Rebel’s Property_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Satan’s Martyrs MC

by Kathryn Thomas

  He shakes his head, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “You’re not making this any easier, you know. A man like me tries to be romantic, and what does he get? Laughter!”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, forcing the laughter away. “What have you never said to a woman before?”

  He looks deep into my eyes, and suddenly I know what he is going to say. It’s what we both feel, but for some strange reason neither of us has said it. Now he’s about to say it, I want to say it.

  He sees that I know, and I see that he knows. We lock eyes, and then we open our mouths at the same time. Before the words are out, we each know what the other is going to say.

  “I love you!” we laugh together.

  I’ve never seen Killian look so happy when he says it. It’s like all the weight of his life—the fighting, the killing, the outlawing, the riding—it’s like all of it drops away from him with those three words. When he smiles at me, he is a man reborn. He’s no longer just an outlaw. He is my man.

  I move aside on the bed. He climbs up and lies next to me, wrapping his arm around me and holding me close to his bare, muscular chest. It is damp with sweat, but I don’t care. In a strange way, I like the feel of the sweat. It reminds me of what we’ve just done.

  “How long will you love me for, then, Mr. Biker?” I ask.

  “That’s a silly question,” he says. “I’ll love you until the day I die, I can promise you that.”

  “What about after that, though?” I urge.

  “Oh, when we’re both dust and blowing around on the wind or whatever poetic thing it is you want me to say?” He chuckles. “I don’t know about any of that, Hope. You’re the artist, not me.”

  I can’t help but laugh. He’s right. This life is enough. “Maybe we should stop all this lovey stuff before I make you sick,” I giggle. I reach down to his cock and grab it at the base. One moment it’s flaccid. The next it’s rock-hard, growing large in my hand.

  “That’s an idea,” he groans, reaching across and placing his hands between my legs.

  We play each other like instruments, hitting all the right notes, singing out a crescendo at the end.

  Berelli’s Gourmet has been closed to the public tonight, Christmas Eve, which in itself is amazing. I can only assume that the Satan’s Martyrs has paid Lucca a hell of a lot of money, or is teaching him a lesson. It doesn’t matter. The result is the same.

  The tables have been pulled together so that they form a large, conference-style table, spanning almost the entire restaurant. Bikers from the Satan’s Martyrs crowd all around it, laughing and drinking, glasses piling up on the tables. Killian must’ve told the men to be extra nice to the waitresses, because almost each time they come to collect glasses, one of the bikers tips them. Killian and I sit at the head of the table, as though this is a medieval feast and we are the royalty. To my left, Dawn and Patrick sit together. To my right, next to Killian, sits Declan, the old man Killian told me about. To Declan’s right is Gunny and the Remington brothers.

  The most amazing thing about this night is that the waitresses bring out meals tailored to each individual Numb member. Each member is served his favorite, no matter how different it is from the last. Pasta is served after beef stew, chicken chow mein after steak and home-cut fries, minted lamb after home-cooked pizza. I watch in amazement as dish after dish is carried out of the kitchen by the waitresses.

  When Lily brings Patrick a thick burger and chunky fries, I call her over.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Lily shrugs, smiling. “I have no idea,” she says. “But Lucca’s the one back there. He’s alone, as well. You should see him. He’s sweating like a pig.” She looks around, making sure she’s not being listened to, and then leans into me. “He keeps grumbling that he needs help, so I asked him why he doesn’t call the chef in. He told me he’s not allowed! And there’s something else, too.” She licks her lips. “He hasn’t, you know . . . He’s been as quiet as a mouse. I just hope it keeps up.”

  I look lovingly at Killian, who’s laughing raucously at something Declan said. “I’m sure it will,” I tell Lily. “But if it doesn’t, just let me know, okay?”

  Lily nods and leaves the table.

  Killian turns to me, that sexy smirk on his lips. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “You did this, didn’t you?”

  He shrugs, a picture of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, pretty lady.”

  “The meals, forcing Lucca to cook, it was you, wasn’t it?”

  Killian tilts his head at me like I’m mad. “Me?” He laughs. “I wish I could swing something like that. No, Lucca’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart.”

  He scoops up a glass of champagne and hands it to me. Then he takes a glass of his own. He knocks his glass into mine. Clink-clink. “To us.” He smiles.

  I grin back. “To us.”

  “Killian,” I say, once we’ve both had a sip of our champagne.

  “Yeah?”

  “What exactly is this party for? When I asked you before, you just said: to celebrate. But to celebrate what, exactly?”

  “Ah, I can’t tell you yet. You’ll have to wait until later.”

  “We’re celebrating something which hasn’t happened yet?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  Declan leans across slowly and opens his mouth. Killian and I lean in, so that we can hear him over the sounds of the bikers—shouting, jostling, cheering, glugging, banging, swearing. “Killian’s a good kid,” he says. “He won’t just help an old woman across the street. He’ll tool up the old woman’s abusive landlord in the same afternoon.”

  Killian holds his hands up. “Ignore him, Hope. He’s a senile old man. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “Killian!” I gasp.

  Declan and Killian exchange a small smile.

  “I’m used to it, Miss Jackson,” he says. “Ever since I met him, this bag of muscle and leather has been abusing me.”

  “Well, I think he’s very cruel,” I say, shooting faux-disgust at Killian with my eyes. “In fact, Declan—may I call you Declan?—in fact, I think you’re much, much more handsome than Killian. I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually, if you’d go on a date with me? Please, it’d be such a nice change from this thing.” I point playfully to Killian.

  Killian throws back his head and lets out a booming laugh.

  Gunny jumps up in his seat and shouts: “Hope has chosen the old man over the boss! Shit, boys, he’s goin’t’be crazy after this! Run while you can!”

  The bikers cackle madly, some of them spilling their drinks. Killian laughs the loudest of all. Declan coughs out a laugh.

  Once the laughter has passed, Dawn tugs at my elbow. It’s the first time she’s tried to get my attention all night, but I can’t blame her. She and Patrick are deep into each other, constantly in quiet conversation, constantly looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. The love surrounding me . . . it’s unbelievable.

  “Yeah?” I say, turning to her.

  I have to raise my voice because one of the bikers has just put “Jingle Bells” on the jukebox.

  Dawn looks around in wonder before reply. Her cheeks are blooming with life, her eyes are bright. When I look at her, I can’t help but see her as a little girl, my little sister who I have to protect over everything.

  “I want to apologize,” she says, leaning into my ear.

  I roll my eyes. “You have apologized,” I reply. Only about ten thousand times. Every day it’s been: “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  “Yes, but you need to know how sorry I am,” she pushes on. “I never should have doubted you. I feel like such dirt. I just didn’t believe you. Without even giving you a chance, I just didn’t believe you. That’s messed up, especially after everything you’ve done for me. I’m so, so sorry Hope.”

  I place my hands firmly on her shoulders.

  “The time for apologies is gone, Dawn. We’re goo
d. We’re better than good. We’re the closest we’ve been since we were kids, aren’t we?”

  Dawn nods. Tears spring into her eyes.

  “None of that,” I say, wiping her eyes with my thumbs. “If you start, I’ll start, and my makeup will be ruined.”

  “Always the vain one,” Dawn pouts, before breaking into a smile.

  “If I recall correctly,” I reply, “it was you who ran off in the mall so you could try on different hats. Two hours we were looking for you, and when we find you, there you are, a pile of hats next to you.”

  We share a smile as the memory comes to life between us: Mom and Dad and me rushing through the mall, searching desperately for her; and when we find her, we find a girl who doesn’t have a care in the world, who’s laughing and grinning, flashing a gummy mouth with few teeth in it yet.

  Then Dawn collapses into my chest. I hold her close, rubbing her back. Patrick glances over and nods at Dawn, mouths: Is she okay? I nod and mouth back: She is now.

  “Turn that damn thing off!” Gunny roars. “The old man has something to say!”

  One of the bikers thumps the jukebox into silence.

  I feel a swelling in my chest when Killian takes Declan by the elbow and helps him to his feet. When Declan is standing, he nods his thanks to Killian and then stands with dignity, though from where I’m sitting I can see that his knees are shaking with the effort.

  “I want to say something, but I won’t take all day about it.”

  I expect the bikers to hoot and holler, but they sit silently, looking up at the old man with respect.

  “I don’t know if Boss has told any of you why we’re here tonight. He hasn’t told me a damned thing. It scares me, ’cause we all know Boss to be most dangerous when he’s holding something close to his chest.” The men chuckle in appreciation. Killian smiles like a wolf. “But I’m not so old I can’t figure some things out. I think tonight has something to do with the lovely lady sitting next to Killian, Miss Hope Warren.”

  At the mention of my name, and with all those bikers’ eyes turned on me, my cheeks burn. Killian reaches across and grabs my hand.

  “Our life is a hard life, a damn hard life. We ride and we die. The Satan’s Martyrs, that’s our name. The Satan’s Martyrs, ’cause men like us got the devil on our shoulder and we don’t feel a thing. Well, any of you who’ve been alive longer than five minutes will know that’s shit. We all feel. Sometimes we feel so much it hurts. And I’ve got to say, I’m glad Boss has found someone worth feeling something for.”

  Declan looks over the men, as though seeing them for the first time, and then mutters: “But I won’t wear your ears down.” He reaches down for his drink. Killian quickly grabs it, stands up, and places it in the old man’s hand. Declan smiles and with Killian’s hand supporting his, lifts his glass.

  “To Boss!” Declan croaks.

  “To Boss!” the bikers cheer, the table rumbling.

  “And to Hope!”

  “To Hope!”

  The bikers—grizzled, tattooed, tough—smile across the table at me, lifting their drinks in toast. I lift mine in return. Mom and Dad may be gone, I think, looking up at Killian as he helps Declan back into his chair. And then looking around the table to Dawn and Patrick. But I have a new family now.

  Toward the end of the meal, Lucca shuffles over to where I sit with downcast eyes.

  “Hope,” he says quietly, as the entirety of the Satan’s Martyrs watch him for good behavior.

  I have never felt stronger, dozens of hardened bikers at my back, watching this perverted, small man for any sign of aggression. If he shouted at me now as he has before, he wouldn’t have a good time of it—and that’s putting it mildly.

  “Yes?” I say.

  He makes an O with his lips and puffs his cheeks up, before blowing it all out slowly. It’s like his pride is a physical thing being chipped away before me. I almost feel sorry for him—almost—but then I remember how many of the waitresses he’s touched, how many times he’s tried to touch me, how cruel he is. Any pity I feel is swiftly rejected.

  “I would like to invite you to use the kitchen—for practice. You can use the most expensive equipment I have. It would be—an honor.” He sighs out the last word, and his pride crumbles.

  Good.

  “Oh, thank you,” I say casually, rising to my feet. “It’d be a pleasure.”

  I nod sweetly to him and make my way across the restaurant.

  Standing in the kitchen in my party dress, moving my hands over the chrome knives and shiny chopping boards, looking down at the glimmering cooktops, I begin to wonder if I’m sure I even want this anymore. It’s not that I suddenly realize no, I don’t need it, I don’t have any passion for it.

  It’s just . . .

  Killian.

  I feel so sure about Killian. Everything else is thrown into perspective. How bad do I want to be a chef when it’s not even one-tenth of the certainty I feel for him? How bad do I want anything when my passion could never reach the heights it reaches when I’m with him, my lover, my man?

  I shake my head, wondering at myself, trying to force myself to be sure.

  But it won’t come.

  The only thing I’m sure of is that I want to be with him, I think in shock.

  “The only thing I’m sure of is that I never want to be away from him,” I say.

  Do I really love him that much? I ask myself.

  The answer is quick and certain:

  More.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Killian

  I sneak off to Lucca’s office as the party is winding down, as the men are leaning drunkenly in their chairs, or shouting loudly, or downing more and more drinks. The waitresses clear the tables and carry the plates to the kitchen. Patrick and Dawn hold each other close, their arms entwined. The music is turned low and sings out quietly over the restaurant.

  When I get to his office, he’s leaning back in his chair and scowling. Scowling at nothing in particular. At the door, at the walls, at the posters with the stupid slogans. Those slogans make me smirk. Go and get it, you can do it! It’s absurd. You can only do something if you have some deep driving force. You can only ride if you’re committed to riding. A poster won’t change that.

  He flinches when I enter. I hold my hands up.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. Unless I hear that you’ve molested any of the waitresses tonight. Then I might not be able to promise anything. But as far as I can tell—and according to what Hope told me—the waitresses have been left alone tonight. I pull out the chair opposite him and drop into it. The alcohol has gone to my head, but I’m not properly drunk, not yet.

  “How—how can I help?” Lucca whispers, eyes downcast.

  He looks so pathetic that I have to keep reminding myself of what Hope told me. He screamed at her, he tried to coerce her into sex, he succeeded in coercing other women into sex. I have to remind myself unless I accidently feel sorry for the worm.

  “I need the key to the VIP room in the back,” I say.

  “The VIP room?” Lucca’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

  “Why?” I laugh, and then shake my head. “It doesn’t matter why. You want to play the ‘why’ game? Alright. Why did you molest women half your age? Why did you molest your employees? What the fuck is wrong with you? Ah, that’s ‘what’, not ‘why’.” I lean forward. “But I’m sure you get the point.

  Men like Lucca make me sick. They’re the kind of men who think they’re big and tough and scary because they prey on women. They get this idea in their head that they’re the big bad wolf, and when they run into someone who’s bigger and badder, they turn into little babies. I bet the waitresses saw him as some kind of giant demon. Now look at him. Goddamn coward.

  He wipes sweat from his forehead. “Fine,” he sighs. Will I still be feared when I don’t lead the Satan’s Martyrs? I wonder. I ignore the question. That’s for later. “Here you go,” he exhales, reaching into his pocket and pu
lling out a loop of keys. A bikini-clad woman figurine hangs from the key ring.

  He unclasps one of the keys and slides it across the table to me.

  I pick it up and make for the door. At the door, I stop.

  “Be good, Lucca,” I say. “I don’t want to make a habit of visiting you. People might start to think we’re fucking friends.”

  I slam the door on him and walk through the kitchen toward the restaurant.

  Hope sits in her place at the head of the table. She wasn’t in the kitchen for very long. She seemed to return from it almost as soon as she went into it. But that’s fine; it works for me. I have a mission of my own.