ALTERED BY LEAD: UNDERCOVER SINNERS BOOK 2

by James, Tate

  Arsen shoves me forward and pushes my panties aside, holding onto a handful of my hair as he thrusts his dick deep enough to make me cry out. I can hear Weston cursing outside the door: he heard me.

  Oh well.

  Serves him right, I think as I bite into the bedspread to stifle my moans. Arsen isn't a gentle or courteous lover; he uses me, but at least I know I'm using him just as much. For sex, obviously. But also because I love knowing that those other four assholes hate seeing us together.

  Hawke, especially.

  Arsen finishes, leaving me a panting, needy mess, and before I even get the chance to stand up, he's out the window and gone in a flash. The only evidence that he was even there is his cum running down my thighs.

  "I'll be right there!" I call out, slipping into the bathroom to clean up and then heading for the bedroom door. Both Colt and West are waiting when I open it, my hair in a high pony, my cargo pants and tee making me look a bit like some less sexy version of Lara Croft.

  "Seriously?" West asks with a bit of a scowl, swiping his tanned hand over his handsome face. "What is it about him that does it for you?"

  "Ready and available," I snap back, and then start for the staircase without waiting to see if the other two are following me. They will, I'm sure.

  Mace is downstairs when I hop off the last step, ponytail swaying. He gives the three of us a look, his lips parting as if he might say something nice. Or real. Or anything at all.

  He closes his mouth again, and I frown, moving past him and purposely bumping him with my elbow. He grabs onto my upper arm with one of his huge hands, dark blue eyes boring into me when I glance his way.

  "We should talk soon," he grumbles, surprising me, his voice seeming to shake the foundation of the old house. When we first got here, I was certain the place was haunted. Now that I've been here a while, I'm not so sure it isn't ... "I'll do my best to occupy Hawke while you're gone."

  I pause, and then without thinking, end up putting my hands on his huge arms. Lifting up on tiptoe, I kiss the corner of his mouth.

  His eyes widen slightly, and his jaw clenches, but he doesn't return the gesture. Instead, when I whisper thank you against the side of his neck, he just grunts and then pushes me back a step. But there’s a tautness to his movements, a barely concealed fury and need.

  And he says he wants to talk. That’s a good sign, right?

  Colt ushers me out the front door, and down the fairly precarious front stairs. All around us, there's nothing but blackness, just a sea of ebony dotted with stars above. Not too far off, I can hear the sound of the river. Pretty sure Hawke said it was called the Rogue.

  There's a car nearby that I don't recognize, some pretentious sports car that has me dripping before I even lay a hand on the hood.

  "You own a Porsche 911?" I ask, mentally calculating the cost in my head: a fuckload. A few Russian curses slip past my lips as I spin to face Weston, his smirk visible only when he hits the key fob and the car revs to life, lights included. "You guys make enough to afford something like this?"

  "We make okay money," Colt says, but I have no idea what 'okay money' means, or even what the actual cost of living a normal life is. That's how sheltered I've been. "But since we don't pay for food or lodging or medical care or any of that shit, we can burn it all. West likes to burn it on cars that he can fuck pretty girls on and in. Sometimes I even borrow those pretty cars and fuck them on or in it, too." He flashes a bright smile at me and then nods his head toward the passenger side. "Sit on my lap, Tzarina?"

  Seeing as there are only two seats, what choice do I have?

  I shrug, like I'm not excited at all by the prospect of sitting on Colt's lap, like Arsen didn't leave me sans-orgasm and totally desperate for release.

  "You were driving a Challenger before, right?" I ask, and West's jaw clenches.

  "Yeah," he says, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as he climbs into the car and watches Colt pull me onto his lap. "But Arsen got jizz all over the steering wheel, and it just wasn't the same after. I sold it and upgraded with that bonus we just got."

  My eyes narrow, even as I adjust myself on Colt's lap and feel him grunt underneath me. It's a tight fit in here. My head is hitting the ceiling, and I practically have to cuddle Colt to make this work.

  "What bonus?" I ask, and the boys go suddenly quiet, sharing a look that I'm not supposed to see.

  "Ah yeah, about that ..." Colt starts, gritting his teeth slightly. "Hawke has yours. He said you'll get it when and if you pass the test."

  That son of a bitch!

  "Let's go," I say, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. "I want to party hard tonight. I deserve it." This last bit is muttered under my breath, and I cringe a little. I sound a bit like the old Natalia, the whiny princess who always got her way. But I brush the feeling aside, and enjoy the purr of the engine, and the hot heat of Colt's body beneath me.

  We roll quietly away from the house and down the road a bit before West bothers to rev the engine and send us flying through the darkness. It takes damn near a half hour to reach a bar, and even then, it's this ridiculous wood cabin looking thing on the river. White lights highlight a floating dance floor, showing off the people in cut-off shorts and flannel grinding on one another.

  Huh.

  Guess my cargo pants and tee won't look so out of place after all.

  "This is, uh, quaint," I comment, scrambling off Colt's lap and stretching the kinks out of my back. It'd only been a short drive but the grueling workout Hawke put me through earlier has my whole body a mess of aches.

  Colt grunts his agreement, adjusting his pants before climbing out to join me. "It's this, or another tense dinner with Hawke and Mace pretending like they're not jerking off to the memory of your pussy ten times a day."

  I roll my eyes. "This will do fine."

  He smirks back at me, threading an arm around my waist in a possessive sort of way. Still, I don't exactly shrug him off as we cross the gravel parking lot to enter the bar. I don't even object when Weston flanks my other side and takes my hand, threading our fingers together like we're on some kind of three-way date.

  In my defense, the prospect of alcohol is putting me in a good mood.

  "After you," Colt says, grinning broadly as he holds the door open.

  Given their bullshit bet to make me confess love—gag—I really shouldn't enjoy his touch so much. But when his arm leaves my waist so I can enter the bar, I kind of miss him. Instantly. I mean, he did stand up for me, didn’t he? Even if he hasn’t approached to tell me the truth, he basically told both Hawke and Arsen off.

  I feel some of my anger softening a little.

  When Weston and I enter the little Podunk bar, and Colt's hand returns to my waist, I savor the happy buzz it gives me.

  "Vodka?" Weston asks, arching a pierced brow as we slide onto some vacant bar stools. He doesn't let go of my hand which makes it a little more awkward but once again, I'm okay with it. Yeah, I'm totally blaming my mood on the impending drunkenness coming my way.

  My lips curl up in what I know to be a sultry smile. "Actually, I'm feeling in more of a tequila sort of mood. Shots?" I raise a brow at Colt, then back to Weston. "Just a couple."

  Hah, such a liar. I fully intend to have more than a couple.

  The boys exchange a look over me, and I know they're up to no good. They probably think if I get drunk enough I'll be down to fuck.

  They're right.

  Except they don't even need to get me drunk for that ... the drinking and dancing is just a bonus.

  Weston leans over the bar, yelling our order to the bartender over the loud country music. Why they're belting out Dolly Parton in the-middle-of-nowhere, Oregon, I have no idea. But who gives a shit, right? Beats trying to ignore Hawke’s piercing glares over the dinner table, or feeling like shit for Mace's brush-offs. Again.

  Three little glasses line up on the bar in front of us, golden liquor splashing into them as the tired bartender takes little
to no care on his pouring. I eagerly grab them and push one to each of the boys while Weston hands over the money.

  "Cheers bitches," I mutter, not waiting for them as I bring the glass to my lips and swallow in one gulp. Some might say I'm pretty experienced at that. Swallowing, I mean. And based on the hungry way Colt stares at my throat, he's thinking the same thing.

  "Hey Colt," I blurt out, without really filtering my thoughts, "remember that time in the confessional?"

  His eyes flare, and he shoves another shot in front of me. I didn't even see it poured, but I'm not complaining.

  "How could I forget?" he replies, his voice dark and sexy. "I replay it in my head often."

  He holds eye contact with me while downing his own shot, and my whole body flushes with heat. My whole body, but mostly my cunt. Fuck me, that bitch is on fire … in a good way, not an STD way.

  "We should dance," Weston suggests from my other side, pulling my attention to him. "Seeing as I'm driving and can't get as wasted as you two."

  "Don't tell me you're such a good boy that you won't drive drunk," I murmur, and Weston lifts a single pierced brow at me, coffee colored eyes darkening slightly.

  "Just not as stupid as Colt. Has he told you about that one time he got in the car drunk off his ass, crashed into a pole, and almost severed his dick? I'm not about severed dicks." Weston flags the bartender down and orders a lemonade.

  We've only been in here two minutes and already, I can feel the eyes on us. Every woman in that bar is admiring the pair of muscle-bound assholes on either side of me.

  There seem to be plenty of tourists in here, wearing shorts and flip-flops, so the locals aren't exactly bothered by the fact that we're new faces, but if I don't see at least one woman in here go for either Colt or Weston tonight, I'll be shocked.

  "Every guy in this bar is looking at you," Colt murmurs, tossing back another shot and slamming the glass down on the rough wood surface of the bar. It's uh, certainly rustic in here. There are plaques on the wall with fish on them—not sure if they're like wood or plastic or taxidermic—as well as strung up white Christmas lights and tons of Big Foot posters.

  "Bullshit," I say, but my cheeks flush with pleasure at the compliment. There must be a bit of princess left in me yet. My gaze lifts up and scans the crowd before I down another shot of my own and slide off the stool, heading out the back door to a deck that overlooks the river.

  The lights strung up on the banisters make the dark water shimmer, the mountain across the way swooping up toward the round face of the moon. We're surrounded on all sides by national parks, the endless darkness of the forest taunting me.

  So many things could happen in those woods.

  A little Russian girl like me could very easily disappear ...

  I close my eyes and shake my hands out.

  That's not going to happen.

  Colt and Weston follow me outside, both of them goofballs, one slightly more serious than the other. I eye West, but then flick my attention back to Colt. No, they're not about to kill me and dump me in the woods.

  Hell, if any of these men wanted me dead, I think they would've done it already. Arsen, despite his talk, is full of shit.

  "Okay, let's dance," I agree finally, skirting past the guys and heading down the stairs. I'm not generally into country music, but the night is cool, and the rushing of the river is a soothing sound to my city-obsessed brain. I used to need the roar of traffic to go to sleep at night; all the silence here is killing me. I feel the sound of the river is a nice compromise.

  Weston hesitates briefly, but Colt hops down and circles me as some ridiculous stadium country comes over the speakers. He doesn’t even seem bothered when I snatch his wallet from his pocket and pinch a bit of cash.

  I don't exactly know how to dance to this stuff, but I pass some money over to a waitress carrying around two dollar shots and slam a few back. After that, it isn't hard to put my arms up, close my eyes, and shake my ass.

  The first man to approach me isn't Colt or Weston, just some handsome young local with a University of Oregon t-shirt stretched over his taut muscles. He offers up a hand, and I take it, laughing in surprise when he swings me around and then yanks me close.

  I can feel both Colt and West watching us as we move around the wooden dance floor. Since it's floating on the river, attached to the shore with heavy ropes, it bobs a bit as we trot around with the other couples.

  "Can I cut in?" West's deep voice makes the back of my neck prickle as he appears behind me. My dance partner doesn't look particularly thrilled, but he's also about half of West's size. What choice does he really have?

  Grudgingly, the boy steps back and I spin around to stumble a bit into Weston's hulking arms. His musky male scent takes over me, turning that hot flush that the alcohol gave me into a deadly fire. It sweeps over me, burning the rest of my inhibitions to ashes.

  My hands trace over his chest and the hard planes of his abs, making his pierced lips curve up at the corners.

  "The nice thing about being sober is I can truly appreciate having your hands all over me. The shitty part is, I can't throw you over this banister and have my way with you."

  "Really, why not?" I ask, spotting Colt dancing with a pretty blond over Weston's shoulder. The sight turns my stomach with jealousy, even as I tell myself how stupid I'm being.

  I was jealous when Arsen taunted me with other women ... and here I go again.

  Why? When these guys have been nothing but assholes to me. When I'm screwing all of them anyway. What does it matter?

  Yet, for whatever reason, it does.

  "Because," West continues, drawing my attention back to his face, those gorgeous almond-shaped eyes of his, that blue hair. He definitely stands out here: he's the only person with colored hair in the whole bar. "Even though I don't look it, I sometimes try to act like a gentleman."

  "You didn't seem like a gentleman when you started fucking me while I was stitching you up," I murmur, and his jaw tightens. But not in anger. Weston's tongue slides across his lower lip, and he shrugs those broad as fuck shoulders of his.

  "Fair point. I suppose if you begged, I could take you back to the car, and show you how nice the suspension is on that thing." West growls this last bit out, just before a shrieking giggle sounds from behind him, and I see Colt leaning in to whisper in that blond girl's ear.

  Either I've had way too much alcohol already (probably not, considering my tolerance levels) or these last few weeks of isolation in the Oregon countryside are slowly driving me insane. Regardless of why I do it, I find myself storming across the deck. Before I can think better of it, I'm shoving the blond away and registering the pleased expression of shock on Colt's face.

  "Whoa there, Tzarina, you jealous or something?" I put my hands on either side of his face and press our lips together in a rush of scorching heat, marking him as mine in front of all the dumbstruck country girls.

  Bet they've never seen a kiss quite so full of passion in public, this brazenly sexual act as I press my breasts to Colt's chest and feel his hands settle on the curves of my waist.

  "Take your whore home if that's what'll make you feel better," the girl spits, and a bit of the old Natalia flares up inside of me. I've never shied away from confrontation before.

  "Say that again," I demand, spinning to face her and hearing West groan from behind me. Oops. We weren't supposed to start any trouble tonight, huh?

  "I said whore," the blonde says, flipping some hair over her shoulder. "Did I stutter?"

  I open my mouth with the intention of giving this girl verbal whiplash when Weston steps in between us. What he says to the cunt in question, I'm not sure, but she scurries away with her tail tucked between her legs, and I raise an eyebrow.

  "What the hell was that all about?" I ask him, but he just turns back to me and shrugs, offering up a small smile as he leans against the railing and Colt drunkenly clutches onto my shoulder. Somebody's either had far more alcohol than I have, or else m
y tolerance blows his tolerance out of the water.

  "Maybe I should be asking you the same question?" Weston retorts, sliding his fingers through his blue-streaked black hair. His coffee-colored eyes watch me with no small amount of curiosity. Crap. I've played my cards too early, haven't I? There's no need for any of these jerk-offs to know that I feel even the smallest tinge of jealousy in regards to them.

  That would imply … connection. Feeling, of some sort.

  And really, there's nothing between us but sex and violence.

  "Did you get jealous, huh, Tzarina-babe?" Colt asks, giving me this huge, sloppy grin that's equal parts charming and infuriating. I shrug him off my shoulder, flip my hair, and head up the steps for another drink.

  I'm leaning over the jukebox and trying to figure out how the damn thing even works when I feel a shadow pass over me. Fucking Colt and West, two asshole peas in a pod, I think as I flick my attention toward them only to find out I'm looking at someone else entirely.

  There's a man standing next to me in a sleeveless leather vest, and I can't help but notice there's a name stitched into the front with the words Vice President underneath it.

  "Can I help you … Axel?" I ask, squinting at the guy's name and then lifting my attention up to his, admittedly, handsome face. Well, handsome in a rugged sort of way, I guess. Axel gives me a once-over from head to toe, focusing for an inordinate amount of time on my tits. In the past, I used to eat up this sort of attention from men. I thought I still did. I mean, when I walked in here, I enjoyed hearing Colt tell me that everyone was looking my way.

  But for some reason, this leering sort of attention from Axel over here is bothering me.

  "Never used a jukebox before?" he asks with a condescending laugh. No, you asshole, I'm from New York. My daddy's a mob boss. We have parties with hundred thousand dollar stereo systems, not shitty old antiques that only play Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn.

  "Not really," I admit, stepping back and letting him flip a quarter in and choose a song. This awful country song comes blaring out, and I pray to the Russian god of vodka that this guy does not ask me to dance.