Engage (Disciples' Daughters Book 3)

by Drew Elyse

  “So, you’re like a total badass,” she shot back.

  I smiled and shrugged.

  “You totally are. Damn,” she seemed to say to herself. “Could you take on one these assholes head-to-head?”

  I looked around at the guys. Ham seemed like a definite no. Big guys could go down hard, but only if they were unskilled enough to let you get their weight out of their control. I got the sense Ham was not that type of guy. His content half-smirk said he knew I was aware of that. I moved my eyes to Slick, Gauge, Sketch, and Ace. They were all definitely formidable opponents. In a fight or die scenario, I might have been able to hold my own enough to get away—assuming I could outrun any of them—but I sincerely doubted I could take them down.

  Then, my eyes moved to Daz.

  His cocky ass smile had me issuing the dare with a lifted eyebrow. It wasn’t so much that he seemed like less of a fight than the others, just that I knew he didn’t see me as a challenge. When I was still in pigtails, Dad had taught me my ace card was men would always underestimate me. I’d learned that lesson well and had been using it to my advantage my whole life.

  I looked from him back to Deni with a smirk. “Well, I could take Daz.”

  He put his beer down and gave me a once over that had nothing at all to do with sizing up my fighting prowess. No, he was checking me out. Again.

  “You think you can take me, baby?” he asked, his ulterior meaning not at all veiled.

  I met his kelly green eyes that were all sex. Really, Daz was attractive. My guess was his constant flirting wasn’t even necessary. Plenty of women would jump at the chance to be with him without it. Of course, that would be jumping for one chance, just a single time hitting his bed, after which he’d promptly forget their names—if he learned them in the first place. Still, it’d probably be a night—afternoon, twenty minutes in a supply closet, whatever—they would never forget. I knew this just from talking to him. Even if I hadn’t overheard their conversation when I came in the room, Daz just reeked of player.

  If manwhore types weren’t a complete turn-off for me, I might be tempted to give him a try.

  “I know I can,” I shot back at him.

  He got to his feet, all calm and cocky. I kicked my flip flops off and shifted my weight to get a sense of the traction I got on the floor.

  “Um…just to say, I wouldn’t trust the floor in here to be go-barefoot clean,” Ash offered.

  I shrugged. There was no way I was taking Daz down in flip flops. It was what it was.

  Daz took a few steps toward me, all swagger, no sense. While he was picturing my tank and shorts on the floor, I was sizing him up. There weren’t any noticeable weaknesses, no favor to one leg while he walked, no gaps in his musculature. I would be screwed in a real fight with him. Luckily for me, he wasn’t giving me that.

  We faced off, neither gunning to make the first move. His body was completely at ease, a nonverbal statement that he was going to let me get a free shot. Fat chance of that.

  “You want me, big guy, come and get me,” I taunted.

  And, like a damn fool, he took the bait.

  He was on me in a moment, swinging out, but not with a fist. He wasn’t going to even attempt to hit me. Instead, he was trying to grab hold and subdue me. I twisted my body out of his reach, turning toward him so I could land my elbow—solidly, though not full force—into his gut. As he doubled over, I moved around him and swept his feet, sending him headlong onto the floor.

  The girls cheered and the guys clapped and laughed at their fallen brother.

  And then, I heard, “What the fuck?”

  I turned and kind of choked when I saw Jager standing there, legs planted and arms folded across his huge chest. Besides his presence, what had me swallowing my own tongue was the fact that he’d gotten a haircut. More accurately, he’d shaved both sides of his head down to nothing, leaving a long, sleek mohawk in the middle. If there were such a thing as haircut kryptonite, mine was a mohawk. It always had been. Some women liked the scruffy look, some liked clean-cut, I liked the edge. Something about a mohawk—in general and on Jager specifically—was so hot, there was a serious possibility I was about to orgasm in front of an audience without him even touching me.

  Just as I was trying to figure out something to say—anything so I’d stop standing there staring at him like an idiot—arms closed around my chest and hauled me off my feet.

  Suddenly, the clubhouse was gone and all I saw was the slate blue I’d painted my bedroom walls six months ago, the gauzy white curtains on the window, my white and silver damask bedspread a mess and falling to the floor, all shrouded in darkness. And in the meager moonlight coming in from the window, three men I didn’t know, guns aimed my way as the fourth tried to grab a hold of me.

  I fought. I kicked, hit, screamed as loud as I could. I wouldn’t let them take me. I couldn’t. I…

  “Ember!” someone yelled.

  But that voice—it was one I knew. It sounded so far away.

  “Ember!” it called again.

  I blinked and my bedroom was gone. I could see it all again, the clubhouse lounge I never left, familiar faces around me.

  Holy shit.

  Holy, holy, holy shit.

  “Flashback,” Jager muttered, and I realized he was kneeling next to where I’d crumpled to the floor.

  Trying to swallow back the tears welling, I moved my eyes from him and up the legs standing a few feet away until reaching Daz’s face. The cockiness was all gone and he looked stricken.

  “Fuck, Ember,” he said in a strained voice, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

  At his words, Jager shot to his feet. “What the fuck were you thinking, asshole?” he demanded.

  “We were just messing around,” Daz returned.

  I watched as Slick stood and got between them. “Jager, man, back down. We were all here. They were screwing around. It was all good.”

  Jager’s head shot his way and he bit off, “Then you’re all fucking responsible. That shit shouldn’t have fucking happened.”

  Shit. Okay. Things were getting way out of hand. “Jager,” I called.

  He ignored me. “You didn’t think this shit might be too soon?” he demanded to the room at large. I watch the men get pissed, particularly Gauge and Sketch, who were inching in front of their women on the couches.

  “Jager,” I called more earnestly. His head came my way as I got to my feet. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I was fine. And then, I wasn’t. It could have happened anywhere.”

  “It didn’t happen anywhere,” he snapped. “It happened because Daz was acting like an idiot and scared the shit out of you.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” I insisted. Then, because I couldn’t let him think otherwise, I stepped around Jager and walked to Daz. “It wasn’t your fault,” I told him.

  His eyes said he didn’t buy it, and I hated that.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jager bit off quietly, then his heavy footsteps pounded from the room.

  I didn’t turn to watch him leave. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could. I was barely keeping myself together without that visual.

  “I’m sorry,” I offered to the room. It hardly scratched the surface, but it was all I had.

  Daz wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Nothin’ for you to be sorry about.”

  I took the comfort he offered even if I wasn’t sure I deserved it after the scene I’d caused. Daz, I decided, was a good guy.

  “I just…” I coughed, trying to clear my throat of the emotion clogging it. “I think I need some time alone.” As much as it was true, it was a shitty excuse, but everyone let me get away with it.

  They offered a few goodbyes and the girls promised they’d come back around tomorrow. I didn’t respond to that. I wasn’t sure whether I was going to make an appearance or not, but I appreciated that they were going to come even though they knew that might be the case.

  Then, with my head scrambled and no clue how to fix it, I walked away.
r />   “Card is set for Friday. Got five guys lined up,” I told the room.

  It was time for church—club meeting, closed doors, patched members only. The room was one used solely for that purpose. If the Disciples weren’t in church, it was locked. Once we were in the room, the fucker was also locked. There was no way for anyone outside the club to get in and try to bug the place or any shit like that.

  Every brother in the club was seated around a table with Stone at the head to run the show. Behind him, the Disciples’ insignia stood proud on the wall. Around us all, the walls were like a museum for the club. Pictures at rallies, mugshots—any kind of shit with sentimental value was hung in here.

  Personally, I thought it was all just shit. Aside from that image on the wall that was patched on all our backs, the rest of it meant nothing to me. Sentimental crap like that, it went away easy. Pictures got lost, damaged, burned to fucking ash. Then, they didn’t mean a damn thing. The patch, that fucking meant something. My cut was destroyed tomorrow, that patch would still be my life.

  I’d had sentimental crap once. It wasn’t what I missed.

  “Simultaneous fights?” Tank asked.

  “Not this time,” I answered.

  Stone turned to Tank. “Officer Andrews get his payout?”

  Tank nodded. “Cops will be otherwise occupied Friday night. At least, the on duty ones who don’t come out for the show.”

  There would be plenty of those. The club might be clean enough to get in fine with the P.D., but that didn’t mean we were fucking spotless. Fight nights were a fat payday, particularly when you knew the house fighter would be the one with the takedown. Somehow, fuckers still showed up every time to bet against me. Served them right when we took their money. Plenty of the local officers were regulars, throwing their tax-payer provided paychecks into the betting pool at their local MC. Fine by us, so long as they left their badges at home.

  “Alright, that shit’s taken care of then,” Stone surmised. “We’ve got one more order of business before you fuckers get out of my face.”

  “Love you too, Pres,” Ham shot back.

  Stone gave him the finger as he went on, “Didn’t get a chance to cover it with all the other shit last time. Jager used club funds to pay off those assholes who had Ember—”

  Roadrunner sat forward and said, “I’ll cover it.”

  Stone kept speaking. “I’d like a vote. All in favor of the club covering that charge, payouts from this run gettin’ cut to eat that, say ‘aye’.”

  Unanimously, with the exception of Roadrunner, the brothers voiced their assent.

  “Right. Done. Get the fuck out of here.” Stone smacked the gavel on the tabletop, ending the meeting.

  No one said another thing about it, just got to their feet and left the room. I noticed Roadrunner didn’t move right away, no doubt others did too, but everyone let it lie.

  In the main room, a couple of the club girls were hanging around behind the bar, passing out drinks. I gave the brunette a nod and she poured me a glass of Jägermeister. She handed it off to me, bending over until her fake tits nearly came out of her top. I took the glass, passed on the other offer, and grabbed a seat by Ace, who was listening to Daz talk about some parts they needed to order for the garage and not being able to find a good supplier.

  That was how I killed the next few hours—with my brothers and an always topped off glass.

  I was heading back to my room, calling it a night, at least for the social shit. Ember stepped out of her door as I approached mine. She hesitated when she saw me, her eyes automatically going down. She didn’t scurry away, though. It wasn’t fear or shyness that had her averting her eyes.

  “Look at me,” I said.

  She did. Immediately. Eyes up and right on me, not even a pause.

  Fuck. Just like I thought.

  I needed to get the fuck out of there, or she did, and fast—before I decided against caution, against respecting my brother, and did something that couldn’t be undone.

  Ember’s eyes stayed on me, expectant. I lost control for a second, letting myself look down at the thin t-shirt and tiny sleep shorts she had on, her long, long legs revealed like a goddamn offering.

  “Shouldn’t walk around here like that,” I found myself saying.

  She finally moved her eyes to look down at herself. Finding nothing amiss, her gaze turned questioning.

  “The guys here respect your father. Roadrunner is our brother, so no one’ll treat you like free pussy. Still, don’t need to be tempting the boys into forgetting that shit.”

  And by “the boys”, I meant myself first and foremost.

  Her mouth widened, but she said nothing. I hadn’t asked her to speak.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I moved passed her, knowing it had to be me. I had to put a stop to this shit before it got seriously fucking out of hand. She would let it. She would let me do whatever I wanted. Whether she realized it yet or not, she was submitting to me. I got to my door, unlocked it, and shut it without saying anything more to her. There was nothing else that could come out of my mouth that would be good for either of us.

  Sitting down on the side of the bed, I pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes, like the lack of sight would get rid of the image in my head. Those fucking shorts. She needed to burn those. If she didn’t get what kind of ideas those things were giving any man who saw her in them, she was a fool. Ember didn’t strike me as a fool.

  No, Ember knew exactly what kind of effect she had on men. She might have too much shit in her head to focus on it, but she knew all the same.

  I didn’t need that. I didn’t need her and her complications.

  Shifting where I sat, I tried to get my solid cock into a position that didn’t feel like I’d locked it in a vice.

  I might not need her, but I needed something to take care of that.

  There were plenty of women around. Women who would fall on my dick just because of the cut on my back. Women who hung around hoping for the opportunity to fuck a Disciple. But I had no interest in them.

  I needed a woman who knew what I wanted, who knew what was expected of her. I didn’t need to train club pussy I wouldn’t be using again. I didn’t need some chick thinking she might hook herself an old man if I went back for seconds.

  No, I needed a woman who came without all the bullshit attached.

  And, I was thinking, a blonde sounded good.

  I made a call, instructing her to meet me at the apartment I rarely used. She had an hour to be there waiting, and I knew she would be.

  When the time came, I was there. I let her in without a word, and she kept her mouth shut like she was meant to. Without instruction, she stripped and stood before me, eyes downcast.

  “Kneel on the bench,” I ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was the last time she spoke. The ball gag ensured that. I didn’t need to hear a thing from her. I didn’t need the sound reminding me who was bent over the bench, taking the cracks from the flogger, taking my cock.

  Though I let the fantasy play out in my mind, I couldn’t forget who was actually there, and who wasn’t.

  “This is pretty.”

  I was out with Cami, Ash, and Ash’s daughter, Emmaline. Deni, regrettably, said her “overbearing, controlling husband” was keeping her home because she’d been experiencing some mild Braxton-Hicks contractions. She was none too thrilled about missing shopping.

  Emmaline, or Emmy, was four years old and obviously a little princess. The all-pink outfit proclaimed that clearly enough, particularly the t-shirt announcing she was, in fact, “Daddy’s Little Princess” in glitter. According to Ash, Sketch was the one who dressed her, which explained the shirt.

  “She’s got five shirts that all say something about ‘Daddy’ on them. If she’s wearing one, it’s probably because Daddy was the one who dressed her,” she’d gone on to say.

  I couldn’t help but picture Sketch, and all his tattoos. I’d seen him a cou
ple times since I’d been around. He, like the rest of the Disciples, it seemed, owned two colors: black and white. White only being the occasional shirt, still always worn under their black leather cut. That he had dressed a little girl in all pink still struck me as crazy.

  When I shared that, Ash laughed. “Well, I say he dressed her. What I mean is he let her do whatever she wanted—like he always does—and just not-so-subtly suggested the shirt.”

  That made much more sense.

  I absolutely bought that Emmy had decided on the flouncy pink skirt she had on. Particularly since it was her who had just spoken, pointing out another piece of clothing she thought I should get. Pink, again.

  My eyes went to the clothes strewn over my arm. I wasn’t averse to pink myself, but there was quite a bit more than I would normally grab. I was finding that I, like Sketch, had trouble saying no to Emmy. I wasn’t necessarily going to buy them all, but I’d try them on for her.

  Ash saved me from this one. “I think Ember has enough pink, baby.”

  Emmy looked at her mom like the woman was speaking Portuguese. “But pink is the bestest.”

  “Best,” Ash corrected.

  “Right,” Emmy nodded, glad her mother was agreeing. Ash just shook her head in amusement. I grabbed the pink sweater.

  The girls and I were out shopping because, frankly, I needed some clothes. Cami’s little drop off had been amazingly helpful, but she’d only grabbed a few things. Now, I was wearing those while I actually stocked up, something Dad had given me cash for and insisted I do. He and I hadn’t made a plan about getting any of my things from my apartment. I think he was waiting for me to bring it up, not wanting to push too soon, and I was waiting to figure out what the heck I was going to do.

  If I were honest, there was no part of me that wanted to step foot in that apartment again. The flashback I’d had with Daz and the nightmares that hadn’t stopped since the first night I’d been at the club made that clear enough. I barely slept because I knew I’d wake up terrified. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I saw my old bedroom, but I was certain it wouldn’t be pleasant.