by Amber Morgan
Alessi chuckled, the sound like knives in Slater's back. “I've never been a civilized man. But I'm willing to be persuaded.”
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time Freya found somewhere to cry in private, she didn't want to cry anymore.
She'd headed upstairs first, thinking to take refuge in Punk's room. But as she climbed the stairs, she heard raised voices, and when she reached the landing, she saw Roxy and Elena down the far end of the corridor, screaming at each other.
“I'm not a child!” Elena wailed, tugging at her hair. “You can't tell me how to deal with this!”
“You think this is what your dad would want?” Roxy demanded, voice rough with tears.
“Don't you dare throw that at me!”
Freya backed away before either of them could see her, cheeks burning. The scene was painful enough as it was, but it highlighted that the clubhouse was not her home, not a space where she could expect privacy or sanctuary. Everyone here had their own lives and problems.
She longed wearily for her own bedroom. She and Kayden had shared a room until they hit puberty, then she'd insisted on her own, and her parents had let her decorate it how she wanted. The walls were pale violet, the carpet gentle cream, and over the years she'd collected dozens of vintage movie posters to frame and hang on the walls. Marilyn Monroe and Lauren Bacall had watched over her while she played with hair dye and make-up, clothes and shoes, while she studied and slept, while she made out with her first boyfriend and experimented with her best girl friend. Her bedroom always smelt of sandalwood and jasmine, soothing and tranquil.
Christ. Her room felt a world away. Everything it represented—normality, safety, family—it may as well have been on the fucking moon.
In the end, she found herself in the garage. It was dark and cool, providing the sense of solitude she craved. The smell of motor oil reminded her of Slater, and the rows of gleaming, beasty-looking bikes were oddly reassuring, as if they formed a shield between her and the rest of the world. She sat on an old wooden crate at the back of the big building and waited for the dramatic tears to come.
But she was all dried up. Instead, there was a sticky pit of anger inside her that it had all gotten this far, this crazy and out of control. Anger that she was forced to rely on other people to fix it when, all along, she'd wanted to fix it herself.
She'd been arrogant to think she could, she knew that. Or maybe just naive. But the dancing had seemed ... fine. A compromise she could live with for Kayden's sake. But this spiral of shit they'd fallen into was the furthest possible thing from fine, and Freya couldn't accept that after everything she'd already gone through, she now had to sit back and wait for Nash to fix everything, or accept handouts from Slater.
She'd never been that passive. Oh sure, she knew she couldn't go head to head with a fucking mob boss, but that didn't mean she had to hide in the garage while the men solved all the problems, did it?
She straightened up, nodding to herself. At the very least, she could be there while Nash and Alessi talked. She could stare him down and show him that she wasn't cowed, that Kayden wasn't broken. Even if Bello was there. The idea made her throat bone-dry, but if she never confronted him, never looked in his eyes and showed him he couldn't touch her, Anthony Bello's shark-like gaze and cold voice would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She wasn't willing to give him that.
There was a creak at the other end of the garage as the door rolled up. “Freya?” Slater called. A second later the light flicked on, dazzling her.
“Down here,” she called. While she was feeling brave, she figured she should straighten things out with him. Running away from him in floods of hysterical tears wasn't the impression she wanted to leave. She shifted on the crate, embarrassment seeping into her. Did she seem childish to him now? Mercurial, like Shelby?
“Thank fuck,” he said, weaving his way through the rows of bikes to reach her. “I thought you'd gone.”
She smiled wryly. “I'm not that stupid, Slater.”
“You're not stupid at all.” He frowned down at her, face shadowed despite the bright lights overhead. “None of this is your fault, Freya, and not many people would have the guts to try to tackle it like you have.”
Warmth rushed through her, making her fingertips tingle and her cheeks flush. “Being brave isn't the same as being smart.”
His frown deepened. He knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his. “I don't kiss stupid women, Freya.”
She opened her mouth, but her snarky reply was lost when he swept in and kissed her. And for a few hot, sweet seconds, everything fell away as he took control, cupping the back of her neck with one hand and kissing her with a slow, deep passion that turned the warmth flowing through her into raging flames.
She moaned into his mouth, leaning forward eagerly, her hands clutching at his cut. It really wasn't fair that he could do this to her. He smelt of that generic sea minerals shower gel in the bathroom, the same one she'd used herself that morning, but somehow he made it as sexy as hell, an inviting, invigorating scent. And that was just perfect, because that's what he was. Drawing her in, bringing her to life.
Her whole body yearned for him, the memory of their private dance once again engulfing her and sending sparks of need firing through her, all the way down to her aching core. And this was just a kiss.
Goddammit.
His free hand snaked up her thigh, gently easing her legs apart. The thin material of her borrowed jogging bottoms was barely a barrier, not when his fingers were so strong and sure, stroking her inner thigh with firm, possessive confidence. His fingertips skated ever closer to her pussy, teasing and promising at the same time. Just the tiniest shift on her part, and she could have him touching her through the pants. She was wet and ready, and any second now, he'd know exactly how wet and ready, because there was nothing she wanted or needed more in that moment than for Slater to press his fingers to her throbbing clit and relieve the pressure he'd created.
God fucking dammit.
She forced herself to push him back, even as her body yearned to get closer. Bracing her hands on his chest, she broke the kiss. “Wait. Wait a second.”
Slater pulled back obediently, resting his hands on his knees, but his expression was dark and hungry. “I've been waiting since I saw you audition at the Hot House, Freya.”
“Then you must think I'm worth waiting for,” she fired back, not sure if she was scolding him or flirting. “We need to clear something up first.”
He gave a pitiful groan. “Now?”
She glanced down. With him kneeling as he was, she could see exactly how tightly he was straining his jeans and she couldn't help grinning. “A hard-on isn't a medical emergency, Slater,” she teased.
“But why take the risk?”
She bit her lip to hide her smile, deciding not to tell him she'd never have sex in the back of a garage anyway. “We need to talk,” she said again, sternly this time. “You can't offer me money, Slater.”
“I wasn't—ah. You mean for Kayden?” His expression sobered and he stood, taking a proper seat on the nearest bike. It put a polite distance between them that she both hated and appreciated. “Look, I just—”
She held her hand up, pleased when he fell silent. “Whatever you meant, and I'm sure you meant well, you can't. You just can't. I'm not...” She struggled to find the right words. She didn't want to offend him or make him think she wasn't interested. She also didn't want him to think he had to buy her. “I'm not for sale,” she said finally, digging her nails into her knees and hoping he took it the right way. “You can't fix Kayden by throwing money at him, and you don't have to do that to impress me anyway.”
His silence was suddenly painful. He rubbed his stubbled jaw, looking almost melancholy, his dark eyes giving nothing away. The silence had a thickness to it, like a barrier coming down between them.
She'd misjudged it, Freya thought, stricken. She'd said completely the wrong thing and that
was that. Another thing blown up in her face.
“I never thought you were for sale, Freya,” Slater said finally, just as her nerves started cracking. “It just seemed like a practical way to help.”
She released the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding. “Would you have thought that if you'd met me in a coffee shop instead of a strip club?”
His frown returned. “That wasn't why I offered, either. I don't see you as something I can buy. I can't be any plainer about it than that. I care about you. I help the people I care for. Sometimes that means giving them a place to stay. Sometimes it means bailing them out financially. I don't expect anything in return—least of all sex.” He pulled a face. “And thank God for that, because Punk has borrowed more money from me than I can keep track of.”
“He's not your type?” she asked, feeling the tension start to ebb away.
“Punk shouldn't be anyone's type.” He stood and offered her his hand.
Freya took it, letting him pull her up. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his head on hers. They stayed like that for a moment, all the desire still there, but held at bay. His embrace was comforting, verging on chaste, but Freya sensed it would only take a second to change that. One move from either of them and the fire would ignite all over again.
When had he gotten so far under her skin?
“Well then,” he said finally. “Anything else we need to clear up or can I kiss you again?”
He shifted his hips slightly, just enough to let her know he was still erect and ready for her. Her knees buckled, but she figured she may as well get the rest out too, before he completely turned her brain to mush.
“I want to be there when Nash talks to Sammy.”
“Freya!” Slater jerked away from her, surprised horror filling his voice. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He held her by the shoulders, as if afraid she'd run off to confront Sammy there and then if he didn't hang onto her.
“I need to be there! I have to show him—”
“Absolutely not.” There was no give in his tone now, nothing to suggest he'd let her make her case. “For one thing, I can't guarantee you that anyway. It would be Nash's call, and he'll say no. For another, it would be fucking madness to dangle you or Kayden in front of Alessi right now. He's dangerous, Freya, and I am not letting him near you. Not him, not any of his goons. So whatever you think you need to show him, forget it.”
She scowled, starting to argue again. Slater stopped her simply by kissing her. It wasn't slow or tender this time. It was rough, punishing. Desperate. Freya swooned in his grip, too overwhelmed to do more than squeak a protest. He slid his hands from her hips to her ass, squeezing tight and sending shivers of lust through her. When he bit her throat, she gasped, riding waves of hot pain and scintillating pleasure. He'd leave a bruise, for sure. She hoped so, anyway.
He couldn't buy her. But he could still claim her with this kiss.
When they parted, she was dizzy with desire, and could only cling to him. Slater lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his dark, serious gaze.
“You have to promise me you will let us handle it from here,” he said severely.
She touched her neck, the tender skin throbbing where he'd marked her. The sensation sent a thrill through her, much the same way dancing at the Hot House did. A sense of power. He'd marked her, yes, but it didn't feel like a badge of ownership. It felt like a victory.
She met his eyes, saw both worry and lust there, and as much as she was tempted to just march right to Nash and ask him, she knew she couldn't. She couldn't go behind his back, not when they were right on the edge of something... Something that could be explosive.
“I promise,” she said. She couldn't help the thread of reluctance in her voice. The idea of not confronting Sammy or Bello would gnaw at her, she knew, but she'd keep her word. The bite on her neck and the wetness between her legs told her there was something more important at stake here now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Slater didn't think he'd ever been so hard in his adult life. Freya was designed to tempt him, and even now, in the back of the garage with danger and doubt thick in the air, he craved her with a fierceness that rocked him. As far as he was concerned, they'd talked enough. He'd waited enough.
He pulled her in again, eager to banish the doubt and drive all thoughts of Sammy Alessi—or any other man—from her head.
For a few hot seconds, the only sounds in the garage were Freya's breathy moans as he kissed her, her tiny gasp as his fingers slid under her top to caress her bare skin. The knowledge that he could have her naked and screaming his name without any interruptions was wildly tantalizing. As she melted and writhed against him, it seemed only a matter of time before he had her bent over his bike, her honey-sweet cunt ready for his cock.
Slater heard himself groan with pure lust—and then with pure frustration when his phone started ringing in his jeans pocket. “Fucking hell.”
Freya stepped away from him, looking glazed and disappointed. “Can't you let it go to voicemail?”
He checked the screen and saw Shane's name flashing there. He groaned again. “It's my brother. It's either family or business, and either way I can't ignore him.”
She pouted, but nodded and stepped back again, giving him some space. He didn't want to let her go. He felt like someone had his balls in a vice, and the only relief was her. Touching her, kissing her, fucking her... If it didn't happen today, he was going to lose his shit.
He turned his back on her as he answered the phone. It was the only way he was remotely going to be able to concentrate. “Shane, what's up?”
“Well, you missed the monthly budget meeting, the coffee-maker broke and flooded the kitchen, and one of our guys handed his notice in so he could go work security in Japan for a girl band, but I'm sure none of that is as important or interesting as whatever the fuck you've been doing instead,” Shane said. His tone was bone dry, making Slater wince. “But I can take care of all that. I'm actually calling because Alice Chalmers is here looking for you.”
Slater frowned. “She could have called.”
“She was in the neighborhood and figured she'd drop in. I guess she was naive to think the owner of the company might actually be physically present in the office.”
“Okay, Shane, I get it. I'm neglectful and you deserve better.” Slater pressed his palm to his forehead, reminding himself that Shane had every right to be pissed. Regardless of what other problems Slater had going on, he had to find a way to make sure ArcLight didn't suffer for it. “Put Alice on the line.”
Shane handed the phone over, grumbling audibly.
When Alice spoke, she sounded amused.
“I take it from that exchange, you haven't been checking your emails the past few days?”
“Things have been kinda crazy,” Slater said. “Is it about the Mancuso girl?”
“Yeah.” She sounded thoughtful. “That took some interesting turns. I think I've got you everything I can, short of dragging her to Wakefield by her hair. You should read through everything I've sent you and then decide if you want to take any further action.”
Slater's gut twisted, intuition and experience silently telling him he wasn't going to like what she'd found. “Thanks, Alice. Sorry I missed you today.”
He hung up before she could pass the phone back to Shane. He'd work things out with his brother later. He needed to check his emails first. He needed to see what Alice had sent. He turned to find Freya eyeing him suspiciously.
“Who's Alice?”
“A private detective.” Slater sighed, realizing his dirty fantasies were going to have to wait. “I've got work to do,” he said. His regret was reflected in her eyes.
“Okay,” she said, biting her lip. “I should see how Kayden's doing, anyway.”
“Freya.” He caught her wrist as she made to slip past him, making her face him again. Her expression, curious and knowing, nearly snapped his resolve. “When this is over, you're going to dance for m
e again.”
The glow in her eyes and the coy smile on her lips tested him further. “We'll see,” she said, sauntering past him. But her real answer was in the swing of her hips as she walked away, and Slater memorized the hypnotic sight. It would keep him going until they had more time. Enough time for him to fulfill every damn fantasy he could think of.
****
There was no true privacy in the clubhouse unless you were an officer. The Wi-Fi was also pretty patchy, something that Slater had been complaining about from the day he got his prospect’s patch. So, torn between wanting to read Alice’s email in private and needing decent internet access to do so, Slater opted for hiding in the room they used for church. It was empty and silent, a sanctuary after the emotional and physical storms of the past twenty-four hours. He slumped at the table, bent over his smartphone, and steeled himself.
Alice’s revelations could only be damaging. That was the thought looping around his head. Damaging for Nash and through him, damaging for the club. The question was, if that was the case, what did he do?
There were certain things Wild Blood MC did that skirted the edge of the law, and he was fine with that. Slater was pragmatic enough to know that legal and right weren’t always the same thing, that people who deserved justice didn’t always get it, and people who deserved punishment didn’t always get it either. Hell, Freya and Kayden’s situation was proof of that.
But there was a vast gulf between selling the occasional bag of weed and the kind of shit the Cosa Nostra dealt in. Murder, extortion, smuggling, loan sharking—it was a long fucking list and all of it went past “skirting the edge” and straight into “life without parole.”
And Nash was involved. It was the only logical explanation for his interest in Liviana Mancuso.
Slater wet his lips, fingers skating over the phone’s screen. Once he read Alice’s emails, he’d have to act on them. Wild Blood was already about bring one mob boss to the table. Why the hell would Nash risk catching the attention of more?
