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

by Nikki Riker

  He's twice my age, for God's sake. I've never been into the silver fox scene. There are plenty of older men to choose from in the Spades MC, some unattached. And I've never felt even a twinge of interest. But there's something about Gardel. Primal, animalistic force that commands attention and respect in men and draws out the inner hedonist in every woman who lays eyes on him.

  I'll bet my fine ass that the reason Kylie hates me so much is because I'm in his bed. I'll frankly be a little green myself if he moves on to another woman. Because part of me already thinks of him as mine, as compelled by me as I am by him.

  "You're a fucking idiot," I mutter. As if someone could ever put a collar on Calamity Gardel.

  Except, it sounded like someone had. He'd groaned a name when he came, and, to my horror, it hadn't been mine. I hate the faceless woman for somehow ruining the moment. Which, again, is stupid, because it wasn't my moment to have. I should be at work, helping Holly at the rehab center. I miss my job. I miss my patients. I miss the endless stories about my brother's kid.

  There's a small part of me that wonders if that brain bleed theory I concocted a while back has any merit. Surely that's the only explanation for the tears and the sense of betrayal so strong it makes my chest ache. If I could somehow block out he's a callous would-be murderer, he's given me everything I want in a bedmate. But the reverse isn't true. Every time he's touching me, he's thinking of her.

  I test my legs after about five minutes, finally trusting myself not to go to pieces. I swipe hastily at my eyes, cursing myself for acting like a sentimental girl. I'm tougher than this. He deserves a good tongue lashing, so I will give it to him.

  I slide my hands down the wrinkled dress primly, settling the fabric over my front and my ass, so I don't flash the room at large when I exit. Then I yank the door open and stride out of the room as if the pleasant ache between my legs doesn't remind me with every throbbing heartbeat he was inside me not so long ago.

  The men from before had the good sense to clear out, which leaves us alone in the foyer. I study it, rather than look at him, running my fingers lightly over a pockmarked section of the wall. Had my brother stood here, facing down Gardel? The place looks rather forlorn without its thuggish occupants to give it atmosphere. It's undeniably beautiful craftsmanship that's been ruined by the ravages of this man's lifestyle.

  Actually, not a bad metaphor for the man sitting on the throne. Beautiful but forlorn, tearing down everything around him because of the one that got away. Trinity has to have been Brooklyn's mom, I suppose. He must have loved her if her abandonment turned him into...this. He will love no one the same way. Especially not me.

  He barely swivels his head to look at me as I step into the light.

  "Thought you might pass out."

  I almost had. Even now, fatigue threatens to overwhelm me. Keeping up with this man is both physically and mentally exhausting.

  "After what you just did? Not a fucking chance."

  His sigh is nearly inaudible. I think I must imagine it because the next second he's on his feet and stalking toward me, a mountain of muscle and barely restrained rage. I back up a step, even as my pussy clenches tight. Stupid fucking reaction, to tie his anger to the anticipation of pleasure. Stupid that I have gotten off, even once, to the fact that he so obviously despises me.

  "Can't you just fuck off? Stay in the bedroom for a few goddamn hours and keep out of trouble."

  "I want to know what the hell that was back there."

  My back hits the wall, and he finally comes to a stop. Hands shoot out on either side of my head, caging me in so all that I can see, taste, smell, is Calamity Gardel. One huge hand comes up to cup my face, a gentle gesture that's at odds with the scorn written on his face. His eyes are glacial, a blue so pale it chills me. It's nothing like the soft, denim shade of Brooklyn's eyes, which seem perpetually warm. I can't fathom how a girl like that came from a man like him.

  His fingers curl around my chin, and his lips quirk up into a nasty smirk. My hands twitch at my sides with the need to punch it right off his face.

  "I knew you were brave, but I didn't think you were stupid, Penelope. You really think I need a reason? We had a deal. Your body for their freedom. I collected my fee. If you think it meant anything, you're deluding yourself."

  It hurts. It hurts more than it reasonably should, and I fight the urge to wrap my arms around my chest to protect my heart. How has he wormed his way in, getting me to care about him? Pressure builds behind my eyes, and I lock my entire body down, breathing hard to avoid crying yet again. My tears are precious, and he's already had enough of them, for God's sake.

  "That's bullshit," I mutter. "And we both know it."

  "Think that if you want, but it's just a fuck. That's all I ever give."

  "It wasn't just a fuck with Trinity, was it?" I counter.

  He rocks back a step like I just sucker-punched him. Those pale, pale eyes are unguarded, and something intriguingly vulnerable flashes across his face. And something shocking occurs to me. I've always thought Calamity Gardel clawed his way out of the gutter, a mean bastard with something to prove to the world and nothing but contempt for the people he crushed along the way.

  But I was wrong. This man that I've hated my whole life is just a front. Because the man before me looks different from the hardened leader of the Kings. He's still monstrously tall and has more muscle than the average bodybuilder, but his eyes are kinder, his posture relaxed. Intelligence glitters in his eyes, and if one swapped the riding letters for a sweater vest, he'd look like a professor.

  "Don't say her name," he says in a quiet, deadly voice. "None of you fucking deserve to say her name."

  Then he turns on his heel and marches back the way he'd come, sequestering himself in the room. I know without being told that I'm not welcome. I give up the battle with my exhaustion and pull one of the heavy blackout curtains from its rod before trooping outside. It's too cold to be sleeping outside in my flimsy skater dress, armed only with a curtain to ward off the cold. But frankly? I don't give a shit.

  I find one of the chairs pressed against the sidewall and curl up like a cat, resting my head on the armrest. The blackout curtain keeps off the worst of the chill. I clutch my arms tight to my chest, trying to smother the feelings of betrayal. I screw my eyes shut and repeat the lie like a mantra.

  He doesn't matter, he doesn't matter, he doesn't matter...

  And I intend to keep saying it until it sounds true. But sleep comes before my traitorous heart believes it.

  10

  Calamity

  Damn her straight to hell, right along with her father.

  She's managed to sucker punch me twice in one night. First, with her tears and now with the mention of Trinity's name. I was a fucking idiot to let that slip. What happened to Trinity is public record, but no one cares to look. Who cares about the truth when there's a handy scapegoat around? Cruz Sr. was happy to sweep the whole sordid mess under the rug and pretend it never happened. And he'd died with everyone believing him the martyr.

  I spit. The hatred for him is a choking thing, made all the worse because I can do nothing about it any longer. He's gone, and I'll never know if it was my bullet or someone else's that ended his miserable life. It was a more merciful end than he deserved. This was supposed to be my chance to wreak a little vengeance on him posthumously.

  I'm not supposed to give a shit about her. I'm supposed to dangle her like bait for her moronic brothers, who I still can't believe are absent. The fact they aren't showing up for her somehow makes me absurdly protective of her. Which is moronic of me, really. Penelope doesn't need help protecting anything, except perhaps her heart. Because if she's letting a bastard like me in, then she's in for a world of hurt.

  I pull a small stone from my jacket pocket, studying it with bleak amusement. Of all the things I expected to find in Penelope's jacket, this hadn't been it. A worry stone worn so smooth she must have had her hands on it constantly. I brush my thumb
across the worn space, following the path that her fingers must have taken. What did my little captive worry about before she came to me? And how is she faring without this to help? And why do I give a shit how she copes?

  All my well-thought-out games are coming to a crashing halt. It's no longer fun to taunt and torment the girl. There is a reason I only fuck whores and never spend more than a day or two with each. I never want to get attached. The iron core of certainty I've held onto for so long will waver, and I'll question everything that's brought me to this point.

  But I can't help myself. Any time I'm in proximity to her, I'm hard. There's something about her that's so compelling that I act against my better judgment. It's been hell to resist her this long. And it isn't just because she looks like Trinity. She's just as compassionate beneath the tough exterior. But unlike Trinity, she's been tough enough to protect herself against the thuggish life of an MC member. Trinity had counted on me to be the shield between her and whatever was coming.

  And I'd failed her.

  I make my mind up after an hour of stewing. She has to go. I can't let this farce go on for any longer. I can't afford a weak spot with all the turmoil going on at the moment. I can't let that weak spot be Penelope Cruz. If I encourage this, it will end in disaster. I have to grudgingly admit that I like her. And if circumstances were different, I might have even allowed myself to thaw and give it a chance. That's impossible now. Too many barriers. Her family is the least of them.

  I snort. Thanksgivings and Christmases will go over well, I'm sure. Nothing starts dinner conversation better than, "Sorry, I killed your father and attempted to murder both your brothers."

  What a fucking joke. I can't have Penelope, even if I want her.

  I retrieve Penelope's clothing from where Kylie stowed it beneath the floorboards. I am sure the stubborn girl scoured the whole room looking for her clothing before finally giving up. She'll be pissed to learn it was beneath her feet the whole time. I shove her things into a bag and hoist it over my shoulder. There's only one thing to do. I will make sure she's not my problem any longer.

  If Cruz wants to get off his ass and play the hero, I'll let him play the hero. Because Penelope is dangerously close to learning the truth, and I don't want her anywhere near my past with that perceptive gaze and kind heart. Better to let her free than cling still more firmly to me. Better for everyone involved that way.

  It's half-past nine when I finally step out of the room and resolve to find her. I'm expecting to find her in one of the upper rooms since I've been monopolizing the one she ordinarily sleeps in. My heart kicks up a little when I realize that she's not in the house. Surely, she didn't leave? She's wearing next to nothing, and I would have heard it if she'd managed to hot wire one of our bikes to make an escape.

  My heart settles into a slightly easier rhythm when I step out onto the wrap-around porch and find her curled up in one of the chairs outside. She's wrapped in one of the blackout curtains and has to be freezing. Stupid, stubborn girl. She had only to ask for one of the rooms upstairs.

  I deposit the bag by the chair.

  With a sigh, I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It's no quilt, but it'll have to do until after I'm through making my phone call. After a second of thought, I take her hand and gently pry open her fingers, placing the worry stone in her palm before closing them around it. Her lips twitch in her sleep but don't quite form a smile.

  I stride away from the house, putting at least a mile and a half between her and me before I pull out my phone. I'm not chancing that she'll overhear what I'm about to do next.

  I pull up my contacts, selecting a number I didn't think I'd call again. After all, Ryker's debt was paid to me. I’m still irate about how badly that whole thing had turned out, but I am a man of my word. He'd settled up with me, like a man of honor should. His number is the only one I have that can get the message directly to Cruz. It's a Wednesday night, so they'll be assembled for a club meeting. It's the perfect time to make my ultimatum.

  The phone rings twice before Ryker picks up. He already sounds pissed, which makes a small smile curl on my lips. There's nothing I like better than spiting the Spades.

  "We're square," he hisses, keeping his voice low so he can't be heard over the pulsing beat of a rap song in the background. "I thought I told you to never contact me again."

  "I need to speak to your fearless leader, Ryker. Where's Cruz?"

  "None of your fucking business."

  He's going to hang up and ignore subsequent calls. I have only a few seconds to catch his attention.

  "You could hang up," I muse. "But that would have dire consequences for Penelope, I'm afraid."

  A beat of dead silence. Then Ryker spits a string of expletives so foul it would make a normal man cringe. I can almost see him trying to marshal himself and formulate a response. His breath is a shallow, angry rasp on the other end of the phone, and I wait.

  "You're a fucking liar," he hisses. "Cruz says she's been gone to visit Kase."

  Ah. So is that the reason darling little Cruz hasn't leaped to his sister's rescue? She's pulled the old switcheroo, with each brother believing she's safe with the other.

  "I'm afraid not. Though now that I know that she knows how to find him, the rest of the night will get interesting."

  "You don't have her." He's rationalizing, trying to cage the fear by believing this is a trap. Can't have that.

  I queue up my phone's photo gallery and skim the snapshots I've taken recently. Almost all of them are of Penelope. Taken during odd moments, when she's not aware she's being observed, or when she's curled half-naked in my bed after I've finger fucked her to orgasm. Creepy, perhaps. But I've never claimed to be a good man and being a peeping pervert is perhaps the least of my crimes.

  "You need proof, then?"

  I select one I particularly like and have gotten off to a few times during the month of painful abstinence, waiting for her capitulation. It's Penelope laid out on my bed, turned onto her side, legs curled in an almost modest position as if even in sleep she's trying to hide herself from me. She's wearing the newest purchase I made for her, a royal blue bra that sets off the golden cast to her skin perfectly. Her hair is mussed in that I've-just-fucked way, and a beautiful flush of color stains her cheeks. Her eyes are closed, which is a shame. They are one of her best features, deep and smoldering and able to capture a man at thirty paces. I hate that I've been snared so easily.

  It takes a few moments to load and another few to send, and I wait again until I hear his phone ding on the other end of the line. He opens the attachment and releases a sharp, shocked exhale.

  "Oh, God...Penny. What the fuck have you done to her, Gardel?"

  I don't respond. I know what conclusions he and Cruz will draw from this photo. No chance in hell they'll believe that everything done with Penelope has been consensual and enthusiastically so. They already believe me a murderer. I might as well let them slap the appellation rapist on.

  "Tell Cruz I expect his call within the hour. And that if he wants his sister back alive, he'll be ready to meet my demands in three days."

  I hang up the phone, ignoring Ryker's bellowed follow-up questions. I shove it into my pocket, expecting a call within ten minutes. Cruz is smarter than his father, I'll give him at least that much. He's not coming at me half-cocked, knowing it could get his sister killed. He's planning a double-cross first, and then he'll contact me after.

  She's still out cold when I reach the house. I pick her up, sliding a hand beneath her head and beneath her knees, hoisting her up as easily as a child. I remember doing this a thousand times with Brooklyn over the years. It should disturb me more that she's Brooklyn's age or younger. In different circumstances, she could have been mine. Instead, she's a reminder of the clusterfuck that went down so long ago.

  And I can't look at her objectively. I haven't been able to since the moment she turned up here, so beautiful and stupidly brave. I should see her as a child, but
I only see a woman. A woman who needs a man like me to match her, to challenge her, to dominate her. She needs someone who can protect the vulnerable interior she hides when her defenses inevitably crumble.

  But I can't be that man for her. Our history is too loaded, even if she doesn't know the half of it yet. I will only keep hurting us both by keeping her here. If I want to be smart, I'll load her into the car and drive her to the line this instant. But I know I won't. I'm selfish. I want to keep her a little longer. I'll tell her tomorrow.

  Eyes follow us as we walk through the foyer. I school my face to be impassive. No one can know what Penelope is becoming. I can't afford a chink in the armor at this juncture.

  I set her down onto my bed gently. She turns her head, burrowing her face into the pillow. I drape the duvet over her, tucking her in and turn to leave.

  "Calamity."

  I cock my head over my shoulder, expecting her to sit up. But she's muttered it only in her sleep. A smile ghosts across my face, and I wipe it away quickly. This can go no further. One more day under my care. If she likes, we can fuck one last time. But that's it. After this, it's business as usual.

  I step out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet click. My phone chimes, and a more feral grin replaces the happiness at hearing my name slip from her mouth. I need not look at the display to know who it is. I let the phone ring a few times, just to make the bastard squirm before answering.

  Cruz's voice is full of barely repressed fury when he speaks, not even waiting for my greeting.

  "Your terms?"

  My smirk tics up a notch.

  Now to have a little fun with him.