All in all, it’s like a second home. I used to sneak in here with my grandfather after school, barely tall enough to see over the edge of the wood bar. I’d order a beer, and Birdie would slide a supersized root beer down the counter with a thick straw in it. Once I finished, I’d leave a quarter tip for my auntie. She’d collect it and drop it in her glass jar and thank me.
“Everything looks great,” my aunt says, staring at me.
“What?”
“I’ve been worried since you came in here the other afternoon. Where’s that pretty girl you told me about? I thought you’d bring her in to meet me.”
I lick my lips in anticipation of tomorrow. Yeah, I’d like Serafina to be at my side right now, too. Not that we’d stay here long. I want her in my bed. I envision her long black hair fanned out across my pillows and those slim legs wrapped around my waist while I jackhammer inside of her. Then, after I convince her I’m what she needs, I’ll take her out.
“Eagle?”
“Sorry, Aunt Birdie. I’m distracted.”
“Yeah.” She chuckles. “It’s good to see you interested in a woman again.”
“Take it easy,” I say, kissing her cheek. “I’m going to take this slow. I’m not expecting anything. I need to spend some quality time alone with her first. Okay?”
She gives me a bear hug. “An auntie can hope, right? I’d like to see you settled with some kids before I die.”
“Hey.” I hate when she talks that way. “You’re going to outlive all of us.”
“Only to spite you.”
* * *
Sheila, the only waitress my aunt employs, brings me a shot of whiskey. I thank her and slam it, ready for another.
The rest of the club arrives over the next hour and before I know it, the jukebox is going and I’m up and entertaining the regular customers. Henry Cormier, one of Birdie’s beaus, is arguing with an out-of-towner about the proper way to talk Cajun.
I wander off, hoping to grab a bowl of jambalaya. There’s a long line at the buffet, but I don’t care. The aroma of spices and fresh seafood always gets my attention. I pick up a plate and a set of silverware rolled in a napkin. There’s twenty people in front of me.
Just as I’m getting close to the food, my phone rings. It’s Serafina. I put the plate and utensils down on a table and answer as I head for the hallway in the back, where it’s reasonably quiet. “What’s up, beautiful?”
“Just wanted to make sure we’re still meeting up tomorrow.”
Hearing her voice makes my cock hard. That’s what she does to me—it’s fucking crazy. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Where are you?” she asks. “I hear music in the background.”
“At my aunt’s bar in Holly Beach.”
“Is it busy?”
“The crowd trickles in all night long. You all right, Serafina?” She’s not as animated as she usually is. Did something happen?
“Yeah, why?”
“You sound different.”
“Just tired, I guess.”
I don’t believe her. “Or nervous we’re hooking up?”
“Is that what we’re doing, Eagle? I thought we were . . .”
“I’m going to fuck you, Serafina. Unless you’re ready for that, maybe you shouldn’t show up.” If I’m going to even consider spending more than a night with this girl, she needs to hear the truth, no matter how offensive or brutal it is.
“We can’t just be friends?” she asks.
“Friends?” What the fuck? “I don’t need any more friends, Serafina. I need your body and that hot fucking mouth all over me.”
“Jesus,” she whispers.
“Hard for you to swallow?”
“You have a filthy mouth, Eagle.”
“I do—and right now, you’re making me think about things I shouldn’t. Live with it. You’re gorgeous and I want you in my bed.”
She gives me a hollow, nervous laugh in response.
“You actually thought we were just going to hang out? Eat some sushi, watch some chick flicks, and talk all night?”
“Is that so hard to do?”
“Um . . . Fuck yeah it is. I’m a biker, Serafina, not some guy you met in college or at a café. You want to spend time with me, leave your good-girl expectations at home.”
“All right,” she says. “Check your phone after I hang up.”
Before I can say anything, she disconnects and my phone chirps, alerting me I have a new text. I open it up, there’s an attachment. A topless picture of Serafina holding a sign that says I WANT TO FUCK YOU, EAGLE. Heat spirals up my body. Those tits are perfect. And . . . I hear the rumble of multiple bikes drive up outside and stash the cell in my vest pocket as I walk back to the main room of the bar.
I eyeball Cannon, our master-of-arms, gesturing for him to stand by the front door. Regular bikers are welcome here, as long as they show respect to me and my brothers. Seconds later, six guys in leather enter the bar. They’re RUBS, wannabe bikers who likely ride crotch rockets—the kind of bikes one percenters hate. I hurry to the front door. Several of them look shitfaced. Cannon stops them and asks for ID.
“Do I look under twenty-one?” the first one slurs.
I signal Aunt Birdie to turn the jukebox down so I can hear everything.
“Show me your driver’s license or get out,” Cannon says.
The front guy twists around and whispers something to his friends. They all laugh.
Our members are spread out across the room, ready to strike on command.
The little prick finally sighs and takes out his wallet. Then he shoves his ID in Cannon’s face. “Is that good enough?”
On high alert now, I close the distance between me and the assholes at the door and look outside. I laugh at the rice rockets parked on the far corner of the lot. Just as I guessed—rich urban bikers from the city who want to come down here and raise hell.
“This is an alcohol-restricted ID,” Cannon says. “You can’t come in here. Move on.” He hands the card back to the little prick.
“What?” He snags it out of Cannon’s hand and studies the ID. “We just left Vernon’s down the street.”
“Then go the fuck back there,” Cannon growls.
Fisting my hands at my sides, I can see what’s coming.
When the little bastard shoves his finger in Cannon’s chest, it’s on, big time. I snap into action, grabbing the offender by the scruff of his neck and dragging him outside. He flails around and tries to twist free from my grasp. No chance. I’m in control.
“Let me go!”
“Listen.” I give him a violent shake and then slam him on the asphalt. “What’s your name, asshat?”
He glares at me. “James.”
I nod, taking in his shiny new riding gear. “Not sure where you’re from, but we do things differently in Holly Beach.”
James doesn’t seem to give a shit. He staggers to his feet, obviously buzzed, and spits on the ground half an inch from my steel-toed boot. “Clean it up,” I demand.
“What?”
“Clean. It. Up,” I repeat very slowly so he understands.
His gaze zigzags nervously around the parking lot, stopping on the entrance to the bar.
“Don’t worry about your pussy friends,” I say. “Pay attention to me.”
“Fuck you.”
I laugh, maybe a little too ominously. James makes a run for it—headed to the parked motorcycles. I catch him by the arm. “Listen, princess.” I slide my other hand up his back, to the base of his neck. I lead him to the spot where he spat and force him to his knees. “There’s a strict code of honor around here.”
He gazes up at me. “For who? Those patches on your vest don’t impress me.”
Does he have a death wish? “They should.”
Should I break bones? He’s younger than me, maybe twenty-one. Out for a ride with his rowdy, piece-of-shit friends.
If the Iron Norsemen were another MC, this guy would be dead already. But I follow
different rules. We don’t kill unnecessarily. It’s bad for our image and definitely bad for our community. Though the gators would take care of any evidence.
“It’s your lucky night, princess,” I say as my brothers file outside, dragging James’s friends with them.
I wait to continue until they’re standing around me.
“You have two choices, James. Fight me or lick my boot clean.”
“What the fuck?” James stands up and straightens his clothes.
I outweigh this prick by thirty pounds or more. He’s under six feet, I’m over six-three. Giving him a moment to think about it, I look at Tonsils. “Any damage inside?”
“Nope.”
“Is Birdie okay?”
“Grateful to get these little douchebags gone.”
I snicker. “What’s it gonna be, James?”
He’s sweating now. But I know it has nothing to do with the summer humidity. He’s scared, and should be.
“I’ll go,” he offers.
“You’ll do more than that,” I say. “You’re the leader of your group, right?”
“We’re not a gang,” he says.
“Neither are we,” I assure him.
His gaze shoots around the semicircle of men behind us. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“No? Which one of your friends dared you to come in here like you owned the place?’
“I’m not a narc.”
Good. That earned him some points. “So you’ll take responsibility for your friends. Give me your wallet.”
Hesitant at first, James reaches in his back pocket.
“Take out your cash.”
“All of it?”
“Yep.”
I watch as he digs out a few hundred-dollar bills.
“Hand it to Tonsils,” I demand.
Tonsils steps forward and snags the money.
One of James’s friends yells out. “Fuck you.”
Laughing, I turn my attention to him. Smaller than James, the bastard is either really stupid or has brass balls. “Come here.” I crook a finger at him. “You just volunteered to take James’s place.” I shove James out of the way. “Go join your friends over there.”
The other guy pulls out his cell phone. “I’m going to call the cops.”
* * *
There’s no police in Holly Beach. The Cameron Parish Sheriff’s Office is a half hour drive away. By the time they show up . . .
Sam knocks the cell phone out of the idiot’s hand before I can reach him. I punch the cocky bastard in the jaw and he stumbles back and drops to the ground. A couple half-ass kicks to the ribs, and the guy rolls onto his back and groans. Not worth the effort. I glare at James.
“Next time your friends encourage you to head to Holly Beach, what are you going to say?”
“No.”
“That’s right.”
“Are we free to go?” he asks.
“Define free to go. No way you’re driving out of here. Half of you are drunk. Give me your keys.”
“W-what?”
I extend my hand, palm up. “The key to your ride.”
James’s gaze flicks to his bike. “No way.”
“Think real hard before you act,” I warn. Not only am I responsible for protecting my club, that duty includes keeping the streets of Holly Beach safe. Drunk out-of-towners on bikes, not happening. “There’s an RV park down the street with rentals available. Go there. In the morning, you can pick up your keys at their office.”
I laugh as James and his friends walk down the street in the direction of the RV park. Goddamned wannabe bikers need to find another pastime.
I head back inside, hungry and desperate to take another look at the sexy pic Serafina sent me. God, I want her.
Chapter Sixteen
Serafina
I never asked Eagle how he got my email address. Not that I really care. I check the directions to the cabin again, nervous and excited that it’s Thursday. Honestly, I’m a mess. There’s a pile of shirts on my bed. White, black, pink, and every shade of blue imaginable. All colors he liked on me. I stare in the full-length mirror hanging behind my bedroom door. “You’re not Angel,” I remind myself.
That’s not even my real face staring back at me. Sure, I see hints of my old self. Especially with my color contacts out. I have brown eyes, not green. That’s not my blond hair, it’s black. My cheek bones were hollowed out and my lips changed to look fuller. And my nose? The surgeon thinned it considerably, erasing my ethnicity.
Left with no choice, every time I look in the mirror, it reminds me of why I staged my own death. So Eagle could live. So I could start over. There was no way for us to be together. The Dead Dogs, especially my brother, Bear, would’ve come after us with all their firepower. Captured me, tortured and killed Eagle. Then, likely, raped me. I shiver at the thought. Bad things happen around the Dead Dogs. Women are chattel. Old ladies get some protection, but not much. As for the passarounds, women who trade sex for favors, well, they’re treated like slaves.
That’s why I fell for Eagle, despite his MC connection. I knew the Iron Norsemen were different. They say there’s no honor among thieves. Maybe not in storybooks, but in the MC world there is. Brothers stand by brothers. Old ladies protect each other. Family isn’t dictated by blood, its chosen because of core beliefs and respect. I miss that part the most. True family.
That’s why I’m really going to see him, not just for sex, but to remember for the briefest moment what it feels like to belong with someone. And I do belong with Eagle, whether I’m Angel or Serafina, it just can’t be long-term. A tiny taste of the past will do me some good, I hope.
Finally choosing a light blue halter top, I admire the tiny black lace panties I chose to entice Eagle with. He’s a sucker for lace anything. I slip into my jeans, then put on my black leather boots. It’s a scorcher outside today, probably ninety degrees. Next, I go to the bathroom and put on my contact lenses.
My phone chimes and I check it really quick. A text from Eagle.
Leaving soon?
Just walking out the door.
Text me as soon as you get in town.
You’re already there? I type.
I left early. Drive safe.
I tuck my cell in my purse, grab my backpack and jacket, and head for the front door. Hesitating, I consider one last time whether this is the right thing to do. Should I risk everything to be with him? Can I control my emotions? Leave when the time comes without revealing my identity? If not, I need to stay here.
I’d rather quit breathing. I open the door and step into the breezeway. Always cautious, I check up and down the corridor before locking my door. It’s taken me years to get used to my new life, to a routine. I never go out alone at night. Even at work I have an escort or work with other dancers. Never go on dates. Never chat with men unless I’m at work. Only two people visit my apartment, Asia and Tony. Most people would go crazy. Not me, I’m grateful to be alive.
I walk to the parking lot and disable the alarm on my late model VW Bug. I climb in, start the engine, and lower the canvas top with a touch of a button. I’m in the mood to feel the warm summer breeze in my hair. The drive between Texarkana and Shreveport is picturesque. Filled with trees, farmland, and old southern architecture. I don’t want to miss a thing.
Traffic is heavy on the final leg of the drive. I don’t mind. Once I hit Interstate 20, it thins out. I pull over in a rest area and dial Eagle.
“Hello again, beautiful,” he greets me.
“Hi.” I’m so nervous.
“Where are you?”
“About to exit off of Highway 71.”
“Good. I want you to drive past the main entrance to the Red River National Wildlife Refuge. I’m about eight miles south. The driveway to the cabin is hard to find, so look for my bike. Okay?”
Excitement spirals through me. Hearing his voice simply isn’t enough anymore. I need to see him. “Be right there.”
Twenty minutes later,
I find him leaning against his Harley on the gravel shoulder. He’s dressed all in leather, including chaps. His muscular arms are crossed over his chest. I shift into park and then turn on my emergency lights. The right thing to do is get out of my car, but my legs won’t move. Like a deer in headlights, I just sit and smile. My love for him has never faded. Everything about Eagle drives me wild. From his arrogant smirk to the way he walks.
As he approaches my car, I lower my sunglasses just enough to peek over the lenses.
“Serafina.”
“Eagle.”
He leans down and sticks his head through the opening, planting the most enticing kiss on my lips. I press my thighs together, ready to explode from the intimate contact.
“Follow me,” he directs.
I nod. “Okay.”
I wait until he gets on his bike to close my window so the AC doesn’t escape. Last thing I want to be is a sweaty, nervous mess. I turn left down the hidden driveway lined by thick trees. It seems to go on and on. But after about two miles, the property opens up. This isn’t a camp, it’s a family retreat. He gestures for me to park next to his bike and I do.
Then he opens my car door and I climb out. “This place is incredible.” I look around in awe. The front lawn is level and has a volleyball court and rock fire pit surrounded by top-of-the-line lounge chairs and handmade wood tables.
The house is rustic but comfortable looking. The front includes a covered patio and complete outdoor kitchen. The entrance opens into a spacious multi-use room. There’s framed movie posters along the wall. Two rows of leather theater seats are arranged in front of a one-hundred-inch projection screen. I eye the man-sized gun safe situated next to a full-service bar with six stools. The kitchen and dining area are on the other side of the room.
I never knew about this place. “A camp?” I ask, sure to sound sarcastic.
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Like it?”
“I’d move in tomorrow.”
He chuckles. “There’s a full bath down the hallway across from the master suite. Three bunk rooms down there.” He points. “Maybe I should have called it a hunting lodge.”
I scan the rest of the room. I missed the deer racks on the other wall. “Definitely a better description.”
One Taste of Angel Page 9
