BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (45 page)

She runs her fingers along the hard indent of my torso. "I guess I must have come here to get laid."

"You wanted to see me," I offer. It's a more romantic spin on the truth of her words. "And I wanted to see you. And even though we just finished a bit of pleasure, I have a feeling we have unfinished
business
to attend to."

I sit up a little, suddenly struck by a sudden flash of inspiration. Lane retreats lazily into the pillows, watching me for a moment, before sitting up as well. "You have an idea," she says. "You've thought of something. Believe me; you don't get that look often."

"Throw a robe on and come with me," I instruct, whipping off the blankets and padding barefoot to the door. "I think I know just the man who can get you your job back."

#

"Lane, meet Lesher. Lesher, meet Lane."

              Words I never, ever fucking thought I would be saying, but the world has a funny way of turning your expectations for your life completely on their head: sometimes for the better, sometimes for the truly bizarre.

              The pale, unsmiling face of Lesher Vance stares back at me without expression. Dude's always been handsome in that Nordic, Gentleman's Quarterly sweater model sort of way, but it's the eyes that really pull you in and gut you when he's on the warpath. I can't tell if he's pissed at me currently since it’s difficult to gauge how much is lost in translation when staring at him through a screen.

              The three of us currently residing in the California Clubhouse are currently on a Skype call with the MC's favorite prodigal son. I'm seated in the desk chair in front of the computer screen; behind me, Lane dips into view to offer a small wave, but I've told her enough about Lesher already to guess her facial expression at finally meeting him.

              "Man, Lesh, you can't even manage to get a tan in South America?" I joke to try and lighten the mood. "You've been down there how long?"

              "Go fuck yourself," the man says, but he's cut off when another figure leaps into the frame: Nancy Cardigan, beautiful and perky as ever, waves exuberantly at me. Her auburn hair has grown out a lot since the last time I saw her, and at least her complexion hints that she's been able to spend some time in the sun.

              "Heeey Wolf!" she greets me. "I miss you, buddy!"

              I grin. "Hey, dollface. It's been too long. When the hell are the two of you heading back?"

              "Once things calm down on your end," Nancy reassures me. "Although, I'm kind of digging it in South America." She glances up, noticing Lane, and waves to her as well. "Hello!"

              The connection lags slightly, and I'm treated to a few still frames of Lesher yanking her off her feet and down onto his knee so they can both fit inside the screen. I chuckle and shake my head. "I see things haven't changed all that much between the two of you."

              "Oh, I wouldn't know about that." Nancy blushes, and I can see she's keeping something from me—something she wants to tell me desperately. I notice the glint of what looks like an engagement ring on her finger, but before I can guess at this recent development, Lesher gets us back on track.

              "What do you want, Wolf?"

              "We just had a question about that flash drive you stole a few months back," I mention, crossing my arms and leaning back from the console. I feel the back of my chair bump against Lane's stomach, and she lays a hand on my shoulder. Lesher's eyes lift a little, and I swear one of his eyebrows twitches in suppressed curiosity.

              "Oh yeah? And do you have any other information on this 'we' besides a name?" he asks me. Okay, maybe his curiosity isn't
that
suppressed.

              Before Lane can get a word out, Dash leans into the frame, his cool presence interrupting the ignition of any personality sparks. "Bentley was asking about it. He wants to know if it's got anything on the locations of the DBMC safe houses, or on the bars they're currently holding in their territory. He wants us to start taking them out."

              I swing around in the chair. "He does?" I ask incredulously. Lane elbows me, half to remind me that I'm supposed to seem like I know what I'm doing, and half to call my attention back to the Robber Baron who sits on a pile of answers a world away. I turn back around and rake a hand through my rumpled hair. Helps me think.

              "The Devil’s Bastards have been known to move their operations often," I explain to Lane. "And I'm betting it's been happening a lot more frequently these days thanks to a big production someone—who will go unnamed—put on a few months back."

              From an undisclosed country, I can hear Lesher snort.

              "Having revolving Clubhouses can be a good defense tactic," I add. "But it can also leave them fractured if one or more members don't happen to get the memo. Sort of like a change of password. The bar we first met at used to be one of their old haunts before they abandoned it; now it's just frequented by middle-aged wannabes."

              "I knew it," Lane muttered. "I was working on correct information, but it was outdated information. Thanks for making me feel like an idiot about that, by the way."

              "You're welcome," I say. "So, Lesh? Think you can send us the info?"

              "You guys are in the California clubhouse? There's practically one at your front door," Lesher states as he turns away from his computer. Nancy also leans to look; when Lesher reappears, he's holding the flash drive. "Most of it's bank information, but some of it's personal spreadsheets the club kept on file."

              "They weren't too good about keeping their paperwork organized, to be honest," Nancy says. "But there is a document exactly like you just described. Dash, was it?" She smiles. "Want me to e-mail it to you guys?"

              "If you would be so kind, my sweet," I agree. Beside me, Dash nods. I feel Lane bristle, and I wonder if she's at all jealous of my repartee with little Nancy.

              "Remind me again why you guys have this? And what exactly is this ‘bank information’ you just mentioned? I assume you didn't come by it legally?"

              So I left a few parts of the Lesher story out when I relayed it to her earlier.

              I wave quickly to the couple on the screen. "Welp, see you later! So long! Farewell! Logging off for now! And Nancy?"

              "Yes?" The woman cranes closer, so close that I see Lesher's hands come up to wrap instinctively around her waist and keep her from falling forward. I notice he wears a ring on his finger as well. Lesh was never one to go in for jewelry…at least, not until this singular woman.

              "Happy for you, Nance." I grin. "Send me an invite to the wedding, will you?"

              "Roger that." Nancy blushes. "Over and out, or…whatever. Don't be a stranger!"

              The screen blips off, and I turn back to my accomplices. Dash and Lane both stand with mirrored postures: their arms crossed and their faces contemplative. "Jeez, lighten up you two," I say. "Do we need to get this party started already? You want to hit them tonight?"

              "Yes," they both respond at the same time. Then, noticing they share one similarity too many, the two of them quickly break their stances. Dash moves out of the room to gather up his gear as Lane turns to me.

"I know what I have to do if I want to get my badge back and bring these assholes to justice." She looks at me, and I feel my stomach drop at the determined quality of her gaze. "And so do you," she says.

Why do I have a feeling things are about to get recklessly, stupidly dangerous around here? And why does that thought suddenly make me so nervous?

Before, when I was Houdini, I had nothing but my own life to lose; now, staring at Lane, I realize just how much things have changed.

LANE

"Wolf says you're terrible at going undercover."

              I shoot a sharp look toward the biker walking beside me. "Wolf is full of shit and you know it. Dash, was it?" I ask him. "Why don't you live up to your name and walk a little faster?"

              The tall, silent man says nothing in response to this. I think of him as
silent
because there's really no better description; he exists, and he takes up a lot of space, all things considered, but he doesn't draw a lot of attention to himself despite his size. He's taller than Wolf, maybe six-foot-five, and his gait is maddeningly unhurried. More than once I've tried to push for more speed as his slow going has prevented us from reaching the biker bar any faster.

              He's certainly handsome, I'll give him that much. So far these Robber Barons are nothing like the unwashed road warriors I might have expected to find beneath their helmets—they know how to take care of themselves, and they clearly have the money to do so. Dash is considerably more clean-cut than Wolf is, with short-cropped, almost nondescript brown hair. He wears the unshaven look just as well, although I wouldn't accuse him of being scruffy, like I might Wolf. Nine times out of ten, it looks more like Wolf has forgotten to pick up a razor blade that morning, rather than looking like he was intentionally going for the beard.

              Dash's face is strong and angular; in certain light, the shadows under his cheekbones make him appear almost gaunt. Strange, considering his frame is generously muscled, his devotion to fitness more obvious and more deliberate than Wolf's. Something tells me he's seen some shit in his day, but apparently this same shit hasn't introduced a need for urgency in his stride.

              It's a different matter on his bike. He drives smoothly, without hitch or incident. He's a hundred times more careful than Wolf is on the road, but the ride over wasn't boring in the slightest; it just makes me want to get back on a bike and ride on forever. Never thought I would consider myself a biker chick, but I have a renewed appreciation for the lifestyle, and I can certainly see the appeal. I would chalk up his driving style to maturity, only I'm not sure how much older than Wolf or me this man actually is. My guess is only a few years at maximum.

              "While we're being honest, tell me how I look," I prompt him as we pause in the shadows outside the bar. He stands in the darkness, silent as ever, studying me beneath the glow of the porch light. We aren't alone out here: there are more than a few bikers loitering on the deck, but they're engaged in heavy conversation and none of them appear to have noticed our arrival in their midst yet. I assume there are a lot of men Dash's size, and a lot of women in my  particular uniform this evening, coming in and out of that front door.

"You look like a prostitute," he offers. I look down to assess myself, reaching up to adjust the cradle of my dress and allowing my breasts fuller room to breathe. I could care less if he's looking; that's my intention, after all. If this getup works on a stoic man like Dash, than we should have no problem gaining entry to the Devil’s Bastards' bar.

I'm dressed in a tiny, tight black dress, form fitting in the way that body paint hugs flesh and leaves nothing to the imagination. I'm pretty sure the faster I walk, the more the hem of the dress rides up, exposing just a sneak peek of my ass... Wolf assured me this is a good thing, so I don't worry about it aside from how cold it feels down there. We'll be inside soon enough. A wedge of the dress has been tastelessly (to my mind) cut out around my midsection by the designer, exposing the underside of my cleavage as much as the neckline exposes the topside. This, too, was met with Wolf's stamp of approval. I honestly can't tell in the darkness what a man like Dash thinks of all this.

"Thanks for coming along," I mention as I glance up toward the porch.

"No problem."

"We might have a problem. We might have a
lot
of problems," I remind him. "We're infiltrating a bar that your friend Lesher tells us is a front for the Devil’s Bastards' sex trafficking ring. We need to get in and get out again with at least one bag of their synthetic dope. Even dime-sized will do," I say. "So you still think you're up for this?"

"Would you rather Wolf were here?"

I sigh. "Lesher said they would I.D. him in a second. Something about an assassination attempt that turned into a fistfight that turned into Wolf riding into the DBMC warehouse with his tailpipe blazing—somehow, I got the impression that it was all that guy Lesher's fault."

"It will be an interesting day when the two of you meet," Dash muses as we walk around the side of the stairs and mount them together. I can't help but scoff at this, although I try to keep my disbelief to myself; I don't want to draw attention from the leather-clad creeps who are already eyeing us.

"I don't know how many more of you guys I intend to meet," I say finally. I realize belatedly that I'm not sure what else I should say. It never occurred to me how I might feel now that I've been taken into the fold. The Robber Baron Motorcycle Club is flying below the radar and the broader awareness of the law, operating like some vigilante Justice League without regard for even the simplest human constructs, like borders. Lord even knows if they're still paying taxes. And although I appreciated his help, hearing what I've heard about this guy Lesher Vance, I find him and his actions bordering on extremely distasteful already. I'm operating with one hundred percent certainty that Wolf glossed over a lot in his character profile of the biker living in self-exile in South America.

"Probably a smart idea," Dash comments.

"Thank you."

Dash at least has proven himself to be steadfast so far. We make it to the door of the bar; the bouncer crosses his arms, muscles bulging beneath tattoos that clearly mark him as someone involved with the cartel as well as the Bastards. Dash drops his arm around my shoulder and makes a remark to the bouncer in Spanish. I can scarcely believe it when the bouncer's face breaks into a wide smile, but I master my surprise. I reach up to pull Dash's dangling wrist down, just inches above my breast, and smile obliviously. The bouncer ushers us in.

"I told him I was delivering a product," Dash stoops to whisper an apology as we breeze on past the door. The interior of the bar is sparsely lit and packed to the rafters; everything smells of sour sweat and spilled alcohol. I'm also certain that sickly-sweet, synthetic smoke hangs in the air. I try not to breathe in too much of it as we make our way to the bar, but I'm not sure it can be helped. A contact high that I know nothing about is the last thing I want for either of us, but so long as I avoid drinking as much as I can, I'm trained and ready to keep my wits about me.

"Great," I state as we find an empty space to post up in. I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice—I'm actually grateful to my biker escort for knowing exactly how to talk to these misogynistic specimens from both sides of the border. Maybe I would never admit it out loud, but Wolf is right about me: I'm not the best at going undercover. There’s only one way to get better at it, but it's seriously unfortunate that every opportunity that presents itself also comes with the highest stakes possible. "I really need to brush up on my Spanish," I mutter mutinously.

"Just sit there and look beautiful and let me take care of getting us where we need to go." Dash turns his back on the room to order a drink as I assess the clientele around me.

              "I would love it if, just once, reality aligned with equality. Why can't
you
be
my
sex worker?" I grouse.

              "I'm flattered." I watch as his lips, broad and generous for a man, pull into a wan amused smile. "I assume that was a compliment."

              "More than Wolf's ever gotten."

              "The two of you make a strange pair. Though, you're kind of perfect for each other," Dash amends as the bartender slides him two shots of tequila. I put my hand up when he offers me one, half to decline, and half in protest of what he's just said.

              "We're…" I begin. The word
complicated
comes to mind, but the first half of my sentence has barely left my lips before my eyes cut to a motion across the room. There is a man toward the back, leaning up against the curtained entry to what I can only assume is a hidden hallway. He's staring directly at us—at me, more specifically, although I don't think he's beyond noticing Dash either. I elbow my partner-in-justifiable-crime, and to his continuing credit he immediately understands my intent. We depart from the bar and stroll through the teaming bodies toward the back. Thanks to Dash's height, he is easily able to hold his drink aloft and out of harm's way.

              "This number with you?" the man at the hidden door asks without segue. His eyes drag all along me, but his question is obviously aimed toward Dash. I'd be surprised, judging by his tone, if he'd even stoop to talk to me. I avoid bridling and edge a little closer to my escort.

             
Come on, Dash,
I pray silently. I suddenly wish we'd had more time to plot this out at the bar.
If that's what they want to think, just go with it. I promise I won't be offended. Just get us in there.
Curtains are meant to conceal, to hide; I want to take a peek behind it and see what Oz is
really
all about.

             
To my intense surprise, a feel a pair of strong fingers hook themselves beneath my left ass cheek and pull me sideways. I narrowly avoid crashing clumsily into Dash's side as he cements me against him possessively. "My lady friend was begging me for a round on the way over…and I don't mean drinks." He offers the shot he carries to the guard. "You got a backroom we can use?"

              He's good at this…maybe too good. Ridiculously, I can feel a flush threaten to overtake my face; I battle it back as the Bastard assesses me approvingly. "I can see why it might be…urgent," the biker says. "Go all the way down and to the left if you want company." He accepts the offered shot, his lascivious gaze still crawling all over me. I offer a saccharine smile for him to chase his drink with.

              The man throws his head back, taking the shot, and obviously inviting us to pass. Dash leads me into the hallway with the hand he still has clamped to my ass, and now I really do find myself blushing once we're past the curtain and safe in the dark, smoky corridor. "You can ease up a little," I murmur. The pressure of his fingers reminds me a little too much of just what Wolf's hands are capable of when they're finding their way around me.

              "Sorry." His hand moves up to the curve of my back, and some of the tension bleeds out of me. I'm not stupid enough to think we don't need to keep appearances up now that we're past the guard. I'm also not crazy enough to not
slightly
enjoy having a man like Dash touching me, but my thoughts can't help but travel to Wolf every time he does. It would be all the more thrilling to have the Baron I've taken for a lover here by my side.

              "I think this is the door he meant," I whisper as we near the end of the long hallway. A sliver of light bleeds past the crack in the wall. "Although I wonder what he meant by…?"

              Dash pushes the door open, and I have my answer. The room is completely bare save for a clean white cot elevated on a metal frame. A slender young girl stands up from it. She can't be more than twenty, maybe even younger. Her hair is long and straight and raven-black, and it flows like silk past her naked shoulders. She's barefoot, wearing a thin shift and scarcely anything else. Big brown eyes blink at us, startled.

              "They let you past?" She speaks in a lovely Spanish accent, so thin it's scarcely traceable in her words save for an unconsciously seductive current. She appears confused, maybe even a little frightened, until her gaze falls to me. She looks more reassured seeing that she isn't alone in the room with Dash. "They aren't supposed to invite strangers back to see me.

              "Who are you?" Dash asks quietly. My eyes cut sideways to him, unsure of what I'm hearing. I detect a note of…something…in his voice. His hazel eyes reflect the light from above as he stares at the girl openly in wonder. I can almost believe in that moment that he's never seen a woman before.

              I would never admit it out loud, but I feel humbled when I realize I know that look. It's the same way that Wolf looks at me when he thinks I'm not aware of it, when there's no tinted helmet visor for Houdini to hide behind. Still, I find myself wondering what it means that Dash wears it now as he considers this stranger.

              "Gabriella." Her pretty face pulls together in anger suddenly. She's noticed the look Dash is giving her, I think, and I wonder how often she is on the receiving end of that particular gaze. I don't have long to wait: her next words explain it all. "No one is allowed back here. No one is meant to see me until the auction."

              "Auction?" I echo incredulously. Dash makes a low noise in his throat. I'm fairly certain we both know what that means. The girl, Gabriella, fists her hands on her thin hips, stretching the shift downward by accident until it nearly exposes her breasts. As still as she's trying to hold, I can see that she's shivering slightly beneath it. I know, standing in my own ridiculous dress, that it's cold for a summer night, and even colder now that we're inside the poorly air conditioned building.