by J. C. Emery
“That asshole at the school pulled a gun on you?” I ask Holly. Her hair falls over her shoulders and stops just a few inches down her back. It’s a messy rat’s nest right now, which is sexy as fuck. The doe-eye blinking thing she’s doing, and the stuttering as she tries to get the story out, and the hair… I’m not twelve anymore. I shouldn’t feel like I have to go into a bathroom and rub one out just to have a conversation with a chick.
“He didn’t exactly point it at me, but it was in a holder thing on his hip. He showed it to me,” she says. In a matter of seconds she goes from scatter-brained to annoyed, and she’s scowling at me. “I want to go home.”
I had a feeling she’d get here at some point. She wants to go home, but I’m not sure that’s the best place for her right now. I doubt Mancuso’s guy has anything on her, but I can’t be so sure. He had enough on me to get to Chey, and while he didn’t actually hurt either Chey or Holly—and he certainly could have if he wanted to—it fucks me up to think about either of them out on their own. The guy’s clearly got some resources, and until I know what they are, I don’t know that I’m good with letting Holly leave.
Wyatt suggested I let her go home and have one of the guys sit on her, but I don’t think we have enough resources for that. As it is, we’re stretched to the limit. We got guys watching the roads in and out of here during high traffic times, and we got guys watching Alex at Jim and Ruby’s. We had ten patched members, but that was before. Now we’re down to nine. I can’t see pulling anyone off of Alex. If I let Holly walk, then she’s going unprotected. And I still don’t know if I can trust her to keep her mouth shut.
“Follow me,” I say and turn around. When no movement sounds behind me, I pause and turn back to find that she’s standing in the same place with her lips pursed and her arms folded over her chest. Out of all the shit I could do to this woman—shit so depraved that she probably can’t even fathom it—and how goddamn patient I’ve been, she still doesn’t trust me.
“Fine,” I say. I let my feet carry me away from the kitchen and toward the far side of the house past the guest room. It’s not until I’m already in the garage that I hear her footsteps. When she appears in the doorway, it’s just her head and hands as she grips the frame and peeks around. Layla doesn’t enter rooms like that. She just kind of floats in. Always has. Elle doesn’t just enter a room. She fucking owns it. But not Holly. She’s not a part of my world, and I try to remind myself of that for the fiftieth time. I can’t expect her to know how shit goes when she’s never been a part of anything like this.
Ignoring her, I tag a couple of beers from the aging refrigerator in the corner near my bench saw and crack them open. I give her a brief glance over my shoulder and head over to the mess that takes up an entire car bay. Set atop a work blanket, I have most of the parts of the 1972 Shovelhead that I’ve been working on for the last few months. It’s a slow project, but one day I’ll get her upright and racing. Right now she looks like nothing more than a pile of crap—all dirty and scratched up—but she’s going to be a beauty when I’m done with her.
Taking a couple swigs of my beer, and setting the other one on the wooden chair beside me, I sit myself on the floor and get to cleaning the old oil out of some of the smaller parts. I hate cleaning this shit up, but the prospects never do it right. I keep telling them that to make something work well, you have to take care of it, and when you’re building a bike that means making sure her parts are in the best condition possible. But they’re all young and impatient and they have yet to learn how to give care to do something right.
“What are we doing in here?” Holly asks from behind me. I can’t tell where she is in the room, and that puts me on edge. I should be able to track her movements. Having spent years honing my senses, I should be capable of following the subtle hints that tells me where she’s gone and when she goes. Little things like the scent of her perfume drifting past me, the quiet little murmurs of clothing as pieces brush against each other, and the careful pitter patter of her feet against the cool concrete floor. But her voice feels so close and yet so far at the same time. It’s like she’s closing in on me and dulling my senses.
“Building a bike,” I say then clear my throat to rid my voice of its hoarseness. “And having a beer.” I clear my throat again, but still, it sounds so gravelly and unnerved even to my own ears. What the hell is wrong with me?
“I don’t drink beer,” she says. Her voice is closing in now, and her jean-clad thighs swish as she approaches. It’s the wrong visual—now I have the image of Holly, spread bare and tossed over the open tail gate of the bed of my truck that takes up the second bay of the garage. I’ve never been all that patient, and I’ve always struggled with being told no. Once I want something, I have a hell of a time not having it. And the more time I spend with this woman, the more I want her, and the less I’m willing to accept that she won’t let me have her. Until I can see for myself, her thighs will haunt me.
But more importantly, who the hell doesn’t drink beer?
“Why’s that?” I ask, opting out of bullshitting with her and just being direct.
“I just don’t like it,” she says, her voice even nearer now. She sounds so serious with her words not so much clipped as they are decided.
“Wine?” I ask. My mother keeps wine on-hand with the excuse that Chey and I are too much of a handful not to imbibe once in a while. Holly shakes her head no.
“I don’t drink,” she says in a small voice.
When I hit Gonzales up for a profile on her, she practically shit her pants. Didn’t want to give it up, and didn’t want to even look into her. Miss Holly Mercer is the favorite niece of Harry Mercer, a half-genius sergeant for the Fort Bragg P.D., who happens to be Angel Gonzales’s supervising officer. Angel’s done a lot of shit for the club over the years, and she’s never complained about it, but this favor cost me more than I’d like to admit.
Despite the cost, when Gonzales got me the intel I needed on Holly, it told me everything from her GPA upon graduation from high school—3.1 average—to her brief stint at Humboldt State, her subsequent departure, and then her relocation to San Francisco. Somehow Gonzales even managed to find out innocuous things like Holly’s preference for vanilla over chocolate and her fear of butterflies. I can’t even process what the butterfly thing is about, but every little piece of information in that report did more than just give me a snapshot of who I’m dealing with. It told me a story of a woman who is neither a goody two shoes nor a hard ass. In the short time I’ve known her, she’s shown herself to be neither fearful nor particularly brave. By now I’d normally know everything I need to about a person of interest, but with Holly, the more I know the more I realize I don’t know. Like how she apparently doesn’t like to drink—at all.
“That a court-ordered deal?” I ask. She comes around and sits down with her legs crossed beside me. Her proximity practically suffocates me. She’s all soap and sweet smells. Not over-powering like my mother and Chey, but just right. Inviting. It’s a welcome change from all the body odor and oil and cigarette smells I get from my brothers. It serves as one more reminder that even an asshole like me could use a little sweet in his life.
She looks down at the fuel line insulator and pile of bolts and washers I have set aside to build the carburetor. Horror fills my gut as she reaches out and picks up a bolt and a washer. It’s not the end of the world, but I like to lay out my work area with all clean parts before I get started.
“I asked you a question.”
“And I didn’t answer,” she says. She slips the washer over the bolt and watches as it slides down catches on the head. She’s got a quarter-inch bolt with a three-quarter-inch washer that is far too large to fit properly.
“There a reason you won’t cooperate?” I ask, set down the part I’m holding, and grab my beer. I should be angry with her, flat-out angry that she is being difficult. From the moment she came to in my guest room, she’s been a pain in my ass. I’ve tried to b
ully her into submission, and it didn’t work. I tried to threaten her, and that didn’t work. She doesn’t lash out, and she doesn’t cower. Gentle didn’t work and neither did mean, so all I have left to work with is being real and hope she responds to that.
“Is there a reason you haven’t asked me what I want?” she says, clutching the bolt and washer in a closed fist. With a shake of her head and a heavy breath, she turns her body toward mine. It’s a simple gesture, the turn of her body, but it’s enough. She’s talking. I can work with that.
“How much do you know about my club?”
“I know enough,” she says. Only, with that kind of answer, it’s clear that she doesn’t.
“I know you don’t like my methods, and you don’t understand our ways, but you need to understand this—what we do as Forsaken is always in the best interest of the club. We’re no different than your Uncle Harry and his boys. I will always protect my brothers.”
“I guess that makes me collateral damage then,” she says, nodding. Her shoulders slump in resignation, and she hunches forward just slightly.
“Yeah,” I say. “I got a job to do, and you’re making shit difficult at a really bad time.”
“I’ll take the money then,” she says without taking her brown eyes off of mine.
“Good,” I say and toss back half of my beer. I should leave it be, but I don’t. It’s that niggling desire to figure her out that forces the next words from my lips. “Why don’t you want it? Someone in your position should be clawing at the chance to get their hands on that kind of money.”
“It’s not worth it,” she says. Her eyes follow my beer as I lift it up and finish it off. When I set the empty bottle on the concrete, she keeps her eyes glued to it for a moment before rolling her shoulders and looking everywhere but at me. “That kind of money would help, sure; but it’s not worth what I’d have to give up.”
“You’re not answering any of my questions, and I’m losing patience,” I grit out. My muscles are tensing. There isn’t enough beer in the fridge to keep shit calm if she keeps this up. I haven’t had to listen to anyone give me the runaround in conversation since the last time Chey missed her curfew. It was all one big web of excuses and no actual answers. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can ground Holly for not being straight with me—not that it works so well when I try to ground Chey. I would, however, like to spank her again.
“Hey,” she snaps. She leans forward and slaps at the ground with her free hand. She’s close, so close I don’t know if she intends to or not, but she’s in my space. If I thought her presence was insufferable before, I was wrong. I breathe in her scent, and it’s so strong this close. Undiluted. Her lips part, and her tongue sneaks out to lick her bottom lip. I glance down for half a second to watch, but it’s too late. Her mouth forms a hard line, and I return my gaze to her eyes.
“I said I’d keep my mouth shut and I have. That short guy you got following me everywhere can tell you that I’ve kept my word. I don’t want your money, but it’s not because I’m going to rat on you. That’s all you need to know.” Her eyes are narrowed, and she’s breathing heavy. It’s sort of hot the way her chest heaves and her cheeks flush. I wonder what she would do if I just leaned over and told her I was going to fuck her until she couldn’t argue with me anymore. But I don’t. Women like Holly have expectations, and they’re a complication that I refuse to bring into my life. I did it once, and I won’t be doing it again.
She’s mouthing off—it should be pissing me off.
But it’s not.
Because, like with every other time I’m around her, I’m off my game. The only thing that’s pissing me off right now is that she caught Squat following her. Stupid fuck isn’t going to earn his top rocker at this rate.
“Why don’t you drink?” I whisper. My eyes quickly glance down at her lips again. I’ll bet she tastes as sweet as she looks.
“Why won’t you let me go home?” she whispers back. The anger in her voice fades and is replaced with a soft murmur.
“Why don’t you drink?” I repeat.
“I have enough trouble with making poor choices without alcohol, okay? Now, why won’t you let me go home?
“Because we’re building a bike,” I say.
“Bullshit,” she says. There’s a defiant little bite to her tone that brings a smile to my face. She scowls at me, but it’s more confused than angry. “You want me to be honest, but you don’t want to be honest with me.”
“That dickhead at the school today? He’ll kill you.” I’ve never had a problem with keeping my mouth shut before, but I told myself I’d be real with her. Real is an uncomfortable territory for me. It’s my job to protect my brothers and safeguard our secrets. Part of that is keeping club business within the club, but the other part is information management. I haven’t done such a great job at managing Holly so far, and if I don’t get it under control soon, someone is going to start demanding that I take more drastic of measures to seal this shit off.
“But,” she protests and retreats. Her eyes are wide, and she looks scared. I need her scared. Fear is the great motivator. Before she can get very far, I lean forward and grab the back of her neck and pull her close to me. Her nose is but an inch or two away from mine. Her body tenses up from the close proximity. She could consume me at this distance. Everything about this woman could suck me in and spit me out, leaving me confused as fuck for God only knows how long.
“That’s his job, you know,” I hiss. “He’s from New York, and he’s been sent here to kill his boss’s daughter. Make no mistake that you mean nothing to him. He will slaughter you and sleep like a baby afterwards. You are inconsequential to him.”
“Don’t,” she whispers. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and her lips tremble. “Don’t tell me this.”
I ignore her plea and continue, tightening up my grip on her neck so she knows I’m serious.
“I don’t have men to put on you anymore. You’re not a priority to the club. He kills you and that ties up our loose ends—that means if you leave this house, you’re unprotected, so you might as well go home and decide which outfit you want your mother to bury you in, that is, assuming anyone finds your body.”
SEVERAL MORE TEARS fall down her cheeks but she doesn’t take her eyes off mine. She keeps herself steady despite her fear, and that’s something I can admire. She sucks in a shaky breath and fights off the wail that’s about to escape.
“Shh,” I whisper. I keep my voice gentle as I lean in and say, “It’s okay.” She sucks in a deep breath, her eyes widen, and she huffs. She lifts her fisted hands and pushes at my chest. Frustrated screams slip from her lips, and she closes her eyes as she tries with all her might to get away. It’s not enough to loosen my grip, and when she realizes this, she starts throwing her fists into my chest with no more success than before.
Maybe I went too far, or maybe I went just far enough. I don’t fucking know. But now she’s freaking out with no sign of calming down. I wrap my free arm around her waist and pull her to me and crush her to my chest. Her head rests on my shoulder. I’ve had my share of women in my bed. I’ve even cared about a few of them, but I can’t remember the last time I held one in my arms and comforted her.
She quiets instantly and stills in my arms, caught off guard by my actions. And then, she relaxes. She’s not the only one. This whole situation is just getting way too fucked up. I should have let Fish or Ryan fuck with her just enough to put the fear of God into her ass. But now, now I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do with her. I’ve already shown myself that I can’t hurt her, and I can’t seem to bring myself to scare her like I should—even if it is for her own good—and with her refusing to cooperate, I’m in a difficult position. If I’m going to be honest with myself, I have a pretty good idea why I’m struggling with this situation.
She pulls back just slightly and looks me in the eyes. It’s just a moment—one single moment in a hundred or so that we’ve shared. Her eyes mist over in th
e corners, and her chin shakes. She’s vulnerable, and here, and I’m able to do what it is I wanted to do last week. So I don’t waste any time. I tighten my grip on her and lick my lips. Her chin stops its movement, and she sucks in a shallow, nervous breath. She’s gorgeous like this. I start to move my face closer to hers, about to take what I want so desperately.
Her arms reach up and wrap around my neck, and she’s dragging her nose along my cheek. The sudden forwardness of her actions takes me by surprise. She’s breathy and quiet and needy when she says, “This might be the worst idea I’ve ever had, but I don’t care. I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to kiss me back.”
I have to clear my throat to get the words out, and even then it’s rough and they practically get stuck in my throat. But I want this, possibly more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time, and for just right now I’m going to let that be okay. I’m a father, a brother, a soldier, but I’m also a man. “You sure you want to start this?”
“No, but you make me stupid,” she says. Her eyes dart down to my lips. Half a second later, she’s pressed up against me. Her lips ghost over mine, teasing me. I let her have her fun for half a moment before I pounce. With one arm cradling her and the other hanging onto her neck, I crawl over her and gently lay her on the floor beneath me. Resting my pelvis on hers, I create slow circles with my half-hard dick into her center. Our lips move together in an intense frenzy. At first it’s all tugging at flesh and hard pecks at the corners, and then finally I’m slipping into the heat of her mouth. She’s smooth and hot and wet and everything I expect and want from a kiss. Her pushiness and desire urges me on. My dick goes from semi-hard to practically fucking steel. She wraps her legs around my waist, but half a second later, she stops. I gave her plenty of warning, and now that we’ve started it, I’d like to fucking finish it. In an attempt to get her legs back where they were, I buck into her twice, but she doesn’t move. Her kisses slow, and she untangles herself from around me. As she pulls back, panting and gorgeous, she says, “What about that short guy you have following me?”
