“I don’t understand you.” She sat back against the pillows, drawing the blankets up to cover herself, and he followed.
“You don’t need to understand me. You just need to listen.”
“There you go again, trying to be all macho.”
He turned his head, cocking a snowy brow. “Trying to be? Babe, I am macho.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile bloomed, destroying her attempt to appear annoyed. “Whatever you say, dear.”
“Oh, we’ve graduated to pet names,” he teased, but she could tell he liked it.
She scowled. “Don’t let your head swell. I call everyone ‘dear.’”
He scowled back. “Then you’d better either cut that shit quick or come up with a different name.”
She cocked her head to the side. “How about dick.”
“Because of my huge dick?” he asked, smirking as he reached between his legs to cup the appendage in question.
She rolled her eyes again. With that wadded up dishtowel plastered to the middle of his face, the desired effect was lost on her. “As in you are one, dear.”
“You’re such a bitch, babe.”
“Maybe, but I’m still the bitch you were eating out a minute ago,” she threw back at him.
She still couldn’t believe that hadn’t been a dream. Wow. What had she done to inspire such sweetness? He was pissed at her, wasn’t he? Maybe he’d gotten over it? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t yelled at her on the ride back.
At her words, Garrick’s ice blue eyes seemed to warm, and he dropped the hand holding the towel to rest on top of his jean-clad thigh…revealing the sexiest grin she’d ever seen in her life.
Holy shit, the man should come with a warning label.
“You have the best tasting pussy I’ve ever eaten, babe.” He shifted on the bed, setting the towel aside as he crawled toward her. His voice was a deep, sexy husk that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her body. “Warm, wet…soft. I like the way your cream feels going down my throat, so silky and sweet. Mmmm…I could eat you all night.”
Surprised by the admission, Ginger stared at him with wide eyes. “I thought you were mad at me,” she said softly.
Stopping directly in front of her, his face mere inches away, Garrick’s eyes fastened to her lips as he spoke. “Oh, babe, I am mad at you. You were very, very naughty today. What you girls did…?” He shook his head, and the strong, pure masculinity of him, and the way he was staring at her mouth like he was seconds away from biting it, made her pussy clench. “That was dangerous.”
“Then why aren’t you yelling?” she asked. She was used to a man yelling. Hawke was always yelling at her. And his anger was usually followed up with fists. Inside, she knew Garrick wasn’t Hawke, and he’d never hurt her…but the damaged woman inside of her still shrank back, expecting the worst.
“Because people listen better when I talk,” he said simply. “When you do the opposite of what a person expects, they hear better.” His hand came up, calloused fingers touching her bottom lip lightly, ticking the sensitive flesh. “And something tells me you’ve had enough yelling, hmm?”
Her heart melted on the spot. He knew…and he understood. He was taking care with her, treading lightly because he knew what she’d been through.
It was both heartwarming and humiliating, because any time Ginger looked back on that part of her life, she was embarrassed by how long she’d allowed it to go on, by how much abuse she took, how many excuses she made. And the lengths she’d gone to try to hide it all.
She remained silent on the subject, unwilling to dig up the past and taint the present. Hawke had no place in their lives anymore. He was and should always remain a distant memory.
“Look, Red,” Garrick said, serious now, “I’m not going to yell. You’ve been with the club long enough to know the rules and the reasons they’re in place. You know what you did wasn’t smart, and you should have come to me instead of running off on a fool’s errand.”
She glared at the blankets, resenting his words even though she knew they were true. She and the girls had just been trying to help. In a world where the men ruled everything, sometimes it was nice to just be in the loop, to effect change in some way, however small.
“Don’t make that face,” he warned her. “You know how it is and that’s not going to change. You women are always looking to get in the middle of things, and tonight should be a glaring lesson to you why we have the rules in place that we do. You just don’t have any business being that close to the fire.”
“You talk like we’re some little children you’re trying to keep track of.”
“Not children,” he corrected her. “You’re important in a different way, babe. There’s a natural order to things: men do the hard work, we provide and protect, and women keep the men together. It’s a partnership, a balance that’s worked since the dawn of time. Stop trying to mess that up.”
He smirked at her, but Ginger just wasn’t feeling the old boy mentality. Women could be fierce, too, dammit.
“There’s that look again,” Garrick observed. “Do I have to spank you to get you to listen?”
“That wouldn’t work,” Ginger informed him. Not only would she like it, but it would also have the opposite effect—she’d just be more inclined to go against his wishes.
“Maybe putting my kid in you would tame your ass then.”
Ginger’s gaze snapped up, meeting his. “Did I just hear you right?
“I didn’t stutter, babe.”
“You think you’re going to get me pregnant to better keep me under your thumb?” She scoffed, her ire peaked. “You’re assuming I’d even let you near me again with that attitude.” Done with the macho bullshit, she threw back the blankets, ignoring his roaming eyes all over her naked body, and climbed out of bed in search of clothing.
“Where are you going?” Garrick asked, his voice tired. She didn’t answer him. “Babe…Red, you can be pissed all you want, but you know it’s going to happen one way or another. Hell, maybe it already has.”
Heat filled her head, and her temples pounded. Because he was right. He’d come inside her. She could be pregnant right now and not even know it. But that didn’t make her his property. Far from it.
Stepping into her panties, Ginger said, “We are not a forgone conclusion, Repo. For a minute there, I was actually getting on board with the idea of being with you, but you know what?” She yanked her bra straps up her arms and wrestled with the latch. “It was my mistake thinking you’d changed, or that you respected me. Clearly, I lost my damned mind thinking we could ever work.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Garrick said calmly, which pissed her off even more. “We do work, Red. We always have. Why do you think I staked my claim on you?”
“Because you’re tired of bouncing from one piece of ass to the next, and you thought I’d be easy.” She whirled around to face him, her shirt balled in her fist at her side. “I’m not property, Garrick. I’m a human being with my own thoughts and feelings, and I don’t take orders well.” Not anymore. “I wasted too much of my life being ordered around by a man, and I won’t make that mistake twice. I’d rather be alone forever.”
He gave her a pained look but didn’t say anything, so she finished getting dressed and collected her things. Thank God Taco had brought her car over when she’d come to stay. At least she wasn’t trapped. “I really wish you’d been different, Garrick, I really do.”
“I am different,” he growled out.
“You’re not. I’ve known you practically my whole life. I know you,” she impressed. “You’re a good man, but you’re too set in your ways. You don’t see me as a partner but a possession. It breaks my heart, but I can’t do it again. I just can’t.”
Again, he didn’t argue. Ginger stood before him, pleading with her eyes and her heart for him to speak up and state his case, change her mind…but he didn’t. Damn him, but he just sat there on that bed, gorgeous and mussed from her hands in his h
air, face flushed with emotion…and he didn’t say a damn word.
What else could she do? If he wasn’t willing to fight for her, then she had to leave.
Lifting her arms, she let them drop back to her sides in defeat. She’d tried.
“Let me know if anything changes,” she told him, hoping but not really believing anything ever would. Then she turned and walked out, holding onto the flood of emotion that threatened to tear her apart with each step she took away from that house and farther out of his life. And with each step she took that he didn’t follow, begging her to come back, she felt her heart splinter more, cracks that would turn into scars spidering out in every direction until she didn’t know how or what was holding the pieces together anymore.
THIRTY-TWO
Luciana did not like narcs. She suffered them like an ingrown hair: dug them out with a needle and plucked them from existence. Invariably, they left an ugly mark, and she hated that even more.
Which was why she believed in stopping them from developing in the first place. The only problem? They were hard to spot, so prevention was next to impossible.
Frank was an ingrown hair. One that was proving difficult to eliminate.
She’d given him a chance—one chance—to prove his value…and he’d gone running to that Spartan trash female and spilled their secrets.
That was the problem with the world these days—no loyalty.
Running the pointed, metal file over her nail, she watched with mild interest as the dust from her nails floated down to cover her pant leg. “Tell me everything you told her,” she said with deceptive calm. A calm she most definitely did not feel. She was raging inside, a red-hot ember of vengeance simmering just beneath her smooth, brown skin. She looked at that with disinterest too. She needed to lay out in the sun later, work on her tan. Pasty skin was disgusting.
“I d-didn’t s-s-say anything,” Frank stuttered.
He was sweating like a sinner in a church on Sunday. She didn’t bother to hide her distain. “Don’t lie to me,” she warned him coldly. “My men followed you.”
His gringo face blanched, making him appear sickly. He’d better not throw up on her floor. She had zero tolerance for weakness. And Frank was about as weak as she’d ever seen a man—if he could really be called that.
“I didn’t say anything, I swear.”
“Then why were you speaking with her?” Luciana asked, watching as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple to his neck and then soaked into his white man’s cheap polo shirt collar.
No sense of fashion, either.
“She’s an old work colleague. A f-friend.”
Luciana stared at him. Finally, she sat forward in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands over top her knee, the shiny silver file on full display. “Do you know what a tell is, Frank?”
He looked puzzled at first, but then shook his head, understanding at least part of her meaning.
“Good. Because over the years, I’ve learned to read people well, and you, Frank, are a very easy read.” She left her seat and walked up to him where he sat in a hard metal folding chair, sweating bullets as she circled him. “I bet you’re wondering what yours is,” she mused, and scratched the tip of the file across the flushed, moist skin around the base of his neck, following his hairline.
Drips of sweat dropped from the spiked tips of his hair, soaking his shirt at the shoulders. He didn’t breathe a word in response, indicating that he knew just how dire his position was.
Of course, anyone who came before her should feel that way. It pleased her to know that she was feared. In her world, fear equaled respect. Because if someone feared you, they weren’t likely to cross you—not unless they were stupid.
And Frank was clearly a few crayons short of a full box.
“It’s the stuttering,” she informed him. Pausing behind him, she bent at the waist and placed her lips beside his ear, the nail file pressing into the soft spot just below the base of his skull. She whispered, “Gives you away every time.”
A small whimper left his lips, and his entire body shook violently. Good, he should be afraid. Because the stories about her were true: Luciana was as bad as the rumors claimed. In fact, she liked to think she was even worse.
She was merciless.
“Pl-lease,” he begged. “I swear I didn’t s-say anyth-thing.”
“You know what I hate even more than liars, Frank?” Luciana asked as she straightened. Catching Manuel’s eye, the corner of her red mouth turned up. She held that gaze as she spoke. “Weak men.”
Then she tightened her grip on the file and put her weight behind it, shoving it through the soft flesh at an angle, driving it up into his brain. Frank gasped, sputtered in shock, and released a tiny squeal like a stuck pig, and she gave it a little extra push, waiting until she felt his body go slack before stepping back.
With a dispassionate stare, she watched his body collapse onto the gold marbled tile. As red spread out around him, she looked down at her hands and clucked her tongue. “Anyone have a tissue?”
***
“It’d be great if we could get our hands on that asshole,” Moose said from the far end of the table. He was met with hardy nods of agreement from all the brothers gathered around him. “Then we could shake him down for more info, see what else he’s hiding.”
After the fiasco a couple days ago between the women going to The Tavern and learning about Country’s woman, Talia, along with Blake’s Gabby and Repo’s Ginger tagging along to potentially stir up trouble, and that fuckwad Frank, Talia’s former work buddy who was slimier than a snail slick, Blake had understandably called church to update everyone. Understandably, the prospects hadn’t been invited. Moose didn’t understand why, and he wouldn’t. Not right now. They needed to take his measure, keep an eye on him too, make sure he didn’t run back to his nephew to fill him in. They needed to know he was still loyal.
“As you know, I’ve had ears and eyes out looking for the prick. Nada,” Blake informed them. “It’s like he’s disappeared off the grid.”
There was a beat of knowing silence. They all knew that even if someone went into hiding, they still tended to leave a footprint somewhere. For the trail to have gone so ice cold? It didn’t look good.
“If he’s turned Devil’s Advocate, we should be looking for a body,” Taco uttered. He flicked a pen around, spinning it in circles on the tabletop.
Blake nodded, watching him closely. He’d been distracted lately, not his normal, chipper self. Usually he was off trying to catch some tail, but lately, he’d been quiet instead of his chatty self. And he’d seen him walk right past bunnies who were blatantly trying to gain his attentions and even downright shutting them down on their approach.
Something was up, and Blake wanted to know what it was. He couldn’t have his men distracted. Not at a critical time like this. He’d deal with him later.
Speaking of distracted…
“You’ve been quiet today,” he said, looking to Country for a response. After their blowout the other night, he hadn’t seen or heard from the man, and he wasn’t certain if it was because he was freezing Blake out, or if he was simply stewing in his own thoughts.
Country’s blue eyes flicked up at him, and there was a whole lot of pissed-off brewing like storm clouds staring back. “What is there to say?”
Blake chose to ignore his attitude. “Do you have any input?”
“I wasn’t aware you were interested in hearing my ideas.”
Heaving a heavy sigh, Blake tilted his head left and right, cracking his neck to relieve some pressure. He was not going to allow his patience to be tested today. “Your ideas are always welcome and appreciated.”
Country snorted and looked away, not offering anything further.
Looked like his boys were growing vaginas. What was with all the moping and attitude? If he wanted to deal with this shit, he’d have just stayed home. Gabby had been in a mood since he’d confronted her about her littl
e field trip to No-No Land, and now he had his best friend and another of his men acting like women on their period.
Jesus, he couldn’t catch a break.
Thankfully, Repo interjected, saving Blake from having a tantrum of his own—he was edging the line of his limit, and he was about to knock some heads.
“If this Frank guy is dead, it saves us the trouble of having to do it ourselves. I think we can all agree that we’d rather not get our hands dirty if we don’t have to.”
A murmur of agreement rippled around the table.
“But I will say this: he wasn’t our leak. At least, not directly. Someone here is talking, and they were talking to him. Frank was just the messenger, an opportunist who saw his chance to climb the ladder.”
“Except that shit never works out well when you’re factoring in a crime boss,” Moose added.
“Too right, brother,” Repo agreed. “He got in over his head. Personally, I don’t give a shit if he lost it. He brought that on himself. I just want to know where the bleed is so we can stitch it up,” he said, playing it off like they didn’t know Tanner was the one they were looking at.
If Moose knew something, though, he was a great actor. Blake couldn’t spot any sign of deception.
But he agreed fully with his sergeant. They might have their noses clean, but they didn’t need anyone telling outside sources what was happening inside their lines. It was bad for business. If word got around that they were keeping above board, staying out of trouble, and keeping one hundred with local law enforcement, they’d be labeled weak, making them ripe for a turf war. It was a Catch 22.
Case in point, Cruiz had already tried it. Who knew who all he’d talked to, what lies he’d spread, but if anyone—including the asshole who was making moves on them—stepped up and tried anything, they were going to find out the hard way that Spartans still fought fire with fire. They might have everything to lose, but that was exactly why they would never back down.
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