My Ex's Dad's Bikers (Ruthless Riders #5)

1. Jade

Jade

My boyfriend is fucking a blonde on a pool table, and I can’t decide if I’m more pissed off or relieved that I don’t care anymore.

Stale beer and cigarette smoke hang so thick in the air you can choke on them.

Lynyrd Skynyrd blasts from speakers that sound like they’ve been blown since the nineties with distortion and bass that vibrates in my chest. Men shout over poker hands and last week’s run, their voices rising and falling like waves.

Someone drops a bottle and it shatters, followed by laughter and creative cursing.

I stand in the doorway of the Ruthless Saints clubhouse, keys digging into my palm, and watch Tyler Geddes prove once again that I have the worst taste in men of anyone currently alive.

The blonde’s sparkly halter top is shoved up around her ribs, her spray-tanned back arched, her hot-pink nails digging into the green felt.

Tyler’s behind her, jeans around his thighs, white T-shirt still on but rucked up.

His hands grip her hips so hard I can see his knuckles standing out white against her skin.

Eight guys stand around them in a loose circle, beers raised, hooting and hollering like they’re watching a championship game instead of their buddy raw-dogging some club girl in the middle of a Friday night.

“That’s it, Ty! Show her how a real man does it!”

“Bet she’s loving every inch!”

One of them reaches out and smacks the pool table. The blonde yelps, then giggles, her voice high and breathy and performing for an audience.

Tyler doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop. He keeps going, his rhythm steady, his jaw tight with exertion, his eyes scanning the crowd like he’s soaking up their approval.

Then his gaze lands on me.

Our eyes lock.

I wait for shame. Embarrassment. Even annoyance that I’ve interrupted his big show.

Instead, he grins.

Wider. Meaner.

His hands move from her hips to her hair, yanking her head back so her spine arches even more. He stares right at me while he fucks her, daring me to do something. Anything.

Around us, the noise level drops. Not silent, but aware. Men glance between Tyler and me, waiting to see how this plays out. A few look uncomfortable. Most look entertained.

Better than cable.

Danny—Tyler’s best friend, the one with red hair and an IQ somewhere south of his shoe size—raises his beer bottle in my direction. “Hey, Jade! You wanna join? I bet Ty’s got the stamina for both of you!”

Roars of laughter. Someone whistles. The blonde turns her head, sees me standing there, and her eyes go wide for half a second.

Then Tyler grabs her jaw, forcing her face back toward the table. “Eyes front, baby. She’s nobody.”

Nobody.

Four years. Four years I’ve spent making excuses for this man. Four years of telling myself he’ll change, he’ll grow up, he’ll realize what he has. Four years of believing that if I just try harder, love better, complain less, he’ll finally see me.

I’m such an idiot.

My hands start shaking. I shove them in my jacket pockets before anyone notices.

Someone near the bar calls out, “If you’re not gonna watch, might as well leave, sweetheart. You’re blocking the view.”

More laughter.

Tyler’s voice rises over the music. “That’s right! Walk away! It’s all you’re good for anyway!”

I turn and walk out.

Behind me, I hear the blonde’s high-pitched squeal, the wet slap of skin on skin, men cheering like their team just scored a touchdown.

My vision blurs, and I realize I’m crying. Angry tears, the kind that burn coming out.

I make it three steps into the parking lot before I have to stop and brace my hands on my knees, gasping for air that doesn’t smell like smoke and humiliation.

This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, the one I’ve rehearsed in my head a thousand times. The moment I finally leave Tyler Geddes and never look back.

Except I can’t leave. Especially while he’s got Mason.

My four-year-old son, who thinks Tyler is his father and asks why “Daddy” doesn’t come home more often. Who flinches when Tyler raises his voice, but still runs to him with his arms out because he doesn’t know any better.

Tyler’s not Mason’s biological father—some anonymous one-night stand I don’t even remember has that distinction—but he’s the only dad Mason’s ever known. And Tyler knows it. Uses it. Holds my son over my head like a weapon every time I even think about leaving.

“Insurance,” he calls it.

Gravel crunches under my boots. Motorcycles are lined up in neat rows across the lot, chrome gleaming under the single floodlight mounted on the clubhouse wall. My car sits at the far end, a beat-up Honda Civic that’s fifteen years old and looks every day of it.

Mason’s car seat is visible through the back window. A reminder of what actually matters.

I came here to tell Tyler I can’t make rent this month. Mason needs new shoes because his toes are cramping in the ones he has. The electric bill jumped by forty dollars. My tips at the bar have been shit all week.

And Tyler? Tyler contributes absolutely nothing except bruises I have to explain away and threats that keep me tethered to this nightmare.

But I didn’t come here to watch him fuck someone else on a pool table, or to be humiliated in front of half the Ruthless Saints.

I definitely didn’t come here to finally stop caring.

“Fuck this,” I whisper into the humid night air. “Fuck all of this.”

I’m halfway across the parking lot when the clubhouse door slams open behind me.

“JADE!”

It’s Tyler’s voice, and it’s loud enough to echo off the surrounding buildings.

I don’t stop or turn around. I keep walking toward my car, fumbling in my pocket for my keys.

“JADE! Don’t you walk away from me!”

Boots on gravel, heavy and fast. I’m maybe ten feet from my car when Tyler’s hand locks around my upper arm and spins me around so hard I stumble.

He’s still shirtless, jeans zipped but not buttoned, hair wild from the blonde’s fingers, and sweat gleams on his chest. His eyes have that glassy, unfocused look that means he’s three drinks past reasonable and heading straight for mean.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” His fingers dig into my arm. I can feel each one individually, pressing into muscle, promising bruises to match the fading yellow-green ones on my ribs.

“Home.” I keep my voice flat, giving him nothing to latch onto.

“Bullshit. You came here for a reason.” He leans closer. I can smell beer and cheap perfume, and see a hickey blooming on his collarbone. “So talk.”

“I can’t make rent this month.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “Mason needs shoes, and the electric bill went up. I thought you should know.”

“I don’t give a fuck about rent.”

His grip tightens, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. Showing pain only encourages him.

“You came here,” he continues, voice dropping low and dangerous, “to embarrass me. In front of my brothers. To make me look weak.”

“I didn’t know you’d be—” I stop myself. Defending myself never works. It just gives him more ammunition.

“You didn’t know I’d be what? Having a good time? Enjoying myself?” He laughs, bitter and sharp. “Maybe if you weren’t such a cold bitch, I wouldn’t have to look elsewhere.”

There it is. Always my fault. Always something I did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say.

I try to pull my arm free, but his grip is iron. “Let go, Tyler.”

“You leave when I say you can leave.”

Sudden rage floods through me.

Maybe it’s watching him fuck someone else while staring me down like I’m the entertainment. Maybe it’s four years of biting my tongue until I taste blood. Maybe it’s thinking about Mason, growing up watching this, learning that this is what love looks like.

I jerk my arm back hard, and Tyler’s grip slips just enough for me to break free.

“I’m done,” I say.

Tyler blinks. “What?”

“I’m done. With this. With you. All of it.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “We’re over, Tyler. I’m taking Mason, and I’m leaving.”

His jaw tightens, and he steps forward, backing me against my car. The metal presses cold through my jacket. His hand comes up to cup my face, fingers spreading across my cheek, thumb pressing against my cheekbone.

To anyone watching from the clubhouse, this probably looks tender. Romantic, even.

His thumb presses harder, just shy of painful.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says softly. Almost gently. “You know why?”

I don’t answer.

“Because of Mason.” His smile is all teeth, no warmth. “My son. You try to take him from me, and I will hunt you down. I will find you wherever you go. And I will make you regret every single choice that led to that moment.”

“He’s not your son.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His fingers drift down my jaw, unhurried, until they rest against my throat. The touch is light enough to be mistaken for tenderness.

It isn’t.

I swallow, and his hand moves with me.

“What did you just say?”

My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my temples. “You heard me. You’re not his father. You’ve never been his father. You just use him to control me.”

“I’ve been raising that kid for four years.” His voice is still quiet. Somehow, that makes it worse. “Four years of putting up with your crying, your nagging, your needy little brat who won’t shut up about dinosaurs and bedtime stories. I could’ve left anytime. But I stayed. That makes him mine.”

“You stayed because it gave you power over me.”

His hand tightens around my throat, and my hands fly up instinctively, wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry his fingers away. But his arm is solid muscle, unmovable. I dig my nails into his skin hard enough to leave marks, pulling, yanking, desperate for him to let go.

“Quit struggling,” he says with gritted teeth, and he squeezes my throat even tighter.

My vision starts to narrow, dark spots blooming at the edges. He doesn’t even flinch, just watches me struggle with those cold blue eyes, letting me exhaust myself trying to break a grip I have no hope of breaking.