Silver Bastard

by Joanna Wylde

  He sighed heavily, and I heard the soft clinking of his bottle as he took a drink and then set it back down.

  “Fuck . . . well first up, I never said you weren’t a good lay. You were a fuckin’ great lay, best I ever had. I told one of my brothers I’d scared you, that’s all. Teeny was listening in because he’s a cocksucking weasel, and I guess he put his own spin on it. I never meant for you to get hurt. Christ. Felt guilty as fuck.”

  Wow. All these years I thought I’d disappointed him. Crazy how one casual comment had the power to change my life. Destroy it and save it, all in one swoop. Didn’t seem right.

  “But it wasn’t just guilt—the situation pissed me off. All of it. Realizing I’d been played . . . I guess I was worried about going back to jail, too, but mostly I was just fucking pissed off that I’d been out less than a day and already things were fucked to hell and back. Not that I blamed you—I mean, you were the victim, not me. Once I figured it out, I couldn’t just leave you there.”

  That wasn’t the whole truth, though. He totally could’ve just left me there. Everyone else had.

  “I know all about motorcycle clubs,” I said slowly. “Nobody talks about it, but the Silver Bastards aren’t exactly shiny and bright and legal. That’s reality. Teeny’s house was a regular pit stop for all types of bikers and none of them ever gave a flying fuck about me before that. You can’t tell me you’ve never seen a woman in trouble before, or that you’ve tried to save all of them.”

  A bright streak flared across the sky, burning out as suddenly as it appeared. Falling star. What should I wish? Probably for my mom to leave Teeny. What I really wanted, though, was to lean over and kiss Puck.

  I was the best he ever had.

  “Not all clubs are the same,” Puck said slowly. “Some are better than others. I’m not saying the Bastards are innocent and perfect, but your stepdad is scum and he’d never make it in our territory. We’d take him out. The Longnecks aren’t much of a club, either. Technically they’re still our allies, but we’ve lost all respect for them and they know it. It’s not an excuse for what happened, but I can tell you this—it wouldn’t have gone down like that in Callup. The Silver Bastards don’t rape little girls.”

  “You telling me your brothers never share their women?”

  “Old ladies and family?” he asked. “Nope, not really our thing. Some club whore wants to fuck five guys, that’s her call. Nobody gonna force her, though. And Boonie wouldn’t put up with some kid being pimped out like you were—no fucking way. We’d end that shit straight up, and we’d end it permanently.”

  “I can see that,” I admitted. “I like Darcy. I mean, I don’t know her that well, but when I was trying to decide about beauty school, she took me out for coffee and we talked some. She said if I did a good job, sooner or later she’d make room for me at her day spa.”

  “Yeah, Darcy is like that. She’s a good woman. God, this is so fucked up, but you need to know that what your mom and Teeny have? That’s not normal, not for a real club. We like to keep our shit tight. We have to be able to trust our women—when the cops come, they gotta take our backs. You can’t beat someone into loyalty. Doesn’t work that way.”

  “It does with the Longnecks.”

  “That’ll destroy them, sooner or later. Fear is great, so long as it’s outsiders. Inside the club, we’re about respect, not fear. Otherwise things fall apart. That shit’s a fucking cancer.”

  I considered his words. What he said was so different from what I’d experienced for myself, but I could see the truth in it, too. I’d been watching the Bastards for five years now, and he was right. Totally different from the Longnecks, at least so far as I could tell.

  “Something to think about,” I murmured, feeling sleepy. A yawn hit me, but I managed to smother it.

  “I could use a haircut,” Puck said casually.

  “I thought we couldn’t be friends.”

  “Sometimes I get pissed and say stupid things.”

  I wish I could blame the beer for my answer, but that wouldn’t be fair. The blame for what happened next was squarely on me.

  “Okay, then. I guess I could give you a haircut.”

  SIX

  PUCK

  Of the many, many idiotic moves I’d made in my life, this was probably the worst.

  I blamed my cock for the decision—I’d spent the night telling myself all the reasons I should ditch her ass, because life is too fucking short. Then I’d jerk off. Then I’d fantasize about killing Collins until I got horny again.

  (Yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me, either.)

  Now I stood in the center of Becca’s kitchen, studying the tiny apartment I’d last seen right after she moved in. Two years ago, I’d picked the lock and checked it out. Creepy? Probably, but I wanted to be sure she was somewhere safe and decent. The memory of her little girl’s bedroom down in California still haunted me, from the spilled booze on the floor to the sight of my colors hanging next to her school clothes . . .

  So fucking wrong.

  Not that I’d grown up anywhere decent. Couldn’t even remember my mom, but I’d trailed after Dad and his Silver Bastard brothers like a happy puppy. Hell, there’d always been a woman with open arms and a big heart to feed me. Hanging out in bars wasn’t a conventional childhood but Dad had loved me. No matter what else he fucked up, no matter where we landed, he always had enough extra time for me when I needed him. Things worked out fine so long as we stayed two steps ahead of the law.

  I blinked, bringing myself back to reality. Becca’s place was nice—kind of small, with garage sale furniture and secondhand everything. Obviously she’d made all these pillows and throws and shit. Curtains. Hell, I didn’t know how to describe it but it worked. My place felt like somewhere you crashed for the night. Her place felt like a home.

  In the corner of the front room was the curved little turret area with her weird, old-fashioned sewing machine. I’d heard all about her sewing from Darcy. Becca was good. Like, really good. Good enough that Darcy hired her to make new “window treatments” (whatever the hell those were) for her business last year, which was really saying something. You could buy those fuckers at Walmart for almost nothing.

  Of course, Darcy had a whole explanation about why Becca’s curtains were better than Walmart’s, which I couldn’t follow but totally believed. The shop looked fantastic. Like a magazine.

  Becca’s apartment was just about perfect now that she’d had a chance to fix it up. Of course, I’d be happier if the downstairs door locked, but even I had to admit that probably wasn’t a big deal. Nobody in Callup locked their doors, not unless they had things to hide.

  My own place had three locks.

  “How much do you want taken off?” Becca asked, bustling around and gathering her scissors and shit. What the hell had I been thinking? My hair grew until it got annoying and then I cut it off. It wasn’t annoying right now so it didn’t need a cut. Simple.

  But watching her fuss over Blake earlier nearly killed me—Christ, but she needs to start shutting her fucking shades—and I wanted her to touch me like that. To give me what she’d given him. The rational part of my brain knew there probably wasn’t anything between them. That hardly mattered, though, because every time I saw them together I wanted to beat him to a fucking pulp.

  My cock got hard just thinking about it. Right. Nothing fucked up about that. Time to dial back the homicidal urges a bit . . .

  “Okay, come over here so I can wash your hair.”

  I reached for my shirt, pulling it up and over my head. Becca’s mouth twisted like she’d been eating lemons.

  “What?”

  “Why did you take off your shirt?”

  “Blake wasn’t wearing his.”

  “He didn’t want to get it wet.”

  “You really want to talk about getting things wet?”

  She flushed and my cock throbbed. Now there was a dark path if ever one existed . . . I held my shirt in front of my pants.
Camouflage. If Becca had any fucking clue how horny I was, she’d kick me out on my ass. I could control myself, though, if it meant getting close to her.

  Pussy. I practically heard Painter’s voice mocking me in my head. Right, like he should talk.

  “Okay, lean over the sink,” she said quietly. Following her direction, I leaned. She unhooked the faucet, revealing a surprisingly modern hose connection. “Earl put this in for me. Regina has one just like it that I like to use on her hair, up at their place. He installed it for a Christmas present last year after I started school.”

  I ignored her words as warm water sluiced over me, because I could give two shits about Earl. She leaned in, smelling all clean and fresh, with a hint of orange. Not perfume or anything like that. Must just be the soap she used. Her tits brushed my side as she turned off the water and reached for the shampoo.

  Were her nipples hard?

  Then Becca’s fingers dug into my hair, which had to be the sweetest torture in history. I remembered those same fingers stretched tight around my cock, squeezing and working me until I’d lost the ability to think. Been drunk off my ass that night but I hadn’t blacked out, thank fuck. The only thing worse than waking up and discovering what I’d done would’ve been losing those memories—if you’re gonna do the time, goddamn shame to forget a crime that sweet. Still jerked off to the thought at least once a week because I’m a fucking masochist.

  “How’s that?” Becca asked, her voice soft and husky.

  “It’s good,” I managed to croak out. She leaned in closer and I felt her boobs push into me—had she washed Blake’s hair like this?

  Wasn’t down with that. Not even a little.

  The scalp massage lasted a long time, way longer than it needed to. Did she want to touch me as bad as I wanted to touch her? Was she thinking about the taste of my come, or how she’d grabbed my hair and screamed when I ate her pussy? Over and over her fingers ran across my skin, smoothing and releasing . . .

  “Okay, time to rinse,” she whispered, shifting her legs restlessly. I bit back a groan. Fuck. This was physical pain. Warm water washed over my head. If Becca had any sense, she’d turn cold spray on my crotch.

  She reached for the conditioner—tits brushing my side again—and I felt her shiver. Christ. She felt it, too. My dick screamed for relief. I reached down as quietly as possible, pushing the heel of my hand down along the length, trying to make it better somehow.

  The mixture of pressure and pain felt good in a sick way.

  Becca’s hands dug in again and I started cataloging bike parts in my head. Wasn’t sure how much more I could take. Was she doing it on purpose?

  Fuck, I hoped so.

  “Almost finished,” she whispered and I swear, I heard the same agonized need in her tone that I felt running through my whole goddamn body. Take her, my mind whispered. Throw Becca down across that table and fuck her ’til she screams. When Blake and Collins come running to the rescue, you can shoot them and carry her off into the mountains. Do it.

  Jesus. I needed to pull my shit together. Fast.

  Becca rinsed one more time, and then she was wrapping a towel around my hair. I stood—knees shaking—and walked into the living room where Blake’s chair sat, taunting me.

  “Shut the shades,” I gritted from between clenched teeth. “People can see every move you make in here if you don’t. Fucking fishbowl.”

  “I’d be a lot more worried about that if anyone went outside after dark in Callup,” she replied quietly. “Sidewalks are rolled up for the night, Puck.”

  “Shut the fucking shades,” I repeated, the words catching in my throat. Becca shrugged and obeyed, and my eyes followed her graceful form as she moved around the open area. The woman was perfect. Like a dancer. Christ, what I’d give to see her work a pole. I’d lied to her the other day when I said I could be the man who watched when she got married and had a family and lived a normal life . . .

  I wasn’t that man.

  I’d been playing a game with myself, pretending to be something I wasn’t because it was the right thing to do. Told her the truth about one thing, though—I definitely wasn’t the guy who did the right thing. Never had been. Everything was so fucking clear now, because I knew exactly what I should do next.

  Leave Becca alone.

  Let her live a nice, normal life with a nice, normal man who worked a regular job and came home on time when he clocked out. Last night I’d even done it. I’d let her walk away from me instead of hauling her up to my bed, where she belonged.

  Tonight I was fresh out of self-control.

  “Okay,” she said, coming to stand behind me. She rubbed the towel then pulled it free, fingers running lightly through my hair. “How do you want it cut?”

  “What?”

  “Your hair? How do you want it cut?”

  “Um, I don’t care,” I managed to say, mind spinning. “Whatever you think looks good.”

  Becca stilled.

  “You didn’t really want a haircut, did you?”

  “Oh, I wanted this,” I muttered, the words 100 percent true. “You got no fucking clue.”

  “I think this might be a bad idea,” she replied hesitantly. “You know, I’ve had four beers tonight. Maybe we should just go to bed.”

  The words fell heavy between us.

  “Bed works.”

  She giggled nervously. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “C’mere,” I told her, catching her hand and pulling her around in front of me. Becca came to stand between my spread legs, reaching up to play with my hair again. Her gaze was a little glassy and her nipples were hard as rocks, which was all too visible since the front of her tank top was soaking wet.

  A decent man would’ve pointed that out.

  Instead I wrapped my hands around her waist, tugging her closer.

  “How do you think I should cut my hair?”

  “You shouldn’t. It’s perfect just like this—free and loose. Suits you.”

  Holding her gaze, I ran my hands up her sides until my thumbs rested on the underside of her boobs. She swayed and I caught the fabric, inching it up. The soft pants she wore hung loose on her hips, leaving the expanse of her stomach visible. The little dent in the center called to me.

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Probably shouldn’t think about it then,” I replied. Her stomach smelled like baby powder and it tasted like heaven. Need burned in my stomach, pulsing up into my cock. I kissed my way toward her breasts without hurrying, which wasn’t like me. Part of the reason I’d stayed away wasn’t just because of how we’d met—it was because of who I am. I don’t say sweet things and make love and all that bullshit. I like sex hard and rough, no holding back. Over the years I’d scared women off, which never bothered me in the slightest. If they couldn’t give me what I wanted, they were useless.

  Becca needed soft. Now I was the useless one.

  I could pretend, though. At least for a little while. Moving upward, I nudged at her tank with my nose, finding the underside of her breast and sucking at it. One hand drifted down to her ass, cupping and massaging until she sighed and leaned into me. I found her nipple and licked it.

  Becca gasped, her hands clutching my hair tight.

  Pulling the nipple deep into my mouth I tasted her, mind playing back over the last time we’d done this. I’d hurt her, but Jesus, it’d been good. Felt guilty every time I thought about it, which was often. Daily. My cock was solid as a core sample, every heartbeat throbbing painfully. Becca moaned, the sound soft and sweet.

  That did it—the monster inside me broke free, killing the lie.

  Fuck this nice shit.

  She squealed as I stood abruptly, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, which suited me just fine. My fingers dug deep into her ass as I shoved my hard-on into Becca’s softness. The painful, tight grip of my jeans was fucking horrible and amazing all at once, because we were finally making some progress toward what I really want
ed.

  Rocking into her with my hips, one hand reached up and caught her hair, jerking her head back roughly. My mouth went for her throat, biting and sucking and licking as she started thrashing.

  Trying to get away?

  Too late.

  I finally had Becca at my mercy after years of thinking about her, imagining her, jacking off with her face in my head while I twisted and burned in frustration. Her innocence and age had been the ultimate cock-block . . .

  She was all grown up now.

  I took six steps across the floor, dropping us both into the couch, covering and pinning her with my body. Then I had her hands caught up and over her head, trapping her exactly like she was in my sick fantasies.

  “Puck,” she moaned. I cut her off with my mouth before she had the chance to say more. My tongue dove deep, claiming her and branding her like I’d be doing with my come just as soon as I got our clothes off. The logistics of that were still up in the air . . . The laws of physics implied that I’d have to back away to get my jeans off, but every time my hips ground into hers I was more determined than ever to stay well and fucking put until I came.

  Eventually I pulled my mouth free, dragging it back down to her tits, sucking them in hard, desperate to taste more of her.

  “Puck,” she said again, her voice full of need and surrender. I ignored her, reaching down between us, finding the top of her pants and pushing them down. Oh fuck, she was wet. My fingers slid in, opening her fast and hard. Becca shrieked, her back arching up and off the couch. My thumb found her clit and started playing with it as her hands fought for freedom.

  Sweet Jesus.

  So wet, so deep, so amazing . . . I couldn’t wait to get inside. Ladies first and all that shit, so I kept my fingers moving when Becca gasped and called out my name again. We moved fast—probably too fast—but the thought of slowing down was beyond my ability to comprehend. She cried out, whimpering.

  Close. So fucking close.