Grounds for Divorce

by Helena Maeve

  Kayla might as well have been a blow-up doll for all the input she provided.

  She was tethered to the filthy words that slipped from Booker’s tongue. Bitch, whore…cunt. She wanted them all and she wanted his hands on her, marking her as if she were property, as if she were his and only his, and no one else would ever be allowed to touch her.

  Orgasm was a rapturous, surprise onslaught, rushing over her with tidal wave force.

  Kayla howled, shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure left her helpless and drained, wriggling weakly under the stroke of her own hand in Booker’s. His arms buckled when it was over and he collapsed, half on top of her and half onto the sheets, chest heaving with ragged breaths.

  Kayla wiped her fingers on the sheets before folding them around his heavily tatted back. The ponderous rise and fall of his ribcage was almost enough to lull her back to sleep.

  * * * *

  The bike ground to a gradual halt outside Kayla’s house. She hopped off quickly, before the yen to hold Booker close got the better of her. She couldn’t afford to cling, let alone in full view of the neighbors’ yards. Let alone when she was still wearing her pajamas.

  Her most ardent hope was that Tamra wouldn’t see her like this. It died a swift death when the screen door clanged open and her daughter stepped out onto the porch in her uniform, already dressed for school. She wasn’t supposed to be home. Probably forgot her homework. It wouldn’t be the first time. Tamra had inherited her mother’s rattlebrain—and thankfully not much else.

  “Mom? Everything okay?” Tamra glanced from her to Booker and back. “I thought you were at Zach’s…”

  Shit. Guilt stung like a swarm of vicious hornets. “Um—”

  “Your mom had some car trouble,” Booker said, plucking off his sunglasses. “I was giving her a ride home.” He wasn’t lying. The Mercedes had refused to start in the morning, its battery dead.

  Yet even with his best, most convincing, ‘trust me I’m one of the good guys’ smiles on, Booker still looked like bad news. The ink on his arms and the scar on his face gave away a whole history in a single glance.

  Tamra folded her arms across her chest. “Uh-huh.”

  The pang of regret in Kayla’s chest became a wrecking ball swinging between her lungs. “Sweetie, it’s okay. I’ll be right in.” She hadn’t meant for Tamra to find out about Booker like this. She hadn’t meant for Booker to find out about her kid, either.

  She should have known by now that her best laid plans had a way of falling apart.

  “You,” Tamra said in a mock whisper, “are in so much trouble.” The screen door slammed shut in her wake.

  Kayla winced, clutching Booker’s helmet to her chest.

  “She doesn’t approve,” he observed.

  “It’s not that.” There were no two ways about it. Secrets clearly didn’t work for Kayla. “I told her to stay away from the Hell Hounds,” she confessed, turning to face him.

  “Smart mom.”

  Kayla looked down at herself, her pajama bottoms, her unlaced sneakers. “Hypocritical mom.” It wasn’t the first time she’d screwed up the parenting gig and it wouldn’t be the last, but it ranked up there with missing school bake sales because she had to run from one job to the next or forgetting Tamra at her grandmother’s house.

  She met Booker’s gaze with some effort. She shouldn’t have feared his judgment.

  “You didn’t mention you had a kid.”

  The night they’d met at the Grounds, Tamra had already been asleep by the time Kayla had got home. Even the revving of motorcycles hadn’t woken her.

  “Does it make me more or less attractive?” Kayla wondered, a tepid smile climbing to her lips. “Don’t answer that.”

  Booker didn’t attempt to. “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen. I had her young.” And stupid, obviously, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. For a little while this morning, she’d almost deluded herself into thinking something good could come of her messed-up choices. “Sorry.” Kayla sighed, waving a hand. “I should head inside, make sure she eats before she leaves…”

  “When can I see you?”

  The question caught her by surprise—so much so that no clever quip was immediately forthcoming. “Oh. I have to work tonight. And I shouldn’t make a habit of leaving Tamra—”

  “Doesn’t have to be the whole night.”

  “I can swing by after my shift?”

  Booker’s lips arced into a slow, delighted smile. “I can work with that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” He slid his glasses back on and revved the Harley. “Go get your ass chewed out, hot mama. You’ve earned it.”

  “Bite me,” Kayla shot back, tempted to flip him off but not so eager to let her daughter see. She didn’t have to look to know that Tamra was watching them from the kitchen window.

  She made no move to hide it when Kayla entered. “So…no more Zach?”

  “You don’t seem too torn up about that.”

  Tamra shrugged, crunching through a spoonful of milk-sodden cereal. “Eh, Zach’s annoying.”

  Kayla couldn’t disagree. She didn’t want to think about the evening ahead. Working with Zach was difficult enough when they weren’t at odds. He wouldn’t take kindly to being thrown over for another man.

  “And he doesn’t have a bike,” Tamra added meditatively.

  A spark of dread kindled in Kayla’s chest. She turned with the coffee pot in hand, bitter brew swirling against the glass sides. “You know you should always do the opposite of everything I do, right?”

  “I know.” Tamra’s grin dimmed slowly, as though it took her a moment to grasp the gravity of what Kayla was saying. “Mom.” She caught Kayla’s hand in hers. “I know.”

  “Okay.”

  “Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, though.” Tamra cocked her head owlishly. “Are you in love?”

  Heat filled Kayla’s face. Was she? No, obviously not. And even if she had been, she wouldn’t tell her kid. Tamra needed to live out her own crushes and heartbreaks, not worry about her mother’s. Kayla gestured vaguely to the table. “Eat your Cheerios.”

  * * * *

  The club was quiet. Only a few cars pocked the parking lot, dusty and scratched, the vehicles of choice of the working class. Zach’s gray Honda in particular caught her eye. It wasn’t so long ago that Kayla had let him spill her across the backseat and work himself inside her in short, stuttered thrusts.

  She sighed and killed the engine. No accounting for taste… The Mercedes lurched when she got out, chassis juddering with the hard smack of the car door. Booker had gotten the junker running again, but he couldn’t work miracles.

  Another slap of metal answered, as if in echo.

  “Where the hell’ve you been?” Zach shouted. He must have heard her arrive. “I’ve been calling your cell. I drove by your place twice.” He didn’t abort his forward momentum until they were nose to nose. “The Hounds called. They want their money.”

  “Grace period’s over?” Kayla forced out through clenched teeth. She hated her quaking voice nearly as much as she hated Zach for towering over her. He knew she didn’t do well with intimidation.

  “They want all of their money, you stupid bitch.” He bent a little at the waist, nose brushing Kayla’s. “What did you do, huh? What did you say to that fucker—?”

  “Babe? Is everything okay?”

  The club door opened and closed with a dull burst of sound. Lou stepped out in a pair of pink stilettos, draped in one of Kayla’s robes. The fabric had a way of drooping open. One glance over Zach’s shoulder was enough to tell Kayla that Lou was stark naked.

  Every last thread of injured pride snapped loose inside her.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Zach turned, disbelief twisting at his features. “What did you just—?”

  It was unlikely that Kayla’s fist in his jaw would help him hear any better. She hit him anyway.

  Chapter Six
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  The icepack wasn’t doing much, but as long as Kayla held it to her temple, the cops seemed willing to give her time to get her bearings. Her knuckles ached worse than her head, something the paramedics had ruled to be a good sign.

  They still wanted her to come in for a CT scan.

  “Sure,” Kayla promised. “Soon as I win the lottery.”

  “We’ll find the money,” Lou piped up, standing from her perch on the curb. A cigarette smoldered between her red-painted fingertips. “Kay, come on—”

  Kayla plucked the cigarette out of her hand. “You don’t talk to me.”

  The urge to put out the smoke on Lou’s perfect brow rose in her chest like heartburn. She didn’t follow through. For one thing, the cops would throw both of them in jail. For another, Lou’s testimony was the only thing standing between Kayla and a pair of handcuffs.

  Lou flinched, hugging her sides. She must have been cold in nothing but Kayla’s peignoir, her long legs bare and riddled with gooseflesh. The cops had offered to see them inside, but Kayla insisted on waiting in the parking lot.

  She knew a thing or two about Hell Hounds business. She knew they’d come.

  The thunderous roar of half a dozen Harleys proved her right within a matter of minutes.

  The change in local PD’s demeanor was immediate. Uniforms hovered closer to their cars, as though seeking cover. All seemed compelled to check that their sidearms were holstered.

  Lou retreated back a step as the hogs arced in a straight line and stalled abruptly.

  The silence that ensued was more deafening than the growl of their engines.

  “This is police business, gentlemen,” said the deputy chief. Kayla hadn’t caught his name. She made a point of not being too chummy with the police, and this fine specimen was even more righteous than the average. “You have nothing to offer here. I suggest you—”

  “They own the club.” Kayla shrugged when he turned to glare at her. “Ask Zach.”

  “Zach’s been sedated. Seems someone did a number on his face.”

  “Told you… Did it to himself. Guy’s crazy.” And as long as Lou didn’t change her story, Kayla would keep peddling that lie until the cops believed it.

  She aborted that line of thought as Booker dismounted his bike and doffed his helmet. His brothers followed his example, movements slow, deliberate. Kayla would’ve bet money that they were armed.

  Kayla pushed up from the Mercedes. If she was going to face Booker, she’d do it standing.

  “What happened here?”

  The blood on the tarmac had dried in a crimson-black spatter. Zach’s sneakers peeked out from the rear door of an ambulance. The splash of red and blue police lights over the parking lot reflected in Booker’s shades.

  Kayla lowered the icepack from the cut on her brow. “Asshole lost his mind. Ran his face into my fist…’bout eight times.” If she said it softly enough and the police didn’t overhear, it was as if she hadn’t said it at all.

  Booker cupped her chin in a firm hand. “And that?” His tinted sunglasses mirrored the ruby weal of the laceration on her brow and the mottled bruise around it.

  “Walked into a door.” She couldn’t read Booker’s gaze behind the shades. The story would’ve been the same even if she had. The truth was not so glamorous. Zach hadn’t thrown the first punch, but he’d slapped her silly. His slurs still rang in her ears.

  “Is that who you’re with now?” he’d laughed. “That motherfucking crook?” A hand in Kayla’s hair, he’d thrown her up against the car hard enough that she’d hit her head on the windshield wipers. A smear of blood stained the glass. Her knees still ached with the force of the impact. “You know what he’s about? They run guns, blow—”

  “And you run women!”

  Zach had pressed in close then, breath hot on her cheek with the smell of liquor and pussy.

  “I’m warning you, Kayla. You start running with the Hounds and you’ll end up dead.”

  He must’ve meant it as a threat. Kayla had laughed in his face. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” The first shove had sent Zach reeling back. “I was sucking dick at truck stops when you were still learning to play with yours!” After that, there’d been no more talk of warnings. No more questions.

  Kayla could still feel each blow vibrating through her knuckles. She flexed them warily.

  Booker sighed as though defeated. No wonder. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for—an old stripper with a kid and anger management issues was a whole other ballgame. “Let’s get you to the clubhouse.”

  “I have to open the Grounds—”

  He slid an arm around her shoulders. “I’m taking you to the clubhouse. Grounds has seen enough action for one night.”

  Kayla didn’t fight the gentle pull toward the bikes. She wasn’t in the mood for loud music and drunken perverts anyway.

  “What about her?” Nolan asked, jerking his chin to where Lou sat alone.

  It took Kayla a second to understand that the question was meant for her.

  “She can come.”

  Booker whistled to get Lou’s attention. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  As eager as a puppy, Lou nodded. She took the helmet Nolan thrust into her hands.

  * * * *

  Kayla slapped the shot glass onto the table, grimacing. “Tastes like rubbing alcohol. Fuck.” Chuckles answered her down the bar. She’d been offered Advil, before the bottom shelf scotch, but Kayla had picked the lesser evil. She was beginning to rethink that strategy.

  “Probably do a world of good cleaning that paper cut,” Nolan mused, gesturing with his beer bottle to the slash on her brow.

  “Yeah, pretty face like yours,” said one of the other bikers, “should take better care.” The patches on his vest confirmed that he was local, but whether he was one of Booker’s men or the colonel’s, Kayla couldn’t say.

  Booker scoffed. “I think it looks badass.” His hand was a warm, grounding weight between her shoulder blades. The way he was looking at her had Kayla aching from the inside out.

  The Hell Hounds had opened their doors to her and Lou. They were treating them like friends of the club. But for how long?

  Kayla shook her head when Booker offered to refill her glass.

  “What happens now?”

  “You heal up.”

  She pursed her lips. She knew a deflection when she heard one. “I mean with the Grounds.”

  “Worried about your job?” Booker guessed. He wasn’t wrong. Her shrug served as an answer. “Like you told the cops. We own the lot and what’s on it. Zach was something of a…temporary caretaker. We have someone in mind to take over where he left off.”

  “Here’s hoping that one doesn’t stoop to screwing the staff,” Kayla muttered. She couldn’t resist slanting a glance across the bar to where Lou sat with a couple of the women, wearing an ill-fitting shirt and a pair of boxers. It was an improvement on the silk robe, but not by much.

  “We were thinking you might want it.”

  Kayla whipped her head around. “What?” She was sure she’d misheard.

  “You know the accounts, you’re up to date on the finances…” Booker rubbed his thumb into the topmost vertebra at the back of her neck. “And you’re familiar with the other side of the business, too. Thought you’d be pleased.”

  I am. The hazy-hot blur of summer nights and cathartic violence made it hard to think clearly, but Kayla knew she wouldn’t get another chance to negotiate.

  “One way or another,” she pointed out, “I’m still under my boyfriend’s thumb.”

  “Oh,” Booker said, grinning, “is that what I am?”

  Kayla didn’t return his grin. “If you want me to run the Grounds, here’s what I’ll need. Complete overhaul of our CCTV—”

  “Done. We want the girls safe and happy—”

  “Two,” she went on, “the Hounds can’t run our security.”

  The wrinkle between Booker’s brows told her he
hadn’t counted on that sticking point. “Why not?”

  “Your brothers are our clients. I don’t trust you boys to police each other. Sorry.”

  Nolan chuckled behind his beer.

  “I’ll bring it to the club,” said Booker. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  “It’s non-negotiable.”

  He tipped back in his chair, eyebrows arched. “Are you making demands, darlin’?”

  “Three, what we have, where it’s going…” Kayla dropped her voice an octave, relieved when it didn’t quake. Maybe that engine lather was good for something. “None of that plays into how I run the club. I mean it, Book. You come in, you’re an investor or you’re a client. That’s it.”

  You can’t be my boyfriend and my boss at the same time. Especially not the kind of boyfriend I need.

  “You want me coming in to look at your girls?”

  “Four,” Kayla added, brazenly snagging both hands in his lapels, “you don’t come to look at my girls.”

  Booker smirked. “Five, your stage-struttin’ days are over.”

  “That mean I can still give private dances?” she wondered.

  Booker rested a hand on her bare thigh, just beneath the hem of the jean skirt. “Only to me.” His fingers climbed a little higher up her leg, triggering a skip in her pulse.

  Kayla kissed him hard. She could work with those terms. She could compromise.

  They could make this work.

  “Christ. Take your old lady to bed already,” hollered one of the older bikers. “You’ll give us fossils a goddamn heart attack.”

  Booker laughed into the kiss, pulling back to flip the bird. Despite the leather and the scars, the not-so-hidden bulge of concealed firearms, Kayla felt teased rather than threatened. Booker’s presence beside her had something to do with that, no doubt, but Booker had chosen her.

  Just like Zach had picked Lou.

  “You go on,” Kayla whispered, smoothing a hand down his flank. “Got some unfinished business I need to take care of.”