Heart Ties (Club Ties Book 2)
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Published By: The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,
400 Gilead Road, #1617, Huntersville, NC 28070
www.hartwoodpublishing.com
Heart Ties
Copyright © 2014 by Em Petrova
Digital Release: November 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62916-080-1
Cover Artist: Georgia Woods
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The only thing keeping Ex-Marine Drake from drinking himself into an early grave is his love of leather, horsepower, and his motorcycle club. Battling to adapt to a world where he isn’t blowing everything up, he roams the highways to keep his mind off his past. But after a mission to kidnap the curvy, tattooed goddess, Delta, he finds avoiding the bottle a little easier. Especially since he can only dream of finding solace against her silky body.
Delta would do anything to escape a life where pain and fear control her. She’s lived as a slave and outsider since she could walk. When a scary biker clan storms into her life and introduces her to her long-lost sister, she’s shocked to find warmth and comfort. While Delta knows better than to hope for a life she can’t have, Drake refuses to let her slip back into the hell she knows.
Plunged into a world of gambling, guns, and drugs isn’t her idea of paradise, but hunky Drake makes her pulse pound. Is it too much to believe that Drake can save her from her torment? And what can she do about extinguishing that burning, haunted look in his eyes?
“I don’t know why you bother with a hat, Drake. Your hair’s already as black as coal.”
Drake pulled a black knit hat down over his head and eyed his fellow brothers. They all wore black too—only the white and red patches on their leather cuts stuck out.
Not one for words, especially when he was on a mission, Drake shrugged and began to check his weapons.
The vice prez, Jamison, was expecting Drake to pull this off without violence, but he had a feeling the rival motorcycle gang wouldn’t just allow the Hell’s Sons to walk up to the door and ask for the sister of Jamison’s old lady.
“We don’t even know the name of Ever’s sister. How are we supposed to find her?”
“We’ll know.” Drake tucked a knife more securely in his boot then reached for the pistol strapped to his chest, under his cut. Preparing for battle came as natural as breathing. Several tours in Afghanistan did that to a man.
Satisfied with his pistol, he picked up his shotgun and jerked the pump action back. It made a satisfying click. He set the barrel down on his steel-toed boot and looked at his men.
Paxton, Harris, Burns from The Gearhead bar, and Wrench, a pretty handy guy to have on your side if your bike needed work. Hopefully he was as skilled with a gun. Could Drake trust these guys to back him in a shootout?
Paxton was their resident tattoo artist, but needles and bullets were two very different beasts. Burns was a loyal and button-lipped man who served the club well in their alcohol trade, but his shooting abilities remained to be seen.
Drake had done a few prescription drug runs with Harris before, but Drake’s motto was to never lean on a soldier until he proved himself.
That rang true with motorcycle club—or MC—brothers as well. He knew the guys, but trusting them with his life was a hell of a lot different from knowing they could run underground alcohol sales.
“You’re going to shoot your foot off, resting your barrel on your shoe that way,” Burns said. A portion of his face was twisted scar tissue—he’d earned his name the hard way.
Jamison’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. Not when he was in Recon-mode. “Won’t matter. The foot’s titanium.”
Burns blinked, and Wrench sniggered. So not everyone know about his leg. Drake flexed the muscle of his upper thigh, stretching against the straps holding his prosthetic in place.
They were half a block from the compound belonging to an unfamiliar charter of the Dark Raiders. The Sons were used to dealing with the rival club outside their hometown, not miles away. Raiders were Raiders, though. Black trades and blood spilled no matter which charter.
Drake backhanded the sweat on his cheekbone and stared at each of his men. “Harris takes the door by force. Pax rushes in first because he’s biggest and will instill fear straight off. Then I let the Raiders know what’s going to happen. Burns, Wrench, you cover us.”
“Yeah, man.”
“We’re in.”
Drake ignored the rivulet of sweat zigzagging from his knit hat down his temple. He did an about-face and started walking. The others fell into step behind him.
Throwing out his senses, Drake gathered every bit of information they might need to have a successful mission. Alleys at three o’clock and nine. Slight breeze carrying the scent of garbage and tinged with poverty. A used needle glinting on the blackened asphalt. A mile or so in the distance, a siren.
Their footsteps were dull thuds as they approached the steel-gray warehouse housing thieves, drug dealers, illegal weapons traders, and murderers.
The Hell’s Sons were fucking angels and saints compared to the Raiders. In the face of all those sins, selling prescription drugs and no-tax alcohol seemed tame.
His gaze zeroed in on the door, a black rectangle that would be locked from the inside. At this time of night, the Raiders wouldn’t have tea set out for visitors.
Drake didn’t even throw Harris a glance. He’d been told what to do, and now it was up to him to open that door.
Harris slashed an arm through the air to signal them to hang back. Then with a grunt, hurled himself forward. His boot struck the door, right around where the lock would be. Metal quivered but didn’t budge.
He grinned as if to say it was worth a try.
Plan B. Raising his weapon, Harris shot. Steel peeled away, and he kicked it open. Pax raced in.
The events ticked by in Drake’s mind, organizing themselves to be examined for flaws later. He suddenly stood in the middle of the Raider’s common room with about twenty pairs of eyes on him.
Pax trained his automatic weapon on the man wearing the president’s patch with tanned skin and oily hair. He bore a jagged scar down his face and neck. “Bring out all your women.”
“Fucking whoresons! You think you can storm into our club? You’re going out in body bags.”
Guns snapped upward, centered on Drake and his men. Wrench shifted from foot to foot, but Drake had been in tighter spots than this before. Casually he slipped a hand inside his leather vest, called a cut, and came out with a small cylinder.
He held it up to the light. “See this little case? It contains enough shit to blow your club off the map, along with everyone in it. Now. Bring. Out. Your. Women.” His voice was gritty and controlled, just as he’d trained himself to speak way back when he’d stormed into a foreign embassies and prisons, demanding they give up men.
When no one blinked or even breathed, Drake shook the cylinder, nice and slow. Much faster and the molecules would start to judder around inside the case. That’s when the fireworks happened.
“Shit, man,” Wrench murmured, but he didn’t run for the door. Good soldier.
The prez narrowed his rat eyes at Drake. “And if I shoot your brains out?”
Drake lifted a shoulder and let it fall in an exaggerated shrug. “Then this case hits the floor and you all go to Hell, where you belong.”
“You take your men with us.”
“They’re ready.” He tapped his skull with the cylinder. “Clear consciences.”
Tension clogged the air, and some of the Raiders started to get twitchy. Drake held his ground, slowly shaking the cylinder again as if it were nothing but a whipped cream can.
“Fuck, he’s going to blow us up, Lucky. Get the women out here.”
Drake nodded. “Smart man.”
“You ain’t taking our women,” someone drawled.
“Just need one,” Drake said.
“For five guys? Go find yourselves a whore,” the prez spat.
Drake shook the cylinder faster.
“Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He held his hands up. “Nichols, get the women.”
Drake’s heart beat slow and steady, and even his sweat seemed to dry. He continued to stare at the Raiders. Their club was tricked out in the best amenities—dark wood bar with new beer taps, flat screen TVs, top of the line pool table.
“Money’s coming in, I see,” he said.
Just then a low cry sounded and several women scuttled into the room. Eyes wide and filled with terror. Drake had long ago been hardened against such looks, and began to scan their faces.
He’d told his brothers they’d know when they saw Ever’s sister, but she wasn’t among the few women standing here. Not one had that special presence Ever had. Drake didn’t expect her sister to have flaming red hair too, because often genes weren’t doled out that way. But he thought she might have the same…grit.
He shook his head and tipped the cylinder a little faster.
“How much are you going to shake that?” Wrench whispered.
Drake ignored him. “This isn’t all your women.”
A guy called down the hall, and several others appeared. Club girls, decked out in skimpy outfits, faces painted. No, these girls were ridden hard and put away wet.
Drake jerked his wrist more and more. “Whooee, this cylinder is heating up.”
Wrench hissed, and Pax threw him a worried look.
A few guys in the corner shuffled to the sides, revealing a woman. On her knees, face turned away, but the telltale fall of wavy hair tumbling down to her hips revealed her identity.
“Not her,” Lucky barked.
Oh yes, it was her, and Lucky apparently knew the reason someone would come looking for the woman.
One of the guys reached for her elbow, and she cowered.
Fucking
cowered
.
Drake’s lips tightened. He took a step forward, and the guy nearest the woman gripped her arm.
She flipped her hair out of her face, exposing a pale oval of beauty. Striking features—almond-shaped eyes, a fine nose, and full lips. High cheekbones exactly like Ever’s, and obviously like the mother they shared.
She didn’t raise her eyes, but with a purposeful motion removed herself from the Raider’s hold. Straightening her shoulders, she unfolded slowly, rising from her crouch to her full height and meeting Drake’s gaze.
A fucking phoenix from the ashes.
Drake strode forward, and she didn’t flinch though she must be afraid. Yes, she had that same grit. When he curled his fingers around her lower arm, the muscle strained, but she didn’t issue a peep.
“The Raiders made the right choice in not having your club blown up. Let’s go, Sons.” With the woman in tow, Drake twitched his head to signal toward the door.
When he got the woman into the night, she didn’t even drag her heels as he expected. He couldn’t slow down to look at her until they reached their bikes. Harris started his first, and four more engines purred to life.
“Get on.” Drake pointed to his seat.
Her chest rose and fell, and her long hair swirled around her torso—the only indication she was shaking. Even in the dark her eyes burned like twin candles. Hell, he wasn’t ready to get sucked out of his Recon-mode. He didn’t have them home safely yet.
He placed his helmet in her hands, and she slid it on. With a satisfied grunt, he swung his leg over his bike and started the engine. Her warm body slid onto the bike against his. Yes, she was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.
Turning his head, he said, “I’m Drake, and I’m taking you to meet your sister.”
If she was surprised by this information, she didn’t show it. “I’m Delta, and I’m obliged for the escort.”
A rumble of laughter took him by surprise, especially since it was coming from him. He bit it off.
Recon-mode, his ass. He roared off into the night with Delta’s arms around his waist.
•●•