Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Lila
The deadline had arrived. Forty-eight hours were over, and it was time to face Sweeney.
I pulled myself together before meeting him, scraping my hair into a high ponytail, swapping my shorts for jeans, and my sneakers for my favorite black leather boots with the chunky five inch heels.
It was difficult to be menacing at five-foot-two.
I needed all the help I could get in the height department.
With my hangover held at bay by a handful of ibuprofen, I felt more like myself again. As I leaned forward in the bathroom mirror, setting my eyeliner in place, my mind drifted back to earlier this morning, with Pretty Boy in the alley.
A bubble of warmth welled up in my chest at the memory of his hands on me, and the sinfully perfect glide of his cock. I would never admit it out loud, but holy shit, he was good.
Pretty Boy shouldn’t have sold his bike for my sake though. Despite his reassurance that I didn’t owe him anything, it still got under my skin. That was a big sacrifice for him to make. And it bothered me because…
…because it showed the depth of how much he cared for me and my father. Pretty Boy could claim all he wanted that it was just part of his duty as acting President. He was protecting his people, his club.
But I knew it was more than that. I could tell.
And the part that scared me the most was that I liked it.
I didn’t have time to sort through my complicated feelings about all this though. I needed to get this debt off my dad’s back first.
An hour before sundown, I met Sweeney in the parking lot of the clubhouse. Every member of the Reckless Order stood behind me, fanned out in a semi-circle.
Sweeney pulled up in a sleek silver Jaguar. The engine was so quiet that I didn’t even hear it coming. When he climbed out of his car, he chuckled as he gestured to the bikers behind me.
“I see you brought the cavalry this time. Is that meant to intimidate me?”
I shrugged.
“They’re here to make sure you behave yourself.”
“Me?” Sweeney replied, incredulous. “I’m being perfectly civil. Your Da and I had a gentlemanly agreement. Speaking of which, where’s my money?”
I held up a yellow envelope stuffed with cash as I crossed the parking lot and shoved it in his chest.
“It’s all there. Every last penny.”
Sweeney flicked a quick glance at the club, then opened the envelope and thumbed through it, counting.
“Are we done here?” I said.
Sweeney clucked his tongue.
“You forgot something, pet. A business loan must be paid back with interest. You covered the three hundred grand well enough, but by my calculations, you still owe—”
Quick as a flash, Pretty Boy lunged forward and grabbed Sweeney by the throat, cutting off his words.
“You slimy little prick,” he hissed. “You have your money. Now get the fuck out of our faces. And if I find you lurking around here, or breathing anywhere near Lila, the only payment you’ll be getting are a few broken kneecaps. Is that fucking clear?”
Sweeney wheezed a strained laugh.
“Well, well. Sounds like someone’s pussy-whipped. I bet her Da would love to know what you’ve been up to while he’s away.”
Silence stretched through the parking lot. A few bikers shifted behind me. Pretty Boy bared his teeth and growled something in Sweeney’s ear. It was supposed to be too low for me to hear. But I caught it anyway.
“That’s my future wife you’re talking about. Have some fucking respect.”
I swallowed hard. Blood pounded in my ears. What the hell happened to a quickie with no strings attached? Why did the words my future wife sound so familiar and comfortable and hot coming from Pretty Boy’s mouth?
I blinked rapidly, fighting to keep my expression neutral.
Then Pretty Boy drove his fist into Sweeney’s gut. Sweeney doubled over with a groan, sinking to his knees on the pavement.
“Bruiser, Brass,” Pretty Boy called, gesturing to them.
Bruiser and Brass stepped forward, heading for Sweeney’s Jaguar, swinging baseball bats.
“You and Hillbilly might have come to a gentleman’s agreement,” Pretty Boy said to Sweeney. “But we don’t do that shit around here. If you don’t take your money and leave now, the game changes. And you will be playing by our rules.”
Bruiser cocked his baseball bat over his shoulder and planted his feet apart, ready to take a swing like he was prepared to hit a home run on the windshield of that beautiful Jaguar.
Brass tapped the end of his baseball bat against the passenger window.
A heartbeat of stillness settled over the parking lot. I held my breath. Sweeney had the resources to start a war if he really wanted to.
The question was whether or not it would be worth the risk.
Sweeney could make our lives a living hell, and we would be looking over our shoulders. He could hire hitmen to hurt our families. The whole town of Juniper Creek could turn into a battleground between mafia and bikers.
It seemed like a lot of trouble to go through when Sweeney could just take his money and leave.
In the end, he spat on the pavement and pushed to his feet.
“Fine,” he said through his teeth. “But tell your father that I won’t be lifting a finger to help him in the future, no matter how much he begs.”
Sweeney tossed the envelope of cash into the passenger seat of his Jaguar and peeled out of the parking lot, burning rubber.
Two weeks later, the clubhouse was packed on a Saturday night to welcome Dad back as President.
Alcohol was flowing. A pitch-in buffet of food filled the bar to overflowing with barbecue, casseroles, cakes, pies, cookies, loaded baked potatoes, and of course, Dad’s favorite—fried chicken and waffles.
The jukebox in the corner was cranked up, blasting twangy bluegrass that Dad loved.
A Welcome Back banner draped across the clubhouse, with streamers and balloons.
In my opinion, it was too early. Dad should have waited at least a month. Maybe two, just to be on the safe side. But he was bored out of his mind at home, and he couldn’t sit still another minute.
So, despite his protests, we put together a party for him, and I did my best to quell the nagging doubts that worried me about his health.
I spotted Ironside pouring Dad a glass of bourbon and I crossed my arms with a scowl. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking.
Ironside spotted me and froze. Dad glanced up, but he didn’t flinch at my disapproving stare.
“The doctor said no drinking,” I protested, practically shouting to be heard over the noise.
“It’s just one glass, Lila,” Dad said.
I poked him in the arm with fond exasperation.
“I saw you eating Jenny’s biscuits earlier though. Those are definitely not on your new diet.”
Dad shook his head and gestured to Ironside to keep pouring the bourbon.
“The day I refuse one of Jenny’s flaky, soft, buttermilk biscuits is the day I’ll be dead in my grave, sweetie. Just let me enjoy myself tonight and I’ll go back to eating rabbit food, all right?”
I took a breath to argue with him when I caught a glimpse of Pretty Boy in the crowd, seated at a table with Recoil, Tarzan, and Hades. And his eyes were on me.
Heat swept up the back of my neck, prickling my cheeks.
For the past two weeks, I came up with a myriad of excuses to dodge him—I had to work at the boutique, or I was meeting Shea for lunch, or I needed to check in on Dad.
Because I didn’t trust myself around him.
I kept replaying his words over and over again in my mind, instead of dismissing them, or laughing them off as a ludicrous proposition.
My future wife.
Did I want to wear his ring?
Did I want to call him my husband?
Did I want to come home to him every day? To sleep by his side every night? To wake up in his arms every morning?
There was only one word I thought of when I considered those questions.
Yes.
As if reading my mind, Pretty Boy shifted in his seat, spreading his legs wider. Then he patted his lap, inviting me to take a seat.
I arched an eyebrow and gave my head a little shake. He couldn’t summon me that easily. He had to work for it.
Turning my back on him, I moved to the buffet and grabbed a plate, selecting a slice of cake. Then Pretty Boy was at my side, offering a fork. I plucked it from his grip, carving a bite out of the cake.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, leaning in close so I could hear him.
His breath brushed my neck and a jolt of electricity sizzled along every nerve, radiating all the way down to my toes. I waved my fork at him imperiously.
“Just because we hooked up once does not make you the center of my world.”
“True,” he admitted. “But I have a different theory.”
“Really? Enlighten me.”
Pretty Boy’s pupils darkened and his hazel eyes grew soft. He curved his hands around my hips, pulling me closer as he brought his mouth to my ear.
“I think you want to do it again so badly that you keep your distance so you don’t jump my bones.”
I sputtered a laugh.
“You’re lucky I don’t shove this entire slice of cake into your arrogant face.”
Pretty Boy’s eyes gleamed with amusement. He dipped his head and closed his mouth around my fork to take my bite of cake. My stomach flip-flopped as his tongue swept along his lower lip, licking away a drop of icing.
Fuck, I wanted that wicked tongue between my thighs so badly—
Then Dad raised his glass and tapped a fork against it with a high-pitched ringing to get everyone’s attention.
“I have an announcement to make,” he said.
Someone turned the jukebox down. The room went quiet, waiting for him to speak.
“As you all know by now, my old ticker threatened to give out on me. But I’m still alive and kicking. So, you can’t get rid of me yet.”
A chuckle rippled through the room.
Tarzan scooped Kenny onto his shoulders for a better view above the crowd. Keely stood beside him, one hand on her pregnant belly, the other rubbing Tarzan's back.
Hades scooped an arm around his ex-wife’s waist while she leaned against him.
Trooper and Shea were seated in a booth, with Shea’s shoes on the floor, and her feet in his lap.
“I appreciate the welcome back party,” Dad continued. “Even though you know damn well that I hate all the attention.”
Viper and Psycho wolf whistled. Dad waved them off with good-natured annoyance.
“As much as I was looking forward to reclaiming my place as President,” he went on. “I think this welcome back party would be better suited as a retirement party.”
The room went deadly silent. My eyebrows shot up. I nudged Pretty Boy’s shoulder.
“Did you know anything about this?” I whispered.
He shook his head, looking just as bewildered as I was.
“I hate to admit it,” Dad said. “But I’m getting old. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s time for me to step down. And I nominate Pretty Boy to be your official new President.”
All eyes turned on Pretty Boy, stunned. The tips of his ears turned pink.
“Any objections to that?” Dad said. “Say your piece now or shut up and deal with it.”
The silence continued. No one protested. Dad nodded and slid his cut off his shoulders, ripping the President patch off.
Pretty Boy accepted the patch, and I could have sworn I saw a slight tremor in his fingers.
“Congratulations,” Dad said. “You took care of my club. You protected my daughter. And you carried yourself like a leader should.”
Pretty Boy’s face went stark white, but he still managed to square his shoulders.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“Don’t thank me. You earned it. Besides, I’ll be looking over your shoulder, making sure you don’t fuck up. No pressure,” Dad added with a twinkle in his eye. He held up his glass. “A toast to your new President!”
A chorus of applause and cheers rose in the air, filling the clubhouse to the rafters.