Dirty Salvation (Renegade Souls MC Romance Saga Book 1)

by V. Theia

  Need me? She doesn’t know you, bud.

  He mentally shrugged, the effects of the booze meant he didn’t listen to himself when he took a spot on the floor, close enough to the bed he could watch her.

  He punched the pillow under his neck.

  Rider vaguely recalled Zara liked to sleep with a lot of pillows, she’d told him post-coital when his balls had been drained and he’d felt a hundred feet tall for all the flattering statements the little virgin had paid him; You’re so big. Omg, I’ve never felt that before. Can we do it again and again and again? More. Harder. Faster. Please.

  Fuck. Shut up thinking of that.

  His glance reached out through the dark, noticing his one flat as fuck pillow on the bed under all her blonde hair. Strange that he was remembering how she liked to sleep now when the shit volcano had just begun to boil.

  It scared the crap outer him that he wanted to make her his concern. He already had enough on his plate without adding more.

  Club was all. Club was everything.

  First and foremost.

  So why was he thinking of doing it then? Why did Zara stir every forgotten instinct Rider had in his body?

  A good man would do a good deed without expectation of thanks or reward. But Rider wasn’t a good man, far from it. He could still taste the latest murder on his tongue, he was the least good man there was.

  And yet.

  He gave the lump under his bed covers a cursory glance, a long glance. His dirty bastard thoughts reappearing. He blamed it on being drunk.

  He blamed it on the situation, the danger made him horny, and usually, he would have fucked his adrenaline away already if things had gone to plan.

  Some fast-meaningless fuck that lasted only the minutes it took to empty his balls and drain the surge of his spiked energy. forgotten instantly.

  Wanting Zara was not new. He’d sullied that good girl once and wanted to again.

  Only now it wasn’t so easy. So, could he be what she needed instead, to make her his concern?

  With a tired sigh, no more thinking, an arm slung over his eyes, he let sleep claim him.

  Staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Rider groaned. Bloodshot eyes stared back making him wince. Right, that's why I don't drink a bottle of whiskey at a time anymore.

  His head was giving an imitation of one of those African tribal dances he'd saw once on the news, the kind with the drums.

  Lotsa fucking drums all out of sync playing loudly between his ears.

  He moved lethargically, searched around under the sink hoping to find a bottle of pills he could down. He kept the number to three, swallowing them dry, cursing when they didn't immediately have an effect.

  Rider didn't appreciate the reminder of his own stupidity, nor did he have time to dwell on it, not with an MC to run, businesses still flagging that needed his attention. Why the hell had he been drinking a dark mood again? The woman asleep in my bed. Oh yes, her.

  Zara was still passed out, did women sleep this long, this deeply? Usually, he kicked them out, didn't reach the sleep portion. He poked his head back into his bedroom, she was in the fetal position, the covers pulled up to her forehead, if not for the odd twitch and movement he would have guessed she was dead.

  He frowned. Scraped a hand over his clipped beard. Deep in thought around the throb of his temples. Fuck this pain.

  Maybe he should wake her? let her fucking sleep, shithead, she's been through an ordeal.

  Yeah, sleep was good for her. As an MC president, he'd witnessed some really fucked up stuff over the years, really fucked up, sadly to admit some from within his own club before he'd cleaned house of the scum dragging them down into the dirt, but none were in the stratosphere as that poor girl on the other side of the door.

  From the moment he'd noticed her Rider had felt an overwhelming urge to protect and also to go homicidal maniac on the fuckers who had damaged her.

  Instead of waking her as he wanted to do, he closed the door quietly and he boiled himself to a state of wakefulness for the next fifteen minutes in the shower. With his wet hair tied back in a haphazard bun, jeans pulled up his legs and a long sleeve gray shirt, he was glad he was dressed when he stepped back through. Because Zara was awake, sitting up in his bed tenderly poking around her swollen blackened eye.

  He could detect his presence startled her, best to start as he meant to go on, he mused, he wasn't gonna walk on fucking eggshells with her, not when she awoke something within him.

  “Good mornin', darlin’ you slept a while. You must be hungry, we can see about getting you somethin’.“

  She gave him a shy look, otherwise didn’t speak.

  And Rider was too busy looking at the way the shirt she’d slept in was falling off one creamy shoulder, to care if she replied.

  His already dry tongue felt like the Sahara sand in his mouth.

  He'd left one of his bigger shirts for her to wear last night seeing as the only clothes she'd had on he'd tossed in the furnace along with their filth and stench vowing never to see her in them again, he admitted she looked good in his shirt.

  Damn good. Real fucking good.

  Rein it in, dirty bastard. The last thing Zara needed was to exchange one perverted fucker with bad intentions for another.

  “Did----did you sleep in here?” he heard, cranking his neck around to see how she was looking down at the floor to his makeshift bed he had yet to fold away. He did it now, striding the room to hook both in his hands. Putting them away consisting of tossing the blanket and pillow on the chair.

  “Yes. It’s my room.” he smiled, practically seeing how her brain’s cogs began to turn in all the right directions. He recalled she was smart. She could join the dots.

  “Oh. I see.”

  “My room, darlin’ so let’s get this outer the way, I can guess what you’re thinkin’ and you're only half right." for now. "You’ll stay here in my room. I’ll stay here in my room. We’ll sleep, that’s it. Got it?”

  Zara blinked giving Rider the impression of an old wisely owl. All wide-eyed and curious. He didn’t like seeing her with bruises, though. He’d send Butcher to check on them once he got some food in her.

  “I-- well, isn’t there another room I can use? A sofa, even. I saw several out there. I’m easy. Stick me anywhere. I don’t want to put you out of your room.” she pointed to the door. He assumed she meant the common room.

  No fucking way was she sleeping out there with his boys in and out constantly.

  Was she fucking crazy?

  Was he crazy?

  He had several unused flops now a couple of his boys had set up perma-residence in town, he could easily put Zara in one of those. Why was he insisting on this?

  “We’re both in here, babe. End of.” he gave her his back while he shrugged into his cut, the leather fit him like a glove.

  He liked that feeling of sliding it on, it gave Rider a sensation of comfort, of home, of peace, of belonging. Didn’t matter what kinda trouble and strife his club got into, and it was always a lot, too much sometimes for them to keep their heads above water, but once his cut was on, and he was sat at the head of the table in church Rider felt indestructible.

  Offering Zara his room, his protection was as close to a guarantee of safety as the president could give. He was saying; take my bed, no fucker will ever harm you again, Icy, not while I have breath in my body.

  But typical Rider and his infamous impatience, he growled low in his throat when she tried to protest again. Why couldn't she just accept it?

  Women always liked the words and the dispute.

  Not in his club.

  “Enough, Zara. I’ma grab you some sweats to put on, we’ll see about getting you some clothes that actually fit you today, make a list of the shit you need, a good list, you hear? If you’re gonna be here a few weeks, you’re gonna need more than a shirt and pants. The kitchen is to the right, down the hall and hang another right. I’ll see you there.”

  Like
a living thing had crawled up his ass, the swift and potent possessiveness Zara provoked in him stretched and vibrated in his belly, making him close the door behind him with some force.

  He cursed under his breath, feeling out of his depth with one stupid conversation she'd barely even participated in.

  He’d wanted women before, but not like this.

  He wanted Zara immediately.

  To do things to her he’d only ever fantasized about.

  The dirty. The filthy. The downright scandalous.

  And he had once upon a time, all night long, with her screams ringing his ears and her nails clawing his back raw.

  For so long she’d become just a memory somewhere in the recess of his mind, he believed he’d made more of their night than it was, that’s how good sex was, the memory of it builds it greater than it had been, like talking up cold pizza, it’s the best thing ever when you’re ravenous.

  But he recognized the truth when it head-butted him.

  Out of this world came to mind.

  And she was back in his life.

  He was no Einstein but he could link A to Z, it was obvious his thoughts would go there, to reawaken those recollections for old times’ sake.

  Least, his dick was on board as it ached behind his zipper.

  His fucking dick had a mind of its own and a dry spell to contend with.

  Rider wasn’t cut from the white knight cloth for fuck's sake.

  An outlaw riding to the rescue.

  Zara’s rescue.

  His Icy girl.

  Goddamn…this was an existential crisis if he ever saw one.

  He sucked in a breath, letting his feet carry him away from his room before he turned back and did something he regretted like pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay and not to fear him.

  Outlaws and good deeds were the perfect oxymoron’s, but even as he strode towards the kitchen to grab food for Zara, he could feel his lines blurring.

  Twenty-four hours ago he hadn’t thought of her in forever.

  Now all he could think about was her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “She wanted to believe it was no big deal that a bad biker man was holding her hand.” – Zara

  Appearing in the kitchen doorway more than an hour later, seduced by the scents of frying foods, Zara’s belly growled loud enough to have heads turning her way.

  But it was only one she saw. Rider’s head reared up sensing her presence.

  His unrelenting blue eyes came across the floor, started at her feet and moved up her long legs, trailed the body he'd once known intimately, he had been the first to touch, to show her what pleasure could be in its rawest form, before his gaze rose onwards to her face, holding her own eyes dangerously tight.

  Zara was dead inside yet still felt the touch of his stare. It branded as hot as a fire-poker would, touching her in the same way he had three years ago, without hesitation.

  Look away if you dare, his eyes provoked.

  Rider was not smoke and mirror, his intentions were right there in his unwavering stare.

  He intended to claim her.

  He had the look of a possessive alpha animal while he sipped on what smelled like coffee.

  Oh god. What was happening? Hot shivers slid down her back. Dreaded emotions.

  Maybe she was wrong. She reached up to fidget with her hair, brushing the strands into place, though after her boiled shower, no hair dryer in sight, though she’d searched the cabinets under the sink, there was no taming the humidity locks. She pulled the whole sweep of blond over one shoulder, unsure how to proceed next.

  Men continued to eat, to talk, to make their usual breakfast time noises. She heard “fuck you” laughed more than three times in the space of a minute. More curses exchange, only she was stuck on looking at Rider who didn't say a word to anyone.

  If there was one thing she could recognize in his otherwise unrecognizable features, was that she knew when a guy wanted to claim her.

  Rider wanted her. Clear as day there it was in his gaze.

  And what he'd do with his wants was anyone's guess, she felt powerless to do anything even as her belly warmed at the thought of that want. Had one gilded cage been exchanged for another?

  “You can come in, cariño. The toast is pretty safe and I vouch for the café ‘cause yours truly brewed it.” One accented appealing voice among the small crowd reached out to her. “I’m Capone. This ugly shit here is…” the cropped dark haired man with the thin accent and goatee went around the table introducing men to her.

  Most nodded and said hey.

  Only one looked blankly at her, his lips thinning, before returning to his eggs. Jesus hair was still here.

  And he was looking shabbier than the first sight she’d had of him at that party. Long muddy blond hair, a beard in desperate need of a trim with a weed whacker.

  Still scary.

  She stopped breathing for a second then tried desperately to rein in the overwhelming panic to turn around and leave them to their breakfast, it was an unnecessary emotion wasted on her, what would happen would go ahead no matter what she was feeling, hadn’t she learned that lesson the hard way.

  Rider maintained his eye contact waiting for her to come to him.

  The draw to him was there like he was willing her to go to him without a word, just the power of those deep-set eyes shadowed in even darker lashes.

  With a mental head shake, feeling every pair of eyes boring into her back, Zara pushed back her shoulders not feeling a lick of the confidence she was trying to convey, wearing a too long Renegade Souls black sweatshirt, she'd tucked it into the pair of track pants at first but there was so much material she'd looked twenty months pregnant. Now it flapped around her thighs.

  It wasn't as though she wanted to appeal to any of these guys so what did it matter what she looked like.

  She was a walking bruise taking the steps over to Rider, every bone hurt, her skin sore from beatings and the second harsh scrubbing she'd given herself in the shower.

  Showers had been a luxury Hades hadn't let her indulge in too often, more mornings that she could count she'd just had a stand-up wash either in the small bathroom sink with frigid water and the scrap of soap she'd tried to use sparingly, or using some of the face wipes she'd stolen from one of the club whores.

  Either way, Zara had never felt fully clean, even now her body itched to turn back around and submerge again in the hot steam and four shower heads.

  She was unclean inside and out. No amount of soap could scrub her kind of dirt.

  You're trash and you'll always be trash, sweet love. He might not be around, but Hades' presence wasn't far from Zara's self-flagellation.

  He'd taunted her so much that maybe what he said wasn't altogether false. She'd done a lot of trashy shit to survive, you couldn't put a halo on a demon and expect him to be an angel. It just didn't wash that way.

  She passed by the table of bikers, all wearing their club leather cuts, expecting jeers, she braced for it, her hearing almost tuning out the din of noise as she'd done countless times, usually those jeers came with large rough hands slapping her butt, pulling her onto their laps to paw with disgusting hands or vile tongues ramming into her mouth, if she let herself think about it, she could still taste that same vileness. Tobacco, halitosis, and evil.

  She'd woken up finally but was still trapped in the nightmare of expecting the worse.

  Nothing happened.

  They went about their eating, leaving Zara to make the fast walk over to the only safe haven she’d known in the last twenty-four hours.

  Whether Rider was going to use her for his own needs, was left in the air, but her heart beat faster finally reaching him as if her body only recognized the man who had saved her from a life of pain. Safe now. The urge to really move into his space was overwhelming, somehow, she ignored it.

  "I thought I was gonna need to send out a search and rescue dog for you. You've been out for sixteen hours, darli
n'. You slept well I take it?"

  Rider spoke before she'd fully reached him. His eyes stopped their assessment yet she still felt the heat tracking over her.

  To stop her hands from shaking, she laced her fingers tightly together, concentrated on inhaling her feelings away.

  "Yes, I did. Thank you for the clothes." She lifted her arm with the sweater she’d rolled up three times at the cuffs just to make it fit her.

  "Thought you could do with something clean. I'll send one of the girls to get whatever else you need. Did you make that list?"

  “No..I. I took a shower and forgot. You don’t have to get me clothes.”

  “Unless you’re thinkin’ of running around naked, Icy, you’re gonna be needin’ clothes. Write a list of the things you want for now and then in a few days when shit dies down I’ll run you into town to buy the rest.” Zara’s face heated.

  He said it so simply. Zara frowned confused at his generosity, unsure of his angle if he had one. She tipped her head back to meet his stare.

  “Babe. I can hear you thinkin’. It’s just clothes.” Reaching around her, Zara flinched expecting the worse.

  What she got was a cup of coffee held out in his large hand.

  A dangerous look on his face, he’d caught her reaction.

  She grasped it automatically, inhaling the steam from the top of the hot drink, avoiding his stare. “Thank you.”

  She’d still been a captive only a day ago, excuse her for thinking the fucking worst. In fact, she turned a scowl up at him to tell him just that, only he got in first by saying.

  “Drink, babe. Tiny is gonna make you some eggs and toast, throw some bacon in a pan for her, too, Tiny.”

  “You got it, Prez.” He winked at Zara. Tiny. She turned her head to where the guy in question was stood at the stove cracking eggs into a glass dish, he added pepper and salt and whisked them using only the thickness of the biggest wrist she’d ever seen. There was nothing tiny about that man, he was practically scraping the ceiling with his dark shaggy head.

  Her eyes rounded. “He’s big…”