Reckless Road

by Christine Feehan

  Player forced himself to look around. Candles burned all the way to nothing were scattered on every surface. He suddenly had a vision of dancing lights flickering over Zyah’s undulating abdomen, her swaying hips and graceful arms. The flames had projected her figure onto the wall so that her moving hands were mesmerizing. He’d had not only his private dancer, but a shadow dancer as well. The moment had been beautiful, unique and all for him. She had smiled, her face lighting up, and his entire body had come to life all on its own.

  He shook his head, not daring to believe she was real, even with the money in his hand. Zyah was a dream. Women like her didn’t exist. An exotic dancer, mysterious and beautiful, giving herself to him so completely, surrendering everything. Her mouth. Pure fire. Her tight pussy, hot as hell, a fucking inferno surrounding his cock and squeezing like a vise, milking him dry. Those eyes of hers staring into his as if he were someone real to her, someone worthwhile.

  “No, this can’t be happening. Tell me I didn’t blow it this big.” He whispered his plea to the universe and then forced himself to look down at the floor, because if he actually stuck his dick in a woman, he wouldn’t do it without wearing a glove. Not ever. He would protect her and himself.

  He groaned again, and this time not in a good way. The evidence lay everywhere. Filled condoms tied with knots scattered all over the floor as if he’d carelessly dropped them and grabbed the next one. They were everywhere, like the candles, condemning him. One by the wall. He remembered pushing her up against the wall, unable to wait to get into her, although he’d had her so many times. He couldn’t get enough of her—or her him.

  The chemistry between them was explosive. Crazy hot. Off the charts. No wonder he’d thought it was a fucking dream. It was too good to be true. He was so stupid, he hadn’t even gotten her number. He pushed his palm against his forehead hard, trying to think what to do. He wasn’t about to give her up, not when his body genuinely reacted to her. Not when she made him laugh the way she did. Not when just her voice and the movements of her body could heal his fragmented brain. He’d been handed a miracle, and he’d carelessly thrown it away. Not thrown it away—driven it away.

  He just had to think. Breathe. Get oxygen to his brain and stop panicking. She was out there somewhere. She wasn’t a myth. He hadn’t made her up. The brothers had to have hired her. She didn’t come out of nowhere. She was in his room for a reason—to entertain him. She’d been a gift to him. His fellow Torpedo Ink brothers had to have her name and number. He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course they would know how to contact her. How else had they gotten her for him?

  Player took another slow look around the room, this time with satisfaction, letting every detail sink in. He wanted to remember every aspect of the night. Everything, down to the smallest detail, about his private dancer. She’d left behind the remnants of the candles, although he recalled the two of them blowing out the flames over what remained of the dwindling wax. They’d laughed together when they’d nearly hit foreheads. She had such a beautiful, captivating laugh.

  They’d sat on the floor together drinking from a bottle of water as if they were sharing the best of wines. They’d had their backs to the bed and their knees drawn up, thighs and hips touching, while in the background, music played softly. His headache was gone. He remembered that distinctly. It was gone at that moment, and it was gone now. She smelled like heaven. Her skin was so soft that he couldn’t stop running his palm up and down her arm. After five minutes of talking about nothing and everything, his cock was raging at him all on its own. He had pulled her under him right there on the floor and taken her hard and fast, looking right into her eyes, falling into all that deep, beautiful dark chocolate.

  He groaned again as more memories crowded in. Eventually, inevitably, between the seventy-two hours without sleep, his fragmented brain—which, granted, she had somehow glued back together—and all the wild, hot sex, he had become so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. He’d crawled onto the bed and stretched out. She’d tried to cuddle up next to him. He’d given her what he thought was a playful little swat and a bit of a shove. Maybe the shove had been a little harder than he’d thought.

  The smile had faded from her lips. He remembered that now, very distinctly. That mouth of hers. So beautiful. He’d used it more than once, stretching her lips around his thick girth. He would never forget that sensation, or the sight.

  Sorry, don’t ever let babes sleep in my bed. You gotta go, honey. He rolled over, yanked his jeans to him. Whatever the brothers paid you wasn’t nearly enough. He’d given her everything he had in his wallet. Shoved it into her hand.

  Zyah stood there beside the bed, completely naked, his marks all over her soft skin, her every curve, making his body react all over again. Making him hard as a rock just looking at her, knowing he’d put those marks on her. She stared down at the money for a brief moment and then looked at him. Instead of a smile in her eyes, a dark flame burned.

  What is this? Her voice was low. Soft. The earth seemed to move, to murmur, just for the briefest of moments.

  Had he been aware, as he was now, he would have shut his mouth or tried to backtrack. But he was too far gone, high on sex and delirious from lack of sleep.

  Seriously, just consider it your tip. Leave your number. Definitely be calling to use your services again.

  My services? That same low tone.

  No judgment, babe. Really, you gotta go. I’m done with you for now. I need to sleep.

  He’d watched her pull on her jeans and T-shirt, stuff her underwear into the pocket of her sweater and toss the money onto the nightstand.

  His gaze dropped to the end table again and the money there. She hadn’t taken it. He closed his eyes again and heard her voice as clear as day.

  Fuck you, Player. I should have known, just by your name. You’re damn good at what you do.

  What had she meant? What did any of it mean? She’d left the money he’d given her. He’d thought he was complimenting her. He searched the top of the nightstand. She hadn’t left her number. No way to get ahold of her. The brothers had to have it. They’d hired her.

  He jumped up and pulled on his jeans, his gaze once more sweeping around the room, taking in everything. Her laughter was still lingering, taunting him. Her exotic fragrance now mixed with the scent of sex and sin. He wanted it to stay that way. He cleaned up, reluctantly tossing the burned candles with the spent condoms into the trash.

  Had she left anything else behind? She’d brought her equipment with her to dance, her belt of coins and bells. That was gone, along with her ankle bracelet. He’d tried to steal that ankle bracelet, but she wouldn’t let him have it. That had been a gift from her grandmother, she’d said. Every time she spoke of her grandmother, her voice had gone soft and loving. That much had been real about her. He’d loved that tone and the little tidbits she’d dropped about her grandmother.

  Player made for the bathroom, took a long shower and felt much better when he emerged. It was late afternoon. That didn’t surprise him. What did was that he didn’t have the slightest remnant of his migraine. Always in the past, when he had a reaction from building and holding illusions too long, he was sick with blinding headaches for days afterward. He didn’t feel energized and happy like he did now. He didn’t feel like he was a real human being and not a walking zombie pretending to have feelings.

  Just to prove again to himself he wasn’t out of his mind, he went back to his room and cautiously opened the door, just enough for him to slip through. He knew he was acting a little insane, even though he was trying to prove he wasn’t. He didn’t want to let any of her scent escape, whether she was real or a fantasy. No, she was there, all over his room. He inhaled her and carefully closed the door again, locking her fragrance inside.

  Three of his brothers were in the common room. All traces of a wild party had been removed. He was grateful he had slept through
the cleanup. Too many people could have thrown his brain right back into a meltdown. Code, Maestro and Preacher sat at the bar, and all three swiveled around to face him.

  “What are you doing up?” Maestro demanded. “You had a bad migraine last night. Steele is coming in to check on you in another hour or so.”

  Steele was their resident doctor. Player didn’t want him disturbed, not when he was feeling fine. Steele had a wife and child to look after, and Breezy, his wife, was about to get a surprise when Master drove up, bringing the woman with him from New Mexico. She’d been a friend of Breezy’s. Hopefully, she still was.

  “You can tell Steele I’m feeling fine. I don’t even have a headache, but I could use coffee.”

  Preacher went behind the bar and poured coffee into a mug, shoving it across the thick oak surface of the bar to Player. “You didn’t look so good last night. Master called in an SOS.”

  “Yeah, the migraine was pretty bad, but the dancer you lined up for me managed to turn everything around.” Player tried to sound casual. “Thanks for that, by the way. She was a pretty phenomenal gift.”

  The three men exchanged long puzzled looks while Player took a sip of coffee. Maestro shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, bro.”

  Player set the mug down on the bar. “The dancer. In my room. The belly dancer. You had to have paid her to be there, right?” He was beginning to feel a little desperate. They were staring at him with blank faces, like he was a little crazy. He was beginning to think maybe he was. She had to be real. There were the candles. The condoms. Her scent lingering. No, damn it, she was real. “You knew I couldn’t be at the party, so you got me the dancer.” He sounded alarmed even to his own ears. Maybe he had finally gone insane.

  “Player.” Maestro waved toward a chair, as if he were worried Player might fall on his face. “You came in a day early. No one expected you. We don’t pay women to come here. You know that. If women come to party, they come with friends or another club. We never pay women. What’s this about?”

  Player ran his fingers through his hair several times in agitation, walking away from the sharp, focused eyes of his brothers to stare out the window into the parking lot. It was mostly empty of the vehicles that had been there the night before.

  “I took a shower last night and went straight to my room,” he said. “My head was killing me. I intended to go to bed and sleep as long as I could. I knew I had to avoid everyone. The migraine was bad. I was pretty fucked up,” he admitted. He had to admit that. He wasn’t going to lie to them. If he was going insane, he needed to know.

  He turned to face them. He had their complete attention. “My head was pounding like a mother. I barely made it to the room, slammed the door and leaned against it. The nightmare world my fucked-up brain creates had been busy working the entire time until I closed the door. Suddenly, I was in a completely different world and there was a dancer in my room.”

  “Player,” Code said cautiously.

  Player held up his hand. “Hear me out. This wasn’t some twisted version from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland from eating Alena’s hallucinogenic mushrooms when I was a kid with a warped imagination. The music, the bells, the candles, the condoms—hell, all of it was real. When she talked or laughed, her body moved at the same time. It was subtle, but when she did, she had some kind of connection with the earth, the way I have. Whatever it was, she managed to take away my headache completely.”

  He sounded crazy even to himself. His brothers exchanged long looks while he hung his head, breathing hard.

  “I stood in front of the door because I could feel the way she was helping but I didn’t know how. I just knew she couldn’t leave. When I asked her why she was there, she was told by someone that she could use the room . . .” He trailed off, raking both hands through his hair. What had she said? “No one sent her to my room?”

  The silence stretched out until Player wanted to scream. He didn’t know what to think. She had to be real. What had she said when he first came into the room? She was practicing her dancing. Practicing. She hadn’t been expecting him. Maybe he had conjured her up.

  Preacher snapped his fingers. “There was a woman. She came with someone else. She didn’t want to party, but her friend didn’t want to leave. The friend kept whining that this girl promised to be her designated driver. You weren’t supposed to come back, so Breezy said she could use your room as long as she didn’t touch anything. Breezy left right after that. I heard her but thought she left. In any case, you never stay here anymore, you’re always at your house, which was why Breezy said she could use the room and no one would bother her.”

  Code shrugged. “We have cameras everywhere. She should be easy enough to spot if she was here. Did she take something from you?”

  He was already slipping off the bar stool and heading toward the back hallway leading to the control room. The others followed him. Player took up the rear. He had great faith in Code. If anyone could find out the truth, Player was certain Code could. He was their resident genius. Without him, they wouldn’t have the money they had, or be able to find the children in need. They would all be in the dark ages. He provided their security. All of them depended on Code, and he always came through, no matter how dark the hour got—like now. This was for Player’s sanity.

  Code called up the security footage from the night before. “She had to have come in early if Breezy was here,” he muttered to himself, flashing forward with blurring speed until he got to the moment when Steele, the vice president of Torpedo Ink, had come in with his old lady, Breezy.

  Code followed Breezy’s progress through the party, since Preacher remembered it was Breezy giving the woman permission to use Player’s room to wait for her friend. Steele greeted the newcomers, members of the new Torpedo Ink chapter that had come in from Trinity and then another club, Rampage, wanting to be patched over. During that time, Breezy was in the kitchen overseeing the food preparation. The club members had brought their women with them, and Breezy came from the kitchen to welcome them when her husband stepped outside with the men. The clubhouse had filled up fast.

  Player didn’t know how Code could keep his eyes on Breezy with so many bodies crushed together and spilling outside, where the large grills were set up, but he kept the footage rolling fast. Suddenly, he stopped it. “She’s talking to two women here, Player. Is either of these the one you’re looking for?”

  Player found himself frozen, unable to move a single muscle in his body. His heart pounded so hard in his chest, he was afraid it might explode. His mouth went dry. This was too important. If he was wrong, if she wasn’t real, and his brain was that fucked up . . . If he was living in some alternate reality and he couldn’t get out of it . . .

  Code turned and looked at him over his shoulder. “Player? One of these women has to be her. Come look. I’ve frozen them both on the screen.”

  Player didn’t move. All three of his brothers stared at him as if he’d grown another head. Code calmly printed out the screen capture and brought it to him.

  “You’re going to have to look. Breezy definitely talked to two women. And you don’t have a headache. In fact, you look good. I’m betting my money that she’s real, Player. Take a look.” Code sounded certain.

  Player dropped his gaze to the photograph. Full color. Code always had the best equipment. His dancer was unmistakable. She was talking with Breezy, those exotic eyes of hers looking right at her. She wore the same light jeans and top, although the top covered her beautiful abs, so no one could see how delicious her belly was when she moved, and she wasn’t wearing the belt made of layers of golden coins.

  “That’s for certain her,” Maestro said, looking at Player’s face. “You’ve got the look. You’re gone, man. Totally gone on her.”

  “She said her name was Zyah. That’s all I know. I gave her money. Over a thousand dollars. She left it on my nightstand.
I keep remembering her face now. At the time, I thought I was complimenting her, but I think she was pissed. Hurt. I don’t know. I was so damn tired, and by that time I didn’t know what the hell I was doing,” Player admitted. “Or saying.”

  Preacher shook his head, smirking a little. “What you’re saying is you totally made an ass out of yourself.”

  “You blew the real thing?” Code asked, sympathy in his voice.

  Maestro burst out laughing. “You are so insane, Player. You’re always the calm one. You think things through before you make a move. You rarely party. You don’t bother much with the girls who come to play and yet you’ve got the hots for this girl and now you’ve screwed things up.”

  That was all true. He was always careful, especially when there was a party. “She’s different. I was pretty far gone, and maybe I’ve got it all wrong and things didn’t happen the way I remember, but if they did, I’ve got to find her. I can’t let her go without trying to fix things.”

  The grin faded from Maestro’s face. “You really did fuck this up bad?”

  Player nodded slowly. “I was so tired. I pretty much shoved her on the floor and told her to leave and then made things worse by trying to give her money. I was so confused and tired. You know how I can get, mixing reality and nightmares up, although she was a thing of fantasies, not nightmares. We went at it all night, and I don’t recall, not once, telling my body to cooperate. I couldn’t stop wanting that woman. I was like some kind of crazy sex machine.”

  Preacher shook his head. “You definitely made that part up.”

  “Condoms all over the damn room,” Player said. “At least I protected her.”