Booze O'clock: White Horse, #3

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

I'm sucker-punched by love at first sight as soon as I see my boozy Miss Right. Too bad she's looking to put a bullet in the head of the dangerous man who both gave her life and stole it away.

Deciding her plan is suicidal madness, I swoop in to save her from a mistake she can't unmake. Heroic behavior isn't my usual M.O., and I lack a manual on how to heal the grief-stricken beauty.

Since failing Tatum isn't an option, I'll definitely come up with a plan. If not on my own, then my family of very tenacious busybodies will throw me an assist—whether I want their help or not. I know Tatum will lose her heart to me lickety-f'ing-split. After all, I'm Chipper Wilburn, and White Horse is my kingdom.

"Booze O'clock" is the third book in the White Horse series. Containing sexual content, violent situations, and extreme profanity, this book is only appropriate for adult readers age 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bijou Hunter
• Release date: May 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386370963

Bijou Hunter

Romance Author of Contemporary, Suspense, and New Adult ~ Find me at www.bijouhunterbooks.com ~ Join my mailing list: www.bijouhunterbooks.com/mailing-list

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BOOZE O’CLOCK

BIJOU HUNTER

Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmosphere purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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Cover

Photographer: johan-jk

Source: Depositphotos.com

Cover Copyright © 2018 Bijou Hunter

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Dedication

To sweet Sally;

My sweeter boys—Jack, Max, Luca;

Tatum Sweet for our decades-long friendship;

Sherry for naming and raising an awesome chick;

My sweetpea betas—Sarah and Debbie;

&

Judy’s Proofreading

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1—CHIPPER

2—TATUM

CHIPPER

3—TATUM

CHIPPER

4—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

5—CHIPPER

TATUM

6—CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

7—CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

8—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

9—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

10—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

11—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

12—CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

13—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM

14—CHIPPER

TATUM

CHIPPER

15—TATUM

CHIPPER

TATUM EPILOGUE

CHIPPER EPILOGUE

BRICK SHITHOUSE SNEAK PEEK

BIJOU BOOKS

ABOUT BIJOU

1—CHIPPER

Salty Peanuts smells like an unflushed toilet. The stink slaps me squarely in my handsome face as soon as I open the front door of the honky-tonk in the bordering town of Hickory Creek Township. I’m here to meet with the president of the local motorcycle club. I hope he has a good explanation for why his bar reeks.

In this honky-tonk, Camden Rutgers is the king. He walks across the dance floor, and people move aside. The women check out his ass, and the men don’t mind their women’s wandering eyes. Camden runs the Serrated Brotherhood Motorcycle Club with his twin brother, Dayton. Their father used to call the shots, and their uncle was second in command. Their aunties are the rich bitches who own half the town. Yeah, Camden is a giant man among the shrimps in Hickory Creek Township.

Dogs shit in the men’s room, explains the long-haired, blond biker once he joins me in a back booth. Our very recently fired bartender has a meth problem. One of his meth friends stole his shit and burned down his house. So Tim’s big fucking solution was to sleep at the bar. Oh, and he kept his big fucking dogs in the men’s room while he partied with friends in here.

How many fucking dogs did he have? I ask, glancing at the men’s room and imagining the damage the dogs might accomplish.

Six pit bull mixes. Using stupid-ass methhead logic, Tim decided to feed the dogs leftover chili from the kitchen. They shit everywhere. I swear some of it got on the fucking ceiling. The staff tried cleaning the mess before we opened but clearly weren’t successful. We’re considering burning the place to the ground and starting over.

I’ll buy you the match.

Camden smirks, leaning back again. How’s your old man?

Desperate to kill a biker, I say, knowing he’s making an age-based dig at my stepdad, and boss, Angus Hayes.

The other day I saw Cap riding around town with Keanu. The kid just won’t stop fucking growing.

How about you ask your nephew about his best friend rather than hitting me up for info on my brother?

Keanu thinks I’m a dick. He told me so the other day, Camden says, sounding hurt by his nephew’s assessment.

Aww, poor, powerful bastard. Apparently, young people today just don’t kiss their elders’ asses anymore.

He isn’t wrong.

Camden sighs dramatically. No, he isn’t.

Let’s get to business, so I can flee your toilet before you burn it down.

Fine, we have a supply problem in Hickory Creek, he says, leaning back in his chair. Nashville is eating up most of the supply, so want to buy up some of yours in Common Bend to deal with the shortage.

Bonn is in charge of Common Bend and deals with suppliers. I handle White Horse, and we don’t have supply. I feel like you wasted my fucking time by having me drive to your stink bar to ask me shit you should have asked your fucking cousin.

Bonn said no. I want you to say yes.

Why did he tell you to fuck off?

He didn’t use those words.

He probably pities you.

Shit, if I knew you’d be such a bitch, I’d have asked to meet Cricket. At least, when your sister gives me shit, she just makes fun of my hair.

You do have stupid hair, I say, running my hand through my shaggy—yet not hippy-long—blond mane. Why did Bonn tell you no?

He gets his supply from the Reapers, and apparently Johansson doesn’t want my club making money off their shit.

Yeah, Cooper doesn’t like you. I remember Hayes mentioning your little biker feud.

Not a feud. He’s just a bitch. We’re super fucking nice.

Whatever. This shit doesn’t involve me. I only ride a Harley to look sexy, not because I care about biker business.

Fuck Johansson. You’re aligned with my club.

Look, I’m fine with screwing over a dirty biker from Kentucky to benefit a dirty biker from Tennessee. Go Butternuts! With that said, I’m not in charge of illegal fucking supplies. My job in the organization is to make sure none of that shit ends up in White Horse. If you want someone to screw over Johansson, convince Bonn. Otherwise, you’re plum the fuck out of luck, my dirty biker friend.

Your sister hooked up with a biker.

Yeah, but she bathes a lot, so his stink doesn’t get on me.

Funny shit, asshole.

Considering your bar smells like my ass before I wipe, your protests don’t hold much weight.

Fuck, just ask Hayes to make an exception, Camden whines, clearly realizing I’m not one of his fawning followers. I shouldn’t have to make a deal with another organization when I can work with the devil I know.

Fine, but next time you want to usurp your cousin’s authority, just shoot me a fucking email. That way, I don’t have to get your town’s stink on my clothes.

Yeah, sending emails about drugs is fucking brilliant.

Who do you think is reading your shit?

Camden’s dark eyes narrow and he mutters, Your sister won’t get married because she doesn’t want the law to know her business. I think as paranoid fuckers go, your family wins.

She’s married in the eyes of God and our family. The only two powers that matter. Now, are we done?

Sure. I need to get a cleaning crew organized to de-stankify this place.

Then home to your annoying teenagers and exhausted wife. Man, you really are living the fucking dream, Rutgers.

One day, you’ll eat those cocky words, Wilburn. Camden stands up and shakes my hand. You suck, and I hope you stub your dick on the way out.

What was that? I was distracted by your girly haircut.

Flashing a friendly middle finger, Camden walks away from me and toward the front door. I’m ready to ditch this crap factory too.

That is until I catch sight of the love of my life entering Salty Peanuts.

The blonde is hotter than any woman in this place has a right to be. While the waitresses aren’t bad, the Rutgers twins hire their staff based on skills rather than looks. I assume this decision was their wives’ ideas.

Wearing a green parka, this babe catches my eye and keeps me hooked. I name her Breezy since she’s so clearly going to be my girlfriend soon. Doesn’t matter if she’s dating anyone or even married. Doing a really bang-up impression of Gabriel’s horn, my gut feeling heralds the appearance of my true love.

Taking a seat at a table near the front door, Breezy orders a drink and then gives the room a scan. Her gaze passes right over me as if completely oblivious to how she’s in the presence of her dream man.

She’s young, so I’ll give her slack about missing the obvious. Her eyes—blue or green is my guess from this distance—find Jude Howler Hallstead and remain locked on him.

Time hasn’t been kind to the former VP of the Serrated Brotherhood MC. Now bald, he lost his once thick blond hair. Too much beer and nachos cause his belly to shake like a bowl of jelly when he laughs at booze-induced humor. The girl sitting next to him is young enough to be his granddaughter. Under the table, his hand touches her in a very un-grandfatherly way. This typical old-school biker nastiness didn’t fly with the Rutgers twins once they met their wives—sisters Daisy and Harmony. Their uncle and father still act as if younger pussy is better, though.

Breezy can’t look away from Jude. She struggles to smile and glance up at the waitress when her drink is delivered. For whatever reason, Breezy only has eyes for the gross old fucker.

Then Howler laughs and stands, startling Breezy from her staring. Lowering her gaze, she can’t stop behaving as suspiciously as possible. I swear her wannabe stealth act is the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

I move to a better table for spying. No one takes notice of me, not even the woman of my dreams.

Breezy takes a shot of whiskey and shudders wildly, clearly unaccustomed to booze. She peeks at Howler again and then returns to staring hard at her hands.

Any other time with any other woman, I’d introduce myself to verify she was as ferociously interesting as she is beautiful. I’m not a shy man, and my feelings don’t get hurt easily. Women shoot me down occasionally, and I’ve never once cried about it. I’m a big picture guy. However, with this woman, I only watch and wait.

Suddenly, a puke-inducing thought pops into my head. What if this gorgeous specimen once serviced the vile dung pile she now stalks?

Not a deal breaker.

Everyone has a shameful fuck in their past. Not me, of course, but everyone else. There’s no need to give up on Breezy simply because her vagina might have at one point been defiled by a disease-ridden old man.

Okay, I admit riding that nasty fucker—or sucking off his decrepit grandpa cane—should be a deal breaker except I refuse to walk away. A little part of me wants to, though. Breezy ought to know better than to fucking swoon over someone so past his prime.

Sure, sure, Howler comes from a wealthy family in Hickory Creek Township, and women like money. Possibly, Breezy hopes he’ll be her sugar daddy.

Or worse!

No!!!

Oh, Breezy, no. Why, Breezy?

The way she glares at him from under her gloriously blonde locks makes me fear she’s gotten herself in trouble with his toxic sperm. Is she carrying one of Howler’s many fucking bastards? Did she come here hoping to force him to support their unborn spawn?

Still, this disgusting possibility is not a deal breaker, though it really ought to be. Ugh, damn, Breezy, you’re making this shit painful for me, but my gut tells me to keep my ass in my fucking chair. This woman is the one, the only one, and I can’t walk away.

The next hour falls into an easy routine. I watch Breezy watch Howler. She drinks shot after shot of whiskey like a tough guy in a movie despite her clearly having no taste for the booze. The drunker she gets, the more obvious her plan becomes.

The love of my life plans to kill Howler. I don’t know why and I don’t particularly care. If she uses the gun I catch sight of in her jacket and shoots Howler, Breezy’s end will come quickly. Camden Rutgers left a while ago, but other Serrated Brotherhood bikers remain, and they won’t need a gallon of booze to get up the nerve to avenge their club brother.

Breezy takes another shot of liquid courage and pats the gun in her jacket. I sense she’ll make her move soon. The level of booze she consumed in the last hour will either send her to the floor or provide the bravery she needs to take a shot.

Twice, she stands and focuses her gaze on Howler. Each time she’s foiled when a redheaded club slut trades her chair for the old man’s lap. Once the whore gets up from Howler’s boner, Breezy again prepares to make her move. Then the slut returns to give him another impromptu lap dance, and Breezy returns to her chair.

As the booze takes hold, her head sways and bobs. At this rate, she’ll topple over long before Howler’s dead or even gets his dick to finish the job with the slut. Finally, Breezy gives up on waiting and stands unsteadily. She leans against the table to remain upright while reaching for her weapon.

We are a go for clusterfuck!

Breezy takes three very shaky steps before her gun appears from her jacket. I’m on the move, gracefully dodging waitresses and customers. I reach Breezy just as she lifts her weapon. With the music so loud and the evening crowd already bombed, no one notices her—Howler least of all.

I’ll take that, I say to the beauty.

Breezy flinches when I snag the gun from her tight grip. Before her complaints gain much volume, I corral her out the front door. The chilly late-autumn wind hits my body as violently as the bar’s stink did earlier. I don’t hesitate, dragging my beloved rag doll along with me.

Her arms pull loose once we’ve created a little space between us and the front door. I’d feel more comfortable if we left the parking lot altogether, but Breezy finds her hear me roar voice and lets me have it.

How dare you? is the best she can come up with despite looking ready to tear me a new asshole.

I drop her pistol into my coat pocket and study her in the white light of the moon. Killing Howler will no doubt feel like a million bucks, but having your pretty head blown off afterward would be a shame.

You don’t know me, she says, too sloshed to coherently state her case. I have a right to be here.

You and plenty of others, but that doesn’t change how killing him is a death sentence.

Running her slim fingers through her messy blonde hair and getting them thoroughly tangled in the effort, she asks, What do you care?

I’d think that was obvious, but since you’re very drunk, I’ll state the obvious, I say, standing a foot from where she struggles with her coat zipper. You’re magnificently gorgeous, and I plan to marry you. Breezy stops goofing with her jacket and frowns at me. I only smile at her shocked expression. What, too soon, Breezy?

Breezy? she mumbles and returns to fighting with her zipper.

I reach forward, gently slap away her hands, and zip her up. Breezy means girlfriend.

It means slut and bitch too, she mutters. What are you doing? Why can’t you leave me alone?

Ignoring her whining, I zip my bomber jacket. I’m Chipper. What’s your name?

Tatum, she says and then shakes her head as if wishing she remained silent.

Her name settles into my mind, forever anchored to my soul now. Why do you want to kill Howler? Did he fuck and forget you?

No, Tatum hisses. How can you think something so grody?

Then why kill him?

He, Tatum stammers. Shaking her head, she sighs and leans against the wall of the bar. I shouldn’t have drank so much. I can’t think now.

Why did you choose whiskey?

My mom said it was my grandfather’s favorite drink.

Were you close to your grandfather?

I didn’t know him.

Were you close to your mother?

Tatum answers my question when a tear rolls down her pale cheek.

Did she die?

Nodding, Tatum exhales unsteadily and struggles against more tears.

Did Howler kill her?

She shakes her head and swallows hard. He might as well have.

Relieved to learn she didn’t bang Howler, I can guess who he did nail. Are you one of his bastard kids?

How many does he have? she asks, angrily wiping her cheek.

I don’t know. A dozen maybe. That’s the rumor I heard.

I guess that’s why he didn’t want me.

You’re not from Hickory Creek.

Tatum stares at her hands and sighs. He said if she didn’t abort me, he’d abort her. Mom wouldn’t do it. She ran to Florida and hid me and started over. She left her home and family and everything she knew because of that awful man. It’s my right to put a bullet in his ugly face.

Though I agree murder is often the best solution to many problems, killing a guy like Howler in the Brotherhood’s bar with other club guys sitting nearby is suicide. Murder, yes, suicide, no.

Tatum stares at me for the longest moment, and I realize her eyes are a mossy green. Up close in the bright moonlight, I also realize the woman of my dreams sports a gorgeous splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

I instinctively reach out to run my thumb across her left cheek.

What are you expecting? she cries, slapping away my hand. Do you want nookie? Is that what you’re hoping for? Do you think I’m an easy breezy because my mom got pregnant by that bum munch? She wasn’t a loose woman. Call her a fool, but she loved and trusted him. She never trusted another man. She wasn’t easy, and neither am I.

Smiling at her indignant outburst, I explain, If I wanted to get laid, I have a handful of willing chicks in my contact list. I certainly wouldn’t cruise a stinky bar to pick up a suicidal stranger.

I’m not suicidal.

Oh, that’s even worse. What pray tell did you think would fucking happen after you blew off Howler’s fat head?

Tatum blinks rapidly while considering my question. Not too surprisingly, those green eyes of hers fill with tears. I want him dead, she whimpers, and I fight the urge to give her a fucking hug that I sense wouldn’t be appreciated. It’s not fair how he’s alive and happy while my mom is dead. She had to leave her home and hide all these years out of fear because of him. She gave up so much because of him, she says, ending on a moan. And because of me, and now she’s gone.

Covering her face, Tatum shakes with wretched sobs. Whether she appreciates my gesture or not, I wrap her in an embrace. Of course, her tall, lean frame fits perfectly against my body. She is my woman, after all.

The world falls away as a very drunk Tatum wrestles with her demons. Holding her shaking body, I let my fingers enjoy her feathery, pale blonde locks. Soon, though, her tears slow, and she shoves me away from her.

No nookie! she cries, wiping her eyes and messing with her unruly hair.

No matter how much you try, there’s no hiding that you’re having a bad night.

Shut up.

I grin at her bitchy tone. She sounds so much like my twin sister, Cricket, when cornered. Tatum’s attempt at snarling is interrupted when the earlier whiskey shots make a break for freedom.

Turning away to puke, Tatum liberates the last few hours of her liquid courage. I sensed vomit coming after watching her drink so much. Having stashed napkins in my pockets before walking outside, I hand them to her now.

She upchucks the booze and possibly part of her low intestines. Taking the napkins from me, she wipes her mouth while using the wall to remain standing.

Thank you.

I open my mouth to say something quite brilliant, but then a local crotch stain decides Tatum’s vomiting is a sign that his romantic overtures might be successful.

Sweetheart, are you feeling all right? asks the no-neck, fatheaded corn-fed fucker.

Walk the fuck away, I tell him without menace. Ultimately, we’re both men swooning for a brilliantly beautiful woman. I can’t blame him for walking his cowboy ass over here and doing his aw shucks shtick.

Mister, I’m concerned about this young lady’s safety.

Tatum still leans forward, hiding her puke-green face behind her golden hair. Realizing she won’t reassure fathead or ask him for help, I have to get the guy to piss off myself.

Hey, pal, why don’t you take your curious taint elsewhere or we’ll need to find out how far my foot will fit up your ass.

Well, aren’t you a showy piece of shit?

Or I can just shoot you and keep my foot clean, I say, unzipping my black bomber jacket to flash him the shiny silver Beretta strapped to my side. It’s up to you what happens to my foot.

No matter how glorious Tatum appears—even stinking of puke—she isn’t worth getting shot over. Besides, the fathead coward must know his chances of turning this situation into thank-you nookie is slim to none.

Asshole, he spits out and walks away.

Smirking triumphantly, I return my focus to Tatum. I stand next to the wall, an inch from her shivering body.

Where’s your car?

I took an Uber.

Why?

I didn’t want my mom’s car to be around Howler.

Why?

In a trembling voice, she whispers, She loved her car.

Where do you live? I ask in the softest voice I can muster.

I don’t remember the address.

Her voice failing, Tatum slides down the wall. Before she can hit the puke-covered ground, I sweep her up into my arms and walk to my maroon Range Rover. She demands I put her down, refusing to be a nookie call. I smile at her love of that word, but she’s in no position to protest.

If any other man took home a barely conscious woman, I’d label him a sick fuck.

But I’m Chipper Wilburn. At worst, I’m a spoiled, prone-to-drunkenness, white-collar criminal. The only thing Tatum has to worry about with me is losing her heart once she sobers up.

2—TATUM

I’ve been sleepwalking since my mother’s death. The last few weeks blur together. Her funeral. Packing up our house. Selling everything