Storm Crows MC, 3
The Storm Crows are facing down the monsters who destroyed Megan’s cousin. Unable to sit on the sidelines, Megan dives undercover in a high-stakes operation, landing in the crosshairs of a terrifying crime lord … and right beside the one man who knocks her off-kilter. And who ghosted her. It’s fine. She’s got villains to seduce, a cover story to memorize, and no time for his nonsense. Or his soulful blue eyes.
Grim knows he’s got a lot to make up for. He’s been so busy finding missing girls in Kansas City, he let go of his life—and the woman he loves—back home. When Megan arrives in KC for the take-down, Grim realizes his heart is on the line—along with his place in the club. But she’s not his ol’ lady. What can he do? Win her back, obviously.
And then Megan vanishes into the night…
“Legs!” Tree’s voice rumbled across the gravel lot, cutting off her last chance to taser Spider’s balls. She smiled not at the asshole computer nerd but at the towering National President, who swept across the lot to pull her into a hug. “You made it.” He smelled like Bulgari cologne, cigars, and whiskey. Just a hint of grease. Megan wrapped her arms around his narrow waist and held tight, some of the tension draining away. “And you didn’t leave Spider rotting on the side of the road anywhere? Good girl.” He said the last quietly before bending low and kissing her forehead.
“Is it too late to try that?”
“Maybe on the way back. I need him here for now.” He turned to slap Spider’s shoulder. “You made good time. Bike doing okay?”
“Great,” he said, the edge absent from his voice. “The new suspension’s a vast goddamn improvement.”
“Good to hear. Let’s get inside.” Tree steered them into the clubhouse, keeping one massive arm slung across Megan’s shoulders. Making a statement to anyone hanging out in the bar since she didn’t have any patches on. Not anymore…
The interior was dark, thick with the scents of vapes, cigarettes, booze, and a slight underlayer of cleaners and male sweat. The last part was clearly thanks to two Crows wearing soaked club t-shirts and gym shorts, who must’ve been doing reps in the attached workout room. One’s t-shirt bore the name Dusty—the local President—and the other was Mambo, the KC club’s Enforcer. She’d known Dusty for ages, though he’d aged at least a decade in the last couple years. Megan waved but didn’t get to say hi, because someone called her name from the bar.
Megan spun around in time for Ice to bear down on her. Hailey’s husband had more beard than he needed, but at least his hair had seen a comb sometime, and he didn’t smell like a forgotten gym sock. Way better than the last time she saw him. Ice had spent most of July and August on Joker’s couch—which Megan knew because she’d been sleeping on the other half of it—and they’d both seen better days.
Tree released her so she could hug Ice, but slow enough she knew he was issuing some visual warning to the local boys. “What the hell are you doing here?” Ice demanded. His grip was too tight, and she winced at the pressure on her tensed-up shoulders.
“Wanted to check on you, big guy.” Up close, he did look better. His eyes weren’t even bloodshot, and he had no obvious bruises or marks from any new bar fights. She knew he’d thrown himself full-throttle into the fight with the traffickers, but maybe that wasn’t so bad after all. He almost looked like himself now. If you ignored the beard, the hobo hair, his beat-up clothes, and the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, he was barely smiling at all. And he wasn’t letting go.
“Where are you staying?” He was looking more at Tree than Megan. Shit.
“This our new girl?” Mambo sauntered over, his shirt now missing. The KC Enforcer was built like a brick shithouse and clearly aware of it. His bronze skin, tatted and toned, gleamed in the overhead lights. Paired with pitch-black hair braided down his sculpted back, he painted a lovely picture. Megan smiled. Maybe Kansas City wouldn’t completely suck. If Ice ever released her.
“Good to see you, Legs.” Dusty smiled at her from the table, lifting a hand in recognition. “Been a while.” Unlike his Enforcer, he didn’t get up, and his shirt stayed on. But he had to be over fifty these days, though he was still stacked. Probably didn’t want to look old up against Tree—who could still beat men half their age into the ground.
“Only three or four years, right?” She managed a half-laugh. “Still working out, huh?”
“Keeps the doctor away. Or so I hear.”
“Legs is here to infiltrate Duro’s entourage.” Tree spoke quietly, but the words felt like they echoed. Mambo rocked backward, his gaze sliding over her now with something more assessing than appreciative.
“What?” Ice finally let go but only to step between her and Tree, cutting off her view of the President’s expression. “You know what they did. What they’re doing. Why not pull in an Aesir operative?”
“Duro can scent that kind of training a mile off,” Tree answered without missing a beat. “How the fuck else has he gotten under Reyes’s radar this long?”
“Jake.” Megan touched Ice’s shoulder, edging around until he looked at her. “It’s okay. I volunteered.”
“You what?” Ice spun past her, looking over her shoulder, beyond the bar. “She volunteered,” he said to thin air. Or… Oh no. Footsteps. She glanced back, swallowing hard. Grim rested in the archway that led to the clubhouse barracks and bedrooms, arms crossed, one shockingly wide shoulder against the wall. Fucking hell. Is he out here doing MMA fights? Whatever his reason for buffing up, it wasn’t fair. She hadn’t packed enough panties for that kind of revelation. And the beard…
Stop it. He ghosted you. He’s not interested. Stop. It.