Ride Long: (Fortitude MC #2) Read online

  “She’s back in her old room for now,” he said after a moment. “What happens next depends on her attitude…and yours.”

  “I delivered her,” I said. “My involvement in her fate has ceased.”

  “Just like that, eh?” He was baiting me like a dog, waiting for me to take a bite out of him.

  “What are you going to do about the Hollow Men?” I asked instead. The million-dollar question. My thirst for revenge had doubled now. Madison and Sloane. “They won’t stop. You know that.”

  Marini wasn’t having it, though. “You’re damaged goods, Chaser. Don’t ask me questions until you can walk on that leg and not twitch. I saw you twitch when you walked in. Get the fuck out of my sight.” He waved the gun at me, his finger leaving the trigger.

  I wasn’t dying at the hands of the president of Fortitude MC today, and neither was Sloane. Tomorrow was a different story.

  Leaving Marini and his bloodthirsty tendencies behind, I went to my room. A tiny hole with a bed, a window, and not much else. When I opened the door, I saw my bag sitting just inside. Closing myself in the room I’d called my prison cell for the past seven years, a wave of exhaustion finally smacked me in the face.

  I collapsed, my vision slipping before my head even hit the pillow. My last thought was of Sloane.

  Chapter 4

  Sloane

  Waking up without Chaser glaring at me was an odd experience. It didn’t feel right.

  Light was pouring through the slats in the venetian blinds, casting long fingers over the end of my bed. I rolled over and rubbed my eyes, groaning when my entire body throbbed. It wasn’t the good kind, either.

  Last night had been a strange experience. The Fortitude compound was just as I’d remembered from growing up here, but it was different. Seven years was a long time. Most criminal organizations didn’t last that long, but this place wasn’t like most. Fortitude MC was thirty years strong, and it was mostly because of my father.

  Last night, Rick, the fresh meat, had delivered me to my old room. Strangely, everything was just as I’d left it the night I’d run away, almost like Dad believed I would come back someday. The double bed was still against the wall, the desk and stereo were still in the opposite corner, and the closet was still full of my old clothes and boots. Even the same black shag-pile rug was on the floor.

  Talk about a blast from the past.

  As for my father, I didn’t believe a single word he said. I wasn’t safe here.

  Keep your eye on the prize, Sloane.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I found my bag on the floor. Someone had tossed it in here somewhere between rolling up unannounced and hashing it out with dear old daddy.

  I took out my clothes and set them on the desk, leaving my broken laptop beside them. College had become a distant memory, and my Poli Sci book had probably disintegrated at the bottom of that lake in Texas by now. What did I even want to be anyway? There wasn’t a course on taking over criminal organizations.

  My hair was greasy as fuck, and I smelled funky. I needed to scrub myself until I was raw to get Bailey’s stench off my skin. Dead Pube Face Bailey. The world would not miss him.

  I shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. The private bathroom I felt like a princess for having. None of my friends at school had their own, and they’d never seen it. I could never have friends over. For obvious reasons, but try to tell a little girl that.

  Turning on the light, I stripped out of the travel-stained clothes I’d slept in, and my thoughts went to Chaser when I saw the blood on my jeans. Where was he? I knew he could more than look after himself, but he wasn’t invincible. He’d been so pale…

  I glanced at my reflection in the mirror and hesitated. Lifting my hand, I ran my fingertips across my cheekbones where Blue Eyes had left a pretty pattern across my face—black and purple color-changing bruises—with his knuckles. Looking down at my naked body, I was surprised to see I was covered in them. Splotches were littered across my skin in various stages of healing. It hadn’t felt like it, but I’d been tossed about so much in the past two weeks it was a fucking miracle I hadn’t broken something. Now I had a moment to slow down and be alone with my thoughts, I was finally realizing just to what extent.

  I’d been shot at, flung from a car, been beaten up, betrayed by Chaser’s past…and survived everything that had happened on the train to the point of finally admitting I’d fallen in love. And he had, too. He hadn’t called it love, but he’d admitted his feelings. He wanted to run away with me. He wanted to disappear with me and forget everything.

  Maybe I should’ve taken him up on that offer.

  Turning on the shower, I ducked under the hot water and scrubbed my skin raw. Emptying the little bottles of body wash and shampoo I’d stolen from one of the many motels across America’s ass cheek, I eventually stepped out a lot cleaner than I had felt in days.

  A woman was sitting on the end of my bed when I emerged from the bathroom. I yelped, suddenly glad I’d dressed in there and not wandered out in the nude.

  “I’m Sam,” she said, her voice not much louder than a hushed whisper.

  She reminded me of Yvette in a way. She was tiny, blonde, and pretty…even with the bruise on the side of her face.

  “You’re Sloane,” she added when I didn’t acknowledge her.

  I nodded, noting the fact she hadn’t called me Betty. Good. Taking out a comb from my bag, I brushed out the tangles in my wet locks.

  “What happened to your face?” I asked, leaning against the desk.

  She lowered her gaze and shrugged. “I fell.”

  I snorted. I bet she fell right into a biker’s fist.

  “What happened to yours, then?” she fired back.

  “A man hit me in the face.” I deadpanned. “He got what was coming to him.”

  Sam’s blue eyes widened. I intimidated her that much was clear. I wondered what stories had been going around about me. I was pretty sure it wasn’t anything good, which meant I had a lot of work to do.

  “How old are you?” I asked, looking her over. She was so delicate it was hard to tell.

  “Twenty-four,” she replied. “My mom always said I had a baby face. I always get carded when I go to the liquor store, so I just hand it to them with the cash. Saves them asking the question.”

  I tilted my head to the side and dragged the comb through my hair. Seemed like little Sam was starved for attention if a little flower like her couldn’t answer a simple question without telling me her life story. Whoever her man was, he wasn’t treating her right. Not by a long shot.

  “I’m a year older than you,” I said, my heart bleeding a few drops for her. “I suppose that’s why they ordered you to follow me.”

  “Follow you?”

  I snorted. “I grew up here, Sam. I know how these things work.”

  Dad had sent in the most vulnerable women in the entire place and put her under my nose in an attempt to soften me. It wasn’t her fault, and I’d help her if I could but not at the expense of losing my freedom…or what little of it I had.

  “Harley said—”

  “Harley?” I scoffed and shook my head, tossing the comb onto the desk. “That explains a lot.”

  “He said you needed someone to help you out,” Sam muttered. “You were here alone and needed someone to talk to.”

  Sam wasn’t very bright, but I didn’t have it in me to pity her let alone roll my eyes. She was trapped in a hopeless situation just like many other women before her. I didn’t know shit about her, so who was I to judge? There were plenty of reasons she could be at Fortitude. Few of them were good, though.

  “All I want to know, is where’s the food? I’m not permitted to leave, so you know.” I waved my hand at my stomach, which growled on cue.

  “I can help you with that,” Sam declared, her eyes brightening. “I like cooking.”

  Shrugging, I followed her from my room and through the compound.

  It was quiet today. Everyo
ne seemed to be someplace else, selling their drugs, laundering money, bullying poor fuckers who owed them money…essentially, out doing my father’s bidding. Hopefully, one of those tasks was tracking down the Hollow Men and doing something about them. Or shoring up security now I was in the building. I was here for my supposed protection, after all.

  The kitchen had been updated since I was last here, but it was still in the same place with the same configuration. A large table that could easily seat twenty ran the length of the room while the walls were lined with cupboards, two refrigerators, an industrial-sized oven and range, a giant double sink, and two microwaves. I was rather surprised to see a posh Nespresso coffee maker on the bench. I didn’t think bikers were refined enough to want a macchiato with their French toast.

  “What do you like?” Sam asked. “Pancakes?”

  “Pancakes?” I frowned.

  “Sure. Leave it to me.”

  I sat at the table as she busied herself with making the batter from scratch. No shake ’n’ bake packets or anything. It was all proper eggs, flour, and milk. It was rather…homely and threw me off balance. I was in an alternate reality.

  It seemed Sam’s forte was looking after people like a mother hen. She was small, weak, and lacked confidence, but give her a lost soul to care for, and she was all in. She was the kind of woman destined to have lots of babies or be a sweet kindergarten teacher who wore floral dresses and baked cookies. Fortitude was the last place I’d expected to find someone like her. I wondered what her story was.

  “Hey, what’s this? Sam’s cooking,” a booming voice declared.

  “Pay dirt!” someone else added.

  Boots thumped on the floor behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder as three men filed into the kitchen. First in line was one of the more handsome men I’d seen in this place. Tall, muscled, tattooed up to the eyeballs, complete with a hipster beard and warm eyes. The second wasn’t as alluring. He was scrappy, bald, and had beady little eyes. The third was built, tattooed, and had a mean curve to his mouth.

  “Just in time,” Sam said. “Have a seat.”

  “Pancakes!” the tattooed man exclaimed. “Best.”

  The men busied themselves getting out syrup, jelly, and butter, then tossing cutlery and plates onto the table. Sam beamed and dished up pancakes as soon as they’d cooked. Straight from the frying pan and onto everyone’s plates.

  The tattooed man with the beard sat across from me and piled butter and syrup on his stack. “You’re new.”

  “Kind of,” I replied as a pancake appeared on my plate.

  “I’m Ratchet,” he said, glancing at me. “That’s Rocket and Spike.”

  I recognized Rocket from last night. He’d carried Chaser into the compound with some other guy. I wanted to ask about him, but I bit my lip. If Chaser were dead, it would be the main topic of discussion.

  “I seen her before,” Rocket drawled, sitting as far away from me as he could. “She’s Marini’s daughter.”

  “That could mean one of two things,” I said, reaching for the butter.

  “Which are?” Spike asked while Sam shrank back into the corner, focusing on washing out the frying pan. She could sense a fight for dominance a mile off.

  “I’m a murderous little bitch, or I’m the best you’ve ever had.” I smirked and smeared my pancakes with a healthy dob of yellowish butter.

  Ratchet laughed and thumped his fist on the table. The motion dissolved the tension in the air, and everyone’s shoulders slouched. The sound of cutlery scraping against plates filled the room once more.

  Liking me wasn’t enough. They had to respect me in order for my plan to work. Men like these didn’t drop everything for a pretty face. They owned pussy, not pledged their allegiance to it.

  Rocket narrowed his eyes at me before going back to his pancakes. He wasn’t so convinced.

  Ignoring him, I stuck a fork into my pancakes, deciding that Sam was one hell of a cook. These tough-ass bikers would soon learn I wasn’t here to be owned. I wasn’t destined to be some asshole’s Old Lady. Not even Chaser could label me with it. Chaser and I were equals or nothing at all.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Ratchet said, glancing at Rocket. “He’s always got somethin’ up his ass.”

  “You’re Marini’s daughter, hey?” Spike asked. “The one Chaser went to get?”

  I nodded, my heart leaping at the mention of his name.

  “Everyone says you ran away,” Rocket said, baiting me. “When the club needed you, you bailed.”

  “The club didn’t need me,” I fired back. “If it did, it certainly didn’t need to treat me as a commodity.”

  The men stared at me, the pancakes forgotten.

  I smiled sweetly. “One of two things, boys. One of two things.”

  Ratchet raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any tattoos, Sloane?”

  Knowing I told none of them my name, I curled my lip. “No.”

  “I have a shop a few blocks from here,” he went on. “But I do stuff in the compound. I’ve tattooed almost everyone here.”

  My thumb ached. I got his meaning loud and clear. If I wanted to be a part of this place and play the game, then I had to be a part of this place.

  “She doesn’t have the balls,” Spike said, his beady little eyes fixed on my tits.

  “Do you guys like watermelon?” I asked.

  “The fuck?” Rocket declared.

  “When you shoot a dumb fucker in the head, his skull explodes like a watermelon. The skin splits down the sides, bone shards crack, and brains fly everywhere. Wet, sticky, and messy as fuck.”

  “She’s mental.”

  I snarled. “If you don’t stop staring at my tits, that’s what I’ll do to your head.”

  Spike snorted and waved his knife in the air. “Marini all over.”

  “Pencil me in,” I said to Ratchet. I wiggled my thumb at him. If I had to get branded to be inducted into their little boys’ club, then so be it. “I’m not anyone’s bitch.”

  “Tonight,” he replied. “Since we’ve been ordered not to let you leave.”

  “That’s a surprise.” I rolled my eyes.

  “See you later…Sloane.”

  Ratchet pushed his chair back and stood, the others following suit. They left the room, leaving their dirty dishes behind. Immediately, Sam rushed forward to clear up the mess.

  “You shouldn’t make them angry,” she whispered. “Ratchet’s nice, but the others…”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said, remembering the rite of passage I’d undertaken when I’d saved Chaser from the Hollow Men. “I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re really going to let them tattoo you?” She seemed scandalized. “They don’t tattoo the women. Not even the Old Ladies.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t intend to get taken advantage of ever again.”

  “You mean…”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Sam. You heard Spike. I’m a Marini, and Marini’s don’t get sold, they do the selling.” Standing, I helped her clear the rest of the table. “I’m not the same girl who left seven years ago. Not by a long shot.”

  Chapter 5

  Sloane

  The common room was full of women when Sam and I finally left the kitchen.

  Looking them over, I wondered if it was the weekly book club meeting, but no one who ever read Tolstoy dressed in leopard print boob tubes.

  Suddenly, I was the odd one out, though I’d always skewed a little to the side of any group I was in. I was the tomboy with my combat boots and sour disposition. I would rather sit with the guys and hash it out, but around here, the segregation between the sexes was as black and white as ever.

  Sam wandered into the center of the fray without a care in the world. These were her people much more than the men were. With the men, she’d rushed around trying to please them, and with the other women, she was just…present.

  “Sloane, c’mon,” Sam said, waving me over.

  At the mention of my name
, the group stopped their chatter and looked up. Five pairs of eyes zeroed in on me in various shades of curiosity, and not all of them were friendly.

  “That’s Kelly, Shondra, Emily, Raquel, and Sierra,” she went on, introducing them all. Blonde hair, chestnut, blonde, red, and black. “This is Sloane.”

  Some of them smiled, but mostly, they pouted and glared, giving me the once-over. Probably determining the threat level.

  Oh, shit, how do I relate to other women? Oh, that was right, I didn’t know how. What did they talk about? Makeup, boys, what bitch they had it in for this week… Uh, that bitch was probably me.

  Sitting beside Sam, I returned the appraising glares, making my own judgment and storing it for later. First impressions weren’t always an accurate indicator of someone’s personality. Their actions, rather than their words, would betray them in the end. Let’s see what these bitches thought.

  “You know how to make an entrance,” Raquel said, blatantly looking me over. I was sans-makeup, wearing a pair of jean shorts and a stonewashed T-shirt with a panther printed on the front, and my trusty pair of steel-capped combat boots. I was obviously not stripper enough for her tastes. At least I had smooth skin.

  “The last time I saw a woman stand up to Harley it didn’t end well,” Shondra declared. Smiling sweetly at Sam, she added, “No offense, Sammy.”

  Yeah, right. It wasn’t ending well for her on a daily basis by the looks of it. Some friends they were. I had to keep reminding myself that this place and these people weren’t good. They thrived on the power of fear and violence. Even the women were embroiled in their own psychological warfare, all scrambling for a place at the top of the pack. Somehow, I had to get to the pinnacle and stay there.

  “I don’t let a man define my worth,” I said, staring Shondra down. “I’m the only person who has that right. Same for you.”