Page 521 of Hell Hath No Fury
Because if Dick didn't care about Bear, he didn't care about any of them.
But that was their problem.
Bear, it seemed, was going to be mine.
I was happy to shoulder that responsibility.
"Fine," I said, swallowing hard. "Can I just go pack my shit then?" I asked, waving toward the second floor of the clubhouse where Bear was one of the lucky brothers who had his own private room.
"Whatever. Just get the fuck out," Dick said, waving at me with his mostly empty whiskey glass.
I didn't have much in Bear's room. A couple changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and general hygiene stuff. Nothing that I actually wanted to collect.
What I did want, though, was what Bear had in his room. Which was a mini arsenal of weapons he'd purchased illegally from another biker club.
Dismissed, I charged up the stairs, so focused that I barely even registered the clubwhore with her skirt hiked up and her tits hanging down as she got railed from behind by one biker as another was pulling his cock out to wait his turn.
I rushed into Bear’s room, locking the door in case Dick changed his mind and came after me.
Going on my knees, I dragged the long, low plastic container out from under the bed, pulling off the lid, and finding all the weapons I could possibly need inside.
I wrapped each gun up in a piece of my clothing before slipping them into Bear's enormous camping duffle bag, not wanting them to clink together as I made my way out of the club. Sure, the music was blasting, and the men were drinking, bullshitting, and laughing, but I wasn't taking any chances.
I had no other way to get the kinds of weapons I would need to do whatever I could to get Bear out.
I wasn't naive.
It wasn't going to be easy.
I was one person.
They were a club of at least fifteen.
What I had working in my favor, though, was the fact that I was a woman. Because of that, in this community at least, I wasn't a threat.
If I stopped back at my place really quickly to throw on something slutty, go heavy on the makeup, and maybe slide my hair under a wig, yeah, I had a good chance of being able to walk into that club like your average, every day, run-of-the-mill clubwhore looking for a good time.
Then I could find Bear and get him out.
Was it the smartest of plans?
No, of course not.
Smart would be for that entire club of useless dickheads to grow a spine, get off of their lazy asses, and go save him.
But, no.
Never send a man to do what a woman could, I guess.
Story of my damn life.
Until I met Bear, that is.
The first and only man I had ever been able to be myself around, to trust, to envision a future where I wasn’t stubbornly alone.
I would be damned if I let some rival club tear him and that future away from me. Not on my watch. Not if I had even the tiniest chance of being able to free him.
The Razer’s Edge Raiders—possibly the most pretentious, ridiculous club name I’d ever come across—had the kind of reputation you expected from a club whose racket was extortion.
