Page 1 of Blackbeard (Blackjacks MC #2)

Chapter one

Blackbeard

I leaned back in my chair, tipping it onto two legs at a precarious angle. Running my hands through my hair, I heaved a sigh.

“If someone doesn’t make a move soon, I’m going to lose my shit.”

Early Friday evening at the Blackjacks clubhouse was a quiet affair. In another two or three hours, the weekend crowd would start pouring in to fill the bar. The battered jukebox in the corner would be cranked up to full volume, playing non-stop until sunrise.

For now, it was just me and three of my brothers—Kingpin, Big G, and Credence—seated around a table, playing a lazy round of poker to kill time. And I was bored out of my goddamn mind.

Credence grunted in dismay and tossed his cars on the table.

“Fold. Look, if you were hoping for a more exciting poker game, you should have dragged Tex or Hot Shot into this. They’re better at cards than I am. If we were playing pool, I’d wipe the floor with you.”

“Wasn’t talking about the game,” I muttered absently.

Kingpin spread his cards face up on the table.

“Full house. Don’t borrow trouble, brother. This lull is the calm before the storm. It won’t last and you know it.”

I blew out a breath and scrubbed the back of my neck. That was exactly the problem—sitting on pins and needles, knowing that something was bound to happen eventually.

But when?

“It’s making me fucking itchy ,” I grumbled, fanning my cards out. “Royal flush.”

“Damn it.” Big G growled, revealing his hand to show two nines—a useless pair that didn’t get him anywhere. “You’re not even paying attention and you’re cleaning me out.”

I glanced toward the front door as I gathered my winnings. We were only playing for pocket change—maybe a hundred bucks, when all was said and done. Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed rubbing it in Big G’s face that he was losing so badly.

But I wasn’t in the mood this time.

Five years ago, the Forsaken MC killed one of our own. Darren “Digger” Fowler had been a good kid, determined and light on his feet, a quick thinker who did his best improvising in the heat of the moment.

The Forsaken owned neighboring territory, extending from Silver Gulch, Montana, to the North Dakota border, which was nearly twice the size of our territory.

But that wasn’t enough for them. They wanted to expand—gradually applying pressure to our borders in the hopes we would cave and they could claim our territory. So, we fought back to defend ourselves.

And Digger paid the price with his life.

Ever since then, the Forsaken continued to be a thorn in our side. Nipping at our heels. Wearing us down, little by little. Nobody got seriously hurt again, thank God. But I knew it was only a matter of time before this turf war got bloody again.

I really didn’t like the idea of burying another brother.

Last October, the Forsaken had waltzed into our clubhouse as if they owned the place. Their President, Al “Popeye” Bradbury had so casually offered peace that it felt more like an insult than an honest suggestion. They were mocking us, treading on our territory without an invitation.

When we turned down his offer, I fully expected a massacre in retaliation.

Instead, the Forsaken went quiet.

Deadly quiet.

Month after month, they didn’t make a peep. October faded into the cold, snowy blanket of winter. Then winter melted away into the fresh, blushing spring of April.

Still, the Forsaken remained silent.

“Maybe they backed off,” Credence suggested. “A turf war takes a lot of resources.”

“Usually costs a few bodies, too,” Big G put in.

I flicked a glance in Kingpin’s direction.

Even though he was sitting there, calm and controlled, one look in his stormy gray eyes and I could practically see his mind whirling through scenarios.

As the President, his club looked to him for leadership and stability amid uncertainty.

He couldn’t afford to let anyone see if he was worried or anxious.

But his wife, Hattie, was seven months pregnant at home. A full scale, all-out turf war was the last thing he needed right now.

As his Vice President, I had to be ready at a moment’s notice if he asked me to step in for him.

Since I was the only member with bona fide medical training, I was usually on-call around the clock already, stitching up these dumbasses when they got themselves hurt.

Handling the club amid a violent territorial battle was a different beast though…

Kingpin’s phone rang. He dug it out of his cut pocket and checked the screen.

“It’s Hattie,” he said, pushing away from the table to answer the call. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

A moment of silence settled over us as we listened.

After celebrating her forty-seventh birthday a few weeks ago, Hattie was probably facing more medical complications during her pregnancy than Kingpin was letting on.

He didn’t mention it to his club though, and I didn’t pry.

What little medical training I’d completed didn’t cover childbirth.

Besides, Kingpin was a relatively private person.

It didn’t surprise me that he wouldn’t blab about his personal life.

On the other hand, the topic of having kids had been a sticky subject between Kingpin and his wife for a long time.

Now that a little one was finally on the way, he probably didn’t want to jinx it.

“You need to take it easy, baby,” he said in a placating tone. “No, you’re not coming anywhere near the clubhouse—”

Big G shuffled the cards and began to deal another hand.

“Twenty bucks says Hattie will be walking through that door in about ten minutes. Any takers?”

I huffed a dry laugh.

“Not a chance. That woman does whatever she damn well pleases, and we all know it. Prez practically has her under house arrest because of this bullshit with the Forsaken. It’s driving her crazy.

Besides, you don’t even have twenty bucks,” I protested.

“The only thing in your pockets right now is fucking lint.”

Big G grunted and took a peek at his cards.

“I’m still not fully convinced you’re playing it clean.”

After knowing each other for ten years, Big G and I rarely argued. This banter between us was nothing more than lighthearted teasing. I pretended to cup my hand to my ear with a smirk.

“What was that, old man? Almost sounded like you were calling me a cheater.”

“No fighting, you two,” Credence cut in. “Or you’ll have to kiss and make up. And I don’t want to see that.”

I took a breath to speak when my phone vibrated with a text. Pulling it from my back pocket, I glanced at the screen to see a message from Hot Shot.

Forsaken at garage. Send backup.

“Shit.” I slid my chair back as I stood. “Time to move. Hot Shot has uninvited guests at his garage.”

Big G and Credence abandoned the card game, rising to their feet to join me. I caught Kingpin’s eye and jerked my thumb toward the door. After hanging up, he waved me off.

“I’ll get Spike. He’s probably balls-deep in a club bunny right now. Go. We’ll catch up.”

Thirty seconds later, Big G and Credence flanked me on either side of the road, buzzing through town.

The chilly April afternoon turned into a biting cold wind as my speedometer climbed to 60mph, stinging my face and hands.

When I turned the corner and Full Throttle Auto Repair came into view, I gestured at Big G and Credence to slow down.

Blocking the road were five members of the Forsaken MC, seated on their bikes with helmets that concealed their faces.

A woman stood in front of them, somewhere in her mid-to-late twenties.

Her padded riding jacket was unzipped halfway, revealing a tight red tank top that matched her lipstick, plump tits straining at the fabric.

Unlike the men who accompanied her, she wore no helmet.

And she was fucking stunning.

Alabaster smooth skin, shoulder length auburn curls, and legs for days.

I rolled to a stop, assessing the situation. At the entrance of the garage, Hot Shot shifted uneasily, with a pistol in his grip, low and close at his side.

The woman lifted her arm above her head, waving a white scrap of cloth to indicate a truce. My gaze locked on her as she approached with a bold stride—confident and unwavering, hips swaying.

Whoever this woman was, she held power among the Forsaken and she damn well knew how to wield it.

She glanced over the three of us. Since we wore simple brain buckets, we didn’t need to take off our helmets for her to see our faces clearly. When she spotted the VP patch on my chest, she arched an eyebrow with interest and angled her body toward me.

“So, you’re the man in charge?”

“Prez should be here any minute, if you’re looking for the head honcho,” I replied.

She clucked her tongue while her green eyes swept over me like I was a juicy ribeye steak, and she was a hungry wolf.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. You and I will get along just fine.”

Judging by the purr in her tone—and the blatant appraisal—she’d probably love the thrill of a hate-fuck.

“Let me guess. Popeye sent a sweet little piece of ass over here in the hopes of making friends,” I said. “He’ll have to try harder than that.”

She bared her teeth in a humorless smile.

“I’m his daughter, Leigh. And I’m here of my own free will to discuss my father’s offer of peace.”

Shit. Popeye’s daughter.

I had to tread carefully here. Insulting Popeye’s precious little girl could be the trigger that sets off this mountain of dynamite we’d been sitting on since last October.

Even though I hadn’t crossed paths with Leigh Bradbury before, I’d heard enough gossip to know she wasn’t some innocent bystander in her father’s club.

She didn’t hold an official position, but that didn’t prevent her from causing damage of her own.

She could get away with murder, thanks to having her dad wrapped around her little finger.

“How did the ugly old bastard end up with a beauty like you for a kid?” Big G quipped.