Page 56 of Devil's Due: Sarge

“Take your time, baby. No sub will taste as good as you.”

His response is so dirty—I love it. Maybe it’s my inner biker babe coming through because I don’t remember caring about dirty talk before. Of course, that could be because the other men I’d been with weren’t nearly as good at it as Sarge. Comparing them in my head, I figure the past lovers in my life were more needs-a-light-dusting talkers rather than the burn-the-place-down-because-it-ain’t-ever-getting-clean kind of talk from my man.

“I’m so glad you didn’t die,” I say, totally not thinking.

“I’m glad I didn’t die, either.” He shifts his arm to pull me closer.

“You just have to know how important you are to me.”

“Baby,” is his response. I’ve probably given away too much. It has to be the orgasm making me too loose and mellow to shutter my thoughts. Or my mouth.

20

Sarge

Amonth has passed since we’ve been back at the clubhouse. All the stitches are out and with the priceless artwork back in Florida, Greer insisted she get a job to pay her way. I didn’t agree. My money is her money. To compromise, she’s back to working at the safehouse we’ve got set up at Vlad’s old cabin.

Andfuck, it took a hell of a lot of convincing to get her to agree to keep the Jeep I bought her. What kind of woman doesn’t want a new car? The only way I got her to keep it was by convincing her that she’ll need it—she and Nic work together along with Dusty Brand, the P.A. from in town who so far has been keeping me and the brothers patched together when we get scraped and now with the girls at the safehouse, and Greer will need a way to get to the cabin.

The Lords and the Horde are working together to keep the safehouse funded. It’s a good cause. An important cause. And considering the road the Horde was on under Rage, which involved hurting women, it’s the least we can do as a club to try to sever that link even more. It’s our penance, and possibly our redemption. Vlad, Reap, Dark, Cutter, Roughneck… and me, we hated it, but as brothers of the club, we went along with it.

Never again.

There's now seven women up at the mountain compound and I’m glad for them to keep Greer busy. I love having her in my bed every night. Waking up with her tangled around me every morning. But we’re still stuck at the clubhouse. We’ve been looking for places, but nothing seems right in my current price range, which means bumping up to the next. And I want her to finish her degree. In order to make sure she gets all the things I want for her out of life, I have to get back to work and I don’t want my woman involved in that.

We’ve opened a garage. Legal. Legitimate. Paying taxes and all. Most of our customers are other bikers passing through town who need a repair. Some of Bentley and the surrounding county have started coming to us too. But that’s not going to buy Greer the house she deserves to live in or tuition in a graduate program.

For that, the brothers rely on moving guns and our massive pot plantation. We move a shit ton of product daily. The club owns properties around the county. Old barns where we can set up grow houses work best.

I need to get to one of those properties, we’re processing today. Sharing the road with Reap, tailpipes rumbling, we take off down the mountain. We hit a left in downtown Bentley to access the road, taking us where we need to go, but we don’t reach the road.

He signals me to pull over. I point to the library. It’s the closest place with parking to stop. “Did you see the guy in the Benz sitting out front of the courthouse?” he asks.

Slowly, without drawing attention to myself, I glance over to the courthouse. “There’s no Benz there.”

Reap glances there then back. “It was. Black. New. Black suit. Dark glasses. He didn’t fit—not around here.”

“And when we roll through, he leaves…”

“Could be nothing, coincidence, but I don’t like it.”

“Feds?” I ask.

“Don’t know. You think Greer’s—”

I cut him off. “Florida.Dammit.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Either way, it’s not good. Let’s head to the garage instead. If it’s the Feds…”

Rolling out of the library parking lot, we hit a right, taking us in the opposite direction. We can’t risk offering up our grow houses to the Feds, if that’s who we’re dealing with.

It takes five minutes to reach the garage. All the bays are filled. Men working. I kick the stand on my bike and head inside the office with Reap next to me.

“Vlad inside?” I ask one of the brothers, Dread, working reception. He grunts out his response rather than looking up from the invoice he’s fussing with. We continue around the desk, giving a rap to the door once.

“Come on in,” Vlad yells.

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