“I’ll get the propane hooked up,” said Ox. He’d awoken from his coma after three days and found himself with a metal plate in his head, a broken arm but no long-term damage. I was already working with Scooter to custom-build a new Harley for him. We’d also built a new outhouse to store the propane tanks. If there was ever another fire, Mom wouldn’t be sitting on a bomb.
As the sun started to go down, the guys got the oil drum barbecue going and music began to pour out of the clubhouse. The nights were getting cooler now and I could feel my arms getting gooseflesh. But then Carrick’s muscled body pressed against my back and his arms wrapped around my waist, hugging me to his warmth. I sighed and snuggled back against him.
I saw Mac looking on approvingly. Things had gotten much, much easier for the club in the last month. When Carrick and I had first arrived back at the slaughterhouse, we’d found the cops trying to arrest the entire MC. But as soon as the guy I’d clubbed over the head with a fire extinguisher learned that Volos was dead, he abandoned his story about the MC being responsible and told the police everything he knew. Suddenly, the whole thing turned into a much bigger investigation. Several very senior, very embarrassed FBI agents descended on the town to find out how one of their own had fooled them for so long. And once it came out that Volos had had one of his men plant the coke, the MC were released.#p#分页标题#e#
Everyone wanted to talk to me, especially when I told them about the phone call I’d heard between Volos and the guy in Vienna. There were rumors of an Austrian guy who controlled a whole worldwide network trafficking in women: Volos’s boss, essentially. He was so shadowy the FBI didn’t even have a name and he’d only been glimpsed once, when he came to Texas to try to buy fake passports. “Tell the Sisters of Invidia about this,” I overheard one FBI agent mutter to another.
Who the hell were the Sisters of Invidia? It sounded like a band.
Mom took charge of looking after the women who’d been imprisoned in the slaughterhouse with me. While the FBI handled interviewing them and getting them counseling, Mom made sure they were fed, clothed and given rooms at Haywood Falls’ one hotel until they could contact their families. She was fiercely protective of them, even telling the FBI to back off when the endless interviews got too much. Of the seven women, five went home to their families in other parts of California. Two—Cassie and a woman named Francesca—were in the same situation as me, sold by a family member. Those family members—along with my step-dad—were arrested and the women began to build new lives: Francesca in LA and Cassie in San Francisco. Both promised to visit as soon as they were settled.
The reputation of the Hell’s Princes gradually started to heal. It helped that the local press hailed them as heroes who’d helped bring down a corrupt FBI agent. And Sheriff Harris had helped broker a deal with the FBI to cover some of the cost of the warehouse fire, since it was one of their agents who’d started it. Money would be tight for a while but the club would survive. Mac was already looking around for a new legitimate business to invest in.
And me? I’d found my place. It was in the club’s workshop, helping Scooter repair, customize and tune. He was overjoyed to find someone who talked his language and we got on well despite his grumpiness. He was even making noises about me taking over when he finally retired. I’d never been happier and would work late into the night until Carrick came and pulled me away from the engine blocks and into his arms.
Tonight, though, I was taking a break. Tonight, I just wanted to be with my man. The compound and the clubhouse, once so intimidating, had come to feel like home. And Haywood Falls was turning out to be a great place to live...maybe even a great place to raise a family, one day.
Carrick lowered his lips to the back of my neck, brushing my hair out of the way. He still couldn’t seem to get enough of my hair, always sinking his fingers into it as he kissed me or sweeping it forward to fall over my breasts as I rode him in bed. Now, though, there was a new twist: when he pushed it back off my bare shoulder it revealed his name, picked out in black ink. I wanted the world to know that he was my love. Forever.
He’d got one, too, on his right bicep. My name in curling, elegant script, the letters riding the wings of a brightly-colored butterfly. When I asked why the butterfly, he mumbled something about thinking about me that way. For a hard man, he could be sweet as hell once you drilled deep enough.
His kisses traced a line around my neck, working their way towards my lips, and I twisted to meet him, tilting my head back and gasping as those hard Irish lips met my soft ones. What started slow and gentle quickly turned hot. He squeezed me closer and my breasts crushed against his chest. His tongue played with mine and the kiss turned open-mouthed and hungry.