Beyond Redemption: Joker (Serpents MC Las Vegas Book 1) Read online

  Chapter Nine

  “It’s done.” The last thing Joker needed was a conversation with Digger.

  “Money exchanged, no problems?” Digger rasped into the phone.

  Unless you consider fucking and falling for a woman who conned your ass off. Falling for? Where the hell did that come from?

  “No problems.” Joker rearranged the pillows behind his head then punched a few, imagining it was Digger’s ugly face.

  “Good. Then it looks like you earned your freedom.”

  “Yeah.”

  Freedom. He didn’t feel free. He felt nervous, twitchy, and strung out. Like his first day in Rikers when they threw him in his cell and slammed the bars closed. Another time he’d taken a hit for the club, gone down out of loyalty and respect—neither was ever repaid.

  “You heading back today?” Digger’s question led to a few of his own.

  “In a few days.”

  “Got yourself some hot Miami pussy?”

  Joker could picture Digger’s smirk and again wondered how much he knew about the illustrious Charlie.

  “Just need a few days.”

  Digger grunted into the phone, then disconnected the call.

  He tossed the phone onto the bed and focused on the ceiling fan as it wafted cool air over him. Joker never thought things in the club would fall to shit so fast. He wanted to expand the motorcycle shop and promote it to paying customers instead of using it as a front to wash the club’s crooked money, but Digger fought him with every legit suggestion. He obsessed about keeping the club outlaw, and Digger’s expansion plans included an idea that turned Joker’s stomach. Human trafficking.

  Digger’s crazy rep had most of the brothers going along with him out of fear, but Joker wanted no part of those sleazy deals or the degenerate people involved.

  And now he was free, except for one big problem: Daisy or Charlie or whoever the fuck she called herself. He’d gotten shot in the chest once. Bullet cracked some ribs and hurt like a bitch, but that was nothing compared to the dagger of deception Daisy drove through him. His brain told him to forget the last few days and head back to New York. Get his son and get gone from the Raiders, then go anywhere without looking over his shoulder.

  He relaxed his body against the pillows feeling suddenly drained. Maybe he’d take that trip down to the Keys, kick back for a day or two, get his head straight, then go back to New York. Or maybe he’d stay in Miami for a few days and poke around. His friend Eddie and his partner Jonny had a nightclub in South Beach and lots of contacts. A few phone calls to the right people and he could probably find out a little more about Daisy. He learned a long time ago that unanswered questions had a habit of popping up at the wrong times, and he didn’t want any loose ends coming back to bite him in the ass after he cut loose with his son.

  His obsession with Daisy unnerved him. He told himself he wanted revenge and to settle the score, but his head screamed bullshit. Sure, he didn’t like being conned, but it went much deeper.

  The bedroom shadowed with the setting sun, and he let his eyes slide shut. Concentrating on his breathing, he let his mind drift, willing himself to relax even though it was only five o’clock in the evening. Sleep never came easy to him, no matter what time he lay down. Even in the joint, he’d stay awake way after lights out, but over the years, his body adjusted to only four or five hours of sleep a night. Maybe after he ditched the club for good, sleep would welcome him, but first, he had too many questions that needed answers.

  A constant, sharp tapping invaded his dreams, then dragged him awake. He lay still in the dark room, searching for something that looked familiar. Something to ground him and jog his memory. He peered into the shadows, desperate to get his bearings: A sliding glass door reflecting at him against the dark night. A bright moon sending glimmers of light across the bed. The bathroom door and another door leading to the other room. Then, the air-conditioning clicked on, and it hit him. Miami. Make the deal. Escape the club. Save his son. Daisy.

  Joker glanced down at himself, still dressed and sprawled across the top of the bedspread. He jerked his head to the bedside clock: eleven-thirty. He’d slept for six and a half hours. Un-fuckin-believable.

  The quick tapping continued, and Joker pushed himself up on the bed; then, he rubbed at his eyes, stood up, and tried to focus. He stumbled out of the bedroom, unaccustomed to sleeping so soundly. As he entered the living area of the suite, the sound became louder. Someone was knocking on the door. He released the locks and turned the handle seconds before realizing he never checked the peephole. Miami was seriously fucking with his brain. Too late now, so he yanked at the door, mentally prepared for whatever waited for him on the other side.

  “Fuck!”

  A bloody, messed up Daisy fell into his arms.

  “Help me—please,” she mumbled around bloody lips.

  He swooped her up, then kicked the door closed with his foot. In a few long steps, he was back in the bedroom, laying her across the bed, then he rooted through the bathroom, wetting facecloths and gathering towels. He’d seen plenty of men and women tuned up—namely, his guys after a beat down from a rival club and women after they pissed off their boyfriends or husbands for not bringing that beer quick enough. He’d seen it all, but it was the women who got to him every time. He’d done a lot of shit, but he’d never laid hands on a woman or anybody defenseless. Never.

  Daisy tried to push herself up, but he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, pressing her back to the bed. She didn’t fight him. She didn’t have the strength. He went about dabbing at the cuts on her face, happy to see that most of them were superficial. No broken nose or jaw. Joker tossed the bloody towels on the floor and rummaged through his duffel bag for his first aid kit. Never left home without it—a sad commentary on his miserable life.

  He flipped open the plastic box filled with gauze pads, sterile bandages, antiseptic cream, scissors, and a mini surgical-kit, compliments of a paramedic ex-girlfriend. And yeah, he’d stitched himself up on occasion.

  Her fingers circled his wrist. “I had nowhere else to go.”

  “I’m sure that’s a lie, but I’ve never left a woman to bleed out, and I’m not about to start.”

  He’d forget how she’d betrayed him for now because all he could see was a busted up, broken woman, and he knew there had to be more to the story.

  “I don’t blame you for hating me.” Daisy winced when he pinched the cut on her cheekbone and applied the Steri-Strips.

  He hated seeing her delicate skin cut up. A bubbling rage filled his gut. “Who did this to you?”

  She mashed her lips together and shuddered.

  “That guy from the club—Darius?”

  “No.” Daisy’s violent response made her wince again. Her dark eyes flashed. It looked like the truth, but he’d been down that road before with her. Turned out, her eyes lied as well as her mouth.

  He never understood a man who hit a woman. But what sickened him more was her calm acceptance. This beautiful woman who hid behind designer clothes and lied so easily resigned herself to this kind of bullshit.

  When Joker finished, he wrapped some ice cubes from the minibar in a facecloth and Daisy pressed it against her cheekbone. Bruises were already starting to pop up, but most of the blood came from her nose.

  “The guy who hit you wear a ring?” He pictured the three guys she was with this afternoon, but she was their boss, so no way would that chain of command break.

  She nodded her response, then pushed herself higher on the bed and froze. Her face paled, and her jaw clenched.

  “You feel sick?”

  She blinked like she was afraid to move her head again. He retrieved the wastepaper basket and moved it closer to the bed.

  “Just in case.” He sat on the edge of the bed, their hips touching as they faced each other.

  Her small smile caused a weird, achy feeling in his gut. Fuck, even banged up and bruised, this woman still got to him.

  She could have a
concussion, although her pupils weren’t dilated—since it was the first thing he’d checked. Another perk to his old lifestyle that he wouldn’t miss—knowing all the signs of trouble that came with patching himself and his buddies up after a beat down.

  To be on the safe side, he’d keep her awake by talking; that way, maybe he’d find out more about his mystery woman. Like … who the fuck did this to her, and why?

  Chapter Ten

  Joker surprised her with the gentle way he treated her cuts and wiped at her bloody hands with a clean washcloth, especially after how she’d conned him. Most everything about the biker whom she wanted to hate surprised her.

  “The maid is going think she walked in on a crime scene,” Daisy said, as he threw the wet, bloody towel onto the floor with the others.

  The simple movement drew her gaze to the way his biceps flexed beneath the intricate ropes and vines of his vividly colored tattoos. The white wife beater that clung to his upper body intensified his tan from their beach day, and that, coupled with his height, mouthwatering build, and strong, hard features, made her traitorous body react in the scariest of ways.

  Joker wasn’t a handsome man. The jagged scar that stood out beneath the scruff on his jawline, along with all the other scars that marked his body, told the story of a man who’d seen plenty of bad and survived. His deep-set dark eyes and rough, hardened profile eliminated adjectives like gorgeous, cute, or even good-looking. Joker’s black hair grazed the nape of his neck and fell across his forehead like it couldn’t decide which way to go. The dusky tone to his skin, his full, sexy lips and his ebony hair made her wonder if he had any South American heritage. Exotic and haunting.

  Daisy hated phrases like hunky and sex-on-a-stick, but this man—who could scare off dangerous thugs with a shift of his massive shoulders—made her rethink all her reasons for wanting to hate him.

  She’d despised showing vulnerability, and yet she’d come to this man in weakness, and he revealed a gentle side of himself that defied her pitiful past experiences with men.

  “Thank you.” She squeezed his hand, and when she shivered, he reached for the blanket folded at the end of the bed and wrapped it around her; then he studied her like she was a puzzle that needed solving.

  How utterly weird and dysfunctional that his kindness frightened Daisy more than if he’d threatened her. She worried her bottom lip as her gaze darted around the room like a wild animal looking for a way out.

  “I suggest you stay still ’cause the minute you move your head is gonna spin, and since you might have a concussion, you gotta stay awake, so you’re kinda trapped.”

  She weighed his words in her head.

  “We can keep staring at each other, or you can tell me how this happened.”

  Such a simple question with so many different answers. She knew he meant her banged-up face, but her mind traveled to a more profound question. How had little Daisy become Charlie?

  Daisy had ignored the harsh words from adults and the teasing from the kids at school. The holes in her shoes and mismatched clothes from the Salvation Army all made her stronger and determined to succeed.

  By the time she’d turned thirteen, she learned that her long, skinny legs showcased in a miniskirt could get her into the movies for free.

  At fourteen, her gangly body had started to change. The boys stopped calling her beanpole, even though she was taller than most of them.

  At fifteen, with the help of a flatiron she’d swiped from the local beauty store, Daisy learned how to control her dark, curly hair until it fell in waves down her back. She was the envy of every bitchy girl who ever made fun of her, while the boys stared like they were trying to figure out some great mystery.

  At sixteen, it all came together. Her long, skinny legs became shapely; her hair got fuller, and her gangly body now flaunted a huge pair of boobs. And the boobs were the most potent arsenal in her toolbox. They were magic beyond her wildest dreams. They persuaded her male teachers to turn Cs into As, even though she rarely came to class, and when the few female teachers considered failing grades, a ten-minute tittie fuck in the principal’s office had her practically graduating with honors.

  Yes, she learned from her bad experiences, and soon little Charleen Daisy Mae Fletcher became Charlie.

  “Or is this”—he flicked his fingers at her beat-up face—“part of the same long con.” His eyes looked like hard brown stones. “Maybe you fucked somebody into tuning you up, so I’d take you in and feel sorry for you.”

  “Screw you.” Okay, she deserved that, but her impulsive response surprised her. Totally out of character. Never break. Never show your hand. Why did she care what he thought of her? Yeah, why did she care?

  The moment passed, and she inhaled deeply as if getting ready to go underwater in a pool. Preparing herself to tell the truth wasn’t easy. Being honest stole every ounce of her energy.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I grew up in a crappy trailer in a little hole of a town?”

  “I’m not sure I’d believe anything you’d say, but give it to me anyway.”

  “This”—she motioned over the length of her body—“is a long way from Beetsville, West Virginia. A poverty-stricken town of five hundred, where most were related, and everyone knew what color underwear you wore. Back then, the unwanted eighth child of a jailbird father and an unwed mother with convict brothers was not getting a warm welcome at school or anywhere else.”

  “I had an outlaw biker as an old man. So, yeah, I get it.”

  She searched his eyes. Sometimes she had to remind herself that he was a hardcore biker—the enemy.

  “After Mama ran off, family services stopped in once. One of my brothers threatened the poor woman with a shotgun. Last we ever saw of her. The town gossips said Mama had done everything from robbing banks to stripping at a Las Vegas nightclub.”

  Little Charlie had hoped the Las Vegas story was true because that dream lived in her soul. She wouldn’t have minded taking her clothes off if it meant having one inch of space she could call her own in the crammed, rundown trailer.

  “I wore two layers of clothing, summer and winter, and booby-trapped my bedroom door to keep my brothers’ friends from getting too far before I woke up.” She laughed at the memory. “Nothing like seeing some dickwad with his pants around his ankles drenched in water or stuck to the peeling linoleum floor of my bedroom.”

  Yes, little Charlie knew how to defend herself.

  His face flattened out, and when his gaze softened, a bolt of anger shot down her spine.

  “I’m not telling you this for pity. I don’t want your sympathy.”

  “I didn’t say shit.”

  “You didn’t have to. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t believe you anyway. I’m sure most of what you said is bullshit.”

  Of course he would think that, but it still pissed her off. Daisy pushed herself up on her elbows, and a wave of nausea hit her so hard she sucked in a deep breath and mind-controlled the sickening feeling away.

  “Relax before you barf all over my bed.”

  A few more even breaths in and out and the nausea subsided. Daisy despised feeling so weak in front of him. Revealing any kind of weakness in front of any man was dangerous, but showing it in front of the one man she desperately wanted to hate was disastrous.

  “Why don’t you come clean about tonight and tell me who did this.”

  It should’ve been so easy. She’d hadn’t planned on any problems. Just tell him what he wanted to hear. She’d done it a thousand times. Seduce, Sex, and Succeed. Nothing to it, something she’d been doing all her life to survive. Easy—until now.

  He waited for her explanation, and a ball of frustration knotted his stomach. Okay, so maybe he didn’t put all her shit behind him, maybe he was still pissed as hell at the way she’d worked him the last few days. Whatever she told him would probably be a lie anyway, so what did it matter?

  Joker stayed silent for a fe
w long minutes, watching her body language. As usual, her eyes gave away nothing. A trait he found very annoying.

  “Believe me. I get messed up childhoods.” His gut churned with the desire to be better than his own fucked-up parents. Her silence prodded him on. “My junkie mother left me with a renegade biker who knew as much about raising a kid as he did about space travel.”

  Ace, his father, who was also the president of the Raiders, had a constant stream of women parading in and out of his life. At last count, Ace had six kids with five different women, which meant Joker had five half brothers and sisters, and who knew how many other unaccounted for floating around.

  She nodded. “Sucks to have to grow up too fast.”

  “Most times, it was shitty.” He smirked. “But living in a clubhouse full of bikers did have an upside.”

  At five, Joker knew, understood, and used just about every curse word ever uttered, and even a few in Spanish, thanks to one of his father’s girlfriends. At nine, he could hot-wire a car, and at thirteen, he rebuilt a junk Harley and could ride almost as good as his father.

  “Freshman year of high school, most of my buddies were thinking about getting laid. I’d already gotten my dick wet at twelve, plus regular blowjobs from any of the club girls.”

  “Explains your many sexual talents.” She rolled her eyes.

  He returned the smirk but ignored her comment. “Being the son of the MC president made me royalty too. I got patched in at seventeen and found I had a knack for leadership. It was all good until … in one second my world exploded—”

  Joker clamped his mouth shut. What was it about this woman that made him want to reveal all his secrets and tell all his truths? Easy. Smokin’ hot body, sad eyes even when she was smiling, and a way of making him care, making him want her. Oh no, he wasn’t going there. He still had too many unanswered questions. Too many feelings that made him uneasy as fuck.