Make It Hurt (Texas Bounty)

  Make It Hurt is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Jackie Ashenden

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425286272

  Cover design: Jae Song

  Cover photograph: Mordolff/iStock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Jackie Ashenden

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Fuck,” Nora Sutcliffe muttered, staring out through the front windshield of her Mazda.

  Ahead of her, the hubcaps adorning the front wall of the Rusty Nail Bar and Grill glittered balefully in the Texas summer sun, looking like huge scratched sequins sewn onto an old, stained horse blanket.

  She’d never gone into the Rusty Nail, but she knew exactly what it was: a biker bar. And if its scruffy, run-down appearance hadn’t given it away, then the line of Harleys currently parked outside it certainly did.

  “It’ll be easy,” Duchess, aka Lily Hammond, aka her boss and owner of Duchess Bail Bonds, had said when she’d given Nora the job. “Nothing a woman of your skills couldn’t handle.”

  A woman of her skills…

  Nora leaned forward and popped open the glove compartment, taking out her trusty Colt 9mm, then sat back in the seat and reflexively checked it over. The familiar routine settled her somewhat. Not that she needed settling, of course. Like Duchess had said, this was going to be an easy job. Nothing she couldn’t handle and there wasn’t much Nora couldn’t handle, especially when it came to picking up people who’d skipped bail. She was one of the best fugitive recovery agents in the business and she always got her man.

  So why she was feeling all unsettled about this particular pickup she didn’t know. And she was feeling unsettled. The same kind of churning she used to get when she was first starting out sat in her gut, a nervous tension that had taken her years to overcome.

  Jesus Christ, she wasn’t a spoiled little rich girl who didn’t know how to take care of herself anymore, so there shouldn’t be a problem. Rhys and West, also part of the Duchess fugitive recovery team, had offered to come along and play backup but she’d refused. Men always seem to screw things up and besides, she liked going it alone. She could handle herself. She knew what she was doing. Duchess wouldn’t have given her the job otherwise.

  Irritated with the way she was second-guessing herself, Nora holstered her Colt and opened the door of the Mazda, the intense midday heat rolling over her like the backdraft from a massive forest fire. Ignoring it, she reached for her black cowboy hat that sat on the passenger seat and stuck it on her head; another familiar ritual that settled the churning in her gut. Then she locked the car and turned toward the entrance to the bar.

  Okay, Garrett Brook, aka Dust. Today you’re going down.

  Giving her hat and black bulletproof vest one last tweak, she threw back her shoulders and crunched over the gravel, projecting her usual don’t give a fuck attitude all the way. The one that usually attracted attention from men while at the same time had them keeping their distance. Which was exactly where she liked to keep them.

  Several dudes were hanging out by the doorway, young guys, motorcycle club prospects from the looks of things. Probably sent outside to keep an eye on the bikes. They gave her the once-over as she approached, their hey, baby expressions fading as they took in her vest and the Fugitive Recovery Agent badge she wore at her hip.

  She almost laughed. Men tended to lose their hard-ons when they figured out what she did for a living, because it made her tougher than they were. Being a female in the bail bond business wasn’t easy and played merry hell with her love life—not that Nora had a love life these days, or minded that she didn’t have one. In fact, that was partly why she liked bounty hunting. Bringing men to justice was number one on her list of “favorite things to do with the opposite sex,” not sleeping with them.

  The prospects studiously ignored her, turning away and chatting like she wasn’t even there.

  “Relax, boys,” she murmured as she passed. “I’m not after you.”

  They glanced at her.

  She put her hand on the bar door and gave them a grin over her shoulder. “At least, not today.” Then, without waiting for a response, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  It was loud in the bar, the sounds of conversation competing with the hard rock blasting from the jukebox and the rattle of old air-conditioning. There were lots of large, tattooed men in leather vests standing around drinking beer, plus a few others who were obviously not part of the MC. There were also a few scantily clad women scattered here and there, most of them hanging off the large, tattooed men.

  So far, so biker.

  In one corner was a pool table with a rickety fan turning the air slowly above it, while in the other corner were a whole lot of empty tables. Empty because most of the men were either at the bar right in front of her or clustered around the pool table.

  A silence fell as the door slammed shut behind her and heads turned to see who the newcomer was. Motorhead blared from the speakers, the smell of spilled beer, cigarettes, and sweat making the air feel even hotter than it actually was.

  Duchess Bail Bonds hadn’t had much to do with the Austin chapter of the Graveyard Ministry MC, since the club mostly flew beneath the radar and kept to themselves—the best kind of bikers, in Nora’s humble opinion. But she knew enough to understand that coming into one of their known hangouts to bring in one of their own—the vice president, no less—by herself, was pushing things in terms of safety. Then again, handling herself in a tricky situation was one of her specialties and the trickier the better. Nora didn’t like to compromise and she liked to do things her way, and if that meant challenging a bunch of dicks in leather vests, then that’s what she’d do.

  Besides, in her experience, one small blond woman by herself tended to be far more successful than when she came in with her male colleagues. When she was alone, people underestimated her, which could come in very, very handy on occasion.

  She pushed her hat back on her head and gave the combined gazes of all the men in the room a cocky grin. Putting her hand on her gun would be way too obvious so she didn’t. They could see it anyway, along with her vest and the badge that proclaimed who she was, a heads-up on what she was doing here. Rhys often told her she was inviting trouble with her going-in-guns-blazing approach, that sometimes stealth was in order.

  But Nora wasn’t a stealthy kind of girl and guns blazing was what she preferred. You could always spot a skip better if you didn’t hide your badge anyway, since they were the ones who instantly ran from the room the moment you walked into it.

  You just had to be faster when it came to chasing them.

  Luckily,
Nora was fast.

  She waited there for a second, letting everyone in the place get a good long look at her, scanning the crowd to see if anyone was moving toward an exit. But no one did and pretty soon everyone went back to what they were doing.

  How annoying. So, either her skip wasn’t here or she was going to have to ask around.

  Letting out a quiet breath, Nora sauntered over to the bar and leaned her elbows on it, giving the barman a nod. “Hey, you know a guy called Garrett Brook?”

  The barman’s gaze was wary. “Nope.”

  Typical nonresponse. She really needed to stop expecting that one day, someone was going to tell her everything she wanted to know. “Otherwise known as Dust?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Nora usually had two options when it came to getting info out of recalcitrant barmen, depending on the situation. The first was dredging up information about said bar, such as liquor licenses that were expired or breaches of health regulations. The second was money. Unfortunately, the Rusty Nail wasn’t in breach of its regulations or its license. Which left money.

  Reaching into her back pocket, she brought out a couple of bills and slapped them down on the bar. “That make it ring any louder?” Duchess could reimburse her later.

  The barman stared at the money and almost licked his lips. Then he flashed a glance over to the pool table, which was interesting. Did he want permission from someone? Or was he checking out to see if anyone was watching him?

  Nora followed his gaze to where a bunch of men were clustered around the table. More beards and tattoos, chains on belts and scuffed boots. They all wore Graveyard Ministry cuts, with the picture of a skeleton riding a Harley on the back, and they all held bottles of beer.

  They were watching one guy who was bent over the green baize, lining up a shot. She couldn’t see his face, but it was obvious he didn’t seem to find the intense attention of the other men a problem. The pool cue was unwavering in his long fingers, his posture still.

  Was that Brook?

  Nora narrowed her gaze. Brook was blond, this guy was dark, so probably not. Then again, Brook might have dyed his hair. It was difficult to gauge height from the way he was bending over the pool table, but he seemed too tall. His hair was shaggier too and…was that a beard?

  The back of her neck prickled, which was always a bad sign.

  Picking up her money from the bar—much to the bartender’s annoyance—she moved over to the pool area to take a closer look.

  None of the men standing around the table paid her the slightest bit of attention. They kept watching the tall man bent over the table, lining up his shot, a beam of sunlight through one grimy window glossing his shaggy black hair.

  The prickle on the back of her neck got worse.

  Yeah, he was tall all right, powerful biceps stretching the black cotton of his T-shirt as he pulled his hand back, sliding the cue between his fingers. She liked a powerfully built man and those arms and shoulders of his were certainly something. But it wasn’t those she found herself focusing on, but his hands. Long, blunt-tipped fingers, tanned skin marred by lots of white scars.

  Familiar scars, now that she thought about it. Where had she seen a man with scarred fingers before? She couldn’t remember.

  Bullshit. You remember. You just don’t want to.

  Nora firmly pushed that little thought out of her head. She’d been dealing fine with everything for the past eight years. No need to revisit that shit again. Nope. Never.

  Anyway, she wasn’t here to stare at a guy’s hands. She was here to get her skip and take him back to Duchess and from there to the police.

  She moved closer to the table, checking out the faces of the men around it. And…well, what do you know? There was Brook, standing beside the big guy who was currently taking forever to line up his damn shot.

  Nora started toward him, only for the man bent over the table to flick his hand forward, the cue striking the white ball with a firm click, which then rolled over to a red nearby, bouncing it off the side of the table where it hit a blue, both balls rolling perfectly into the pocket.

  The men around the table erupted into cheers while the big guy straightened up with a slow, almost menacing grace. He didn’t take one look at the adoring crowd around him. He looked only at Nora.

  And her heart stopped dead in her chest.

  Tar-black eyes. A black scruff of a beard highlighting a strong, stubborn jaw. Bluntly carved features too irregular to be called handsome yet possessing a kind of rough, brutal masculine beauty all the same.

  He was compelling. Mesmerizing.

  But then, Smith always had been.

  “You want one of mine?” he said in his deep, familiar voice, the one she hadn’t heard in so long, all gritty and soft like gravel in a pile of velvet. “Then you need to talk to me first, golden girl.”

  That name…She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

  After eight long years, the man whose heart she broke was back.

  —

  Smith had known it was Nora the moment she’d walked into the bar. She hadn’t even needed to say anything. It was as if the air itself changed, became charged with that bright, sparking, sunlit electricity he remembered from years ago. The electricity he hadn’t been able to keep away from no matter how hard he tried.

  Until she’d pretty much destroyed him.

  Yeah, he’d managed to get over it after that.

  He’d had to breathe deep as he lined up that fucking shot, hearing her light, smoky voice even through the damn noise coming from the jukebox. Even through the loud conversation of his brothers around him. Asking for Garrett Brook. Asking for Dust.

  He didn’t know why she was here asking for his vice president and ex-army buddy, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the fact that she was here. Eight years after she’d hung him out to dry and destroyed the new life he’d so painstakingly tried to build. Actually here. In his fucking bar.

  Turned out God did have a sense of humor after all.

  Smith stared at the woman standing not far from the pool table and no matter how tough and hardbitten he’d gotten over the years, his heartbeat was still hammering like a bitch in his head, a fury he’d thought long dead hazing his vision.

  Same small, compact, curvy figure, the shape of her delicious tits in no way hidden by her black bulletproof vest, her beautiful legs encased in worn denim. Same warm brown eyes. Same glossy hair, that wasn’t simply blond, not with the streaks of toffee and tawny and caramel and burnished gold that ran through it. Same wide, sulky, sensual mouth he’d never been able to get enough of kissing. That had never seemed to get enough of kissing him…

  The impact of her was a sucker punch straight to his gut.

  Christ, she still had it.

  And you’re still susceptible.

  Smith ignored that thought, not letting any of his reactions show. He couldn’t afford to look weak, not when he was only a month into his new job as president of the Graveyard Ministry MC and already instituting unpopular changes. There were certain brothers within the club who were just looking for an excuse to oust him, no matter that he’d been voted in fair and square, and he’d be damned if he undermined his own power by drooling over a chick.

  There was shock stamped all over Nora’s lovely face, her skin pale beneath her golden tan. And fuck, she should be pale. She should be shocked.

  She should be fucking terrified.

  Eight years was a long time to hold a grudge, but he didn’t give a shit. He hadn’t forgotten and he hadn’t forgiven, and right now she was blundering into a powder keg and any little spark could set it off.

  The keg being him. The spark being her.

  Yet, instead of picking up on the danger and maybe turning around and walking back out again like a good little girl, Nora fucking Sutcliffe raised an eyebrow, a sarcastic smile curving her mouth. “Smith,” she said, the only name he’d ever bothered with, even now. “Long time, no see, huh?”
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  As if she hadn’t destroyed him and the life he’d been hoping to create all those years ago. As if it meant nothing to her.

  He leaned on his pool cue, his heart full of fury while his body rang like a church bell being struck, calling people to prayer. Fuck yeah, he remembered that particular prayer, worshipping at the church of Nora Sutcliffe’s glorious body…

  Slowly, because he had to know if that was a religion he still subscribed to, he let his gaze rove over her, drinking down the physical reality of her here in this shitty bar. Beautiful, she’d always been so goddamned beautiful, and now she’d definitely grown into it. All that wide-eyed, eighteen-year-old innocence he remembered was gone, replaced by the certain, tough confidence of a woman out to prove herself no matter the cost. Something had happened to her, that was for sure. The soft, shy, pretty little Texan debutante, daughter of one of Houston’s richest men, had disappeared completely, taken over by this gun-toting, cocky-looking, hard-ass chick.

  And damned if it didn’t suit her.

  “So,” she said into the silence, eyeing his cut. “You’re a biker now?”

  He gave her a feral grin, letting his anger settle in and get comfortable. “I’m not just a biker, baby. I’m the fucking president.”

  She blinked, her gaze settling on his president’s patch, her mouth opening slightly, full and red and delicious, just like an apple.

  And desire kicked like a mule inside him, making his muscles tighten and his dick start to get hard, and sending his anger into overdrive.

  Why the fuck did he still want her? After everything she’d done? What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Then he noticed something else about her that sent everything into a tailspin.

  She was wearing a black cowboy hat.

  His black cowboy hat. He’d recognize it anywhere. It was the one he’d bought with his first construction paycheck, a sign of better things to come. The one he’d then left behind the day they were discovered in the pool house together and everything went to hell.