It’d be a pleasure to finally kill that son of a bitch, but it’d take all my willpower to not immediately follow him to hell so I could torture him for all eternity.
“You didn’t bleed.”
I don’t know why I said it. Why I felt like cutting her open just to gut out her nightmares. I did it anyway. Wasn’t like it’d be the worst thing I did to her.
“I didn’t...bleed?” Rose gripped the guitar until her fingers turned white. I didn’t get any blood on my cock last night, but I’d get plenty on my table when she sliced her hand on the guitar strings. “Are you serious?”
“I just thought—”
“A lot of girls don’t...” The embarrassment choked her. “I didn’t realize you’d want to toss the sheets out the window and declare your victory like some medieval king.”
“It’s not that.”
“Look, some girls break their...” She blushed a furious crimson. “You can lose it horseback riding or playing a sport or, I don’t know, riding on the back of a motorcycle for all your teenage years.”
“So that’s what happened?”
“What else would have happened?”
I didn’t speak. Neither did she. But Rose cracked first. It wasn’t the victory I wanted. She wound tight and looked for any excuse to dodge my gaze and skip out of the booth. She could run or cry, but neither would get her very far. I wasn’t used to people lying to me. Especially women.
But when did I ever let a woman close enough to care what the hell she said, even if it was a lie?
My temper was not something Rose should’ve fucked with.
And Rose was not a girl anyone, ever, should have hurt. That privilege belonged to me, and, if I had it my way, I’d be the only one who would destroy her.
“Are you going to play or not?” I tossed my drink back.
Rose slowly untangled her fingers from the strings. “Do you want me to?”
“Liked what I heard at your gig.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I shifted in the booth. “Play now. Second showing for Keep.”
Her eyes narrowed on her brother. He pushed another beer toward Gold. If Rose could have shattered the bottle with her stare, Keep would have been shredded.
“He doesn’t deserve it,” she said. “But I’ll play a song for you. Any requests?”
The smile returned. I didn’t realize how much I feared I lost it until she flashed the timid smirk at me again. My heart hardened more than my cock.
“You need to forgive him.”
The strings squealed under her hand.
“Forgive him?” She spoke a little too loudly. Her cheeks flared, but not in shame. “He skipped my gig to get high, then almost OD’d while I was kidnapped. Why would I ever forgive him?”
She had a point. If everything in Anathema hadn’t depended on her patching things over with her traitor, junkie brother, I’d have agreed.
“He’s your brother,” I said. “Brew too. Neither of them wanted anything bad to happen to you.”
“Yeah, well. A lot of bad things did happen.” She focused on the guitar. “I can play anything from Clapton to Katy Perry.”
“Do it for me.”
“I don’t know that song.”
I sighed. “Make up with them for me.”
“Why?”
“They’re my brothers too.”
She laughed. “You can have them.”
“They’ve been good to you.” I sipped my whiskey, but I didn’t know any snakes in the grass that could hold their alcohol. “They wanted to help with the music. And they gave you money.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I held her gaze. “Make me understand.”
She sagged against the booth. The guitar went silent.
“Brew is obsessed with everything Anathema. That’s his addiction, and he’s every bit as strung out as Keep. I don’t know which one will die first, but the drugs and the club will kill them both.” She buffed the guitar with her sleeve. “I can’t watch it happen.”
“You really think that?”
“I know it.”
“Keep’s been fucked up for a while.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Why do you think he’s shooting up again?”
“I hoped you’d tell me that.” She stared at the guitar. “I haven’t been around for a while.”
“It’s not a cheap habit.”
“I don’t think Keep worries about money.”
“Why?”
“He always has it.”
“Think he’s skimming from Pixie?”
She frowned. “No? Who said that?”
I shook my head. “Just trying to figure it out.”
“You and me both.”
“All the more reason to make peace when you can.” The words were just as much a poison as whatever Keep used to get himself off. “You can stop him from hurting himself.”
“Only Dad has that power.”
“Maybe he’d have some idea.”
“I need to play a song.” Rose slipped from the booth. “Want to play. I want to play a song.”
She panicked. I swore. Not what I needed.
“But you’re right,” she said. “He’s my brother. I should...help him.” She twirled the guitar in her hand and called for her him. “Keep? Do you still have your harmonica?”
Keep groaned. She pouted. It worked, and I was glad she aimed the lip away from me.
“Upstairs on my desk.” Keep rubbed his face. “What the hell are you going to make me do?”
“Billy Joel?”
“Aw, Bud, come on.”
“Please?”
He waved her away. She grinned and handed the guitar to me, hopping up the stairs to his room. Keep poured himself a tall glass of something and mixed it with something even stronger. Gold laughed from the bar.
“She’s got you tied around her little finger,” Gold teased.
“Yeah. More than just me.” Keep tossed his drink back as he eyed me. “Except I know how to keep her happy.”
“Oh, I made her very happy.” I winked.
Whatever drugs fizzled his brain hadn’t destroyed his common sense yet. He didn’t take the bait, just frowned downed the rest of his drink.
Rose stormed down the stairs, and her irritation crested as Keep held his hands up in surrender. He gestured for her to toss the harmonica. She pitched it at his head instead and broke a glass behind him. He swore and bent under the counter to pick it up.
She angled away from him, her voice soft as she took the guitar.
“You were right.”
I couldn’t tell if it was frustration or genuine heartbreak aching within her words.
“He does need help. I just don’t know what to do for him.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”’
She tossed the little packet on the table. The meth bounced toward me.
Red.
“Maybe we can do an intervention?” She didn’t want to beg, but the tremble of her lip screamed for help. “He’ll listen to you. You’re his president. More family than me at this point.”
I took the drugs. Curled the baggie into my hand.
Red meth.
Ex’s newfound stash. His drugs, sitting at my table, touched by my Rose.
Keep called for Rose and brayed a bad melody on the harmonica. Rose covered her ears, but Keep wiped his mouth and started again. The smooth, jazzy notes dueled with her gentle guitar. He danced around beside her, earning a reluctant smile that blended into a beautiful laugh.
She wanted me to help her big brother. Save him. Ease her conscience and keep her family as whole as one dead druggie mother, one convict father, and a traitorous brother could be.
She sang her heart out. Sweet, perfect melodies that filled the club with more warmth than it deserved.
Keep made a deal with Ex. Sold his soul, his club, and his sister for a pocketful of meth and the blood of every last fallen brother who died as a
result of this godforsaken club.
She was right. I was his president. His family.
I’d also be his murderer.
I couldn’t sneak out of the bed.
Thorne owned a king-sized mattress, but he was a six-foot-three tattooed monster. He didn’t cuddle. He trapped. Wrapped a thick arm over my mid-section like he knew I’d run.
And I probably would.
I had to.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t yet. I shouldn’t have liked it, but I never wanted to leave the bed. I craved to explore his body, to learn just how it was possible he teased and treated and threatened all in the same movements. His lust silenced my panic and his desire muffled my fear with the harsh clip of the headboard against the wall.
I used to hate that sound. With Thorne, it was the most beautiful music. I only wished it was the first time I heard it.
“Where are you going.” Thorne grumbled the question. His head was asleep, but another part of him readied, wide-awake.
I smiled and shifted away from the pulsing hardness pushing against my leg. That only encouraged Thorne. I didn’t know if all men were that...insatiable, but today couldn’t start how last night ended.
My cell phone alarm buzzed under the pillow, reminding me to slip from the comfortable bed and escape from under Thorne’s paw. My pulse beat against my chest—matching the vibrating buzz of the alarm. I never suffered a metronome before. Never needed to fear falling behind the beat.
But I was close today.
Exorcist wanted his drugs. My mornings were once a gentle greeting to the day. I’d sing a few songs in the shower, serve coffee and pancakes to the morning rush. No meth. No bikers.
I had no pancakes this morning, but fear stuck to me like spilled syrup. Two days passed, and I didn’t have a plan to save any of us.
I never considered myself a brave person. Thorne’s hand gripped the softness of my hip. I sighed. I didn’t care what happened to me. Ex could and probably would kill me. I lasted longer than I thought anyway. Making it to adulthood was a miracle, and actually functioning like a healthy woman was a gift from whatever gods blessed or cursed Anathema.
But the thought of anything happening to Thorne or my brothers ruined me.
He was right to have me make-up with them. I loved Brew, even if he hadn’t been able to protect me from everything twisted in my world. And Keep meant to do good. He really did. But he needed help. All the time I used to beg for someone to hear me, and I never once listened to his silent screams.
The meth in his socks wasn’t even hidden well. The baggie poked up from the opened drawer, so I took it. The first step for me to protect my family was to protect them from themselves. I’d probably get pummeled for it later.
“You aren’t tired?” Thorne’s baritone shivered me all over. “You have too much energy, little girl.”
I stilled as his hand tickled over my hip, across my waist. “Maybe you’re just getting old.”
“You don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”
“I want to get a shower.”
He edged closer to me, his hand dropping low. I shuddered as his fingers brushed a part of me still slick from both my excitement and his dominance.
“I’ll get one too.”
He didn’t nuzzle. He dove for me, biting the sensitive skin right between my neck and shoulder. I was sure I had a bruise from last night, but that didn’t prevent him from biting just as hard as when he held me under him during the night. My hips bucked back. Instinctive.
“Get you cleaned up to make you dirty again,” he threatened.
“You don’t have to do that.”
I blushed. I was as bad at getting out of sex as I was getting into it. Whatever I did last night worked. I bended down to set my new guitar in its case, and Thorne dove on me. Ripped my clothes off. Entered me before I said a word.
I liked it that way. Spontaneous and passionate. I didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to worry. Thorne devoured my body, and I let him.
I wanted him.
Except now my nerves frayed like snapped guitar strings, and I counted the hours until I had to free myself from Anathema long enough to betray it.
Or was I saving it?
Or was I just saving my own behind and pretending that I had any control over anything that endangered the club?
Thorne ignored me. I gasped as he reached down and grabbed right between my legs. His fingers parted the slickness, and he chuckled at the mess between my thighs.
“You do need a shower.” He whispered into my ear. His finger wove a dizzying melody over the little sensitive nub I tried so hard to avoid. My body jerked against his hand. It only made me messier. “Or maybe you need another load inside you?”
He was vulgar. He was harsh. He was as honest as any man I ever met, and he delivered that honesty with brute force and unapologetic lust. My body responded. I had no idea what was right or wrong, good or bad. I also didn’t dare ask Thorne. Submitting to his desires was far safer than understanding mine.
Especially as his fingers circled that part of me that only he had ever made quiver, shake, and wet. I never explored there, never touched, never let myself feel anything there. But he did. Every motion of his finger or lick of his tongue played me like his own instrument. He ripped the moans from my throat and silenced the same sound with his lips or, in a moment of my own bravery, his cock.
His finger entered me, and both of us sang our relief. His cock flexed hard along my behind. My body wanted more than just his finger. I wetted around him, hot and frantic and as revealing as any words I might have said or hints I may have dropped.
I wasn’t used to such intense seduction. I could sing a sexy melody, feel the thick beat within my belly, but Thorne didn’t let me explore my body’s reactions.
Maybe if I had asked.
Maybe if Thorne learned what had happened…
I regretted that thought as soon as it prickled my mind. The memory fractured through my arousal. I stiffened.
I didn’t want him to know.
But, Christ. He’d find out. For as much as I wished to hide it, he figured it out. He had been inside me. Asked the questions. Probably realized it the first minute he saw me naked. My skin was unblemished, but that didn’t mean the handprints weren’t as obvious as the bands of ink binding his chest. Keep and Brew didn’t know about the abuse. But if Thorne pieced to together, it was only a matter of time before they learned someone hurt their sister.
And then all hell would break loose.
For as many nights as I cried myself to sleep wishing for my brothers to help me, nothing would be horrible than revealing the truth to the men I loved most in this world.
Thorne’s finger dove in deep as he adjusted his body around mine. It was too late. I tensed, but he only liked that promise. His free arm wove under my shoulders and pinned me against his chest. Our hips met.
And a nightmare worse than Exorcist came back to life.
I shifted away. Thorne didn’t let me go. My voice lost somewhere between fear and childhood, and I shook my head. It hadn’t worked then, and it didn’t work now. I braced for the inevitable smack. Thorne never raised his hand.
“P—please,” I whispered. “I...not now.”
Thorne’s chuckle rumbled with the remnants of sleep. “What’s wrong, Bud? Afraid you’ll like it?”
The crashing, panicked, terrified scream wasn’t just in my head. The sound I silenced for so long in my past, in my memories, in my nightmares ripped from my lips. I thrashed out of the bed and collapsed on the floor. Thorne swore and leapt away from my flailing legs. My foot hurt, and he grabbed his knee with a harsher profanity.
“Jesus Christ, Rose!”
“Sorry!” I didn’t mean to apologize, but repeating the word prevented me from saying anything else. “Sorry. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Thorne gritted his teeth. “I should ask you the same fucking question.”
“I’m fine.”
“Li
ke hell.”
He stared at me, the gun-metal of his eyes shadowed. He wove a hand around the length of dark hair shading his face. His biceps flexed hard. The bands of ink on his chest tugged against the surge of air he hadn’t unleashed in a torrent of profanity.
“Got something you want to tell me?”
I pulled a shirt from my bag. It didn’t cover nearly enough, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen, tasted, and claimed every bit of me anyway.
I wondered if he’d still touch me if he knew the truth.
If he knew just how similar it had felt.
How he asked the same question.
Moved like him.
Touched me the same way.
I wasn’t afraid it’d feel good. It never did then. But now? The last thing I wanted was to ruin what pleasure I did finally experience.
“Sorry,” I said again. “I just...”
“You what?”
“I should get a shower.”
He clenched his jaw. “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“Because I’m fine.”
“You’re full of shit.”
I sighed. “You sure do sweet-talk a girl.”
He growled as I gathered my clothes. “Where the hell are you going?”
It wasn’t a change of topic, it was an escape. Except I dove from the depths of my memory right into the next danger that would ruin me with violence and hate.
“I need to get out of here,” I said. “Just for a while.”
“Out of Pixie?”
“Yeah.”
“And where the hell do you think you’re going?” Thorne’s expression might have frightened me back to bed if I hadn’t feared Exorcist more. “Unless you want to pick out a funeral plot, your ass isn’t going anywhere.”
I shrugged. “I’m going stir-crazy.”
“Yeah, I can see how getting killed might alleviate your boredom.”
“I’m not going to get killed. I’m just going to...”
Meet Exorcist and orchestrate a drug deal. I gnawed on my lip.
Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Page 19
