JETT (Savage Saints MC Book 3) Read online

  “I’m so sorry.” I glance up at him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “It’s okay, babe. Just a little tender around the kidneys—had some body mod work done by a bomb.”

  I try to pull away, but he tugs me closer, engulfing me in his huge arms. I laugh and press my face against the clean cotton covering his chest. “Surprisingly, I know what that feels like.”

  “I’m so fucking sorry you got hurt. I tried to protect you, but I ended up breaking your arm and getting you all banged up instead.”

  I glance up at him. “You saved my life, Grim. More than once. I’m just sorry you got hurt in the process.”

  “I’d go to ground for you, babe. I’m surprised you don’t know that by now.”

  I close my eyes and swallow hard. When I glance up, the pain in his gaze is so intense it brings tears to mine. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been shot at, had a gun held to my head, and been half blown up. Or perhaps it’s because I finally unburdened my soul by telling Grim about Joshua, or that Jett’s wife is sitting across the room in his lap, and I can feel both sets of eyes boring into mine. In fact, I can feel everyone in the room staring at the two of us.

  “We’re makin’ a scene.” Grim’s soft chuckle is warm and comforting. I don’t know what I would have done without him by my side when everything went to hell.

  “I don’t care if you don’t?”

  “Nah, I don’t give a fucking shit if they stare.” He presses me tighter to him and leans down, his face buried in the curve of my neck, and I lose it completely. I sob like a little kid and Grim holds me. He’s careful with my injuries, but he squeezes me just hard enough to make me feel safe.

  I wish to God I could love him the way he loves me. He’s a biker, yes, but he’s a good man at heart, and he deserves to be loved. He deserves to have someone take care of him for once. I wish it could be me, but my heart already belongs to two men, and there just isn’t room for one more.

  JETT

  I CALLED THE BROTHERS to church five minutes ago and I sit at the head of our table and wait for them to file in. One by one, my boys arrive. Some are already here waiting alongside me, but others are taking time to kiss their old ladies like they’re going off to war. I suppose we are. Those Russian bastards need eradicating. And we’re gonna annihilate every single motherfucking one.

  “Kick, get your arse in here!” I glare at him through the open door as Indie hugs him tight and side-eyes me over his fucking shoulder. Jesus. No wonder he couldn’t put a bullet in her head when they first met—it’s like they’re the same goddamn person. “Now!”

  My Sargent‐at‐Arms pulls away from his old lady and hurries into church, taking the seat to my left. “Sorry, Prez.”

  Tank leans across the table and smacks him in the head. “Arsehole.”

  “Ow! Fuck you, cuntsicle. What the hell was that for?”

  “For making the rest of us wait while you felt up your woman.”

  “Jealous?”

  Tank just glares at him.

  “Alright, boys. We have a problem, and that problem has been going after our women, and they came after my clubhouse with a fucking bomb. So, I want leads on the Russians. I wanna know where their new warehouse is, what kind of guns they’re pushin’, and I want Ryzhanov dead. Someone find me some fucking leads! Until then, your old ladies, your families, your fuckin’ dicks wait until I have that Russian cunt’s head in my hands. Are we clear?”

  The boys let out a chorus of agreement.

  “Get the fuck out, and find me something useful.” I lean back in my seat as they all file from the room and interact with the women and children. It isn’t long before my gaze is drawn to the bar. If Tank would move his huge fucking body, I’d have an unobstructed view of my bartender. Which reminds me, she shouldn’t be out of bed, period, much less serving these idiots drinks.

  I get up and stalk out of the room, across the main clubhouse lounge and directly behind the bar. Raine spins on her heels toward me, stumbling back when we come face to face. I grab her arm and yank her out from behind the bar into the closet we use for supplies. For a minute, I forget that she’s injured, and that my goal in coming over here is to stop her from doing the very thing I’m doing now—hurting.

  Raine gasps and I let her go once she has her footing. Her brow is creased with pain and tears well in her eyes. Fuck.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

  She sniffs as her gaze meets mine. “I’m working, or I was until you manhandled me.”

  “No more work until you’re better.”

  “Jett—”

  “I mean it,” I snap. “The last thing I need is a fucking lawyer breathing down my neck demanding compensation.”

  “I’m not going to sue you, if that’s what you’re thinking?”

  I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking. I lose all fucking sanity when we’re in the same room. I exhale loudly and tug at my hair. “Did I hurt you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fuckin’ fine.”

  “I—”

  “I’m losing my goddamn mind, Angel.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Havin’ you here, seein’ you hurt. I can’t ...” I run my hands over my face and stare at the popcorn tiles on the ceiling. Fuck! I gotta get a goddamn grip. My wife is here, probably saw that whole goddamn exchange, and all I wanna do is wrap Raine in my arms and never let go.

  “You can’t what?” she prompts.

  I take another step toward her and press my hand against the shelf by her head. “I can’t stop fuckin’ wantin’ you.”

  Raine sucks in a sharp breath, and the hurt in her eyes, on her face—it’s the final fucking straw. The last thread of my restraint snaps, and I kiss her. My hand cups her face, and I drive my tongue into her mouth the way I want to fuck her: hard, cruel, and like every part of her is mine. She kisses me back, just as vicious, just as needy, and it does my fucking head in. Since I met her, I’ve thought of nothing but owning her, and when it comes to this woman, I’ve thought a lot. My dick strains against my leathers and I pull her body against mine, needing to feel every inch of her petite frame.

  “Prez?” Killer says from the doorway. Fuck! “Woah. Sorry.” The kid averts his gaze to the laptop in his hand. “I didn’t ... er ... I found ... I’ll ... I’ll come back.”

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, kid?”

  “The Russians. I found them. They’re at a warehouse on the bay in Rozelle.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “One hundred per cent, Prez.”

  I slide my gaze back to Raine, the pink in her cheeks, her swollen lips that I just want to keep kissing. Those Russian fucks almost killed her, not once or twice, but three goddamn times. I’m gonna make sure none of them are left alive and breathing. “Round everyone up. Tell them to get their arses back here. We’re riding out.”

  Killer glances at Raine and then at me, and the cocky little shit smirks before walking away. I may just murder that kid before he even has a chance to move up in our ranks.

  I exhale loudly. “I gotta go.”

  “Jett, that kiss. We shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, we should’ve.” I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and glance at her lips. I miss them already. “Later. We’ll talk later.”

  She nods. “Be careful.”

  I grin. “I ain’t ever been careful, darlin’, and I ain’t about to start now.”

  I CLIMB OFF MY BIKE and remove my helmet, tossing it over the handlebars as Trigger and Kick come running back up the abandoned road. They stop in front of us and Trigger grins like a fucking maniac. “The warehouse is packed—Russians, grunt workers, coke on one side, guns on the other.”

  “What kind of guns?”

  “AKs,” Kick says.

  “How many?”

  “A lot, Prez. A lot of fuckin’ guns. Assembly line runs the length of the warehouse.”

 
; “Security?”

  Trigger shrugs. “The usual goons, eight, maybe ten. Nothin’ we can’t fuckin’ handle.”

  “No one but us comes out, you understand?” I look at each of my boys, all capable of some truly fucked up shit, but my gaze lingers on Tank and Trigger.

  My brothers nod.

  “You feeling good, Trigger?”

  “I’m good.”

  “How fuckin’ good, ’cause I need you to bring your inner fuckin’ psycho, brother.”

  A slow, rictus grin spreads across his face, making him look every bit the psychopathic little shit I want in the shadows. “Oh, he’s here.”

  “Good.” I glance at my other boys. “We take the guns, coke too if we can get it, but I don’t want anyone riddled with bullets for a little powder. Got it?”

  “Yep,” Tank says.

  The others nod.

  I point to Killer. “You, stay close to the van. If it all turns to shit, I want a fast getaway.”

  “You got it, Prez,” Killer says.

  “Alright, let’s fuck up some Russians, boys.”

  Everyone piles in the van. It’s a tight squeeze with how big Tank, Raphe, and the rest of my boys are, and someone’s AK-47 is digging into my arse, but we make it work.

  Killer throws the van into gear, fanging it down the drive and through the chain-link gate. Tyres squeal against the concrete and the scent of burning rubber fills the van as he turns the vehicle and reverses it through the corrugated iron doors. We all lose our footing, but recover fast enough to throw open the van doors and start shooting motherfuckers left, right and centre. A stray bullet hits a bag of coke and white dust billows over the workers.

  One by one we file out, take aim, and fire. Bodies fall. We spread wide. The acrid stench of gunpowder, chemicals, and blood fills the room. I take shelter behind a palette and aim at Ryzhanov. His bodyguard throws himself in front of his boss and the bastard’s other muscle ushers him out of the building. Fuck!

  Trigger—the fucking psycho—steps out from behind his cover and just fires at everything beyond us that moves. He’s already been hit. Blood pours out of the wound in his bicep, but he doesn’t even fucking notice.

  “Trigger!” I glance at Tank to make sure he’s still breathing and seeing this. He meets my gaze for a split second and steps around the shelving unit he’s using to take cover. The workers who haven’t run for their lives are firing back, and thank fuck their aim is shit. I raise my gun and shoot two more, riddling their bodies with bullets. “Trigger! Get your fuckin’ arse back here!”

  He ignores me. Tank dives forward and yanks Trigger off a Russian whose face is being rearranged by the kid’s fist. As if nothing happened, Trigger lunges to his feet, shooting a worker woman dusted in coke who was merely heading for the nearest exit. Jesus Christ. If the Russians don’t get there first, I may well put a fucking bullet in this little shit myself.

  The screech of tyres is barely audible above the sound of gunfire, and I know Ryzhanov is getting away. The people here mean nothing to him. This isn’t his crew. He won’t be crippled if everyone in this warehouse dies, but we will be. With one last glance at the men left standing, I fire my machine gun and the bodies fall.

  My ears ring, and coke balloons in the air, softly falling upon the dead like snow. I glance at my brothers. Crazy is on the ground, pummelling his fist into someone’s face. Kick, Tank, Raphe, and Killer don’t appear to be missing body parts or have holes in their vital organs, so I’d consider that a win. Trigger, on the other hand, is bleeding not just from his bicep, but his thigh and shoulder too. “Trigger!”

  He glances at me with a glazed over expression.

  “Get in the van. Kick, go put some fucking pressure on his wounds and make sure he doesn’t bleed to death, yeah?”

  “You got it, Prez.”

  “The rest of you, get the guns,” I demand. Sirens wail in the distance. “Now!”

  We pile the guns into the van. Crazy and I climb in the front alongside Killer, while the rest of my boys sit in the back. Killer slams the pedal to the floor and speeds away.

  I glance over my shoulder at my brothers as I slide my phone from my pocket and dial the Butcher. Everyone’s accounted for. A few of us have taken hits—grazes, surface damage mostly—but none are bleeding as bad as Trigger.

  Fucking crazy arsehole. I’m starting to think I made a mistake invoking his inner psycho. The last thing we need is more men down for the count.

  Ryzhanov got away. He’s still on the streets, which means he’s still a threat to my club, to my livelihood, to my wo—he’s still a threat to Raine.

  Fuck! I slam my hand on the dash as quiet settles over the van. I need that Slavic motherfucker dead.

  RAINE

  THE GUTTURAL ROAR OF seven engines shake the clubhouse walls as the boys pull into the lot. Ivy bites her lip and squirms in her seat. The dog on her lap lifts his head and yawns.

  “Daddy’s home,” she purrs, and it’s not hard to see why Tank fell in love with her—or why she was the favourite among the MC’s ... girls.

  Indie laughs. “Ew, please tell me you don’t call him daddy?”

  “I call him whatever he wants—makes no difference once his fat cock is inside me.”

  I giggle and glance at my empty glass. How did I manage to drain it dry again so soon after Raphe’s wife, Charmaine, refilled it?

  “Uh-oh. Raine’s blushing again,” Indie teases.

  Ivy laughs and rolls her eyes. “She needs another drink and a good, hard dicking from Prez.”

  A vicious laugh comes from the door and we all turn. Mia stands in a black bodycon dress and heels, her make-up and hair as perfect as ever as she clutches a tumbler to her chest.

  “Pour me a drink.” She slides her glass on the table beside me. “And while you’re at it, do us all a favour and stop throwing yourself at my husband.”

  “Excuse me?” I frown, unsure why she’s directing her commands at me when she seems perfectly able-bodied.

  “You heard me ... help.” She sneers as she says the last word and fire ignites in my veins.

  “Give it a rest, Mia.” Ivy glares at the woman. “You’ve never tried to act like Jett’s old lady before. Why start now?”

  “Ivy!” Charmaine admonishes.

  Mia turns a wicked smile on Ivy. “Shut your trap, slut. Or can you only do that when a brother’s dick is in your mouth?” She leans against the counter, looks her up and down, and then addresses the rest of us. “It must be so awkward for all of you knowing this little club whore has been with every man in this clubhouse.”

  I stand abruptly, my chair falling to the floor behind me. “Don’t you dare speak about her that way.”

  “What are you going to do about it, help?”

  I take a deep breath through my nose and close my eyes, resisting the urge to slug her pretty face with my cast, but I can’t. I need this job. At least until this awful lockdown is over and I can start looking for something else. I need to pay for Josh’s care, and no matter how much Jett may claim to dislike his wife, you don’t hit the Prez’s old lady and expect to still work in the clubhouse.

  Mia’s smile is wide, her teeth gleaming as she laughs at me. “That’s what I thought.”

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Jett says from the doorway, his voice cold and slick as ice. I swallow hard and meet his gaze.

  “Just making friends with the girls is all,” Mia says.

  “Bullshit,” Jett says, coming into the kitchen and leaning against the cabinet. He glares between his wife and me, finally settling on her gaze and butter-wouldn’t-melt expression. “Don’t you have some online shopping to do?”

  Ivy covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. Mia glowers at her husband and heads for the door. “Don’t you have another whore to fuck, or are they all here in this very room?”

  “Go to bed, Mia,” Jett growls. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  She stalks from the room and we all let out a
collective sigh.

  “Well, that was fun.” Indie picks up her glass and downs the rest of the whiskey. I glance at Jett, afraid he’ll fly off the handle. I have no idea why he married that evil wench, but I’m convinced she’s the worst humanity has to offer.

  “Boys are ’bout to party. So unless you’re up for boozing and fucking, I suggest you all head to bed lest your delicate sensibilities become offended.”

  “Wonderful,” Charmaine says.

  Ivy shoots up from her seat and skips to the door. “That’s my cue to find Tank.”

  “Yep, Kick gets horny after inflicting lots of violence, so that’s me out too. Will you be okay, Raine?”

  I open my mouth, but Jett answers for me, “She’s fine.”

  “You know she didn’t start that shit with Mia, right?” Indie asks.

  “Yeah, I know.” He rakes a hand through his hair. The dark shadows under his eyes say he’s in desperate need of sleep, and for a moment I feel bad for him. All the pressure of running this clubhouse, making the hard decisions that no one else wants to, and keeping everyone in line, can’t be easy. Then I remember that he’s been hot and cold with me since this damn lockdown started, and I’m glad he’s tired. I hope he’s as miserable as I am.

  “You need to rein in your bitch, Jett,” Ivy says without preamble, and I wince.

  “Funny, I was thinking Tank needed to do the same thing.”

  Ivy laughs. “He wishes.”

  “Night, Raine,” Indie says.

  “Goodnight.”

  “You want me to put breakfast on in the morning, Prez?” Charmaine asks.

  “We still got a clubhouse full of hungry men, don’t we?”

  She frowns. “Right, well, I’m not starting earlier than seven.”

  “I’ll help,” I volunteer.

  “You’re injured,” Jett snaps.

  “So? I still have one useful hand.” I shrug, and the rest of the women make themselves scarce. So much for friends having your back.

  Jett moves closer. “I told you that you ain’t workin’ until you’re all better.”

  “I told you I’m going crazy not contributing.”