The Biker's Brother (Sons of Sanctuary MC Book 2)

by Victoria Danann

  “No. Maybe you’re more observant.” Looking down into his coffee cup with a wicked smile, he said, “Or maybe you’re just plain wrong.”

  “You’re still thinking that’s going to happen someday, huh?”

  “There’s always hope. You know how you told me you used to cut your dad’s hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need you to get out the scissors and brush up your skills.”

  “Don’t make me play twenty questions,” she said, leaning on the opposite counter as she took a sip of steaming coffee.

  “I need a trim and I want to look just like Brand.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Better if you don’t know.”

  She set her cup down. “Most of the time I like better. This time I think I want to know.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, baby.”

  She sighed. “I don’t like this.”

  He shrugged. “Comes with the wife gig.”

  “Not making me feel better, Brash.”

  “How’s this for better?”

  Grinning, he took two steps forward and pulled her into the kind of kiss that made her forget who and where she was.

  Brigid’s body went to mush in his embrace, as often happened when he turned amorous. When he broke the kiss, she said, “It’s a good thing Cami didn’t get the full treatment or I’d have to kill her.”

  He laughed softly as he nuzzled her neck, humming.

  Brandon placed a call to Henry Bartholomew, COO of Claymore Industries, a small Boston shipping company that was in the process of being acquired by Germane Enterprises, but news of that was still in the confidential stage, yet to be announced. No one had leaked it to the Wall Street Journal or any other source Michaels would be likely to use.

  “Say, Henry,” Brand said. “I’m thinking about doing some business with Trey Michaels. I’d like you to set up a meeting if you would. Have him come to the City Club for lunch. Since he’s not a member, he’ll be impressed by that. I’d like you to feel him out about the possibilities of selling his Greek line to Claymore. You think you can do that?”

  Bartholemew was overjoyed that his boss-to-be was demonstrating so much confidence in him. It seemed to settle the question of whether or not he’d still have a job after the acquisition dust settled, and gave him hope for advancement opportunity at the same time.

  He was careful to mask his elation and not appear too exuberant. There was sometimes a fine line between amiable cooperation and boot licking.

  “Of course. I’m honored that you’re entrusting me with the task.”

  “Do it soon. Tomorrow if possible and let me know the exact plans.”

  “Exact plans?”

  “Such as when you’re scheduled to meet.”

  “Oh. Alright.”

  “Thank you, Henry. I’ll be in touch about the results of your meeting.” Brandon ended the call.

  Brandon was still stiff from having spent twenty-six hours in a car. The fact that he’d traded off driving with Arnold had helped, but he’d also had to listen to Arnold’s idea of conversation, which consisted almost entirely of talk about women, worldwide wrestling, or himself. They hadn’t flown because Brandon wanted no record of the trip.

  Arnold had procured a rental, using his alternate identity. They’d made a point of avoiding toll roads where they might be photographed and time stamped as they passed through.

  He’d instructed the yacht captain to move the Silver Garland from her home at North Cove out to Montauk and leave the key in the usual hiding place.

  Brandon and Arnold parked at the Montauk lot, grabbed their bags, pulled the hoods up on their hoodies and tied them so only their noses and eyes were visible. It was almost midnight. So nobody would be around but the night watchman, if they had one.

  Eric had spent two hours calling around to marinas before he located one that wasn’t equipped with cameras.

  He’d told them, “Well, damn it, I wanted cameras, but since everything else you offer is so attractive, I guess I can do without.” He then gave them the name of the Silver Garland captain and told them to expect him.

  It was easy to spot the Silver Garland. A yacht like the one that belonged to Germane Enterprises was unusual in any marina. It was a super yacht, big enough to even have a ‘garage’ for smaller craft, like a sleek speedboat, and a small inflatable.

  Brandon found the key taped to a starboard fender. He and Arnold would sleep on board until about six the next morning. They’d leave before sunrise and arrive in Boston around ten. Good weather. Clear sailing.

  When they stepped inside and turned on the lights, Arnold whistled. “I’ve never been on anything bigger than a ski boat, but I’m thinking most people don’t have this experience.”

  Brandon nodded. “Yeah. You’d be right about that. You sleep in there. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. We’ll eat and then get underway.”

  Arnold looked amazed. “You know how to cook?”

  “You don’t? It’s a basic life skill.”

  “No man. It’s one of the best things about women. Right up there with willing pussy.”

  “So you don’t know how to survive without a woman nearby?”

  “I don’t know how to survive without a drive through nearby.”

  Brandon was in dire need of a breather from Arnold. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

  Brash had been tutored on people in the office, what they looked like and their relationship to Brandon. He’d also learned about Brandon’s habits, what he did on arrival, where he was likely to have lunch, etc etc etc.

  He was amazed how easy it was to walk through the doors of Germane Enterprises and have the employees look up and smile.

  “Good morning, Mr. St. Germaine.”

  “Good morning, Mr. St. Germaine.”

  He nodded and returned the, ‘Good mornings’, in kind on his way to the office.

  Apparently all he had to do was show up wearing Brand’s face and his clothes and, sure enough, people would be fooled. Somehow it had seemed harder when he’d tried it in New York.

  He and Brandon had decided that, to be on the safe side, he would order lunch in. They thought it best that he not interact with Brand’s business associates because they could easily take him into unanticipated territory.

  Brash kept an office at Hollywood Wreck and Ride and ran his network of small businesses from there, but he could just as easily perform those tasks from Brand’s office. All he needed was his phone and laptop, which he’d brought in a backpack that functioned like one that cost a hundred dollars, but had probably cost a thousand dollars. Brandon had insisted that it be part of his ‘ensemble’ when they’d stood in his closet picking out what clothes Brash would wear while he was gone.

  If anybody ever asked, at least two dozen people would swear that Brandon St. Germaine had been in the office every day, all day, all week long.

  Trey Michaels’ driver let him out in front of the building that housed the City Club. The sidewalk was busy with people trying to get lunch and get back to their offices in less than an hour. As he paused for a break in pedestrian traffic so that he could navigate his way to the entrance, he was intercepted by a young clean cut man in a dark suit who bore a remarkable resemblance to a thirty-year-old Arnold Schwarzenegger, but was not as big. As the man stepped in front of him, blocking his way into the building, he said, “Mr. Michaels?” His bearing wasn’t threatening. He wasn’t wearing a smile, but his expression might be described as pleasant.

  “Yes. What is it?” Michaels used a practiced tone to let the man know he was aggravated.

  “Mr. Bartholemew had another meeting this morning and is running late. He sent a car,” Arnold waved toward the limousine at the curb waiting with passenger door open, “and asked me to convey his request that you lunch with him on the yacht instead.”

  Michaels didn’t hesitate long. “Oh, well, alright.” He got into the backseat and fiddled with his tie as the Arnold lookalike smile
d and closed the door behind him.

  At the same time, Mr. Bartholemew received a call from someone identifying himself as Michaels’ assistant, saying that he was extremely sorry but Mr. Michaels couldn’t make it and would have to reschedule. Bartholemew thanked the caller, but was inexorably irritated.

  When he called Brandon’s office to deliver the news, he was transferred to his assistant, who’d been told to say that he was in tele-meetings all day, the one exception being Henry Bartholemew.

  “Yes. Mr. St. Germaine is in. Just a moment.”

  “Yes?” Brash answered.

  “It’s Henry. Michaels cancelled. No reason. He didn’t even do it in person. Had an assistant call to say he was busy and would reschedule.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you were put out, Henry,” Brash said, trying to minimize his drawl, as New York ears were sometimes sensitive to regional dialect differences. “He must not be very interested in doing business with us.”

  “That’s my take as well.”

  “Stay and have lunch anyway. Have them put your bill on my tab.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “Let’s play golf the next time I’m in Boston.” He chuckled then added, “In the summer.”

  “Definitely.”

  The limousine stopped at the sailing club. Arnold had made arrangements to park the speedboat for a short time. After a short walk down the pier, Arnold jumped into the boat and began untying knots.

  “What is this?” Michaels said. “You said we were going to a yacht.”

  Michaels’ eyes followed where Arnold pointed out the super yacht anchored about three hundred yards east. Arnold felt a little satisfaction when he saw Michaels’ eyes widen a little. A guy like him was hard to impress, but Brandon had managed to do exactly that. He stepped down into the boat and looked around, deciding where to sit.

  “Sit there,” Arnold instructed. “I’ll try to go slow enough so that there’s no spray.”

  Michaels nodded.

  The ‘garage’ had been left open so that they were able to pull right in, under the yacht. When the boat came to a stop, Arnold began tying it off at the toe rail.

  Michaels looked like he was about to get up.

  “Hold on. Don’t get up yet. Let me help you. Sometimes we get a sudden wake.”

  Without analyzing that statement for sense, Michaels stayed seated.

  “Okay. Now you can get up.”

  Michaels rose and turned to make the step up to the walkway, but Brandon was waiting for him. He took pleasure in watching the progression of dawning realization that paraded across Michaels’ face.

  First there was confusion.

  Then recognition.

  Then realization that Brandon St. Germaine was tied to Sanctuary Security.

  Arnold grabbed Michaels from behind and pinned his arms to his sides.

  Brandon smiled. “Cami has a message for you. It’s not about the money.” He forced a washcloth that had been soaked in trichloromethane over Michaels’ nose and mouth so that he had no choice but to breathe in.

  The supply had come from Brand’s dad. A small bottle. Brant had said that they could have easily made their own out of common household items, but that he’d gotten it from a friend of the club in order to avoid incriminating chemical traces around the club or at one of their homes.

  Michaels struggled for less than ten seconds before he was out cold.

  Brandon drew up the anchor by automated pulley and turned the yacht back toward New York. Halfway between Nantucket and Montauk, Arnold pushed Michaels off the end of the boat, weighted down with four eleven-pound barbell plates.

  He closed the ‘garage’ door and found Brandon at the helm.

  “He’s sleeping with the fishes old school, boss,” Arnold said. “They’re gonna be well-dressed fish. ‘Cause the clothes I was wearing are getting a salt water rinse. Just like you said.”

  Brandon smiled. “You did good, Arnold. The club won’t forget.”

  “Yeah. I know. The club’s been good to me.”

  The Silver Garland received permission to dock at Montauk at dusk. Brandon cooked dinner on board. They ate with the TV on. At dark, they locked up, replaced the key on the fender and started the long drive home.

  Brandon called the captain while Arnold took the first shift driving.

  “Pick her up at Montauk and bring her back to North Cove. I let some college buddies take it out fishing. They said they made a mess in the speedboat. So hire somebody to give it a deep clean. You know I don’t like fish or fishy residue. So tell them to sterilize that boat. I don’t want a single germ or fish blood molecule left behind.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”

  “Very good.”

  Brandon dropped the phone into the drink console, leaned back and closed his eyes. It felt like he’d spent far too much time in moving vehicles the past week.

  He went to the penthouse first, threw all the clothes he’d taken into a hot water wash, showered, changed, and drove to the club. On the way he called Brash.

  “You can go back to being you.”

  “Thank Christ. Where are you?”

  “Ten minutes away from the club.”

  “Does Pop know you’re back?”

  “No, but he knows I’m supposed to be back tonight.”

  “That girl of yours has been antsy.”

  Brandon perked up at that. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s smart enough to guess what you’ve been doing. She’s also smart enough to never name it out loud. But she’s been nervous. Brigid and I took her to dinner. I thought getting her away from the club would help take her mind off things.”

  “Did it?”

  “I think the only cure is seeing you back here. She’s got it as bad as you.”

  Brandon unconsciously stepped on the gas a little harder. He couldn’t wait to see her.

  He walked through the clubhouse doors to a hail of greetings, but he was looking around for a spikey-haired blonde.

  “She’s in Brant’s room,” Rita said without being asked.

  He looked down the hall. The door was closed and he couldn’t get there fast enough. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d never live it down, he might have jogged down the hallway.

  Cami answered the door.

  Brandon was standing there looking uncertain. She’d changed her hair back to its natural mahogany color. She also looked at home in her own clothes that fit her perfectly and seemed to fit her personality. It seemed her bags had finally arrived.

  “Brandon?” She was just as uncertain. She never wanted to find herself kissing the wrong twin again. Ever.

  He rushed forward grinning, pulled her into his arms as he shut the door with his foot and ran a big hand over her head.

  “I like it,” he said.

  She smiled, looking between his eyes and his delectable mouth. “And I like you. I missed you. A lot.”

  “How much?” he asked as he was backing her toward the bed.

  “So much I don’t want to ever be away from you again.”

  She felt a slight hesitation in his response, but ignored it because Brandon was clearly more interested in making love than talking. She was wearing a long nubby silk shirt over leggings and riding boots.

  As he unbuttoned the shirt, he said, “Did I ever tell you what it did to me to have you show me your perfect tits in that see-through bra when we stayed at Flooded Bridge Motel?”

  She grinned. “No,” she said, as she reached for the button at the waistband of his jeans. “Did I ever tell you what it did to me to see every centimeter of your gorgeous lickable cock and believe that it was reserved for men only?”

  As he pushed the shirt off her shoulders and let it drop to the ground he filled both hands with breasts that weren’t overly large, but were satisfyingly heavy, like they had stick-to substance.

  He raised his eyebrows and tsked. “Now you’ve done
it.” He unfastened her bra and pulled it away.

  “What?” She lowered the zipper of his pants and plunged her hand inside, seeking the feel of velvety skin.

  He drew in a sharp breath when her hand encircled his cock. “You said the word ‘lickable’. You know what happens when you say that word?”

  “Hmmm. Maybe. You want to tell me? After you take off those boots and those pants.”

  He shoved his pants to his knees, sat down on the end of the bed, pulled off his boots, then the pants followed. While he was doing that he watched Cami walk back to the door wearing just leggings and boots and turn the lock.

  She returned to where he sat on the end of the bed, still wearing his midnight blue Henley, with a magnificent hard on pointing a perfect forty-five degree angle. He leaned back, supporting himself with hands flat on the bed, like he was proud of having made a mouthwatering erection.

  She knelt between his legs. “You were saying?”

  “I was saying that this is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.” He leaned onto his left hand, palmed himself in his right and gave it a stroke. Then he held it still. “Put your pretty pouty mouth right there.”

  She smiled. She didn’t try to remove his hand. She encircled the head with her tongue, letting him hold himself, watching his reaction as she played with her nipples. His eyes were hooded, his lips parted like he was enraptured.

  As she took more of him into her mouth, she reached down and played with his balls, alternating rolling and giving a gentle squeeze. She took her cues from his uneven breaths and the sounds he made as she learned what he liked, how he liked it.

  He tapped her on the head. “Stop, baby. I want to come inside you.”

  She pulled away. “Playing with fire,” she whispered. “Still not on birth control.” But it didn’t slow him down.

  He grabbed the jeans that had been discarded and pulled a ribbon of condoms out of a pocket. “I’m prepared, but it’s a temporary measure. You’ve already spoiled me for skin on skin.”

  He forced her to stand up, pulled her leggings down to her thighs and played with the curls between her legs while she drew in one gasp after another. Her hands went to his shoulders to steady herself so she wouldn’t fall over.