“Can’t be that bad, can it?” I ask, knowing full well with his kind of crowd it probably is.

The kid turns toward me, holding up his hand to show a swastika tattooed on his wrist. “Full allegiance, or nothing at all. It’s a lifestyle, not a hobby.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’s your lifestyle, though.” I pull my feet in, wary that the kid might flip if I’m questioning his loyalty to the cause. One thing about these ‘white power’ fuckers is that they’re fiercely protective of their kind.

“Far from it, but I don’t have a choice,” he says with a laugh, shaking his bald head, and taking me by surprise. “Been brought up with my old man preaching the shit. Have a big brother who believes in the rebirth of the Third Reich. A mother who left us when my father got himself locked up for murdering a negro. No other option if I wanted to stay housed and fed.” He looks my way, an empty void behind his eyes. “But who wants to hear my story, right?”

I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the kid.

“Oi, Tommy!”

The kid’s head whips about to search out the source of the voice. “What?”

“Get your skinny white ass over here. Been looking for you.”

I follow the kid’s gaze to a battle-hardened face sporting more neo-Nazi tattoos than I’ve seen on a single person. The older skinner steps towards us and away from the flames of the fire, allowing me a better view of him. The ink seeps from his neck to his temples and across his brow. Predictably, he wears tapered stonewash jeans, loosely laced Docs, and a white T-shirt with some punk rock band on it—the uniform of the ‘chosen race’.

“Easy wants you out front.”

“Why?” the kid asks.

The asshole leans down and smacks the youngster around the head, frowning. “Because he fucking asked, that’s why. Now get up.” He throws a glare in my direction, showing his dislike of the fact I’m watching the whole exchange unfold. “You get new eyes for Christmas?”

I wink at the fucker and push off my tire, stretching out my back, arms over my head. I’m opening the most vulnerable part of myself up to him, showing no fear, and gambling that he isn’t carrying a knife. The scowl on his face tells me he knows my game. Good. Let him know that I’m not here to fuck around. Assholes like him don’t scare me, never have. Part of the reason why I ended up with a reputation as a no-holds barred street-fighter before I reached my twentieth birthday.

“Good talkin’, kid.” I give the young skinner a nod, and head toward the house.

Shit’s exactly as I’d suspected—the kid’s a part of Easy’s crowd. And if Easy wants him out front, something must be going down. I’m not about to fuck it all up at the first hurdle and prove Ty wrong in choosing me to do this. I’m also not about to miss out on the opportunity to draw this evening to a close early.

Not when the memories dredged up by being here are driving me mad with the need to get back to King’s clubhouse and lose my mind in a bed of free booze and pussy.

BILLS

Ryan

I lean against the window frame as Tommy gets up, the dark-haired stranger he was talking to heading toward the house also. I’ve seen him before at the Red Lion, always at the bar with Horse, talking over a cold beer. He’s beautiful in that hard-headed boxer way: a crooked nose, sharp jaw, and tapered shoulders alluding to one strong-set body under that dark T-shirt he’s rocking.

Exactly my type.

And completely off-limits.

Gunter flanks the two of them, shoving Tommy every so often, making him stumble in his fucked up show of ‘brotherly love’. The asshole makes me seething mad, picking on his little brother to make himself seem tougher and to make the kid supposedly look up to him. The thick headed idiot doesn’t get it; he doesn’t have to do a thing and Tommy will always look to him for guidance. After all, Gunter’s his big brother—they’re family. But what am I going to do? Front up to Gunter about it? And then what? Get kicked out of Gunter’s bed and be searching for somewhere else to live rent-free? Don’t think so.

The guy from the Lion steps through the doors that lead to the deck, catching my eye as he passes through the living area, heading toward the front of the house. I frown at him, holding his gaze until he’s forced to look away or show that he’s obviously checking out Gunter’s girl—a guaranteed way to start a fight. His wide back flexes, his body twisting at his narrow waist to edge past a couple who are arguing in the doorway.

He’s built, handsome, and oddly intriguing, but still none of my business. Not if I’d like him kept alive anyway, and I kind of would. I kind of enjoy having man candy with a head of hair to look at.

A strong arm wraps around my waist, tugging me off balance and on to thick thighs as we crash to the seat together. “What you looking at?” Gunter whispers in my ear, the promise of what he’d do if the answer weren’t what he wanted lurking on the surface like tar over the ocean.

“Just those two lovebirds arguing over there.”

He bends to look around me, spotting the pair going at it across the room. “Pussy needs to slap her one, remind her who’s in charge,” he hisses, relaxing into the seat.

Gunter’s answer for everything—‘just slap the bitch’. Learned that the hard way after I disagreed with him for the first time.

“Where you off to, Tommy?” I ask, hoping to distract Gunter from mauling me, which by his wandering hands I’m guessing he’s intent on doing anyway.

“No idea,” Tommy says, tugging his black bomber jacket on. “Out.” He matches the zip and tugs it up two thirds of the way up.

“Don’t be too long,” I say. “You owe me a game of Dirty Pint.”

Gunter laughs behind me, his large hands pulling my back tighter to his chest. “Yeah, Tommy. You going to win this time? Or is my girl here going to drink you under the table again?”

Tommy gives me a friendly smile, quickly losing it by the time he looks over my shoulder to Gunter. “Guess we’ll just have to see.” He offers us a wave and heads out the front of the house to join Easy.

“You ready to leave, soon?” Gunter whispers in my ear, his hot bourbon-laced breath tickling my neck.

“We just got here,” I protest, looking outside through the window to our left. “I haven’t seen any fights yet.” More like, I haven’t spent enough time looking at the guy from the Lion yet.

He growls, placing an open hand squarely on the far side of my face as I continue to stare at the dancing hues of the fire. Gunter pulls me toward him until I tip off balance, my temple pressing against his forehead. “Woman,” he growls as his fingers flex against my cheek. “It’s fucking hot how much you love the fights.”

“You just think it’s hot how much I love it when you fight,” I remind him. It’s the truth, though. I do love it. His strength is my weakness.

The man’s six-foot-one of pure rock. As long as I’ve known Gunter, his pastimes have consisted of working out, or working his frustrations out . . . over some poor schmuck’s face. He’s a fighter, thick in the skull, and solid in the body. It’s what his DNA made him to be, and he embraces that with all the loveless hate of the brute that he is.

It’s raw, primal, and male, and I’m not ashamed to say it’s a fucking huge turn-on. Which is lucky, because there isn’t a single other feature about the asshole that I like.

He pulls my head around, breaking my thoughts, and places a possessive kiss to my lips, making it clear that I’m his. My body might be, but my mind is anything but. Call me weak, or call me an opportunist, but make sure you also call me smart, because I know how to keep myself safe, and sharing a bed with pure evil is a guarantee of protection I need amongst these men. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to save from ending up back on the street, shivering in the corner of an alley, and totally out of my depth when it comes to how to survive. I might not like the people around me much, but I’m still grateful for what they gave me—life.