by Layla Frost
I took a tentative sip.
And then I downed the whole thing before Rhys had even left the table.
“Another?” he asked with the no-judgment expression of a man who’d been behind the bar for a long time.
“Please.”
“Me, too,” Scythe said. “I want extra cherries and an umbrella in mine.” I’d thought he was joking, but when I met his eyes, a large smile curled his scarred lip. “What? You chugged, it must be good.”
Rhys walked away, getting stopped a few times in the short distance.
Leaning close to Judge, I asked, “He’s not Mayhem?”
“Not officially. He’s… nomad. Welcome when he wants, but free to roam. He doesn’t like other people’s rules.”
Jury snorted and muttered, “You can say that again.”
Which, for whatever reason, made Hollywood choke on his beer.
After Rhys dropped off two cocktails each for Scythe and me, everyone settled in, drinking and talking. Okay, I mostly drank and listened, the men—including Jury, surprisingly—stopping to explain whatever bike term or background info I needed to know to understand.
Maybe it was the alcohol, but I felt warm inside at their inclusion.
And I felt hot in other places because Judge spent the whole night standing next to my stool.
Resting his hand on my leg.
Or on the back of my chair, his fingers absentmindedly playing with my hair.
Or on my leg again, but gripping my upper thigh tightly, his fingertips digging in and making my mind go crazy with thoughts of him using that hold to spread my legs so he could push between them.
He could’ve easily pulled up another stool to sit next to me, but he didn’t. His stance was possessive and protective, blocking people out while keeping me close.
And I couldn’t say I hated it.
After I knocked back the last of drink three, Judge kissed my forehead, his lips trailing down to my ear. “There go my plans for the night.”
I turned to look at him. “What plans?”
But I knew. Even tipsy on my way to drunk, there was no mistaking the lust in his gaze. Still, he made it extra crystal clear by doing what I’d been hoping for. He twisted me in my stool and used his hold to spread my legs before positioning himself between them.
His hard length pressed against me, and a surge of wetness rushed to the spot.
I wanted him. Badly. Beyond all reason and common sense.
“We haven’t even kissed,” I whispered, partially to him but mostly to myself.
Speaking quietly, he said, “Once I get a taste of you, I’m not stopping ‘til I’ve tasted everything. Your flavor is gonna be permanently on my tongue and the feel of you permanently on my dick. When I’m done, neither of us will be able to remember what it felt like before.” He pushed himself closer, grinding his cock against my fabric-covered pussy. “‘Cause nothin’ else fuckin’ mattered before.”
I gasped at the contact but didn’t move away.
No, I clutched his tee at his sides and tugged him closer. “The night’s not over.”
“The fact you’re not diggin’ those claws into my skin or trying to yank my nipples off through my shirt shows you’re too drunk, princess. Told ya you’d be hammered.”
“I’ll switch to water.”
“And then you’ll fall asleep on the way home. Drink.” He smirked. “Relax.”
I scowled and he laughed.
The view of it up close was enough to send a jolt to my clit.
And something else to my stupid, drunken heart.
Judge moved away and turned toward the table, taking stock of who else was ready for a refill before walking to the bar. Once the view of his biteable ass was gone, I tried to turn my attention to the table, but there were two problems.
First, there was a limit to how much bike talk I could take for one night, and I’d exceeded that amount. By a long, boring mile. I loved riding on one, but the parts and specs were a lot less interesting.
Second, and the more pressing issue, was I had to pee.
Badly.
Not wanting to interrupt the heated debate about which something or another was better than the other doohickey, I stood and power walked to the back hallway that held the bathroom.
After taking the best pee of my life, washing my hands, and becoming best friends with the small group of women who were reapplying their makeup, I opened the door and started for the table.
Well, I tried to.
Because before I made it out of the hallway, a man stepped in my way. He wasn’t a biker or a rocker—though not everyone at the bar was—and his suit and loosened tie were far from low-key.
My instincts went on high alert.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I muttered, “Excuse me.”
“Wow, so polite,” the man said, his voice filled with condescension.
Ignoring him, I moved to the side, but he did, too.
“Aw, where’s that pretty smile you had earlier?” he slurred.
Fear stabbed through the layer of vodka-infused happiness that surrounded my brain, sending a chill down my spine as my pulse raced.
I tried a fake-out maneuver that’d make an NFL player proud, hoping I’d be able to dart past. His movements may have been slower, but his size made up for it, and he easily blocked my efforts.
Only that time, I was close enough for him to grip my upper arm and rotate us so I was pressed against the wall.
He put his hands on either side of my head and leaned closer, his beer breath making my stomach churn. “Been watching you all night. You’re smart.”
“Wipe my own ass, too,” I mouthed off without thinking.
Ignoring me—or, more likely, not hearing me because his focus was on my breasts—he continued. “Too smart to be a club whore. And too hot to be passed around from animal to animal.”
Judge had mentioned the intolerance and preconceived notions the brothers faced, thanks to their tattoos and bikes. As brothers of color, Lash and Scythe ‘joked’ they were on a first name basis with every cop in their neighborhoods because people made assumptions and phone calls rather than conversation.
Knowing about it and hearing it for myself were two different things. I couldn’t imagine, even for a second, how they felt living it.
Looking from side to side, I hoped to see my drunken BFFs from the bathroom, but they were nowhere in sight, so I demanded, “You need to move back.”
“Why?”
“Because I fuckin’ said so.”
“In a rush to get back to those scumbags?” He pressed in closer. “You want me to treat you like shit and let my friends have a run at you after I’m done, say the word. They can even watch if that gets you off.”
“Look, I dunno if that’s a baby corn in your pocket or if you’re just happy to see me, but this is your last warning. Move away.”
His bloated face went red, and the trickle of fear I’d felt grew into a waterfall. “You fucking cunt. I’ll show you—”
I braced, expecting him to punch me—or worse—but from one racing beat of my heart to the next he was gone.
A thud echoed in the hall as he slammed into the opposite wall, and the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh followed.
It took a moment for my drunken brain to catch up with what my eyes were seeing—just in time to watch Judge land a second blow to the man’s already bleeding face.
“Judge!” I yelled, pushing away from the wall to try to go to him, but an arm hooked me around the waist. I turned, ready to attack, but stopped when I saw it was only Jury.
Jury took advantage of that hesitation and shifted me behind him. I tried to move back, but his arm blocked me, forcing me to lean around his frame desperately.
“You think I didn’t see you eye-fuckin’ my woman all night, you piece of shit?” Judge growled in the man’s face, his hand tight around his neck.
“Let me go,” the man wheezed, his red face paling as he clawed at Judge�
�s hand.
“Get him off before he kills him!” I shouted at Jury, tugging at his shirt.
But he was just as bad, his body tense as he sneered at the man. “She told you to back off. Told you to move away. You didn’t listen, so why the fuck should we?”
“Broken finger or ten might teach you to keep your fuckin’ hands off what doesn’t belong to you.”
Knowing I needed to defuse the situation before we all ended up in jail, I quickly dodged to the side, barely avoiding Jury’s grab. He caught me around the waist a moment later, but I’d already latched onto Judge’s upper arm.
“Let him go,” I begged.
“Not fuckin’ happenin’,” Judge grunted, the veins in his forearm becoming more pronounced as he squeezed. “Get her out of here.”
“No!” Shoving between him and the man, I put my hands on Judge’s chest. “Move, baby.”
The endearment slipped out, but it worked because his gaze snapped to mine. “What?”
“Move.” When he hesitated, I slid my palms to his shoulders and pushed. “Trust me.”
He didn’t remove his hand, but he took a small step to the side.
It was enough.
I had no clue what’d come over me. Maybe the alcohol. Maybe some primal energy in the air, the smell of blood and sweat and liquor warping my brain.
Or maybe, like a lot of women, I was sick of men thinking they could degrade and manhandle their way into a date.
Whatever the reason, I took that anger—including some residual pent-up ire toward Judge—turned around and pulled back before kicking the bastard right between his legs.
Hard.
Hard enough to feel like my bones were vibrating.
Hard enough to make the men in the area let out an automatic groan.
Hard enough to make the bastard wilt, barely standing even with Judge’s support.
Support Judge quickly removed, letting him crumble to the ground.
Unfortunately for him, he landed with his knees bent and spread, giving me a perfect target to kick him again. I wasn’t sure if I caught his bits or his taint, but whichever it was, it hurt him enough to make him puke a little.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Jury said, pulling me back. “Grocery store parking lot coulda gone a whole different direction.”
Judge got close to the man, and I worried he’d kick him, too. My canvas slip-ons had done enough damage, I didn’t even want to think what shitkickers would do.
“‘Ey,” Hollywood called. “Save some of that, you’re gonna need it.”
“What the fuck now?” Judge asked.
“Glitch just got something. N is doing pickup.”
Judge must’ve known what that meant because a smile spread across his face, menacing and twisted. Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he started walking before stopping.
Releasing me suddenly, he spun back and kicked the man in his side twice. “When you piss and see blood, remind yourself what happens when you fuckin’ touch,” he leaned down to roar, “what’s mine!”
Then, like nothing had happened, he curled his arm around my shoulders, holding me so close I had to take shuffling steps. He lifted his chin to a security guard and Rhys—who, I belatedly noticed, had been blocking the entrance to the hallway.
Well, there goes my shot of ever coming back to see a concert.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind did Rhys give me a big, dimpled grin. “Come see me if you want a bouncer job, darlin’.”
Relieved I wasn’t banned for life, I shot him a dingusy smile and wave over my shoulder as I rushed to keep up with Judge’s purposeful strides.
Once we got outside and away from the building, he stopped and spun me so I was facing him. Gripping my forearms, he leaned down so his face was level with mine.
Before he could say—or yell—anything, I spoke in one long, breathless rush. “I’m sorry, that was stupid of me to walk away given all the shit that’s happening, and I’m really sorry that you had to punch someone because I read that it hurts the puncher almost as much as the punchee, and how did you know I was there?” I finished on a wheeze before inhaling so deep, I nearly choked.
“Buncha drunk chicks ran up to me at the bar.”
Bathroom BFFs to the rescue. They’re the best.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated because he still looked scary angry.
And scary hot.
Psycho hot.
“Don’t be. You’re not used to needin’ a chaperone to take a piss. Just play it cautious from now on.”
I got the feeling he was being a lot more understanding than he felt, but I was also being a lot calmer than I felt.
I was zipped up on adrenaline along with still being boozed up on, well, booze.
He scanned my face and down. “You good? He hurt you?”
I nodded then shook my head. “I’m fine. He was just a douche.”
Jury approached, waving a bottle of pineapple vodka. “Rhys said you’ll probably need this.”
I took it, clutching it to my chest. “Thanks.”
“You earned it,” he said, walking to catch up with the others.
I tried not to feel proud, but I did. That it was a woman who’d hurt him would likely bother the douchebag long after the pain had disappeared. Hopefully he’d think twice before treating someone like that again. It was doubtful, but I could still hope.
Judge looked to the side, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that was criminally hot. “You comfortable with Scythe?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I answered with zero hesitation.
Based on the way he plastered my front to his side and dropped a kiss to my head, my answer had been the correct one.
He’s protective of his brothers, and me being cool with them is important to him.
“I’ve gotta handle something. Scythe is gonna drive you home and hang with you ‘til I get back.”
My automatic instinct was to argue that I didn’t need a babysitter, but considering what’d just happened, that wasn’t quite true. “I’ll grab my helmet.”
“Had him bring his car, just in case.”
“Why?”
“Knew you’d be hammered, no way I’d risk you being on a bike. And in case I got called away early like this…” His large hand palmed my ass cheek. “You’re not on the back of anyone’s bike but mine.”
Ohhhhhkay then.
After giving me another forehead kiss, he was about to let me go when I impulsively grabbed his shirt. “If I’m asleep when you get home, can you wake me up to let me know you got back safe?”
His arm contracted, and he murmured, “Fuckin’ killin’ me.”
“What?”
“Nothing, princess.” He let me go, and we headed for the bikes. “It’ll be late.”
“That’s okay.”
When we reached them, Jury squeezed my shoulder. “You okay, O?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Judge crossed his arms and jerked his head toward his brother. “He can call you O, but I can’t?”
I held up the bottle. “He gave me vodka.”
“Rhys did.”
“Fine. Then he can call me O, too.”
“Heartless.” His smile fell, and Psycho Hottie was back. He looked to Scythe. “Take her home and hang ‘til I get there.”
Scythe didn’t argue or look resentful of his nanny duty. Unlocking a badass car that was even cooler looking than Judge’s, he opened the passenger door, his expression guarded.
He thinks I’m the one who’ll argue about being with him.
Just like my verbal answer to Judge, my nonverbal one to Scythe was instantaneous. I walked right to him, stopping only when we were separated by the door and one of my feet was in the car. “Bob’s Burgers or Brooklyn-Nine-Nine?”
He stared at me for a beat. Then another. Finally, he smiled. “Nine-nine. Rosa gives me w—”
I held up my hand to cut him off. “TMI.”
“I was just gonna say she gives me strong,
Latina woman goals.”
“Right,” I drawled.
He headed for the driver’s side, and I got in, closing the door.
Motorcycle engines roared to life, but not before I heard Judge say, “A motherfucker’s gonna die tonight.”
My stomach sank, churning and clenching with worry.
But not for whoever had the target on their back.
I didn’t know what it said about me that my concern was for Judge and the rest of Mayhem. It definitely wasn’t good.
It also wasn’t good that it was after we’d gotten to the clubhouse…
After I’d had more drinks…
After we’d binged some Brooklyn Nine-Nine…
After I’d washed up, after I’d changed into one of Judge’s tees, and after I’d climbed into his bed…
It was hours after when it hit me that Judge had told Scythe to bring me home.
And never, not even for a second, had I pictured my apartment.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
___________________________
A GOOD NIGHT
JUDGE
PULLING UP OUTSIDE A warehouse that was even more secluded than the clubhouse, I killed my engine and swung off my bike. My adrenaline, already high from the shit at Rye, kicked up a notch. I was coming outta my skin.
If Ophelia hadn’t been around, I’d have put that fucker through the wall for touching her.
I would put this one in the ground.
Stretching my neck as I moved, I walked to the door with Jury at my side and my other brothers at my back.
It’s gonna be a good night.
The door opened as we approached, Beck standing in the doorway, a twisted smile on his face.
He only smiled like that when he knew he’d be torching a place.
Which meant he knew whoever was in there would be ending the night—and his life—with a bullet in the brain.
And that meant I smiled, too.
We were sick fuckers, but I didn’t care.
Glitch took Beck’s position keeping watch out the front door.
“Last room to the left.” Beck stepped outside. “I’m gonna get to work planning.”
“That crazy bastard is gonna get caught humping a fireplace,” Hollywood muttered as we walked through the building, our steps echoing.
