“In that order, huh? You’ve thought of this?”
“Every damn day since I’ve laid eyes on you.”
“Wow, so an entire week. Excuse me if I don’t feel so special.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“And you’re welcome to leave,” she argues, and I have to tuck my hands across my chest. I can feel them beginning to shake, and I just want to make her submit while I bend her ass over this desk and fuck her until she apologizes for her snarky retorts.
“Fine, if we aren’t going to dinner, then do you have anything to eat?”
“Seriously? I paid up my favor to your Prez; I don’t need to feed you.”
“And we saved your ass last night.”
“You did not, I was fine.”
“The least you can do is cook me dinner.”
“Keep dreaming, cupcake. I’m not a domesticated chick.”
“The Pit sells food, right?”
She gazes up at me curiously. “Yeah...why? I’m not paying for my employees to come in and cook for you.”
“Is the kitchen unlocked?”
She nods, biting the inside of her cheek.
“You gonna be here when I’m done?”
“Oh, no, biker boy, I’m coming with you. I’m not going to let you destroy The Pit kitchen.”
With a snort, I leave her behind, heading for the main level where I’m sure the kitchen’s located. She may not be domesticated, but I like to eat, and I actually do know how to cook. So what if I pretty much only know how to make pancakes and steak? It has to count for something. Not that I give two fucks what anyone thinks. Even though I’ve never cooked for a chick before, she doesn’t need to know that small detail.
5. I can’t remember your name, but
you’ve got the red and black ’67 Chevelle
with the supercharged big block right?
- Future Wife
This gorilla-sized man is thundering around The Pit’s kitchen, and he appears to be making about twenty pancakes on the flat grill. I never pegged him for the Suzy homemaker type, but even I have to admit it’s pretty damn sexy watching a man cook breakfast for dinner.
“Fuck, this heat has me wanting to stroke out,” he grumbles, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his plain black T-shirt.
“Welcome to Texas,” I mutter, swinging my legs as I sit on the shiny metal prep table, watching him mix a bunch of shit and then pour circles on the enormous restaurant size cooker. “You’re really going to be able to eat all of that?”
He grunts and next thing I know, he’s shedding his shirt, draping it over his shoulder giving me a full view of his wide, muscular back. Only one thing shapes muscles like that. I’d bet the man can do pull-ups for days. No wonder he knocked ol’ gnome out yesterday when he hit him. The man has the strength to easily dole out some punishment. Plus, he’s like six feet six or somewhere around there.
“How tall are you, anyhow?”
He turns to glance at me, eyebrow cocked. “Why?”
“Uh, I was just thinking about how you knocked that guy out last night. I was trying to figure out how many pull-ups you can do and was factoring in your height.”
His brow furrows. “You come off hostile, but I think it’s because you’re too damn smart up there in that pretty little head of yours.” He uses the spatula to gesture toward my skull.
“And you’re the size of an ogre. Should I assume you’re all brawn and no brains?”
He shrugs, turning back to flip the flapjacks over, and mutters, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Staring at him with that comment, I realize I don’t exactly hate him at this moment. He annoys me, but I think it’s because he’s so freaking attractive and he pushes me. Most men don’t have enough balls to really take me for what I am. They scare easily. This ogre, though, not so much. Maybe because he’s used to being the one who does the tormenting.
“So, how many can you do?”
“Pull-ups?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs then steps to me. “Watch the hotcakes.”
“Uh, ‘kay, but don’t be pissed if I burn them.”
“Won’t be the first time I had them like that either.” He shrugs and leaves me with a wink.
He stops in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” My gaze remains trapped on his every move. I can’t seem to break away from staring.
“You’re the one who wanted to know.” He drops his shirt, turning to face me and seconds later jumps up.
There’s a bar above the door, secured to the frame. It’s so we can slide a top lock in place if needed. I never really understood why the previous owner had it like that.
He makes it to fifty when the pancakes are cooked, and I have them on paper plates. He’s not even winded, chest coated in a light sheen of sweat. Fuck me, do I want to lick his freaking pecs. The man is ripped and just put me in my curious place pumping out fifty pull-ups without another thought. The sex we could have would be insane! Not that I plan to fuck him, but holy hell, I have to scrape my jaw off the floor at this rate.
“Not bad,” I mutter and hand him his plate.
“Mm-hmm, could keep going, but I’m hungry,” he grumbles, grabbing a plastic spork and the jar of peanut butter. There wasn’t any syrup around, but he swore the peanut butter would be just as good if not better. I’ve never had it like that, so we’ll see.
We sit side by side on the prep table and oh baby Jesus H. Christ do I want to lean over and just sniff him. The man’s pheromones are blanketing me with his little impromptu workout and cooking session. Not only that, but he can drive. The bastard won his race last night. I almost don’t know how to act around him.
He smears the peanut butter with his finger on each cake and holds it up.
“What?”
“Lick it.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’d offer that too, but I know you’ll fight me about it.”
“Jerk.”
“Lick my finger.”
“Not happening.”
“You asked about the pull-ups, and I cooked your dinner. Now lick the peanut butter off my finger.”
My stomach twists and heat pulls between my thighs at his demand. The man is sinful and infuriating all in one. He’s expecting me to argue, poking at me for a fight, so to keep him guessing, I lean over, close my lips around his finger and suck. Yes, I said suck…the peanut butter off.
Sitting back up, I lick my lips and peer up at him through my lashes. His nostrils flare as he takes deep breaths, his cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with desire.
“Yummy,” leaves me in a breath, and he clears his throat.
With a jerky nod, he takes a big bite and chews, staying silent. It worked and shook him off balance, just as I wanted. I dig into my own plate full of pancakes, using my finger to spread the peanut butter the same way I watched him.
When I’m finished, I go to take a bite, but he tugs my hand. I watch with bated breath as he lifts my finger to his mouth. He gently scrapes his teeth along my finger and follows it up by sucking the rest of the thick peanut spread off.
Oh, my.
I see now why his cheeks tinted. I feel my own grow warm, my nipples stiffening in response to his wet tongue on my flesh. “Delicious,” he confesses, his voice choppy and gruff with need. I know because my own voice thickened after having a taste from him.
“It’s really good,” I admit after another bite.
He smirks and continues to chew. I should’ve bitten my tongue. Now he’ll claim I owe him for cooking us dinner.
“So, were you guys able to get what you needed from those Iron Fists?”
He grows serious, his eyes guarded. “You need to forget about them.”
“They tried to jump me; I can’t just swipe it under the rug.”
“You can, and you will,” he orders, finishing his last pancake. He hops off and tosses his empty plate in the
trash. I finish my food, and he takes my plate from me, throwing it away as well.
“Thanks.”
He holds his hand out, palm up. I raise my eyebrow and hop down myself. “I haven’t needed a man to help me down before, so I won’t start now. We shared pancakes and got into a fight together. We aren’t exchanging vows or anything.”
“You can’t handle letting a man be in control, can you?”
“Of me?” I scan his gorgeous body from top to bottom. His old jeans fit him in the perfect way, his heavy leather boots complementing the look nicely. “No. I don’t have a problem with a man being in control as long as it’s not with me. I’d end up breaking him.”
He snorts. “Then you haven’t had a real man.”
I flick my gaze to his and admit, “Probably not. Doesn’t mean I’ll give you a shot though.”
He grumbles, and I grin.
“Thanks for dinner, cupcake, but I have to get back to work.”
“Strip. I’ll work your body.”
“Ha, nice try, big guy. Don’t you have stuff to do for your Prez?”
Don’t they ride their motorcycles around and glare at children for fun or something?
“I’m doing it.”
“What?”
“Hanging around here and keeping my eye out for various people.”
“I see. Well since you’re not going away, how about you change the oil in the Camaro?”
“I can do that,” he easily agrees, and it makes him even more attractive in my eyes.
He’s a man’s man. You don’t come across many of those now that know how to fix cars, drive them like they stole them, grill food, ride motorcycles, and fight. His type goes all the way back to the cavemen. He’s a provider and a predator, and that’s fucking hot.
Most of the guys I come across are hipsters, growing a beard because it looks cool. They may as well have a vagina between their legs. They wouldn’t know how to change a tire or defend themselves if you paid them to. It gets old for me, being more capable than the men I attempt to date. After a while, I just gave in, fucked them to scratch an itch, but gave up on the idea of ever finding something remotely close to love. In this life, it’s thrive or perish, and I’m a fighter.
I watch as Mercenary heads in one direction and I make my way to my Nova. I raced her last night, so I was in the middle of changing out her oil and checking everything else over when Merc decided to interrupt me. My gaze on him only breaks when I slide underneath the door. I seal up the thick black plastic drip pan I used to catch the oil and push it off to the side. Then I go to work replacing the filter and twist the plug back in to the oil pan. She’s good as new and ready to kick some ass again.
Now if I can shake this biker, I’ll be the same.
6. Prius - I get 50 mpg, what do you get?
Camaro - Laid.
“How’s the girl?” Torch asks as I take a seat in the clubhouse. Rock music plays quietly in the background, drifting in from the bar.
We’re sprawled out on leather ebony couches positioned in a square around a low, polished wood table. Nearly everyone’s chilling over here, so I figured what the hell. I’m already the newest member of this charter—practically an outsider and I need to break through that label. Chicago was my home, but I can never go back unless I want to find my head cut off by the damn mob.
I’m determined to make Texas a place for me; otherwise, I’ll have to go out on my own. You know what it’s like to be a lone rider? It sucks because you have fuck all to watch your back and shit to make money on. Most lone riders don’t survive unless they’re a paid killer. I don’t have any strife with killing; I just want to have the decision on who I’m killing, so the paid hitman option isn’t for me either.
I grunt in response to Torch’s question.
“Any more Iron Fists show up or sniff around?” Viking’s gaze falls to me.
“None that I’ve come across, Prez. It’s pretty quiet around there when there aren’t any races going on.”
He nods and sips his whiskey.
“Chevelle let you take her out yet?” Odin asks with an amused grin.
I answer with a glower, and he hoots out a loud laugh. “Told you, brother. She’s got that pussy locked up tight.” The resemblance between him and Viking is a bit unnerving. You’d almost think O is the Prez’s son rather than his younger brother. Both of them are tall with blond hair and Nordic tattoos covering them in various spots. Odin has less, but I’m sure it won’t be that way for much longer.
Saint snickers, always looking to stir up a little drama from what I’ve seen so far. “How about we place a few bets if our new brother can even get into her pants.”
“I’ve got fifty bucks on two months,” Chaos calls from the bar. We must be loud for him to hear us over the low music and being in another room. He’s the oldest brother around here and an ex pro football player. I couldn’t believe it when he rolled up to get me in Chicago, and I came face to face with an NFL star clad in an Oath Keepers vest. I’m sure he has one hell of a story to bring him to an MC.
Sinner scoffs, his charcoal eyes staring down Saint. The two of them are near opposites, one with dark features, black hair, and stormy irises; the other one light, with ashy-blond hair and gray irises that appear nearly clear. “No way in hell he’s that patient. I give him three weeks or else I say he gives up. I’d put fifty on it.”
Hearing him and Saint on this is like sandpaper. Those two recently laid claim to the first woman I was interested in when I got here. Jude’s beautiful, young, and somewhat innocent; she’s a man’s wet dream. Chevelle catching my attention is a good thing to distract me from Jude alone, or it could stir up shit with the brothers.
Odin pipes up again. “I don’t know. He’s persistent, more than any of you fuckers. I’ve got fifty on a week.”
“No fucking way,” Viking grumbles. “Chevelle is stubborn as hell. I say five weeks.”
I scoff as Prez’s woman, Princess, comes up to sit on his lap. “Chevelle?” she asks, smitten and territorial staring at the Nordic Viking looking man she has wrapped around her finger.
“She runs The Pit,” I supply.
“Oh.” She nods and beams a perfect bright white smile in my direction. “Yeah, she’s a tough cookie; I’ve got fifty it takes you four weeks.”
I nearly sputter in surprise. I can’t believe she’s betting with these assholes.
“I’ll take three weeks,” Blaze cuts in.
“What the hell? You have no faith in a brother?” I grumble and a few chuckle.
The Prez shakes his head. “Just be glad Ruger isn’t here, or you’d have some competition. You got a bet, Night?” He turns to Nightmare, back from his mini vacation with his ol’ lady and son. He helped pick up the Fists from The Pit, but I haven’t seen him since then.
“Daydream?” He flicks his dark gaze to his woman, seeking her input. Not only is she his ol’ lady, but she’s Princess’ best friend as well.
“We don’t know if she even likes him.” She winks. I’ve heard about how Nightmare had to fight with his Daydream, also known as Bethany, to get her to finally admit she wanted him.
He hums in agreement. “We’ve got fifty on it never happens.” He smirks, and brothers around him grin.
“I’ll prove you all wrong, and when it happens, I get fifty bucks from each of you.”
“Done.” Prez agrees, and Blaze shakes his head at us, catching snippets of our conversation as he carries various cases, helping Chaos restock the bar.
It’s just another day belonging to an MC. People hear all the crazy horror stories about us because we’re a bit rougher around the edges than most, but what they tend to leave out is days like today. We’re normal people who like to razz each other and talk shit. In that same respect, I won’t think twice to help them bury a body. Does that make us better friends to have? I’d like to think so.
“What time frame are you thinking, brother?”
Odin asks.
“It can happen any day.” I shrug nonchalantly, and the guys holler in disagreement. Our ribbing is broken up by the club phone ringing. We quiet down once we catch wind of Chaos telling the caller on the other end to calm down, make sure the doors are locked, and that someone would be right over.
He pops his head into the room we’re in and gestures for Prez. Each of us stares as Viking listens to him, huffing at parts and eventually heads back over to us.
“Prez?” Torch’s brow furrows.
“You’re not going to believe this shit,” he begins, running his hand over his face exasperated and meets my gaze. “Mercenary, you need to head back to The Pit. You were there yesterday, right?”
I nod.
“Well someone must be watching you because Chevelle said when she looked outside a biker was sitting out front, looking like he’s waiting for something.”
“That was her?”
He nods.
“Is she all right?”
He nods again. “Yeah, but apparently the dipshit hasn’t left his post since she first saw him out there. It’s been hours according to her. She didn’t want to call but recognized the familiar colors on his vest as Iron Fist.”
“Fuck! They’re like cockroaches,” Odin grumbles and shakes his head.
“Mercenary, I want you to head back over and stay the night. I need to know first thing if anymore pop up. Torch and O, you two ride with him in case anyone’s paying attention. Take the back road and go inside through the loading dock. Chevelle will be waiting for you there, and you can hide your bike inside. Odin and Torch, you two can come back to wait for word from Merc. I don’t want Chevelle there alone in case this asshole tries to break in. She’s a feisty bitch who knows her shit, but it only takes a second for a gunshot to hit someone and change everything.”
I couldn’t agree more. She can defend herself, but if someone shoots her ass, she won’t be strong enough to subdue them like she normally would. She’s tiny and uses momentum to make her moves, where as if one of us gets shot first it takes more to knock us down since we’re huge and built differently.
Chevelle 6x9 Page 5
