because you look like you need help, and I need your MC connections to get Viper off my back. I don’t…”
“I’m the one with the gun, darlin’.” He cut her off, irritated that she would think of sleeping alone. “And that’s the only thing that will save you if Viper hunts you down. Not interested in anything besides food, a shower, and a bed that’s not made of concrete and crawling with vermin.” He also didn’t think he could make it to the shower without her help, but damned if he would show any more weakness than he already had.
“Fine. One room. I’ll ask for twin beds.”
Five minutes later, she returned with a key and helped him along the walkway of the faded stucco building until they reached the last door. The room was small, but functional, decorated in yellow and orange with a queen-size bed, desk, dresser, small table and chairs, and a television. Bathroom to the left, painting of the forest to the right, window to the front, slight scent of mold and mothballs. Holt closed the plaid curtains and let out a breath when Naiya closed and locked the door behind her.
“They only had rooms with queen-size beds.” She flicked on the lights, and Holt squinted, his eyes unaccustomed to the glare.
Until now, he’d only had glimpses of her, always in the shadows, but he could see clearly now, and his throat tightened as her hazel eyes shifted from brown to green under his scrutiny, gold flecks sparkling in the light. So beautiful. He drank in the soft glow of her skin, the dark, curly hair tumbling to her shoulders, and the clothes that clung to every delicious curve of her body. Christ. He’d been rescued by an angel.
“Gonna take a shower.” A cold one.
“Okay.” She swallowed hard. “Do you … need help?”
Yes, he needed help. Dehydrated, starved, beaten, and injured, he couldn’t stop thinking about stripping her down to those sexy red panties and then talking her into a shower for two. But did he really want to find out how deep the injuries went? Performance had never been an issue for Holt. But what if it was now? Better to find that out with someone he would never see again.
“I’m good.” He took a step, wavered, and forced himself to go on. Enough of the damn weakness. He had a woman to protect. A predator to lure.
A Viper to kill.
FOUR
TANK
James “Tank” Evans hated the dungeon.
He’d decided this after the call this morning that had taken him away from the club’s newest sweet butt, Julie—the roundness of her body, the wetness of her pussy, and the constant stream of chatter, that should have been a warning sign it was going to be a long night. Most of his brothers liked their women chatty, but not Tank. Talking wasn’t his thing. He’d been brought up in a family where children were seen and not heard, hit and not hugged. When he brought a woman to his bed, he wanted to get down to business without gossip or chitchat. For that reason, he stuck with the club sweet butts who knew his predilections. But Julie was new, and the only woman available to bring up to his room in the clubhouse last night.
He also hated the Black Jacks. Not just the ordinary kind of hate that he felt for watered-down beer, refried beans, and those small dogs that had to be carried around in handbags. He hated the Black Jacks with every ounce of his soul, every cell of his being. The Black Jacks had stolen his brother, ripped away the best friend he had ever had. T-Rex … no … Holt was dead because of the Jacks.
And now he had a piece of Black Jack scum in the chair in front of him, all ready to enjoy his new accommodations in the basement of the Sinner’s Tribe clubhouse.