by Cathryn Cade
“Make it up to me? You ... you can’t. Not after what you did today. You treated me like a—a used bar napkin.” She deepened her voice, mimicking him. “‘I’m done with her, guess I’ll just crumple her up and throw her out with the trash’.”
His sensual mouth flattened, and he glanced down, thick lashes veiling his eyes as he stroked his thumb over the outside of her jean-clad thigh. “Get how you’d see it that way. But that’s not how I meant it.”
“Prove it.”
He looked up at her from under his brows, his expression softening, lips turning up at the corners. “All right. I’ll do that. You and me, we’ll talk. I’ll clue you in, and show you how this thing can work to your advantage. And then...”
His eyes heated, so full of carnal purpose that a soft sound worked its way from her throat, and her body reacted, clenching and melting inside.
He nodded, answering her as if she’d spoken words. “Oh, we’ll fuck, milaya. It’s gonna happen. But right now, you’re gonna put this on, and come downstairs with me.”
He leaned sideways, scooped up his tee, and dropped it on her chest. Then he let her go and stepped back. “C’mon, hurry it up.”
“No,” she protested, her tummy knotting again. “I’m not going down there.”
“Great. We’ll stay up here and you can take off the rest of your clothes.” He looked her over, his gaze insolent, from her ill-concealed breasts, to her bare toes beneath her jeans. “Know you got a great ass under those jeans. Had it under my palm. Don’t mind gettin’ my eyes and hands on your sweet pussy tonight too.”
She really didn’t know him very well, Lesa realized, a chill snaking through her. She was ninety-percent sure he was goading her to make her do what he wanted, come down with him and mingle with his biker brethren. But she wasn’t altogether sure.
“I don’t trust you, I don’t like you, and we are never having sex.”
“No?” He didn’t look too worried--either because he didn’t care or he thought she’d fall on her back the way all those other women did. “Fact remains, I don’t trust you up here alone. You get any more crazy ideas in your head, I might be out clothes, furniture and more. So you’re comin’ down to have a brew with me and the brothers.”
Time to pick her battles, and she couldn’t win this one. Lesa turned her back on him—making sure she was also facing away from the mirror—fumbled the shirt open and yanked it over her head, pulling her hair out to fall down her back in a tumbled mass. Turning back to him, she tossed her head and glared. “All right, biker man. Lead the way to the party.”
Pete’s tee enveloped her in soft folds, the sleeves hanging to her elbows. But it was snug over her breasts and hips, and his gaze said he enjoyed that. “You might wanna pull your hair over your tits,” he drawled. “’Less you wanna wave those at my brothers.”
She looked down and her face flamed. Her nipples poked at the fabric of the tee like two miniature spears. She grabbed two handfuls of her hair and pulled it forward like a long scarf.
He gave a grunt of approval, and led the way through his bedroom. Her hand clutching on the railing, Lesa followed him down the stairs.
At the bottom, she eyed him uncertainly. He shook his head at her. “Relax, milaya. Only one who’s gonna be puttin’ hands on you is me.”
This should not have reassured her, but for some strange reason, it did.
“That you, Brews?” bellowed a deep voice from the other room. “Need refills in here.”
“You could get your own goddamn refills,” Pete called back, already striding into the kitchen.
“I got it, boss.” Streak appeared in the archway at the far side of the kitchen with two empty pitchers.
Behind him, Lesa could see four other men, all wearing black biker vests, lounging around a big oak table. They were all familiar faces from The Hangar, but here in this smaller, private area they looked bigger, harder, more dangerous. And unfortunately, one of them was the stocky, greasy biker who’d asked her to give him ‘a ride’.
She ducked around the kitchen island on the side toward the back door, not ready to face them. Maybe Pete would let her stay in here. She’d even wash beer mugs to avoid facing his scary brothers.
Streak looked surprised to see Lesa, then gave her a small smile on his way across the kitchen. Two silver cubes, like small refrigerators with tubes rising from their tops, stood on the long counter by the big fridge. Streak slapped a pitcher on top of each one, then used both hands to pull what she now saw were taps.
“You have kegerators?” she asked, moving around Pete to Streak’s side.
“Yep,” Streak agreed. “Best invention ever.”
Lesa shrugged. “I don’t know, I’ve seen a lot of the cheap stuff come out of these.”
“Not in this house,” Pete said behind her. “This is my new amber, and a hefeweizen. You mind helping out with one of those?”
Streak handed her one of the full pitchers. His was amber, while hers brimmed with a pale blond ale. With something to do, Lesa was immediately less nervous.
She’d served these bikers before at The Hangar. This evening was no different. She’d just keep telling herself that, and she’d be fine.
Except that as she followed Streak through the wide archway into Pete’s dining area, the first gaze she met was the pale, icy eyes of Ivan ‘Stick’ Vanko. The president of the Devil’s Flyers, and she was sure, the most dangerous man she had ever met.
Funny, he looked so much like Pete, and yet Pete didn’t scare her—most of the time. But this man was an older, harder, rougher version of Pete. Pete could charm the pants off any woman—his brother would likely scare them off.
The tall Russian looked her over, and then lifted his chin. “I’ll have what you’re serving.”
She hesitated, wondering what would happen if she just dropped the pitcher and bolted. Then she saw it—the barest hint of a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth under his mustache. He knew how nervous he made her, and he was enjoying it. He was as mean as his little brother, damn both their manipulative hides.
Tipping her head, Lesa gave Stick Vanko her best fake smile. “Sure thing, Mr. Vanko. Let me fill that glass right up for you.”
She did so, tilting the glass just so to prevent the foam from building too high, stopped at exactly the right instant, and set his glass down with a flourish. “There you go. Who else is drinking what I’m serving?” She carefully avoided Greasy Biker’s gaze.
“I am,” the huge biker called T-bear boomed, giving her a grin that split his bearded face. “An’ if you sit on my lap while you pour, I’ll tip you a week’s worth of what Brews pays you, sweet thang.”
Lesa managed a tiny smile back at him, although it probably looked more like a grimace. “Well, thank you. I may have to take you up on that, seeing as how I just unfairly lost my job.” She shot a deadly look at Pete, who had slid into the chair next to his brother’s.
He grabbed her in one arm, the pitcher in his other hand, and hauled her onto his hard thigh. “You sit on my lap, and pour yourself a beer. T-bear doesn’t drink hefe, he drinks amber. And he can get his own honey.”
Deep, raucous laughter broke out around the table.
“Told ya,” T-bear announced. He lifted his glass to Lesa, then took a long drink.
The other men laughed even harder, and Lesa wanted to dive under the table or run. The joke seemed to be on her. But she had no idea what it might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Pete patted Lesa on the ass, his touch grounding her. “Pour me another, yeah?”
“You got it made, Brews.” Greasy, who sat on Stick Vanko’s other side, had his gaze all over Lesa’s breasts, making her grateful her hair was long enough to cover at least part of them. “Need to get me my own home bar-snatch. Run and get me a beer when I need one, ‘long with anything else I want.”
“Bounce, you find a woman who can stomach your trailer and that pit bull of yours, let us know,” Rocker told him dryl
y.
“Hey, Slasher keeps the fuckin’ meth-heads outta my yard,” Bouncer shot back. “More’n I can say for any other bitch I’ve brought home.”
Quelling her grimace of distaste—she hoped—Lesa scooted back a bit on Pete’s knee. How on earth did he get the name ‘Bouncer’? On second thought, she didn’t want to know.
She turned to hand Pete his beer. She would have remained perched on his knees to drink her own, but Pete hauled her back against him and braced one of his long legs against the table’s pedestal base, effectively giving her a comfortable, half-reclining seat in his lap. His left arm lay about her waist, his hand on her hip, and his body was hard and hot under her.
She could not stand the man, she wanted to get as far away from him and his biker bros as humanly possible, she wanted to thunk him over the head with one of his heavy beer pitchers, and yet … sitting in his casual embrace while his dangerous, rowdy biker brothers ribbed each other made her feel safe.
She drained her beer and leaned forward to pour another, refilling Pete’s glass without his asking. He took it and patted her hip again.
“You want another?” he asked Stick over her head.
The Flyers’ president shook his head. “Nah, I’m headed out soon. Sara will be up working in her shop all night if I don’t get home. You still coming fishing with us tomorrow?”
Pete shook his head, his short beard catching in Lesa’s hair. “No. Tell the boys I’ll come next time.”
Lesa had a great idea. “He should go with you,” she informed Stick. “He needs some time off.”
Stick’s pale gaze dropped to meet hers, his lips twitching. “You think so?”
She nodded, then stopped because it made her head swim. Whoa, the beer had gone straight to her head. “I do. He’s not being very nice. Needs some quiet time to consider his actions.”
Pete snorted, his chest shaking under her back. “Nice try, milaya. You think I’m gonna head off for the day and leave you here alone? Nuh-uh.”
She elbowed him. “I was just being nice. But seeing’s how you don’t appur—appresh-iate it, I’m through.”
He gave her a squeeze. “You can’t be half-way to shit-faced on two brews. Were you doin’ shots upstairs, or something?”
It was Lesa’s turn to snort. “No, my stomach’s empty. But, you keep a bottle up there? Why, to get your dates drunk so they do what you want?”
“Never needed my women impaired, so no,” he shot back.
The other men were watching her and Pete, grinning. Except Greasy.
“Bitch mouths off like that,” he said, glowering at Lesa. “A brother needs to give her somethin’ else to fill her mouth.”
Pete stiffened. “I need your advice on anything to do with women, Bounce, I’ll let you know."
He sat up, and boosted Lesa to her feet. “Go on in the living room, da? We’ve got business to talk over. And I catch you listening in, you won’t like what I do,” he added in her ear, so only she could hear.
“Fine.” She tossed her hair, sliding from his lap.
She was glad to get away from them and their raunchy talk. And as far as ‘biker business’? She did not want to know. Okay, yes she did, she was dying of curiosity. But she also believed Pete Cave-man Vanko when he said she wouldn’t like his stupid consequences, so she stomped away into the kitchen.
As she passed the big refrigerator, her stomach growled, reminding her that her healthy body needed nutrition, especially after she’d lost everything twice today. Drinking always made her hungry, and after losing her lunch and snack, she was starving.
Upon opening the fridge, she found the shelves half-bare. But her eyes lit up when she saw a familiar pizza box on the middle shelf. Yum, one of Pico’s pizzas.
She hauled the box out and set it on the counter, opening it. Her stomach growled again, harder. It was her favorite, loaded with a variety of meats and veggies, with only a few pieces gone. It looked and smelled fresh, as if made this afternoon.
She took a moment to pick the mushrooms off a large piece, because mushrooms—ick. Then she tore a paper towel from the hanging roll, and lifted her treat to take a big bite. She chewed with relish, her eyes closed. So good.
A low whine sounded at her side, and she looked down as she swallowed. Dima sat there, ears perked and gaze rapt on the pizza in Lesa’s hand. “Ssh-hh,” Lesa whispered. “I’ll share, but you have to be quiet, okay?”
The big dog stood, trotted to the doorway on the far side of the kitchen and looked back at Lesa as if to say ‘Follow me’. With a shrug, Lesa did so.
The rumble of male voices faded behind her as she and Dima emerged into another room, lit with a floor lamp in one corner by a chair. Lesa looked around her curiously.
This must be the living room, as it was a big room with four windows. The only furnishings were the chair, a black leather recliner, the lamp, and a cabinet with a huge TV, DVD player and speakers from which the sounds of classic rock now emanated.
Dima sat on her haunches by the recliner and eyed Lesa expectantly, licking her chops. Lesa grinned as she settled in the chair, her pizza on her lap. “Okay, pal. We’ll share. But not too much cheese, ‘cause I don’t think it’s good for dogs.”
They shared their pizza, then Dima trotted off and Lesa yawned. Now that her stomach was full, she was suddenly exhausted. And she did not want to fall asleep in this chair, no matter how comfy, with a house full of bikers—especially that Bouncer. He creeped her out, both the way he looked at her and the way he talked about women in general.
She crumpled her napkin and looked around for a waste basket. There was none, but she snickered when she saw the half-full bottle on the floor in the shadow of the recliner, a shot glass upended over the top. It was the good stuff, too, Wet Fly Whiskey from a local distillery.
Picking up the bottle, she unscrewed the top, sniffed and then tipped it up to take a drink. The liquor slid over her tongue, burned down her throat and settled in her belly with a warm glow.
Hmm, she could see why Pete liked it. Setting the bottle back where she’d found it, Lesa rose and padded across the room to the foot of the stairs. Hearing chairs scraping, she peered around the corner of the stairwell, and saw the men standing, as if ready to leave.
She hurried upstairs, and dug through her suitcase, which Streak had thoughtfully brought up for her, and found her toothbrush and floss. By the time she cleaned her teeth and did her business, motorcycles were roaring to life outside, and footsteps thumping up the stairs.
* * *
As soon as Lesa disappeared, Stick spoke again, looking to Pete and then around the table. “I need some time to think about this plan of yours. What say we sleep on it, get back to it tomorrow?”
“Can’t wait too long,” Pete argued. “Not sayin’ it’s the most solid plan in history, but we gotta do somethin’.”
“You could lay a trap at your brewpub,” Bouncer suggested. “Give out you got a shipment stored there.”
Pete shook his head. “No. I am not bringin’ trouble to the pub, ever. The cops feel like they have to start keepin’ an eye on the place, we’ll never get a full liquor license.”
Rocker nodded. “True.” And since he was an ex-cop, even Bouncer couldn’t argue, though his ugly glower said he wanted to.
“Weapons charge will work to get rid of the Sokolovs,” Stick said. “But we need better bait to reel them in. Let’s think on that.”
He shoved back his chair and rose, which meant the meet was over. He nodded to Pete, a twinkle lurking in his eyes. “Take good care of your guest, da?”
Pete didn’t bother dignifying this with an answer, as it was none of his or anyone else’s business how Pete ‘took care of’ Lesa.
Streak stacked up the empty beer glasses, and Pete grabbed the empty pitchers. The rest of the brothers made their way outside.
“Thanks,” Pete said. “I got the rest of this, you go on. And Streak, not a word to anyone about this shit.”
The prospect gave him an offended look. “I don’t talk about club business, you know that.”
“No, I know,” Pete said, holding up a hand. “I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here. But I got some shit to work out with Lesa, and I don’t want Sylvie or the others to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Okay,” Streak agreed. “Won’t breathe a word of that, either. Long as I’m allowed to talk to her at work, and all. ‘Cause she’s real nice.”
“Yeah,” Pete said. “I know. And I’ll treat her right. Now go on, get home and get some rest.”
Streak grabbed his jacket, and followed the others out. A few moments later, the rumble of motorcycles filled the night. Pete finished cleaning up, turned out the lights, and headed upstairs.
And if he said he didn’t feel anticipation as he did so, he’d be lying.
* * *
Lesa opened the bathroom door, ready to dive into the guest room bed, and found her captor waiting for her. He frowned down at her.
“C’mon. You’re sleepin’ in my room.”
“O-oohh, no,” she corrected him. “I am sure as heck not sleeping in your bed.” Not with him in it. No, sir.
He sighed, and raked back his hair, releasing it from the tie. “Yeah, you are. Don’t trust you not to pull another stupid stunt, and I need some sleep. And you can relax, I don’t get my jollies from unwilling women. Got plenty of the other kind.”
She huffed. “That’s for sure.”
He yawned, looking supremely unconcerned with her opinion of him, and then smacked her ass lightly in a clear command to get moving. Lesa glared at him as she hurried out of his reach. “You need to get over your fixation with my ass, right now.”
She stomped back through the bathroom and into his bedroom.
He stopped on the other side of the bed, nearest the door, and began to unfasten his shirt, giving her a smirk. “Milaya, that ass was made to smack.”
Then he pulled off his shirt, and reached behind his head to pull his tee over his head. Lesa’s retort died on her tongue as she gaped at him. Oh, my God … had she realized he was hiding all this under his shirts, she would never have been able to concentrate on her job.
