Silver Bastard

“I might’ve been a little jealous of Carlie,” I admitted.

“We keep this crap up, we’ll miss the party.”

“It’s not that late,” I protested, surprised.

“Yeah, but it’s a Wednesday night and I’ve got shit to deal with tomorrow,” he said. “Club business. We usually get together on Wednesdays, but a lot of the guys have to work on Thursday. It’s over by midnight.”

As he pulled me toward his bike, something he said stuck in my head. Something I’d been wondering about.

“Puck, what do you do for a living?”

He stilled, then turned to me.

“Why would you ask that?” His voice was soft, but his tone was harsh. Suddenly Scary Puck was back—so different from the man I’d seen over the past couple of days. How did he switch off modes so fast, and which was the real man?

“Everyone has to pay the bills,” I continued, my voice quiet. “I wait tables. Blake tends bar. Joe works in the mine. What am I getting into with you?”

“You know I can’t answer that,” he said, his tone still harsh but a hint of compassion in his eyes. “You grew up around a club. I’ve never pretended to be something I’m not.”

“You said the Silver Bastards were different.”

His lips twitched in what was supposed to be a smile.

“Not that different. C’mon. Let’s go.”

—

The clubhouse was only ten minutes away—an old bar just outside of town. I’d driven by a thousand times, of course, but I’d never been inside. It was known for wild parties. Once or twice before every election, the sheriff would raid it—I’d always wondered why nobody got arrested. Then one day Blake filled me in.

The sheriff did the least he could to appease the county commissioners, and not one thing more. According to Blake, the commissioners didn’t care for the club one bit. At the sheriff’s department they were a little more pragmatic. With the club in charge, the “criminal element” was somewhat contained and self-policed. That kept down crime overall, which was what really mattered.

I suspected there were strategic payoffs in place, too. Seemed like there’d been some hefty anonymous donations to the law enforcement benefit fund each year that nobody wanted to talk about.

The system worked.

I hopped off Puck’s bike and helped him back it into the line of Harleys. Things were so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Three prospects lingered outside, two Silver Bastards and one Reaper. They avoided staring at me. I’d gone to high school with one of them.

There had always been prospects hanging around the Longnecks, too.

Suddenly I wished I’d had a little more to drink, because I was alarmingly sober. Loud music poured from the bar, and when Puck wrapped an arm around my neck and started toward the building my feet didn’t want to move.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, giving me a squeeze. “Remember, these are my brothers. They’re the same people who saved you. They’ll protect you and so will I. This should be easy—you already know all the rules. I’ve seen how hard it is for girls coming into the life. You’re way ahead of them.”

I nodded, hoping it was true. Closing my eyes, I took in his scent with the predictable response. My nipples tightened, my thighs felt restless, and when he slid a hand down to my ass for a quick squeeze, suddenly my world was full of color.

“I’m ready,” I whispered.

—

The party wasn’t what I’d expected—for one thing, it wasn’t nearly crazy enough. When I thought of MC parties, I thought of strippers hanging from the ceiling, rivers of booze, and people shooting up everywhere. The Longnecks were trashy, loud, and always fucked up on something. Make that fucked up on everything.

Intellectually I knew the Reapers and Silver Bastards were somewhat different. The Bastards partied, of course—that’s how it all started—but they were also more functional and less brutish. Less of a gang and more of a unit.

I couldn’t miss the difference tonight.

Were people drinking? Yes, no question. And there were girls wandering around showing plenty of skin. It wasn’t a free-for-all, though. There was an air of purpose, and the men weren’t getting particularly drunk. They formed small clumps, Reapers and Silver Bastards talking quietly. What the hell kind of party was this?

Fuck. Something big was up.

I wrapped my arms around Puck, and squeezed in close to whisper in his ear.

“You sure you’re busy tomorrow? I’m thinking of going in to school late . . .”

“Sorry, babe,” he replied absently. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Crap crap crappity.

They were planning something, probably something bad. I’d felt this kind of tension in a club too many times not to spot it. Puck would be in danger tomorrow and I couldn’t know any of the details. He might die. That was the way of this world and I’d sworn I’d never let myself get drawn back into it, yet here I was.

And I was here, no question. If I’d doubted that before, I couldn’t deny the truth any longer. If something bad happened to Puck tomorrow, it might kill me.

I’d fallen for the asshole—like mother, like daughter.

“Painter, you know Becca,” Puck said, snapping me out of my dark thoughts. I looked up to see the tall, lean biker with the chiseled face and spiky blond hair that I’d first met at Teeny’s house. I knew he’d spent more than a year in jail with Puck. Now they were best friends. The man gave of an aura of scariness that couldn’t be denied, so I forced myself to ignore it.