Risking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 14) by Kati Wilde Read Free Book Online

other Hangmen. Mid-forties, tough and weathered, he’s a stone cold bastard. Jack never says much about the work he does for the club but when the Hangmen rolled into the area, he took a trip down to Vegas to look at their mother chapter. To see what sort of MC they came from.
    And he found that the Hangmen call each other brothers, but it’s all business, not family. You do your job and prove yourself useful, or you find yourself with a bullet in your skull.
    I prefer the kind of ship that Saxon’s running. Our prez is a mean motherfucker, but if one of the brothers falls, he’ll see that the club helps pick him up.
    Right now, the prez is just sitting easy, watching Croc come. Not even bothering to size the other man up, the way Croc is looking at him. Maybe Croc has heard that the last time Saxon met another MC’s prez at the Barracks, the other man limped away missing three of his fingers.
    There’s always a party going down at this strip joint.
    And Jack’s missing it. A quick scan of the floor tells me he’s taken off. Maybe heading outside to make sure there aren’t another two dozen Hangmen waiting down the road a bit.
    As Jack predicted, Tumble and Hunter take the door, blocking the exit. A classic intimidation tactic. Stone taught it to me when we shook down a meth dealer last summer. You put either your biggest men or your most heavily armed men by the exit. The people inside feel like they can’t get out, can’t expect help—so they feel trapped, controlled. Then it doesn’t matter how many men you send in, because by controlling the door, you give the impression of controlling the whole room.
    It’s all a mental thing. But all this shit is mental right now. As Valentine passes Gunner’s table, the sergeant at arms calls out, “Hey, Valentine! You back to get your ass kicked by Zoomie again?”
    Usually I hate the “you must be a wimp if a girl kicked your ass” crap but it’s damn effective against dickholes like Valentine. Though he looked cocky as hell walking in, now the little shit’s face reddens. He turns to the side and throws his arms wide, as if inviting Gunner to take him on, but before he can open his mouth Creek claps him on the shoulder and keeps him moving forward.
    Croc and his veep seem to ignore the drama behind them. The veep is young, probably too young for the position, but Jack says his dad’s got big connections in Vegas. He’s a petulant fuck who goes by Sherlock. That just makes me hate him more. I’m pretty sure the only time the Hangmen’s veep pulled out a magnifying glass was to fry bugs with it, and that he probably couldn’t detect shit at the end of his nose.
    Another dickhole. I bet he and Valentine have become good friends.
    Croc glances at me standing by the prez’s side. Saxon’s got a little smile that says, This is all real fucking amusing, so I’m wearing the same smile. I let my gaze slide from Croc’s head to the toes of his boots.
    I’ve only seen him on his bike. Turns out, I’m just a bit taller. He’s heavy with muscle and outweighs me by half my body weight, but he notices the height difference at the same time.
    Widening my smile, I give him a saucy wink.
    Jaw clenching, Croc glances away from me and looks pointedly to the other chairs at Saxon’s table. Obviously waiting for the prez to order the Riders sitting around the table to clear out, so that he can sit. Not gonna happen. The old-timers are sitting at Saxon’s table tonight. The prez would offer his own seat before asking them to give up theirs—especially to some asshole who is showing him disrespect by coming to the Barracks without an invite.
    But assholes like Croc don’t see it as disrespecting our club. Instead they figure we’re so far below them that they’re the ones being disrespected when we don’t immediately bend over and spread our cheeks.
    And Croc’s pissed. But it’s cold, so the anger only shows in the tightness of his jaw, the gleam in his eyes.
    Saxon