While she waited, she sat on the edge of her bed and picked up her notebook. She flipped through the pages of items on her list and chose to see it Cora’s way. Because it was time for her to live her life and stop being scared of everything. At least, it was time to try. With a grin, she grabbed the pen and flipped to the first page. Inspired by Cora, she wrote two words at the top, and underlined them for good measure:
Live Dangerously!
CHAPTER 8
The loud rumbles of their motorcycles told Dare that his brothers were back from the day’s run. He made his way through his cabin on the outskirts of the Ravens’ compound to the front porch in time to see Maverick, Phoenix, and Caine dismounting their bikes.
“How’d it go?” Dare asked, bracing his hands on the rough-hewn log railing. With the help of some of the other Ravens, especially Bandit, who could do just about anything with his hands, Dare had built the two-bedroom cabin more than a dozen years before. While Doc had been more than happy to have Dare live with him, Dare’s demons had taken up even more space when he was a younger man than they did now, so he’d wanted his own place.
The light from the porch stretched to where the men stood in his driveway. They turned to look at Dare.
“By the book,” Caine said, adjusting the cap on his head. Today’s run had been a protective detail to escort a woman and her two teen daughters to western Pennsylvania. The family had been under Raven protection for half a year since the mother learned that her longtime boyfriend had been abusing the older of the girls. When the girl finally came forward, the scumbag boyfriend threatened and intimidated all of them until the Ravens had finally gotten involved, providing a protective shield that enabled them to live their lives¸ seek justice via the often glacially slow legal system, and stand up to the abuser. The guy had been convicted and only awaited his sentencing hearing now, which gave the family the ability to make a clean break and a fresh start out of the area. The Ravens were only too glad to help, since the law often didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
“No issues,” Phoenix agreed as they moved toward the house. The black doo-rag wrapped around his head made the jagged scar running from his eye into his hairline appear more pronounced. “We got them settled in and checked that the security setup in their new place was online.”
“Good,” Dare said, “that’s real good.” The goal of the Ravens’ protective services wasn’t just to create a human shield between the innocent and the evil, but to help their clients feel safe again in the wake of whatever jeopardized that feeling in the first place. That meant they often put resources into securing their homes, especially when there were children involved. Dare knew what it was to be a kid who lived in fear and stayed awake at night to be ready for what seemed like an inevitable boogie man to jump him when he least expected it. He didn’t mind going the extra mile to try to give other kids the security he never found until he was an adult. Because fears developed in your most formative years died hard, slow deaths. Dare would know. “Come on in,” he said.
His friends followed him in and crashed on the brown couches in his living room. The first floor was decorated in earthy hues—browns, dark greens, warm beiges, and fiery clays. “Decorated” was probably too strong a word for it, though. While the house was furnished, Dare had never spent any time hanging pictures or curtains or doing much else to give the place any personality beyond a cabin where a guy probably lives. He’d put more time into outfitting the detached garage where he worked on his bikes than he had to the interior of the house. He grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and passed the bottles out to the guys as he joined Maverick on one of the couches.
“Everything was quiet along the route,” Phoenix said. “Put out some feelers like we talked about. My contacts aren’t hearing anything involving us, so we’re good for now.”
Dare nodded. “Ike said the same thing about the situation in Baltimore. The biggest issue there right now is that the Church Gang’s demise left a power vacuum that several groups are hoping to fill. It’s apparently open season on the remaining Churchmen.”
“Maybe that works to our favor,” Maverick said, raking a hand through his blond hair. “The fewer of them who survive this, the fewer people in Baltimore who ever knew Cora and Haven existed.”
“Amen,” Dare said, clinking bottles with Mav. The mention of the women made Dare realize he had news of his own to share. After the way his body had reacted to Haven earlier in the week, he’d stayed the hell away from her, but that didn’t mean he could keep his nose out of her business—not until he better understood what kind of threat her father might pose to her and the Ravens as a whole.
“We need to keep an eye on Baltimore,” Caine said in a quiet voice. “Power plays are filled with their own problem. We have skin in that game whether we want to or not.”
“Roger that,” Phoenix said, peeling the label from his bottle.
Nodding, Dare took a long pull on his beer. “I finally got some intel today on Haven Randall’s father,” he said, gaze scanning over each of the men. “Midlevel criminal with regional contacts in important places and expansionist ambitions. Right now he’s pretty much an equal-opportunity thug, meaning he’s into a little bit of everything. Fact that he’s known as far north of some of our contacts in southern Virginia says we gotta keep our eyes on him. I’m digging for more.” Hard to imagine someone as sweet and innocent as Haven emerging from that background, and it made her seem even stronger to him that she’d escaped it—just like Dare had once done, now that he thought of it. Like Butch Kenyon, Rhett Randall wasn’t someone to underestimate or fuck around with.
“Well, shit,” Maverick said. “Sounds messier than I hoped.”
“Yeah,” Dare said. “Especially since Haven believes her father has the local cops in his pocket.” What he didn’t say was that his gut told him there was more to the story, something else that was relevant that Haven hadn’t told him. And talking to Cora hadn’t yielded him anything more either, which just proved they’d well coordinated their stories. All of which meant he was going to have to confront both of them again, whether he thought he ought to keep his distance from Haven or not.
He and the guys shot the shit for another half hour, and then Maverick stretched out his big-ass body and yawned obnoxiously. “We headed over to the clubhouse tonight or what?”
Dare nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it. Party’s no doubt in full swing by now.” The LED clock on his cable box read 10:20 P.M. The club was tight-knit enough to want to kick back together on a regular basis, and that closeness was something Dare was proud of—he wasn’t the only one who thought of the Ravens as a family. So things tended to get rowdy on weekend nights at the clubhouse because it was a time when a lot of the brothers were available to hang socially. Dare maintained an open-door policy to any and all brothers at all times. He wanted them to think of the compound as a second home the same way he did, as a place where they’d always be welcomed and always belong.
Outside, they each took to their bikes, all four of them riding Harleys—though the shared brand belied the significance of the differences between the specific models, engines, paint jobs, and other custom design features. Bikes were more than modes of transportation—they were extensions of each rider’s identity, personality, and even mood, which was why some guys had more than one.
Maverick was on a blacked-out Night Rod Special, which meant elements that were often chrome on other bikes had been painted a matte pitch black, giving the bike a sinister look, further enhanced by the aggressive riding position the driver had to take. Caine was on a Dyna Fat Bob, a bike with a hard-hitting street presence and kick-ass speed performance. Phoenix rode a Dyna Super Glide, black with sharp orange accents—something with a little show and flash, just like him.
As for Dare, he had a hard-core Dyna Street Bob, all clean lines and minimalist styling. Matte black paint made the bike look like the grim reaper coming down the road, and it was Dare’s favorite. Among other c
ustom badges, all four of them had Ravens’ graphics airbrushed onto their bike tanks.
The trip to the clubhouse only took ten minutes from Dare’s place at the edge of the three-hundred-plus-acre compound. Doc had inherited the land decades before from the uncle who’d founded the speedway and associated resort. As a show of support, Doc had put his name on the deed, making Dare half owner of the land and everything on it. Damn hard to believe for a kid whose father jealously guarded everything they had and made the smallest generosity feel like a fucking gift you should get on your knees and grovel for.
They came in through the gated, private Raven Riders’ entrance that cut through the woods closest to the main part of the compound. The lot was packed with the bikes of club members and the cars of their guests. The clubhouse was a big two-story brown building with a covered front porch that stretched from one end of the building to the other. Across the parking lot sat the club’s chop shop, and off to the side of the clubhouse sat the first of six cottages left over from the resort era. They used them now to house race drivers or brothers or clients in need. On a typical Friday night, most of the action would be down the mountain at the racetrack, but it would be another week before they got their operations there up and running again.
Inside, the place was jumping—music jamming, and people talking, laughing, and making out in every possible corner. A crowd around the pool tables was decent proof that there was some serious betting going on. Another crowd gathered around one end of the bar, but Dare couldn’t figure out what the attraction was there. The vibe was nearly frenetic, proof that everybody needed a night without reminders of their recent losses to just let go.
Dare talked and laughed and flirted as he cut through the crowd, feeling lighter than he had in a while. It was moments like these when he knew finding his grandfather and building a life here with the Ravens had made him who he was as a man and very likely saved his life to boot. This place was his home. These men were his family. This was his community. And he’d defend all three against every and any threat.
Finally, he made it over to the bar and managed to catch a prospect’s attention. Dare ordered his usual whiskey and peered down the bar, trying to see what the raucous crowd down there was all about. Finally he asked Blake, “What’s the deal?” He gestured toward the far end.
Blake swept the long strands of dark blond out of his eyes and smiled. “There’s a girl doing a taste test.”
Dare frowned. What the hell did that mean? And then a thread of discomfort curled into his gut. What girl?
Probably Cora, given how shy Haven was. She hadn’t even been able to come into the room at their last party, and tonight was rowdier by far. Still, the idea of Cora getting drunk as a public spectacle didn’t sit right with him. He at least wanted to make sure someone was looking out for her.
He pushed through the crowd of onlookers until he made it to the far end of the bar, and there was Cora—except she was sitting sideways on her bar stool, seemingly looking at someone else. He tapped a couple of younger guys on the shoulder, and they stepped back for him the minute they realized who it was.
And that’s when Dare saw Haven.
Standing at the bar in a pair of killer tight jeans, heeled black sandals, and a clingy, form-fitting black shirt that emphasized her curves. Her hair was stunning—pulled back in some sort of complicated arrangement and tumbling in soft waves all the way down her back. The crowd immediately around her quieted for a moment, and she must’ve noticed, because she laughed and glanced over her shoulder, a puzzled expression on her face.
And that’s when she saw him. “Dare,” she breathed, her voice high and light, clearly the effect of alcohol, like the pretty pink flush on her cheeks.
But what he noticed even more was the makeup on her face. She didn’t need it—in fact, he preferred her without it—but he couldn’t deny that she looked like a model done up to such perfection.
Jesus Christ.
Dare was rock hard in an instant, his effort to rein in his body by avoiding her all week undone with just one glance, just one word.
“What are you doing?” he bit out.
“Trying new things,” she said, swaying a little on her low heels. “Join me?” One eyebrow went up just the littlest amount, and the challenge implicit in that tiny gesture was like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull.
He sidled in next to her, so that when she turned to face Cora, her back was at his front. “Exactly what is it you’re trying?” he asked over her shoulder.
She spun to face him. “For right now, different kinds of drinks. I never had anything before tonight. Can you believe it?”
Uh, yeah. He could. Though it was hard to resist her obvious pleasure in trying something new, even apart from the growing inebriation. She wasn’t drunk yet, but she was a few sips past tipsy for sure. It made her body fluid and loose, all of her usual timidity and tenseness gone. The confidence she wore might’ve been all the liquor talking, but it was still sexy as fuck.
Why did she affect him this way? She was too young and too innocent and too in trouble for him. And did he mention too young?
“And what have you tried so far?” he asked, his gaze dragging over the line of bottles and shot glasses arrayed in front of her.
She chuckled. “I don’t remember what all their names were,” she said, looking to Jeb, the club’s other current prospect. “Except for the Buttery Nipple. That one’s kinda hard to forget.”
Jeb braced his hands on the bar top, his brown hair covered by a black doo-rag knotted around his head. Dare must’ve been throwing off some hard-core displeasure, because the kid looked at him like he knew he needed to tread carefully. “She’s had very small sips of red and white wine, vodka, tequila, whiskey, and rum—just enough to taste them, and mini-shots of a Buttery Nipple, Alabama Slammer, and Lemon Drop. So far.” A mostly empty glass of water also sat in front of her, so at least the kid had been doing that much for her.
Haven grinned at him. “Vodka and tequila are not good by themselves. Though you probably know that. But whiskey is pretty good, and I really liked the Alabama Slammer and Buttery Nipple.” She wobbled, her hand gripping the edge of the bar largely responsible for holding her steady. “What should I try next?” she asked Dare.
“A Blow Job!” someone behind them yelled. The crowd laughed and cheered.
Despite the fact that Haven’s cheeks filled with a dark pink, she met Dare’s gaze and licked her lips, making them shiny. “Should I? Try a Blow Job?”
Dare’s cock throbbed as a dull ache settled into his balls.
She stepped closer. “Dare?”
He leaned his head close to hers so that his lips brushed against her ear. As he spoke, she shuddered, and the reaction did nothing to cool his blood. “Do you know what you’re doing right now?”
One of her hands gripped his shoulder. “I’m trying to live, to be a normal girl, to have fun.” She pulled away enough to peer into his eyes, and the desire in hers was so fucking blatant that he wasn’t sure how he resisted tossing her over his shoulder, taking her to one of a half dozen places he could get to in under a minute, and burying himself deep inside her sweet little body. Hell if he wasn’t a dirty old man. Her hand dragged from his shoulder down his chest, where it rested. “That’s all,” she said. “You should join me.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a small nod. “Have whatever you want, Haven,” he said, meaning the words in all kinds of ways he had no business meaning them.
“I want a Blow Job, Jeb,” she said, grinning at the prospect.
“That’s what he said!” someone called to the group’s amusement.
“You want a regular one or a mini?” Jeb asked, his gaze cutting between her and Dare. But Dare wasn’t paying the bartender any mind. His eyes were all for Haven—he studied her expressions, the makeup painting her face, her smiles. Her delight was a physical presence all around her, and was likely what had drawn the crowd in the first place. Her p
leasure was raw, honest, pure. And it was like she was the flame and they were all moths, drawn to her, unable to resist her light, her beauty, her heat.
Cora leaned closer, a big smile on her face. “You should do a regular one, because you drink this one without any hands.”
A confused expression swam over Haven’s features. “How the heck does that work?”
“Make it two,” Cora said, winking at Jeb. “I’ll show you.”
Jeb topped off the Baileys and Kahlua with a big dollop of whipped cream on each shot. “Here you go, ladies. Two Blow Jobs.”
“Okay,” Cora said, making a show of lacing her hands behind her back. “This is how you do it.” She bent over, wrapped her mouth around the top of the glass, and then stood upright and tilted her head back until the small glass was empty. The crowd went nuts for the little show, and even more with the anticipation that Haven would be repeating the act.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Haven said with a laugh. “But I’m definitely going to try.” Her gaze cut to Dare, her smile parts mischievous and uncertain. Then she shrugged and laced her hands behind her back. “Here goes nothing.”
Dare’s gaze was glued to Haven—how her lips swallowed the whipped cream and wrapped around the glass, how her eyes fell closed as if in pleasure, how her throat worked around the long swallow of the liquor. He threw back the rest of his whiskey, the bite taking the sharpest edges off his arousal—which wasn’t fucking saying much. When Haven was done, she slammed the little glass on the counter and threw her arms up in victory. Everyone around her cheered and clapped her on the back, but all Dare could see was the flat, firm surface of her bared stomach from how her shirt rode up.
Haven Randall was maddening. Sweet yet sexy. Innocent yet provocative. Beautiful yet seemingly unaware of what she was doing to him. Hell, him and probably every other man around the bar.
She hugged Cora.
Dare laid his fingers on the bare skin of her side, and Haven jumped a little as she turned to see who was touching her. His intensions had been honorable—to encourage her to drink some water before she ended up learning about the not-fun side of drinking, the side that put you on your knees and made you promise to any god who would listen that you’d never drink again if only they would end your suffering.