Rush - Blue Devils MC Book 2 (Book 1 Included FREE for a short time only!) (21 page)

Chapter 2

~ Ella ~

Ella
stared down at the book in front of her.
Under and Alone - The True Story of the Undercover Agent Who Infiltrated America’s Most Violent Outlaw Motorcycle Gang
. It had been a terrifying read.

What the hell was she thinking?

After she’d left Dan’s office last week, she’d come up with the perfect plan: She would write
two
articles while she was in Arizona. One for
Pout
and one for a national news organization like
Huffington Post
. She hadn’t paid tens of thousands of dollars to Syracuse University so that she could write “How to Pick the Most Flattering Neckline” articles for
Pout
.

She had applied for this job at the magazine over a year ago because…well, they were hiring and none of the big media outlets were. She’d tried to talk Dan into a few investigative reporting stints when she was first hired on, but he’d never even pretended to humor her. Unless her article had something to do with the hottest hairstyles in Hollywood, he wasn’t interested.

Until now.

Okay, sure, he
still
didn’t want her to write an expose on the violence in motorcycle clubs, but at least he was sending her into the thick of things. He couldn’t get pissy about what she chose to write about in her off hours, as long as she produced a “Drool over Brock” article, too.

This was finally her big break - her chance to prove that she had it in her to be a kickass reporter. She was capable of so much more than fluff pieces.

But the Blue Devils…she felt a shiver run down her spine. Based on the research she’d done online, they were heartless bastards. She had no idea why Dan thought they were oversized teddy bears, but based on the gun violence and deaths happening in Copper Lode, the chances were pretty damn good they weren’t sitting around singing “Kum Ba Yah” to each other.

The only newspaper in Copper Lode -
Copper Town News
- was mostly hidden behind a paywall, so the only articles she could find online were the main headlines for the week. The little she did find never seemed to directly implicate the Blue Devils in any of the shootings, but it was also obvious that the rash of gun violence in the area wasn’t a coincidence.

At least, it seemed obvious to her.

She was waffling between telling Dan the truth and getting herself out of an assignment that looked increasingly dangerous, and keeping it to herself so she could finally have the break of her career. Hell, she was no Agent Queen who was going to spend years infiltrating an unsuspecting MC, but maybe she could get some inside scoop while she was there - something that would make the
Huffington Post
sit up and take notice.

For the last year, she’d been begging Dan for a chance just like this. She couldn’t wimp out now. Brock had promised to take care of her and Dan had taken this promise seriously. So she should too. Right?

She shoved some more tank tops and short shorts into her suitcase. If she was going to get a straight answer out of a gang member, sex appeal could only help. On a whim, she shoved her passport into her bag too. She’d never been to Mexico; Copper Lode was only an hour away from the border. It was always good to keep her options open.

After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled out a sundress and strappy heels and laid them on the chair next to her bed. She may be a little heavier than the runway models they featured every month at
Pout
, but hell, coat hangers had more curves than runway models. She’d long ago decided that her best bet was to emphasize her curves, not downplay them. Maybe if she gave the gang members a little somethin’-somethin’ to drool over, they’d tell her shit they didn’t mean to say.

It was worth a shot.

Arizona in July…the shit she put up with for her career. She felt hot just thinking about it, so she turned her AC down a couple more degrees to compensate. Maybe if she kept her house at a nice frigid 65 degrees overnight, she could forget she was flying into hell tomorrow.

~ Lain ~

“Now you’re just fucking with me,” Lain snarled. “You promised —” Brock tried to break in so Lain just shouted louder. “You
promised
that she’d be your responsibility. You
promised
I wouldn’t even have to think about this New York bitch. You
promised
you’d take care of her. And now you want
me
to do it??”

Lain really wasn’t sure he could resist the temptation to plant his fist into Brock’s face this time. There he was, nice Sunday evening, enjoying a Jack and Coke with this hot new sheep who’d just moved to Copper, and just as she’d ran her hand up his thigh, Brock had yanked him away, back to the chapel, to tell him the fuck-awful news that
Pout
was now his responsibility. He felt like doing some pouting of his own. Or fighting.

More fighting, really.

“The
Chupas
moved the date up, and you
know
,” Brock snarled over Lain’s attempt to break in, “that they don’t take kindly to being told no. I don’t know what the fuck their deal is or why they want the guns a week early, but whatever. I don’t ask questions. Questions,” he said with a dangerous emphasis, “get you killed.”

Lain knew Brock didn’t mean it - fuck, what kind of president has his vice-president killed? - but Brock liked to throw his weight around. It was better to just let that threat go.

“So since the deal got moved up a week, that means I need to spend
this
week playing catch-up. A lot of pieces of the puzzle have to fit together before I can make this delivery next Monday. Between making this deal go down right and the charity ride, I can’t play patty-cake with the reporter. You’re the only one I trust. Just make sure she doesn’t ask too many questions, or any of the
wrong
questions. Oh, and pick her up from the airport tomorrow. Phoenix. Her flight comes in at noon.”

“Shit. Really? Phoenix? You know I hate Phoenix. No one knows how to drive in Phoenix. Bunch of dickheads there. Plus, TSA won’t let me in if I have Roger strapped to my hip. I feel fucking naked without Roger.”

“You’ll have to leave your gun behind for the day. You can survive one day without it on your hip.”

“If you fucking say so,” Lain grumbled. How was it that Brock always won these arguments? This was exactly how the Blue Devils started running guns and even drugs to begin with - Brock ran roughshod over the rest of the group, Lain included. It was just easier to give in. Someday, Brock was going to get them into a shithole Lain wouldn’t be able to get them out of, and hell if he knew what he was going to do then. The MC was everything to him - he had no other life. Wherever Brock led, Lain had to go.

He turned to leave the chapel when Brock tossed out, “Oh, and I know you’ve got your eye on that hot new sheep that just rolled into town, but I need you to go straighten out some fuck-up in the trucks. Dumbo was in here earlier, panties in a twist over something or another.”

Lain didn’t bother answering because he wasn’t sure he was capable of saying anything that didn’t involve the words “fuck” and “you.” He stormed out of the clubhouse, past the waiting cute blonde at his table, and out to the truck yard. Here, at least, he was in control. As VP, he was in charge of the legit part of their business - long-haul truck driving. Brock could get them into whatever illegal shit that caught his eye that day but Lain would make sure that in the end, the Blue Devils were still delivering cargo all over the southwest and northern Mexico.

Someone had to make an honest buck around here and it sure as shit wasn’t gonna be Brock.

Chapter 3

~ Lain ~

Beep. Beep.
Beep
.
BEEP!

With a groan, Lain rolled over and smacked the alarm clock. It went clattering to the floor, but mercifully shut up. He rubbed his gritty eyes with the heels of his hands as he sat up in bed.

Goddamn Brock and his goddamn babysitting job.

He threw back the sheet and stumbled out of bed. If he was going to survive today, he’d need an assload of coffee. After straightening out the trucking shit, he’d gone back to the clubhouse, only to find the new blonde piece of tail had already left. He stayed into the wee hours of the morning, getting drunk and increasingly more pissed about this shitfest he’d had dropped onto his lap. Getting wasted had seemed like a logical choice to make.

Now, it didn’t seem like it’d been such a brilliant idea. The sun was streaming through the bathroom and bedroom window, so Lain pulled the blinds. The pounding in his brain instantly slowed down to a steady thrumming.

That’s better.

He rummaged around in the kitchen and managed to brew a pot of coffee without spilling shit everywhere, which he considered to be nothing less than a goddamn feat. He leaned against the counter and gulped down his first cup. He ignored his burnt tongue and poured a second cup. He’d better mainline this shit if he was going to make it to Phoenix on time. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

Shit!

He only had 15 minutes to get his ass out the door. He threw on his jeans and black leather chaps, then laced up his riding boots. Next, a Blue Devils t-shirt, his cut, Roger on his hip, and he began buckling his helmet on as he walked out the door. Not bad - two minutes to spare.

He slung his leg over his bike—

Shit, shit, shit, and fucking shit!

With a sigh, he got back off his bike. Of
course
he couldn’t ride his bike to Phoenix. Miss New York would have luggage and 13 pounds of makeup and a small Chihuahua named Princess. She couldn’t ride bitch on his bike.

He unlocked the passenger-side door to his truck, unbuckled his helmet, and tossed it gently on the seat. Remembering the discussion with Brock the night before, he unstrapped Roger from his hips and shoved it under the passenger seat. Miss Bitch would just have to hold his helmet in her lap ‘cause he didn’t have time to go put it back in his apartment.

He tore out of the dilapidated parking lot, past the rows of rundown shitholes, and headed towards the freeway.

Once he hit the freeway, he reached over and blasted the AC - well, as high as it would go, anyway. Reason #472 not to drive his truck - it had shit AC. Lobos, which was the Mexican version of the Ford F150, was $15,000 cheaper than if he’d bought the thing in the US but it came with a warranty not worth the paper it was printed on. One of the first things to go south on it was the AC. A definite negative in Copper Lode, Arizona.

He’d ignored this problem for months ‘cause…well, it was easier, cheaper, and a hell of a lot more fun to just ride his bike anyway. He felt sweat start to drip down his sides. Chaps were hellaciously warm and he never would’ve put them on if he’d remembered he had to drive his truck.

Fuuuuccckkk…

Two hours later, he started to enter the snarl of traffic that was Phoenix. For someone who hated to drive in traffic as much as he did, he minimized his trips to Phoenix to “Only in the Case of Emergency.” He swerved as some asshole cut him off, and laid on the horn. Driving without Roger on his hip was even worse than suffering with shit AC. He was pretty sure someone was going to die today, and it wasn’t gonna be him.

Fucking finally, he pulled off and headed into the heart of the airport. Which is when he realized that he was seriously failing in the lackey department - he’d forgotten to ask for a name. Or even a description of what she looked like. He doubted she’d answer a page of, “Bitchy Reporter from New York with Small Dog, please report to the Customer Service Counter.” Brock had told him to be here at noon, and he’d stupidly forgot to ask for any other details. Anger may or may not have clouded his judgment.

Once he got into the airport, he looked over a list of incoming flights flashing on the reader board. One that was scheduled to land at 12:05 from the JFK Airport caught his eye. That seemed logical. He’d stand by the gate and hope she found him because of his cut. Better yet, she could do a no-show and he could go back home and forget today ever happened. Surely Brock couldn’t blame him if Rich Bitch just didn’t show up, right?

He ignored the stares and fear as he strode through the airport to the arrival gate. People usually freaked out when he wore his colors out in public - yet one more reason he was loathe to make day trips to Phoenix. At least in Copper Lode, everyone knew who he was. There was a certain familiarity that came from being born ’n raised in a small town. They either feared you or loved you, but everyone knew your name.

You know, like a fucked-up version of
Cheers,
with shootouts and drug running.

Finally, the JFK flight began streaming past and Lain watched closely for anyone he thought could fit the bill: Six-inch stilettos, pencil skirt, three-inch waistline, dog tucked inside of her giant-ass purse, and a cell phone stuck to her ear. No one came even close to fitting that description and the panic in his chest was beginning to ease. Maybe she really would be a no-show. What fucking luck would that be!

“Excuse me, are you from the Blue Devils?” He turned to snap at the person -
of fucking course I’m from the Blue Devils, dumbass, they don’t give these cuts out like candy
- when two things registered:

First, the New York accent. Fingernails on a chalkboard. Who the hell talked like that?!

Second, she was short. And blonde. And curvy. Fucking curves that made his palms itch to reach out and stroke them.

Oh, and no dog in sight.

“Hi, I’m Ella,” she said, and stuck out her hand to shake his. A second too slow, he put his hand out too. His mind and breath and heart went all wonky and he had a hard time thinking. Or breathing. Or really, anything at all. Their hands touched and he felt an electric shock travel up his arm like he’d just touched a doorknob after doing the shuffle on the carpet. He yanked his hand back.

This was
so
not fucking good.