Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (8 page)

Pretty Boy scraped his teeth across Shep's bottom lip and they both gasped, exchanging hot, panting breaths. Shep dragged his blunt nails down Pretty Boy's back, sliding just below the waistband of his jeans and pushing him closer. Pretty Boy ground his hips into Shep's and he could feel the younger man's arousal pushing against him. Heat engulfed him and all he wanted was less clothes between them.

Shep broke for air, and Pretty Boy's teeth landed on his jugular, scraping, biting, teasing and in another second Shep would combust right here. He dragged Noah’s mouth back up to another deeply drugging kiss. It was like completing a circuit. Like he had been wandering around in the desert, dying of dehydration and Pretty Boy was cool, clear water—everything Shep had ever thirsted for.

"Shep …" Pretty Boy breathed, pushing deeper against him, his hands clenched in the leather of Shep's cut.

"Shut up," Shep growled and kissed him again. This could never stop. Not ever. Or Shep would drown. Would asphyxiate. Would just fall to his knees and die right here.

Pretty Boy thrust hard against him, growling low in his throat. Shep's hands worked around to the front of his pants, his fingers flicking open the top button of his fly.

What the hell had come over him? He should stop this.

He couldn't.

Because somewhere deep and scared inside, he knew he'd never have the guts to do this again. And then he'd spend the rest of his life remembering this moment and urgently wishing he'd made it last just a little longer.

There wasn't a single thing in the world that was more important than this moment right here. Not a damn thing that could stop him.

Except …

The deep reverberation of a Harley cut through the moment and a second later, headlights flashed own the alley.

Shep sprang away from Pretty Boy so fast the younger man stumbled and Shep had to catch him before he knocked into the brick wall. The motorcycle came to a stop at the mouth of the alley.

"Shep? That you, brother?"

Duke.

He couldn't imagine a worse member of the MC to catch him—doing whatever the fuck he'd just been doing. Shep's eyes closed and he dragged air into his lungs. "Yeah, brother!"

Duke's heavy steps sounded down the alley. "What's going on?"

Shep breathed a deep sigh of relief. He hadn't seen anything. He studiously avoided Pretty Boy's gaze, willing his body to get under control. "Nothing. Just grabbing a smoke. 'Bout to head inside for another round. You?"

"Figured I'd see if anyone was game for some pool. Rose is hanging over at Daisy's tonight and all this behaving myself is getting old," Duke laughed. "If the Feds don't get the fuck out of town soon, I'm going to have to buy myself a strait jacket."

"I hear that." Shep glanced at Pretty Boy, but he was staring at the ground, fists slowly unclenching at his sides.

Duke's eyes flickered over Pretty Boy, his eyes cold and disdainful as ever when he addressed a non-member. "Hey, prospect—make yourself useful instead of followin’ Shep around like a lost puppy. Go set us up with a couple of rounds at the pool table. I’m going to school your VP."

Pretty Boy's eyes drilled into Shep's, full of questions he didn't want to answer right now. Shep drew himself up a few inches. "You heard him. Get going!"

Pretty Boy nodded, turned on his heel and headed inside. He didn't spare another glance at Shep.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat and looked at Duke. "I’m havin’ another smoke. Meet you in there?"

Duke waved his hand. "I'll stay and keep you company."

"You will?" He frowned as he lit his cigarette. "Is something up?"

"Actually what I was here to ask you." Duke gave him a measured glance. "You got everything squared away? You need help with anythin'?"

"Rally's coming along fine."

"Ain't asking 'bout the rally. I'm asking about you." Duke leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

"I'm fine," he said flatly. Duke always had his back—had brought him into his own family of Famine and for that he'd be forever grateful. And in most things, he trusted him implicitly. But he couldn't help with this. Shep knew how Duke felt about
fags.

"Uh-huh." Duke sighed, staring at his boots. "You know, I've said those words enough times to know when they're a fuckin' lie."

"That why you really came out here tonight? To check on me?" Shep sighed. "I'm dealin' with some shit. Just don't feel like sharing. Nothin' personal."

Duke nodded slowly. "Look, I ain't so great at this whole talking a friend through a hard time thing. But the fact that you're in a bad fucking way is all over your face. If you need help—I just want you to know, I'm here. There's not a lot of men I trust—" he cut off and swallowed hard. "Matter of fact, it's kinda just you. So if you need me to keep whatever this is on the down low, it can stay between us."

That might have been the highest praise Duke had ever given another human being. Shep's chest squeezed tight. He wished he could honor that trust, but confessin' his sins to Duke would just destroy it. "I 'preciate that, brother. But I got this. For now."

"Alright. When you're ready." Duke straightened and adjusted his belt buckle, maybe trying to pull a little macho over the fact he'd just shown some emotion. "Then plan B—wanna go shoot some pool and get shit-faced?"

     "I surely do."

Chapter Nine

 Don't lie to your brothers. Man up and tell the truth or keep your damn mouth shut.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Perdition at closing time made Pretty Boy’s top ten list for playing “Anywhere but here.” Tonight, he was tired. Pissed. And jonesing for a drink. But there was something about the soft quiet, the cool interplay of security lights and moonbeams dancing through the windows, the long shadows stretching over the bike suspended from the ceiling to stroke the stools at the bar—it gave him a sense of peace somewhat unrivaled in his bustling life.

 He finished wiping down the bar, restocked the final rack of dry pint glasses and grabbed himself a little something special from the walk-in. His own personal bottle full up on Eddie's peach moonshine—perfect way to end his fucking night.

He paused, contemplatin’ whether Eddie would forgive him if he tilted a whole jug of her finest back, instead of pouring it into a chilled glass the way her 'shine deserved.

Nope.

He crossed through the kitchen to grab a small Mason jar from the cold storage. On his way back, he clicked on the overhead vent fans and lit a cigarette. Ryker didn't care afterhours, as long as the front room didn't reek like an ashtray. He exhaled up the line of the vent, following the smoke vacuumed through the air ducts.

Fucking Shep making out with a goddamn hellion.

Anger burned in the pit in his gut. His hands in her hair as she arched, mouth in a silent gasp, obviously loving every damn second. He could picture the nimble lines of her body wrapped around the biker, the sharp contrast of her pale skin and dark hair against all that gilded tawny that was Shep.
His
Shep.

He took another drag of his smoke and tossed it in the garbage disposal, taking a rather savage amount of satisfaction from the loud grinding sound it made. He bee-lined for the bar and a taste of peachy keen with a side of white lightning.

But he was no longer drinking alone. Posted up at the corner stool, slouching against the wall behind him, Shep watched him with hooded eyes. He had twisted the cork out of the jug of shine, but his eyes were too alert for him to have partaken. His silver Zippo flashed between his lean fingers as he tumbled it over his knuckles.

Pretty Boy didn't say a goddamn word to him.

The Horsemen had gotten him the lighter for his birthday a few months ago. Engraved on the front were the words, "Shepherd is Nigh." Apparently it had been Duke's idea to carve the final lines of the prospects' respect call to the VP; a tradition in place since Shep took the position.  Shep was really the only one Pretty Boy had seen Duke show any sort of friendly feelings for. Pretty Boy knew it was one of his most prized possessions. Shep always got it refilled, trimmed up and kept it well-shined.

"Ryker know you're smoking in his bar?" Shep drawled, the lazy indolence of the tone masked the intensity of a rear-backed rattler. Pretty Boy knew that look all too well.

"Why? You gonna tattle on me?" He pulled a stool from the kitchen up to the bartenders' side of the bar, facing Shep and elbowed down.

Shep drew a smoke from his pack in one fluid movement. The Zippo snapped open and he rolled the wheel down his jean-clad knee. It flared to life. Pretty Boy could hear the crackle as he lit the cigarette, the sweet sharp scent of tobacco in the air. He met Pretty Boy's gaze through the tendrils of smoke. "I won't tell if you don't."

Shep watched Pretty Boy the way he'd watch a coyote on his six. He'd drained his flask in the parking lot after he had ditched Wendy, chain-smoking until he was certain everyone but Pretty Boy had gone home for the night. This was not how he'd pictured this little talk going.

 But fuck if he could picture how it
should
go either.

Pretty Boy's jaw tensed, the muscle jumping against his teeth. "Is that why you're here? To see who I'd tell?"

"Didn't figure you were planning on telling anyone." Shep shrugged. "Was I wrong?"

"Oh no. I'm not playing this game with you." Pretty Boy narrowed his eyes.

"And what game do you want to play with me?" Demons rode his tongue. He gritted his teeth as if he could bite the words back.

"I'm getting to that. Believe me." Pretty Boy smirked. He snagged the smoke out Shep's hand with two fingers, turning his wrist to hit it once and passed it back. "You put the brutal in honesty. Draw confessions out of people they didn't even know were there."

Shep cocked his head to the side. "But?"

He smiled grimly. "You don't confide in anyone."

"Just because I don't tell you—"

"Oh, you going to come in tomorrow and tell Ryker you were making out with me in the alley behind his bar?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Your point?"

Pretty Boy smiled tightly and splashed a good deal of moonshine into both glasses. "Taste that."

Shep's hand tilted the moonshine down his throat before his brain gave him permission. The warm tart of the peach soothed the burn of the alcohol. "Almost as good as the apple."

"There should be more of that on the way soon." He refilled Shep's glass. "We're going to play 'never have I ever.'"

"Why on earth would I do that?"

Pretty Boy smiled. "Because you're still working up the courage to ask me about what's swirling on your brain. This should fix that."

"Don't really approve of drinking games." Shep's chin jutted mutinously. "I don't require a point system to get drunk."

"No, all you need is a place. Lately, anyways. What's a matter Shep, scared?"

Shep was scared spitless. He should get up. Give up on this talk and get the fuck out of here before he did something he'd regret. But temptation had never laid a stronger hand on him. He felt glued to his barstool. He was going nowhere.

"Just trying to figure out your angle," he drawled. His eyes fixed on Pretty Boy's thumb ring glinting in the security lights. Just a thick piece of shined steel, wrapped perfectly around the strong lines of his thumb, but that piece of jewelry played a starring role in his most shameful wet dreams.

"For all I've known you longer and better than half the Horsemen have, there's still some shit it turns out I don't know. And I'm angling to find some answers." He grinned. "You in?"

"You think you know me so well," Shep scoffed.

"Don't I?" He smirked, leaning close and whispering low, "Or did you want to just jump straight into talking about you and me in that alley? Or what might have happened if Duke hadn't interrupted?"

Shep took a hard breath and set his jaw. "Never have I ever wanted to play this game."

Pretty Boy cast a speculative look over the rim of his glass. "Never have I ever made out with a girl in an alley to prove a point."

"Ouch." Shep winced and took a drink, feeling fifty shades of douchebag. Not his best moment. "Getting a little pointed there, aren't ya'?"

"We're just getting started," Pretty Boy promised grimly. He clicked that damn thumb ring against his glass. "Your turn."

"Never have I ever forced a guy to play a drinking game because I was pissed he was with some hellion."

Pretty Boy inhaled sharply. "With?"

"In the alley," he clarified, a strange warmth flowing through him that had nothing to do with the moonshine and everything to do with the possessive burn in Pretty Boy's eyes.

Pretty Boy took a long swallow. "Yeah, I was pissed. But never have I ever thought I had a claim on you."

Shep couldn't say the same. He felt responsible for Pretty Boy, tied to him through some kind of deep and weighty connection. Maybe 'claim' wasn't exactly the right word, but it was close enough that he'd be a bold-faced liar if he denied it. And they both knew it.

Pretty Boy raised a brow, challenge smoky in his eyes.

Shep didn't want to back down, but something low and dirty kicked in his gut, twisting with raw, unadulterated attraction. His gaze slid away, refusing to focus on anything as he picked up his glass and drank.

The soft breath Pretty Boy inhaled in response sent a honeyed shiver through his chest, chased by the electric heat of the moonshine. He felt vulnerable, exposed. Lying to Pretty Boy wasn't that much different than just flat out telling the truth. Dude was wicked clever and insightful as fuck.

Especially when it came to Shep.

That realization did little to cool his growing interest. He was a hair's breadth from too turned on to sit on a barstool.

He squeezed his hand into a fist, trying to regain his composure. 
Fuck.
If he didn't get him to back off, he'd be in some serious trouble. He managed to grit out a terse, "Never have I ever made such a fuss over a simple kiss."