Off Limits: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 2)

He shouldn’t touch me, but he does.

Late one night, in the middle of danger, he makes me feel things I shouldn’t.

And I know I shouldn’t want more…but I do.

Because hooking up with me? It could cost him his life.

Lucky…isn’t. In fact, she’s considered ‘off limits’ to the Bedlam Butchers because she’s caused them nothing but bad luck in the past. As a bonus? She’s also the president’s kid sister. Single and lonely? That’s Lucky’s way of life. Now, the Eighty-Eight Henchmen are harassing her and they’re out for blood.

Solo…is. In a club where pairing up with a brother to watch your back is mandatory, Solo still hasn’t gotten over his partner’s death two years ago. The club’s pressuring him to name a second Treasurer, but he has to trust that person in bed and out. And it’s damn hard for Solo to trust.

But when he rescues Lucky from the Eighty-Eight, maybe it’s time for Solo to find a partner, and time for Lucky’s luck to turn around…

THE MOTORCYCLE CLUBS • THE BEDLAM BUTCHERS #1

“You coming with us to the panty raid tonight, Lucky?” Taco looks over at me from across the boxing hall and waggles his tongue in my direction.

“Bitch, please,” I tell him, not bothered in the slightest by his lewd behavior. “I’ve got books to do before the fight on Friday night.” I gesture with my pen from my small desk in the back of the gym. “So unless no one wants to make any money Friday, I need to work.”

“Wouldn’t mind seeing the color of your panties,” Taco tells me, unperturbed by the fact that I’ve just shot him down in the middle of the Meat Locker—the private gym and fight club owned by the Butchers.

His sparring partner, Colt, slams a fist into Taco’s padded jaw. “Come on. If you want to get lucky tonight, you can’t get Lucky.” He grins, pleased at his own joke, and bounds on his feet, knocking his boxing gloves together impatiently. “You know she’s bad mojo.”

I roll my eyes. Took about five seconds for that to come up again. Figures.

In a club full of ridiculous names—like Taco, who likes to eat a lot of pussy, and Colt, who has an affinity for old guns—I’m called Lucky. And like a fat dude’s called Tiny because he’s not, I’m Lucky because I’m not. Lucky, that is.

I’m just about the unluckiest girl to ever grace the presence of the Bedlam Butchers, which is probably why I’m the club’s kid sister and untouchable all at once. No one wants to flirt with Lucky, because they all remember the time that Lucky got Jerome sent off to jail. Or they remember how often Lucky gets pulled over for speeding tickets, out of all the people we know. They remember that Lucky dated Lenny a few weeks before Lenny got knocked off by the Eighty-Eight Henchmen. There was the ladies’ club of biker babes that Lucky joined…for all of a week before they broke up due to infighting.

Lucky…isn’t. And everyone knows it and gives me a wide berth.

It doesn’t help that I’m Gemini’s kid sister, either. One unlucky girl plus a brother that’s one-half of the club presidency equals no getting lucky for Lucky.

I sigh and clench my thighs under the table as I do the books, trying not to think about how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. At least two years. And vibes just aren’t doing it for me anymore. I want a man on top of me, his scruff scraping my cheeks raw, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his cock pounding into me, his sweat dripping onto my skin. I can’t get any of that good stuff from a vibe, just a cheap orgasm.

And I can’t work if these guys are going to keep hanging around the Meat Locker while I’m trying to do the books. So I set my pen down. “Shouldn’t you guys be leaving soon?” The boys are heading out for the annual Butchers panty raid. It’s some sort of ridiculous rite where they designate a local bar and all the girls in town head over with a red thong to show that they’re interested in getting laid. The club has a bunch of new sweetbutt for a few months, and eventually people settle down or wander away, and then it’s time for the next panty raid. I’m never invited.

As if on cue, my brother Gem emerges from his office. “Five minutes, assholes,” he tells the group. “Clear out.” Of course, they all listen to my brother. When the prez says jump, you jump. Domino’s two steps behind him, but he’s the easy-going one. Everyone knows that if you want shit to get done, Gemini’s the man you go to. Dom’s the peacemaker.

The Butchers aren’t like most clubs. Well, they are in that they like to drink, party, fuck anything moving, and get into trouble. But the Butchers are also a club that takes trust to the next level. They double up…in all ways. Even in bed. I’ve heard chicks love it—getting double-teamed by two of the good looking Butchers. I wouldn’t know, considering my older brother Gem scares them all away from even looking at me. But the Butchers? They have two of everything—two presidents, two VPs, two secretaries, you name it. Actually, I take that back. At the moment, they only have one treasurer—Solo, who’s currently beating the snot out of a punching bag in the corner.

I eye him as the others flood into the showers.

Solo used to be called Joker, but then he and Panther—his co-treasurer—went off to serve in Afghanistan for two years. Doing their part, and all that. Except Solo came back with a limp, and Panther came back in a body bag. And laughing Joker’s no longer a laughing sort.

He’s fucking hot, though. I stare at his naked back dreamily. Sweat’s running down tanned muscles. He’s working out without a shirt on, and he’s covered in tattoos up one arm and down the other. The big joker-with-machetes that’s the club logo covers his broad shoulders, and it’s clear he’s in here working out very often. I’ve never seen him in the ring, but I’m guessing after Afghanistan, chicken-fighting with the local roosters loses a bit of its appeal. But his body is a work of sculpted art, and his hair is thick and brown, and he’s got this incredible pair of sideburns that make me aroused just imagining how they’d feel on my skin.

Solo has an unlucky nickname like me. But his is because his partner and buddy, Panther, died. Solo is supposed to double-up with another one of the Butchers soon, someone to watch his back and handle things with him. But he hasn’t yet, and hasn’t in the last year, and it’s pissing Gem off. He’s tired of Solo being a solo act. Doesn’t reflect well on the club and their standards.

Not that I’m allowed to be in the club, of course. I have a twat and therefore I’m only old lady material.

Which is a joke, considering that because my brother’s Gem, no Butchers—paired or otherwise—are even going to give me the time of day. And no other club is going to look at me while my family leads the Butchers. Well, no other club worth having. I’ve been unlucky on that front, too. So like it or not, I’m Butcher property…but not quite part of the club.

Story of my life—lucky, lucky Lucky.

Solo’s not heading to the panty raid, it looks like. He’s still attacking the punching bag like it insulted his momma. He doesn’t make a move as the others throw on their vests and head for the doors, laughing and joking and in an otherwise great mood. When you’re in the club, you call it a ‘cut’ and not a jacket or a vest. I suppose because it’s covered in patches and it means something then.

Me, I don’t get anything because I’m the kid sister.

My brother Gemini winks at me. “Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t worry,” I call back, grinning.

“I want you to chain up the front, Lucky,” my brother tells me. “You and Solo go out the back.”

I give him a mock salute as I pick up the chains. Last year we had a break in and a rival club stole a ton of equipment, so we bolt everything down when we leave each night. The double-doors in front are easier to jimmy or to drive something through, so we make sure to chain those to stop most thieves. It’s something I do most nights, and I wink at my brother as I follow him to the door. “Try not to nail everything moving, all right? Save some for Dom.”

“No promises,” he yells as he heads out the door, and I see Domino clap him on the back as the metal doors swing shut. Then it’s just me and Solo alone in the Meat Locker. I run the chains through the door handles and put on the padlock, then return to my desk. Solo’s there, still boxing. I step over closer to him. “Hey, Solo? You’ll need to go out the back tonight.”

He grunts, and I suppose that’s an acknowledgment to me. I watch him box a few minutes more, as oblivious to my presence as he was to everyone else’s.

Then, I sigh and return to work.

Solo may have the official ‘treasurer’ title but since I have an accounting degree, I get most of the grunt work. I handle the payroll for the club and their activities, and I also monitor the bookings and tabs that are run up every Friday night fight. The books are given to me every Monday morning, full of scribbled notes and IOUs and it pretty much takes me all week to determine who was betting, who owes what, and who’s paid up. The money never matches the book, so I have a week to get my ducks in a row before the next Friday…and then we do it all over again. I don’t mind, though. It’s almost like a puzzle, and I like puzzles. It also allows me to have a desk tucked away in a corner of the Meat Locker, and I like that. It makes me feel like I’m part of the club even though I have the whole ‘twat’ thing working against me.

I also like Solo, and doing the books lets me work closely with him, since he’s the club treasurer and is responsible for collecting non-payments. Not that Solo would notice me anyhow…Lucky, right? No one wants any of Lucky’s karma. Sigh. I bend my head low and get back to work, cataloging entries into a spreadsheet and cross-referencing them with the book and the awarded money.

I’m lost in numbers for some time when I hear a bang of the double doors at the front of the gym. My head jerks up and I frown at my surroundings. The few windows near the high ceiling of the gym are pitch black—it’s late. The gym is full of shadows, and the only light is my tiny desk lamp. I hear the front doors bang again, and I turn off my computer monitor and my desk lamp, worry flicking through me, then slide off my shoes.

One of the Butchers would know the doors are chained after hours.

Then again, one of the Butchers would be at the panty raid, tonight, unless they’re hanging at home with their old ladies.

I tiptoe forward quietly, heading into the shadowy gym. Solo’s no longer at the punching bag. He’s no longer anywhere, in fact. I must have been too deep into the books to not notice him leaving, and another unhappy flutter starts in my chest. Who’s out there? I cross the huge room, my bare feet silent on the concrete floor.

Someone bangs on the doors again, and they push open enough to make the chains taut. “Chained on the other side,” an unfamiliar voice says. “Get the cutter. Her bike’s still here.”

Fuuuuuck. They’re looking for me?

I tiptoe back to the boxing ring and crouch low, terrified. I don’t know who’d be looking for me, but this can’t be good news. I look around for a place to hide, but for a gym, we keep things pretty spartan. There’s some equipment, the ring, Gem’s office, and the showers. I should run out the back door and hope nobody’s waiting there for me, but I don’t know where Solo is. I peek over the side of the ring, my head barely visible over it as the men on the other side push at the door once more, and then a massive pair of chain cutters are shoved through.

As the chains snap, strong hands grab me around my waist and I’m dragged under the ring-skirt.

I suck in a terrified breath—only to have a sweaty hand pushed over my mouth. “Shhh,” says a whisper-soft voice, and I realize it’s Solo. He lowers the skirt again, and then we’re lying underneath the ring in the oppressively still air as boots clomp onto the concrete.

Someone’s invading my brother’s territory. And judging from the fact that Solo’s here, holding me in place while we hide? It’s several someones. My suspicions are confirmed when I hear more and more feet enter. How many are here? Five? Six? How did I not hear their bikes pull up?

But I know that answer—I work at a gym that’s populated entirely by bikers. Mufflers and the scream of engines are white noise to me now.

“Don’t see no one here, Grass.”

“Got to be here,” drawled a too-familiar, horrifying voice. “I know the bitch works here at night.”

A finger drags on my skin. I’m wearing a low-cut t-shirt that exposes a bit of cleavage and Solo traces a question-mark there.

I nod. I know who this is, now. And I want to cry.

I’m seriously so fucking unlucky.

Two weeks ago, I was feeling particularly lonely. It was the anniversary of Lenny’s death and that always makes me moody. I went to a biker bar to get a few drinks and met a pretty cute guy named Grass. He seemed like kind of a wild child, and a little dangerous, but after several beers and contemplating my life of solitary servitude to the Butchers? He was looking pretty good. I even let him talk me into going back to his place. He’d taken me to a motel room (clue number one) and we’d gotten pretty hot and heavy until I pulled his shirt off and revealed his chest. It was covered in swastikas and the insignia for the Eighty-Eight Henchmen, a rival club and some of the most dangerous white supremacists to ever ride a bike. I’d barely managed to hide my shock and suggested that Grass let me dash into the bathroom to handle a few ‘girl’ things. He did, and I’d snuck out the window, walking my bike a mile before daring to turn it on. I ran off into the night and never looked back.

I hadn’t told anyone—especially not Gem—that I’d had a run in with the Eighty-Eight Henchmen. That I’d nearly fucked one in a desperate moment. That I’d run like a little girl. I figured that Grass was staying at a cheap-ass hotel, so he was just rolling through. I’d never run into him again.

Guess I was wrong.

Lucky’s name holds true, it seems.

Solo’s arm tightens around me, his hand clamping over my mouth again as boots stroll past, inches away from our heads. He doesn’t have to worry about me yelling—I’m too frightened to even breathe, much less speak.

“That fucking cock tease has to be here somewhere,” Grass says. “I know that’s her goddamn bike.”

“Unless she’s packing double with someone else for the night,” another voice says.

A grunt. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Little fucking whore.”

“So what are we going to do for fun now?” another asks. “My dick needs to get wet.”

I tremble all over. Grass and his friends showed up here to rape me? If they find me, will they even leave enough pieces for my brother to figure out what happened to me?

To my surprise, Solo’s hand lifts from my mouth, and he begins to stroke my hair in a soothing motion. His mouth presses against my temple, and I realize he’s trying to comfort me. He’s trying to tell me that it’ll be all right. That he’s here.

But all I need is for one of the dumbass Henchmen to flip up the ring-skirt and realize we’re hiding, and then I’m going to be gang-raped and murdered. Solo will be killed, too, and it’ll be my fault. So I can’t calm down.

“We could trash the place,” someone suggests. “Or burn it to the ground.”

“Fuck that,” says Grass. “I want some action. Let’s go find ourselves some pussy. We can pass it around like the Butchers do. Doesn’t have to be Lucky, not tonight. Plenty of time to teach that cunt a lesson.”