Honey to Burn (Sweet & Dirty BBW MC Romance Book 10) Read online

  She rode home in a taxi with a nice, elderly man who liked classical music and played it as they drove south into the city and to the street outside Twist, where he took her money, let her out, waited while she got into her own car and started it up, then he drove away.

  So did Rae, but she did it with her heart hardening in her chest. Because what kind of man took a woman for a ride on his Harley, fed her margaritas and tapas, had sex with her in an illicit upstairs room and then abandoned her? What kind of guy did that?

  No one that she wanted to know, that's who.

  Yeah, he’d handed her money for the ride home, but he probably tipped that barmaid that much.

  Mac Carson might be the hottest guy she'd ever encountered, easy to talk to and even easier to crush on and fall into bed with, but he was not the kind of man she could trust.

  He hung out with bikers (!!) and everyone knew—or suspected anyway—that they were often involved in illegal shenanigans.

  God, what if he’d deserted her to go off and help commit some crime? She pictured Mac standing guard while the bikers robbed a convenience store, and shuddered. Okay, that was ridiculous, but still…

  And finally, he apparently knew barmaids all over the county so well they could serve him without an order, and he... she sniffled, hard. He'd nearly walked away with her heart, damn him.

  But after tonight, she was immune to his rough charm. Oh, yeah. Chalk him up to experience, she was moving on.

  Back to her own life.

  Her boring, frustrating life... but at least it was her own, not some pipe dream cast by a hot, bad boy biker with a sexy smile.

  She texted Lacey and Dee, stabbing angrily at the stupid little keys on her phone. Whoever had the brilliant idea to put three characters on each key was an idiot..

  'I'm so over Mac Carson. If I ever mention going out with him again, intervention!! Stat!!'

  A flurry of calls ensued, as they demanded details and shared her anger and dismay.

  Her friends showed up on Saturday afternoon, and the three of them had a pity-slash-slumber party that night, involving plenty of fudge ripple ice cream and Oreos and girls-kicking-butt (figuratively, at least) movies.

  Because watching Reese Witherspoon showing the guys how it was done in Legally Blonde, and Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman as gorgeous witches doing the same with powers in Practical Magic? Bring it.

  And since the party involved Rae ritually blocking Mac from her phone, she did not hear from him again.

  At least, she assumed that was the reason... and not that he just didn't want to bother.

  Either way, didn't matter. She did not care. Nope.

  They were done.

  Period.

  …

  Period.

  As in, hers was late.

  Rae didn't have her menstrual flow in October when she should have.

  And then she woke up the morning of Sunday, November 3rd and immediately had to race for her bathroom, because nausea.

  Oh, God.

  She texted her besties. Lacey answered immediately and showed up on her doorstep a half hour later, dressed but sans-makeup, her red hair wild, and two pregnancy kits in her hand.

  Rae used them both. Two plus signs. Two positive tests confirming what she already, in her heart of hearts, knew.

  She was pregnant. With Mac Carson's baby.

  When Dee arrived an hour later, Rae sat in a corner of her sofa, staring at nothing, while Lacey hovered, worried and empathetic.

  "I don't know what to do," Lacey whispered. "She's just... sitting there."

  "I think maybe she's in shock," Dee whispered back. "You know. It can happen after a trauma."

  "I know, but... she's pregnant, not an accident victim!"

  "Seriously, girl? Same thing, and you know it."

  "No," Rae said, interrupting them in a thin voice. "I'm pregnant, not traumatized. I'm fine. Really. Or at least, I will be."

  Her two friends rushed to flank her on the sofa, Dee holding her hand and Lacey patting her arm.

  "You will be fine," Lacey assured her. "You have us, and you have your—your mom, and—"

  Rae burst into tears.

  "You shouldn't have mentioned her mom!" Dee hissed.

  "I was just trying to help," Lacey moaned.

  "Never mind that. What are we gonna do?"

  "She needs support. Either the guy who caused this," Lacey said. "Or her mom."

  "I vote for him," Dee said. "Her mom is scary."

  Lacey nodded.

  "Not M-Mac," Rae wailed. "He d-doesn't care about m-me, so why w-would he care about a b-baby?"

  A peremptory knock sounded on the front door. It flew open to reveal Ellen Denton, clothed in a caftan robe, her short hair sticking up on one side, open-toed mules on her feet. She wore no makeup, and her eyes were wild.

  "RaeAnn! What is wrong? Are you ill?"

  "Jesus, how did she know?" Dee asked no one in particular.

  "I saw your cars race into my driveway and the two of you run in here, that's how," Ellen snapped. "Will someone tell me what is wrong?"

  Lacey rose, bravely, and went to meet her. Swallowing hard, she opened her mouth to share as tactfully as possible.

  "She's pregnant," Dee blurted loudly.

  Everyone froze. Except RaeAnn, who continued to weep inconsolably.

  "Oh, my God," Ellen said, clapping a hand to her heart. "I knew it. Oh, my God. RaeAnn, I told you not to date that—that man. I knew the minute I saw him, with his long hair and noisy truck, that he was no good for you."

  Rae wept more loudly.

  Lacey and Dee gave each other an identical look of frustration and helplessness.

  Ellen moved toward the sofa, and Lacey and Dee scrambled out of her way. Lacey waited, hands clenched protectively, for Rae's mother to accuse her daughter of something.

  But instead, the woman sank to the sofa beside her daughter and gathered her into her arms. "Oh, my poor, stupid girl. Never mind, we'll get through this... somehow."

  Lacey and Dee stared at her, then looked to each other. Dee shrugged. Not the most supportive words a mother could say, but better than nothing, right?

  "I still wish we'd called Mac instead," she muttered to Lacey.

  "We don't have his number."

  "No, but we know where he works."

  They looked at each other and nodded.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  November 3rd

  Mac walked into work that evening, whistling under his breath.

  He was on for the night shift, and being a weekend, this meant there'd be plenty to do. Not that he'd wish trouble on anyone, but people were gonna get themselves hurt, that was a given. So, he'd be there to help patch them up, or at least keep them alive until the ER docs could do so.

  "Hey, Carson," called the shift supervisor, leaning out of her office. "You have a message."

  "Hey, Phyllis." Mac smiled at the stout, gray-haired woman. "Thanks."

  She smiled back but shook her head at him. "Yeah, Romeo, tell your girlfriends not to call you at work, hmm? She said it was an emergency, but... prob'ly means you failed to share your cell number with her so she could let you know she wants to hook up again."

  She retreated into the office again.

  An emergency? Mac looked at the phone number scrawled on the sticky note. His shoulders relaxed in relief when he saw it was not the area code that included the Tri-Cities. So, nothing wrong with his little girl, then.

  He looked at the big clock on the wall and saw he had a few minutes before his shift. He'd call and find out who this was, anyway. And then either block them, or whatever.

  Outside the building, he leaned back on the wall and called the mystery number.

  "Hello?" a young woman's voice said in his ear.

  "You got Mac Carson," he said. "Who's this?"

  "Um... Mac, this is Lacey. RaeAnn's friend?"

  He straightened. "Yeah? What's up? Somethin' wrong?" He had visions of Rae having b
een in a car wreck or the like.

  She made a strange sound, between a laugh and a whinny. "You could say something’s wrong. Mac, you need to call her."

  He scowled, his heart pumping faster. "How about you tell me what the fuck is going on?"

  There was a short silence.

  "Okay..." she said slowly. "I guess that’s okay. Um, RaeAnn is pregnant. And it’s definitely yours."

  In one of the garage bays, an ambulance started up, the engine roaring and then slowing into a steady rumble. Voices sounded as his co-workers got ready for a night of work. They all wore their navy-blue uniforms. Since it was fall, this included navy baseball-style jackets and baseball caps, all with the company logo in red.

  The teams worked quickly, checking their equipment, making sure they had supplies for any emergency—everything from electronic defibrillation kits to obstetrical supplies.

  Mac heard this usual hubbub as if from a distance. "No," he croaked. "She can’t be. I gloved up every time."

  Even as he heard his own words, he shook his head at himself. Idiot. Everybody knew—or should know—that condoms weren't one-hundred percent effective.

  And he was already the poster boy for that.

  Fuck his life—could this baby be his too?

  "Hey, Mac," a new voice called, this one with a musical accent. Ngiri Ahl, his partner for the shift, poked his dark head around the corner. "Time to go."

  "Never mind," Mac said into the phone. "Uh... thanks for calling. Tell Rae I'll call her."

  Then he flipped his phone shut and walked into the garage.

  Ngiri tipped his head when he saw Mac up close. "What is wrong?"

  Mac shook his head. "Nothing, man. Let’s move out."

  Nothing to see here, move along. His world had just shifted on its axis, that was all.

  He was so fucked.

  And not in the fun way.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  November 4th

  Mac drove out to the Flyers' clubhouse the next afternoon, his thoughts a jumbled mess. He needed to spill his guts to someone he could trust.

  He was hoping for Rocker, as he knew the club veep would be up-front and honest. That was the man’s way. Of all the Flyers in this chapter, Rocker was the man Mac felt most able to really ask for advice.

  Ivan ‘Stick’ Vanko, the club president, was a man Mac admired intensely, but he was about as warm as a glacier. Bouncer, the sergeant-at-arms, was a man Mac would trust with his life, but not so much his personal problems.

  He pulled his truck into the wide, graveled lot and sat for a moment, staring at the clubhouse. He let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging as he finally relaxed. Just being here helped somehow.

  Ironic that after rejecting the family carpet-and-flooring biz in Wenatchee, he’d end up hanging out here in a place that had once been the same kind of business.

  But this place felt more like a home than the family business ever had. Or his current pad, for that matter.

  In this clubhouse, he was accepted for who he truly was—a guy who wanted to ride, party, and kick back with brothers who felt the same. Brothers, not of blood, but of time and tears and laughter, who would have his back when he needed them, the same as he’d have theirs.

  Sure, he was a junior member, a prospect, but he’d persevered through nearly eight months of hazing, scut chores, and being on the sidelines of the club’s inner workings. Anytime now, he expected to be invited to patch in, along with T-Bear.

  And he’d accept that honor with pride. He’d watched the way the brothers were with each other, saw the unconditional support they gave each other, even while they argued and occasionally came to blows.

  And the way Stick Vanko kept them all in line, presiding like a benevolent, but dangerous king.

  Stick had been the one to find this place and purchase it after the business went out a few years back. Mac didn’t know where the man had gotten the money. He’d likely never know.

  The clubhouse was off the main drag through Airway Heights—so named because of its proximity to both Fairchild AFB and the local municipal airport—several hundred yards on a county road.

  The building was a long, low one-story. The plate glass from the flooring showroom still made up the front doors and huge windows beside them, but now the glass was reinforced with steel bars and shutters that looked as if they could withstand a military attack when closed.

  The Flyers had few enemies here in this semi-rural area, but they did walk a crooked line back and forth across the law. Mac was fairly certain the compound contained a room or two, maybe even a cellar, that no one knew about except Stick and his officers.

  A big, old, metal airplane propeller had been mounted over the front doors, in honor of how the Devil’s Flyers had begun down in California, with five Vietnam USAF veterans, returning from serving their country in a distant jungle hell, to a nation that seemed determined to ignore or disdain them.

  A tattered pair of faded, lace bikini panties hung from one end of the prop, likely donated by one of the sweetbutts.

  A few familiar Harleys were backed in along the front walk. Two other rigs were parked farther out, a Ford pickup and an old Celica.

  Mac pushed through the front doors and into the main room. It was spacious, having once been the main showroom. A bar ran along the right wall, battered pool tables and foosball along the left, and old, mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout the middle. A big screen TV stood against the back wall, with speakers on either side. Two sagging sofas slouched before it, along with low tables.

  The place smelled comfortingly of stale beer, whiskey, smoke, and sweat. Ceiling fans moved lazily overhead, half-heartedly dispersing the cloud of cigar smoke rising from the table nearest the bar. Rocker and Bouncer sat smoking quietly.

  At a nod from Rocker, Mac flopped into a chair across from them.

  Bouncer pushed their empty beer pitcher across the table, hard enough that it knocked against Mac's knuckles. Mac grabbed it instinctively and looked to the squat, burly biker.

  "Well, hell yeah," Bouncer said. "We will have a refill on our pitcher, prospect."

  Mac rose. "Be right back with that."

  He walked around behind the battered oak bar and put the pitcher under the spigot of the keg on the back counter. When it was full, he bore it back to the table and filled the officers’ glasses.

  Rocker looked to Mac, his heavy dark brows rising quizzically. "Got something on your mind, prospect?"

  Mac nodded, but looked to Bouncer. The stocky biker shrugged, to indicate he didn’t mind if Mac shared.

  “Well, go on, then,” Rocker said.

  Mac groaned and shoved a hand through his hair. "Fuck," he said. "I'm gonna be a daddy—again."

  “Again?” Bouncer asked. He shuddered and slurped his beer.

  Rocker’s brows shot together, and he gave Mac a look that said he was trying to control his mirth. "Uh-huh... congrats. If it's with that pretty little blonde we've seen you with, that could be a good thing, right?"

  "Yeah it could be," Mac replied. "If either of us was ready for that stage, which we ain't."

  And a part of him wanted to scowl at Rocker for being amused at Mac’s bad luck, but that was bullshit. The brothers supported each other, but that didn’t mean they were above shoveling shit when the chance arose.

  Rocker nodded and took a drink of his beer. "You like her, though, right?"

  Mac shrugged. "Yeah, she's a real nice girl. And hot as a chili pepper in the sack, but..." He shook his head.

  "But you already got one kid you're helping support, and you weren't looking for anymore o' that shit," Bouncer filled in, his voice rough from years of cigarettes and booze.

  "That's about the size of it," Mac admitted. He did—his sweet Cassie, four years old and the cutest kid to ever grace pink playsuits. And who he only got to see for a few hours a month. "Maybe in a couple years when I'm earning more money, but... all I know is this ain't the time."

&n
bsp; "Tell her to get rid of it," Bouncer suggested.

  "Whoa, no," Mac protested. He'd never do that, especially not since he'd first held his daughter in his arms and seen that sweet, innocent little face blinking up at him. "No, it's her decision."

  Having seen what he'd seen in his line of work, all the shit women went through being pregnant and giving birth—he was a firm believer they got to choose whether to put themselves through that, or not.

  "Maybe she won't want it, neither," Bouncer said. "Lotta bitches don't, 'less they got a ring on it."

  "The ring ain't happening. Number one, I can’t afford one, and two, her ma hates my guts." And RaeAnn might be a grown-ass woman, but she was not out from under her mama's thumb.

  "Well, prospect, you better learn to glove it before you love it," Rocker said wryly.

  "Yeah," smirked Bouncer. "Snap it before you tap it. You don't see neither one of us with baby mamas hanging on us, asking for money an' shit, do ya?"

  Mac gritted his teeth against the urge to snark back at the both of them. He always wrapped up before he got him some.

  But since they both had valid points, and they were officers of the club he was prospecting, he kept those thoughts to himself.

  "Thanks," he said dryly. "I'll keep that in mind, though at the moment I'm thinking more in terms of getting cut."

  Bouncer shrugged, but Rocker winced. "A vasectomy? You're a little young for that, aren't you?"

  "Not at the rate I'm goin'," Mac muttered.

  Both men chuckled. "True that," Rocker said. He swirled the beer left in his glass, gazing at the amber liquid. “You know… you could just walk away. I mean, helping support one kid is one thing. But two...” he shook his head.

  “What?” Mac demanded, staring at the man he thought he knew. “No, man. I’m not that kinda loser.”

  Rocker looked to him and smiled. “Good to hear, prospect.”

  “You were shinin’ me on,” Mac realized.

  “Kid, I know you have staying power. Just thought you needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Mac said dryly.

  Rocker toasted him. “The doctor is in. No consultation too large or small.”