Vigor: A Spartan Riders Novel, Page 2

  Repo tracked the happy couple around the grounds. They were currently slow dancing to Def Leppard with their foreheads pressed together and their hands knotted between their chests. Being a few months into her pregnancy, it should have been Gabby who was glowing, but nah. Blake was positively fucking radiant. He wore marriage like a fine suit. Repo’d known the guy since he was in diapers, and he’d never seen the man happier than he was that very moment.

  He was proud of him. Happy he’d found his mate. It was exactly what a man like him deserved.

  Not like Repo. The life he’d lived? The most he deserved was a pine box in an unmarked grave. He’d done some shitty things in his lifetime, and he hadn’t exactly been sorry for most of them. There was only one thing in his life that he could look back on and claim to regret, and it was coming toward him now.

  His peripherals picked up movement from the right, tugging at his attention, begging him to turn his head and take a long, hard look at what he had begun to think he’d never have again.

  The bar was not a place he was willing to give any more of his attention to. Especially the woman who stood behind it. Fiery red hair with an attitude to match, Ginger was going to be the death of him.

  And here he’d always envisioned it happening out on the open road with only God and his Harley as witnesses.

  No, she was it. There was no question in Repo’s mind that Ginger, the club’s longest running bunny and unofficial mother hen, would one day carve his heart right from his chest and devour that bastard whole.

  With a grunt of displeasure, Repo polished off the last of his beer and loosed a belch to end all belches. Yeah, so he was a pig. Like he gave a shit? It wasn’t as if any amount of filthy habits would turn off the kind of tail that was bouncing back and forth and in circles around the grounds anyway. The bunnies that were out in force tonight were ready and willing to ride every cock in the joint, regardless of color, creed, or state of cleanliness.

  Equal opportunity sluts, all of ‘em.

  Even goddamn Ginger.

  Repo cringed immediately after the thought concluded. Ginger was different. She wasn’t a bunny, per se. Sure, she didn’t make a habit of discriminating against which men she shared a bed with, but he was the only one—that he knew of—that’d ever shared her bed, aside from the Prez, Blake “Quick” Mahone. But that was way back when they were kids. Ancient history.

  Unless one considered the fact that she was still pining for the fucker, even though he was very clearly spoken for. Even had a kid on the way, which was some priceless shit. Repo had watched Blake grow up in his father’s shadow, watched him reel in his first piece of ass too. Never thought he’d see the day that the man would be reduced to a fool for a woman. But that’s exactly what he’d become since meeting Gabby. Guess that’s what love did for a man—brought him to heel, turned him soft.

  Not Repo. He was the kind of man who could love a woman and not lose an ounce of himself. He was a man’s man. Grew up on the street, learned some tough lessons, and didn’t break. If anything, he hardened to cold, hard steel. Nothing could crack through his skin unless he opened it up and let it inside.

  And he’d let Ginger inside. Damn him, it had been a long time ago, and he hadn’t meant to do it, but he had, and now there was no going back. He’d spent years ignoring it, pushing it down, burying it in random pussy, drinking it away, and driving clear across the country and back trying to outrun it, but it always came back to her.

  Ginger might be the kind of woman who’d spread her legs for a man with a story, but what people on the outside would never understand was that it was one of the qualities he loved most about her. Not that she had sex with a bunch of men he dubbed his brothers in arms, but because of the heart that she put behind it.

  Some of the guys referred to her as “Mama.” Not because she was old, but because Ginger had a way of making men feel worthy. She smoothed ruffled feathers and mended broken hearts as well as bruised egos. She listened when no one else would. If the Spartan men were family, she was the glue that bound them together. She was their matriarch, for lack of a better word. And maybe they viewed her that way because she’d been part of the family for so long, or because they’d rescued her from a shit life and took her under their wing. Whatever the reason, she was so revered, the men trusted and respected her.

  Repo observed his brothers in various states of play around him and felt his upper lip curl. He didn’t care what Ginger did for those bastards. Those days were over, as far as he was concerned, because he’d staked his claim. He’d already begun putting the word out: Ginger belonged to him, and any man caught trying to stick his fingers in the cookie jar was going to get them chopped off and shoved up his ass.

  The problem was going to be Ginger. She was fiercely independent and convinced she didn’t need a man in her life for more than a night. Her ex-husband, Hawke, was the cause of that. He hadn’t been good to her, and if Repo had it his way, he’d track that sorry excuse for a skin bag down and beat him to a pulp. But Ginger had it in her head that she was going to live the single life. Anyone who risked standing in her way was going to be sorry. But Repo was prepared to take whatever she had to throw at him.

  Yeah, it wasn’t going to be a fun day when she found out what he’d done, but Repo was through fuckin’ around. It was well past time to make her his ol’ lady, whether she agreed or not. He wasn’t backing down from this. Come hell or high water, Ginger was going to be his.

  “You’ve been avoiding me all night,” Ginger’s soft, alluring voice accused. She slapped a fresh beer down on the table in front of him, sloshing some of the amber liquid onto the weathered wood surface, then stood over him with an expectant look in her eye.

  He took a moment to soak in the view. Curves for days, tits that begged to be sucked, and perfectly pouty lips that were meant to be wrapped around a man’s cock. At first glance, she might appear to be an angel, but Ginger was the kind of woman who could give even the devil pause. She was the only woman he knew of who could go toe-to-toe with a biker and not get slapped down. Hell, if she wanted to, she could probably talk one of them into letting her ride like one of the boys. Not that he’d ever allow it. Females didn’t belong in the brotherhood. Not like that. Too many problems, too much drama. Riding was a brother’s sanctuary.

  But he sure as hell couldn’t deny the thought of those toned, muscled thighs framing a heavy piece of American-made machinery didn’t get his dick hard.

  With his trademark casual air, Repo took his time responding. Picking up the beer, he tilted it at her in thanks then slugged it back. “Been a long day,” he explained without really explaining anything at all. It pissed off everyone he’d ever known, and a secret place inside him smiled in appreciation. He was always short on words. Didn’t mean he didn’t have them, it was just that he didn’t choose to share them. A man’s thoughts were his own, and not everything needed to be spoken aloud, but when he did open his mouth, people sat up and listened.

  “It’s been a long couple of months,” she countered.

  Repo grunted in agreement. It had been a long couple of months. With the whole cartel business blowing up in their faces, the FBI crawling around and making people antsy, not to mention the process of rebuilding the house that Ricky Cruiz, the former leader of the cartel, had blown to shit for Blake and Gabby, and Repo was damned tired. But they were finally beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Thank God for that. He wasn’t a spring chicken anymore. At least he could still ride though.

  Small blessings.

  Ginger was standing over him, her hip cocked out and her arms folded beneath her perky tits, looking all contemplative as she looked down at him. She was still wearing the short denim skirt and white blouse with a plunging neckline that she’d worn to the wedding…and she looked hotter than sin.

  Repo’s mouth watered just thinking about getting her into his bed. Under him. Over him. Hell, he wasn’t picky. He’d take her seven ways till Sunday. For now
, though, he’d take her any way he could have her.

  Reaching out, Repo hooked a hand around her narrow waist and pulled her down onto his lap. She slid into place like a glove, her curves molding to his body like a puzzle piece. Comfortable. Familiar. She was perfect, felt even better, and he was harder than a steel pipe.

  “Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” she teased.

  In way of an answer, Repo grabbed her hand and pressed her heated palm against the hard ridge lining his inner thigh. His cock jumped eagerly, like a puppy begging to be taken out and played with.

  “What do you think?” he grunted.

  Her bottom lip pinned between her even, white teeth, Ginger gave him that sloe-eyed look that snared every poor soul who had the misfortune of crossing her path. Her hand, delicate and fine-boned compared to his meat hooks, tightened around his length, pulling a groan from deep within his chest.

  “Feels like someone needs a little attention.” Her eyes glittered with mischief.

  For an instant, Repo felt a rush of excitement course through him, but before he leaped from the chair and dragged her like a caveman into the clubhouse to find a spare bed, he checked himself. He’d seen that look directed at other men one too many times. To have it aimed at him was a kick in the balls. Which was exactly why, despite his baser urges, he’d been avoiding her pussy like the plague. It was a feat and a half, but the next dick to crawl inside her would be the last, and it damn sure was going to belong to him. She’d be learning that lesson soon enough.

  Clenching his jaws, Repo’s grip on her wrist tightened, and it took all his willpower to remove her hand from him. Her enthusiasm waned, her expression turning to confusion as he tipped back his cup and emptied it in one long swallow.

  With his eyes narrowed, Repo pushed her to her feet, following until he towered over her. “I’m going to bed. Alone.”

  Hurt flashed in her eyes and her mouth opened as if to argue, but Repo’s stern tone stopped her. “The party is still going strong, Red. People are thirsty. You should head on back to the bar and make sure everyone is happy, yeah?”

  He allowed a brief smile to curl his lips to temper the sting of his rejection, but he didn’t stick around for her answer. No doubt, she’d call him every name in the book behind his back, and she’d probably try to pick up a brother on her way to bed tonight, but fat chance she’d find any takers. No, tonight, there was only one man who’d be occupying Ginger’s thoughts: him.

  A dark smile creased Repo’s cheeks as he entered the room reserved for him inside the clubhouse, stripped down to his skivvies, and climbed into bed. The music outside thumped through the walls, but it was dulled by the thick concrete, allowing Repo to drift off in record time.

  TWO

  Something shady was going on. Ginger knew it like she knew that fat fucker at the bar was going to try to stick his hand up the back of her skirt on her next pass. Every man in attendance was giving her a wide berth. Extra friendly, but not flirty. Every invitation she gave was either ignored or turned down flat. Even the prospects, who were damn near sure things, were avoiding her like she was diseased. Was there something she was missing? Did she offend? As discretely as possible, she lowered her head and sniffed her armpit, but all she smelled was baby powder fresh.

  Something was off, but what?

  Caught up in her own thoughts, Ginger almost didn’t catch the movement of a meaty, hairy paw in her peripheral. At the last possible second, she swung wide, avoiding creepy bar guy. “That was your last damn warning, shit for brains,” she growled as she rounded the bar and faced him head on. “Get the fuck up and get out. You’re done here.”

  Goddamn civilians. For some reason she’d never understand, they thought that a biker party was the place to be, and for some fucking lunatic reason, they also thought that the women were all sluts and easy lays just for being there. This was exactly why she always said civilians had no place on club property. They didn’t get the rules and they damn sure didn’t abide by them.

  Not that the rules were stringent. They weren’t. But she didn’t appreciate being treated like trash. Her boys gave her respect. She sure as hell wasn’t about to allow some outsider to treat her with anything less.

  “We got a problem here, Red?” Moose, big lug that he was, moseyed on up, his eyes glued to the back of Tub-of-Lard’s head as if he’d like nothing better than to crack it open like an egg. All he needed was a reason. Behind him, his cousin, Tanner, a long-standing Spartan prospect stood watching, taking notes, and ready to back up his fam if need be. But Moose was a beast. If he ever needed backup, shit was serious. This, though, was a cakewalk.

  Glaring at the turd nugget whose sweaty jowls and pudgy cheeks were now drained of color, she tried to decide how close he was to pissing himself. If he did, it’d leave a mess that she didn’t feel like dealing with. Sure, a prospect would handle the cleanup, but it’d put a damper on her tip jar.

  “Do we have a problem?” she asked the man, the message clear in her eyes and tone. She wanted him gone, pronto.

  His beady little eyes shot from her to Moose, who stepped in closer, placing one of his giant hands on the bar top, hemming the guy in with his solid and imposing frame. She almost felt sorry for the little guy.

  Okay, not really.

  “Uh-um-uh n-n-no problem,” he stammered, slowly sliding off his stool like a puddle of melting marshmallow. “I-I-I was just leaving.”

  Moose backed up a single step, forcing turd nugget to squeeze around him as he made his escape. Ginger withheld her laughter until he was out of sight before letting it rip.

  “Thanks, hon.” She popped the top off a beer and handed it over. “There’s always one douchebag in the bunch.”

  Moose’s smile was wide and warm, just like the man himself. “Anytime, babe.”

  She liked when he called her that. Cocking her hip out, Ginger decided to test the waters. “Hey, you busy tonight? Party for two in my room. I’ll bring the booze if you bring the cock.”

  By now, none of the guys were phased by her forwardness. Any why would they be? She was practically one of the guys. Chuckling, Moose scratched his fingers through his grizzly beard. “Sorry, babe. I already got a piece for the night. But if you need me to scare off any more douchebags, give me a shout. I’ll be around. Next one will get a complimentary root canal.”

  She tried not to let her disappointment show. “Oh, promise?”

  Winking, Moose strolled off, leaving Ginger to her work. It was late, real late, and the party was finally starting to wind down. Not that it would be stopping anytime soon. Those who couldn’t hang past midnight had already left. Come two, the herd thinned a little more. Now there were just the few remaining that either didn’t have jobs to get to in the morning or just didn’t care. The bonfire had dimmed but still crackled with enough heat to keep the few bodies gathered around it warm, and there was plenty of booze still on tap to last a few more hours.

  But she was wiped. It’d been a long ass day, and she’d been going since the crack of dawn to help set up for Blake and Gabby’s wedding. Ten years ago, she’d be ready to go another twenty-four hours, no problem, but age was catching up with her, and she was getting too old for this shit. Guess the saying was true: it was all downhill after thirty.

  Granted, it was fun to hang out with everyone, have a few drinks, listen to good music, and enjoy some conversation, but twenty-four hours was her limit. And that was stretching it.

  As she started cleaning up what she could around the bar, Ginger thought about how different her life might have been now. How different it would have been had it been Blake and her walking down that aisle, instead of him and Gabby. She’d spent a lot of years regretting that they hadn’t worked out, but she was over it now. Mostly.

  Truth be told, she’d accepted that they were never going to be together again a long time ago, and Blake was living a great life as the president of the club with a new wife and baby on the way, but she
still took a walk down memory lane from time to time when she was feeling nostalgic or lonely.

  Which was more often than she liked to admit.

  The thing was, it wasn’t so much Blake that she missed as it was missing having a guy in her life. Oh, she had several. Any of the Spartan men would warm her bed with the snap of a finger, but Ginger wasn’t interested in just any man. A few years back, she’d found the man she wanted, the man who could take her on and be strong enough to hold her steady through any storm, but it just didn’t work out.

  She’d been too young at the time, too naïve. And they were poles apart. Summer and winter. And he was fresh off a rocky marriage.

  Then she’d run off and gotten hitched to Hawke in a moment of youthful impulsiveness. Yeah, that turned out about as fantastic as anyone could imagine. They’d been ill-suited from the start. Hawke was bullheaded and domineering. Ginger was not a pushover. They’d battled it out with words and fists because she gave as good as she got—always.

  It wasn’t until Hawke had finally gone too far, putting Ginger in the hospital, that she’d finally gotten up the courage to say enough was enough. With the full backing of the club, she’d gotten her divorce without having to look over her shoulder in fear of her life.

  Hawke was a brutal man with all the charm of a viper preparing to strike. She didn’t doubt for a second that without the club’s protection he’d come back for her. They were the only thing standing between her and a death sentence.

  Call her paranoid, but sometimes she still searched the shadows, and she always triple checked the locks on her doors and windows just to be sure. That’s why she preferred the safety of the clubhouse most nights to her own home.

  Replacing the trash can with a fresh bag, Ginger hauled the oversized bundle across the yard, putting her back into it just to drag the bastard the twenty or so feet and praying all the while it didn’t bust open on the way. She’d leave the mess if it did.