Biker Rockstar Billionaire CEO Alpha (Hers to Keep Trilogy Book 1)

by Violet Blaze

  “Dash—” I started, but he stood up suddenly from his chair and joined me at the edge of the balcony, shirtless and beautiful. The black slacks were gone, replaced with the comfortable drape of worm denim, holey and sexy, his feet bare, the tattoos on his left arm less than an inch from mine.

  “I was thinking,” he began, putting his forearms on the metal railing and staring out at the glittering stretch of sin across the desert, the Stratosphere Tower peeking up above it all, “about what you said, about TSR and all the assholes in it.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, my heart fluttering as I looked down at him, watched his eyes scan the horizon like he was looking for something in particular.

  “They're always throwing these fucking parties, prancing around with … their wives or mistresses or Companions like they own the goddamn world and all the people in it.” He turned his attention back to me, looking up from under lashes that were too fucking long to be on a man's face. It was completely unfair for him to be that handsome and that beautiful all at the same time. “It wouldn't be hard to get in there, right in the heart o' the beast.”

  I swallowed hard, heart pounding as I looked at him and tried not to think of my brother. I might not be able to take out his actual killer—Dash had done that for me—but I could rid the world of the people that put him up to it.

  “You understand that these parties are … well, they're like the Block. Drinks, drugs, cigars, and sex. We're not going to be able to just waltz in there and start slittin' throats.”

  My hand curled around the metal railing as I lifted the beer to my lips.

  “What would we have to do?”

  “First off, we'd have to attend a number of functions before we did anything at all. If I attend my first ever gala and people start dyin', you know where they're gonna look.”

  We both paused at the sound of screaming, and I was off and running before Dash could get another word out. My Ruger fit into my hand like it was designed to be there and I was heading for the kitchen and the hall when Dash grabbed me by the shoulder.

  “Adelaide,” he said, his voice sharp and full of authority, “stop. If you want me to even consider this crazy shit then you're going to have to make some sacrifices. You can't jump to the offensive at every little opportunity.”

  “My sister is screaming,” I said, but I didn't pull away from his grip.

  “All I did was lock her in the bedroom last night after you fell asleep; that's it. She's jumpier than a virgin at a prison rodeo.”

  My eyebrows shot up and I lowered the gun.

  “Did you … just quote The Golden Girls?” I asked and Dash laughed, the sound quieting Layla in the other room. When he smiled at me, the expression was sultry and warm, this all encompassing heat that radiated off of his muscular body like an invitation. It swept over me, overwhelming and weighty, making me feel like I might need to sit down for a second.

  And all of that from a smile.

  “My gran sure did like her soaps,” he told me, lifting the gun from my hand. I let him take it, watched him set it aside on the counter and then move down the hall, tugging a ring of keys from his jeans pocket and unlocking the glossy black door to his bedroom.

  Dash's bedroom.

  I told myself I didn't give a fuck, but last night when I'd taken Layla some food and set my sights on the big black bed four poster bed with the white and purple linens, the nightstands in the shape of squat black trees with glass tops, the rug of a night sky with a pregnant moon, I was fascinated. The walls were textured horizontal stripes, the ceiling coved and painted black, a small purple glass chandelier the focal point of the entire room. It was lush, rich, elegant, similar enough to his apartment above the bar that I recognized a similar sense of taste, but much richer, more luxurious.

  What would it be like to get fucked in this den of sin? Pressed into the purple satin sheets? Ground into the feather soft surface of the mattress? Listen to the sound of Dash's voice, dripping with old south and heat, murmuring into my ear as I stared up at the canopy above the bed?

  In typical Layla fashion, she'd completely trashed the place.

  The sheets and blankets were torn from the bed, the drawers on the dressers open, clothing flung everywhere. She'd left the pizza box on the foot of the bed, a sea of crumbs marring Dash's purple sheets. The TV was on, tuned to a news report about a missing girl, like a sign from God, playing right there in front of my face.

  “Adelaide,” Layla said, panting and glancing at Dash before she refocused her attention on me. “You let him lock me in?”

  “I didn't know he had,” I told her honestly, but if he'd asked, I would've told him to do it anyway. I could see it in her eyes—Layla didn't trust Dash Buchanan as far as she could throw him. I couldn't really blame her. Just like me, she'd grown up hearing about his father, Xavier, the rat that had stolen the club's money, taken off with half the members in tow and started Buchanan Bikes, the billion dollar company whose board now played at being officers in their own MC, calling themselves World's End and ruling the Las Vegas underground—no easy feat—with the backing of the company.

  In every way that counted, Dash was the enemy.

  But with every gut instinct I had, I trusted him. Why come to that auction at all if he wanted us to suffer? Clearly, we were headed for literal hell in the hands of any other man in that room. Even now, he wasn't keeping my gun from me, didn't seem concerned about the full knife block in the kitchen. If Dash wanted us dead—or otherwise—we wouldn't be standing here like this looking at the mess my sister had made of his bedroom.

  “Layla, I need you to listen to me: what happened to us yesterday is big.”

  “So we need to call Dad and Mave and Cainen and let them handle it.”

  Mave.

  I refused to let my brother's name settle in my thoughts, refused to think about the fact that he was dead because I hadn't done my job, because he'd waiting outside for my signal and instead found me running down the alley like a bat out of hell.

  If I had to blame somebody for his death, then at least part of the responsibility should fall me.

  Instead I said, “this is bigger than the Weeping Bones.”

  Layla scoffed, her pale brown eyes locked on mine in challenge. She couldn't imagine anything in the world that was bigger than Dad, than the club. I understood it, that but I knew it to be a lie.

  “You let him fuck you again last night,” she said, an accusation tossed at me with too much vitriol, too much judgment. I knew I was fucked-up in the sex and romance department. It was the reason I'd never had a boyfriend, a lover, kept my virginity until the night of the concert. I wanted things that I I shouldn't have wanted, needed things that I couldn't put words to. And Dash? Something about him fired up that strange, dark, silent side of me, made it cry out for his hands and his mouth and his cock. I wanted him, and I didn't know why? Nostalgia? One idyllic summer spent exploring the canyons near our family home in Ridgecrest?

  I had no idea.

  “I came out for a glass of water and I saw you on the couch. I should've stabbed him in the back when I had the chance, done Dad and the boys a favor.” Layla flicked her glare over to Dash, soft wavy strands of brunette hair falling across her forehead. “And now you're letting him keep me prisoner in here? Adelaide, what the fuck is going on?”

  “Layla, we need to lay low here for a while and then we can go home. Do you want to drag this shit back to Mom and Dad? To the girls?” I asked, referring to our other three sisters. They were all married to men in the club, settled down in little three bed, two bath ranch houses raising kids. It looked nothing at all like the life I imagined for myself.

  Layla spun away and ran her fingers through her hair, still dressed in Dash's sweats and t-shirt, but at least it looked like she'd gotten a chance to shower. All of that awful stage makeup was gone from her face, wiping away the last physical reminder of that horrible fucking place.

  But the memories—especially the ones with me and Dash�
�those would be stuck in my head for a long, long time.

  My sister glanced back at me, her face pale, lips pursed. I wondered if she was thinking about Kelly, about the girl in the pink dress, about the woman in green that we watched the Mistress beat like an unruly dog. Her fingers strayed back to the tattoo on her neck, and I felt myself mimicking the motion. The spot was sore and painful, probably on its way to becoming infected. I'd had a lot of ink done over the past few years: a tattoo that was not cared for properly was a bitch. An ugly bitch, too, when the ink mottled and scarred and sore.

  As much as I hated the tattoo, if I was going to do this, I'd need it to blend in with these people.

  “And I know you're not going to like this, but …” I trailed off and let out a deep breath. “Dash and I have kept in touch this whole time. Actually, we've been dating for some time now.”

  “What?!” she snapped, dropping her hand and turning to look at me like I'd grown a second head. “You … you're dating?!”

  “We're on month three,” I lied, just wanting to get her off of my back. I did not look at Dash as I spun my bullshit story. “In fact, he's been helping me and the boys figure out a way to get to Xavier.”

  “Why … why didn't you tell me any of this?” she asked, sounding hurt, looking between me and Dash with a guarded expression. “Last night … I thought I was watching him rape away your virginity. Laide, it was sick. It was … God, it was horrible.”

  “I know,” I told her, moving across the room and wrapping her in a hug. I might've been the baby in the family, but sometimes I felt like the older sister. I squeezed her as tightly as I could, held her close and counted my lucky stars that she wasn't in the hands of someone like the Auctioneer or Ingvar Dunham. “We're going to get through this, okay? Just trust me—Dash and I will keep you safe.”

  Layla looked over my shoulder at him, her gaze calculating and unsure. But that was okay. She didn't have to believe me; she just needed to behave. I didn't need Dash to tell me that if Layla ran back home, she'd wind up dead. Hell, we'd be lucky if she was the only one that wound up dead.

  We broke our embrace and I reached up a hand to cup the side of her face, smiling my best smile.

  “Is there anything you need or want?”

  “Some fucking clothes,” she said, picking at her borrowed shirt with a wrinkled nose. “A few new pairs of underwear and a tube of MAC lipstick. Oh, and if we're going to be here past the weekend, I'll need some of that Himalayan bath salt stuff that I like.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “If we're really free to go and you're really dating him and this is all just to keep us safe from those crazy people, then it shouldn't be a problem, should it?”

  I could've choked my older sister in that moment …

  “Fine. I'll get your bath salt stuff, but you have to promise me that you won't leave this apartment without talking to me or Dash first? And you also need to promise that you won't try to call, text, Facebook, Snap, or Tweet your way back to anyone at home?”

  “I promise,” she said, but she also rolled her eyes at me.

  I let go of her eyes and took another deep breath.

  “You're really taking care of this?” she said, and I nodded, watching as her gaze swung to Dash and he gave her a lazy smile. The way he leaned against that wall, shirtless and barefoot, his face covered with a thin layer of stubble, he looked like he should be on a farm somewhere, waiting in the hot heat for me to come to him, taking my hand, fucking me on the ground like an animal …

  I blinked that thought away and shook my head, ruffling up my hair and cringing. I was in desperate need of a shower.

  “We're taking care of this,” I assured her and she sighed.

  “Just don't do anything dangerous, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said with another smile.

  That by far the biggest lie I'd ever told in my entire life.

  #

  “You and your sister ain't a lot alike, are you?” Dash asked as he followed me back into the kitchen and I waited until I heard Layla change the channel, cranking the volume up until I recognized the sound of The L-Word playing. It was her favorite series; she'd watched it over like five times and told everyone she was bicurious even though she was really straight as hell.

  “Not really,” I told him as I lifted my arms up in a stretch and actually smelled my own armpits.

  Disgusting.

  I dropped them quickly as Dash crossed his own arms over his chest, his arms thick and curved with hard muscle. I noticed then that the tattoos on his left arm were really one tattoo—a sea of violets, guns, and skulls that matched the logo for his band. It was the same scene I'd noticed on his guitar, his bike, just on a slightly larger scale. The design started at his wrist and went up to his shoulder, fading carefully away across his deltoid.

  “Three months, huh?” he drawled and I let out a deep breath, meeting his gaze.

  “If my sister knew the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, we'd have to handcuff her to your bed to keep her here. Dash, I don't want her to look at me like she thinks there's something wrong with me. I already know there is; the last thing I want is to see that reflected in her eyes.”

  “Wrong with you?” he asked as he stood up and dropped his arms to his sides. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Can you please just show me to the shower? I assume there's more than one bathroom in here and I'd like to not have to listen to my sister yell at fictional characters on The L-Word while I'm cleaning up. I'm glad she's so fucking naïve and sheltered—good for her—but I just can't put up with it right now.”

  “Adelaide, there's nothing wrong with you.”

  “There's not? I thought you were aware that I just tried to kill you.” I stared him in his honeyed brown eyes and lifted my chin. “For ten thousand dollars, Dash. That's how far apart our worlds are now—you threw five million down on a girl you can't buy and I was willing to wash my soul with red to get a measly 10K.”

  “Let me show you to the bathroom,” he said, smiling that infuriating smile and refusing to engage with me, moving through the living room and over to another glossy black door. He unlocked it with the same set of keys he'd used on his bedroom and pushed the door open, holding it with his arm.

  I stared at him for a moment and then stepped into the shadows, waiting for Dash to flick on the light. When he did, I felt a strange mixture of horror and excitement shoot through me.

  “What … what is this?” I whispered, stepping back, bumping into him and feeling his big hands close over my shoulders. Dash put his mouth to my ear and spoke quietly.

  “There is nothing wrong with you, Adelaide. You're not the only person in the world that likes a little unconventionality. Sugar, you're practically part of a damn club.”

  The room in front of me was … well, it was decorated much like Dash's apartment and bedroom—purple and black, eclectic, rock 'n' roll mixed with a southern gothic flare that made me think of hot nights and cool sheets, warm hands and molten kisses shared in the dark. There were whips and paddles hanging on one purple wall, a bed with silver handcuffs hooked to the headboard, white leather restraints at the four corners. There was a large wooden X with straps, what looked like a leather message table, a swing with stirrups, several decorative dark wood beams in the ceiling with chains wrapped around them.

  Within a second, I was breaking away from Dash and spinning around, putting myself into a defensive position, wondering if I'd just made a huge fucking mistake in trusting this guy. Here we were in his supposed safe house and he had a fucking dungeon?

  Dash chuckled warmly at me and ignored the bizarre scenery, moving over to a door on the right side of the room and letting it swing open in front of him.

  “Towels are in this cabinet,” he said, stepping inside like he actually expected me to follow him. “Shampoo, soap, all that good stuff is in this one.”

  I heard the sound o
f a drawer opening, the noise of the faucet.

  Looking around, I didn't know what the hell to think. Dash Buchanan had a fucking sex room in his apartment, one with a locked door, and a number of strange looking instruments, weird pieces of furniture, a bed with wrist and ankle restraints.

  And then there was the overlooked fact that he had known how to truss me up with that rope like he was an expert at it. Jesus. What was I thinking? Was I making a huge mistake in trusting this man?

  “Well, come on,” he said, appearing in the doorway and leaning against it with his shoulder, his relaxed stance putting me somewhat at ease, “I ain't gonna tie you up and spank you after all you been through.” A small pause as he lifted his amber eyes to the ceiling and thought for a moment. “Well, not unless you want me to.” His smile curved up on the right side in a way that made my heart flutter in an entirely new way. “First let me help you clean up that damn tattoo.”

  Dash disappeared into the bathroom and I followed after him, watching as he lathered up his hands with some liquid soap, rinsing them under the steaming tap. He tapped the faucet with his wrist and it shut off automatically.

  “Take a seat and I'll get your tat for ya,” Dash told me, drying his hands on a black towel and gesturing at a small upholstered bench on the wall next to the full shower. It had a huge glass door with a pattern of etched diamonds down the center, the design mimicked in the black and purple tile that lined the walls of the shower itself. Directly across from the door was a large oval inset tub with a huge round window that looked down on the city. The cabinets were glossy and black like the ones in the kitchen, the counter some sort of shimmery purple stone that drew my eyes. I'd never seen anything like it.

  Then again, as pretty as the counter was, it sort of paled in comparison to the fucking sex dungeon in the next room.

  “Tell me now—before I decided to get my Lady Lilac and put a round inside that thick skull of yours—what the fuck is this room?” I pointed back toward the bed with the restraints, the large X shaped piece of furniture, the leather paddles.