Payback

By Christina Phillips

Gage…

I don't fuck girls who work for me, but as soon as Amelia turns those big green eyes on me I know she's trouble. I can't keep my hands off her, and the almost-but-not-quite-sex we share in the kitchen is the hottest thing I've ever had. Except she calls it quits, before we've even started.

Instead of moving on, she's all I can think about and that's bad news. I'm breaking all my rules for her, and don't even care.

Until I find out who she is and what she really wants. She's after payback, but there's no way she's going to get it. No way in hell...

Each book in the Viking Bastards MC series is STANDALONE:
* Hooked
* Payback
* Burned

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: May 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781633759220

Christina Phillips

Christina Phillips enjoys writing contemporary, historical, and paranormal romance. Addicted to good coffee, expensive chocolate, and bad-boy heroes, she is owned by three gorgeous cats who are convinced the universe revolves around them. An ex-pat Brit, she currently resides in sunny western Australia.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Christina Phillips. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Candace Havens

Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

Cover art from Period Images

ISBN 978-1-63375-922-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition May 2017

For Amanda and Sara. The 18s rule!

Chapter One

Amelia

The early December wind isn’t that cold, but still makes me shiver as I stare at the sign above the door of the bar. Odin’s. For a crazy second, I nearly run back to my car and get the hell out of here, but it’s like I’m frozen on the sidewalk.

When I was offered this bartender job the other day, it all seemed so easy. But it hadn’t been nine at night then, and now, in the dull glow from the streetlights, the bar’s giving off a sinister vibe.

Right. Sometimes having a vivid imagination sucks. There’s only one reason I’m here. My dad’s face fills my mind, and even though he’s been dead for ten years, my throat closes and there’s a familiar crushing sensation in the middle of my chest.

Not now, Amy. I drag in a deep breath and force the memory to the back of my mind. I can’t meet the owner of Odin’s with red eyes. I’m supposed to make him trust me, or at the very least think I’m so dumb that it doesn’t matter what anyone says in my hearing.

That shouldn’t be hard. Guys always take one look at me and think I’m dumb as shit until I put them straight. Not this time, though. This time I’ll take it, if it helps me bring down the bastards who were behind the murder of my dad.

For about the hundredth time since Rex got in contact with me a week ago to tell me about this job, I remind myself this is a once in a lifetime chance for payback. I’m not going to screw it up.

I push open the door and step inside. It’s packed with guys showing muscles and tats, but they don’t faze me. Until I was thirteen, I grew up surrounded by tough bikers, and I always thought they were part of my extended family.

Yeah, some family the Silver Wolves turned out to be. I paste on a bored pout and saunter over to the bar where Tod, the guy who interviewed my boobs the other day, is grinning like a thirsty dog.

Asshole. Sure, I’d worn a low-cut top deliberately, but he might’ve at least made the effort to look in my eyes when he was asking me questions.

Whatever. It obviously worked, since here I am.

Hey, he says, his gaze running over me. Disappointment flashes across his face when I don’t whip open my short leather jacket and give him another eyeful of my cleavage. Not likely. That ploy served its purpose as far as Tod’s concerned. He ushers me behind the bar, and I ignore the suggestive comments and leers directed my way by some of the guys.

They can look. They can even flirt if they like, but there’ll be no touching if they want to keep their mating tackle intact.

Tod shows me where I can stash my purse in a small room behind the bar, and tries to help me off with my jacket. I give him a sweet smile and shrug out of it myself, and he doesn’t seem to care that my shirt buttons all the way up to my throat.

When do I meet the boss, then? I throw another smile Tod’s way, and he smirks as though he thinks he’s getting some tonight. With luck, Gage Reynolds will be just as easy to wrap around my pinkie. He and Tod are cousins, after all, so I’m hoping douchebag runs in the family.

He’ll be down in a while. Tod squeezes by me, managing to cop a full body rub, and the only reason I don’t stab the heel of my boot through his toes is because I can’t afford to be fired before I’ve even started. Lemme give you a lesson on how to handle the pumps.

No need. I told you I’m experienced. True enough. My impressive list of part-time jobs since leaving school mainly consists of waitressing by day and bartending at night, with the occasional detour into fast food outlets. Casual shift work suits me just fine. I don’t want to get tied down in a nine-to-five job when my real career plans, which don’t involve working for anyone else, might blossom at any moment.

I’ll bet you are. Tod leans in close, clearly thinking his innuendos are the smartest things ever. I take a mental breath, count to ten, and remember why I’m doing this.

For you, Dad.

…

Gage

I drag my fingers through my hair and glower at the paperwork covering the small dining table. Even after five years of owning Odin’s, keeping the books up to date drives me nuts. Somehow I thought that side of things just took care of itself, until Granddad died and left me his pride and joy, which included this apartment upstairs.

Running the bar had never crossed my mind before then. I always thought I’d end up helping my older brother, Zach, in his garage. Not that I’m complaining. It’s cool having my own business.

Except for the fucking paperwork.

I glance at my watch and frown. Guess I should go downstairs and meet the new girl Tod hired the other day. He usually clears stuff like that with me first, but apparently this girl’s tits were irresistible, even though he knows about my no-screwing-the-staff rule. Don’t want any of that shit on my doorstep.

The bar downstairs is packed with the usual Friday night regulars, and I lean against the frame of the door that leads into the back room, where the guys are playing pool, and I survey my turf. Tod and my sister Kat are working the bar. There’s no sign of Amelia Davis. Has she packed it in already?

Hey, Gage. The breathy voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I give the blonde who’s clutching my arm a cursory glance. Can’t remember her name, but she gives great head. You okay? Her hand slides down my torso and rubs across my groin.

I push her hand onto my thigh. It pisses me off when chicks grab my junk without invitation. She doesn’t take the hint.

You work too hard, she purrs, going up onto her toes and rubbing herself over me. Haven’t seen you all week. I know just what you need to unwind.

I’m almost tempted. Maybe later.

Sure. She grips my arm harder. Christ, her perfume’s strong. I try not to breathe it in and start to turn away from her. Fancy a drink, Gage?

She really can’t take a hint. The thought of hooking up later is no longer even half tempting. I’m not that desperate for a blow job.

Rowdy laughter erupts from the back room, and I pull free from her grasp. Not that I’m expecting trouble, but sometimes non-regulars need a reminder of just who owns Odin’s. I swing around and stop dead. Strolling toward me, grasping a handful of empty glasses and beer bottles, is the sexiest chick I’ve ever seen.

It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut, and all I can do is drink in the sight of her knee-high boots, black fishnets, and short leather skirt. Her messy, copper-blonde hair frames her face, and her lips are full and inviting. But bizarrely, it’s her black sleeveless shirt that snags my attention. It hides everything, when I expected cleavage, and somehow the combination of fuck-me-now legs and don’t-touch tits strikes me speechless.

She tosses her head, clearly not giving a shit about the coarse comments following her, and catches my gaze. For a second I think she’s going to stumble, but instead she gives me an oddly furtive once-over, before I block the door and she has no choice but to stop.

Coming through. There’s a husky edge in her voice that dives straight to my dick. Fuck, no. She raises the glasses and gives me a half smile that doesn’t do anything to kill the graphic image of me shoving her up against the nearest wall. She’s obviously Amelia Davis. Who the hell else can she be?

This chick has got to go. Any girl that works in the bar is hot—my sister excluded, of course. It’s a job requirement. But I don’t want one who can give me a hard-on just by standing there.

Instead of telling her that, I step back to let her pass, and it’s got everything to do with wanting to see how cute her ass is as she walks on by. I swallow a groan. It’d be funny if it weren’t so inconvenient.

Thanks. She tosses the word over her shoulder, along with another lingering glance. She takes in my leather vest, and her smile freezes as if she never even noticed it before. Her cheeks go pink, and why that’s a fucking turn-on I don’t know, but instead of looking me in the eye again, she speeds up and disappears behind the bar.

I let out a breath and scan the room to make sure no one saw the effect she had on me. It’s like she was full of electricity, sending shockwaves through the air. I grin at the image, which is fucking insane, but also weirdly accurate.

Shame I have to fire her. On the upside, at least it means I have a chance of screwing her tonight.

…

Amelia

I dump the bottles in the trash in the room behind the bar and take a deep breath. My cheeks are still burning, and I resist the urge to press my hands against my face. Or escape out the back door. That’d work, too.

For almost an hour, I’d collected the empties and wiped down tables, and despite some dirty comments, no one had tried to grab me. Maybe it’s a house rule, but it kind of surprised me.

Whatever. I can’t believe the only guy I looked at twice is a Viking Bastard. What are the chances? I hope he’s not Gage Reynolds because that’s just going to be awkward as hell.

Amelia. Tod leans into the small area. Come and meet the boss.

No way. My stomach churns, and I risk patting my cheeks which are as hot to the touch as I feared. There’s still a small chance that the guy I all but drooled over in public isn’t my temporary boss.

I’m not holding my breath, though, which as just as well, since the guy behind Tod with his arms folded across his impressive chest is, of course, him.

He looks nothing like his cousin. For a start, he’s got to be six feet tall, and his dark brown hair isn’t nearly as long as most bikers I’ve known.

Stop. Staring. I blink a couple of times and pretend I can’t see his gorgeous brown eyes or the hint of a smile playing about his kissable lips.

Tod slinks back to the bar, and there’s nothing for it but to brazen it out. Gage probably didn’t even notice me giving him the eye a couple of minutes ago, not with that blonde dripping all over him.

Hey, Amelia, he says, and his voice is all dark and throaty and sends shivers racing over my arms. This isn’t supposed to happen in real life. Except it is, and I literally have no idea where to look because he’s taking up all the space.

All the air, as well. I hitch in a shallow breath and try not to stare at his patches. Or his abs. Definitely not any farther south…

Hi. I manage to sound bored, which is a huge relief. I have the crazy urge to tell him to call me Amy, like all my friends and family do, and I don’t know why, because that never crossed my mind when I had the interview with Tod.

Gage Reynolds is not, and will never be, my friend or anything even approaching that, so Amelia it is. It’s nothing to do with the way my name seems to roll off his tongue like spiced honey.

Get a fucking grip, Amy.

Gage Reynolds. He holds out his hand and for a second I stare at it. Is he for real? I have the scary conviction if I touch him I’ll spontaneously combust.

Before I can stop myself, I take his hand. His fingers wrap around me, and his thumb caresses my skin in a blatantly possessive gesture. The last of the oxygen disappears from my lungs, and I clutch his hand as though he’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Since when has my hand been an erogenous zone? I can’t breathe, I’m going lightheaded, and all I can see is Gage Reynolds smiling at me as though he’d like to eat me up and then come back for seconds.

This is so not right. Mortification shoots through me, and I tug my hand free. It’s only a small consolation when he appears as reluctant to release me as I am to escape.

Wait. What am I thinking? Gage Reynolds is the son of the man who killed my dad. It’s not my fault Gage is hotter than sin, but it sure as hell isn’t an excuse to dissolve into a hormonal mess every time I look at him.

My fingers are tingling from our contact, and I resist the desperate need to wipe my palm on my thigh. It’s bad enough he turns me on. I don’t want him guessing just how much he does, though.

Sorry I wasn’t around to interview you the other day. He looms over me, and I step back, until my back hits the wall of the small utility room. Instead of keeping his distance, he plants one hand on the wall beside my shoulder, and I have the terrible certainty he’s going to kiss me.

I want him to kiss me.

No. I definitely don’t. And if he treats all the girls who work here like this, which, per Rex, he does, then no wonder he can’t keep staff for longer than a week. I tilt my chin and try to ignore the sexy stubble covering his jaw and the irresistible hint of leather and sandalwood that’s turning my brain to jelly.

Concentrate.

You plan on interviewing me now? I can’t