Lazarus (The Henchmen MC Book 7)

by Jessica Gadziala

  He looked off for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, I can bring you."

  "Really?" That totally came off desperate and way too excited and, judging by the way his smile went warm and his eyes went all gooey, he noticed it too.

  "Yeah, really. You can't stay trapped in this apartment all the time going crazy. And since you seem a lot better today, I don't see why we can't drop in for a bit."

  Despite a crazy couple of days where I almost died and then maybe kind of wished I died as I withdrew from the pills I had been taking, it seemed weird but... I was excited.

  Maybe it was as simple as it was out. Though, really, I had stopped feeling like a prisoner after that first day. Quite frankly, Lazarus' presence had probably been the only thing that got me through the whole ordeal and once I was in the middle of it, I knew I would have gone out and used- ten times over. He was what kept me strong, kept me focused on the goal to sweat it out and move on.

  There was also the fact that I literally couldn't remember the last night out on the town I had had- the night of my OD at Chaz's excluded. I had become so secluded from everything. First, because of grief. Then, increasingly, the downward spiral I found myself in until I finally turned to the drugs and then certainly didn't want anyone to get close enough in case they could tell.

  Granted, underground cage fighting wasn't my usual forte, generally preferring things like movies or coffee or any other untold number of events that wouldn't leave me covered in blood or sick to my stomach.

  But, hey, out was out.

  On top of all of that, though, there was definitely a part of me and there was no telling how large or small that part was because I was doing my damnedest to not think about it at all, that wanted to go out with Lazarus.

  Maybe the connection between us was superficial or White Knight and Damsel In Distress-y, but I hadn't felt as connected to someone as I did with him in a really long time. He understood the loss of my mother and how it still affected me. He didn't judge me for my addiction and painful withdrawal.

  True, it was so definitely one-sided.

  He was just a nice guy saving the poor, pathetic girl.

  It didn't go beyond that for him.

  But that didn't change the fact that I really wanted to see what it was maybe like to be with him without my addiction being the elephant in the room.

  To just be... two normal people.

  Quite frankly, if I wanted to stay on the straight and narrow, I really needed a friend.

  And Lazarus was the perfect candidate for that.

  Also, going out would be a good way to get my mind off my aching muscles and the absolute shitstorm that I was going to face when I eventually did go back to my old life.

  Even just thinking about it made my stomach clench painfully enough to put down my fork and seriously wonder if I was going to throw up again.

  I took a deep breath, trusting in the sage advice of Scarlett O'Hara and deciding I would think about that tomorrow. Even though I knew that the longer I put it off, the more trouble I was in for, the more dire the consequences.

  But I wasn't going to go there. Not yet.

  "That's a dark mood," Lazarus said suddenly and my head snapped up to find him watching me, brows furrowed, head tipped to the side slightly.

  I tried to shrug that off. "I guess the mood swing thing was right," I hedged, knowing that that had nothing to do with it. Then, to try to move the conversation to safer topics, I asked, "So what does one wear to an underground cage fight? Black leather pants, a halter top, and combat boots?" I mused, smiling.

  To that, his smile was warm and amused. "Much as I'd like to see that, sweetheart, you might feel out of place. Some women might show up casual, but they're usually in dresses."

  Maybe even more excited about the prospect now that I knew dressing up was involved, I reached for my fork and started eating again. "I think I have something at home that can..."

  "We'll pick you up something new," he cut me off, making my head snap up as my brows drew together.

  "Why?"

  "Maybe a good idea to give it another couple of days before you go home," he said, but there was a guardedness to his tone. As if sensing my need for more, he exhaled hard as he reached for his coffee. "Look, you just finished the worst part of withdrawal, but you're still detoxing. If you stop home for a change and happen across a stash somewhere, you'd still probably take it. The longer you can not go home, the better at this point. It's up to you," he went on, lounging back in his chair. "I did what I said I was going to- I got the shit out of your system. I'm not going to try to keep you here. But I'm asking you to stay anyway until you're sure you aren't going to fall into old habits."

  I was free to go at anytime.

  And while that was good to know, comforting, I realized I didn't want to. That was nuts. I realized how crazy that was, but it didn't change anything. Not only would going home mean trying to stay strong and not use, it also meant I would have to face the consequences for the trouble I was bound to be in by now.

  Crashing with Lazarus, a practical stranger, an outlaw biker, a freaking cage fighter, ex-heroin user and alcoholic, was actually a safer bet than going back to my old life.

  So, well, I was going to stay.

  "Okay," I said, nodding my head.

  "Okay?" he repeated, obviously needing more clarification.

  "Okay, I'll stay."

  SEVEN

  Bethany

  After we had lunch, Lazarus handed me back my street clothes from the night we 'met', all freshly laundered, and washed dishes as I changed. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the entire world, he grabbed his keys, handed me my wallet, and we walked out of the apartment building.

  I realized really quickly that while Laz's apartment was small, but rather nice and updated, that could not be said for the rest of the building. The halls were literally dirty. There were dust bunnies congregating in all of the corners. The paint was chipping. The windows had grime on them. The elevator was even caution-taped off.

  The downstairs was no better but was full of old furniture and a huge cloud of cigar smoke. The source of the smoke was between the lips of an elderly man of frail stature, gray hair, and deep skin. "Glad you're feelin' better, darlin'," he said, giving me a warm smile.

  There was a knowing in his eyes that had me raising my brow at Lazarus as he went to open the heavy back door. "Thanks, Barney. Come on, sis, we gotta go."

  With that, I followed him out, smiling up at him as we moved into the lot. "Sis?"

  "Seemed like the best bet. If you started screaming and they thought you were my girl, they mighta broken the rules and called the cops."

  I was led over to a car, sleek and new, sure, but nowhere near as interesting as his bike. I fought the irrational little surge of disappointment, having never ridden on a bike and maybe more than a little interested, as we climbed in and drove off.

  An hour later, I had a black dress, heels, and a small supply of makeup that Lazarus had insisted on paying for because, well, I wasn't sure.

  After, we stopped off out front of Famiglia where he ran in because, unbeknownst to me, he had placed a to-go order for the ravioli I wanted when I had been trying on dresses.

  As he handed me the bags and reversed the car, there was a strong, unstoppable, wholly unfamiliar expanding feeling across my whole chest- uncomfortable yet somehow comforting at the same time.

  Before I could really try to analyze it, find a name for it, place it at all, we were pulling into a lot and parking. But it wasn't the lot to his apartment.

  Oh no.

  This was The Henchmen MC compound.

  It wasn't like they had signs or anything, but the long row of bikes was pretty telling. It was a low windowless building with some huge glass monstrosity on the roof and a large addition off the back.

  "Um..."

  "I got a room here," he supplied. "You don't have to be around anyone you don't want to." With that and nothing else, he climbed out
and grabbed my bags out of the trunk.

  I climbed out as well, holding the bag for Famiglia as I fell into step beside him and was led right into the belly of an outlaw biker gang clubhouse.

  I had a moment to wonder what freaking alternate universe I had stepped into before I was fully inside the door to a room with a complete back bar, pool table, living room area, and massive TV.

  But that wasn't what had me pausing one step in though.

  No, that would be the group of bikers all lounging about.

  Maybe part of it was surprise because they hadn't been what I was expecting. Generally, when you thought 'biker' you thought older guys with long unwashed hair, bad tattoos, in leather they had no business wearing because they were all severely overweight, with chains hanging everywhere.

  I certainly could never have expected this reality- a bunch of men from mid-twenties to late thirties, each more attractive than the last. There wasn't an old dirty man in leather and chains in sight.

  "Draga mea," one of the men said, looking at me, his voice barely more than a rumbling sound.

  He was tall and strong-looking with dark eyes, brows, lashes, and long dark hair that he had pulled back into a bun.

  Devilishly good looking.

  Exotic, almost.

  "Draga mea?" I asked, looking up at Lazarus.

  "'Dear' or 'sweetheart' or 'my love' or whatever kind of endearment. Edison is a gypsy," he supplied, making me jerk my head to look over at the man in question again and seeing exactly that in his darkly intimidating looks- gypsy, Romanian.

  Hot.

  He was incredibly hot.

  Plus, when was it not insanely sexy that a man called you endearments in another language.

  "Edison, Bethany," Lazarus said and I realized the man in question was coming closer.

  "No wonder he's been hiding you away," Edison said, his voice still just that rumble sound and it was amazing I could even make the words out his tone was so deep.

  Hiding me away?

  I looked up at Lazarus, seeing him running a hand across the back of his neck, looking sheepish. And I understood. That was how he had been with me for pretty much three days straight- he had told his club mates or biker brothers or whatever they were called that he was shacked up with me.

  I noticed all the other men were looking in our direction too and I realized this was it- this was my chance to make a first impression. And seeing as I was really hoping to keep Lazarus around as a friend, I knew I had to get on with his buddies too. That was how it worked.

  So I let my lips curl up slightly as I moved into Lazarus' side, wrapping one arm around his lower back, placing my other palm flat on his stomach.

  "Oh, this one," I said, feeling my lips twitch and not trying to fight the smile. "I needed like... six bottles of electrolytes this weekend."

  The laugh positively exploded out of Lazarus, making my head angle up to find him with his head thrown back like kids do when they laugh, the rolling noise reverberating through his body and into mine, spreading like a warmth through my veins.

  I was vaguely aware of his friends whooping it up, but my focus was completely on the man connected to me- the sound of his humor, the way his smile threatened to split his face, and when he looked down at me- the eyes that were full of appreciation, amusement, and if I wasn't completely mistaken... affection.

  I did it.

  I was in.

  It was then that I heard Edison's laugh that was somehow darker, more primal than any I had ever heard.

  "Angel," another male voice broke in, grabbing my attention. The owner was tall like the rest of them and fit as well. But his attractiveness ran toward the light- light eyes, blond hair, blond beard. His hand reached out toward me, his smile of the charmingly boyish variety which I knew from experience usually belonged to the biggest horn dogs. "Cyrus," he supplied. "Nice to finally meet the girl who was good enough for this schmuck," he said, jerking his chin toward Lazarus whose hand was sliding up my spine slowly until the weight of his arm pressed down on my shoulders. Possessive. That was a possessive gesture. And I found I liked it way too much. "Can I get you a drink?" he offered, nodding toward the bar.

  "Oh, I, ah," I stumbled, mildly uncomfortable. "I, um, I don't drink," I finished, the words new and therefore clumsy on my tongue.

  "Bun meci," Edison said, nodding his head like he approved before moving away.

  "Don't look at me," Cyrus said, smiling while he shook his head. "I don't understand a fucking word of Romanian."

  So then my head turned up toward Lazarus, finding him already watching me. He answered the unasked question. "Good match."

  "How do you know Romanian?"

  "Growing up, had a Romanian family across the hall," Lazarus shrugged. "When mom had to work, which was pretty much always, I hung out over there. Some of it stuck."

  "This humble fuck," Cyrus said, shaking his head. "He's practically fluent. A goddamn Rosetta Stone. You coming to the fight tonight, gorgeous?"

  "Yeah," I said, the smile I gave him genuine.

  "Come on," Lazarus said suddenly, squeezing my shoulders. "Let's get you settled in and then you can meet the rest of these fucks," he offered, nodding toward the group who hadn't approached immediately.

  With that, I was led down a hall full of closed doors almost to the very end where Lazarus opened the door and ushered me inside. It was like any normal bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed covered in a white comforter that offset the darkness of the deep blue walls. There were two nightstands as well as a dresser across from the bed with a TV on top. To the right side in the door was another door that led to a bathroom that was average, nothing to write home about.

  "Why bother having an apartment if you have this?" I found myself asking as Lazarus put the bags down on the dresser and moved past me toward the closet where he leaned down and opened the mini fridge he had stashed in there, coming out with iced teas for each of us, motioning toward the bed. "We can't eat on the bed."

  "Why not?" he asked, kicking out of his shoes and sitting down near the headboard as he reached for the remote.

  "Because your comforter is white and the sauce is red," I reasoned, shaking my head.

  "It'll wash. Come on," he said, patting the bed.

  Figuring the wash was his problem, I did just that, taking the to-go container and plastic utensils from him.

  I was maybe one bite in when he broke the silence. "So you're cool with my brothers thinking I fucked all the fluids out of you, huh?"

  I almost choked to death.

  He chuckled as I struggled, twisting off my iced tea and handing it to me.

  "It, ah, seemed like you implied..."

  "I did," he agreed. "But that was quite an impression."

  I looked away at that, feeling a bit awkward admitting what I was about to. "Well, I kinda figured that if we are going to be... friends, that it would be good for them to like me."

  "Yes, that would be important if we were going to be friends," he repeated, an inflection in his voice I couldn't quite place and didn't ask about because he went ahead and started plowing into his food, seeming to make a point.

  So I ate as well.

  And when we were both done, he took the containers and put them on the nightstand.

  I didn't think anything was off as he turned back. But he turned to face me, our bodies a mere whisper from each other. "Bethany, we're not going to be friends," he informed me. And the impact of those words was somewhat similar to a kick to the stomach, knocking out my air, making a swirling sensation start there and slowly spread outward. "Bethany," he said, trying to get my attention since I was suddenly studying my hands, seeing the mostly-healed over scrape marks from me trying to claw off my skin to stop the crawling.

  "I heard you," I said, nodding.

  "Maybe you heard me, but you obviously didn't understand," he countered as his fingers slid up the side of my jaw and tilted my head toward him and up.

  When my eyes met his and
he said nothing, I shook my head. "Understand what?"

  "This," he said as his lips pressed into mine.

  My entire body jerked at the contact, so unexpected and yet so wholly wanted. God, how I wanted.

  I may have been trying to believe in the idea of Lazarus and I as friends. That was mostly due to the fact that the man had held me while I sweated through both our clothes, had heard me throw up for days on end, had seen me be nothing but undignified, pathetic, and ugly. Men who saw that, who saw that first before all the good stuff, they didn't want to be more than friends with you.

  Or that was at least what I had been thinking until I felt his lips claim mine, drawing out an unexpected whimper as I instinctively reached out to him, arm slipping under his raised one and around his back to pull his body closer to me.

  His teeth snagged my lower lip and pulled as his body shifted and curled, pressing me back against the mattress as he came over me- his firm lines meeting my soft ones. He was half-covering me, one leg wedged between mine and I had to fight the urge to grind against him- the surge of desire so heady and sudden that all I could think of was the relief from it- the swelling in my breasts, the strangled sensation of my throat, the heaviness in my lower stomach, the aching need between my legs.

  He released my lip as his tongue moved inside to claim mine, the sensation almost overwhelming as my hands dug into his back and arm, my back arched so my breasts pressed into his chest, my leg cocked up on the side of his hip.

  He balanced on one arm as he kissed me harder, deeper, more desperate, less controlled. His free hand moved to settle at my hip and slowly slid under my shirt, inching up the fabric, his fingertips whispering over my bare skin and making it goosbump under his attentions.

  His hand was splayed just under the band of my bra when suddenly the door to the room burst open.

  "Whoops!" a female voice said, sounding amused.