Impulsively (Dante's Nine MC)

by Colleen Masters

  I forget any awkwardness and press my body tightly against his. To my surprise, he lets out a low groan, pulling me sharply toward him with both arms. My body lights up where our torsos press against each other and I bury my fingers in his shaggy brown hair. His hands slide down my back, and I gasp as he cups my ass and pulls me roughly against his crotch.

  Whoa, is the only thought I can form.

  “Hey West! Where’d you go, man?” calls Stick from the front of the house.

  West drops his arms and backs away from me. His quick retreat is jarring after feeling him so intimately against me. I feel like I’m emerging from underwater, and the cold air is a shock to my system.

  “Be right there!” West calls back.

  We look at each other for a moment. West runs his hand through his hair. “I...” he begins. He glances toward the house and Stick, then back at me. After a moment, he turns toward the house and walks away.

  Fuck. I watch his retreating figure, an inky blot against the light of the house. I turn and kick the dirt in frustration.

  Stick is so ridiculously overprotective of me. Sometimes he acts more like my dad than my older brother. Maybe that’s because my dad isn’t really much of a dad, but still. Stick shouldn’t interfere so much. No boys have so much as asked to borrow a pencil from me at school, ever since Stick beat up the kid who gave me my first kiss.

  My anger at Stick recedes, and I remember the good part of what just happened. I smile and touch my lips with my fingertips. West just kissed me. West just kissed me! And it was good. Really good. And I know he enjoyed it, too, by the rise I felt in his jeans when he pulled me against him.

  I take a deep breath to compose myself and brush my hands through my hair. With a smile still plastered on my face, I head back toward the yellow lights of the house.

  Chapter One

  Olive

  Present Day

  McCarran International isn’t too busy on this Friday night. There are only a few people in the taxi line as I exit the automatic doors from baggage claim. The warm September air hits me as I cross the threshold, erasing the AC-induced goosebumps from my arms.

  Eight years living in New Hampshire did nothing to accustom me to cold weather. If anything, I hated the cold more every year after moving there when I was sixteen. Even in the early fall here in Vegas, the temperature still hovers in the 70s. Back in Concord, some of the leaves are already beginning to change. I do have to give the Northeast credit for that, the foliage is spectacular. That’s something I’ll actually miss.

  I struggle to pull my two rolling suitcases with me as a cab drives up and the attendant signals me forward. Thankfully, the cab driver helps me stow everything away in the trunk, and I slide into the backseat with just my purse.

  “Where you headed?” he asks, slipping back into the driver’s seat.

  “West Clayton,” I say and give him my old home address. It’s about a twenty-five minute drive, and I know Stick would’ve picked me up this morning, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to surprise him by coming home early.

  I open the window as we hit the highway and feel the breeze blowing through my hair. I haven’t been back to Nevada since my dad’s funeral three years ago, though Stick has visited me in Concord since then. I was so worried that Stick and I wouldn’t stay close when my mom and dad split up, but we managed. If anything, the divorce made us even closer.

  Of course, I understood that he wanted to stick with the Outlaws, the motorcycle club that he and West were prospecting for, and I couldn’t see being a teenage girl without my mom. So, he stayed here, just outside Vegas with my dad, and I moved east to Concord with my mom so she could start a new life where she’d grown up.

  But now, I have good reason to move back West to be with my brother, and it’s not just the warm weather.

  The wind picks up a piece of my hair and it flips into my lip gloss. I pull it off and roll the window up a bit, fetching a compact out of my purse to study my face. Makeup looks good. Subtle, like I’m not trying too hard—which is quite a feat, since I am, at the moment, trying to look as good as I can.

  I haven’t seen West since I moved to New Hampshire eight years ago. When I came back to visit or for my dad’s funeral, he was still serving in the Marine Corps, but he’s been back for a couple years and he and my brother are now living in my childhood home together. Roommates again, just like when we were little kids.

  I’ve inquired as subtly as possible with my brother about West’s current romantic situation. He’s not with anyone seriously, but he’s still doing just fine in the lady department. Which doesn’t surprise me one bit. That kiss we shared as teenagers in my backyard is still burned into my memory. I’ve been with my fair share of men since then, but there was something about that night that I’ve never been able to let go of. West and I never talked about it after, nor did we share any other kisses. It turns out that my parent’s fight that night was one of their last. They soon decided to split up, and I was never able to get West alone again before moving back East.

  West and Stick decided they wanted to enlist about a year later, though Stick was disqualified from service because of his asthma. He encouraged West to go ahead with it, and their friendship picked up right where it had left off after West returned. Those two have always been inseparable, after all.

  Before I know it, we’re pulling onto my old street and the cab driver stops the meter. I peer out the window at my childhood home, which looks smaller every time I visit, and of course the lights are all off. Stupid. What made me think my brother or West would be home on a Friday night? So much for my plan of surprising him and West by knocking on the door looking impossibly fresh after a long plane ride. Well, no point in waiting around here for them to get home. I have a pretty good idea of where they might be tonight.

  “Um, you know what? I’m just going to drop off my bags, and then if you could take me into town, that’d be great,” I say as I open the door. The cab driver shrugs and starts the meter back up again.

  I ditch the bags around the side of the house for now, since I don’t have a key yet. It takes me two trips to get them hidden behind a bush under my old bedroom window, but I think they’re safe. I return and flop into the back seat once more.

  “Where to now?” the cab driver asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

  “the Black Rock,” I reply.

  He turns in his seat for the first time to look at me directly. “You sure about that?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t really look like the type of girl—”

  “I’m sure. Thanks, though,” I reply with a smile, and he backs off. I’m sure his concern is valid. The known biker bar is notoriously popular with all the motorcycle clubs in the region, the only civilians who go there are looking for trouble.

  I take my compact out of my purse again, nervously studying myself in the mirror. I duck down in my seat and lift up my boobs a little to maximize cleavage. I look down to check—probably as good as these B-cups are going to get. My leg shakes up and down as my nerves start up. I wonder what it’ll be like to see West again. I wonder if he even remembers that kiss.

  We pull into the main drag of West Clayton and I watch the signs for the Black Rock. He slows down and I peer around. Ah, there it is. Of course its main entrance is in an alleyway. The cab driver is right to be nervous—it looks like a total dive from here, and I’m guessing it won’t improve the closer I get.

  Reluctantly, I take a look at the meter. Shit. I better find a job here quickly, because I don’t have that much money saved up. I fish my wallet out of my purse and pay the cab driver with a smile. He looks at me nervously in the rearview but doesn’t say anything more.

  I sling my purse over my shoulder and take a deep breath before shutting the car door. Here goes nothing. I walk down the alleyway, stepping carefully over cigarette butts and what I really hope is a puddle of water...but judging by the smell, most likely isn’t. I pause before the black door, listening to
the muffled sound of “Bad Company”. My dad always liked to listen to that song, before he drank himself into an early grave, that is.

  Pushing the door open, I take a step inside and let it swing shut behind me. A burly, bearded man is standing just inside. I’m about to reach for my ID, but he looks me up and down, making me blush, and waves me in. I look around, stepping lightly. A long bar spans the length of the left wall, and a bunch of couches are set up on the right side of the space. In the back right is a pool table, and behind that, a partially curtained off area with some tables and chairs.

  I scan the dimly-lit place, looking for my brother. It’s packed, and most people are looking pretty loose already. A bad-ass looking biker stands up from one of the couches, licking his lips as he eyes me up and down lasciviously. Oh, great. I quickly head toward an open space about halfway up the bar and slide onto a vacant, vinyl-covered stool.

  A redhead in a barely-there top grins from down the bar. She takes a sip of her beer, leaning over to me.

  “You new?” she says, raising her voice over the music.

  “Excuse me?” I reply, my voice high and tight.

  “I knew it!” she laughs. “Hey, Franchise! Drink for the new girl over here!” she yells to the older guy working on the far end of the bar. He nods at us and heads over.

  “Can’t believe Chase, that motherfucker. Quitting on a Thursday. I’m no fucking bartender!” the man called Franchise growls. “What’ll ya have?” he barks at me.

  “Whiskey neat,” I reply.

  “Good. Easy enough,” he says. I study the black leather vest that he’s wearing—his Outlaws cut. Stick wears one just like it. Franchise puts a lowball glass in front of me and I hand him a ten.

  “Hey, you know Stick?” I ask, as he gets me my change.

  “Haven’t seen him,” he answers. He hurries off, scowling, to help another customer who’s bothering him for a drink.

  “I’m Colleen,” my redheaded barmate says. “You with Stick? Shit, I thought he was with Stacy! That fucker!”

  “No, no, I’m not with him. I’m just trying to find him,” I correct her.

  “Oh! You should just ask this guy. He always knows where Stick is!” Colleen says, pointing to the back end of the bar.

  I turn my head and spot a huge man cutting through the crowd, approaching the bar. I study the outline of his tall muscular body, the scruffy stubble on his jaw, his hair pulled back into a low ponytail, the sharp line of the nose, the soft curve of his mouth...

  “Holy shit,” I mutter. It’s West.

  “I know right?” Colleen sighs, “God, he’s so fucking sexy. One of the only ones I haven’t gotten in bed with yet.” She pulls the front of her shirt a little lower as she speaks.

  “Right...” I say absentmindedly, watching as the crowd of people before him parts. He ambles up with that lazy walk to lean on the bar. I swallow hard.

  Franchise heads over as West casually holds up two fingers. Franchise quickly pulls two beers from the tap and slides them down the bar. West grabs the beers and stands up, glancing down the length of the bar as he turns. Our eyes lock and blood rushes to my face. Fuck. He caught me staring. I quickly look down at my whiskey and throw back a large sip. It burns on the way down and I can’t help but wince a little.

  “Oh my god, he’s coming over!” Colleen whispers, furiously fluffing her hair with her fingers.

  Shit. I keep my gaze fixed on my glass, reminding myself to breathe. This is happening so differently than I imagined it would. I feel the warmth of a body next to me at the bar. I slowly turn toward West, letting my eyes travel up the black t-shirt stretched across his hard chest. He’s even more built than I remembered. I finally meet his gaze. He’s smiling down at me, a cocky smirk etched onto his sculpted features.

  “Need a chaser?” he asks, placing one of his beers next to my whiskey.

  “Thanks,” I reply, smiling up at him and raising the beer to my lips.

  “So, what’s your name?” he asks. I look up at him in surprise, choking a bit on my mouthful of beer.

  “Hey, West,” Colleen says flirtatiously, leaning around me.

  He ignores her entirely, his eyes fixed on me. “Why don’t you come over and sit with me and my friends?” he asks. I hear Colleen squeak in protest.

  “Sure,” I reply, grabbing both the beer and the whiskey. With a cock of his head toward the back of the room, West turns and leads me toward his table. Rather than weaving through the people in his way, he walks straight through the crowd.

  I study the Outlaws’ symbol on his vest as I follow him. Does he seriously not recognize me? Well, it is dark in here, and it has been almost a decade. I guess I do look pretty different, too. I finally gave up the Sun-In and dyed my hair dark, and had my growth spurt to reach the towering height of 5’6”. And, you know, grew boobs, but shit—for him to totally not recognize me? Didn’t see that one coming.

  Do I really get the chance now to finally not be Stick’s kid sister? To be a woman, not some bratty little girl? This seems like an opportunity I can’t pass up.

  Chapter Two

  A smile crosses my lips as West pulls the curtain aside and we cross into the back area. Several brothers sit around the tables, each with a girl (or two) draped across them. Ah, these must be the “sweet butts” that Stick has mentioned to me. All I can get out of him is that they’re the girls that hang around the brothers, hoping one of them will make her his old lady—which in the MC world is like being a wife.

  West puts his beer on an empty table in the corner and pulls a chair for me. I sit down and cross my legs, glad I decided to change in the airport bathroom into one of my favorite outfits—a short jean skirt and silky black tank top. I take a deep breath. If West doesn’t remember me, then I can be the more confident woman I’ve become since we shared that kiss so many years ago. He drapes his arm around the back of my chair.

  “So, what did you say your name was?” he asks.

  “I didn’t. It’s...Grace,” I reply, spitting out the first name that pops into my head.

  “Grace,” he repeats. “Have we met before? You look a little familiar.”

  “Oh no,” I say, tilting my head and lowering my eyelashes suggestively. “I think I’d remember meeting you.”

  West smiles, his ego sufficiently stroked. “And you just happened to stop in here tonight, Grace?”

  “I just moved here, wanted to meet some new people. This...” I say, running my fingers down the smooth, worn leather of his vest, letting my touch linger. “It’s called a cut, right?”

  “That’s right. It’s the cut of the Outlaws MC. MC stands for motorcycle club,” he tells me.

  I turn my body toward him a little and lower my voice so he has to lean into me to hear what I’m saying.

  “Why join a motorcycle club?” I ask, “Why not just ride out by yourself?”

  “It’s a brotherhood, a family,” West replies, “I didn’t have much of one growing up. Every one of my brothers would die for me, and I’d do the same for them.”

  “Your brother Franchise looks like he wants someone to put him out of his misery right about now,” I point out. West chuckles and takes a sip of his beer, letting his hand brush against my knee. His touch sends a shiver through my whole body.

  “Franchise isn’t used to having such an immediate role in his businesses. He prefers to sit back and have the actual operations run themselves. Hence his name,” he replies. He leans in so closely when he speaks that the sound of his voice vibrates right through me.

  “Colleen, she said your name was West. How’d you get that nickname?” I ask. I already know this story because it involves my brother, but I just want to keep hearing the rich sound of his voice. And what man with an ego as big as West’s doesn’t like to talk about himself?

  “West. That was a name I got when I was a kid,” he says.

  “Oh yeah?” I say, encouraging him.

  “We were learning all about the Old West in school,�
� he begins, “You know, frontiers, cowboys. All these people heading west looking for freedom. Me and my best friend, we wanted the same thing for ourselves, so we ran away from home. When they finally caught up with us, all I’d tell people was, ‘We’re just heading West.’”

  “And this...?” I ask, gently skimming my fingers over the Marine Corps tattoo showing beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. I brush the fabric upwards, revealing the eagle astride a globe, with an anchor at its side.

  He drops his hand casually to my knee. I feel the cold sweat of the beer still on his palm as he gently strokes his thumb back and forth along the side of my leg. I’m glad we’re hidden away in this dark corner—this way, he won’t see my blush. I glance around and see most of the other people back here are focused on the pool game happening outside the curtain.

  “No fair,” he growls. “You have to tell me something about yourself first.”

  “OK,” I grin, gamely. “What do you want to know?”

  “You said you’re new in town,” he says, “What brings you to West Clayton?”

  “The ambience?” I smile wryly.

  He laughs softly. “That wasn’t even a good try. Come on. Tell me.”

  “Well, I was living...East, as opposed to West,” I say with a smile, delicately balancing my truths and lies. “And...let’s just say I tend to be attracted to the wrong kind of guy.”

  “Maybe you need someone to protect you,” he murmurs, sliding his hand a couple inches up my leg.

  “Oh, no, I’ve had enough protection for one lifetime,” I say, locking eyes with him. The hungry expression in his eyes knocks the wind out of me.

  “Is that so?” he asks, his hand moving up another inch. I can barely think straight.

  “My brother. He can be really overprotective,” I go on. Shit. Did I say too much? But West slides his hand another two inches up my thigh, slipping just his fingertips under the edge of my skirt.