HANDS OFF MY BRIDE

by Claire St. Rose

  Too jaded to care, she finally spotted Sal and rushed toward him, ignoring everyone else in the room. He smiled and waved as she approached, and they sat next to each other at a table with two other male medics who at least didn’t openly make derogatory comments about her.

  She glanced around the space as everyone settled in and shook her head. The segregation never ceased to amaze her. Front and center were the surgeons, with general practitioners and hospital residents to the right. She sat on the left side, where medics took the front and nurses sat in the back.

  So much for the 21st century.

  The food was mediocre, and the lecture was worse. Speaking in a calm, soothing voice and using the terms ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’, as the lecturer suggested, wouldn’t get her anywhere with someone like Larson. She sneezed to cover a grunt of frustration as his name passed through her mind yet again. She couldn’t stand it anymore! If only she could get in his face and tell him exactly what she thought of him, maybe it would be enough to move on.

  The alternative was unthinkable.

  Of course, there had been a time or two that she’d made this sort of mistake, albeit with someone slightly less disgusting, and she’d discovered the best way to get them out of her system was to go one more round. But there was no way she could even consider something that filthy now. The mere thought of ever touching that man again made her want another shower.

  She clapped with the others when the lecture ended, sure that at least half of the attendees were only applauding the fact that it was over. Sal leaned over and muttered, “I could have been at my son’s soccer game.”

  She nodded and rolled her eyes. “I have a test to study for.”

  “You really think you can make it on the other side, don’t you?”

  Ariana looked up to find Jennie, one of her least favorite among that circle, staring at her with amused disdain.

  “We all have dreams, honey, but if you think you’re going to just slide right in the big swinging doors wearing the white coat without getting a little white stain on your uniform first, you are sorely mistaken.”

  Ariana clutched her hands into fists, digging her short nails into her skin in an attempt to keep from decking the girl. With as much venom as she could muster, Ariana spat back, “Just because you don’t have any viable skills doesn’t mean everyone has to sleep their way to the top. Some of us know how to keep our pants and our mouths closed.”

  Sal laid a hand on her arm to call her off. Over her head, he said, “That's enough, Jennie. Go harass someone who might actually deserve it.”

  Ariana stood to leave as the woman with fake tits and a fake smile walked away, but she heard a disapproving noise behind her and turned with wide eyes to find Dr. Dalton Byers looking at her with amusement. “Now, Miss Powell, I think you should really keep your attitude in check. I’ve heard about your reputation, and I’ll tell you, it’s very hard to get invited into an OR for observation or anything else if you can’t play nicely with others.”

  He walked away before she could respond, and she started after him, but Sal held her back. “Let it go, Ariana. What the hell has gotten into you today? You need to relax. You’re ready to bite everyone’s head off.”

  She sure as hell was, and there was one person to blame—one lousy man who had started her off on the wrong foot about twelve hours ago. But she was done being Vince Larson’s victim. She faced enough bullies on a daily basis, in her real life.

  There was no way she was going to let him get the best of her and rule her life and the way she acted anymore.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vince sat back in the chair in the makeshift office at the Iron Claws clubhouse, his feet propped up on the table, smoking and staring out the window. The rest of the present members were amped up about this delivery, but he couldn’t seem to muster any excitement, as Traunch had just so kindly pointed out.

  “It’s just another day in paradise for you, eh, Vinny?”

  Taking his time putting out his cigarette in the ash tray, Vince blew out one last long line of smoke and shrugged. “It’s just a delivery, Traunch. We run down to San Antonio, drop the blank papers off with our new supplier and make sure he’s still willing to work with us, and swing back home. Easy as a preacher’s daughter.”

  Traunch chuckled, rubbing his bald head. “Nicely put, but SAPD isn’t on our payroll, and neither are most of the small towns in between. Aren’t you worried about questions? We don’t know anything about the pigs down there.”

  Vince sat up as Pound joined them, hovering over Traunch’s shoulder. “We’ve also got to dodge the Pale Demons, brother. Maybe we’re not in their industry, but they’re not going to like us barging in on their territory without cutting them in for a piece.”

  Vince shook his head. “I’m not worried about it. As far as they’re concerned, we’re scouting the territory and haven’t made any deals. If they question us further than that, it’s going to start some real business that they don’t have the gun power to handle.”

  “Besides, they could earn a cut if they wanted it.” Pound and Traunch turned, and Vince stood to see Cyril bent over the pool table with a cigar in his mouth. “Demons raise any hell and we can lay out the options.”

  “And what are those?” Vince asked, suddenly curious what their president had up his sleeve.

  “First option is shut the fuck up or die. Second option is stay out of our business, and we’ll stay out of yours. Third option is, if you want a cut, assume some of the risk. We’ll meet them halfway on deliveries and pickups, cutting our risk and staying the hell out of their territory, and they can take ten percent.” Cyril slipped the cue through his fingers, making a bank shot and nodding his approval.

  Vince didn’t like it, and Pound beat him to the punch. “They aren’t going to settle for that. And besides, who’s to say they can be trusted? They’ll take our first pickup and run with it, probably to the border, and somehow get half a million dollars in small counterfeit bills to Mexico.”

  Traunch agreed. “I don’t know why we picked up this new guy anyway.”

  Cyril narrowed his eyes at the three of them, not used to his members calling him out on a decision like this. That is, except for Vince, who managed to talk some sense into the old man every now and then. Cyril Reichert was old-school, and he didn’t like democracy. “If none of you like it, we can put it to a vote. I’m just telling it like it is, though. If you all want to start a war with some nasty, half-wild band of hooligans, be my guest. I’ll stay here and wave the white flag when I don’t have anyone left to count on, and this club can go to hell in a handbasket.”

  Vince clenched his jaw. He loved Cyril like a father, but he’d noticed more and more how manipulative the son of a bitch could be, and that bothered him. He was about to take on this crazy mission, making sure they could get a truck full of cut paper to a printer—the only printer they had found who could actually counterfeit the newly colored small bills the U.S. government now minted—and return to pick up the finished product in a week.

  Vince knew enough to know that they couldn’t keep funneling big bills through all of their contacts. They had plenty of places to launder money, but most of them needed smaller bills to avoid suspicion.

  The Feds already had a team trying to figure out where the influx of counterfeit money was coming from, and those guys didn’t even know the half of it. If they kept getting big bills in, someone would eventually take notice. Smaller bills wouldn’t be checked as carefully; anything under fifty would probably go unnoticed.

  But Vince thought they should bide their time and find someone in friendlier territory, or simply buy this guy off to get copies of his templates for their previous supplier. He’d mentioned it more than once to Cyril, but the president had blown him off, telling him that if he wanted to vie for the leadership role, he needed to have the balls to put old horses out to pasture.

  Vince didn’t want the role of president; he was more than happy handling the
treasury role and aiding enforcement. But if Cyril kept getting them into a bunch of happy horseshit like this, Vince knew someone would have to challenge the old fool.

  Now, though, there was business to attend to. The obligation was set, and Vince didn’t back down. Besides, the long ride would do him good—maybe help him get that paramedic out of his head.

  But as he started to follow Traunch out of the office, Pound grabbed his arm. He groaned. “What now?”

  “Don’t get pissy with me. How are you doing today?”

  “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Pound rolled his eyes. “Your dumb act doesn’t work on me, bud. After last night, with all the shit that happened and that leg of yours, are you good to take this trip?”

  Vince scoffed. “I’m perfectly fine to ride, okay? And I don’t appreciate you questioning me about it.”

  “I just want to make sure you’re not going to do anything stupid. I mean, you’ve been flying by the seat of your pants for a while, and you’ve gotten a little loose and dangerous when it comes to business. I need to know you’re going to be safe and not do anything that’s going to get us caught, hurt, or dead.”

  The seriousness of his expression didn’t sit well with Vince, and he started back, hoping Pound would back down.

  When Pound didn’t, Vince finally responded. “The Iron Claws are my family. The last thing I want is for anyone to get hurt.” Pound didn’t look convinced. “Would it make you feel better if I said I’d be on my best behavior, Scout’s honor?” He held up two fingers playfully and got Pound to smile.

  “Actually, yes, it does. Thanks.” Pound patted him on the back, and they stepped out into the bright sunlight. Vince pulled on his jacket, grabbed his backpack, and reached for his sunglasses, squinting. But he halted at the sound of screeching tires and looked up to see dust flying behind a set of tires on a beat-up Chevy sedan.

  “What the hell is that?” Pound muttered, shading his eyes with his hand and staring at the car as it jerked to a stop.

  Vince shrugged. He couldn’t see through the cloud surrounding the car and waited as it began to settle. But as the driver’s door flew open and he saw a pair of long, shapely legs, he knew exactly who had just burst into his compound to rain on his parade.

  As if she hadn’t already done enough.

  Ariana stormed straight at him and didn’t stop until she was inches from his face. “I’ve got some things to clear up with you.”

  “This should be fun,” Pound muttered, but he backed away with his hands up in a universal sign of surrender at the searing look she gave him. “She’s all yours, cowboy.”

  Great. The one time he wanted his brothers to stand beside him, they left him to his own devices, and he didn’t know if that was good enough to survive.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ariana had pulled up every hurtful thing anyone had said to her in the last several years on the job, plus every insult she’d ever heard in grade school, and had piled it on top of her pure hatred of Vince Larson. She stared into his ruggedly handsome face. He certainly wasn’t pleased to see her, and that oaf of a friend of his seemed less than thrilled as well. At least she’d made an impression.

  “You have a lot of nerve showing up here, you know,” Larson told her, speaking under his breath. “These guys look at you pretty much the way you look at them, save for the fact that most of them are probably undressing you in their minds right now.”

  That only fueled her need to rant. “Listen to me, you piece of rat shit. You are a filthy, manipulative, egotistical asshole, and you owe me an apology.”

  He had the nerve to blink at her and look confused. “Apologize for what?”

  “Are you seriously going to pretend you didn’t use me last night? Come on, Mr. Larson, if you’re such an honest guy, own up to your bullshit. You saw an opportunity to make me hate myself and to show me how the other half aren’t so bad, and you laughed your ass off after you walked away without so much as a goodbye.

  "You pretended to be all broken up over your wife’s death, which probably didn’t even happen a year ago last night, and you made me feel sorry for you. I guess if all you can get is a pity fuck, that’s great, but you screwed up, dumbass. You picked the wrong girl and the wrong reasons. I’m nobody’s conquest, and I won’t be a victim.”

  She watched his face change as she spoke, shock turning into anger. “Oh, really? You’re the victim? I kissed you. Big fucking deal. You’re the one who jumped me like a cat in heat. How does that make you a victim?”

  The only reason she didn’t jump on him and claw his eyes out was the crowd of bikers around her. “You manipulated me into it! And when you kissed me, I pushed you off. You should have hauled ass out of there.”

  “Right, because I could ‘haul ass’ on my injured leg.”

  “You sure as hell could get some ass with an injured leg,” she threw back. This was not going the way she’d planned at all. Larson had an answer for everything, and she was only getting angrier.

  He put a hand on her arm, and she yanked it away. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  But he grabbed her again, more firmly this time, and hissed, “Let’s take this inside. My brothers don’t need to watch this performance anymore.” Ariana could have fought him as she started moving toward the building, but she wasn’t that stupid. He was far too strong, and she was already likely to have bruises from his fingers digging into her upper arm.

  The minute he had her in what looked like a private bunk and closed the door, she jerked back. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Now his voice was louder. “I’m saving you some embarrassment, unless you want a bunch of bikers harassing you every time they pass you on the street. What in the name of Christ were you thinking, showing up here? Barreling in like some kind of Smokey and the Bandits reject?”

  “So you have a problem with my car now?” Ariana blustered, losing focus. “It gets me where I want to go, which is more than I can say for your motorcycle, which is now just a pile of mangled metal.”

  “I don’t care about the car, it’s your driving that sucks.”

  “Oh, you’re one to talk. At least I have good aim. Or were you jockeying to hit the light post? I can’t remember the details. My memory was compromised when I was assaulted in the back of my own ambulance.”

  Vince shook his head, his jaw twitching. “If you want assaulted, I can show you assaulted.”

  She spread her arms in a dare, wanting to smash her fist in his face. “Come on, Larson. Prove who you really are.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Like lightning, he grabbed her wrists, spun her around, and pinned her against the wall, hands over her head. He used his body to trap her, and she couldn’t seem to get enough air, her chest heaving as she tried. “Let go of me,” she said, but there was no force behind it. All the fight seemed to have been knocked out of her when her back hit the wall.

  He smiled that arrogant smile of his and pushed his body harder against her. “You don’t want me to let you go. Not really.”

  And now she could feel that he didn’t want to let go, either. His erection pressed into her, and Ariana’s anger instantly transformed into a different type of passion. She stared into his hard eyes and saw her own sudden desire mirrored there. As if a demon possessed her and she could no longer control her own movements, her neck jerked and her head came forward, her lips coming down on Larson’s with bruising force.

  He kissed her back without hesitation. With one hand still pinning both wrists above her head, he dropped his other hand and squeezed one breast, his movements aggressive and rough. It aroused her beyond belief, and she arched her back, raised her knee between his legs to move it over his sack and the base of his cock. He grunted and pulled her away from the wall, spinning with her and slamming her down on the bed.

  She ignored the way broken springs dug into her spine as he ripped her shirt over her head, and now that her hands were free, she shoved his jacket off his
shoulders and tore the ribbed tank beneath so she could splay her fingers over his chest. Ariana wished her nails were longer—she wanted to dig them into his flesh and mark him.

  Vince sat up, yanking at her pants as she fumbled with the fly. Ariana barely noticed her own nakedness as he shed his jeans. She reached out to grab his shaft, but she didn’t get a chance. Instead, Vince picked her up and flipped her, dropping her on her stomach as he crawled up her back, kissing tender parts of her skin along her legs, hips, and spine until she was shivering with the attention. He pushed her thighs apart, and she gasped when one finger snaked inside her.

  Vince’s entire weight landed on her, and his mouth came down on her neck and shoulders, gently nipping and licking his way along her back as he brushed her hair aside. She panted and whimpered from his ministrations, and she had to grip the sheets in her hands to maintain control.