Chapter One

Hell ain’t a bad place to be

“No one quits us—you’re a dead man walking.”

Those words rang in Bram’s ears for weeks after the beatdown by the Heathens MC that left him wishing he was dead, which was the point.

Lesson given, lesson received.

Rest and recovery, the docs kept stressing, when all he wanted was to put as much distance between himself and the hospital bed as possible. And he’d meant that literally, planned on taking the vacation that his supervisor suggested.

For your heath—to rest and relax, Parisi’d emphasized.

Which was bullshit, because Bram was ninety percent sure a one-percenter, violent motorcycle club wouldn’t let him escape that easily.

But maybe that’s just you being paranoid.

To the Heathens, he’d been a prospective member named Monk. In reality, he’d been an undercover ATF agent who’d infiltrated the club and served up evidence that resulted in numerous arrests and convictions, putting the Heathens in serious legal and financial troubles.

Bram knew at the outset that leaving an MC once he’d been patched in was close to impossible, and that vacating even a prospect position would put his life in extreme danger.

He’d expected the ATF to have his back, and he’d been wrong.

“The plan went to shit,” was all Parisi would tell him. “Heads will roll.”

Bram was no stranger to pain, but there were moments during his recovery that he’d actively prayed for death. Most of the time he’d refused to let himself focus on the broken bones and stab wounds he’d endured.

To say he was skittish these days was putting it mildly, and it was safe to say that the last place he’d wanted to end up was Shades Run and in the potential crosshairs of another notorious MC—and too close to the one that’d nearly killed him for comfort.

But for his younger brother, Linc, Bram was a goddamned sucker. Which was why he was headed there to see a man about a bounty, and to get a lead on Linc’s whereabouts. Because Linc had been MIA for months, even after Bram’s doctors had left him a series of messages regarding the state of Bram’s health.

Linc was a lot of things, and he could flake on a moment’s notice, but like Bram, Linc knew life or death. For him to have just not responded . . .

Fuck it. Bram refused to let himself go there again. He’d move forward instead and deal with Linc’s disappearance.

Which was why, nearly a month after his near-death experience, Bram found himself sitting in a bar called Bertha’s the night before his appointment with the bounty hunter from Shades Run, who obviously got off on dialing Bram’s number a hundred motherfucking times a day.

Goddammit, Linc.

Bram couldn’t say that enough. Wouldn’t stop anytime soon. He’d put his own life on goddamned hold for Linc again. Their sister, Linnea, told Bram he was nuts to do so again, but she always said that. In two days, she’d be calling demanding to know why Bram hadn’t gotten Linc back home yet, not giving a shit that there was now a fucking bounty hunter threatening to show up at his door because Linc had jumped bail.

Obviously, Bram had been listed as giving collateral for the bond . . . and he’d done no such thing.

Goddammit, Linc.

Because Linc knew that Bram’s address needed to remain private, a necessity of his job. The fact that Linc no longer gave a shit about Bram’s safety was enough for him to get ass in seat and drive to Shades with minimal stops.

First, he’d convince the bounty hunter that he knew nothing about the goddamned bond. And from there, he’d find Linc, get his brother on the straight and narrow . . . and then decide if he was walking straight back into hell.

Not a problem at all.

Now, Bram stared into his beer, thought about all the hotel rooms in all the cities and countries he’d been in over the years, some for work, a lot for tracking Linc’s ass down and bringing him back. Trying to get him a real job. Trying to make him responsible.

Fuck it. He was getting drunk tonight. He downed the shot in front of him and half his beer, and the bartender was already sliding the bottle of Jack toward him, asking, “Ready for another?”

Bram put a couple of twenties on the counter. “Keep them coming.”

“Sure thing. But this one’s on the house—courtesy of Grayson.” The bartender motioned, and Bram turned to see the same bouncer who’d looked him over in subtle appreciation at the door earlier now giving him an easy smile. Bram wondered what that must be like, because nothing had been easy for a while.

Maybe tonight he’d find easy, along with its friend, lucky. But not anytime soon, because this place was getting more crowded by the second.

This wasn’t a biker bar, but rowdy enough. Linc would fucking love it here. Lots of bouncers, almost enough to egg on a guy who liked bar fights for the pure sake of a good bar fight.

Linc called them art forms.

Thinking about Linc made Bram take the next shot quickly. It burned beautifully going down, but as he brought the beer to his mouth to chase it, he caught sight of leather jackets bearing an MC’s rocker and he almost goddamned lost it. His hand trembled and he put the beer down and forced himself to fucking breathe.

As Dozer, his friend from the ATF, would often tell him, “Calm the fuck down, son—it’s all going to be okay.”

But how? He went through the reasons in his mind, ticking them off, one by one.

These MC men aren’t here for you.

He didn’t know that for sure, but their rockers bore the Havoc symbol, not Heathens. And although Havoc were notorious motherfuckers in their own right, Bram knew that Havoc did not associate with Heathens.

Plus, you look different from your time with the MC.

Dramatically so from his two years undercover as a prospect. He no longer wore a beard or mustache, and his hair was grown out longer than the shaved look he’d rocked with the Heathens. He’d also worn contacts and dentures that changed the shape of his face and jawline, and he walked differently than his MC persona had.

Hell, short of plastic surgery, there was nothing else he could do but live. Because the other option was to kill himself before the Heathens found him, and he didn’t go down that easily.

Your job is over.

But honestly, some of the shit he’d seen and done for the Heathens? He’d never, ever live it down—or be able to live with himself.

Which was why he did two more shots in quick succession, finished another beer in two gulps, and waved for the bartender to keep them coming. Because Bram was in the middle of MC-land. Because of Linc.

That could be the title of his life’s story, or maybe more fittingly, on his tombstone: Because of Linc.

After two more rounds in a ten-minute time span, he was rapidly becoming a paranoid fucking drunk. He stood, conveniently forgetting the pain factor of healing bones and ligaments and ribs sans pain pill he’d refused to take tonight. He grabbed his side and tried to breathe.

It was then he noticed that he was surrounded by lots of black leather. It was only three bikers, but that was enough. His flashbacks started almost immediately, his breath coming in harsh pulls, and he heard the bikers murmuring around him.

And then a hand went to the back of his neck, a cool palm with a light but firm touch, and a graveled voice asked, “Do you need medical assistance?”

“Just stood too fast,” Bram managed. He forced himself to glance up at the man whose broad body was too close to his.

He was tanned, which made his eyes look slightly amber. He also had a lollipop stuck in his mouth, and his hair was up in a partial man bun. He was big. Ex-military, if Bram had to guess, and even though the guy hadn’t said anything more, his eyes shone with concern.

Bram told him quickly, “I’m fine,” in response to his unspoken question.

“You don’t seem it.”

“Why would you give a shit?”

“I own this place. My insurance premiums go up if someone dies on the premises,” the guy explained, and Bram stared at him, noting he’d smiled a little as he’d drawled his explanation. “Come on, let’s get you some air.”

“Don’t know you,” Bram muttered.

“People call me Sweet.”

Bram turned that over in his mind as he registered Sweet’s hand persuasively guiding him away from the crowds—and the other two bikers—and fuck, Sweet was taking him outside.

Sweet from the Havoc MC.

Bad motherfuckers. They were the kind of club even assholes like the Heathens wouldn’t touch. So Bertha’s was Havoc-owned, and Bram hadn’t done any research on the place, had basically done the equivalent of running into a burning building, because he’d been so focused on Linc.

Now, Bram focused on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping. As soon as he reached the open air of the alley, he turned and pressed the big man to the wall in an attempt to stave off a possible beating.

He was supposed to fucking run after that, but he became mesmerized by Sweet’s reaction—instead of getting angry, he took the lollipop out of his mouth and smiled broadly . . . wickedly. “Better this than the knife you’ve got.”

Bram stared at him, trying to decide if his instincts were right or if this was about to earn him another beatdown. Because Bram’s cock told him he wanted Sweet. He hadn’t noticed it inside while the smell of leather was panicking him, but now he was pretty sure Sweet noticed it too.

Shit. Suddenly, he felt too goddamned sober for this and completely out of practice . . . but his body knew exactly what to do as his hand palmed the back of Sweet’s neck, tugging him closer, diving straight into the possible death wish and exactly like his old self.

And Sweet? The guy was laying himself open to Bram, hand in his hair, the other hand on his hip, but Bram was the one crushing him with his weight, kissing him hard, making both of them breathless.

Neither of them complained. In fact, Sweet’s hand snaked from Bram’s hip to the front of his jeans, tugging his own pants open first, then Bram’s in order to palm both their cocks in his large, calloused hand.

“Fuck,” Bram groaned into Sweet’s mouth as the stroking intensified. He let his teeth drag along Sweet’s lower lip, almost bit him, and it made Sweet growl deep in his throat. His hips tilted, body arched as their dicks dragged together, all hot and silky with a little bit of slick.

His hands went to Sweet’s wide shoulders to gain some purchase and allow his hips to rock to Sweet’s rhythm while he let himself grow drunk on the man. “Harder. Faster,” he murmured into Sweet’s cheek before biting him on his exposed collarbone.

Sweet complied, hissing as Bram sucked hard where he’d bitten. “That’s good, baby.”

“Come on—want to come,” he instructed the motorcycle man he should be fucking running from instead of thinking about getting fucked.

But it felt good to feel in control, even though Bram knew he wasn’t controlling shit in this situation, including and especially not himself. Sweet allowed him to retain the pretension as the pleasure built up to unbearable levels, until his entire body was strung tight as a goddamned bow . . . until his balls pulled up and he shot with a shout against the hot skin of Sweet’s neck, coming all over Sweet’s hand.

Sweet came a second later, somehow still managing to half hold Bram up against him.

God, how long had it been? Months and months of his own hand, he realized as he tried to get his breathing under control. Because prospects in the Heathens fucked women—no bisexuals or gays allowed. So he’d turned himself into a goddamned monk—hence the nickname—and pretended he’d been wounded in battle so he didn’t have to fuck indiscriminately.

Although he loved women, he mostly missed the goddamned weight, the pressure and brute strength of a man on him. Sweet had given him everything he’d asked for.

And Bram wanted more. It didn’t matter that the alley was dark, empty. Menacing looking. Didn’t matter that they were alone, because Bram bet there was a guard at the door and another at the mouth of the alley.

Which meant Bram was locked in, pinned down with this big, leather-wearing, flashback-inducing, amazing-tongued biker. Bram’s way of surrendering. Putting himself in unsafe situations . . . seeing which way he came out. If he came out.

Near-death experiences had a way of fucking you up and letting you prove that you were over and over again. Self-preservation wasn’t on the invite list tonight, as evidenced by the fact that he was clinging to Sweet like the guy was a lover not a fuck, and hell, Bram had kissed him like that too. While he blinked and stared at Sweet, he realized Sweet was staring back at him in much the same way, a silent acknowledgment that something had clicked . . . and that both men hated that it had happened but planned on silently ignoring it.

And just like that, the feeling faded and the hair went up on the back of his neck. Sweet kept his eyes on Bram’s face as he asked, “Like what you see?”

Bram shifted and glanced over his shoulder as the bouncer named Grayson admitted, “Was trying for a piece of him before you walked in.”

“How’d that work for you?” Sweet asked as Grayson approached Bram from behind.

“Figured it’s working just fine now,” Grayson murmured as he sandwiched Bram between him and Sweet. Bram’s hands were still on Sweet, one on his neck and the other on his shoulder as Sweet’s hand dropped lower still, traveling along Bram’s hip to . . .

Fuck. Bram shuddered when Sweet cupped his cock again. Behind him, Grayson chuckled softly. The bouncer was definitely his type, but Sweet? More so. Rough and fierce, and Bram figured they’d be well matched in a fight. And Bram had been ready to fight for his life. Still was, but the thrill of the death-wish option? Still strong.

Sweet was in front of him, Grayson behind. Bram’s jeans were yanked down roughly by both men in tandem and then, in a quick, practiced move, their positions changed but Bram’s didn’t. Sweet was behind him, Grayson kneeling in front of him, Bram trapped between them still. His palms were on the concrete, his fingers scrabbling against the rough to try to remain planted—and he’d be falling if not for Sweet’s arms banded around his waist.

He heard the snap of a lube cap before Sweet’s fingers breached him, rough and practiced, and Bram hissed against the invasion while instinctively pushing back into it. He heard the rip of a condom wrapper, and that’s when he stopped thinking and just gave himself over to all of it.

Sweet shifted his grip, clutching Bram’s hips, pressing Bram’s body tight to his and Grayson’s unrelenting suck.

Sweet was big, and when his cock thrust up into Bram’s tight hole, Bram whimpered softly. That spurred Sweet to push harder, as if he knew Bram needed the pain, craved it. He was panting, hips pumping.

The bouncer was jacking him with his tongue and suction, playing with his balls, trapping him and taunting him in that quiet, dangerous alley with a quiet, even more dangerous man behind him, and Bram had never done anything this stupid when he was undercover.

But fuck, this was good. Better than. Between Grayson’s mouth, Sweet’s cock, and his ability to come more than once an hour, he was going to shoot harder than before.

He started shuddering in warning. Sweet murmured, “You can come in his mouth,” and Bram couldn’t have pulled out even if he’d wanted to—the bouncer wasn’t letting go as the spasms hit, jerking the heat from his body. It forced Sweet to slam up into him, his dick caught in the vise of Bram’s ass as it contracted from the orgasm, and Sweet put his head against the back of Bram’s neck and allowed Bram to milk him to a climax.

Bram closed his eyes as Sweet bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark, and yeah, he was focused on the sensations slamming him from all angles. He was vaguely aware that his legs would’ve buckled if Sweet hadn’t made sure to hold him carefully, that both men had waited for him, until he was able to wave off their offers to walk him back to the hotel . . . unable to shake the feeling that they watched him the entire time.