Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Boulder
I kick down the door to Andrés's stash house, ready for anything.
Behind me, Python and Axel go forward, guns drawn, my brothers moving like we’re in some sort of military unit.
I shout, sweeping left while Python takes right. "Go! Go! Go!"
The first guard barely has time to reach for his piece before I'm on him, the butt of my gun connecting with his jaw.
Bone cracks under the impact, a spray of blood and teeth painting the wall behind him.
He drops like a sack of rocks, gurgling and choking on his own blood.
Across the room, Python slams another guard face-first into a table, the man's nose exploding on impact.
The guard screams, a high-pitched sound cut short when Python grabs a handful of his hair and smashes his face down a second time.
Axel calls from the back room, his voice tight with adrenaline. "Clear!"
The main floor secured, we push deeper into the building.
The stash house is smaller than we expected, just a run-down building on the outskirts of Chihuahua.
Perfect for Andrés to move product without drawing too much attention.
Razor appears at the top of the stairs, nodding to indicate the second floor is clear. "No one up here. Just product, and lots of it."
"Start loading what we can carry," Zorro instructs. "Torch the rest."
We work quickly, grabbing samples of Andrés's merchandise—mostly coke and heroin, packaged for street distribution.
Intel like this is valuable, gives us leverage against other dealers in the area.
I'm dumping gasoline over a stack of boxes when the back door crashes open.
Three of Andrés' men rush in, guns already spitting fire.
"Down!" I yell, diving behind a stack of crates as bullets tear chunks out of the wall above me.
Python returns fire, catching one guy in the shoulder, spinning him around.
Razor puts a bullet in his head before he can recover, brain matter splattering across the floor.
The second guy takes cover behind a doorway, shooting wildly in our direction.
I wait for him to show himself again, then squeeze the trigger of my gun.
The blast catches him square in the chest, the force lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the wall.
He slides down, leaving a smear of crimson.
The third man realizes he's outgunned and makes a break for it, bolting toward the door.
I charge after him, catching him by the back of his shirt and using my momentum to slam him face-first into the wall.
His nose breaks with a satisfying crunch.
Before he can recover, I spin him around and drive my fist into his throat, crushing his windpipe.
He drops to his knees, gasping and clutching his neck, eyes bulging.
I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back. "Who sent you?"
He tries to speak but can only gurgle, blood bubbling from his lips.
I slam his head against the wall, my impatience growing. "Andrés know we were coming? Someone tip him off?"
The guy shakes his head weakly, face turning purple as he struggles for air that won't come.
Disgusted, I let him drop to the floor, his body twitching as he slowly suffocates.
"We got company!" Python shouts from the window. "Two more cars pulling up!"
"Fuck!" I grab the nearest gas can and start dousing everything in sight.
Razor hollers at us all. "Light it up! We're leaving!"
Python flicks his lighter, tossing it onto the gasoline trail.
Flames erupt instantly, racing across the floor and up the walls.
The heat hits, wafts up, hitting everything around me.
Sweat instantly beads on my forehead.
We make for the back exit, guns ready.
Outside, I can hear shouting, car doors slamming.
Andrés's reinforcements, too late to save their stash but just in time to cause us more trouble.
The first one rounds the corner as we burst through the back door.
I don't hesitate, fighting like my life depends on it.
The bullet catches him square in the face, and even though he’s dead, his body continues forward a few steps before collapsing.
Razor shouts, laying down covering fire as the brothers race for our motorcycles, stashed in the alley behind the building. "Bikes! Now!"
A bullet whizzes past my ear, close enough that I feel the air change.
I drop to one knee, steadying my aim, and put a round through the shooter's chest.
He staggers back, firing wildly into the air as he falls.
Another one charges me, screaming something in Spanish I can't make out over the roar of the flames now consuming the stash house.
He swings a machete in a wide motion toward my head.
I duck under the blade, driving my shoulder into his midsection and lifting him off his feet.
As he goes airborne, I grab his arm and twist sharply.
The bone snaps with an audible crack, and he shrieks in pain.
I follow him down to the ground, my knee landing hard on his chest, driving the air from his lungs.
Before he can recover, I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze, pressing my thumbs into his windpipe until I feel it collapse under the pressure.
His eyes bulge as he thrashes beneath me, fingers clawing weakly at my arms.
Doom shouts, his bike already running. "Boulder! We gotta go! C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here!"
I give one final squeeze, feeling the last tremors of life leave the man beneath me, then rise to my feet.
My knuckles are raw and bleeding, my breathing ragged, but Doom’s right—we have to leave.
The stash house is fully engulfed now, flames shooting twenty feet into the night sky.
The heat is intense, the sound of the fire a roaring beast in my ears.
It's beautiful in a way, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate our handiwork before sprinting to my bike.
I kick it to life as bullets ping off the pavement around me.
Razor and Python lay down covering fire as the prospects and I pull out of the alley, the others right behind me.
We roar into the night, the burning building fading in our rearview mirrors, the smell of smoke and blood clinging to our clothes.
The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins as we head back to the clubhouse.
The rumble of motorcycles surrounds me, the familiar vibration of my bike between my legs grounding me after the chaotic shit that went down tonight.
Taking down one of Andrés's stash houses was supposed to be a simple run—get in, destroy product, get out.
But nothing's ever that simple, is it?
My knuckles are raw, blood drying between my fingers from the fights.
The memory of crushing that man's windpipe, of watching the life fade from his eyes, sits in my mind.
In this life, you either deal out death or receive it.
Tonight, I was the dealer.
The compound comes into view, lights glowing against the dark Mexican night.
As we pull in, I can see figures moving in the windows of the main building.
The old ladies always know when we're coming back from a dangerous run.
If you ask me, they have a sixth sense for this shit.
We park our bikes in our spots, the engines cutting out one by one.
Axel claps me on the shoulder as we dismount, his face split in a wild grin even though he’s got blood trickling from a cut above his eye.
"Fucking beautiful work, prospect," he says. "That takedown was textbook."
I nod, accepting the praise. "Just doing what needed to be done."
Amara approaches as we walk toward the clubhouse, her face unreadable in the dim light. "What the fuck happened?"
"Stash house is history," I tell her. "We torched it after clearing out. A good bit of Andrés's men won't be causing trouble ever again."
She nods, a slight smile curling the corner of her mouth. "Any casualties on our side?"
"Nothing serious," I assure her. "Cuts, bruises."
"Good work," she says, and those two simple words mean more to me than I'd care to admit. "All of you—church in ten minutes."
As she walks away, I scan the windows of the clubhouse, looking for one face in particular.
I spot her in the second-floor window of our room, watching.
Even from this distance, I can feel Kelsey's eyes on me, checking for injuries, making sure I'm in one piece.
Something shifts in my chest at the sight of her—a warmth that has nothing to do with the adrenaline still running through my veins.
I've never had someone waiting for me after a run before.
Never wanted it.
But now, the urge to go to her, to feel her hands on me, checking for wounds, her lips against mine, is almost overwhelming.
I can’t do that, though. I have to wait.
Inside, the main room is busy with old ladies greeting their men.
Astra even has Lyra here, a red-headed little girl that looks too much like her mother.
When she’s a teenager, she’s going to give Python literal hell.
Python kisses his wife and scoops up his little girl. "Daddy has blood," Lyra starts, and I can’t hear what Astra says to ease her worries.
Ruby and Rosa are breaking out beers for everyone, handing them off one by one.
Oakleigh kisses Razor and goes back over to the couch by the mural she painted, watching over Leo and Rex who are playing with some colorful blocks.
It’s hard to believe Axel and Zorro’s kids are nearly two.
I grab a beer from Rosa but don't drink it yet. I want to have a clear head for church.
In church, Amara sits at the head of the table, with Python and Razor flanking her.
Everyone who was on the run is here.
Axel slides into his seat, and all of the prospects stand against the wall.
Razor starts, "I know you wanted to come, but it’s good you stayed back with Dante’s men and guarded the club, Prez."
Amara doesn’t even acknowledge what he said. I know she has to be pissed, she wanted to be in the action and Razor suggested that she stay back because someone needed to be here to guard the kids.
For a woman who isn’t a mother, she has a real motherly instinct when it comes to protecting her family—the club.
"Give me the details," Amara says, her eyes sharp.
Axel pipes up, "Boulder, tell her."
I recount the run step by step—approaching the stash house, what happened when we got inside, how we didn’t expect Andrés's men, the fight, and the cleanup… which was honestly a barbecue.
I don't embellish or downplay, just give it to her straight.
When I finish, she nods slowly.
"This will send a message," she says. "But Andrés won't take it lying down. We've hurt his pride now, not just his pocket."
"Let him come," Axel says, cracking his knuckles. "We'll be ready."
"Cockiness gets people killed," Amara says sharply. "Honestly, I don’t know how you haven’t gotten killed."
She turns to me. "Boulder, your intel was solid. Your execution was clean. I'm impressed."
I keep my face stoic, even if I am glad to be getting some recognition for what I brought to the table. "Thank you, Prez."
"You've been stepping up lately," she continues. "You’re doing good, thinking before acting."
I feel the weight of what she's not saying.
Before Kelsey, I was known for my impulsiveness, my tendency to leap without looking.
It's gotten me in shit more than once.
"Just doing my job," I say.
She gives me a look that says she's not buying my modesty. "Keep it up. The club notices these things when it comes time to vote on patches."
Is it me… or is she talking about a potential patch-in, suggesting it might be coming sooner rather than later?
Amara tells us prospects to leave, but for me to wait in the hall, so I do.
The second the rest of the officers are coming out, Razor pulls me aside.
He nods toward the front door. "Come with me,"
I follow him, wondering what it is that they want to talk to me about.
"You did really good tonight," he says, lighting a cigarette. "You thought with your head, not with emotion. That takes some brothers years to learn."
"Thanks," I say, waiting for the 'but' I'm sure is coming.
He studies me for a moment, smoke curling around his face. "Something's been different about you lately."
I tense slightly, not sure where he's going with this. "How so?"
"You're more focused. Less wild." He takes a long drag. "Oakleigh says it's your girl. Says she's grounding you."
I shift uncomfortably, not used to discussing my personal life with senior members. "Eh, it’s complicated. We’re complicated."
Razor snorts. "Oh, I know. Women in general are complicated–-especially the ones worth keeping."
I don’t know what comes over me, but I get defensive and speak before I can even think about what I’m saying. "Who says I'm keeping her?"
He gives me a look that says he's not buying my bullshit. "You claimed her, didn't you? In front of the whole club."
I suck in a sharp breath, keeping my voice low. "Yeah, but Razor… between you and me, that was for her own protection."
"Keep telling yourself that, prospect." Razor flicks ash from his cigarette. "Just some advice—don't fight it so hard. Club life and an ol’ lady aren't mutually exclusive."
I don't respond, not sure what to say.
The idea of admitting what I'm starting to feel for Kelsey, even to myself terrifies the living shit out of me.
"Anyway," Razor continues, sensing my discomfort, "got a call from a contact at the border. Someone matching your girl's brother Sam's description crossed over two days ago. Heading this way, most likely."
Sam's the good brother, the one who warned her about Benji. "That’s a good thing, don’t you think?"
Razor shrugs. "Family loyalty runs deep. Could be a play. We don’t know this guy. He might have helped her in the past, but I don’t trust nobody."
I nod, taking the warning seriously. "I'll let Kelsey know, see what she thinks."
"Do that," Razor says, then glances toward the door. "And go clean yourself up. You look like shit, and your girl's been staring out the window like she might burn a hole in it waiting for you."
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. "Yes, sir."
As I head for the stairs, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a club message.
Instead, it's a text from an unknown number:
Need to talk. Same place. Noon tomorrow. Info about Benji's plans. - C
Craig.
The brother who's supposedly trying to help Kelsey.
The one who told me about the half-sister their father sold—Julie.
The secret I've been keeping from Kelsey, not sure if it will hurt her more to know, or help.
I should tell Amara about the text immediately, but something makes me hesitate.
Craig's intel has been solid so far.
And something about the way he looked when he talked about his father, about the girl who disappeared—there was real disgust there, real shame.
I pocket my phone, deciding to sleep on it.
The club will know in the morning. For now, I have someone waiting for me upstairs.
I take the stairs two at a time, the exhaustion and aches from the run suddenly gone.
When I reach our door, I pause, taking a deep breath before opening it.
Kelsey is sitting on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt.
She looks up when I enter, her eyes immediately scanning me for injuries, widening slightly at the sight of blood on my hands.
She rises to her feet. "Are you okay?"
"Not my blood," I assure her. "Well, not most of it."
She moves closer, her hands reaching for mine, turning them over to examine my raw knuckles.
Her touch is gentle as she looks over me, checking for any real damage.
"You should clean these," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "They could get infected."
I let her lead me to the bathroom, where she sits me on the edge of the tub and starts running warm water.
There's something strangely intimate about this moment—her kneeling in front of me, washing blood from my hands.
She focuses on my hands, not looking up at me. "Successful run?"
"Very," I confirm. "Andrés is down one stash house and a few men."
She nods, focused on cleaning a nasty scrape across my knuckles. "Good."
"Got a text from Craig," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "Wants to meet tomorrow. Says he has information about Benji's plans."
Her hands pause momentarily, then she keeps cleaning my wounds. "Are you going?"
"Thinkin’ about it," I admit. "His intel's been solid so far."
"He could be setting you up," she points out, her voice carefully even.
"Could be," I agree. "But I don't think so. There's something about him—he seems genuinely disgusted with Benji, with your father."
Kelsey is quiet for a moment, patting my hands dry with a towel. "Remember, Craig was always the follower, never the leader. There has to be a reason he’s breaking away from Benji, if that’s what he’s doing."
"What kind of reason?"
She shrugs, avoiding my eyes. "Maybe he's finally growing a conscience. Maybe Benji's gone too far even for him. Or maybe he's playing an angle I can't see."
I catch her chin with my fingers, tilting her face up to look at me. "What do you think I should do?"
The question seems to surprise her. "You're asking me?"
"It's your brother," I say simply. "You know him better than I do."
She considers this, her whiskey-brown eyes thoughtful. "Meet him. But not alone. And somewhere public, neutral ground."
I nod. "I'll take Brick."
"And be careful," she adds, her hand coming to rest on my forearm. "Just because Craig might be having second thoughts doesn't mean he's not dangerous."
I cover her hand with mine, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin. "I'm always careful, Montana."
She raises an eyebrow, pointedly looking at my bloodied, split knuckles. "Clearly."
A laugh bursts through, surprising both of us.
There's something about the way she calls me out on my bullshit that gets me every time.
"I'm getting better," I defend myself, grinning.
Her expression softens, and she looks at me with something I can't quite define—something that makes my heart rate pick up. "Yes, you are."
The air between us shifts, charged with what we’ve been trying to ignore, or at least what I’ve been trying to ignore.
I'm hyper aware of how close she is, kneeling between my legs, her hand still on my arm, her lips slightly parted.
Without thinking, I lean forward and capture her mouth with mine.
She responds instantly, rising up on her knees to press closer, her hands coming to rest on my thighs for balance.
The kiss deepens, any gentleness quickly giving way to hunger.
My hands find her waist, lifting her effortlessly until she's straddling my lap on the edge of the tub, her body pressed against mine.
"I thought about you tonight," I murmur against her neck as my lips trail down the column of her throat. "During the run. Kept thinking about getting back to you."
She pulls back slightly, searching my face. " Really? "
I don't understand the surprise in her voice. "Really. Why is that so hard to believe?"
She shrugs, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. "I'm not used to being someone's reason to come home."
The simple honesty of her words hits me like a punch to the gut.
I capture her face between my hands, looking directly into her eyes. "Well, get used to it, Montana."
Before she can respond, I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into it.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she opens to me willingly, a small moan escaping her as our tongues slide against each other.
My hands find the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it up and over her head, breaking our kiss only as long as I have to.
The sight of her in just a simple black bra makes my mouth go dry.
No matter how many times I see her like this, the effect is always the same—pure, overwhelming need.
I stand, lifting her with me, and carry her to the bedroom.
Her legs wrap around my waist, her arms around my neck, her mouth never leaving mine.
When I lay her on the bed, I pause to look at her—hair spread across the pillow, eyes dark with desire, lips swollen from my kisses.
Mine.
The thought hits me with startling clarity and possessiveness.
At this moment, she is completely, utterly mine.
She’s self-conscious under my stare. "What?"
"Just looking at you," I say, my voice rough. "You're fuckin’ beautiful, Montana."
A blush creeps up her neck, and she reaches for me, pulling me down to her. "Less looking, more touching," she demands against my lips.
I comply eagerly, my hands tracing the curves of her body, memorizing every dip and swell.
I unhook her bra like the professional I am, tossing it aside and replacing the fabric with my palms, feeling her nipples harden against my touch.
Her hands aren't idle either, tugging at my shirt, pushing my cut from my shoulders.
I help her, stripping away layers until we're skin to skin, her softness against my hardness.
"I need you," she whispers, her hands working at the button of my jeans. "Now."
The urgency in her voice triggers something primal in me.
I settle between her thighs, positioning myself at her entrance, but don't push in yet.
Instead, I look into her eyes, needing something I can't quite name.
"Tell me you're mine," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Her eyes widen slightly, something vulnerable and hopeful flashing across her face. "I'm yours, Boulder. Just yours."
With those words echoing in my ears, I thrust into her in one smooth stroke, burying myself to the hilt.
We both groan at the sensation, her inner walls gripping me tight, hot and wet around my cock.
I begin to move, setting a pace that's just shy of punishing.
Each thrust drives me deeper, claiming her in the most primal way possible.
Her nails rake down my back, egging me on, her legs locked around my waist, taking me deeper still.
"Fuck, Kelsey," I growl against her neck. "You feel so goddamn good."
She arches beneath me, her body responding to my voice as much as my touch. "Don't stop," she gasps. "Please, don't stop."
As if I could. As if anything could tear me away from her.
I shift the angle of my hips, hitting that spot inside her that makes her cry out.
Her eyes fly open, locking with mine as I maintain the rhythm, watching as pleasure builds on her face.
"That's it," I encourage, feeling her begin to tighten around me. "Come for me, Montana. Let me feel you."
Her body obeys, clenching around my cock as she shatters beneath me, my name a broken cry on her lips.
The sight of her coming undone, combined with the grip of her body, pushes me over the edge with her.
I follow her into oblivion, my release hitting me with an intensity that leaves me gasping, hard.
For several long moments, we lie tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.
I roll to the side, taking her with me, unwilling to break the connection between us just yet.
Her head rests on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
I stroke her hair, content in a way I've never experienced after sex before.
Usually, I'm already thinking about the exit strategy, how to politely but firmly get a woman out of my room.
But with Kelsey, all I can think about is keeping her close.
Who am I kidding? I’m fucking falling for her.
"That was different," she says after a while, her voice soft in the quiet room.
I know exactly what she means. It wasn't just sex. It was something more—a claiming, a promise, a connection beyond our physical one.
"Yeah," I agree, not sure what else to say.
How do you explain something you don't fully understand yourself?
I was a playboy, a manwhore, someone who never gave two shits about the women I was sleeping with.
And now? Now I’m hers.
She props herself up on an elbow, studying my face in the dim light. "What's happening between us, Boulder?"
It's the question I've been avoiding, even in my own mind.
The one that terrifies me more than any run, any threat, because this answer changes everything.
"I don't know," I admit, needing to be honest. "I just know I've never felt this way before."
She watches me, those whiskey-brown eyes seeing too much. "And how do you feel?"
I struggle to find the words. "Like you're becoming something I need in my life," I finally say. "Like the thought of you not being here, not being mine, is fucking unbearable."
I’ve never been the kind of man who lets out his feelings like this, and the fact that she’s silent only makes my gut churn.
A small smile curves her lips, and she leans down to press a gentle kiss to my mouth. "Good. Because I'm feeling the same way."
Relief floods through me, followed by a surge of possessiveness so intense it nearly takes my breath away.
I pull her closer, my hand cupping the back of her head, deepening the kiss until we're both breathless again.
When we break apart, she settles back against my chest, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin.
I can feel her relaxing, drifting toward sleep, but my mind is too full for rest.
Claiming Kelsey was supposed to be temporary—a protection strategy, nothing more.
When did it become something else?
When did she go from a woman I wanted to fuck to a woman I can't imagine not having in my life?
I’m fucking terrified.
I've spent years avoiding exactly this kind of situation, priding myself on my freedom, my lack of attachments.
An old lady wasn't just not in the plan—it was something I was avoiding like the plague.
But as I hold Kelsey against me, feeling her steady breathing, smelling the sweet scent of her hair, I can't bring myself to regret the path we're on.
Whatever this is becoming, it feels right in a way nothing else ever has.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, bringing me back to reality.
I reach for it carefully, trying not to disturb Kelsey.
Another text from Craig:
Watch her carefully. Benji's closer than you think. Moving soon.
A chill runs down my spine as I read the words.
I glance down at Kelsey, peacefully asleep, unaware of the threat closing in around us.
I'd burn the whole world down before I let anyone hurt her.
The thought doesn't even surprise me anymore. It's just the truth. Undeniable, unshakable truth.
As I set the phone aside and pull Kelsey closer, I make a silent promise to both of us.
Whatever's coming, whatever secrets still lie between us, we'll face it together, because she's mine now, and I protect what's mine.
I finally let myself drift toward sleep, the weight of Kelsey in my arms anchoring me to this moment, to this life, to her.