The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 (2 page)

Jagger cursed under his breath and holstered his weapon beneath his cut. He maintained his leadership position by using coercion and power to impose his will on his brothers. Drawing his weapon on Axle, as he was tempted to do, would suggest he could no longer control Axle by force of will alone—an admission of weakness that could cost him his presidency, even his life. He fisted his hand at his side and glared “My club. My call. If you shoot him, it'll be the last fucking thing you ever do.”

Axle stood motionless above the fallen biker, sweat beading his brow as he toyed with his gun, no doubt weighing the chance to be the club hero against the very real possibility Jagger would make good his threat.

Jagger's pulse pounded out each second of delay. Axle had been a thorn in his side far too long, but until now, he'd been smart enough never to openly defy Jagger, preferring instead to skulk resentfully in the shadows, making underhanded attempts to erode Jagger's power base. Tonight, however, the emotionally charged situation was clearly an opportunity Axle couldn't pass up. He had finally shown his hand. But Jagger hadn't held the presidency for five years without knowing how to deal with snakes like Axle.

“Step away. I'll deal with him.” Pointedly ignoring Axle's weapon, and without waiting for Axle's compliance, Jagger crouched down beside the unmoving figure. Small for a Ninja rider and thin … almost delicate. He carefully rolled the unconscious biker to the side, and his fists convulsed with suppressed rage when he saw the Black Jacks MC patch, a jack from a deck of playing cards with a skull for a face.

Zane muttered a curse. Wheels let out a long, low whistle. Even Jagger startled. The Black Jacks and the Sinner's Tribe had been engaged in a feud over territory for years. But two years ago, the high death toll had drawn the attention of federal authorities and the national media, driving away the illicit underground black market that was the bread and butter of Montana's outlaw MC operations. In the interest of self-preservation, Jagger and the Black Jacks president, Viper, had called an uneasy truce. The Black Jacks took control of Montana's drug trade, and the Sinner's Tribe took over the more lucrative contracts in illegal arms trafficking. With both clubs claiming dominance of the state, the occasional skirmish was unavoidable. But for the most part, the truce had held.

Until now.

Axle cocked his gun and gestured at the two-piece patch on the fallen biker's cut. “He's wearing fucking Jacks colors. Outta my way, Jagger. The feud is back on.”

“He's not a full-patch brother.” Wheels shot Axle a pleading look and then slid his gaze to Jagger. “He's missing the bottom rocker. He might only be a prospect doing what he was told to do. You can't just kill him.” Wheels edged closer to the fallen biker. “We don't even know if he's the one who set the fire.”

“We can do whatever the fuck we want.” Axle shot Wheels an irritated glance. “The Sinners are one-percenters. You know what that means, prospect? It means we're the one percent of bikers who
don't
follow fucking civilian law. We make our own rules, follow our own codes, and administer our own justice. And the penalty for burning down our clubhouse is death.”

Jagger pushed himself to his feet, taking advantage of his six-foot-two-inch frame as he loomed over Axle. “Last I heard, I was the president of the Sinner's Tribe. That means administering justice is my call. And after talking to Gunner, I'm not convinced the Ninja rider is the man who torched our clubhouse.”

Axle's face lit with bitter triumph, and he offered his weapon to Jagger, an insulting gesture, since he knew Jagger was carrying a gun. “Doesn't matter. He's a Black Jack. In a matter of honor, one Jack is as good as the next. So do your duty. Give us justice. Revenge. Show us what you're made of,
Oh great leader
.”

Jagger took the offered weapon, removed the magazine, then stepped forward and smashed the butt of the gun into Axle's head. Axle dropped to his knees, then slumped on the ground.

“Zane, he's yours for tonight.” Jagger's voice cracked through the silence. “But make sure he's fit to attend the executive board meeting in the morning to answer for his disrespect.” He tossed Axle's gun to Zane and glowered at the crowd. “Anyone else got a problem?”

Without waiting for a response, he bent down and removed the fallen biker's helmet. Long, dark hair spilled over the pavement in a silken wave.

“Well, damn.” Zane exhaled his words in a shocked whisper. “He's a she. We've been disrespected by a fucking girl.”

No, not a girl. A woman. An angel. From Black Jack hell.

Jagger pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse beneath her soft, cool skin. She moaned and her eyes fluttered open, startling him with an emerald-green brilliance like nothing he had ever seen before.

For an instant he couldn't speak, and then her thick, dark lashes drifted over creamy cheeks and her head drooped to the side. Beneath the pads of his fingers, her pulse beat steady but faint. Reassured, he removed his hand. Only then did he see her injuries—long, thick, finger-shaped bruises around her neck.

With a light touch, he traced along the fine line of her jaw. Mottled black-and-blue marks extended from her temple to her chin. His eyes slid to the helmet and then back to her pale face. Definitely not injuries from the accident. For some reason he couldn't name, he wanted to hunt down whoever had hurt her and pound him into the ground.

Ironic, really, since he might have to kill her.

 

TWO

Club first. Club only. Club always.

The dream was always the same: soft bed, dim light, fluffy pink duvet, homework on her desk.

Leo on top of her.

Screams and shouting. Her arms pinned. His hand yanking down her jeans. Her thrashing on the bed, a wail escaping her lips.

“Wake up.” A rough hand stroked her cheek and wiped away a tear.

Arianne's eyes fluttered open and she squinted to adjust to the dim light, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

She tried to push herself up and then fell back on the pillow when her stomach heaved.

“Don't move.”

Panicked, Arianne froze and peered in the direction of the deep, rich voice. She blinked to clear her vision and he came into view, leaning back on the chair beside her bed, long legs stretched out in front of him, thick arms covered with tats and folded over a massive chest. Under his cut, a Harley-Davidson T-shirt stretched taut over toned pecs and a washboard stomach. Black jeans hugged his narrow hips, and thick dark hair brushed the top of his wide shoulders. Rough and weathered, he sported at least a day's worth of beard over his square jaw.

Delicious.

His sheer presence drew her in. No. Not presence.
Power.
Raw and untamed.

“Who are you?” Her voice wavered despite her best efforts to slow her pounding heart. Running and screaming would do her little good if she knew nothing about her situation.

“Jagger.”

“Jagger?” The name was familiar, but with her brain still fuzzy she couldn't place him. In fact, she couldn't place anything. Not even herself. She forced her mind backward, trying to pinpoint her last memory.

“Maybe this will help.”

He removed his cut and spun it around, holding it up to give her a good view of the back. She recognized the three-piece patch at once: a winged skull set above flames, with two stars on either side and two curved rockers above and below, proclaiming the name of his club and the chapter.

THE SINNER'S TRIBE MC.

She was going to die.

And on the very day she had planned to escape this life forever. Gritting her teeth, Arianne forced back a whimper. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of begging for her life.
Death with dignity
. She would make her mother proud. And her father, too, if he was even capable of that emotion.

Jagger grimaced and shrugged on the cut, his fingers brushing over the patch identifying him as president. “Looks like you know who we are.“

Blood pounded in her throat and she dipped her chin. Who didn't know the Conundrum chapter of the Sinner's Tribe, the dominant outlaw MC in Montana, and one of the top outlaw MCs in the country? The club boasted nine hundred members across the northern United States alone. Archenemies of the Black Jacks MC in which she had been born and raised, the Sinner's Tribe were unequaled in size or power in Montana. And Jagger was their king.

A sickening wave of terror cleared the fog from her brain. Everything came back in a rush. All her hard work to save enough money to procure false passports and new identities for her and Jeff. Favors pulled to arrange for them to get to Canada under the Black Jacks' radar. The excitement of knowing they would finally be free from their father, Viper; the Black Jacks; and the biker world. And then Jeff's text: he wasn't coming. Viper had caught him on his way out and sent him with a team of Jacks to torch the Sinner's Tribe's clubhouse and steal a shipment of weapons.

She swallowed dryly as she remembered racing through Conundrum on her Ninja, desperate to stop Jeff from making a mistake that could cost him his life. Hope and desolation. Flames flickering. The crack of a gun. And then darkness.

Jagger leaned forward, his hand outstretched as if to steady her. “You're lookin' very white. You gonna pass out?”

“No. I'm fine.”

Fighting back an almost overwhelming urge to run, she made a quick assessment of the room: king-size bed, night table, and wooden chair. Bare and functional. Her .38, still in its leather calf holster, sat beside a black gym bag on a low, wide dresser. A window with no curtains. Moonlight casting shadows on the floor. Handsome-as-fuck executioner. No Jeff.
Small mercy
. Maybe he'd escaped.

Maybe she could escape, too. She had to escape. If Jagger found out her father was his mortal enemy, he would shoot her on the spot.

“Where are we?” Her voice was thin, almost unrecognizable, and raw in her throat.

Jagger tilted his head and gave her an amused smile. “Too far to run, if that's what you're thinking. We acquired this old house from a double-crossing dealer who thought he could play us. Nothing around for miles except mountains, trees, and the odd wolf. And if you did get it into your head to go for a hike, there are one hundred angry Sinners and support club members outside who think you burned down our clubhouse. They want blood. Right now, this is the safest place for you to be.”

Okay. Not good odds. But staying here was certain death. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to sitting, grimacing as pain sliced through her head.

With a soft, admonishing grumble, Jagger clasped her arm and helped her back down onto the pillow. “Doc said you had a concussion and shouldn't get out of bed for a coupla days.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Why didn't you just kill me? Why bother with a doctor? Or do you like your prisoners healthy before you torture them?”

He shifted in his chair, and a shadow crossed his disturbingly attractive face. “Innocent until proven guilty. I added it to our bylaws. Keeps the boys from becoming vigilantes and delivering instant retribution for imagined slights.”

“Maybe in your club. Not in mine.”

She clamped her mouth shut.
Damn
. Even the smallest bit of information could reveal the identity of her father, although save for the dark hair, she and her father didn't look much alike. And despite the fact that she'd been wearing her Black Jacks cut, she wasn't a Jack. Not by a long shot.

Jagger studied her in silence, unnerving her with his steady stare. But damned if she would … could look away from those warm brown eyes. Deep. Fathomless. For a second her mind unmoored and she was floating in a chocolate sea.

Safe.

Protected.

What the hell was she doing? When had anyone ever protected her? And he was the enemy. Their clubs had been fighting over territory for years, trading brutalities the way young boys traded insults. Even the old ladies weren't safe.

Or their daughters …

She pushed the memory away. Her mother hadn't died because of the feud but because of the biker culture at the heart of it. A culture that considered women to be property and nothing more.

“You got a name?” He leaned back and spread his legs in the irritating way men often did, taking up the space of three people in an effort to exert dominance.

Except Jagger didn't really have to try. From the authority in his voice to the power oozing from his pores, he was every inch the dominant alpha male. A natural leader. She doubted anyone ever challenged him. And that traitorous lick of heat deep in her core? Simply an instinctive primal response. Easily rationalized away.

“Arianne.” The name dropped from her lips before she could catch it. Almost immediately, she realized her mistake. She'd given him her real name. Her birth name. The name she hadn't used in the biker world since her mother died. What the hell was she thinking? “I mean, Vexy.” She firmed her voice. “Vexy is my road name.”

His rugged face softened. “Arianne is a pretty name. Soft. Suits you. Vexy, not so much. Makes me think of a sexy woman who's got a temper.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. As if she didn't know what the word “vex” meant. But bikers didn't get to choose their road names; those names were bestowed by the club. And although women weren't allowed to be an official part of the Black Jacks, she had status, a road name, and a cut simply because of who she was.

Jagger lifted an eyebrow. “That you, Arianne? You got a temper?”

Her cheeks heated. Was he teasing her? With his face an impassive mask, and his tone cool and even, she couldn't tell. But she liked the sound of her name on his lips—his soft rumble over the second syllable—so much that she didn't correct him. The temper part, however … Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes. “Try me.”