Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) Page 2

  They were so close, Shep couldn't focus on Noah's face. Just his full mouth, his scent, his presence … he needed outta here before he did something really, really fucking stupid. Like ask whose home Noah was taking him back to. Or ask him to stay the night. "Call Fetch."

  Something that might have been hurt flashed in Noah's eyes for just a second. "Yes, sir."

  Shep turned and leaned against the wall, willing his body to calm the fuck down. He'd thought having Noah in the MC where he could keep an eye on him, ensure he was surrounded by protection would make things easier.

  He was a fucking moron.

  Chapter Three

  Mind your own business.

  Members will tell you things when you need to know.

  ~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

  * * *

  The next morning, Pretty Boy revved his engine, the vibrations thrumming through his body as it came to life. He closed his eyes, feeling the hum in his ribcage as he popped his earbuds in and cranked the volume on his phone, blaring Brantley Gilbert's Hell on Wheels. The bike growled as it rounded the corner of the trailer park and hit the open road. Nothing was as freeing as riding. The wind rushing by his face, tossing the hair that escaped his helmet, the feel of the blacktop flying under his wheels—what could be a better high than this?

  At six a.m., the road was empty and it helped clear his head. Shep showing up last night had thrown him, though he'd been half-expecting it since Shep had noticed the frequent bruises. His guardian angel never failed to notice when he was in pain—physical or otherwise.

  But he wouldn't let Shep stop him. He hadn't lied last night—he needed the money. Taking care of all his so-called strays wasn't cheap, even for a crafty guy like him. But outside of the VP, they were what gave his life meaning, reminded him he was more than just trailer trash no one had ever wanted.

  He pulled into Hades Hotel and Diner, spraying gravel and parked his bike next to Shep's. When he cut the engine, he could hear his stomach growling. Time to grab some grub before the flood of prospect orders came rollin' in for the day. Ass crack of dawn or shit late at night, didn't matter. When a brother said jump, they hopped to. God only knows what they’d ask him to do. Clean out gutters? Scrub the grease traps at Voo's diner? Last week, he had to weed Goat’s fuckin’ garden and build Axel a goddamn shed. He didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what being an outlaw had to do with being a handyman, but he could teach Tim the Toolman Taylor a thing or two about drywall.

  He walked in quietly, sweeping his gaze across the room. The antique jukebox in the corner poured the soft sounds of the Temptations across the black and white checkered floors of the '50 style diner. Shep's back was to him as he sat at one of the red booths with Eddie, Captain and that asshole policeman they'd befriended for God knows what reason. The sexual tension between Cap and Eddie was loud enough to drown out the Motown Voo preferred in the mornings, but Shep was probably too hungover to hear it.

  Get a fuckin' room already.

  Pretty Boy hopped onto one of the red vinyl topped barstools at the steel counter and cup of steaming coffee appeared before he'd even dropped the messenger bag at his feet.

  "Morning, Bé," Voo said, his deep Creole timbre tickling acr1oss Noah's eardrums. Though he'd been joking last night, Voo was a handsome fucker—from the short dreads dancing around his cut features, to the silvery eyes sparking in his cream in coffee complexion; he was startling to look at. And Pretty Boy had to hand it to him—any man who could pull off leather pants first thing in the morning had a lot going for him.

  "Morning." Pretty Boy lifted his cup gratefully before loading it up with sugar. "Thanks for this."

  "Your breakfast'll be up in a few minutes." Voo vanished through the swinging doors behind the counter. There was no use trying to order with Voo—he'd just bring you what he wanted to bring you anyway. And he was annoyingly accurate at intuiting exactly what a man craved.

  Six months ago, it seemed strange. Pretty Boy rarely trusted people to cook for him, let alone divine what he might want off the menu—unless it was Shep. Now, it felt disturbingly comfortable. Like home. Like family. Though he was more or less guessing how such things felt. Not like he'd ever had much of either before the Horsemen.

  He sipped his coffee, absentmindedly clicking his thumb ring against the handle, and pushed away the urge to run that always hit him when things felt too good.

  Voodoo set a plate of hotcakes and a steaming carafe of amber liquid down on the counter. "Golden, fluffy, smothered in sweet cream butter with warm maple syrup, better than the ones your momma made you when you was a tyke."

  "My …" Pretty Boy swallowed. "My momma never made me no pancakes."

  Voodoo closed his silver eyes for a brief second and nudged the syrup towards him in a conciliatory manner. "Eat your breakfast kid, and stop breaking my heart."

  He tucked into his pancakes, keeping an eye on Shep via the mirror behind the counter. Whatever Officer Douche was yakking about had to be serious shit, because no one at that table was enjoying their breakfast. But cops had a way of stepping in and ruining everyone's scrambled eggs and good times.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. Shep. Pretty Boy looked up and Shep was studying his phone, tucked just under the table.

  Stop staring and start eating.

  Pretty Boy smirked, waiting until he caught Shep's gaze in the mirror before hitting send. Yes, sir.

  Shep frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It gave Pretty Boy a warm tingly feeling seeing him get all flustered. Despite his rather obvious responses, Shep never acknowledged his constant flirting. But Pretty Boy knew the difference between rejection and denial. This wasn't his first rodeo so to speak. But it gave him a little thrill to tease and not giving into temptation wasn't exactly on his skill list. So what if he knew deep down he didn't deserve someone as good as Shep? Wasn't like the good VP would ever act on it.

  Guys, women—it didn't really matter to Pretty Boy and fuck knows he didn't cotton to labels. Plumbing was important to the mechanics of an act, but little else. It all felt good, just in different ways. He'd gotten good at knowing when a person was into him, regardless of their gender. He read people's faces like a goddamn telepath. Voo had once told him, "We should have named you Spooky Motherfucker."

  His survival had depended on knowing exactly when a person was going to turn on him. Especially since he'd never been able to keep his stupid mouth shut, just loved goading a person till he snapped.

  Eventually he discovered turning people on was way better than pissing them off. He could charm the scales off a snake. His hustling powers worked equally on both genders and there were very few beds he couldn’t get invited into.

  He mentally shrugged. Everybody's got a talent. He had super-junk and no problems with using it.

  Yet, he'd never found the guts to outright tell Shep what he wanted. He wasn't blind—didn't miss the way the VP stared into his eyes, the taste of attraction in the air. But if Shep wanted Pretty Boy, he'd have figured his shit out and asked for what he wanted like a grown-ass man, right? He'd never shied away from doggedly pursuing his interests. The man was nothing if not goal-oriented.

  "You don't start eating those pancakes, I’m gonna be offended." Voo leaned his elbows on the counter next to Pretty Boy's plate. "What you giving Shep the eyeball about? He give ya some bullshit prospect work?"

  "Not yet, but the day is young," Pretty Boy replied with a sigh.

  "What'd you do?" Voo asked knowingly.

  "That is not the question, my friend." Pretty Boy grinned. "The question is, what did he catch me doing?"

  Voo chuckled. "How deep of a shit list you on, Bé?"

  "At least six feet with my luck." He rolled his eyes, but something churned in his gut at the thought of disappointing Shep. But would the man really make his underground fighting club business? The VP wasn't pissed about a prospect not following the rule, this shit was personal. "Listen, he just needs to understand, a guy like me … I
have to let off some steam once in a while. You know—ease the tension. Let out a little aggression."

  Voo's eyes widened. "Are you sure you can't narrow down what you did? Because that's sounding disturbingly specific."

  "Hell if I know," he lied, sliding a bite of pancake through syrup. "But I have this sense of impending doom that says Shep'll have my ass anyway."

  "Well, don't take it personally. Our VP's been in real bad way lately."

  "Do tell." Pretty Boy set his fork down.

  "Like you ain't noticed," Voo scoffed. His eyes sharpened and his voice lowered. "I thought you might have the inside skinny on whatever's rollin' around his cracked brains these days."

  Pretty Boy's breath hitched. "Why would I know?"

  "Mm-hmm." Voo straightened and spoke in his infuriatingly philosophical way. "You know the problem with most bikers? They always got our eyes on the road ahead. But Shep's unique. He looks around more, sees what's going on in the lanes beside his own."

  "Your point being?"

  "So do I."

  "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means finish your breakfast. Think on it." Voo moved to the other end of the counter to wipe down something.

  Pretty Boy swallowed. Shep didn't like other people in his business. Of course, none of them had ever figured out how to keep Voo from knowing too much. Just wasn’t possible.

  "If you're done pretending to eat, you can go gather the other prospects." Shep's low timbre hit Pretty Boy like an electric shock running down his spine as the VP appeared at his shoulder. "Meet at my place."

  Pretty Boy straightened. "Yes, sir."

  "You know, I think I like it when you call me sir." Shep smirked, warmth twinkling in his eyes.

  "Ah, shucks. You're going to make me blush," Pretty Boy replied softly. Had Shep just flirted with him? His day was looking up.

  Shep's face hardened as if he'd just realized what he'd done. "Go."

  He jumped up. "I still gotta pay."

  Voo dumped his remaining pancakes in a Styrofoam container and shoved it in his hands. "Your pancakes are on the house, Bé."

  Pretty Boy pulled a ten out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter. "Appreciate it, but I pay my own way."

  "That's a little more than I charge," Voo laughed.

  "But not nearly as much as they're worth. Thank you," he said sincerely.

  "Alright, if you're done making time with Voo, get your ass in gear," Shep growled, a hint of jealousy sparking in his blue eyes.

  Pretty Boy jumped up, tossing over his shoulder, "Yes, sir."

  Chapter Four

  The prospect in charge always carries the Handbook. Always.

  ~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

  * * *

  As Pretty Boy parked his bike in Shep's driveway, he had to admit, the only thing better than having the open road to himself was riding with the crazy bunch of bastards pulling in behind him. His prospect brothers, Crash, Dash and Fetch meant the world to him. Navigating the club was tricky business, and these guys had his back the whole way.

  The brick ranch house baked in the Texas sun, painted shudders fading under the onslaught of this past summer's unrelenting heat. He'd have to slap a new coat on those for Shep, keep it looking good. The wrap-around porch could use a little work, too. He frowned. The VP took a lot of pride in the things he owned; wasn't like him to let it fall into disrepair. Especially with a bumper crop of prospects at the ready to assist with their newly acquired handyman skills.

  He walked backwards towards the front door, jingling his keys in the air. "Let's go, guys! We got less than twenty minutes before Shep's here."

  "Let's get this done in time for beer!" Crash called, jogging up to join him on the porch. There was a wide grin on his broad face, the smattering of freckles across the tan skin a gift of long days spent tossing footballs under Friday night lights. His sandy brown hair was shaved on the sides, a tousled mess on top.

  Dash and Fetch tried to squeeze into the line of scant shade offered by the aluminum panels of the porch roof. "You fixing to get that key in the hole sometime today, junior?" Fetch asked.

  “It’s not actually about how fast you can jam it in, Fetch.” Pretty Boy flipped him off and turned to unlock the door.

  "Why do you have keys to Shep's house, anyhow?" Dash asked.

  The key slid out of the lock. Shit. He took a breath, trying not to notice Crash's gaze targeted on his shaking hand. He sighed, tossed on a smile and unlocked the door. "Because I'm PIC."

  "That's your excuse for everything, isn't it?" Fetch laughed, patting him on the shoulder as he followed him inside. "Why do we have to clean Shep's house? Because I'm the prospect in charge."

  "Because it's in the handbook!" Pretty Boy protested as Dash brushed past him into the air conditioning. He'd wait until later to tell them they'd also be brightening up the exterior. And maybe doing some landscaping.

  He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. "Ahh … that's so much better. Why is it this fuckin’ hot in October?"

  "Um, because if it ain't hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night, it wouldn't be Texas." Crash elbowed him in the ribs. "What, are you new?"

  "No, for real though." Fetch walked into the kitchen and grabbed a broom. "At some point, you got to come to terms with the fact that you're the VP's pet. Got nothing to do with your leadership skills."

  "You mean his memorization skills?" Dash laughed. Pretty Boy had earned PIC by being the first to recite the handbook.

  "Are you seriously talking shit to me right now? Who got you out of that incident with the brunette that dyed her hair. You know the one." Pretty Boy took the lid off the trash can and pulled the bag out.

  "Yeah, yeah – you're an okay leader," Fetch grumbled with mock resignation. "Still the pet though."

  "Fuck you," Pretty Boy laughed good naturedly. He looked over at Dash eyeing the cabinets like they were plotting on him. "Dash, man—sponges are over the sink."

  Between the four of them, they had Shep's house back in perfect order in fifteen minutes—just enough time to grab a beer on the porch before Shep got back to hold their meeting.

  "Hey, you got a little something on you we could smoke right quick?" Crash asked once they were settled on the porch with frosty cold ones, eyes searching for the lines of Shep's bike coming up the road.

  Pretty Boy gave him the get outta here! look. "You know how pissed Shep would be if we came to church high?"

  "But he's fine with drunk?" Dash asked, eyebrow raised.

  "From his breath, he seems to be," coughed Fetch.

  Pretty Boy frowned. "Hey, he's just going through some shit."

  "Sorry man, didn't mean to talk smack about your boyfriend like that," Crash teased, a sly note in his tone.

  If Shep walks up on them talkin' about this, he won't come near me for a week. "Dude, don't even start this shit again—"

  "I have keys to his house. I'm prospect in charge. I hold the Handbook. I'm so special!" Dash mocked, William-Shatnering the fuck out of some eyelash batting.

  Pretty Boy's heart sped, blood rushing to his face and … other places. "Shut up."

  "I'm just saying, for a guy who has a rep as some kind of badass in the ring, you're awful docile when it comes to our VP."

  "Naw, that's not the word," Crash argued. He pressed a hand to his chin, furrowing his forehead. "Oh! I know – whipped. Whipped is the word."

  Pretty Boy took another long swallow of his beer. Bravado—when all else fails. They were just giving him shit; he could joke his way out. He knew they had their suspicions about him—and maybe even Shep—but they'd never treated him differently. "Fuck all of you. You know I'd be the top in that relationship."

  "Doesn't appear so, friend," Crash said sadly.

  Fetch held his beer bottle against his forehead. "Why does it have to be this hot and this bright? Just ain't right."

  "Usually, because you drank so much." Dash nudged him. "Eddie's shine'll do t
hat to you. How's she doing anyway?"

  "Good." Pretty Boy grinned. "Still waiting on her to get it on with Cap, though."

  "That's not a thing yet?" Crash groaned. "I'm totally going to lose the betting pool."

  An engine sounded in the distance. "Bottoms up, boys! That's Shep."

  "How do you know, I can't even see the—balls." Dash downed the rest of his beer as Shep roared around the corner on his Ultra Classic Electra Glide. The red and gold flames—just a touch of hellfire dancing on the glossy black—painted down the sides gleaming in the sun.

  "How the fuck did you do that?" Fetch asked as he gathered their empties and headed towards big trash bin by the garage. "You got super-hearing or some shit?"

  "Just be glad I do." He grinned and climbed to his feet as Shep pulled into the drive. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "For they know!"

  The other three lined up behind him. "When their Shepherd is nigh!"

  "Are you little bastards drinkin' my beer on my porch?" Shep narrowed his eyes on them. "Again?"

  "Yes, Shep!" They shouted, grinning.

  Pretty Boy grabbed another cold one from the corner of the porch with a sheepish smile. "Saved you one, though."

  Shep's face broke into a grin and he took it. "Thanks. Now get inside. We got a lot to go over today."

  They crowded around the round kitchen table. Shep banged his knuckles on the arm of his chair. Pretty Boy stared back at him, his fellow prospects silent as the fuckin' grave for once as they waited for Shep to speak.

  "We'll get to old business in a few. The FBI's going to be in town for a bit and I need you guys to fall in line. Nothing that attracts attention. You're all getting new phones from Coyote, so save your contacts." Shep gave them each a hard look.

  Crash raised an eyebrow. "Now, when you say nothin' that attracts attention—"

  "I mean it."

  "So, we should behave in what we would consider a 'normal' fashion?" Dash asked. "Like getting into fights, and being rowdy and whatnot."