Page 21 of One Night with the Biker

“Yeah, Reese,” he said, finally realizing how on edge I was.

“Yo, Sarge,” someone shouted through the door. I preferred Reese. Sarge sounded like a mutt’s name. “You in there?”

“Come in, Marquis,” I growled, and he peeped his head in. He was one of our newer members, a college dropout and a low-level drug dealer. “Warrior brought you a present.”

By the glee in his voice, I knew it was a Bloody Scorpion. Corralling and torturing those motherfuckers always brought me joy.

“In the pit I assume,” I said.

Marquis nodded.

I lifted a brow. “Who the fuck is it?”

“Roman Mac.”

At the top of my bucket list was separating Roman Mac’s head from his fucking body. It topped my wish list, my to-do list, and any other fucking list I missed.

I loathed him. Before he murdered Trinity, it was just a general hatred because he was a Bloody Scorpion. The war between our clubs began long before I patched in and would ride on long after I bit it. I wasn’t sure of the actual origins. It just was, like birds flying free and shit traveling through a sewer.

The pit was comprised of three rooms and a bathroom. The biggest served as a shelter, the smallest as a prison. But I walked into the square one, smack in the middle of the other two, itsfour concrete walls equal in length and width on all sides. It was cold and stark, with a bright light when we wanted to see our enemy. Like now.

Roman sat on the lone chair in the room. He was chained and bloody, one eye almost completely shut. His nose was bruised and misshapen and he had a hole in his shoulder that looked as if it was on its way to an infection.

He lifted his head. His brown eyes burned with the same hatred embedded in me.

The heavy door opened and Louisiana walked in, carrying a phone.

“Warrior says the things been ringing constantly. It’s his sister.” He looked at me with meaning. “She’s called him about ten times, Reese.”

Snatching the phone, I walked to Roman. His hair was long. He liked to wear it in a ponytail. At the moment, it was grimy and coated with blood.

“I’m going to redial her and I want you to tell her everything’s fine.”

Roman spat a stream of blood. “Fuck you.”

I leaned into his face and grinned. “This is how it will be, motherfucker. Call your sister or I’m sending someone to get her and throw her ass in here with you.” Never would happen. “Then, maybe, we can enjoy the fucking show as my brothers take turns in her pussy.” They’d die. “So what’s it going to be?”

He met my gaze again. “I’ll do it on one condition.”

“Don’t think you’re in a fucking position to set conditions,” I sneered. Motherfucker had a lot of nerve.

“Just don’t tell her where I’m at,” he said, ignoring me. “And you can cleave my head in two if you promise not to send any part of me to her.”

“Cleave your head in two?” I pretended his request didn’t affect me. I pretended I could still kill him and leave Ainsley all alone. She’d probably marry Dayton Morgan. “That’s creative.”

“It’s what I’d do to you if the roles were reversed,” he said without flinching.

I grinned without humor. I still didn’t know how Warrior had gotten the jump on him. The phone started ringing again and the song registered.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said.

Swallowing, I answered and clicked on the speakerphone.

“Hey, Ains.”

A moment ago, he’d sounded as if he was in unbearable pain. Somehow, he got the strength to affect a normal tone.

“Where are you, Roman?”

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