by Marata Eros
A perfect moment unspoiled by words, circumstance, or violence.
Alexander
The dust has settled. Or ashes, rather.
Alexander stands, letting the fine ash sieve through his fingers, gazing out at the building that functioned as a staging area for his assembly of discarded women.
At least his fillies had not been lost along with the structure. He was between groups of women, so there is a very small silver lining.
He cups his chin. He had to find another facility—without the use of his minion, who though crude, had been instrumental in the division of labor.
Mr. Ritchie has departed this earth, with a little help from Road Kill MC.
A sigh escapes him, and he realizes that he must deal with that appendage. Once he executes a clean amputation of the club, he will have nothing standing in his way of a rebuild.
Road Kill MC, or their “prez” as he’s labeled, have been put on notice. Alexander delivered the missive of how things would be dealt with if their interference did not cease and desist. Of course, this particular motorcycle club is not the average group of hoodlums. They have ex-Navy SEAL members, who are adept at keeping their heads, remaining instinctive and aware. A challenging combination for an enemy.
However, their families do not have those traits. And that is the place to strike the greatest amount of damage. Those men have a weakness.
Property.
Alexander feels the corners of his lips pull. The irony of the common MC moniker is not lost on him. They abhor Alexander’s illicit line of work, yet they name their own women as property.
And they snub their noses at me?
We shall see.
With a final incinerating glance at the smoldering ruins of the building which provided so much, Alexander pivots, the vague shadow inside his mind gradually turning into a plan of definition.
And absolution.
Storm
Fuck that was close.
The bitch about had me. Even now, I can feel the ghost of her too-thin body clinging to me.
I shake off the unfamiliar sensation, eating road as I go toward the club in excess of the speed limit, per usual.
I’ll find a random clubwhore, get my rocks off, and forget the bitch.
Kendra. My stupid brain automatically inserts her name.
I don’t dare shut my eyes, but damn if I don’t want to. Because every time I try to chase her out of my head, Kendra keeps showing up again, in the image of her in a pool of her own menstrual blood, so scared out of her mind, she doesn’t even know her cycle started. I witness that jag up poised above her, ready to stab her with his dick.
The neat hole I made, dead center in the crack of his ass, felt good.
Yup.
I liked closing that particular circle. I might not be a Navy SEAL expert knotter like some of the club boys, but I’m no slouch in the combat department.
Hell, I went into the FBI skilled.
After the life I led, I wasn’t going to be caught with my boxers around my ankles.
Turning off Highway 18, I jockey on the many curving roads leading to the club until I hit the nearly invisible turnoff to the clubhouse.
Cautious by nature, I don’t charge the entrance like the other brothers who announce themselves with their bikes like a roaring salutation.
My eyes catch sight of a tendril of smoke curling from the forest where the clubhouse sits.
Unease flows through me with a chaser of adrenaline.
I slow my ride, easing the big machine to a stop.
Kicking the stand forward, I allow the bike’s weight onto the slim metal arm and stand. Waiting by the cooling engine as it ticks, I attempt to get my bearings.
A sound has my head swiveling to the left.
Terrified icy green eyes meet mine.
Shannon, Wring’s property, has alligator tears crawling down her face, their toe-headed toddler, gripped against her chest as her other arm winds the tree she hides behind.
What. The. Fuck.
Scanning the environment for threats and knowing they’re here, I sprint to her, careful not to crash through the brush.
I don’t waste a second, shooting a question at her with all the finesse of a bullet. “What’s going on?”
Shannon opens her mouth, her bottom lip trembling. “Somebody—” She starts to choke on tears and spaz out.
No time for that.
I grab her shoulders, mindful of the fact she’s my brother’s property—his wife—and she holds their son, a belly distended by the next bun in the oven.
“Settle down, Shannon,” I say in a voice filled with menace, and the training of being a fed doesn’t leave an agent automatically. I know how to command people in chaotic circumstances. And I’d say Wring’s property hiding in the woods qualifies.
I don’t know what I’m dealing with, but what I won’t deal with is a hysterical woman.
Shannon nods quickly, consenting to leveling the fuck down.
I search her eyes for an additional moment to make sure we’re on the same page.
“Just a sec.” I tap out a text to Wring. It’s a special code that means things are fucked at the club.
Never thought to use it.
Until now.
Then I tell him the most important thing he’ll need to know. That Shannon’s with me and she’s okay.
I turn back to her. “Wring knows shit’s sideways and you’re with me. Talk.”
“I left them. All the girls, the prospects, I took my baby and ran.”
“Good,” I tell her in my special, economical way. “What do you think would’ve happened had you stayed?”
Her answer is silence.
So she’s not a dumb bitch. That’s a plus. “Come on,” I say, hauling her behind me. The little one starts to squeak, and I toss over my shoulder, “Shut the kid up, or whatever’s happening up there will find us.
“Okay,” Shannon says, dipping her whiteish-blond head to soothe the toddler. I randomly notice their hair is the same shade of blond. Hell, Wring’s is too.
“Get on.”
Shannon eyes the bike, and I can see the wheels of her mind turning. It’s dangerous for her to be on the back of the bike with her kid and zero helmets.
Beats the fucking alternative, though.
I lift an eyebrow.
When she sees my expression, she awkwardly seats herself behind me.
“We’re going to Viper’s. It’s closest, and Puck’s got his place outfitted like an armory.”
Might need what he’s got. Don’t know.
The heat of the kid and Shannon’s belly lies tightly between us, and I move the bike around, walking it down the drive as far as I can. Silence is better.
I’ve never been more aware of responsibility in my entire life. Wring’s wife is seated behind me. And I’m the only protection between them and what happened at the club.
Not knowing is the worst. But I can’t have a chat at the moment. We become more vulnerable every second we hang around.
When I can’t move any farther, I crank the engine over and speed out of there. I don’t want to lead whoever’s fucked the club to Viper’s, so I weasel around on all the backroads.
When I get to Puck’s and Viper’s spread outside of Fairwood, Viper, Puck, and Wring are waiting at the top.
Noose, Lariat, and Snare are glaringly absent. So is Trainer, who’s always solid when anything goes down.
My gut crawls with unease.
Ignoring my feelings is easy. I carefully lower the speed and inch up the drive with the precious cargo on back.
The instant I round the circular drive, I stop.
Wring is pulling Shannon from the back before I have the kickstand down.
In a rare show of emotion, Wring’s glacial eyes meet mine and he seizes my nape, dragging me into a side hug, his family on the other side.
“Thank you.”
I feel my face redden and try to pull away.
Wring does
n’t let me.
Shannon slides her arm around my neck, and I think I'll die.
“You saved us,” she cries, silently indicating her and the kid.
“Any brother would have,” I say.
Wring’s cold white-blue eyes find mine. “But you were the one who did, weren’t you?”
Yeah, I guess I was.
And I’m not used to being the good guy.
Not sure how I feel about that. Or that I’m feeling anything at all.
Chapter 29
Alexander
Glass explodes on the rooftop in a screaming fit of shards that rain down mere yards from where Alexander stands.
An eye for an eye, he muses. What a perfect expression. The Road Kill MC establishment no more.
It was the last thing to go. Burning the place was simple. Alexander’s people used an accelerant that had been used before. Not an uncommon execution in his operation.
The rooftop greenhouse collapses into the center of the structure, and a hole forms in the middle of the large building, creating a cement donut. Glass and plant debris filling the hole neatly.
Three women lay facedown on the ground, trussed like turkeys.
Alexander has a full heart. Sometimes retribution just works.
The men have been distracted, so they would not be the wiser until matters were already deeply in play. Apparently, the women meet here at the club on a certain day each week. Mr. Ritchie’s replacement confirmed the women would be here for the “playdate.” That habit is at best, complacent and at worst, sloppy –if anyone were to ask him.
Of course, no one did.
One woman—a platinum-blond beauty heavy with child—somehow escaped in the mayhem, though.
Now that would have been a perfectly delicious exploit.
At the end of the day, her absence does not ruin the grand scheme of things. Still, Alexander does consider her to be “the one who got away.”
He consoles himself with the fact that he has three of the women who belong to the top-tier of Road Kill MC brothers.
Angel, Sarah, and Rose.
Alexander is a breast man, and he fancies Rose’s large breasts. He thinks to have her beneath him shortly, pumping into her as he grips and punishes her huge breasts.
He swipes a tongue on his lower lip. Yes. That will be very good.
His eyes travel farther, taking in the dead bodies of the few lower-ranking men who thought to thwart his undertaking and happened to be at the wrong place at the worst of times.
It’s all about numbers, and his were sound. Alexander brought in artillery and volume.
His intel spoke of maybe a dozen men milling about the structure, which looked like a WWII relic that had been retooled as a clubhouse.
A waste, really, he thinks as the massive weight of the roof follows the greenhouse into the sinkhole within the building.
Barking orders to his minions, Alexander strides between pools of blood congealing around the dead men. “Gather the women and put them in the back.”
One of the men, who seems somewhat soft, asks, “What about the brats?”
Alexander rakes an indifferent glance over a half dozen or more children in various ages from one year to perhaps nine.
He lifts a shoulder. “Leave them to their own devices.”
His man hesitates for a fraction of a moment, then they’re all distracted by the muffled screams of the women. Apparently, the women don’t appreciate their offspring being left astride the burning building.
Well now, I suppose their husbands should have been more mindful of consequence before they began sticking their noses where they did not belong.
His lustful gaze moves back to Rose. Large, dark eyes like velvet chocolate gaze back then flick to the holding pen of children.
She’s really quite pretty in a pouty-little-girl kind of way.
Eyes moving on, he takes in Angel, the former lawyer. Tall and slender with gold cat eyes, she is defiant, baring her teeth beneath the gag.
Hmmm.
Finally, he sees Sara. And there’s something there. Some indefinable tragedy in her violet-blue eyes. Something that makes Alexander’s dick quiver in anticipation.
Alexander believes he will have himself a taste of all his enemiesʼ women.
Except Charlotte Temperance. That slippery female is now beyond his reach, having been rescued before Road Kill destroyed his holding pen.
He will take out his frustration over her fortuitous rescue on the other three.
With a snap of fingers, Alexander gives the order for his men to lift the women. They toss the women together on a mattress fitted perfectly inside the rear of a nondescript box van.
Closing the doors on the back of the van, Alexander smiles at the neat script that spells Home Protection Experts across the door. A phony number is centered beneath the lettering.
The irony of the wording is not lost on him.
Puck
Temp’s with Kendra. Temp’s with Kendra. Temp’s with Kendra. Grinding my teeth, I lift the cell and press it against my ear.
If that’s the case, why the fuck isn’t she answering her cock-sucking cell?
“Perry,” my best friend and former partner answers on the first ring.
“Got a situation,” I bark without a hello.
“Fuck, partner—what?”
I tell him.
Perry gives a low whistle. “We’re completely aware of this weasel. By the way, you on a burner?”
I nod, realize he can’t see it, and shut my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Silence reigns for a handful of seconds. “I need you.”
“Is Temp gone again? Thought you got her back?”
“I did. We did.”
“But you can’t reach her?”
“No,” I admit in a low voice. “What we do know is three of the men’s property were taken. The kids have been found, unharmed, thank fuck. But Angel, Sarah, and Rose are MIA.”
I hear Perry rasp a hand over the five-o’clock shadow he’s always got. “Fuck, that’s bad.”
“I know. You don’t think I do?” I pace around my living room, while the men wait on the front porch.
“We can’t reach Lariat, Noose, or Snare. Which is also pretty fucked up. And their women are gone. I can’t reach Temp, and she told me before I left her—fucking hours ago, Per—that she was going straight to Kendra’s because she was worried about her friend.”
“There’s no more prospects to help guard anyone,” I say in a voice so low, I’m surprised he can hear it.
“Dead?” Perry intuits.
“Yes,” I say in a flat voice. “The fuck that took my girl believes in retribution.”
“Sounds like... What can I do?”
“I’m afraid for Candi. I don’t want her targeted. Viper is here, but I don’t feel like I can leave to go after Temp and Kendra without another male here I feel solid about.”
“I’m coming.”
I press the heel of my hand into my eyeball like I’m holding in my brains. “Thanks.”
The line goes dead. At least that’s handled.
I check my messages again. I’ve sent nine to Temp. Zero response.
I bang out my front door, and Viper’s piercing gaze meets mine. The other men are as tense as snakes.
“Perry’s going to come. Offer backup.”
Wring and Shannon are gone—along with their little kid. Holed up somewhere that no one can find them. Wring went by the clubhouse and gathered up all the kids and is getting them somewhere safe.
Storm and I look at each other.
“I know you hate me.”
Got no time for hate. At least, that’s how I reply to his statement of fact.
Storm’s smile is grim, hazel eyes dark like death. “Good, because we got work to do.”
Yes, we do.
“First, let’s check on the bitches,” Storm says. “When their whereabouts can be ascertained, we’ll go from there.”
> “Wait,” Candi says.
We turn.
“I’m afraid for you, Puck.”
Swallowing past a lump in my throat, I read the worry on her face. “Can’t lie. I am too. But you know who I’m more afraid for?”
Candi nods. She already knows I’m talking about Temp—but that’s not all. Not by a long shot. Not any fucking more.
“The mother of my child.”
Storm’s brow cocks at that, but he remains silent.
Nothing like letting the cat out of the bag.
But fuck it—everyone can know just how high the stakes just got.
Temp
Earlier
Puck tips his head against my forehead, bending over quite a bit to do it. “God, I don’t want to leave you.”
His big hands span my back, drawing me close against the warmth of his body.
“Puck, I’m okay, it’s six a.m. You can go.”
Not that I really want him to go. But I don’t want him to feel obligated to stay.
“I just need to grab a shower and change clothes.” He groans, bringing the flat of his palm around to my belly. “I can’t believe you’re having my baby,” his voice rumbles between us.
I squirm a little, still not completely one hundred percent sure that he’s on board. “Are you sure you’re ready to be a daddy?”
Puck jerks his head away, the tender moment dissipating like smoke.
“Yes, I’m goddamned sure.” His intent eyes search mine, the smile he wears taking the sting out of his words. “It’s hot you’ve never been with anyone but me. It’s even hotter that there’s a piece of us growing right here.” His fingertips bend slightly over my flat tummy, emphasizing “here.” “And”—his eyes rise to mine again—“it’s really special that you trust me, Temp.”
I realize I do. Even though what Kendra said before paints Puck in a less-than-favorable light, I know genuine when I see it, and this is it.
We’re meant to be, Puck and I. Cliché but true.
“Text me the second you’re done babysitting Kendra,” he commands.
I kind of like it—not that I’ll admit that to him.
We had pillow talk about Ritchie. His violation. I cried, and Puck held me. But what more could I ask when I know Road Kill dispatched Ritchie’s ass?
