It wasn’t the best orgasm he’d ever had.
But she tried.
When he came down, he saw she was searching his face hopefully.
That hope wasn’t about getting hers.
It was hope she’d given it to him like he liked it.
“C’m’ere, baby,” he murmured.
She crawled up into his lap.
He kissed her as he slid his fingers into the front of her panties and started to finger her clit.
She sighed into his mouth.
It was sweet.
It was also sweet she was shy about getting naked for him.
He could coax her out of her bra but only after he got her in the zone.
Unless he was fucking her, the panties stayed.
It was wild, considering her job was handling costumes, makeup and that kind of shit for Valenzuela’s porn biz. She was around sex and nudity all the time.
Even with that, she had a hint of square in her.
Beck found it cute.
He kissed her, sucked her tits and worked her clit, finger fucking her a little when she got close so he could draw it out, make it more intense.
She went for him and he watched. She was pretty, but she was a lot prettier when he made her come.
She slid her cheek against his, pushed her face in his neck, and against his better judgement and the guard he’d put up to protect her, Beck allowed himself to feel that. Allowed himself to absorb her cuteness. Her lovability. The indication she wanted to be loved. And for once he ignored her aversion to his cum and wrapped his arms around her, held her to him, stroking her back as she came down.
Her hair smelled like honey and coconut. This meant she smelled both sweet, and like a vacation.
He dug that about her.
He’d always been about brunettes. Exclusive.
Rosalie had been a brunette.
So he was done with brunettes.
“Good?” he murmured.
“Yeah, Beck,” she whispered into his skin.
“I’ll clean you up,” he said.
“I’ll do it.”
He twisted his neck and dipped his chin in a way she had no choice but to slip her head to his shoulder.
He caught her eyes and slid his hand up to her face.
He pulled the hair out of her lashes, smoothed it back, then again cupped her jaw.
“I’ll clean you up,” he repeated.
He’d learned this too with Rosalie.
Or after Rosalie.
You take care of your woman.
However that came about.
Even if that woman wasn’t really your woman.
If she was giving you something—her time, her body, her heart, a not-so-great blowjob—you took care of her.
She looked into his eyes, sadness in hers.
She knew she was getting the good after he’d done his last woman so wrong.
He’d wondered about her at first, why she’d take him on after what he’d done to Rosalie, seeing as everyone, even her, knew what he’d done to Rosalie. He thought she was gonna be about pain, push it with him, get off on the abuse.
It shocked the shit outta him it had not gone down like that.
She did not want to get near his club. Not that he’d let her, but that was the only thing she was weird about. She liked being with him (really liked it), but she didn’t want anything to do with his club.
That was not a surprise.
Not after Rosalie.
But he was the instigator with that, and that he did not get.
It worked in his favor, so he didn’t question it.
She also knew she wasn’t gonna last. He didn’t often spend the night. He showed. She fed him. They both came one way or another. And he was out.
What she didn’t know was that making it clear they were temporary, and they were definitely temporary, was Beck doing her a favor.
She deserved better.
“Okay,” she said.
He bent in and gave her a light kiss.
Then he set her aside, yanked the sheet over her and headed to the bathroom.
It was later, after he persuaded her out of her panties, ate her to another orgasm, then fucked her to another one for both of them, and she asked him to stay the night, he relented for once.
Now she was asleep.
He got out of her bed, tugged on his jeans and went to her living room.
He made sure to close the bedroom door.
He stared out the living room window after he made his call.
Brock “Slim” Lucas of the Denver PD answered.
“It’s late, Beck,” he growled.
“It’s the way it is,” Beck sighed.
“You got somethin’ for me?”
Beck thought about Digger.
But Beck said nothing about Digger.
“Bounty lost their charter. They’re not disbanding. They’re gonna form their own club.”
“Not sure we give a shit about the organizational ins and outs of that MC.”
“Well you should, since they aren’t gonna take that hit and go quiet into the night,” Beck replied. “They’re not done. And they’re morons. So who knows what they’ll dream up to do next.”
“Word on Valenzuela?”
“Nothing out and out. Only smart thing those fuckers have done is grow cautious about Valenzuela. Before and after he disappeared, he let us swing, all that went down. But someone’s still in with him. Something’s still happening outside the club, I feel it in my gut. And I’m on the team,” he was not gonna call it a committee, “to dream up our new charter. Web is too, so I’ll start with him and dig into him about that.”
“You know whose strings Lannigan was pulling?” Lucas asked.
Again, Beck thought about Digger.
But he said, “That’s harder to hit, man. Told you the club blew up when it came out an ex-Chaos was behind our intro to Valenzuela. No one is copping to it.”
He heard Lucas sigh then, “Anything from Janna?”
The girl in his bed.
Costumes and makeup for Valenzuela’s porn biz.
He went after her for intel, part of his plea agreement, the reason he didn’t do but a coupla weeks for that beatdown on Rosalie and was able to get his “brothers” let loose with minimal time so they could fuck up and then really go down.
He was an informant.
What he’d jacked up Rosalie for doing.
His penance.
His contrition.
He’d targeted Janna because she’d been into him.
And she’d seemed weak.
He was fucking her for info.
But then he found he liked looking at her. He liked how hard she tried to give a good blowjob. He liked that she didn’t let him take off her panties unless he got her seriously hot, making him work hard to earn something good for the first time in his life. He liked how she fried him extra crispy crinkle cuts because she knew they were his favorites and smiled all shy, but happy, when he walked in her house for her to feed him and him to fuck her.
So he hadn’t pushed.
But she was a good girl. A good girl who somehow got sucked into the porn business, but still a good girl.
So he’d need to set her loose.
This meant he needed to get what he could out of her and then let her be free to find a real man who’d do her right and deserve those crinkle cuts.
“Workin’ on it,” he muttered.
“Work harder, Beck. Our agreement stands only if you give us good shit. You aren’t givin’ us dick.”
Beck did not get wound up at Lucas’s threat like he would have done just months ago.
Pride one hundred percent goes before the fall.
He was standing, but he was the lowest of the low.
And he knew it.
“I’m on it.”
“Right. So I can expect more from you soon?”
“Yeah.”
“Fantastic. Later.”
The man di
dn’t say goodbye.
Beck went back to Janna’s bed, put his phone on her nightstand, took off his jeans and slid in beside her.
He settled on his back and curled her into him.
She stayed there.
She was warm, soft and smelled like honey and coconut.
So he kept her there.
He was about to hit sleep when she twitched, it was not gentle, and his eyes opened.
She twitched again, stiffened, and jerked even more violently.
No way she could stay sleeping through that.
“Babe?” he called.
“God,” she breathed, sleepy but sounding freaked out.
He drew her closer and looked down through the shadows at her hair all over his chest.
“You okay?”
She shivered.
What the fuck?
He gave her a squeeze.
“Janna.”
“Just a bad dream, honey.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
She hesitated.
Then she settled into him and said, “No. I’m okay. Go back to sleep.”
“Sure?”
Another hesitation and, “No. I’m good.” She tightened the arm she had around him and snuggled into him. “All good.”
She was lying.
He knew it not only with the hesitations but also with the fact she didn’t go back to sleep.
And Beck lay on his back in her bed with her draped on his chest, not sleeping, knowing she was not sleeping, struggling to find the man inside that could handle a pretty woman who fried him crinkle cuts and didn’t mind showing she liked he came through her door, who right then had his cum inside her but was troubled with a bad dream and it was his job to make it all right.
She fell asleep before Beck found that man.
And this meant Beck did not sleep at all.
Pope
At the same time in Boulder, Colorado . . .
Pope sat at his club table, the one with the emblem of the Range MC carved into its wood in the middle, and watched the door open, Spooks coming in.
Spooks looked around, his mouth tightened, and he closed the door, walking to the opposite end of the table from Pope and crossing his arms.
“Late night meet, not even one other brother?” Spooks asked.
“This is just gonna be you and me,” Pope told him.
Spooks’s eyes narrowed.
“You know this shit ain’t right,” he said.
“Get shot of her,” Pope ordered.
Spooks’s whole face got tight. “You cannot tell me who to fuck, brother.”
“You love her?”
A muscle ticked in Spooks’s cheek.
He didn’t love her.
Not a surprise, the bitch was a bitch.
“She mean anything to you at all, man?” Pope asked.
“Yeah. She’s a great fuckin’ lay.”
“She’s radioactive.”
“And we give a fuck . . . why?”
“She’s a cunt. In a perpetual bad mood that she excels at spreading around. All the men hate her. All the old ladies can’t stand the sight of her.”
“And I give a fuck . . . why?”
“You’re fuckin’ her to get back at Taz, who she fucked over, doin’ this after you fucked Taz over and she got shot of your ass, and you felt like a dick but want Taz to pay for that.”
Spooks opened his mouth, but Pope raised a hand to him and kept talking.
“I don’t give a shit about your love life, brother. Fuck who you want. Fuck over who you want. You know how I feel about Taz. She was good for you. She was good to you. That didn’t work out, not my business. Generally, I don’t care where you put your cock. You do somethin’ with it that might get our brothers dicked over, that’s when I care.”
“No one gives a shit about Naomi Allen.”
“Right, Spooks. Three women dead who did not have a direct association with the Chaos MC, but had ties to the Chaos MC. A pussy is takin’ a Chaos cock, she’s covered. Any pussy who has shit to do with Chaos past, present, or just in case these motherfuckers made a deal with the devil and can read a crystal ball, future, should run for the hills. I’ll tell you this, Naomi is banned from Chaos. Not a single Chaos brother would squeeze out a tear she got whacked. But Rush Allen and Tabitha Cage would lose their momma, and that’d cut. So that would cut Tack. Which means that bitch has a target on her back.”
“Sounds to me, that mess in Denver drags Naomi in it, you won’t care.”
“She’s fuckin’ one of my brothers. Any woman who’s takin’ Range dick has Range protection. You make it so I gotta care,” Pope clipped.
Spooks shut his mouth.
Pope did not.
“Word is, Chaos is stavin’ off Armageddon down in Denver. That mushroom cloud ain’t gonna land here in Boulder, Spooks. Get . . . shot . . . of . . . that . . . bitch.”
Spooks gave it long enough his pride could handle it before he forced out, “Not really a loss. She fucks like a pro, but she’s a pain in the ass.”
“Tonight, Spooks. Go home and send her packing.”
“Whatever,” Spooks muttered and turned to leave.
“As your brother, you got my love, man, so I’m gonna add, make shit right with Taz,” Pope called to his back.
Spooks couldn’t hide the pain behind the pissed in the look he shot over his shoulder at his president before he repeated, “Whatever,” and slammed out the door.
He missed his old lady.
Dumb, proud fuck.
But Pope sighed.
After burning her bridges to ash in Denver, Tack Allen’s ex-wife, the dread Naomi had been making her way through the bikers of Boulder for God knew how long, raising Cain, causing mayhem and breaking as many hearts as that soulless bitch could manage.
But outside Spooks, who was working through some issues the wrong way, no Range brother would touch her.
So now that was done.
Which meant if that sick fuck Valenzuela or that revenge-fucked-in-the-head Chew had turned their eyes north, their focus would be narrowed.
So now Pope could sleep.
His Queen
Valenzuela
Present Day
Benito Valenzuela walked in at the back of the set, his eyes on Tallulah, who was standing with the blonde, who Rodrigo, his other director who managed his other line, had wanted to hire as a fluffer, but she’d insisted she was a licensed cosmetologist and had been a stylist at some upscale department store, so she did makeup.
Or something.
Shanna?
Dana?
“That works, Janna,” he heard Tallulah say.
That was it.
Janna.
The blonde stood there holding some outfit on a hanger and smiled at Tallulah like she was the leader of her cult.
Benito respected this.
He admired it.
Tallulah Monroe had gone through his other operation, cherry-picked what she wanted (all of it gash), brought them to their new production facilities and set up her little queendom with her acolytes who were all panting to do her bidding.
Oh yes.
Benito respected this.
He admired it.
He wanted to own it in more ways than he already did.
He wanted to fuck its face, yank its hair while it was on its hands and knees in front of him, taking his cock, making it beg.
As he headed to a chair at the back of the set, he took the nods and the scuttling near-bows of the crew while they made their way around him, giving him plenty of room.
He moved slowly.
This was to hide his limp.
Sucking his dick, that little cunt Camilla had sliced his femoral artery.
But the stupid piece of trash didn’t have the balls for it. Got sick, puked right on the bed that was soaking with his blood, and she took off before she’d made sure the job got done.
Pretty much anyone knew how to fashion a goddamned tourniquet.
And anyone in his business had a direct dial to Dr. Baldwin.
The man made house calls.
An extra five grand, he provided transport to his extensive facilities.
Ten grand a day, they brought fresh flowers once a week and you ordered off any menu in town for breakfast, lunch and dinner in your recovery room.
An extra twenty grand, and the good doctor was a master at keeping his mouth shut.
Camilla had sent his own men to come and clean up after her.
Dr. Baldwin’s staff were a font of information, if the price was right.
He’d gotten word and was in the middle of a transfusion and battling passing out due to the pain meds when he’d brokered those deals.
It’d taken more money (a great deal of it) to make sure he’d regained their allegiance, and when he did, he’d had them tell her they’d taken care of business and the body would not be found.
It ended up money well spent.
And since they’d first turned for Camilla’s snatch and whatever promises she’d given them, although she was currently resting eternally in a marked grave, now that he was fully back, they were not.
Their bodies would never be found.
Benito was not a man who refused to admit making mistakes.
If you could not make those admissions, you learned nothing.
He’d made mistakes.
Not instilling loyalty in his army was one of them.
He relished greed, was filled with it. It fed him, and he had no problem with those around him worshiping at that altar.
But if he didn’t want another bitch to cut him, he needed more.
Now, he was getting more.
He took his seat watching Tallulah rise from hers.
She moved to the “actors.”
They both wore serious faces as they listened and nodded while Tallulah spoke to them, like they were about to film an Oscar-winning performance, not go at each other in a room filled with people until they both came, loud and obnoxiously.
This set had none of the feel of Rodrigo’s set, and Benito found he liked sitting in that chair at the back that was reserved for him.
Being there calmed him.
Watching Tallulah work stirred him.
It also instructed him.
Now Tallulah, she knew how to instill loyalty.
Attention.
A listening ear.
Caring about what people had to say.
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