Burning Road (A Devil's Cartel MC Series Book 1)

by Skyla Madi

  “Why? Are you still breaking into houses and slapping women in their bedrooms?”

  I laughed at her quip, at the warmth spreading through my face, and shrugged. “Old habits die hard.”

  Izzy turned in my direction and stepped closer, hugging herself. “Is that right?”

  She looked perfect with her long, blonde hair that wildly framed her beautiful face. Her long lashes, high cheekbones, and full lips drove home the fact she’d grown up a lot in the last year. Her appearance was more mature, more refined, like she knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it. And her big tits, sitting braless in the pathetic fabric of her pink dress, her hard nipples threatening to cut through? Fuck. If Armi didn’t get here soon, I was gonna do something bad.

  “I searched all over for you,” she admitted, flicking her stare over my face.

  “But you couldn’t find me, so you settled for Modo instead.”

  The words left my mouth without prior thought as jealousy flared inside me. Izzy bit back a smile, thrilled by the harsh tone of my voice. I’d given it all away with my sentence, in my tenor, how much I cared, how sick it made me to see her with someone else. Clearing my throat, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell, checking the time. We’d already been alone six minutes.

  “He’s interesting,” she thought aloud, turning her head toward the long, silent road across the drive. “Charming, almost.”

  I dragged my stare down the slope of her neck to her chest and imagined kissing her there, between her full breasts where my name stained her skin. Torture. I stuffed my cell into the pocket of my jeans and shrugged out of my cut then pulled my hoodie over my head.

  “Here,” I said, handing it to her. “It’s cold.”

  It wasn’t that cold, but I needed her to cover up. She took it gratefully and pulled it on. I admired her in it, under the fabric that held our insignia and our number, 43. Somehow, she looked sexier in my hoodie than she did without it. She looked like mine. All covered up, not for anyone else but me. Something wicked stirred in my gut and crawled along my skin, and I couldn’t help myself. I pinched the hoodie and pulled her closer. She came forward without protest, then I stopped her, our torsos inches apart. If her father knew she was here, that I touched her, he’d call off our deal. If he did that, we were fucked. I couldn’t jeopardize my brothers, our plans, and our income for her. If I wanted her—really wanted her—I had to play the long game.

  “Don’t wear it outside,” I muttered, releasing her. “Just to be safe.”

  Disappointment tore across her features, but she swallowed it well, turning her attention on our clubhouse, on the tall, black and white walls, and the club emblem that stared down enemies as they rode by and welcomed us home after a hard ride.

  “My friend,” she said an eternity later. “She likes this place. No idea why.”

  “Your friend, she a clubslut?”

  Izzy grimaced. “Before tonight, I would’ve said no. Now? Yeah. I think she is. Do you know her? Chelsea?”

  I knew Chelsea. We all knew Chelsea. She was the rich little female who showed up whenever her daddy made her mad or she was itching for a few lines of snow. That bitch pulled trains with patch members for cocaine then went to her expensive-ass fashion school, pretending she wasn’t degraded and fucked in all holes at once, pretending she had a place in high society. The men loved her, but I kept my distance. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t trust how easily she was persuaded by drugs and money.

  “Is that your subtle way of asking me if I’ve fucked your friend?” I asked. I could break her heart and lie, make her hate me, that’d be the smart choice, but as I watched her stomach turn in her expression, I couldn’t. “She’s not my type.”

  Isabelle arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “You have a type?”

  I nodded. “Don’t you?”

  “I…” She frowned in thought. “I guess I do.”

  “Tell me.”

  She flicked her gaze the length of my body to my shoes then back up to admire my hair. “Tall, broad shouldered, dark hair, and eyes like whiskey.”

  “You described ninety percent of the men here,” I deflected, feeling uneasy under her esteeming gaze.

  “No.” Izzy stepped forward and leaned, brushing her chest against me. She craned her neck and tilted her head back to look me in my eyes. “I meant you, James. You are my type.”

  James. I glanced at her mouth. My name sounded personal on her lips—intimate even—and my heart thundered. No one called me James, not on its own. Not anymore. It made something stupid flutter in my chest. Isabelle Laurent revered me wholeheartedly, of that I had no doubt, and I hated it. Hated how vulnerable I felt.

  “You have a real pretty mouth, you know that?”

  She tilted her head endearingly. “What does that mean? To have a pretty mouth?”

  “It means I like the way you speak. It means I wouldn’t mind kissing it.” I dipped my head an inch, and she lifted onto the tips of her toes, encouraging things she had no business encouraging. “Wouldn’t mind fucking it, either,” I added, mostly to remind her there was no romance here.

  I didn’t have the capacity for romance. I was a murderer, a criminal. I was toxic, a controlling asshole in every aspect of my life, of that I was sure. I’d be a drop of noxious oil on her pure snow.

  Izzy’s eyes widened, and she laughed, covering her face. I felt the embarrassed heat in her blood; it seemed to wash off her in waves and lick me all over. A clubwhore wouldn’t’ve batted an eyelid, but Izzy was used to men who didn’t engage in public displays of affection, who spoke perfect English, drank their booze from crystal glasses, and only fucked in the missionary position.

  “Cozy,” Armi said, appearing out of nowhere.

  Startled, Isabelle lowered herself from the tips of her toes and stepped back. She avoided looking at him as he sauntered past. He peered sideways at me and gave me a shake of his head, his long, blond hair pulled into its usual bitch bun.

  “What’re you shaking your head about?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” He waved me off and kept walking toward the garage where we kept our trucks. “Come on, Blondie.”

  She looked at me longingly, pursing her lips, her big eyes sad. With a gentle sigh, she turned in Armi’s direction, and in the distance, a garage door motor churned, and metal squeaked.

  Isabelle walked off, and I had every intention of letting her leave…but impulse got the better of me.

  “No kiss goodbye?” I teased, and she stopped and looked over her shoulder at me. “I gave you one the last time we met. Fair is fair.”

  Smirking, she angled her body toward me. “Did we kiss? I don’t remember.”

  “Bullshit you don’t remember.”

  I pushed off the clubhouse and stepped forward to tower over her as she shrugged her shoulders, bunching the excess fabric of the sleeves of my hoodie in her fists, protecting her hands from the cold.

  “I’ve had a lot of kisses since then.”

  I growled and grabbed her, one hand at her throat, the other deep in her golden hair, and I pulled her hard against me. She didn’t need to remind me she was with Pierce. I saw them—saw them kiss, saw them fuck. That preppy bastard was lucky to be alive.

  “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” I told her, and she scowled.

  “Don’t act like you’ve been a saint since that night. You’ve had your fun too.”

  “You’re damn right I’ve had my fun,” I admitted, squeezing her tighter. There was no point lying about it. I was certain Chelsea shared stories with Izzy about private nights at the clubhouse. “But I don’t kiss them.”

  Isabelle didn’t balk at the fact I confessed I’d had sex regularly since the night in her bedroom. Did she care? Did the thought of me inside another woman eat at her the way Pierce inside her ate at me?

  “And that makes you better than me?” she asked.

  “No. We have no loyalty to each other. We’re strangers.”

 
And that was why none of this made sense. I’d lusted over a woman before, gone well out of my way to get what I wanted, but it was nothing like this. Izzy had every fiber in my being wrapped around her finger, and I felt powerless. It concerned me how far I was willing to go to get her, how deep I was contemplating betraying Judge and the club just to have her.

  “Strangers? I suppose we are,” she whispered, realizing that fact was true as she flicked her stare between my lips and eyes. “It’s almost sad you don’t kiss the women you sleep with. I loved kissing you. You’re good at it.”

  I swallowed. “Thought you didn’t remember?”

  “I was teasing. How could I forget? Your kiss consumed the last year of my life.”

  Baby. I crushed my lips to hers, and her body tightened against me. I wanted to continue to ruin kisses for her by kissing her in a way no one could ever compare. And when her dad was finally out of office, I would slap my name on her for real and take her as my woman. I’d rip her from her empty life of luxury and bring her to my world. My pretty pink rose forever claimed by a sea of leather and metal.

  I pushed my tongue inside her mouth, and I devoured her, tasted her, hungrier than I was that night in her room. She allowed me full control, and I fucking ran with it until my fingers were too tight in her hair, and she hissed, breaking the kiss. Isabelle panted through her kiss-swollen lips, the lower one glistening in the dim light.

  “Can’t you take me home?” she asked, touching me, gripping my torso and pressing her hips to mine. “We’ll be alone until late tomorrow morning.”

  I groaned. Alone? In that big-ass house of hers? I imagined spending the night in her bed, her cotton candy-colored sheets wrapped haphazardly around us as I thrust into her. I’d ride her all night, leaving her sore and satisfied for a month. I blew air out of my cheeks and tilted my head back. God. She made it hard to do right by my brothers…but I had to. Whether or not I had her in the end didn’t matter. The club was my life, and it always came first.

  Reluctantly, I shook my head. “Can’t. Judge made you off limits.”

  “Why?”

  “Your father is mayor. The rest is club business.”

  “VP?”

  Fuck. Isabelle pulled out of my arms as I looked to Armi, who stood awkwardly to the side, one hand stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, the other scratching at the back of his head.

  “I gotta get her out of here or Prez will lose his shit.”

  Izzy walked away without a word, without a fucking goodbye, and strolled into the garage, not sparing me a glance. She was pissed off at me, an emotion I was used to receiving when it came to women.

  “Bring my hoodie back,” I ordered, turning away. “And if you tell Judge what you saw, I’ll tell him Iris outshot you at the range again this week.”

  He swore at me, but I kept walking. I knew if I stopped, I’d turn around, pull Blondie from his truck, put her on the back of my bike, and spend the night buried deep inside her—where she wanted me. Where I fucking wanted to be.

  It was hard to walk away. I didn’t know when I’d see her up close and personal again, and I didn’t know if I could endure another year without kissing her soft, pretty lips.

  FIVE

  I Z Z Y

  I stare into the bowl of my silver spoon, watching remnants of my soup entree drip off. In its metallic surface, I see past my warped reflection, my bulbous nose and pinched lips, and focus on the clubhouse—a memory from last night. I see shiny bikes, blacked-out trucks, and the hungry flash in Creed’s eyes before he kissed me within an inch of my life. Again. Last night was the perfect opportunity to get closure, to be with him and put the last twelve months of curiosity and “what ifs” behind me. Somehow, I left more curious and confused than ever. After all I went through to track him down… I grimace at the thought of Judge’s eager mouth and rough hands as he gripped my body and overpowered me.

  “What’s the face for?” Dad asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “I thought pumpkin soup was your favorite. Did I get it wrong?”

  I lift my eyes to Dad, who sits at the very other end of the giant dining table, and ease my spoon into the hot soup, setting it down gently to lean against the rim.

  “No, it is.” I swallow against the nausea the rich, meaty smells of the lamb roast, our main course, stirs in me. “I guess I’m not that hungry tonight.”

  He surveys me with his dark, ocean-trench eyes, his brows furrowing, his thin lips quirking at the corner. My stomach turns as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together in front of him. To the town, my father is a happy, relatable man who doesn’t look a day over forty, but I know better. He’s a tightly wound cynic who spends more money on hair dye than he’ll ever admit and hates every inch of this town.

  “I might go to bed early…” I mutter, pushing my chair back, wanting to get out of here before the questions start. “I’m tired.”

  When he sits at the dining table the way he currently is, it usually means an interrogation is about to start, and I’m not in the mood to answer a million and one questions.

  “Staying out all night will do that to you.”

  I subtly inhale through my nose, filling my lungs. He knows. I don’t know how, but he does. I clear my throat and exhale. “It was public night at the clubhouse, and Chelsea’s leaving for New York, so we went out. I had two or three drinks and came home.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” I feel attacked under his gaze. “I don’t know why I have to explain myself to you. I’m an adult.”

  “You live under my roof.”

  “Because you won’t let me leave.”

  “Because I know exactly where you’ll go!” He slams his palms against the table, and I jump as cutlery clashes together. “Ewan told me all about your little…obsession.”

  Obsession? I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. Dad and I spoke briefly about the night Judge and Creed came to the house. As he tended to the small cut on my lip, he asked me if Creed touched me inappropriately. I denied everything, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. The following week, I had a psychologist picking my brain, and I gave up Creed’s name instantly, wanting to hear the words come from my lips to cement what happened in my reality. The thought of my psychologist, Ewan, leaking my secrets to my father makes me want to puke.

  “I don’t know what Ewan told you—”

  “Your sessions are recorded. I’ve listened to them all.” He sits back in his chair, his white, button-up shirt loosening on his slim torso. “Snap out of it, Isabelle. It’d be a cold day in hell before I let my only daughter screw a piece-of-shit biker.”

  I try hard to mask my mortification, but it cracks through, generating unbearable heat in my face. I shift my attention to my bowl of soup and thread my fingers together on my lap. Dad’s chair squeals against the varnished wooden floorboards, and his shoes tap a condemning rhythm as he closes the distance between us. Without a word, he places his phone face up on the table. I flick my attention to the screen and grimace at the horrific picture of a blonde woman, covered in tattoos. Her makeup is smeared, her shoulder-length hair is a tangled mess, and her slim body is barely covered by her black lace lingerie set.

  “Am I supposed to know who that is?” I ask, looking away from the screen to the surface of the oak table.

  “Lolita Carmichael.” Dad points his long index finger at the screen. “She’s a regular at the Devil’s Cartel clubhouse and was arrested earlier this week for prostitution. At the time of her arrest, she was in possession of a decent amount of cocaine and heroin.” He flicks to the next photo—a brunette this time. “Carly Semgreen. Another Cartel whore arrested while jacked on narcotics. Both have a cute little skull tattooed on their ass.”

  Creed mentioned he’d been with other women. Was he with these two?

  “So?” I demand, whipping my head to glare at him. “What does any of that have to do with me?”

  “I’m showing you you
r future. Is this what you want? To be a drug-addicted slut who gets passed around by feral criminals for blow—”

  I groan, rolling my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Dramatic?” He skims through his camera roll, and mugshot after mugshot flicks by. I recognize images of Judge, Armi, and Modo immediately. “They’re murderers, Isabelle. They’re killers, rapists, drug addicts, pedophiles—the lot of them.”

  I scoff. They didn’t seem so bad to me. Judge let me go after I snuck into his room, Modo was obnoxious but manageable, and Armi didn’t speak to me at all on the drive home. I’m not naïve. I know the Devil’s Cartel MC are an outlaw motorcycle gang, but I don’t think they’re criminals for the sake of being criminals. Hardship and rivalry might’ve made them killers and drug users, but I’m not convinced they’re rapists or pedophiles.

  Dad stops scrolling, and my heart races. I flick my gaze over the image, over his broad shoulders and thick neck. I drink in Creed’s breathtaking features, his short, groomed beard, and his unkempt hair. Warmth nips at my skin, kissing every pore. I look him dead in his dark, troubled eyes. I don’t see him as a killer—as any of the things my father called his whole gang.

  Dad blows smug air from his lips, shattering my daze. “You like this photo, don’t you?”

  Swallowing, I shrug my shoulders and look away from his phone screen. “He was the one in my room.”

  “James Creed,” he confirms, and my tummy flips. “His name comes up in multiple recordings.”

  I twist my torso and cut my eyes at him. “Those are supposed to be confidential. If I knew you had Ewan recording—”

  “If you knew, you wouldn’t have opened your mouth.”

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  Dad seethes, his handsome, mature face pinches with his scowl, but like the polished politician he is, he quickly reins in his rage and addresses me with a stern voice. “James Creed is sick, Belle, and he’s manipulating you for his own gain.”