by Anne Marsh
“Off,” I shriek at T.D, slapping his shoulders. This only serves to make my abs burn in protest—I should not have ignored my crunches.
“Come on, baby,” he whines as he pops out, and I swear the stupid bastard tries to stick it into me again. So. Not. Happening. Everything’s wrong. Nothing is going the way I planned it. Would it kill Karma to bring me flowers instead of a shitstorm just once? I’d never ask to win the lottery again.
“We need to talk.” The statement comes from the big guy leading the biker parade toward us.
His words sound sensitive and positively enlightened, except that he delivers his pronouncement at the top of his lungs and follows it up by launching his boot at Two Dog’s ribs. T.D. bellows, I try to scramble away, and a big callused hand clamps down on T.D.’s shoulder and yanks. T.D. flies backward with a roar. I roll into a ball, tucking my arms around my knees and trying to make myself as small a target as possible as men yell at each other. How could one romantic picnic go so wrong, so fast?
When I risk a look at the battleground, T.D. is rolling on the grass, pounding at and being pounded by Big, Mean, Scary Biker Number One. His face set in harsh lines, T.D.’s attacker radiates anger and a dominating, lethal power. The tribal tattoos on his arms flex as if the universe has barcoded him dangerous. The other unidentified mystery guy alternates between leering at me and watching the fight. Which means… shit. I have no idea where Blade is.
Big hands haul me up against a hard body.
Question answered.
My butt ends up pressed against his front, but that’s the least of my worries. Scary Biker lands a serious hit on T.D., and Blade turns sideways, putting himself between me and the battleground. His arms hold me close, and I decide to embrace my new safety shield and press closer still.
“You ran out on me,” he growls, wrapping his arms around me more tightly. “No call, no number, no return visit. No name.”
Seriously? Two years later, we meet at the scene of a beat-down and he has his panties in a wad over a quickie? I scramble for something to say that will defuse the situation. Admittedly, I’d had way too much cinnamon tequila that night (that stuff is lethal and is also on my no-fly list), but I made him no promises—and he asked for none. He did ask if I was legal (yes on the sex and no on the drinking), if I wanted another drink (no, thank you), and if I had a condom in my possession (hell yeah because disease and pregnancy do not top this girl’s fantasy list). None of that was poetic, commitment-forming stuff. Did I actually hurt his feelings? Is he hiding some kind of sentimental streak beneath that big, burly exterior? Miracles could happen, but every other guy I’ve met has been all about leaving.
I opt to say nothing as I peer around him, wincing as T.D. reels beneath a particularly vicious punch. Is that… snarling? I need to get out of here now. I try to yank up the front of my dress, but my hands are actually shaking. Shoot.
“But I could be convinced to forgive you.” Blade presses his mouth against my ear as if erotic threats are a perfectly acceptable negotiating tactic. Funny how his voice does for my pussy everything T.D. couldn’t. Just like that, I’m wet. Sinfully, deliciously, wickedly wet. No. I’ve already licked the frosting off this particular cupcake, and I’m not going back for seconds. For no particular reason I can think of, he slides his jacket around me, pulling the front closed. The leather’s warm and smells like him. Maybe my tits offend him. Maybe he doesn’t like my dress.
Or maybe he just wants to do something to help, and that’s the only thing he can think of.
That would be nice, right?
I should probably cut him some slack.
I should definitely put some space between us.
With his dick plastered against my butt, it’s perfectly clear to me that either he saw way more of me than even my gynecologist has seen recently, or he gets turned on by fistfights because there’s a massive, impressive, can’t-possibly-be-real hard-on tucked against me.
“Tell me why you ran.” He tightens his grip. Okay, so for no good reason, he’s pissed about the meet-and-greet two years ago between his penis and my vagina. What did he really expect from a quickie behind a bar? Our entire relationship had lasted under an hour—and no one had made any promises about sticking around after the deed was done.
Plausible deniability—a girl’s best friend. I’ll lie.
“Sorry? I have no idea what you mean,” I counter. “Have we met?”
He snorts. “Little late for that, chère.”
So he thinks.
“Let go.” I make the suggestion nicely. I’m done with T.D.—he’s had his one shot, so we’re officially over—and whatever is going on between him and the other bikers, I want no part of it. Growing up in a club, I know when to look the other way unless I want to invite a whole world of hurt, so Breed business is definitely not my business. All I want is to leave. To go back to my boat. And then to get the hell out of Dodge.
Blade strokes his thumb over the curve of my belly, his fingers lingering, touching. “I’m more in a hanging on kind of mood.”
Too bad for him that only one of us is getting what she wants today.
I try again. “Whatever’s going on between T.D. and your friends is none of my concern. I’m just gonna go now, okay?”
Wrong. That last part comes out as a question, as if I’m actually asking his permission. He’s not the boss of me, even if he seriously outweighs me. I don’t ask permission. I don’t wait for a man to give me the green light to act. I don’t—
“Shhhh, chère.” He tucks his goddamned chin on top of my head. I am not a tall person. He is built along the lines of a man mountain. That is the only reason why I allow this snuggling to happen. He tracks the fight, his body shifting subtly as he keeps the fighters in view. “I’ve got to keep an eye on Jace. That’s my job, oui?”
If that’s the case, then Blade’s workday is turning out to be remarkably easy. I risk another glance at the fight, the view making my stomach churn. T.D. is not holding his own, not even close. The man pounding the shit out of him—Scary Biker who apparently goes by the name of Jace—pummels him ruthlessly. He intersperses each blow with words, but the words are inaudible over the music blasting from T.D.’s speakers.
And then suddenly it’s raining bikers, and not in a good way. Men burst out of the cabins and from the trees surrounding the cabins. Oh God. How long have they been there? Have T.D. and I been putting on some kind of sick sex show for them? He swore we were alone—and if Jace doesn’t kill him, I will. Why do I have such shit taste in men?
“Fuck.” Blade moves, shoving me between him and the cabin wall even as his big arms cage me in place. “I need you to listen to me, chère.”
I nod like an obedient little bobblehead. “I can do that.”
I’m sure that in the Blade-verse, listen is code for hear and obey, but now is definitely not the time to argue semantics with him. My ears work just fine—so I’ve got this covered—and I do not want to piss him off.
“You stay here. You do not move. Do. Not. Run.” That last word comes out more growl than not, which makes me shiver. My libido and I are definitely having a talk when this is all over and I’ve recovered from my embarrassment in a million years or so.
“Why?” I’m not trying to rile him up, but I am genuinely curious. It’s a flaw of mine, this need for answers.
He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. “Because I’ll chase you.”
Before I can formulate a witty or scathing reply to that conversational bomb, he vaults off the porch and joins the melee in T.D.’s front yard. Despite the evidence offered by several poor life choices (picnics also forthwith join the list of the forbidden on my no-fly list), I’m actually not stupid. I stay put and try to come up with an exit plan while I monitor the flying fists. Blade redefines ruthless. At least fifteen guys are duking it out in the yard, all of them at least twice my size, but Blade and his two buddies hold their own. The big snarly biker devastates his opponents with one well-aime
d blow after another, and Blade protects that guy’s back like the guy’s the fucking Pope and President of the United States rolled into one. No one touches him.
The third guy in Blade’s little posse is even more disturbing. He fights like a feral animal. You know the Muppets character, the one with the fuchsia hair who plays the drums as if he’s demented and speaks his own language? Animal looks downright calm and tame in comparison with the third dude. He’s big (apparently short people don’t get to hang with the Breed) and he tears into the other fighters with a viciousness I’ve only seen once before in my life. I swear to God he snarls when he lunges, as if he’s one tiny step away from literally tearing into his opponent with his teeth.
Nope. Nope. And fuck nope. In addition to never sleeping with the same guy twice, I don’t do fights. When I was fourteen, I moved in with my older sister and her husband. She’d understandably taken the first exit ramp she’d spotted from our suburban ranch hell, marrying her high school sweetheart and moving into his rundown house on the outskirts of town. He farmed some, raised cows some, and beat the shit out of my sister some. The rest of his time was spent devising new ways to prove once and for all just who was the boss—of her, of me, of the goddamned clerk at the gas station. He ruled it all because he hit harder, faster, and meaner. The way these guys fight is eerily similar. It’s like a bunch of wolves playing King of the Mountain to see who gets to rule the wilderness.
I grab my stuff while I plot my exit. Handbag? Check. Shoes? Two feet from the porch. Panties? No clue, but they’ll have to be optional wear. Blade’s leather jacket. His… jacket. I jam my hands into the pockets. Score. He left his keys in there, along with his wallet. Because I’m a nice girl, I take the billfold out and set it on the porch. Hell, I’ll even bring his bike back to him.
Someday.
Maybe.
Okay, when hell freezes over and I’m a permanent resident of Mount Safety.
Naturally, that’s when the first dog shows up. It’s huge—and I don’t think that’s just my fear of dogs speaking, either. The animal is more wolf than pet, its lips peeled back from its teeth as it lunges. It’s also approximately the size of a small cow and it bites, tearing into Animal’s arm.
I don’t like dogs. Wolves, coyotes, or dingoes? Equally not okay. If it has four legs, a tail, fur, and it growls like a rabid dog, I’m an equal opportunity hater and I’m out. All members of the canine family scare the shit out of me. I still have the scars on my forearms from a close encounter of the canine kind, and I don’t need to add to my collection.
I run. Fuck Blade and his pronouncements—it’s not as if I planned on listening to him anyhow. There’s a horrible snarl behind me, followed by the disgustingly loud sound of flesh meeting flesh. Someone has either split someone else wide open, or the wolf-dog has found himself a buffet snack. I don’t look. I can’t. It’s all I can do to force myself to the bike.
How do I know which one is Blade’s? I don’t, but I guess. It’s the ride that looks the most like him—big, dark, and understated. He’s not into blinged-out accessories, but the bike is sleek and well cared for and I bet it’s got one hell of an engine. I throw my leg over the seat—screw modesty—jam the key in the ignition and turn her on. Thank God I know how to ride.
And then I hesitate. I don’t intend to go all Lot’s wife and look back, but somehow I do. Rolling, pummeling, fighting bodies still fill the front yard, and now there are three dogs in the mix. Maybe T.D. keeps attack dogs? I didn’t hear them barking when we arrived, but anything is possible, and if he’s done something to get on the wrong side of the Breed MC, I don’t blame him for keeping protection.
I don’t mean to look, and I also don’t mean to search Blade out, but he’s hard to miss. He fights like a machine. A hard, determined, lethal, way too sexy machine. His fist drives up into another man’s stomach, punching hard, and his opponent hits the ground. Blade’s booted foot meets the guy’s chin, the guy’s head snaps back, and I’m certain it’s lights out.
Blade is looking at me. Shit. He props his hands on his lean hips and runs that hard, dark-eyed gaze over me. Somehow, I don’t think he’s checking out my ass or my tits. I mean, I’m on his bike, his keys in my hand, and it’s pretty clear I’m in the process of committing a felony. His gorgeous mouth forms a curse word, and the smear of blood on his cheek can’t detract from my fascination with his lips.
I’m pretty sure the next words out of his mouth are the fuck? Apparently, people don’t disrespect Blade’s orders, which is yet another reason why he and I have zero long-term possibilities. Not only do I hate violence, but I dislike confrontation and orders equally (also entries on my no-fly list). And since we’ve already slept together… yeah. There’s no incentive for me to stick around—and yet he tips his head in the direction of the cabin, silently issuing more goddamned orders. He actually thinks he can tell me what to do. And sure, he’s scary as shit and twice as big as me, but… I don’t get off on commands. I don’t call anyone master or sir, not even in fun, and I definitely know trouble when I see it.
He looks down at the guy whose ass he’s just kicked. He looks around the yard, clearly doing a head count. Yeah. His boys are finishing up the fight, and he’s free and clear to come after me. Too bad for him I’m ready to hit the road—Blade’s had his one shot at me (which I would have denied to him until hell freezes over if I’d been even the slightest bit smart) and I’m outta here.
I gun the engine—God, he’s got a sweet ride—and take off. I’m Pinocchio 2.0 without the strings and life is good. And if I flash him the bird as I tear down the dirt road? I’m smart—but I’m not Einstein. Some opportunities are too good to resist.
Blade
The fuck? My female just stole my bike. The wolf’s instincts clamor for me to shift and chase her as the roar of the bike’s pipes fade and my dream girl disappears in a cloud of dust, driving way too fast for the dirt track connecting Rose Bayou to more civilized parts of Louisiana. I may have zero experience with relationships, but I was taught from birth to keep faith. That’s what knights do. If I make promises, I keep them. And while no promises were made two years ago, what we started isn’t over—it can’t be over. She promised to stay put during the fight and now she’s halfway down the road and headed out of my life. Again.
Promises clearly aren’t her thing, which doesn’t bode well for my forever plans.
The wolf at my feet groans, and I automatically knock him back out. Guess I can look on the bright side—I don’t have to worry about my girl being anywhere near a challenge fight, although we’re still gonna have words about her refusal to listen to her mate. Yeah, I know—she doesn’t know she’s my mate, but she picked me two years ago. She let me in, let me take her, and now she’ll be mine—just as soon as I catch her. At least it turns out she’s got good instincts for self-preservation.
Jace drags Two Dog to his feet. “Heard you were thinking of going into business for yourself out here.”
Until recently, Two Dog was a lone wolf. Rumor on the street is that he’s been assembling a pack of his own—and the evidence around us seems to support that conclusion. I do a quick body count and arrive at ten. Ten wolves and he brought my girl here. Most wolves don’t have a problem sharing their casual fucks, but the thought of them pulling a train on her makes me want to tear T.D. apart slowly. I wouldn’t bother putting him back together again, either. The chivalric code I was raised on demands that I guard the honor of my fellow knights, but T.D.’s not pack.
He’s not mine.
He’s also not the brightest wolf in the bayou because he no sooner gets his legs beneath him than he confronts Jace. “No law against formin’ a new pack.”
Jace nods, but not the kind of happy agreement head jerk that would make Two Dog relax. More of a slow dip, as if he’s a snake about to strike. Oui. Two Dog has no good options here and we all know it. Any lone wolf can form a pack of his own, but he has to be able to hold his territory or that new group gets e
aten alive—and that’s not a figure of speech.
“I personally don’t give a shit what you do out here, but you need to remember two things.” Jace lets go of Two Dog with a rough shove that sends the younger wolf stumbling.
Two Dog keeps his balance—barely—but growls. Not his wisest move, but he’s still young and establishing himself as a pack Alpha. He doesn’t have much choice if he wants to keep his boys.
Jace keeps right on talking. “First, you keep your asses out of Baton Rouge. That’s my territory. I don’t wanna see you riding on my streets again. Second? This place? If you want to play house, you can keep it with my blessing, but you remember that the Breauxs own the heart of the bayou. If you set up shop any deeper in the bayou, you deal with them. I can’t and won’t help you here, so be smart. Don’t pick fights you can’t win.”
I can practically see Two Dog’s thoughts marching across his face. Apparently, he hasn’t given his whole lemme-start-a-new-pack plan as much thought as he should have. He’s already pissed off Jace and the Breed—and his face tightens at the mention of the Breauxs. Bet they’ll be paying him a call next. Luc Breaux is one smooth, mean son-of-a-bitch. He’s the head of the Breaux pack and he’s also got some kind of relationship going on with the local sheriff. Pretty sure they’re both sleeping with the same woman. Don’t know how they worked that out—I’m not planning on sharing—but good for them.
Jace steps closer to Two Dog and snarls a few words too low for me and Fang to make out. Guess he’s got a private message to deliver, too. Miracle of miracles, Two Dog dips his head when Jace stops speaking. It’s brief, a head bob so fucking fast it’s here one moment and gone the next, but guess we won’t have to kill him after all. Kinda too bad—I’d like to get the image of the guy’s dick aiming for my girl out of my head, and blood is one way to do that.
