Rough Justice Page 2

  THE SINNER’S TRIBE MC.

  She was going to die.

  And on the very day she had planned to escape this life forever. Gritting her teeth, Arianne forced back a whimper. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of begging for her life. Death with dignity. She would make her mother proud. And her father, too, if he was even capable of that emotion.

  Jagger grimaced and shrugged on the cut, his fingers brushing over the patch identifying him as president. “Looks like you know who we are.“

  Blood pounded in her throat and she dipped her chin. Who didn’t know the Conundrum chapter of the Sinner’s Tribe, the dominant outlaw MC in Montana, and one of the top outlaw MCs in the country? The club boasted nine hundred members across the northern United States alone. Archenemies of the Black Jacks MC in which she had been born and raised, the Sinner’s Tribe were unequaled in size or power in Montana. And Jagger was their king.

  A sickening wave of terror cleared the fog from her brain. Everything came back in a rush. All her hard work to save enough money to procure false passports and new identities for her and Jeff. Favors pulled to arrange for them to get to Canada under the Black Jacks’ radar. The excitement of knowing they would finally be free from their father, Viper; the Black Jacks; and the biker world. And then Jeff’s text: he wasn’t coming. Viper had caught him on his way out and sent him with a team of Jacks to torch the Sinner’s Tribe’s clubhouse and steal a shipment of weapons.

  She swallowed dryly as she remembered racing through Conundrum on her Ninja, desperate to stop Jeff from making a mistake that could cost him his life. Hope and desolation. Flames flickering. The crack of a gun. And then darkness.

  Jagger leaned forward, his hand outstretched as if to steady her. “You’re lookin’ very white. You gonna pass out?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Fighting back an almost overwhelming urge to run, she made a quick assessment of the room: king-size bed, night table, and wooden chair. Bare and functional. Her .38, still in its leather calf holster, sat beside a black gym bag on a low, wide dresser. A window with no curtains. Moonlight casting shadows on the floor. Handsome-as-fuck executioner. No Jeff. Small mercy. Maybe he’d escaped.

  Maybe she could escape, too. She had to escape. If Jagger found out her father was his mortal enemy, he would shoot her on the spot.

  “Where are we?” Her voice was thin, almost unrecognizable, and raw in her throat.

  Jagger tilted his head and gave her an amused smile. “Too far to run, if that’s what you’re thinking. We acquired this old house from a double-crossing dealer who thought he could play us. Nothing around for miles except mountains, trees, and the odd wolf. And if you did get it into your head to go for a hike, there are one hundred angry Sinners and support club members outside who think you burned down our clubhouse. They want blood. Right now, this is the safest place for you to be.”

  Okay. Not good odds. But staying here was certain death. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to sitting, grimacing as pain sliced through her head.

  With a soft, admonishing grumble, Jagger clasped her arm and helped her back down onto the pillow. “Doc said you had a concussion and shouldn’t get out of bed for a coupla days.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Why didn’t you just kill me? Why bother with a doctor? Or do you like your prisoners healthy before you torture them?”

  He shifted in his chair, and a shadow crossed his disturbingly attractive face. “Innocent until proven guilty. I added it to our bylaws. Keeps the boys from becoming vigilantes and delivering instant retribution for imagined slights.”

  “Maybe in your club. Not in mine.”

  She clamped her mouth shut. Damn. Even the smallest bit of information could reveal the identity of her father, although save for the dark hair, she and her father didn’t look much alike. And despite the fact that she’d been wearing her Black Jacks cut, she wasn’t a Jack. Not by a long shot.

  Jagger studied her in silence, unnerving her with his steady stare. But damned if she would … could look away from those warm brown eyes. Deep. Fathomless. For a second her mind unmoored and she was floating in a chocolate sea.

  Safe.

  Protected.

  What the hell was she doing? When had anyone ever protected her? And he was the enemy. Their clubs had been fighting over territory for years, trading brutalities the way young boys traded insults. Even the old ladies weren’t safe.

  Or their daughters …

  She pushed the memory away. Her mother hadn’t died because of the feud but because of the biker culture at the heart of it. A culture that considered women to be property and nothing more.

  “You got a name?” He leaned back and spread his legs in the irritating way men often did, taking up the space of three people in an effort to exert dominance.

  Except Jagger didn’t really have to try. From the authority in his voice to the power oozing from his pores, he was every inch the dominant alpha male. A natural leader. She doubted anyone ever challenged him. And that traitorous lick of heat deep in her core? Simply an instinctive primal response. Easily rationalized away.

  “Arianne.” The name dropped from her lips before she could catch it. Almost immediately, she realized her mistake. She’d given him her real name. Her birth name. The name she hadn’t used in the biker world since her mother died. What the hell was she thinking? “I mean, Vexy.” She firmed her voice. “Vexy is my road name.”

  His rugged face softened. “Arianne is a pretty name. Soft. Suits you. Vexy, not so much. Makes me think of a sexy woman who’s got a temper.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. As if she didn’t know what the word “vex” meant. But bikers didn’t get to choose their road names; those names were bestowed by the club. And although women weren’t allowed to be an official part of the Black Jacks, she had status, a road name, and a cut simply because of who she was.

  Jagger lifted an eyebrow. “That you, Arianne? You got a temper?”

  Her cheeks heated. Was he teasing her? With his face an impassive mask, and his tone cool and even, she couldn’t tell. But she liked the sound of her name on his lips—his soft rumble over the second syllable—so much that she didn’t correct him. The temper part, however … Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes. “Try me.”

  Jagger tilted his head to the side. “I didn’t see a property patch on your cut. You got someone to keep you in line? You a mama or a sweet butt? Or did the Black Jacks change the rules and allow women to ride in their club?”

  Arianne glared. Nothing rankled her more than the misogyny that permeated the biker world. Wives and girlfriends were supposed to feel honored to be deemed a biker’s “property” or “old lady,” the equivalent of a civilian wife. “House mamas” and “sweet butts” who looked after the bikers’ needs, both in and out of the bedroom, and took care of the clubhouse in return for housing and protection were considered communal property, but usually hooked up with one biker at a time. And the “hood rats,” “hang-arounds,” and “lays” who came for the parties and the thrill of a one-night stand with a badass biker were free for the taking.

  “I’m nobody’s property and I’m no sweet butt.” She straightened her posture and met his gaze full-on. “I was born into the Jacks. My dad is … a biker.” She caught herself just in time. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t a talkative person at the best of times, and now, when keeping her mouth shut mattered the most, she was about to tell him the one thing that could get her killed, no questions asked. And yet, perversely, there was something about Jagger that put her at ease. Maybe she’d hit her head harder than she thought.

  “So, how is it you’re patched?” He pointed to her cut, hanging off the footboard of her bed, the two-piece Black Jacks patch, missing the bottom rocker that only full patch members were permitted to wear, a reminder of her vulnerable position. She wore her cut only on club business, and she tried to do as little of that as possible.

 
She shrugged her answer, digging her nails into her palms. What was with all the questions? Either he was going to kill her or he wasn’t, and odds favored the latter, since honor dictated that someone had to pay for the destruction of his clubhouse. So why didn’t he just get on with it—or give her a chance to try to escape or die fighting instead of beguiling her with his winning personality, charm, and good looks?

  “How about an easier question then.” His face grew pensive. “Did you burn down my clubhouse?”

  Emotion welled up in her throat, fed by fear and tension and a disconcerting attraction to the ridiculously handsome man who held her life in his hands. “No, it wasn’t me.”

  “But it was the Black Jacks?”

  Arianne fought to stay calm. Was there any point denying the Black Jacks were involved? No one else would have dared step foot on Sinners’ property much less burn down the clubhouse. Or was this a test? Had a member of his club already identified the Jacks before they fled?

  “Arianne?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body tense.

  She shook her head, wary of revealing too much. Although she hated the Jacks with a passion, she wasn’t about to break the biker code of conduct that had been drilled into her since she could walk, especially when her brother’s life was at risk. And the number-one rule was that club business stayed in the club. “You know I can’t answer that question.”

  “Justice won’t be served if I take an innocent life.”

  Her life. His not-so-subtle threat shattered her fantasy that he was just a normal man, and not the president of a vicious one-percenter outlaw motorcycle club, who handed out death sentences the way she handed out drinks at Banks bar. He had just claimed he wouldn’t hurt her, and now he was threatening to take her life. Was this some sort of a game to him?

  “But honor will be,” she said. “Isn’t that what you’re getting at? Or are you saying I’m not innocent? Guilty by association?”

  When his brows drew together, she tightened her grip on the sheet. Bastard. He was toying with her. Lulling her into a false sense of security before moving in for the kill. Well, he was about to discover she wasn’t going down easy. Her father’s cruelty seemed almost a kindness now: He’d made her strong. He’d forced her to learn how to survive.

  Gritting her teeth against the dull ache in her head, she sat up again and shifted on the bed, swinging her legs over the side. Pain erupted in her ribs, so sharp and fierce, her hand flew to her side and she gasped.

  Jagger hissed out a breath and his jaw tightened. “Axle kicked you when you were down. Doc said he bruised your ribs.” He leaned over and brushed his fingers lightly down her neck, sending a pulse of heat through her body. “She also said you’d been badly beaten. She wanted to take you to the hospital to check for internal injuries, but I could go only so far.” He trailed his fingers along her jaw and over the apple of her cheek, his touch so soothing that tears, unwanted and unexpected, welled in her eyes.

  His voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “She said it wasn’t the first time.”

  “Don’t.” She batted his hand away, confused by a kindness that belied the presidential patch on the front of his cut. And yet there was something different about Jagger. A calm confidence. A tempered edge.

  His eyes glittered. “Did a Jack do this to you?”

  She was saved from lying when the door opened, just a crack at first, and then wider. Deeply tanned fingers curled around the edge, pushing the door ajar.

  But not wide enough for a clear run.

  A tall, dark-haired man wearing a Sinner’s Tribe cut stepped into the room, his broad shoulders and lean muscled body completely filling the doorway. Darkly sensual, with chiseled features and penetrating brown eyes, he swept his gaze over the stark space, pausing briefly on her and then locking on Jagger. “Need to speak to you.”

  With a sigh, Jagger stood. “Zane is VP of the Sinner’s Tribe and my oldest friend. He’s usually a little more polite with the ladies.” Jagger’s easy familiarity suggested he didn’t consider Arianne a threat, but his friend clearly did.

  “The ladies I know don’t burn down buildings and kill our brothers.”

  Arianne cringed at Zane’s venom-laced voice.

  “Cole’s dead?” A muscle worked in Jagger’s jaw.

  “We found him in the woods. Two bullets. One in the chest. The other went through his shoulder. Shooter used a .22. Woman’s gun.” Zane fixed Arianne with a frigid stare.

  She gave a disdainful sniff. “Clearly, you don’t know many women who shoot. I use a .38 unless I can’t conceal the carry.”

  “She’s telling the truth.” Jagger pointed to the dresser where her gun lay just out of reach. “Did you find anything else?”

  Zane drew Jagger over to the window. Arianne’s gaze slid to the slightly open door and then over to the two men who appeared to be engrossed in their conversation.

  Gun or exit? And did she even dare? Her body ached, her ribs burned, her head throbbed, and she was wearing only an oversized T-shirt and her underwear. No doubt she’d been undressed for the doctor’s examination, which is how they’d found her weapon.

  Still, how could she not try? She knew better than anyone how their world worked: Club first. Club always. Regardless of Jagger’s personal views, if her death was in the best interests of the club, then he would kill her without hesitation. Better to die trying to live than to sit passively awaiting her fate because of a few injuries or a reluctance to let anyone see her pink polka-dot panties.

  She steeled herself against the pain, and placed her feet firmly on the floor. The exit was her safest bet. Chances were they would shoot her before she could grab and unholster her gun.

  One … two … three … go. Launching herself forward, Arianne shot off the bed and threw herself at the opening in the door. But even as she flew across the room, her feet barely touching the wooden floor, she knew Jagger would catch her.

  “Christ.” He grabbed her before she reached the hallway, one hand clasping her shoulder, the other around her waist. With a sharp jerk, he pulled her into his body, imprisoning her in the warm circle of his arms.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  Seconds passed. Neither of them moved. Chests heaved together. Hearts pounded in unison. She drew in a ragged gasp and inhaled his intoxicating scent of leather and whiskey; a rush of longing, almost visceral in its intensity, caught her off guard.

  Jagger leaned forward, brushing his lips over her ear, and they both shuddered. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

  “Wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I didn’t try.” A wave of dizziness hit her hard, almost overshadowing the pain from her ribs. Damn betraying body. She tried to wiggle free and her knees buckled.

  “I’ve got you.” His arms tightened around her, imprisonment becoming support, and she breathed out a small sigh.

  “I’m okay.” She made another half-hearted attempt to escape, but he simply held her closer to his body.

  “Let me go.” “I don’t need your help.”

  With a snort of laughter, he lifted her easily in his arms. “Never met anyone who needed help as much as you.”

  * * *

  He should be angry.

  Hell, Zane was spitting bullets in the corner. Instead, Jagger was amused, impressed, and no small bit aroused by his sexy prisoner’s attempt to escape. With her sweet warm body in his arms, her lush ass wiggling against his groin, he was reminded of just how long he had been without a woman—sweet butts and hood rats excluded, of course. Although the sweet butts were always happy to relieve the needs of his Sinner’s Tribe brethren, they were a quick fix that always left him feeling unsatisfied.

  She was tough—no doubt about that—but beneath her armor, he’d sensed fragility, and a quiet softness that did strange things to his stomach. Still, he couldn’t let her actions go unpunished. Between Arianne and Axle, his authority had been challenged more tonight than it had been in years. Maybe the ful
l moon was to blame.

  While Zane stood guard, Jagger fished around in his gym bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Last time he’d used them, he was trunking with Cade and Gunner.

  He smiled inwardly at the memory as he crossed over to the bed. Cade had snatched a dumb-ass, top-level drug dealer off the street and Jagger had cuffed him and stuffed him in the trunk of his black Chrysler 300C. Then they’d spent the next hour shooting the breeze and driving around Conundrum while Gunner negotiated with the dealer’s family for his release. One hundred thousand dollars for two hours of work. And it all went into the club’s already-overflowing coffers.

  “Didn’t want to do this, but I can’t have you trying to escape again.” He snapped one of the cuffs around her slender wrist. “Not only did the doctor say you have to stay in bed, but I wasn’t kidding when I said everyone outside this room wants you dead. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you’d made it past the door.”

  Any other prisoner would’ve been shaking in the sheets, begging his forgiveness. Arianne glared. “Handcuffs? Seriously? Why don’t you be honest? This isn’t about me. It’s about your big-ass ego. I almost got away. Now you feel the need to put me in my place. Reassert your dominant alpha-male status.”

  Stunned speechless, he just stared. Hell. Seriously injured, handcuffed to the bed, wolves at the door baying for her blood, and she was giving him attitude. Maybe she wasn’t as soft or fragile as he’d thought. Still, he shouldn’t be so surprised at her grit. She wore a Black Jack cut, and those colors weren’t earned without blood or a piece of one’s soul.

  Zane smiled wickedly. “Careful, sweetheart, or Jagger’ll be adding another blood patch to his cut sooner rather than later. I’m pretty sure a couple of the ones he’s got on there are from killing Jacks who gave him lip.”

  Jagger bristled, curiously annoyed by Zane’s reference to his blood patches, one for every life he’d taken. He wasn’t proud of those patches, but death was inevitable in their kill-or-be-killed world, and when his club or his men were under threat, he had no hesitation pulling the trigger.