Off Limits: A Bedlam Butchers MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs Book 2) by Ruby Dixon Page B
Authors: Ruby Dixon
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activities, and I also monitor the bookings and tabs that are run up every Friday night fight. The books are given to me every Monday morning, full of scribbled notes and IOUs and it pretty much takes me all week to determine who was betting, who owes what, and who’s paid up. The money never matches the book, so I have a week to get my ducks in a row before the next Friday…and then we do it all over again. I don’t mind, though. It’s almost like a puzzle, and I like puzzles. It also allows me to have a desk tucked away in a corner of the Meat Locker, and I like that. It makes me feel like I’m part of the club even though I have the whole ‘twat’ thing working against me.
I also like Solo, and doing the books lets me work closely with him, since he’s the club treasurer and is responsible for collecting non-payments. Not that Solo would notice me anyhow…Lucky, right? No one wants any of Lucky’s karma. Sigh. I bend my head low and get back to work, cataloging entries into a spreadsheet and cross-referencing them with the book and the awarded money.
I’m lost in numbers for some time when I hear a bang of the double doors at the front of the gym. My head jerks up and I frown at my surroundings. The few windows near the high ceiling of the gym are pitch black—it’s late. The gym is full of shadows, and the only light is my tiny desk lamp. I hear the front doors bang again, and I turn off my computer monitor and my desk lamp, worry flicking through me, then slide off my shoes.
One of the Butchers would know the doors are chained after hours.
Then again, one of the Butchers would be at the panty raid, tonight, unless they’re hanging at home with their old ladies.
I tiptoe forward quietly, heading into the shadowy gym. Solo’s no longer at the punching bag. He’s no longer anywhere, in fact. I must have been too deep into the books to not notice him leaving, and another unhappy flutter starts in my chest. Who’s out there? I cross the huge room, my bare feet silent on the concrete floor.
Someone bangs on the doors again, and they push open enough to make the chains taut. “Chained on the other side,” an unfamiliar voice says. “Get the cutter. Her bike’s still here.”
Fuuuuuck. They’re looking for me?
I tiptoe back to the boxing ring and crouch low, terrified. I don’t know who’d be looking for me, but this can’t be good news. I look around for a place to hide, but for a gym, we keep things pretty spartan. There’s some equipment, the ring, Gem’s office, and the showers. I should run out the back door and hope nobody’s waiting there for me, but I don’t know where Solo is. I peek over the side of the ring, my head barely visible over it as the men on the other side push at the door once more, and then a massive pair of chain cutters are shoved through.
As the chains snap, strong hands grab me around my waist and I’m dragged under the ring-skirt.
I suck in a terrified breath—only to have a sweaty hand pushed over my mouth. “Shhh,” says a whisper-soft voice, and I realize it’s Solo. He lowers the skirt again, and then we’re lying underneath the ring in the oppressively still air as boots clomp onto the concrete.
Someone’s invading my brother’s territory. And judging from the fact that Solo’s here, holding me in place while we hide? It’s several someones. My suspicions are confirmed when I hear more and more feet enter. How many are here? Five? Six? How did I not hear their bikes pull up?
But I know that answer—I work at a gym that’s populated entirely by bikers. Mufflers and the scream of engines are white noise to me now.
“Don’t see no one here, Grass.”
“Got to be here,” drawled a too-familiar, horrifying voice. “I know the bitch works here at night.”
A finger drags on my skin. I’m wearing a low-cut t-shirt that exposes a bit of cleavage and Solo traces a question-mark there.
I nod. I know who this is, now. And I want to cry.
I’m
I also like Solo, and doing the books lets me work closely with him, since he’s the club treasurer and is responsible for collecting non-payments. Not that Solo would notice me anyhow…Lucky, right? No one wants any of Lucky’s karma. Sigh. I bend my head low and get back to work, cataloging entries into a spreadsheet and cross-referencing them with the book and the awarded money.
I’m lost in numbers for some time when I hear a bang of the double doors at the front of the gym. My head jerks up and I frown at my surroundings. The few windows near the high ceiling of the gym are pitch black—it’s late. The gym is full of shadows, and the only light is my tiny desk lamp. I hear the front doors bang again, and I turn off my computer monitor and my desk lamp, worry flicking through me, then slide off my shoes.
One of the Butchers would know the doors are chained after hours.
Then again, one of the Butchers would be at the panty raid, tonight, unless they’re hanging at home with their old ladies.
I tiptoe forward quietly, heading into the shadowy gym. Solo’s no longer at the punching bag. He’s no longer anywhere, in fact. I must have been too deep into the books to not notice him leaving, and another unhappy flutter starts in my chest. Who’s out there? I cross the huge room, my bare feet silent on the concrete floor.
Someone bangs on the doors again, and they push open enough to make the chains taut. “Chained on the other side,” an unfamiliar voice says. “Get the cutter. Her bike’s still here.”
Fuuuuuck. They’re looking for me?
I tiptoe back to the boxing ring and crouch low, terrified. I don’t know who’d be looking for me, but this can’t be good news. I look around for a place to hide, but for a gym, we keep things pretty spartan. There’s some equipment, the ring, Gem’s office, and the showers. I should run out the back door and hope nobody’s waiting there for me, but I don’t know where Solo is. I peek over the side of the ring, my head barely visible over it as the men on the other side push at the door once more, and then a massive pair of chain cutters are shoved through.
As the chains snap, strong hands grab me around my waist and I’m dragged under the ring-skirt.
I suck in a terrified breath—only to have a sweaty hand pushed over my mouth. “Shhh,” says a whisper-soft voice, and I realize it’s Solo. He lowers the skirt again, and then we’re lying underneath the ring in the oppressively still air as boots clomp onto the concrete.
Someone’s invading my brother’s territory. And judging from the fact that Solo’s here, holding me in place while we hide? It’s several someones. My suspicions are confirmed when I hear more and more feet enter. How many are here? Five? Six? How did I not hear their bikes pull up?
But I know that answer—I work at a gym that’s populated entirely by bikers. Mufflers and the scream of engines are white noise to me now.
“Don’t see no one here, Grass.”
“Got to be here,” drawled a too-familiar, horrifying voice. “I know the bitch works here at night.”
A finger drags on my skin. I’m wearing a low-cut t-shirt that exposes a bit of cleavage and Solo traces a question-mark there.
I nod. I know who this is, now. And I want to cry.
I’m
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