Soul Ties (Club Ties #4) (2 page)

As she moved through the space counting aisles and boxes, she stopped, heart racing. This was it.

She stood on tiptoe to reach a shelf. Running her hand along it, her fingers skimmed the rough fabric. The handle of the duffle felt like sweet victory.

A small groan of relief built in her throat but she swallowed it and yanked the bag out of its hiding place. It tumbled down, a weight heavier than she’d expected. Her legs moved without commanding them. She ran.

Cradling the bag against her chest like a baby, a sort of heady power and excitement lifted inside her.

The rush, the guys called it.

This must be why the Hell’s Sons often returned looking for a party. They got drunk and loved their women hard because they might not be lucky enough to come back next time.

If they didn’t have a woman, they grabbed an eager club girl and took her for a ride. Sarah wasn’t one of those girls. Besides, O’Dovey kept everyone away.

Feet light, barely pattering on the concrete, she hit the open door and turned the corner, hell-bent for the car five blocks away. More of the terror in her chest turned into excitement. She’d done it. Gotten the bag. Even though she didn’t know who it truly belonged to or why the Hell’s Sons needed it, she’d performed her duty.

Half a block from the car, the stitch in her side grew too big to ignore. She slowed to a jog then a fast walk. The bag seemed to weigh more with each step, and she threw the long handle across her body so the weight thumped on her hip.

The purr of a Harley engine made her turn. Her heart seized as she spotted the familiar helmet style of a Hell’s Son. Someone come to check up on her? Jamison had promised to have eyes on her.

As the biker neared, she stared at the face. Hard features set in determination. Sunglasses mirrored buildings, trees, and sky. He wore jeans and the leather vest called a cut, complete with the Sons’ patches. His bike was tricked out with more chrome than most she’d seen and—

She nearly choked when her gaze landed on the rider’s foot as he passed her without a glance. He wasn’t wearing steel-toed boots or even a cowboy variety.

The biker was wearing Crocs.

Plastic shoes no Son she knew would be caught dead wearing. He must be a visitor from another charter. A laugh bubbled out of nowhere, complete amusement at what she’d seen as well as the freedom of a mission accomplished.

Chuckling to herself, she walked to her car and placed the bag on the passenger’s seat. She locked the doors and started the engine, then put the A/C on high, blowing right in her sweaty face.

Only then did she look in the little mirror on the sun visor. Her cheeks wore red blotches and her eyes looked fevered. Whatever this money was needed for, Sarah would forever be known as the person who’d gotten it.

And gotten away with it.

She would be important for more than her domestic ways around the clubhouse. She was a valuable member not only because her father had done something extraordinary for the club and they kept her around for his sake.

She truly belonged to the Hell’s Sons, which was good because it was the only family she had.

And now she had bargaining power.

»»•««

Today Connall had performed an appendectomy, a bowel resection, and looked in on twelve of this week’s surgical patients. He’d also stopped by the liquor store and picked up a bottle of the finest whiskey his six-figure salary could buy—a gift for the president of the new charter of the Hell’s Sons Connall had been invited to join.

He’d been in Heller’s Gap all of a week. In that time he’d managed to meld seamlessly into the surgical staff at the community hospital and bury his personal life and choices beneath a hefty stack of recommendations from other hospitals and top surgeons. He wasn’t in hiding exactly…but he moved often enough to keep his job and club life separate.

He’d also unpacked all his moving boxes and even discovered that the small pub around the corner from his place had the best Philly cheesesteaks.

But he had yet to make an appearance at the club that promised him a patch. Jamison knew he was coming and the prez from Connall’s old charter had vouched for him. Tonight he’d ride over to the clubhouse and make himself at home.

At least he hoped that would be the case. Heller’s Gap wasn’t huge, and it was only a matter of time before someone connected the biker dude with the good doctor on staff. He knew the old shit would hit the fan—patients refusing his treatment or administration calling him in for a code violation he didn’t commit. It had happened in D.C. and Nashville.

The big cities hadn’t hidden him, but maybe people of a small-town would be less judgmental. He’d heard great things about the Heller’s Gap charter. They were looked up to in this town.

Besides, he was sick of wandering. Not all that wander are lost, as the old quote went. But he hated to admit he
was
a little lost.

Too bad he’d also left his boots at home. He wasn’t about to wear his scrub shoes to the club. He’d get his ass kicked in five seconds flat, even with good whiskey in hand.

As he took a turn at a higher speed than prudent, he sucked the hot, stale air into his lungs. It still felt good to be on the road. After a long day requiring precision and skill and a good bedside manner, he was ready to let loose.

Having a profession wasn’t exactly normal in the biker world. Most guys earned through the club, but Connall hadn’t always been on this path. He’d grown up a normal, middle-class white boy with hardworking parents. He’d graduated from med school with honors.

In his teens he’d started hanging around the Hell’s Sons. Sure, they came from different social classes, but they’d bonded, and he hadn’t been willing to let go of that.

Then he’d met Lorraine while in med school. Falling for a club girl had been easy. And becoming a prospect, getting his first patches felt as natural as slipping into a hot bath. His life had seemed dull in comparison. He’d been born to belong to an organization like this—he thrived on a completely different set of rules. The guys were his family, the clubhouse his home.

Then shit had gone south, and well…he’d become a drifter.

Maybe this was the end of the line.

Or maybe he should just abandon the club life altogether.

No, that wasn’t a possibility. He was a lifer. He couldn’t imagine walking away. Ever.

He shot down the road toward the small house he’d purchased outside town. His neighbors kept to themselves from what he could tell. That was good because he led a much different lifestyle when home. His friends got rowdy at times, and Connall had a craving for pussy. If he were lucky tonight, he’d bring some home.

He had to be careful, though. Putting a woman on the back of his bike more than a few times meant commitment, and he couldn’t be further from that in his mind. All he wanted was a woman’s tongue in his mouth and her soft thighs wrapped around him as he plunged home. Emptying his balls several times before flipping her over and taking her again.

An itch only a woman could scratch burrowed deep in his groin, making him restless. He went into his house and switched on the A/C so he could come back to a cool atmosphere and get sweaty between the sheets. Then he kicked off his surgery shoes and slid on his black square-toed boots.

Outside, he admired his beauty sitting in the drive—a Harley Davidson FXR. The purists hated it, but he’d always been of the mind “if you love it, ride it.” The frame had a great stance and the bike was very hot-rod while being really functional.

He swung his leg over the leather seat and got her purring. The sound sank into his soul, making him feel more alive than he had all day. Hospital noises—life support, beeping IVs, coughing, wheezing, and farting—all wore on him.

Ten minutes later he rolled up to the club. The logo of a skeleton riding a Harley with the flames of Hell shooting from the tailpipe didn’t exactly invite the Girl Scouts to come selling cookies. But to Connall, it was home.

The door opened and a few guys stumbled into the parking lot, obviously well into their partying. They slowed, tension in their shoulders as they looked at him climbing off his bike. He gave the group a chin-nod of greeting.

“Hey, you’re the new prospect,” one called.

“Not a prospect. Just a transplant from the north charter, right?” another said.

“That’s right.” Connall walked forward, hand out.

They locked hands as if they’d known each other their whole lives, and the second Hell’s Son pulled him into a man-hug, thumping his back. “Good to have you, dude.” He eyed the bottle in Connall’s hand. “That must be Jamison’s. He’s inside. Look for the beautiful redhead and you’ll find him.”

“Will do.” Without a backward glance, he went into the club. A guard stood at the door. The instant Connall stepped across the threshold, all eyes locked on him. Voices quieted, leaving only the strains of Led Zeppelin on an old jukebox.

He swung his head right and left, looking for the redhead. She was impossible to miss—a thick mass of red waves cascaded down her spine, and her curvy ass was settled on a man’s lap. The club prez, Jamison.

“Look what the cat dragged in. Man, it’s good to see you.” Jamison set his old lady in the chair beside him and stood to his full height. He was eye-to-eye with Connall, wearing a grin.

Connall’s chest expanded with gladness. He reached out and tugged his new prez into a hug. They pounded each other, and then Jamison gave him two affectionate pats on the cheek. “Everyone, this is Connall West, sent by the north charter and our newest member. Somebody get him a drink!”

A fierce cry echoed, and Connall was passed from man to man. Too many names flooded his brain as a beer was placed in his hand. He whirled and soft lips pressed against his, along with a lush body to match. He hitched the woman against him. Every club had sweet butts. He liked the feel of this one in particular. He was an ass man, and her full globes fit perfectly in his hands.

He kissed her and ground into the V of her legs. Then he set her aside with a promise to find her soon.

When he got to the bar, a guy named Ace slid a brimming shot glass across the battered wooden top to him. Connall slammed it back and was given a second. Then he was off again, sharing news from the north with a few more guys and finally talking bikes.

Then he spotted her.

His chest seemed to compress and all the air was forced out.
Lorraine.

Whiskey brown hair streamed over slender shoulders, down over rounded breasts.
No, Lorraine’s dead.

Her oval face and exotic eyes weren’t Lorraine’s at all.

“This is Sarah,” one of the sweet butts was saying. Even as Connall acknowledged the beautiful woman he’d mistaken as someone from his past, he was torn between wanting to take her home right now and running like hell.

The feelings she evoked… He couldn’t go there.

Sarah was staring at him. Her gaze traveled over his cut and all the patches he wore. Then slowly down to his feet. When a pink blush rose in her cheeks, he was pretty damn sure he was taking her home.

Before they exchanged a word, someone called her name. Sarah turned from Connall and hurried across the room into the arms of a burly guy with white-blond hair and a healthy amount of tattoos. The burly guy who’d grabbed her looked over the top of her head at Connall.

Guess she’s spoken for.

“Connall, over here.”

He acknowledged Jamison with a wave and went to his table, settling with his back against the wall. He hated to admit he’d done it on purpose, but he had a full view of the guy holding Sarah.

“Who’s that?” Connall heard himself ask the prez.

Jamison looked up. “O’Dovey. Does a lot of running for us. Good guy.”

Connall didn’t agree. The way he wrapped himself bodily around Sarah—it was all wrong. He was like a boa constrictor, strangling his prey. Connall had spent years in a big city hospital and he’d seen plenty of abuse cases. O’Dovey had “abuser” written all over him.

He glanced around—was nobody else seeing this? He shook himself. No, to the untrained eye, O’Dovey looked like an attentive mate, not a controlling asshole. Connall couldn’t fault the brothers—they only saw the good. But why didn’t Sarah say anything?

Sarah shifted and O’Dovey trapped her firmly. She eased her arm from under his and he caught her hand, pinning it.

She was his property and his body language screamed
hands off.

The more Connall watched, the more sickened he became.
Hell.

“Does she belong to him?” Connall asked Jamison.

He exhaled a plume of smoke off to the side. “Nah, Sarah doesn’t belong to anyone. Not unless she chooses.”

“She’s not a sweet butt?” Connall poured himself another drink from the heavy glass bottle in the center of the table.

“No, she’s the daughter of a club member. Protected.”

Sarah wiggled her leg free and O’Dovey extended his long leg, hooked hers, and drew it back. He wasn’t allowing her to get away.

Connall swallowed the fiery liquid and continued to watch long into the night. One thing O’Dovey couldn’t control was Sarah’s eyes—and she was staring right at Connall.

»»•««

The fire burned bright and the heat curled the edges of the paper Sarah held. She watched the brown edge turn black, and finally a bead of orange fire shot across the long side.

She tossed the paper into the flames before it singed her. Then she reached into the box filled with documents from one of the Hell’s Sons bars, the Gearhead. She ended up behind the club burning business papers a couple times a month. They didn’t need a big paper trail and had a member who was good at fudging the books.

Five papers later, she picked up the whole box and dumped it. Flames leaped. She stepped away from the heat—right into a pair of soft arms. Arms she trusted.

Jamison’s woman, Ever, had been Sarah’s support system for ages. They were close friends and, sometimes when Ever needed a little extra softness, more.

“You’ve been acting depressed since you came back from getting the bag,” Ever said near Sarah’s ear.