Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (6 page)

"So, the first one—is a proposal for your gang."

"Club.
It's not a gang—we're just motorcycle enthusiasts that get together and drink beer, belch, shine our bikes a lot. You know—bein' terribly manly and whatnot."

"Uh-huh. Honey, I might have fallen off a turnip truck but it wasn't last night. I ain't stupid."

"Never thought you were." He winked at her.

"So, I was at this fancy-schmantzy conference for social workers last week, and a bunch of people were talking about these bikers that help protect the kids they get to testify. Big, scary looking dudes guard the kids house, sit with them in court—that sorta thing."

"Yeah, I think I saw something about that on Facebook the other day." He shrugged. "I don't see why we couldn't help, but it wouldn't be up to me. I'm still just a prospect."

"So, who would it be up to?"

"Um, Captain, the Prez. Or Shep, my VP."

"Shepherd?  Like, former Pastor Shepherd who used to lead the youth group at the community center?" When he nodded, she whistled. "You know I hadn't put it together until just now. He's why you joined this gan—"

"Club."

"Whatever." She seemed to think it over. "Still can't believe he's a big, bad biker now. He's really strayed a long way from the path he was on."

"Not the way I see it." Pretty Boy could feel a muscle working in his jaw. "He still does his damnedest to take care of those in his charge, leads people towards making the right decisions. Helps them out when no one else will."

"Ok, ok—pull back on the hostile a little. Didn't mean to set off your defense mechanisms." She held up her hands, smoke curling around her heart shaped face. "I'm sure he's a really great gan—um,
club
leader."

"He is."

"Ok." She rolled her eyes. "Do you think you could talk to him about it?"

"Why don't you talk to him about it? I could get you a meeting."

Her face blanched. "Uh …"

"Etta, if you want to work with bikers, you're going to have to, you know,
talk
to them every now and then." He softened a little. "I can be there, too. If it'd help?"

"Yeah, I think that would be fine." She straightened a little. "I don't have to go that bar, do I?"

"You got a problem with Perdition?"

"No, no—I just need to focus for this, it's really important to me. And all those half-dressed girls with poor father figures sets off my momma-bear instincts."

Pretty Boy laughed. "The Hellions? Don't judge. They're great!"

"Yeah, just like sugar-coated breakfast cereals, I'm sure." She lit another smoke off her last one. "I'm not trying to be judgey—woman's prerogative, flaunt what you want and as long as you're choosing the males and being safe, it ain't none of my nevermind—I just …"

"It's fine, Etta. We can meet at Hades. Voo will cook you up something special." He grinned. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

"What is a 'Voo' and what does that entail?" She flushed. "'Something special' doesn't mean designer drugs, right?"

He laughed, slapping his knee. "Voodoo is one of the brothers and you're gonna love him. Everyone does."

"Oh yeah?"

He grinned. "When you meet him, you'll think about sleeping with him."

"Uh … I'm kinda seeing someone, so—"

"Won't matter. Voo is like walking sex in leather pants. Smells like some kind of earthy spice rack and the best food you ain't tasted yet. Everyone thinks about sleeping with him—even the straightest guys."

This had apparently done nothing to ease her fear. "Even so, no need to have him go to extra trouble. Whatever's on the menu will be just fine." She waved her red tipped nails at him.

"Voo will cook you up something special whether you want him to or not, trust me. He doesn't have a menu." He settled back in his lawn chair, tension radiating through him. "So, that's settled. Now tell me what's got your face looking like that. Do I need to break someone's knees?"

He was only half kidding.

"It's one of my kids," she admitted. "His father's a real mean-ass drunk. We haven't been able to prove enough to get him out of the house, but we'd finally convinced his momma to let him come to bible study at the community center."

He nodded. That was one of her favorite tricks to be able to talk to a kid one on one. Most parents who knew they were doing something wrong didn't appreciate social workers snooping around. But in Texas—wasn't nobody stopping their kid from getting a little more church in. Hard to argue with the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

"I'd just about talked him into making a statement, and he up and disappeared on me. I drove past his house a couple of times and he's in there, but he won't come back to the center. I don't know how to get him out and the last time I saw him, he had a black eye and he was limping."

Pretty Boy cracked his knuckles. "You want me to get him out? Or make sure his dad's arms are too broke to beat his boy?" He grinned. "Or both?"

"It's a little trickier than that. His father…"

Pretty Boy listened grimly as she told him what was up. Shep wasn't going to like this one bit. Especially not after the pointed lecture the prospects had gotten on “laying low” and “club safety first” and “keep your goddamn tempers for fuck’s sake.”

But sometimes, a man had to do what he had to do.

And fuck the consequences.

Chapter Seven

 Don't drink with Voo. He's better at it than you.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Pretty Boy's momma liked to say he'd been born to hustle and she wasn't wrong. From dawn to dusk, he was always moving, selling something, working some angle, building up allies and selling out enemies that never saw him coming. Today was just such a day. He'd spent the morning stacking tires for the rally at Seventh Circle Motors and flirting with Dani, cause why the hell not? He'd stopped by Eddie's to pick up the clothes she was donating to a family in his trailer park who'd just lost their father. Had lunch with the guy two trailers down from him who was trying to quit drinking and found the guy’s daughter a baby-sitting gig for the new mom in the red doublewide.

He spent the afternoon selling off his latest stash and a goodly amount of Eddie's shine. And tonight? He was on bartending duty at Perdition. Ryker had him on the schedule twice as often as the other prospects because of the spike in sales when he was working the bar. From daring cougars looking for a little cocktail courage to take home a biker and a story, to hellions who were usually more interested in clocking the guys than sucking down the drinks, he could get all of them running tabs that kept the bar's financials in the black.

The place was packed tonight, he couldn't even see the club motto,
Think on Your Sins'
on the back wall through all the people. But from the fresh clean on the bikes suspended from the exposed steel beams across the vaulted ceilings to the new felt on the custom Trans-Am Pool table, the former warehouse was all decked out and ready for the upcoming rally. He was rimming some glasses with salt for a bunch of MILFs he was pretty sure ran the PTA in town when Shep walked in, Voo hot on his heels.

"Just saying, mon frère, you're no preacher now. Celibacy should be a thing of your past."

"I was going to be a pastor, not a priest. Celibacy was never on the table," Shep called back, elbowing through the usual Thursday night crowd in for the half priced drinks.

"All the more reason to get your dick wet, brother," Voo returned, his soft Creole drawl accentuated by whatever he and Shep had been pre-gaming before they ambled into the MC's favorite watering hole.

Pretty Boy handed the tray of margaritas off to Fetch to deliver, shooting a wink to the table of ladies eagerly awaiting their next round. He scooted down to where Voo had elbowed up to the bar. "What can I get you?"

"Two hellfires and a sidecar of brimstone whiskey." Voo pounded his fist on the table. "Each."

Pretty Boy caught Shep's eyes for confirmation—that was enough to put both the seasoned drinkers on their ass. Shep nodded and Pretty Boy shrugged. "Your funerals."

"Yours soon, Pretty." Voo laughed. "Revelation is coming—you ready for Judgment Day?"

"Willing and able," he quipped, affably. Truthfully? Revelation had him quaking in his shit-kickers. What if he didn't make it? What if the MC didn't want him and sent him away? Shep would be so disappointed in him. Maybe that would be the end of their friendship. He couldn't remember a prospect ever not making it and still hanging with the club. Things just didn't work like that.

Sometimes, he'd picture Shep giving him his cut. The Four Horsemen were divided into families, based on the founders. During Revelation, a member from each family picked which—if any—prospect would join the family-tree. He had waited years to prospect for it to be Shep's turn to pick. He'd heard rumors about the hell that was Revelation, but it would all be worth it if he got his patch into Shep's family—Famine—they'd be officially connected.

Other times? He was sure he'd never get that far. Someday the club was going to look at him the same way his parents did. As a waste of time.

He grabbed two frosty pilsner glasses and scooped ice into them. Then he snagged some top shelf rum, twirling the bottle to give the citizens—non-club members—a show and pouring a healthy double in each glass.  "So VP, I think I solved our entertainment problem."

"That so?" Shep gave him a skeptic stare.

"Yeah, I was thinking—let's put on a prize-fight. We might even make a little money off it, if you let Jag run the books."

"I love it!" Voo grinned. "Who's going to fight?"

Pretty Boy forced himself not to look at Shep. "I thought I would. We'll have to scare up an opponent—"

"Hang on, hang on." Voo laughed. "You? You any good?"

"Yes," Shep said softly. Pretty Boy grinned, liking the proud tone of his voice.

Voo straightened up, looking between him and Shep. "Is that so? He better than you, VP?"

"He trained me," Pretty Boy said before he thought about it. Shep was going to be pissed when he worked out he'd just been played in front of Voo.

"That doesn't mean I –" Shep cut himself off. "Shit."

"What's the problem, brother? A good old fashioned knockout in the ring is just what this party needed!" Voo clapped him on the back. "You trained the kid. You say he can fight. We all know it'll be a good time—and there's profit to be made. What's the down side?"

Shep's face shuttered. "No, you're right. We should do it."

"Awesome. I'll book it." Pretty Boy hid his grin by getting back to making drinks. He sliced some fresh lime wedges, squeezed a little in each glass and tossed in the scrunched extra, then added a couple shakes of hot sauce—two extra for Voo—and topped it off with half ginger beer and half lager. He poured their side cars and slid the set in front of the two with a mock salute. "Y'all want some pretzels with that?"

"Didn't come here to eat." Shep frowned. "Certainly not stale-ass bar pretzels."

"So Yo handled himself well tonight?" Voo asked.

"Shoulda seen him shit-talking like it weren't no thing." Shep grinned. "Like he didn't give a damn what would happen. Cap was so fucking proud, I thought his cut would burst."

"Good on him." Voo laughed. He took his sidecar shot in one swallow and washed it down with about half of his hellfire. "So, back to the topic at hand—"

Shep groaned. "Leave it alone, Voo."

 "Look—you go around here, squaring everyone's love life away, vetting old ladies left and right, and I've never even seen you bed down a hellion. Every man deserves a break now and again, brother." Voo pushed Shep's sidecar towards him. "You've been hungover as shit every day this week and you're looking like hell warmed over. Take a vacay with a little pussy. You earned it."

"Thanks, but I'll pass." Shep downed his sidecar and took a swig of hellfire, but came up coughing and sputtering. He eyed Voo with accusation. "Holy fuck—you enjoy this molten shit?"

Pretty Boy hid a grin and scooted the bowl of pretzels toward Shep. "Too much hot sauce?"

Shep stuffed a handful in his mouth, glaring at Voo who laughed his ass off, dreadlocks dancing around his face.

"You alright, man?" Voo wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

"Who the hell thought of putting hot sauce in a drink? And where can I find the miserable bastard, so I can drag him out in the street and shoot him?" Shep demanded.

"It'll put hair on your chest, brother."

"Fuck that! I don't want hair on my chest. Or anymore of this." He pushed the drink back towards Pretty Boy. "Get me a beer. A nice, regular-ass, cold beer. Sans hot sauce, got it?"

"Yes, sir." Pretty Boy smirked. He held Shep's gaze the entire time he poured him a tall glass from the tap, and watched him gulp it down in a few hard swallows.

Voo glanced surreptitiously between the two of them and Pretty Boy raised a brow, but said nothing. What was that dread-locked mofo up to?

Voo put his hand on Shep's shoulder and gestured to Wendy, the new hellion they'd hired on as a bar-maid. She was wiping down tables in the shortest shorts WalMart ever made, her tied-on halter top covering very little of a seriously cut mid-riff. She didn't have a lot in the way of curves—small tits, straight hips. But she had an ass sexier than the rear bumper of a fresh off the line Ducati. Pretty Boy had given some thought to tapping that himself, but he was on a kind of low-hellion diet right now. On account of he didn’t want Shep looking at him with those sorrowful, hound-dog eyes.

There was a lithe kind of grace in her movements as she turned, tray of empties in hand, and headed for the bar. Her face was angular, pale and rich like cream. Her cat-like eyes wide and green, framed by a spiky black pixie cut. She wore a black headband with a jade skull and crossbones dangle that fell right below her widow's peak.

"How about that petite mignon? I'm sure she'd give you a hell of a ride, me." Voo  grinned as she stopped, leaning past Shep to put her tray down.

"Hey, fellas—what's going on?" She had a smoky alto voice, which Pretty Boy had thought was kind of hot right up until the moment she started eyeballing the VP like he was prime A beefcake.