The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 (7 page)

Not that she had a bike to tinker with anymore. She briefly considered asking Jagger if his boys had retrieved her Ninja, but just as quickly dismissed the thought. Why would they bother, especially when they'd initially suspected she started the fire?

He shook his head and muttered, half to himself. “Of course you are.”

“No passenger pegs or sissy bar on the back?” she said, as he settled on the bike in front of her. “You like your passengers holding on to you?”

“Never packed a passenger before.”

“What? No old lady? No rides home for the sweet butts after a wild night on the town?” She cringed inwardly after she spoke. How juvenile. And yet, although she would never see this man again, some part of her still wanted to know if he was taken.

“No time to look after anyone else. Running the club and keeping the brothers in line are more than enough work.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Where am I taking you?”

“Gas station on the corner of Eleventh and Main. I'll call a friend to pick me up. Don't want you to know where I live, in case you regret not killing me when you had the chance.”

Jagger laughed, a warm deep chuckle that made her toes curl. “Never gonna happen. I make a decision, I stick to it.”

She slid her arms around his waist, tucking her body against his, soothed by the familiar scent of leather and the less familiar scent of warm, musky male. “So, who looks after you while you're watching over everyone else?”

“I look after myself.”

The motorcycle roared to life and Jagger peeled away from the sea of bikes. Arianne pressed her cheek against the cool leather of his cut and increased her grip around his waist.

“Me, too,” she whispered.

He couldn't possibly have heard her over the roar of his engine, but when he reached back and gave her thigh a squeeze, tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Everything about Jagger confused her, from his gestures of respect to his unexpected kindness to his noticeable turmoil when she'd been in danger. Someone had forgotten to tell him this wasn't how outlaw MC presidents were supposed to behave.

Her body flamed as he slid his hand down her leg to rest it on her knee, his touch at once soothing and protective. When had any biker ever made her heart pound? Sure, she was comfortable in their world—she could talk the talk, joke with them, and even hold her own in the occasional fistfight. But regardless of such camaraderie, she was live to the underlying truth: In her world—this world—women were property or playthings, definitely not equals worthy of the respect she craved. Not once had she ever sought or wanted a biker's attention.

Until now.

He lifted his hand to grip the handlebars as they took a sharp turn. Arianne bemoaned the small loss of his warmth, the comfort of his strength, and the curious tingles that sizzled through her body from their brief contact.

After he dropped her off, she'd probably never see him again. She didn't frequent biker bars or hangouts, never even went to the Black Jack clubhouse unless her father specifically demanded her presence. She liked her quiet life, working at Banks's Bar, hanging with her best friend, Dawn, and occasionally helping out friends with their motorcycle troubles or working part-time at any garage with an opening for a journeyman mechanic. There were no crises. No wild parties. No crazy bikers doing crazy-biker things. No bloodshed. If not for her father dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night to help with club business from time to time, an outsider might've thought she led a normal life.

Jagger kicked up the accelerator. He had to be doing at least one hundred miles per hour, but no cop in Montana would dare stop a member of the Sinner's Tribe. A reluctant smile spread across Arianne's face. Fast as Jagger was, if she were on her Ninja right now, he would be eating her dust.

As they neared downtown, Arianne closed her eyes and took a mental snapshot of the ride: the cool wind in her clothes, the scent of Jagger's leather jacket, the sharp edge of his belt buckle digging into her palms, the warmth of his body, and the flutter in her belly whenever he reached back and patted her thigh to make sure she was okay. She couldn't remember the last time a man had cared enough to check up on her. But, to be fair, she never gave them that chance.

By the time they'd arrived at the gas station a few blocks from her apartment building on the west side of Conundrum, her heart was racing and a warm glow had settled in her body. Although she was glad to be away from the Sinner's Tribe clubhouse, she couldn't help feeling disappointed that the ride was over already.

The giant poplars lining the street cast long shadows in the afternoon sun. Jagger parked his bike at the side of the road and for a long moment, maybe too long, she stayed in her seat, arms around him, cheek pressed against his back, soaking up every last sensation.

“You okay?” He turned in his seat and she nodded, then quickly dismounted the bike, looking away from him to hide her burning cheeks.

What should she say?
Thanks for capturing me and leaving me at the mercy of your psychotic biker gang? Thanks for rescuing me? Thanks for taking off your shirt last night and giving me a year's worth of fantasies?

“Well … good-bye. I'd say it's been fun, but except for the ride, it wasn't.”

Jagger laughed. “You're a speed demon?”

“I have, on occasion, been known to go over the speed limit.”

“I should have guessed.” He slid off his bike. “It's a good thing, then, we've got to say good-bye. I happen to like speed demons.”

A firestorm of desire swept through her, sending her pulse into overdrive. “I have many unlikable traits. Consider yourself lucky you won't have a chance to discover what they are.”

Jagger gave her a crooked smile and closed the distance between them. So close, she could feel his warmth through her cut. “Depends on how you define ‘unlikable.' I also happen to enjoy the occasional challenge, being told off by a woman half my size, and discovering pink polka-dot panties under worn street leathers.”

Was he flirting with her? Did she want him to stop?

“I knew you had a naughty streak,” she brushed back the hair that had fallen over her face.

His gaze darkened, heated, until she thought she would burn in the sensual depths of his eyes. “You made it very difficult to look away.”

Every nerve in her body fired at once. Definitely flirting. But why not? It was just a game. Neither of them had anything to lose, and they would never see each other again. Jacks and Sinners definitely didn't mix. She tilted her head and gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile. “You're a dangerous man, Jagger. I'm lucky to be getting away. Panties and all.”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I am a dangerous man. If you have any sense, sweetheart, you'll run down that road and never look back.”

Sweetheart
. The term of endearment did strange, fluttery things to her stomach, and she wished it was something more than a casual throwaway expression.

With great reluctance, she took one step back and then another, her eyes drinking in their last fill of the man who awakened desires she had long thought dead.

“Wait.”

Arianne halted her steps, then relaxed when Jagger pulled her gun and holster from his saddlebag. “You might need these.”

His fingers brushed over hers when she took them from his outstretched hand. Her blood sizzled. No doubt about it, Jagger tripped every hormone in her body in a way no man ever had.

“Especially with dangerous men like you around.” A smile tugged at her lips.

“Where do I find you if I need to talk to you again?”

Her heart quickened. “Are you asking so you can come and kill me if your brothers decide to exact vengeance on me after all?”

“I'm asking in case someone in the club gets it in his head to act without my authority and I need to warn you.”

Her desire faded beneath the very real chance he was right. She knew the biker culture as well as he did. “You think that's a possibility?”

“You know this world. Everything is a possibility.”

She weighed the risk of letting him know where she lived versus the risk of one of his men—Axle, most likely—coming after her on his own. Although the risks on both sides were considerable, part of her trusted Jagger. He'd acted with honor, a quality lacking in pretty much every Black Jack biker she knew. The situation could have gone an entirely different way if not for him.

She gave herself a mental slap. Was she really considering giving her personal details to a member of the Sinner's Tribe? Rubbing her hand through her hair in distraction, she turned and walked down the sidewalk. “I'll take the risk.”

“Arianne.” His deep, husky voice stopped her in her tracks, and she looked back over her shoulder. He hadn't moved, and it was the hint that maybe there was more to his flirting that loosened her tongue.

“Banks Bar, west end of Villard Street.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I work the bar Tuesday to Saturday. And Mondays if there's a game on. If you're in the neighborhood for reasons other than killing me or warning me about being killed, I'll buy you a drink. Say thanks for saving me.”
Should be safe enough
. She'd be working at Banks Bar only a few more days, maybe a week or two at the most. Once she got her fake passport from Jeff, she'd be leaving Conundrum behind.

“Thought you were a mechanic.”

“I was … am. But I quit when I thought I was leaving and my boss hired my replacement before my last day so I could show him the ropes. Banks, my boss, wouldn't accept my resignation. He didn't believe I'd leave. Good thing, too. It means I can make some extra cash before I go.”

“Got it.”

When Jagger didn't say anything else, she stared down at her hands.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid
. Why had she invited him for a drink? He was being courteous, not coming on to her.

Cheeks burning, she cleared her throat and gave him a weak smile. “Okay, then. Well … say bye to Max for me.”

Then she turned and walked away.

 

FIVE

Respect must be shown, in order of importance, to your colors, bike, executive board, club members, clubhouse, other patch holders, prisoners, and chicks.

Flavio Fuentes screamed when Zane pointed the gun at his head.

He apologized for all the people he'd killed, the women he'd abused, and the children who'd suffered when their drug-addicted parents overdosed. He promised to go to church every Sunday, live clean, and give to charity. He would disband the cartel and leave Montana. Hell, he would even stop dealing with the Black Jacks. Anything but get into the trunk of Zane's Chrysler 300C. He'd heard about trunking, and although he was confident someone would pay his ransom before he ran out of air, he had suffered from claustrophobia since childhood. Surely the Sinners had mercy. Maybe Jagger and his men would like a couple of lines of speed on the house instead? Good-quality stuff.

“I want the location of the Jacks' icehouse.” Jagger tapped Fuentes on the head with the barrel of his gun to get the drug lord's attention. The Black Jacks were making a fortune by producing their own crystal meth locally and avoiding the transport costs charged by the Mexican cartels. “Give me an address and you can steer clear of a cruise around the city in my trunk.”

“I don't know. I don't know.” Fuentes trembled. “I meet with the Jacks. They give me the stuff. I don't know where it comes from.”

Zane shook his head. “He's lying.”

Jagger thought so, too. He also thought it odd that a grown man would hug himself as if overcome with remorse. Too late, he realized that T-Rex, the club's most senior prospect, and Bandit, their newest full-patch, had missed a weapon the drug lord was hiding down the back of his pants.

Fuentes's gun flashed in the moonlight. Jagger dodged to the side, and the bullet skimmed past him. Zane fired next. Fuentes screamed and dropped his gun, both hands flying to hold his leg.

“Fuck.” Cade rubbed his brow. “Why did you have to go and shoot him? He was worth at least two hundred grand alive, and now we have no lead on the location of the Black Jack icehouse.”

“I shot him in the
leg
.” Zane gave Cade an affronted glare. “And it's just a flesh wound. If we bandage him right, and his people pay the price, he'll live to deal drugs another day. You should be praising me for my accuracy, something you can never hope to achieve, since you shoot like a fucking girl.”

“Like you need another pat on the back.” Cade shot Zane a scathing look as he reached for Fuentes's arm and yanked him to his feet. “Your ego is so big, I have to step around it.”

“Look who's talking.” Zane grabbed Fuentes's other arm, and together he and Cade dragged the moaning drug lord to the vehicle. “You have women falling at your feet. We go out to a bar, and I know I'll be drinking alone because thirty seconds in the door, you'll have picked up some chick who can't keep her hands off you.”

After bandaging Fuentes's leg, they opened the trunk of the vehicle and heaved Fuentes into it, raising their voices to be heard over his screams. “What can I say?” Cade grinned. “Women love me for my pretty face and my huge—”

“Cade.” Jagger cut him off with a sharp bark. “How about a little professionalism? We're trunking, not comparing dick sizes. Call Fuentes's people and tell them he has only a few hours to live and the price just went up. I want five hundred grand and the location of the icehouse in a bag in the Dumpster outside Mountain Grill's on Ferguson just off the 191—otherwise, the trunk becomes his permanent home.” He glared at Bandit and T-Rex, who were quivering in the shadows. “I should throw you in there with him. There's no excuse for missing that weapon.”