by Skyla Madi
FOUR
I Z Z Y
I hold my breath as I press my back against the cold, lacquered plywood. It’s dark, so dark I can’t see, and my eyes fail to adjust. Exhaling, I step forward, only to be slammed back against the door. My skull connects first, sending pain into my eye sockets, then the rest of me hits. I shout and catch a strong, impossibly thick forearm to the throat. My windpipe compresses, and I thrash to no avail as pressure builds in my face, like an over-inflated balloon. I feel the cold tip of a blade against my throat then, threatening to fillet me like a fish. I still as tears pool in my eyes. I shouldn’t have snuck in. I shouldn’t’ve caught him off guard. A pathetic whimper squeezes from my lips, and he tenses then pulls the blade away and removes his forearm. I gasp for air, grasping at my throat as he gropes my breasts, making sure I’m a woman.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, letting out a nervous laugh. “I thought you were going to kill—”
I hear the blade clash with something across the room, and I squeak as I’m ripped from the floor and lifted into strong arms.
“Cr—”
He crushes his mouth to mine, pushing his tongue inside and claiming me like a starving man. I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. He’s thicker than I remember, and taller, but he smells the same—like leather, rubber, and asphalt. On his tongue, I taste Jack, and I’ve never loved the flavor more. Creed holds me by my bare thighs, the tips of his fingers grazing between my legs, caressing the flimsy fabric that separates our flesh.
Groaning, he breaks the kiss, and my stomach sinks as I’m thrown from his arms. I free fall for a moment before I’m caught by a soft mattress. Jesus. How can he see anything?
“You don’t want to talk first?” I ask on exhale.
Large, rough hands engulf my ankles and yank me down the bed, then I’m flipped onto my stomach. I gulp air as my head spins, more alcohol seeping into my blood every second. I rest my cheek against the blanket as he palms my ass and pulls my panties to the side. Heat rushes between my legs, my arousal pooling and unbearable. Pierce never made me feel like this—overheated, overwhelmed, and naughty. So naughty.
Creed presses a finger to my clit then drags it toward my entrance. I close my eyes, my breath hitching, as the very tip of his finger breaches me. Groaning, I arch my back, sticking my ass out, wanting more, wanting him to give me more.
“You like that, do you?” He leans over to speak in my ear. My eyes shoot open, and the arousal I feel turns from sparkles to spiders on my skin. “You know you’re not allowed in my room. Now I’m gonna punish you.”
He doesn’t sound anything like Creed. “Wait!”
I squeeze my arms under my body and try to lift myself, but the man above me drops more of his weight.
“Not in the mood to play out your rape fantasy tonight, Liv.”
The biker, whoever it is, takes his finger from my entrance and grinds his pelvis into my ass, pushing his hard bulge between my ass cheeks.
“Wait,” I plead again, exhausting myself trying to push against him. “I’m not—”
He covers my mouth, and the subsequent sound of his zipper is deafening. I growl so hard my vocal cords burn in my throat, then I wrench my head to the side, causing his hand to slip.
“Get the hell off me!” I shout then bite his hand, sinking my teeth deep into his flesh.
“Ah!” he hollers, ripping his hand free and lifting himself off me. “What the fuck is your problem, you crazy bitch?”
In the darkness, I lift myself on shaky arms and scramble to adjust my clothes. Heavy boots, boots that sound like Creed’s, hit the ground as whoever it is storms away. I manage to rake my fingers through my hair before I’m blinded by the warm bedroom light. Hissing, I shield my eyes with my hand against my brow bone and find myself squinting into furious dark, ocean blue irises. My stomach turns. I drag my stare down his impossibly tall, impossibly wide frame and back up again, my attention resting on the patch sewn into the front of his leather vest. President. I grimace. Damon Judge.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he booms, startling me as he zips his dark, worn jeans.
“I-I was looking for someone else. I thought you were…” I swallow hard. “Someone else.”
Judge cuts his eyes at me, sneering. “Creed?”
I shake my head, but heat rushes to my cheeks, betraying me. I can’t hide what I feel for James Creed. Not only is it written all over my face, but Judge felt it in the warmth emanating from between my thighs; he felt it in the wetness he happily collected from my body. If it were Creed, we’d already be a tangled mess of sexual energy. I’d have begged him to take me, pleaded with him to fuck me harder than I’ve ever been fucked.
“Forget that, Blondie.” Judge pushes his fingers through his cropped, jet black hair. “It’s not gonna happen between you and Creed. Ever.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because I said so.” He approaches me, towers over me, and flicks his hand toward my dress, scowling. “You didn’t even try to blend in. Why the fuck are you wearing pink?”
“No one told me there was a dress code…”
“Does your father know you’re here?” I shake my head, and he grabs my face, squeezing my cheeks so hard my teeth hurt. “This isn’t a fucking game. I’ll cut your pretty tongue out of your mouth if you lie to me, understand?”
I nod.
“Does your father know you’re here?” he asks again, emphasizing each word.
“No.”
He relaxes his shoulders a little, staring into my eyes. “You been drinking?”
I nod again. “Yes.”
“Drugs?”
I shake my head, and he releases his grip on my face with an irritated shove. Blowing air between my lips, I massage my jaw. He turns away, pulling a cell phone from his back pocket. He taps at the screen with his thumbs then lifts it to his ear. My heart leaps into my chest at the thought of him calling Creed. Will he hate me? Even though it was an accident? Maybe, after all this time, he won’t care. I don’t know what’ll hurt me more.
“Armi,” Judge barks into the phone. “My room. Now.”
Judge crosses the uncluttered and surprisingly spacious room to a small bar on the other side. I stand awkwardly and glance around his private space. It’s clean and coordinated with its expensive fittings and monochrome color scheme. It reminds me of a prison cell, an elegant and comfortable one, but a cell all the same.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a gentle waft of cigarette flowing from Judge’s direction. He simmers in silence, pacing back and forth, burning through his cigarette like no one’s business. I remain silent, not wanting to set him off. He’s intimidating, powerful, and he’s built like a bull. He’d crush me in a heartbeat.
There’s a knock at the door, and Judge grumbles for Armi to come in. I nervously shift my weight and wrap my arm around my waist to hold my elbow as the handle is pulled down and the door opens. The biker, a tall, dirty-blond man with an athletic build, steps inside and closes the door behind him. His long hair is disheveled, hanging messily around his face, blending in with his short beard.
“Prez?” he says, dragging his attention from the wide expanse of Judge’s back to me. His dark eyes widen, and I shrink under his unwelcoming gape. “Is that—”
“How the fuck did she get in?” Judge demands, whipping around to face us.
“I didn’t see her.”
“You didn’t see her? She’s wearing pink!”
Armi extends his arm and points at the door. “There’s a thousand fucking people out there.”
“I don’t give a shit.” Judge flicks his head in my direction. “Get her home in one piece. Use your truck, not your bike. I don’t want Jonathan to know she was here with us. Dealing with that asshole is the last thing I need right now.”
I frown. “Is that why I’m not welcome here? Because of my father?”
“All right,” Armi says on exhale, ignoring me. “Can
she wait by the garage for fifteen minutes? I gotta sort Kace out. He got into it with some preppy assholes, and Iris—”
“Hurry up.” Judge flicks his head, and Armi leaves. Then he turns his attention to me. “Don’t utter a word about this,” he warns. “Not to your whore friend, not to your father, not to Creed.”
I cut my eyes at him and straighten my shoulders. A bratty retort dances on my tongue, and I plan on spitting it at him until he steps forward, and fear seizes me. I step back and nod, quickly.
“I won’t say anything,” I promise. I just want to get out of here. “I won’t tell anyone.”
He stares me down, his blue eyes flicking between mine, searching for the truth in my words. Whether or not he finds it, I don’t know. Sneering, he waves me off.
“Get out of my sight, girl, and don’t come back.”
Not needing to be told twice, I rush out of the room without a glance over my shoulder.
C R E E D
I leaned against the wall, my leg bent at the knee, tired as shit. In front of me, two topless bitches made out by the poles, encouraged by the men that surround them—patch members and normies alike. Most of the time, we kept the gritty, dirty biker stuff behind closed doors, but I guess it was all out on show tonight. I swallowed the remaining mouthful of my umpteenth beer, the last drop stoking the fire this lesbian show ignited in me. Maybe I do need to get laid…
Iris, our female prospect, strolled in front of me, holding a full tray of glasses stacked eight high. Her long, dead-straight black hair swung around her shoulders as she huffed at me, and my lips quirked. At a glance, Iris didn’t belong here. She was a tiny Japanese beauty all of nineteen and came as a package deal with Kace, but she proved herself when she outshot Armi at the shooting range. I didn’t know her story, but the girl had some serious weapons training. That was all I cared about.
“How much longer is this party gonna go for, VP?” she asked, pouting her full, red lips. “I’m tired.”
I placed my cup on top of the tallest stack and smiled down at her. Iris had a fire swirling in her black lagoon irises. She was getting sick of this prospect business, I knew. She wanted more; she wanted the black leather and the patch, and she wanted to get her new motorcycle and go on rides.
But she had to prove her worth first, like everyone else.
“Give the tray to Kace and take the rest of the night off.” Admittedly, I babied her from time to time. “Stay in your room and lock the door. You don’t know who’s walking around.”
“I have guns in my room.”
I shook my head. “Armi took them back to the armory. Prospects aren’t permitted loaded weapons in their quarters. You know that.” Iris cut her eyes at me, and I lifted an eyebrow, daring her to argue. “You’re lucky I talked him out of fining you,” I added.
She wouldn’t’ve been able to afford the fine after paying her dues this week. Nodding, Iris sauntered off, and I went back to scouting the talent, looking for a soft-bodied woman to have for the night. Then I spotted her. Isabelle Laurent. In my fucking clubhouse, wearing pink of all goddamn colors.
Modo saddled up next to her, brushing her hair away from her face. She smiled politely, dragging her sexy fucking gaze up his chest and over his stupid long hair. I was storming across the building before I could register it, a possessive rage bursting in my chest. I will cut his fingers off then shove them up his ass, one by one. Smart people jumped out of my way when they saw me approach. The stupider ones I had to shove. When I reached the table, I slammed my hand down on it, making Blondie jump out of her skin and clench her chest. I felt her stare burn into my face the second her beautiful blue orbs landed on me, and it took everything I had to keep my attention on Modo. Hell, it took everything I had not to throw this table over my shoulder, rip her out of her pink dress, and fuck her in her seat so everyone in the room knew who she belonged to.
“This one is mine,” I told him, my voice dead calm.
Modo lifted his brows, amused. “Thought you weren’t in the mood? Besides, don’t see your name on it.”
It. Don’t shoot him, I thought. You promised Judge you wouldn’t shoot him again. As if he heard my thoughts, Modo rubbed at his shoulder—the same one I shot two years ago.
I exhaled subtly then whirled on my heel and headed for the bar. When I got there, Kace ran up to me, his eyes scanning the crowd. The black bruise quickly swallowing up his left eye didn’t pass me by. The idiot was always getting into fights over Iris. I didn’t know their history, but I knew they shared a bed every night, cuddling like two love birds.
“Have you seen Iris?”
“Probably getting fucked in a dark corner somewhere,” I told him, knowing it’d piss him off. He was possessive of Iris, and I liked to torment him. “Marker,” I demanded, tapping the wood. “Now.”
Swallowing his anger, he reached under the bar and retrieved a black Sharpie. I snatched it out of his palm and made my way back to Modo and Izzy. My stare found hers immediately, and she didn’t blink as I approached. I popped the lid off the Sharpie with my thumb, letting it fall to the ground. Then, when my thighs hit the tall table, I leaned over and scrawled my name across her chest, across her breasts. She gasped, her gaze never leaving my face. JAMES CREED. Satisfied, I tossed the marker over my shoulder and pinned Modo with a glare.
“Can you read that?”
Modo shrugged, lifting his beer to his mouth. “Barely. Your handwriting is shit.”
I smiled. He’d always been a sore loser. From my peripheral, Armi and Casino casually approached.
“Get up, Blondie.”
I didn’t want any of them looking at her, didn’t want any of them talking to her. I wasn’t insecure. I knew I had everything she wanted, but I also knew Blondie had a penchant for men like us. So quick her fear turned to desire that night in her room. I remembered it as if it was yesterday. She inhaled me deep into her lungs while I bound her hands behind her back with a pair of her soft, pink lace panties. She could have anyone in the building she wanted, but it’d be over my dead body.
Isabelle did as she was told, lifting herself out of the seat beside Modo, and quickly ambled to stand next to me. She stood close, so close her arm brushed mine. I wished I wasn’t wearing a hoodie under my cut. I wanted to feel her.
“Wait. That’s Laurent’s daughter?” Modo asked, raking his amber eyes up the length of her fit body.
“No,” I lied, but Izzy was already nodding.
“Yes, I’m Isabelle,” she said, all cute like.
“Jesus, VP.” He ate her up with his hungry stare, devouring every inch of her over-exposed, sun-kissed skin. I straightened my shoulders, daring him to say something stupid. “Then who’s the blonde with the lip scar and the eyebrow tattoo?”
Eyebrow tattoo? I glanced at Casino, who scowled at Modo. “That’s my little sister, asshole.”
“Oh.” Modo sat back in his seat and grinned at me. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“If you think Casino’s sister is ugly, there’s something wrong with you,” Armi chimed in.
“I said dumb, not ugly.”
Casino huffed and stuffed his hands inside the pockets of his cut. His was newer than the rest of ours. He’d only been treasurer a few months since our last guy, Geeves, was murdered by the Valkyries in Venton Vale. Geeves’ death was yet to be avenged, thanks to Hawk’s history with them, but they’d get what’s coming eventually.
“Dumb?” Casino bit out. “She’s an engineer at NASA, you fucking cabbage.”
Modo laughed. “Shit. She must have a killer pussy because there’s no way she got there on her intelligence—”
Casino launched at him, diving over the table. Gasping, Izzy grabbed my covered wrist, sending electric currents over my skin, and slipped behind me.
“Should we call the police?” she shouted over sounds of flesh pummeling flesh and eighties rock music as it carried through the clubhouse.
“Nah,” I said. “Armi’s got it.”
Sure enough, when Armi was satisfied Modo got the beating he deserved for talking shit about Casino’s sister, Shyloh, he pulled the table out of the way and ripped Casino off him then turned to me. “Prez told me to get her out of here. You mind babysitting for five minutes while I sort this mess out?”
In the depths of Armi’s eyes, I saw he was doing me a favor by giving me a few minutes alone with her. The damage I could do in a few minutes. I was loyal to Judge, did everything he requested of me, but to be alone with Izzy? And keep my hands to myself? My fingers ached at the thought.
Despite the excitement burrowing through my muscles, I scowled at Armi. I didn’t want to babysit her. I was fucking vice president, so he shouldn’t’ve asked me in the first place…but I didn’t want to leave her with anyone else.
Outside was quieter than inside, the air cooler. We walked side by side toward the gravel drive and the adjacent parking lot, away from everyone else and the raging bonfire yards away.
“You shouldn’t be here.” I glanced down, and her lips quirked in the dusky, murky streetlight in front of us. “Lots of bad men out tonight.”
“Like you?” she teased, keeping her gaze forward, and hair lifted from my skin.
“Especially me.”
What was it about her that made every cell in my being come alive? I’d been around women my whole life—been with more women than I cared to count. I didn’t recall wanting anyone the way I wanted Isabelle. Armi thought it was because Judge made her off limits, said I was a spoiled, arrogant asshole who got off on being told no. Maybe he was right, or maybe I felt renewed by Isabelle’s youth. Her innocence, and the excitement she stirred in me, reminded me of the boy I was before I was fucked over by my family and the system.
“I’m not scared of you,” she said.
“No?” I smirked, slowing to a stop, and leaned against the clubhouse wall. If she had any idea what I’d done in my life—what I continued to do—she’d stop romanticizing me and start fearing me instead. “You should be.”
