by Ashley Lane
I tiptoe through the room, only pausing slightly when my eyes land on a small pile on the floor. There’s nothing special or significant about the pile. It’s no different from any other pile one might expect to see littering a bedroom floor. But for some reason, I can’t pull my eyes away from the sight. Two shirts, both black and both large, are crumpled up and half covered by three pairs of shoes.
Two shirts on the floor, completely normal. We’re all guilty of dubbing the floor a makeshift laundry basket from time to time.
Three pairs of shoes. Again, completely normal. Or at least it would be if they all belonged to the same person… but as I stand here staring at the two pairs laying amongst mine, I can’t help but love how unnaturally natural it feels to see all of our shoes there together.
Oh my god. I’m daydreaming while staring at a pile of shoes. I knew it. I’m losing my mind. What the hell did Rhys put in those drinks? Mermaid Tears? I think not. More like liquid tricks from the devil himself.
Even though my last plea to the big guy went unanswered, I throw out another one as I wrap my fingers around the doorknob and pull it open. When it opens silently, I glance up at the ceiling. “I would have preferred the Angels,” I grumble.
I peek around the door frame and relax slightly when I’m met with an empty hall. Voices coming from the kitchen assure me that the guys are probably both there, but I still hold my breath as I cross the hall into the bathroom, which is thankfully already open.
My bladder sings in sweet relief when I make it to the toilet in time. When I’m finished with my business, I wash my hands and dry them on the hand towel hanging from the hook. I spot a tube of toothpaste and decide that a finger brush is better than nothing.
I scrub my teeth longer than needed and I’m woman enough to admit it was a vain attempt at prolonging the inevitable. With one last rinse, I tidy the bathroom and turn the light off as I leave.
Back in the hall, my stomach grumbles loudly as the scent of greasy bacon floods my senses. I follow my nose—and the sound of suppressed laughter and deep murmurs—and stop in the doorway of the kitchen.
Jax is standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. Every inch of tanned, tattooed goodness is on display for my eyes and they drink him up as if he’s water, and we’re stranded in the Sahara.
Behind him, Angel is dressed in much the same as his boyfriend, only whereas Jax’s sweats are grey, Angel’s are navy. Angel wraps his arms around Jax from behind and I take the time to appreciate the differences in their appearance.
While both men are in incredible shape, Jax is slightly taller than Angel, standing over him by no more than two inches. Jax’s naturally tan skin stands out against Angel’s pale cream. And along with the obvious differences in their hair color—Angel’s a golden blonde and Jax’s match my own inky locks—the most obvious difference in the two of them is the tattoos. Or in Angel’s case, lack of tattoos.
When I first met Jax that day behind Corrupt, he looked to be every part the biker that TV leads us to believe in. His black jeans and matching leather jacket wrapped him up in a perfectly delicious, tall, dark, and dangerous sundae.
Angel was a completely different kind of shock. His flawless beauty is not to be rivaled, even by some of today’s hottest Manhattan underwear models.
Needless to say, each man is sexier than sin. Nearly too much to handle on their own. But adding them together like they are now?
Let’s just say I hope this apartment building has a defibrillator on hand because it might just be too much for this ticker to handle.
Jax spots me over his shoulder and flashes me a roguish grin. My heart stutters in my chest, proving my defibrillator theory. I pull in a deep breath, preparing to grovel for the hot mess express they had to clean up after the night before.
Angel follows his gaze and releases his hold on his boyfriend. At first I wonder if he’s embarrassed, but I don’t have much time to consider the possibility. All thoughts are erased from my mind as Angel wraps me up in the biggest bear hug of the century.
My body reacts without consent from my mind and immediately snuggles deeper into the warmth of his bare chest.
“Morning, beautiful,” he whispers in my ear, and chills race along my spine in response.
My good morning is muffled in his shirt, but he hears it.
“Sleep good?” he questions, but before I can answer, another presence invades our bubble, and I watch mesmerized as Angel presses a gentle kiss on my brow before passing me into Jax’s arms.
Much like with Angel, my response to Jax’s embrace is immediate. His hold isn’t as tight as Angel’s was, but it holds more reverence. One hand is wrapped around the small of my back while the other cups the nape of my neck, his thumb drawing small circles against the skin there.
“Good morning,” he whispers before he leans down and presses his lips against my own in a chaste kiss.
He pulls away, but unlike with Angel, I don’t answer. Instead, I look around the room searching for some kind of clue that I’m not actually standing in the kitchen with Angel and Jax, but I’m in fact in a dream. My body is safe and sound in my bed at Shelly’s house. My search yields no answers. No talking cats or fire-breathing dragons. And there’s no sign of unicorns either.
In front of me, Jax chuckles under his breath. The deep husky tone has my body clenching in places that has my face turning red.
After breakfast, the guys refuse to let me help tidy up, saying I can shower and change while they do their household chores. I watch them argue back and forth playfully for a few minutes, Angel moaning that he hates washing dishes, and Jax refusing because he did them last time.
In the end, it comes down to a quick, but hot, play wrestling match on the kitchen floor, followed by a coin toss that lands Angel on washing duty. His pout is seriously adorable.
It has come to my attention that Angel and Jax are huge kids. To say I was shocked when I came out of the bathroom after my shower, and NERF Guns were spread out around the living room would be an understatement. Now, they’re both sitting on opposite sofas clicking their ammo clips into their sniper rifles and submachine guns, (NERF has come a long way since I was a kid) and I’m holding a bunch of orange tipped, foam ‘bullets’ in my hand trying to figure out how to shove them into a plastic clip that looks like it fell off and broke.
Seeing my current predicament, Jax takes pity on me—because Angel fights to the death, apparently—and shows me for the third time how to load my gun and shoot the bullets.
“So, you just slide it into the hole,” he says.
I can’t help laughing. “Into the hole… got it.”
He smirks. “Something funny, little one?”
“Who’s sliding into what hole?” Angel asks.
“No one and nothing,” I say.
He raises his brow. “Jax?” he questions.
“Baby, you can slide into my hole any day.”
Oh shit. My face is so hot I’m certain I’m going to catch fire any second. “Um… should I leave?” Say no. Say no. God, please say no.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not sliding into his hole right now.” Angel smirks. “But,” Jax adds, “if you wanna know more about sliding into holes, we’re open to discussion. We are experts after all.” Then, he hangs some type of strap over my shoulder and tells me it’s for when I need extra ammo.
Angel’s goal—fight to the death.
Jax’s goal—stealth mode and sniper rifles.
My goal—hide until it’s over. Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Angel stands, slinging two long bright green and yellow toy guns over one shoulder. Over his other shoulder, he pulls on an ammo belt like mine. And shoved into both the front and back pockets of his jeans are spare bullets. Jesus Christ, he’s not playing around.
Jax isn’t much better, but he claims he never runs out of ammo because he uses it wisely. Meanwhile I’m having second thoughts about being thrust into th
e middle of this war.
“What are the rules?” I ask.
Angel and Jax laugh out loud. “Baby, in this house, there are no rules,” Angel informs me. “Stay inside, aim and shoot.”
“So how do we know who wins?” I look them up and down suspiciously. They’re up to something.
“Whoever runs out of bullets last.” Angel shrugs and I glance to Jax who nods. “Last man standing, sweetheart.”
Looking down at the coffee table, I grab another handful of bullets and shove them into my pockets, then I shove another handful down my bra. The guys stare at me, wide eyes and mouths agape.
With a sweet smile, I say, “Let’s play.”
“You get sixty seconds to hide, after that, you better run, or hope your hiding spot was good enough,” Jax says this as though his small two bedroom apartment is the White House and we’ve got miles of land to cover and plenty of places to hide.
“Ready,” Angel starts.
“Set,” Jax adds.
“GO!” Angel shouts.
They both take off in different directions, and me… I waste thirteen seconds looking at the living room and wondering if I can hide behind the drapes. Yeah, no. Instead, I race to the spare bedroom since the guys both went in the opposite direction. I creep into the room and slowly slide open the mirrored door of the closet. There are so many boxes I have to squeeze my body into the corner and drag a few boxes across so that they’re stacked in front of me.
One single thought comes to mind. Hiding is not playing.
I’m about to leave the safety of the musty robe when I hear the door creak open.
“Oakley?” Jax whispers. “You in here?”
Oh man! Does he honestly think I’ll fall for that trick? Steadying my breathing, I grip the handle of my gun—it’s called a handle, right? A series of pops comes from outside the room. Jax shouts, the sound between a laugh and a shriek of horror. A body, or something just as hard, slams into a wall, and Angel’s shout of victory is so loud the neighbors probably think we’re recreating World War 2.
When the sound dies down, I swallow my unwarranted fear and let adrenaline guide me. I creep out of the robe and slowly make my way to the bedroom door. Peeking out, I don’t see or hear anyone. Coast is clear. With my finger on what I hope is the trigger, I continue down the hall and turn into the living room.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
Shit! I duck down behind the sofa as bullets bounce off the soft cushions, and my head. Lifting my gun, I point it toward the kitchen and hope for the best when I pull the trigger.
I peek over the back of the sofa and see a sniper rifle resting on the kitchen counter, then I see messy black hair. Gun in my grasp, I jump to my feet and rush toward the kitchen, aiming my gun at Jax’s head.
Just as I’m about to fire, he stands and shoots me with his submachine gun. Bullets whizz past my face, some hit my arms and chest, and a few bounce off my head.
“Run!” Jax shouts through his laughter.
I don’t though, I hold my finger on the trigger and pepper him with bullets until my gun is making a clicking sound, but nothing is coming out of it. “Oh shit!”
Jax grins when he sees I’m out of ammo, and I panic. Of course I left my other gun in the bedroom closet. Thinking fast, I throw the bullets in my hand at Jax, and I turn and bolt toward the bedroom, his booming laughter following me all the way.
I shove the door open and rush in only to come face to face with Angel… He’s holding two machine guns, and his sexy little smirk and those goddamn dimples suck me in. Before I know it, I’m basically a bullseye for every one of his bullets.
I dramatically fall to the floor, splayed out like I’m on display on a sacrificial altar.
“Okay, okay, I’m dead.”
Angel cocks his head and looks down at me. “Aww baby, do you need mouth-to-mouth?”
Is this a trick question? “Please…” I beg with my best puppy dog eyes.
Angel drops to one knee and as he’s about to lean down, I grab his machine gun, roll out from under him, and run for my life. “Sucker!” I shout on my way down the hall.
“Oakley!” he shouts. “You little cheater!”
I can barely contain my giggles as I race toward the bathroom. I slam the door shut and lock it for good measure. Minutes later, there’s a knock. “Oakley…” Angel sing-songs. “I know you’re in there.”
“Not coming out,” I call.
“Jax and I are out of bullets.”
“What?!” I ask.
“Yeah, babe. We’re all out.”
I pout. Well shit, just when I was getting into it. I put the gun on the bathroom counter and unlock the door. When I open it, Jax and Angel are standing in front of me, both of them holding some type of ginormous cannon that surely does not shoot out foam bullets. Eyes wide, I stare at them in shock.
“What’s that?” I question, slowly stepping back.
“It’s a little something we made.”
“Ah huh…” I rest my hand on the door, ready to slam it closed, but before I can do anything, they pull their triggers and in mere seconds I’m shot down in a hail of foam balls in every color.
“What’s wrong, baby? I thought you loved balls.” Jax teases me.
“Ahhhh… you guys are horrible!” I screech, throwing the balls back at them as hard as I can—which I admit, is not hard at all. I leap forward to force my way through them so I can find my gun and shoot them, but Angel grabs me around the waist and picks up.
Kicking and screaming, I yell at him to put me down, and he does. On the bed. He rolls over beside me and Jax falls onto the bed on the other side, breathing heavily. “You play this a lot?” I ask.
“When we get the chance,” Angel admits.
Jax leans over me and brushes my hair from my forehead. “You wanna keep playing?”
“In a minute… I need a rest first.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off me, so I close them. A second later, warm lips brush across mine and all I can do is drink in the beauty of the moment and return the kiss with full force. I’m kinda sure it’s Jax who’s currently sucking on my tongue and causing me to squirm. And when my eyes flicker open, I’m right.
He smiles against my lips. “You taste like heaven, little one.” He leans forward and steals another kiss before he pulls away and turns to Angel. “Fucking taste her.” he growls to his boyfriend and I wonder if instead of all this being a dream, I’ve actually died and gone to heaven.
I turn my head slightly to look at Angel who cups my head and pulls me closer before his tongue dips into my waiting mouth and we kiss. It’s soft and gentle, wet and messy. And every swipe of his tongue over mine sends a thrill of desire surging through my body.
I have no idea what’s happening between the three of us, but I do know that I’m not going to question it. For the first time in years, I’m drinking up everything life has to give me.
Starting with them.
CHAPTER 19
MALCOLM
“Fucking faggot!” I shout as I throw the ugly blue table lamp my ex bought into the wall where it shatters on impact, but it’s not enough to rein in the all-consuming rage. My head throbs and my nose, that’s definitely fucking broken thanks to that pussy ass Angel, hurts like a motherfucker.
Storming into my bedroom, I stub my toe on the coffee table and pain shoots up my leg. Still burning with anger, I flip the coffee table, sending the shit on top of it across the living room floor. I tear off the remnants of my already torn black t-shirt and hurl it in the direction of my bedroom and head for the kitchen instead.
The pounding in my head is an incessant beat that’s driving me fucking insane. I pull out the kitchen drawers and through swollen black eyes, I rummage through each one searching for the ibuprofen I know I had earlier in the week.
With a glass full of whiskey, I sit on the sofa in my living room and take a mouthful, swallowing it down with the ibuprofen. Alcohol and drugs don�
��t mix. Fuck whoever said that bullshit. They obviously never got beat up by a fucking biker. Who, despite being a fucking butt pirate, can hold his own in a street fight.
I scrub a hand through my hair but wince when my fingers catch on the strands matted together by dry blood. Thinking about how easily Angel overpowered me causes my rage to build again. Sure, I’ve heard stories about the Heaven’s Guardians MC, and how they’re badass bikers and will go to the ends of the earth to protect what’s theirs. But fuck it, Angel is just a six foot something pretty boy fairy who’s probably had everything handed to him all his fuckin’ life.
I take another mouthful of whiskey.
And Oakley! That ugly fuckin’ bitch. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. That glint in his eyes when she walks past, it’s what clued me into the fact that the faggot was a little straighter than we all thought. A shiver of disgust runs down my spine when I think about Angel and Jax and the things they do to each other. Fucking sick.
When the last mouthful of whiskey flows down my throat, I lean back on the sofa and close my eyes. Angel may have won this time, but I’m not backing down. And if that means I go to war with the entire Heaven’s Guardians? So fucking be it. Best buckle up motherfuckers.
***
An hour out of Aspen, I hand the Uber driver the money and step out of his car, smoothing down my shirt and checking my reflection in the car window before he drives away. Setting a broken nose wasn’t as hard as I expected it to be, but it hurt like a motherfucker, and now I have a broken bathroom mirror to add to the list of shit I’ve fucked up in the past 24 hours.
The bar is smaller than Corrupt, and when I walk in and see a hooker on her knees beneath one of the tables, it’s clear their standards are a hell of a lot lower too. Right on par with mine. I used to love working at Corrupt. The pay was better than any other place in Colorado, and the hours were perfect, allowing me to go clubbing or to dive bars to pick up women willing to exchange a night in my bed for a bit of cash.
Everything was fuckin’ peachy until Rhys started. He was the perfect little goody two shoes. Suckin’ up Angel’s ass every chance he got. Rhys was watching me too closely, and I knew the minute he saw me taking cash from the register to pay the sluts in the back, he’d run his mouth to Angel. It was going so well too. Even got myself a nice little nest egg out of it.
