Calamity: Motorcycle Club Romance (Sleepless Spades MC Book 4)

by Nikki Riker

  The memory of his kiss burns like a brand against my lips. For years I envied other girls their magical first kisses because mine had been thoroughly underwhelming. Sex has always been a take it or leave it situation for me because it's always been something to get out of the way. An obligation I endure for the men I'm seeing. Because while I liked them, sex was always the stumbling block. I've never been able to get off with a man inside of me.

  Until Calamity Gardel. How fucked up is it he can make me cum with just his fingers and tongue, when other men couldn't even do that much with their entire body? Even his kiss is phenomenal. The tug of his fingers in my hair sent desire throbbing straight to my pussy, as if I could almost feel what it would be like to have him inside me. He's a big, broad caveman, and I find it unfairly hot. I have only one defense to throw up every time my mind tries to wheedle me into capitulation.

  He killed your father.

  I let my hand fall away from my mouth. It always works. It's like a slap from my father himself for forgetting that he was murdered, even for an instant. And it fills me with shame to know that I'm enjoying being touched by his murderer.

  I thankfully don't have time to think about it for long. My attention is almost immediately drawn to the deplorable state the King's side of town is in. The buildings seem dingier, and most keep bars on their windows. Unsurprising, as the Kings let their worst elements roam free to terrorize the populous. As we walk, I spy a drug deal going down in broad daylight, as if the threat of police action is laughable.

  I know the Spades own a few cops, sliding them cash from the Casino to overlook some of our shadier dealings. But we don't sell drugs to kids. And there's no doubt in my mind that most are kids. The young man buying barely looks older than sixteen.

  "Disgusting," I mutter.

  Kylie gives me an unpleasant grin. I'm thinking her only settings are bitch and uber bitch.

  "You think you're fucking better than us, huh?"

  "I know I'm better than you. The Spades don't get a kick out of selling drugs to kids."

  That little smile drops from her face, and she regards me like I've just said the stupidest thing in the world.

  "Must be nice to hand edicts down from that high horse, huh? Just because you had the means to start a legit business and skim money off the top that way. The rest of us have to contend with the real world, sweetheart. And drugs are the best way to make money fast when you've got nothing, hon."

  "You can't, you know, get a job like the rest of us?" I drawl.

  "Sugar, I've been a whore since I was twelve. It wasn't no pimp that dragged me into the trade. My daddy sold me to his friends first, and then to complete strangers. And most of the girls on this side of the line have worse stories than mine. It ain't one thing that makes us this way. So you might want to think about that before you run your ignorant mouth."

  I want to haul off and slap her. I know the sex trade isn't so simple. I've helped dozens of girls get out of it. The best way to make sure that stories like hers didn't happen was to shut men like them down when they were found. Then make an example of them, so no one knew to fuck with the rules.

  "Drugs ruin lives. And those kids are young. They'll never shake those cravings for the rest of their lives."

  I know that from experience, too. I spent over a year abusing a prescription for Oxy after tearing my ACL in school. Even now, about a decade later, I still crave that feeling of utter peace that comes with snorting the drug. It sounds damn good right now when everything is so damn confusing.

  Kylie snorts and rolls her eyes like it's just too much effort to argue with me. I don't pick at it, satisfied I've made my point. She can take it or leave it.

  I finally decide that if I will be here, I might as well affect change for good. I could try to give some of the working girls on this side of the line options. So Malick and Kylie escorted me to the squat, depressing one-story building that passes as a library. It has two working computers, a few woebegone bookshelves, and not much else. I'm relieved to see they do at least have a reference section.

  I make a note to see if there's a rehab center here. I'll have to make a hard sell to Gardel, but even he's getting sick of having me lying around the clubhouse all day. It's not like he's there most of the time, and even when he is, he's not spending the time fucking me, as he originally planned. I tug my lip between my teeth, considering if the favor is worth the price I'm likely to pay.

  Would I fuck Calamity for a chance to put things right around here? Maybe. But I can't trust that he will give after he's taken. So I must start slowly with the bartering process.

  My train of thought is derailed when I hear a sharp crack of sound and a pained cry. I rush ahead of my two bodyguards, leaving them both feet behind me. Malick lets out a surprised cry and barrels after me. I find the source of the commotion quickly, tucked into a little back alley. That arrogant biker that grabbed my ass almost a month ago—Liam, I think his name was—has a scantily clad blonde pressed to the brick of a little pawn shop.

  "Where the fuck is my money, Vi?"

  "Please, Liam, I didn't do anything, I swear-"

  His hand shoots out, and thick fingers wrap around Vi's throat, cutting off her air. She only manages a shocked gurgle.

  "The money, Vi. I'm gonna ask one more time, and then I'm gonna start breaking things. You whores don't get to pull any fast ones over on us." He releases his hold on her just enough to allow her to choke in air.

  "Stop, Spade," Kylie calls. "You can't get in the middle of this."

  I turn half-toward her, shooting an accusatory glare at the busty brunette. "Like hell, I can't! Why aren't you doing something? She's one of yours."

  When Kylie says nothing, I snort in disgust. Malick lunges for my arm too late and misses by inches as I launch myself into the alleyway and at the thug towering over the terrified prostitute.

  I knock his arm away from her throat with a well-placed strike, and he jumps back, clutching it to his chest in shock. I don't hear a crack, so I don't think I broke it. But he seems upset about it all the same.

  "I'm giving you one chance to back the hell off, buddy."

  Liam rakes his eyes over me, a sneer curling his lips. "You're not in charge here, Spade. You think I'm just going to take orders from you because you're fucking my boss? You're the flavor of the month. Once that pussy is all used up he's going to toss you out on your ass and-"

  He's forced to swallow the tail end of that sentence along with a fair portion of my knuckles. They split all over again, and this time they feel worse because I'm sure one of his eyeteeth gouged a furrow on the back of my palm.

  He rocks back on his heels, dazed by the hit. I throw my shoulder into his gut and knock him off balance. He's forced to the opposite wall of the alley, onto the dingy siding of a defunct furniture shop. His head makes a satisfying thwack when it hits the wall, and I bury another fist into his gut, doubling him over. My knee comes up, knocking into the family jewels with enough force to make him emit a girlish squeal.

  I don't stop hitting him once I've started. It feels too good to drive my fists into him repeatedly. All the pent up rage, the feeling of helplessness falls away when I take some of my own back from this pathetic excuse for a man. Tears haze my eyes at some point because it's a stark reminder this isn't some fantasy where the brute gets reformed by a good woman. This man peddles death and misery for profit, and he doesn't give a shit. The only reason I'm not another victim is that my father and brothers would never have allowed it. Rule number one. We protect our women. Rule number two. Call a Spade a Spade. Tell it like it is.

  And I've just gotten a fresh slap in the face as to how monstrous Calamity Gardel is.

  At some point, Malick wrenches me away from the piece of shit lying on the ground, saving him from another kick. When my vision finally clears, I see that he's crouched and bleeding, holding himself in a fetal position to minimize the impact of my blows.

  I turn away from him with a huff of disgus
t and march back toward the clubhouse without being directed. They want to drag me in front of Gardel? Fine. That's exactly where I want to be. I want to call him out to his face, see if there's even a shred of humanity left in the bear-like man.

  I'm shouting before I even reach the front doors. Blood beats a tattoo into my temples, and I feel like my head might explode at any second from the effort of trying to contain my fury. I find him in the room, conversing with one of the men I saw earlier. The dealer selling to the kid.

  "We need to talk, asshole," I hiss.

  Calamity's face darkens, and his voice comes out low and dangerous. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

  "I said we're about to talk, asshole. No, I'll talk, you listen."

  "Tread carefully," he says in an eerily level voice. If I weren't seeing red at the moment, it might scare me. "One more word out of you and you'll regret it."

  "You're going to do what?" I mock. "Paddle me? Cause you're sure as fuck not going to kill me. I'm still bait, remember?"

  His face is etched with angry lines, as though they're being drawn right onto all that pale skin as I watch. His hands twitch at his sides, and that's all the warning I get before he's stalking toward me. I'm not quick enough to escape the hand that lashes out, seizing my bicep in a bruising grip. He almost yanks my arm out of my socket as he drags me across the foyer to his room. I'm still spouting obscenities at the top of my lungs, but my rage goes from boiling to a light simmer as the reality dawns on me.

  The frame rattles when Calamity slams the door behind us. He rounds on me, blue eyes like lightning, almost painful in their intensity as they spear me.

  "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

  "One of your pimps just tried to kill a girl. Thought you should know before Malick rats me out for beating him within an inch of his life."

  Calamity's expression barely flickers. "Some of the girls keep back more than their share."

  "You don't get to play god," I spit. "No wonder you're alone. You're a miserable washed-up old misogynist who shoves women around because he's compensating. No wonder your wife and daughter left you. They were ashamed of you. And they should be because you're pathetic!"

  My back hits the door with bruising force, and Calamity's hand shoves into my hair, yanking it to the point of pain. His teeth tug my bottom lip, biting it.The skater dress hikes up around my waist as he slides me up, and I have no choice but to wrap my legs around him or hang like a limp rag doll in his grip. The clink of his belt is the only warning I get.

  And then he's inside of me.

  8

  Calamity

  Penelope lets out a gasp even as her head collides with the door at the force of my thrust. It feels just as good as I imagined to be inside her, but it's secondary. I'm beyond seeing red, angry with her for having the gall to confront me in front of the others, as though there haven't been enough whispers circulating King territory about me. I'm only leader for as long as I can show strength enough to hold that position.

  And I'm not about to let a damn Cruz dictate to me in my town.

  I dig my fingers into the outer curve of her thigh, dragging her hips into a more ideal position, letting out a groan when she flexes around my cock. She feels like goddamn nirvana, and I hate her for it. I want her to hurt. I want every drag of my cock to be laced with the reminder of how much I despise what has been done. But she's a tough little firebrand and meets me on the downstroke with a moan, apparently over her initial surprise enough to sway her body against mine in a move so sensual it should be illegal.

  "Calamity," she moans.

  The sound of my name on those gorgeous lips only makes me drive into her harder. I want to hear it again, in just the same fashion. The title is hard won. It took me almost a month to wrench my first name from her. No more Gardel this or Gardel that.

  The door rattles as I thrust into her again, hard, drawing out another moan. So much for my rules. Hard to convince her to beg for my cock when she's had it already. And now that I've gotten a taste of what it feels like to be inside of her, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop myself from doing it again.

  She whips her arms around my neck, anchoring herself firmly against me, meeting me stroke for stroke. I don't want to look at her, just lose myself in the feel of her tight heat. This wasn't initially about her pleasure. But my eyes are almost magnetically drawn to hers. I've grown so accustomed to watching her pleasure play out across that striking face that the action is ingrained.

  She's staring back at me, those dark, alluring eyes wide with surprise and also slightly glazed with pleasure. I can't seem to tear my eyes away, though I ought to. This feels somehow more intimate than the grip of her pussy on my cock. I'm used to fucking, no thought or emotion required. This is too much like making love for my comfort. The last woman I locked eyes with this way was Trinity.

  Unbidden, the image of her comes to mind. It is eerie just how much they resemble each other. I hate her for that, too. For walking into my life like the phantom image of the only woman I have ever loved.

  With a growl, I tug her from the wall and slide from her. It feels like tearing a limb off, the need to be inside her is so strong. I push her roughly toward the bed, bending her double over the mattress before hoisting that pastel skirt up to her hips, exposing her bare ass. I haul back and smack her. She bucks and lets out a small moan as the sting resonates through her. It's so gratifying that I do it again, and then again until both cheeks are tinged a rosy pink.

  When I slide into her again, she grips me tight, glistening pink pussy welcoming me enthusiastically, I half-expect her to tell me no or to demand what my problem is. I want that anger. It's less gratifying to take out the fury on a target who is pliant and waiting for it. Unless that was the ploy all along? Piss me off so she can earn a hard hate fuck? If that's the case, I should draw away from her and let her take care of the unmet desire all on her own.

  But I won't. The feeling of being inside of her has me on the edge already, and I've never been one to lack stamina. She presses back into me, embracing the punishing pace. And despite my best efforts, I can't maintain the anger for long. She looks too much like her. My eyes skim over her, taking in the taut, rosy peaks of her breasts, the dramatic curve of her waist, the full roundness of her hips. Every inch of her perfect, almost as if she'd been crafted to taunt me specifically.

  I almost snort as a snippet of long-ago reading flits into my head, a little too poetic and à propos for the situation at hand. There had been a time Trinity teased me, calling me her scholar.

  Why this is hell, nor am I out of it. Think’s thou that I, who saw the face of God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven, am not tormented with ten thousand hells in being deprived of everlasting bliss?

  Faust, who'd sold his soul for a bag of pointless tricks and damned himself. An ironic parallel could be drawn, I suppose. Willful blindness and trust had lost me one of the few things that made life worth living. I've torn my domain into shreds because I lost her. And now here is this woman, who is too appealing and spirited for her own good, who seems determined to find me appealing, although I'm a monster.

  I tangle my hand in her hair, draw her head back and latch onto the smooth column of her throat with my teeth, aiming to bruise.

  She reminds me of who I was. Of who I could still be if the circumstances were different. I hate her for it. I try to remind myself of that as I drive into her.

  I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

  And I hate that part of me is softening toward this prickly little flower. A rose that's beautiful but will cut you to ribbons if you touch it wrong.

  A tantalizing symphony of moans comes from her. I lean over her, pressing my front against the supple muscle of her back, reaching between her legs to toy with the bud at the apex of her sex. She keens and then yelps my name.

  "Again."

  "Calamity," she pants.

  "Again, Penelope. Scream it."

  "Calamity!"


  And her body is arching off the bed, her whole body trembling with the force of her orgasm. Seeing her like that, hair mussed, eyes glazed over in pleasure sends me crashing over the edge. My hips buck one last time before I still inside her with a hoarse sound of pleasure. She's shivering as the aftershocks rock over her.

  Then I hear a sniffle. She ducks her head, but not before I catch a glistening tear streak down her cheek.

  Fuck. She's crying? Did I hurt her? That was the aim. But now I feel like utter shit for it. It's not truly her I'm angry with. I'm about to ask what I've done when she speaks.

  "Who's Trinity?" she asks thickly.

  My mind goes quiet for a moment, buzzing with static as though I just can't compute what she's said. Trinity. How does she know that name? Had someone told her. And then, like a zombie lurching forward slowly, my reasoning catches up with my mouth, and I realize what I've done.

  Oh, fuck. I said her name. I've said Trinity's name while buried balls deep in Penelope Fucking Cruz. My entire body goes cold.

  I pull out of her so fast my head spins, and I've retrieved my abandoned pants from the floor, jerking them on with harsh, angry movements. I have to get out of here. There's no fucking way I'm staying in this room after that little fuck-up.

  "Calamity-" she tries to say. I don't want to hear it. Don't what to know what she thinks about what's just happened. Because I'm too horrified by this development to hear a goddamn word.

  I'm already out the door before she can finish her sentence.

  9

  Penny

  That motherfucker did it again.

  I will find him and saw his mother fucking balls off.

  Just as soon as I can force myself to stand.

  If I'd thought the orgasms he'd given me before were intense, it's nothing to what I'm experiencing now. This last month in his bed has been the most surreal time in my life, where I simultaneously both long for and dread his presence in the clubhouse. Dread it, because it means my father's murderer may be close at hand. Long for it, because his hands, teeth, and tongue have brought me to hitherto unknown heights of pleasure. It's really making my head spin to feel such conflicting emotion where he's involved. Especially since I should feel nothing for him but scathing hatred.