Bo awoke with a start, eyes shooting open like they’d been spring-loaded. Life gushed into him, the vestiges of his strange sleepy dream fading fast. He balled his hands into fists, stretching out, a yawn overtaking him.
As he stretched, pain niggled at his hip, stealing his breath for a moment. He winced, hands moving to his lower right belly, clutching at the waist of his jeans. The image of Dakota flashed through his mind, the perfectly-painted arc of her smile, the way those green eyes seared through him whenever he looked at her.
Where are you? Part of him was disappointed she wasn’t beside him in his big bed. Maybe that would have been hoping for too much.
Memories flooded back: the shoot-out at Dakota’s apartment. Jumping to protect her from the spray of bullets. The tiny shell that had nicked him in the line of defense.
Bo rubbed his face before he pushed up to sitting. So he’d been brought back to the clubhouse. His gaze drifted over the familiar contours of his bedroom; the creaky dark wood floor, the antique wooden dresser, the locker in the far corner full of his guns. Someone had drawn the curtains, but sunlight peeked through. Maybe he hadn’t been out long. Or maybe it had been days.
He groaned, pushing off his bed, struggling to remember how he’d gotten here. He and Dakota had been on the way here when—what happened? He squinted at the floorboards, like the answer might be somewhere in there. He’d passed out from blood loss, or something like it. The pain when Dakota clutched at him had been glaring white, and then—
And then darkness.
He let his head fall into his hands, more moments flooding his memory. Dakota’s words still rang in his ears: my life has turned to shit since you showed up.
He had to find her. Find out what happened, exactly, to both of them.
Bo’s bedroom door creaked open and Turbo poked his head in, his bald head gleaming despite the low lighting of the room. “Hey, brother! You’re awake.”
Bo forced a small smile, gesturing for him to come in. “Just trying to get up and figure out what the fuck is going on.”
“You were knocked out pretty good.” Turbo came inside the room, shutting the door behind him. The club had a closed-door policy, something that all the brothers agreed benefited both negotiations and sexual relations.
Bo nodded, taking stock of his interior environment. His belly growled, but he felt pretty fine otherwise. Gunshot wounds aside. “Did I hit anything?”
“Didn’t look like it. We think you passed out from the slug. It was in there pretty deep.”
Bo’s hand went to his side. “Did Marty take it out?”
Turbo nodded. Marty was the resident club nurse, though he’d only worked as a paramedic in his previous life. Still, it was good enough for the club needs. And anything he didn’t know, he YouTube’d. “It was a pretty clean gash, once we got all the dirt out. Probably hurts like a bitch, though.”
Bo winced, pushing to standing. He wobbled with the change of pressure, hand still on his side. “I’ll be fine.”
“Course you will.” Turbo grinned.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and then it creaked open. Marty poked his head in, followed by Butch and Yeti. Bo waved them in, and they came inside whooping and hollering.
“The boss is up!” Yeti, a tall brute of a man, named exactly for his resemblance to the mythical hairy creature, came to his side, slapping him so hard on the shoulder it made him cough. Butch tousled his hair, which made Bo reach out to shove him. They’d always had a big-brother-little-brother thing going on, and Butch used Bo’s weakness right now to exploit it.
Bo laughed, the bed creaking as the brothers sat down beside him.
“Came to give el presidente some updates,” Yeti said, the bed sagging under his weight. He’d been growing his hair out in recent times, so it looked like a 1970’s mess.
“Where’s Dakota?” His voice came out weak, but it wasn’t from the bullet wound. He was scared to find out she’d bolted. That their freaky morning at her apartment was the last he’d ever see of her.
A grin spread over Marty’s face. “You mean the sexy tatted girl?”
Bo narrowed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“She’s out with the guys,” Yeti said, squeezing his shoulder. “We’re taking care of her.”
Territorialism licked through him, alongside relief. So she hadn’t bolted the first chance she got. Maybe she’d stuck around because she cared. He straightened, barely noticing the strain in his low gut. “Don’t fuck around. Keep it cool with her. We’ve got a thing.”
“A thing?” Butch’s gritty laugh echoed through the bedroom. “Yeah, I figured. Few days holed up with anyone might get a ‘thing’ going.”
Bo rolled his eyes, easing to standing. “I’m going to find her.”
“Boss, take it easy. Just rest,” Marty said, face growing serious.
“Did I have a concussion?” Bo asked, looking down at Marty. Marty shook his head. “Then I’m fine. I’m going to go talk to her.”
“Hey.” Turbo grabbed Bo’s arm before he left the room. “She told us about Tony.”
Sadness trickled through him. Tony had been a good guy—it wasn’t fair that he got caught in the crosshairs.
“He must have been trailed going to Dakota’s apartment,” Bo said, his voice lowering. “He was closer to the window when they shot. He died immediately.”
His brothers nodded, a respectful silence filling the room. “He came here first before he went to visit you. He must have been tailed by someone from here. Probably Ray,” Turbo said.
“Ever since he left the club, he’s been itching to come for us.” Yeti shook his head, balling his fists. “I wanna beat that guy so bad.”
“Which means there’s no doubt about it. Demon Seed has to be behind these attacks,” Turbo said. “They must have linked you to the killing of their president.”
Bo sighed. Taking out their president had been more of a necessity than a desire—that club was unraveling at the seams, and every day operated more like a guerrilla warfare faction than a socially-responsible MC. But he’d known going in that the blowback might circle back to his club.
“We’re gonna lay low,” Butch said, clapping Bo’s back as they filed out of the room. Bo winced as he walked down the hallway, the clamor of voices and music growing louder as he neared the main area of the clubhouse.
As soon as he entered the grand room of the clubhouse, cheers erupted. Smiling faces of the rest of his brothers and a whole slew of club friends and a coupe hired girls greeted him, most in various states of inebriation. He wasn’t dumb enough to think they were all here to celebrate him finally emerging from his bedroom—no, it was simply a Friday night, and this sort of gathering was par for the course at the clubhouse.
He didn’t need to search the scene to find Dakota. His gaze natural gravitated toward her, without even knowing where she was. Like he had a secret GPS, just for her. A shiver coursed through him as he made his way to her, her back still turned to him as she sat at the long wooden bar.
Friends and brothers clapped his shoulder as he wove through the crowd. A couple blonde angels—the pet name for the girls who liked to hang around the clubhouse and hook up with the brothers, no matter their hair color—petted and stroked him as he passed, purring at him to find them later.
He shook them off, gaze never wavering from Dakota. She hugged a tumbler between her hands, flanked on both sides by two aspiring members, younger guys who were still in the initiation phase of maybe joining the club.
The prospect to her right moved his hand to the small of her back, a couple fingers sneaking under the hem of her shirt. His chest tightened and jealousy flared like a dragon. Bo grabbed the prospect by the collar, dragging him away from her.
“Don’t fucking touch her.” He tightened his grip, bringing his mouth to his ear. “Get the fuck out of here,” he growled, pushing him away. Part of it was mere theatrics—that was the point of being a prospect, finding out if they could handle the rough rigor of being a member—but also he wanted to make a point. Dakota was his.
Dakota turned to look at him, eyebrow arched severely. “Well look who it is.”
He leaned against the bar at her side, nodding at the other prospect. “You get out of here too. Dakota’s my girl. Got it?”
Realization seared across the prospect’s face and he hurried away, drinking sloshing in his hand as he bolted. Dakota looked up at him with a sly little grin.
“Your girl, huh?” Her lips looked so pretty he couldn’t focus on anything other than kissing them. “You never asked me about that.”
“Thought you might not have a problem with it.” He grinned down at her, inching closer. “Seemed like it was pretty mutual at your apartment.”
“I don’t know,” she said, looking like she fought a grin. “Not sure I can be with a biker who crashes his hog.”
He squared his jaw, both irritation and amusement streaking through him. She slurred her words a little, so maybe whatever was in her glass had given her the extra edge.
“You act like I wasn’t shot by a rifle earlier today.”
She held his gaze, something dark and mischievous coming over her. “You think that’s an excuse?”
He cleared his throat, reaching for her glass. “What’s in here? Gasoline? You’re talking crazy.”
“I’m talking perfectly fine.” She jabbed a finger into the center of his chest, sitting up defiantly. “And what I’m saying is, maybe you aren’t the tough guy you try to act like you are.”
He ran a tongue over his teeth, her words flip-flopping in his head a few times, like browning both sides of a pancake. If this was Dakota when she was drunk—provocative, mischievous, a little bit mean—then he could handle it. And maybe he liked it a little, too.
“You want me to prove to you I’m a tough guy?” He leaned closer, bringing his lips to her ear. “Is that what you want, Dakota?”
Her fingers knotted in his t-shirt at the chest, making a black bunch of the fabric. “Maybe I do.”
Cupping her cheek in his hand, he lowered his mouth to hers while he talked, lips grazing hers. “You’re drunk.”
When he pulled away from her, his body protested the distance, but if she wanted to play this game, he could play it too.
“I might be drunk, but I’m at least honest.” She took a sip at the amber liquid in her tumbler again, eyeing him like she might jump his bones. “Why don’t you be honest with me?”
He fought a grin, looking her up and down. “Oh, I’ll be honest with you.”
She stuck out her chin, like inviting him to go on.
“I’m about two seconds away from throwing you over my shoulder and taking your ass back to my bedroom,” he said, his voice hot in her ear. She straightened. “Is that the honesty you want to hear?”
She tossed back the rest of her drink, her eyes like fiery whips on him. She slammed the tumbler on the bar top, lifting a brow at him. “What are you waiting for?”