Silver Bastard

Great. Not only had Puck left me alone, he’d left me in a nest of sexists. Of course, most of the guys here probably fell into that category . . .

“Women should stay home,” the stranger declared. “Money gives them ideas. Bitch has her own money, she talks too much. Thinks she’s the boss.”

“Excuse me,” I said abruptly, standing. “I need the restroom.”

“Puck said to wait,” Deep told me, reaching out and catching my arm. His voice was serious, and while he wasn’t squeezing my arm, I realized he wasn’t playing around, either. “So you wait.”

The fear I’d thought was gone hit me in a rush. I was surrounded by big men. Scary men. They could do whatever they wanted, and I couldn’t stop them. Puck wasn’t here.

“Okay,” I whispered, swallowing.

“Jesus, don’t be a dick about it,” Demon said to his brother. He looked at me, face serious. “Not everyone knows who you are yet, Becca. Puck just wants you safe. That’s why he asked you to stay with us. Deep’s just pissy because you won’t tell him what Carlie said.”

I swallowed, trying to convince myself that Deep might be big and tough, but on some level he was still a whiny little boy who wanted a toy. Not that it changed anything. Boys broke toys all the time.

“Here’s your beer,” Puck said, settling down next to me. “Everything okay?”

Locking eyes with Deep, I nodded.

“Peachy.”

—

I hadn’t been drunk earlier, but now? Yeah, the room was definitely swaying. I was in a ridiculously tiny bathroom, furiously washing my hands. I’d been stupid enough to touch the toilet seat, and while I had no doubt it had started out cleanish (Darcy didn’t strike me as a woman who tolerated filth), I wished I’d just peed outside. Some of those guys weren’t so great about their aim . . .

Puck waited for me in the hallway. I’d just finished wiping my hands on my jeans (the paper towels were out—should I mention that to someone?) when I heard the shouting. Opening the door, I peeked out cautiously. Puck was gone. More shouting, coming from the main room, then a loud crashing noise.

Shit.

I crept out, trying to make myself small. I didn’t want to get in the middle of a fight, but if Puck had left it was for something serious. Hiding in the bathroom just wasn’t an option.

A group of girls stood at the end of the hallway, watching and chattering in excitement.

“What’s going on?” I asked before realizing one of the girls was Bridget. She was too excited to play bitch, thankfully.

“One of the Reapers is fighting with Clay Allen,” she said. “He’s a hangaround. He showed up with some girl and the guy went crazy.”

“Is Puck out there?”

“Oh yeah . . .” she replied, her tone somehow dirty.

Great.

“Excuse me,” I said, pushing through. A wall of big, beefy backs covered in leather blocked my view so I ran over to the bar and climbed up to see if my man was fighting. I really hoped not. I hadn’t scoped out any coffeepots around here to rescue him with.

I saw Puck right away. He wasn’t fighting. He just stood in the center of the ring of bikers, watching Painter beat the shit out of the unfortunate Clay Allen, whose name was new to me. Not a Callup man.

A woman shrieked, and I realized that the Reapers MC president was holding someone prisoner in his big arms. She kicked and screamed, obviously enraged.

“You asshole!” she shouted. I couldn’t tell if she was shouting at Painter or Picnic or the guy on the ground. The big man just held her tighter, his face grim.

Painter kept punching Allen viciously, the blows sending painful, wet smacking noises echoing through the room. After what felt like an eternity, Puck waded in, grabbing Painter and pulling him back. He shrugged him off, ready to go at it again, but when Puck said something the big blond man stopped, panting heavily.

“Get him out of here,” Painter ordered. Nobody moved. “Get him the fuck out of here before I kill him!”

“Fuck,” Horse said, stepping forward to grab Allen under the arms. A path cleared for him to drag the man out of the clubhouse. Painter turned on the girl, stalking toward her purposefully with an air of menace. Picnic abruptly swung her around behind his body. Then he turned to face down Painter, arms crossed.

“Not happening, son.”

“It’s none of your business,” Painter snarled. “She’s the one who came here.”

“I didn’t even know where we were going!” she yelled from behind the other Reaper. “It was just a date, you asshole.”

“He’s a fucking biker. You broke the rules, Mel. Get your ass over here.”

“Not happening,” Picnic repeated, his voice firm. “I am not dealing with this shit tonight. Painter, get your ass home. Melanie, you’re with me.”

Painter growled and then the girl shoved Picnic out of the way, stunning me. How the hell had she done that? In an instant she was in Painter’s face, shouting at him so loud it hurt my ears.

“You need to get the fuck out of my life! What I do is none of your goddamned business.”

“Fuck it,” Picnic announced. “I’m done with both of you.”

With that he turned and walked away. It took an instant to sink in, then the girl got a strange look on her face. Painter started to smile—not a nice smile.

“I’ll give you a ride home, Mel,” he said, his voice full of soft menace. “We can talk when we get there. Privacy, you know?”