“I’ll be fine,” I grunt.
Fuck that, I won’t be fine.
I’ll deal, but as long as I’m breathing free and Imogen is at home waiting for me, I’ll be okay.
IMOGEN
I stretch and climb out of bed. I wish I could stay beneath the warm sheets all day. I could, if I really wanted, but I’m not going to. Today I’m going to bake a cake. It’s Sloane’s birthday tomorrow, something he probably thought I’d forgotten.
We haven’t celebrated birthdays together in years. He would choose to be with his club on his, and I would leave and go shopping in the city for mine. I can’t even remember the last time we bought each other birthday presents.
Since he’s out of town for the day and all evening, it’s the perfect opportunity to make a cake and have it ready for tomorrow.
He’s already informed me that the club is doing a birthday thing on Friday, but I’m glad that I get to spend his actual birthday with him.
Just me and him.
After I’m showered, I dress in a pair of low slung, holey jeans and an oversized shirt, letting it drape off of one shoulder. I throw my hair up in a messy bun and forego my makeup, knowing my face looks better but still not completely healed. Since I’m home alone, it doesn’t matter.
Once I’ve gathered all of my cake ingredients, I flip the television on and look for something to watch while I bake. I settle on Friends reruns.
They’re doing some kind of marathon, and I’m excited to have something light and funny in the background as I make my husband the first birthday cake I’ve baked since I was eighteen years old.
While the cake is baking, I remember that Sloane said there would be a man guarding the door all day long. I pour a glass of ice water, knowing he’d probably appreciate a beer instead; nonetheless, he’s getting water.
Once I make my way to the door, I open it and look to the side to see him. He’s younger, probably mid-twenties, and I find myself curious as to how he’s ended up in this life. Clearing my throat at him, he turns to face me and I step outside of the house as his eyes widen.
“I’m sure you’re hot, or bored, or both. I wanted to at least give you some ice water,” I say with a shrug.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he mutters.
“Ma’am?” I say, scrunching my nose up. He winks with a smile as he takes the plastic cup from me.
“I’m not going to be heading out anywhere, today; just wanted to let you know,” I smile.
He nods and turns his face to the street. I let him be, knowing Sloane probably told him not to talk to me, or to focus on his job.
Who knows.
Turning, I make my way back inside of the house right as the timer goes off, informing me that the cakes are finished.
Another episode of Friends comes on as the cakes cool and I start the frosting. I take out a crystal blue cake stand and place the cake on top. Then, I add a thick layer of icing for the filling before I pop the top layer directly on top.
I decorate it simplistically. Nothing fancy, just a thick layer of buttercream icing, keeping it light and clean. I find a decorating bag and dye, coloring a small amount in blue and write, Happy Birthday Sloane in the middle.
By the time I’ve finished, it’s late in the evening, so I set the cake in the center of the kitchen island. Then I make my way to bed, my dinner being cake batter and buttercream frosting.
Unhealthy, but delicious.
I shower and dress for bed, crawling beneath the sheets and not realizing how tired my legs are after spending all day on them, until now.
I check my phone before I fall asleep and don’t see any missed texts or calls. I decide to send Sloane a text, letting him know I’m going to sleep and that I love him. He texts me back just a few seconds later saying he loves me. The goofy smile that tips my lips is ridiculous.
It seems like I’ve just fallen asleep when I feel something heavy pressing me into the mattress. My eyes fly open and they’re met with familiar green ones staring back at me. I gasp in surprise and then smile.
“Sloane,” I murmur, my voice husky with sleep.
“You made me a cake,” he states.
I nod as he lifts his hand and cups my cheek while his body presses me a little more into the bed.
“Happy birthday, baby,” I whisper.
“Fucking, shit,” he groans.
I open my mouth to say something, but his lips are on mine and his tongue fills me. Moaning, I reach up and wrap my hand around his wrist at my cheek.
“Sloane,” I murmur against his mouth.
“I’m going to fuck you, then we’re eating that cake in bed, naked,” he announces. I feel my belly heat at his words.
“Okay,” I grin.
Sloane sits back on his haunches and quickly removes my clothing and then his. I wait for him to pounce on me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he traces my entire body with his fingertips. He circles each my nipples, then following the side of my breast down to my stomach.
I hold my breath when his fingers make their way to the crease of my thighs. By the time he’s finished touching every inch of me, I’m a whimpering pile of need.
From his knees, he guides his dick inside of me and yanks my bottom half up, so that my lower back rests on the tops of his thighs. His eyes watch as he fills me over and over with his glistening cock. Sloane’s teeth sink into his bottom lip on a growl.
“The way you take me, fuck sunshine, always so goddamn pretty,” he growls.
“Baby,” I whimper as my body breaks out into a sweat. I’m so close to toppling over the edge, I feel like I might actually weep.
“Fuck, Imogen. I could stay inside of you forever, baby.”
“I need to come. Please, Sloane,” I practically beg.
He releases my hip with one hand and presses his thumb against my clit as he continues to slowly fuck me. It’s too slow, but with the added pressure of his thumb, I shiver at the sensation. Licking my lips, I ask him for more. Harder. Faster. Anything.
Pushing me up the bed, he shifts so that he’s above me, and then he slams inside of my body. I throw back my head with a cry as he does what I’ve asked him to do. He fucks me, hard, fast, and with raw determination.
“Oh, god, Sloane, holy shit,” I cry as I come, my hands flying up and my nails digging into his biceps.
He grunts a few more times and then lets out a cry of his own as he fills me with his release. Sloane slumps against me, his face going straight to my neck and nuzzling me as he works to catch his breath. I take the moment, feeling his weight against me, and loving it completely as I catch my own breath.
“Fucking hell, sunshine,” he murmurs against my neck.
“I could say the same,” I laugh.
Sloane moves his hands under my back and rolls us over so that I’m straddling him, keeping us connected. His hands run up and down my back, and I swear I purr at the sensation.
“You okay?” I ask after a few beats of silence.
I lift my head so that I can hear his answer, and he tries to shake his head. I arch my eyebrow, and he lets out a breath.
“Your dad paid off that CHP officer to try and nail me in something illegal and send my ass back to prison. I thought it was only Bayard, but apparently it’s your father in on it, too,” he finally admits.
“How do you know it was my dad?” I ask in surprise.
“I asked him why he had such a hard on for me. Told him Bayard wasn’t paying him anymore and I was clean as a whistle. His reply was that Bayard may not be paying him but Mr. Stewart was. Fucking shit, sunshine,” he curses as he pulls me a little closer to him. “I just got you, I just got myself, and we just got back to us—a better us than we’ve ever had before. Last thing I need is to be thrown back in there.”
Pressing my lips to his, I kiss his nerves away, or at least I try. I don’t know what my father is doing, or why, but I aim to find out. I can’t tell Sloane that. He’d probably try to stop me.
No, I’m going to fi
nd out exactly what my father’s problem is once and for all. This isn’t about me being a rebellious teen and marrying a man he doesn’t approve of; this isn’t about me at all. I have a feeling it’s about much more.
Sloane smiles widely, “Let’s get some of that cake, sunshine. Smells so fucking good, baby.”
We spend the rest of the early morning hours of Sloane’s birthday naked, in bed, eating cake. Sloane whispers that it’s the most perfect birthday morning he’s ever had before. We don’t fall asleep until well after five in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
IMOGEN
It’s two days after Sloane’s birthday. He’s just informed me that he has to do shit at the clubhouse all day long. I mention in passing that I’m going to drive to Frisco and check in on his mother and also my own.
My parents’ summer party is just in two-week’s time, and I usually help her every year with last minute details anyway.
“I don’t know, Genny, that shit with that cop doesn’t sit right with me. I’m not sure that I want you traveling alone like that,” he murmurs.
I wrap my hand around the side of his neck. “Nothing will happen, baby. I’m just going to visit your mom and come home,” I explain.
He shakes his head before his eyes meet mine. “You’ll have a prospect on you.”
“But—”
His jaw clenches before he speaks. “But fucking nothing. You’ll have a prospect on you, Imogen. That fuck wants to rape every part of you, and I’ll be damned if you’re unprotected. He won’t have the opportunity to even look at you sideways let alone do anything to you.”
I gulp at his words. His face is set deadly serious and he looks worried. I relent. “Okay,” I whisper.
“He’ll follow you, but nothing more. He won’t have contact with you unless it becomes eminent.” I nod.
He lowers to give me a swift kiss before he squeezes my waist and tells me he loves me. Then he’s out the door.
With a heavy sigh, I think about how I can ditch my guard. I shouldn’t. Sloane’s right. That cop is more than just a little frightening. Maybe I can talk my guard into keeping a teeny-tiny secret for me?
I need to visit my father.
Sloane won’t suspect that I’m actually going to add in a trip to see my father in my visit as well. I want to know what his problem is, and why he wants my husband to go back to prison so badly that he would pay a police officer to try and catch him doing something illegal.
I have no doubt that Sloane does do illegal things, but I’m not so convinced my father is actually a good man, either.
When I arrive in the city, I don’t go to my mother or Kalli. I drive straight to my father’s office building. Dressed in an expensive sheath dress, and even more expensive high heels, my makeup perfect—as well as my hair—I look every bit the part of Imogen Carolina Stewart-Huntington.
With my head held high, too high, I walk right past reception into the elevators. I continue right past my father’s secretary, who tries to stand and chase after me, but she’s too slow.
I close and lock the door to my father’s office without even looking in his direction. I hear him clear his throat, and I make my way to the chair in front of his desk. I sit before I lift my gaze to meet his cold-dead one.
“Good morning, father,” I state. He looks peeved. No—beyond that. He looks pissed.
“Can I help you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes on me, as if to intimidate me.
“You can call off your police officer. What is your exact reasoning for wishing to send my husband back to prison?”
My father’s eyes widen and then he clenches his jaw. “What are you talking about?”
“Personally, I thought you were smart enough not to pay off a stupid policeman. I figured you’d at least find someone who was smart enough not to throw your name out there. Or one who at least doesn’t threaten me with rape every time he’s in my vicinity,” I shrug. His face gets even redder as he becomes angrier.
If I loved him the way a daughter should, I would be concerned over his heart. “Tell me what you and Graham had cooked up, and exactly why you want my husband gone, and don’t bother saying it’s because I can do better. We both know that you could give a shit about whatever man I have and how he treats me. This is all about something you have to gain.”
I watch as he leans back slightly in his chair, smiling like a fool. “Maybe you really are my daughter,” he states.
“Of course, I am. We look exactly like each other. Now, tell me, I have other shit to do today.”
“Graham was going to invest in some shit he had insider information on. He’s no longer around. I assume your husband took care of him for beating the shit out of you. Too bad he couldn’t have waited until the information he had came to light. Luckily, I didn’t give him the account information yet,” he explains.
“So all this was so you could make more of something you have plenty of—money.”
He shrugs with a grin. “You can never have too much money, Imogen. In that regard, I’ve always wondered about your paternity. You don’t crave it like I do; you don’t spend it like your mother does. You seem to be content in that shitty little town, living in a house a quarter of the size of the one you can afford, and being with a man who is scum.”
“Like you’re not a criminal?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve answered why you pushed for Graham, but not why you want to send my husband back to jail.”
“I have the chance to take over a company. Its profit would be more than Graham’s little scheme, and it would be a long-term investment with an infinite amount of return,” he sighs. “The man is in his sixties, single and looking. He likes you, thinks you’re gorgeous. He’s seen you around at social things the past few years. He gets you, and he’ll retire, selling his company to me for much less than it’s worth. In the end, it won’t matter. You’ll get my money anyway, as my only child,” my father explains.
Shaking my head, I press my hand to my stomach to keep from throwing up all over my father’s carpeting. He’s trying to pawn me off like chattel. Arranged marriages happen, especially in our circle.
If I were single, I might at least go on a date with this guy—except, he’s my father’s age. Not to mention, I’m very married and very in love with my husband. The manipulative way my father is trying to get what he wants is what makes me more sick than anything.
“No,” I state. “Keep all your money. Write me off, give it to charity, burn it, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter if my husband is sent to prison or not, I’m not marrying this man. I’m married, and I’m staying married. There’s no other man for me, father. I’m sorry that you don’t know what it feels like to have love, but even if Sloane dies, I won’t remarry. He’s it for me, daddy,” I whisper using a word I haven’t called him since I was a child.
He flinches at the sound, and his eyes come back to me, a hint of the man I knew as a child beneath his cold stare. It leaves quickly.
“Imogen, you don’t know what you’re giving up. You don’t know what you’re keeping. I have pictures,” he murmurs.
“I don’t care. I love him.”
I watch as he reaches into a drawer in his desk and pulls out a stack of enlarged pictures and tosses them to me. I catch them and try not to, but I look at them. It’s Sloane. He’s fucking a girl from behind, his eyes open. When I focus on them, I see that he’s high as a kite.
“This was dated four years ago, father. I’m sorry, but this man is not the man I’m married to now,” I state.
“Look at the next one,” he grunts.
I flip to the next picture and look at the date. It’s only a few months ago. Actually, it’s the day he got out of prison. I only know the date because I distinctly remember Kip calling me the day he got out.
It’s burned in my memory banks. And now, the vision of him fucking that new whore who confronted me in the grocery store is also burned in my brain.
“Not four years ago,” my fathe
r states. I look up to see he’s grinning as my eyes fill with tears.
“Doesn’t matter,” I whisper through the knot in my throat. “There is so much more happening and I want to know what it is.”
“It doesn’t matter? I think it does, Imogen. And what? Money isn’t a good enough motivation? Graham thought it was a good enough one to marry you and knock you up. He wanted my money and knew it was the only way he could get it all.”
“Nope, this picture doesn’t matter,” I say, popping my p as I stand. I let all of the photos, except the one I’m holding, fall to the ground. “Call off your hounds. I’m not marrying your friend.”
Without another word, I turn around and I walk out of his office, my nose not quite as high as it was when I entered. At least my tears don’t fall until I’m in my car, alone.
I don’t go to Kalli’s or to my mothers. I decide to go to my home. I’m meeting the real estate agent at five this evening to have her take photographs so that she can list it for me to sell.
Right now, I just want to be alone. I power down my phone as I pull into the garage and close the door. I slip my shoes off as I walk straight to the master bedroom, and I pull back the sheets before I crawl beneath them and wrap them around my body.
The man watching me probably calls Sloane immediately, but I don’t care. I need to be alone for a little while. I need to cry and maybe scream. I need to process.
I cry, but I don’t scream.
I sob and wail. I knew he’d been with the girl before we officially got back together, but seeing it, seeing his eyes looking clear of drugs and sober as he fucks her.
It tears another piece of my heart out of my chest. I grip the picture in my hand. I don’t plan on holding any of this against him, but fuck—it hurts.
I’ll be okay in a little while, only because I know that this man in the photograph is not the Sloane I’ve had for weeks. Eventually, I fall asleep from my crying jag, thankful for the break from my tears.
SOAR
Dialing my mother, I can’t help that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is wrong. I’ve texted and called Imogen about ten times, but her phone goes straight to voicemail and all messages are unread. Something is wrong.
The Notorious Devils MC: Complete Collection BoxSet Page 168
