Someone bumped into her and Kendall recalled where she was and why she’d been sent. She’d prided herself on the control she kept over her body. Now, she wasn’t in control of anything. Not even her life.
To get through her foray into sanity, she’d grabbed her mother’s technique and compartmentalized everything into ten degrees of denial.
Caroline was missing but not because Kendall wasn’t following Spoon’s orders. No, she was missing because people went missing every day. Her little sister was missing because things like that happened.
Spoon hadn’t attacked her in her office. They’d had a disagreement and he’d gotten a little too angry.
Marie hadn’t committed suicide in front of Kendall’s eyes. No. No. No. Her mother would never have preferred death over staying alive for Kendall, if nothing and no one else.
None of that horror had happened.
So she was there, at the club, once again attempting to follow Spoon’s orders, so she could get Caroline back. She’d spoken to Caroline via Skype, so she knew her little sister was still alive. As used as a hooker on a highway, but alive.
Kendall stumbled to the bar and sat, ignoring how miserable and overwhelmed she felt.
A man with long dreadlocks released a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. Diamond studs gleamed in his ears, a big skull ring circled his middle finger, and muscles bulged through his short-sleeved T-shirt and leather cut. He lifted a brow at her, then narrowed his eyes, leaning over to whisper something to another Black guy who resembled him and a man with a buzz cut and a teardrop tat beneath his left eye. They wore cuts, too, with patches identifying the positions they held. The man with the teardrop tattoo shifted. A Grim Reaper identical to the one on the wall was embroidered on the back of the cut between the arced rockers with the words Death Dwellers MC on the top one and Hortensia, WA on the bottom.
While the two men in front of the bar came to her side and flanked her, the biker behind the bar sauntered over. Gritting her teeth so she wouldn’t flinch beneath the intensity of his dark stare, she gripped the bar top, her fingers digging into the wood and reminding her she’d bitten her nails until they bled.
“You the bitch who ground her pussy all over Outlaw, right?” the man whose patch identified him as Enforcer asked.
He sucked on his cigarette and turned his head, blowing smoke away from her, the courteous gesture surprising her, but not abating the trembles assailing her. Failure was not an option. She had a sister to get back.
Neither of the three men spoke, but they focused on her. She glanced around, looking for Johnnie. Johnnie. Her blond biker’s name. The man whose memory had kept a shred of sanity inside of her, a beacon to her lost soul. She met him in her dreams, even when she wasn’t trying to. But she held onto his memory, his illusion. Needing…kindness.
Kendall palmed her eyes, concentrating. She’d gone four days without her pills. Spoon wanted her to act normal. When nothing in her world was normal anymore. Least of all her.
The man with the buzz cut grasped her chin between his fingers and turned her head from side-to-side. She remained still, not protesting, not speaking. She hoped he didn’t lose his temper. She wanted to frown at him and snarl for him to step out of her personal space.
She couldn’t find it in herself to spit the words.
He nodded. “Yeah, this is her, Mortician,” he confirmed. He released her chin and she noted a bleeding skull tat peeping from his white shirt.
Kendall blinked at the club’s Road Captain, his patch identifying him, too.
“Your tongue fucking cut out or something?” Mortician tamped out his cigarette. “Far as I remember, you didn’t fucking talk that night, either.”
She had to say something. Normal people spoke. “I-I can talk,” she squeaked, nervous and nauseous.
Mortician took another drag on his cigarette. “I’ll be fuck. The bitch talk, Val.”
“What the fuck you want?” Val growled, folding his arms, his chest and biceps bulging with muscles, not acknowledging Mortician’s words.
The other man leaned over her and whispered to the road captain. Kendall’s scalp crawled in apprehension.
“You’re a fucking pussy, Digger,” Val barked around chuckles before returning his glare to Kendall and pointing to her. “You fucking answer me.”
The words reached her, but the meaning caught up a few seconds later, the catatonic state Spoon kept her in hard to overcome. If she failed this time he’d promised her even more detriment. But, God, he’d stacked the deck against her. The woman she’d been…she wasn’t her anymore and wouldn’t ever be again.
The three bikers waited for her answer and she shrank back, expecting their violence. Slowly, the response she’d been coached to say slugged into her memory. “I heard the club needed an attorney and I’m here to interview for the position.”
“Yeah?” Digger’s eyes widened. “No shit.”
Val sidled a glance at her in surprise. “Where the fuck you heard that?”
Erm…somewhere. She doubted that would be an acceptable answer, though.
Not waiting for her reply, Mortician’s gaze touched all points on her body visible above the wooden bar. “You an attorney?” he asked with unsurprising skepticism. An attorney? Her? More like a moron. “You?” the handsome enforcer went on. “One of the whores from Outlaw’s party?”
“Yes,” she confirmed with the quiet dignity she knew an attorney would possess. Because she’d once had it.
“How the fuck you found out about this?” Val tapped his thick fingers on the bar top and frowned at her, his look frightening enough to make an angry bull cry.
His scowl deepened when she didn’t answer. She’d forgotten what to do—if she’d ever been told. She braced herself to run, but she couldn’t because she was right between Val and Digger.
“What the fuck your credentials?” Digger questioned, relaxing his lean body against the bar.
Kendall managed to open her oversized leather bag and retrieve her “Letter of Recommendation”. She slid it to Mortician and remained silent. When in doubt, shut up. She’d been sent with a woeful lack of resources. She didn’t have her license, her degree or her resume.
The three men whispered amongst themselves, the conversation lost to her tuned out senses. She yearned to escape. Yearned for the darkness.
Mortician handing the note to Val captured Kendall’s attention. Val gave it a cursory glance before reaching over her and passing it to Digger.
Mortician rubbed his chin, leaning against the shelf containing the alcohol and situated into the recessed wall. “Kendall, huh?”
She nodded, meeting his gaze a task. She might’ve been quiet and she might’ve had food issues, but she’d always liked to laugh. And…and do other things. She just had to remember what they were. Forgetting the blood and the pain was more important, though. Escaping the horrible realities of her life.
“Kendall,” he repeated. “That’s a cool name.”
Unable to form too many coherent thoughts, she faked a smile, intrigued at how his long dreads framed his face. Noticing anything about him shamed and bewildered her. He was a man. Men had penises. And they used their penises and their hands to hurt women.
“You don’t talk too fucking much, huh, girl?”
She shook her head. Kendall didn’t have anything to talk about. Digger holding out the letter excused her from responding. She grabbed it and shoved it back in her bag, making a production of closing the fasteners and situating the leather on her lap.
The door opened but Kendall didn’t turn, although Mortician glanced in that direction, then winked at her with a glint of unholy mirth in his dark eyes.
“Yo’, John Boy,” Val called. He wasn’t as tall as the others, but when he smiled his dimples stopped her short.
“Valentine,” Johnnie remarked, stopping at the man’s other side, close to the end of the bar.
The sound of his voice hit Kendall’s eardrums first, then bounced arou
nd in her brain before arrowing to her belly. Right where his baby rested. She’d forgotten about the stupid weekly birth control patch the night she’d been with Johnnie. Not that that mattered. She swore he’d used condoms.
“Look who the wind blew in,” Val continued as Mortician handed Johnnie a cold beer. The Road Captain put his arm around her, simultaneously stepping out of the way and turning her toward the man who haunted her dreams and kept her sane.
The heat of Johnnie’s gaze burned into Kendall and she lifted her face, weighted down by all the secrets she carried. Even if she was inclined to tell him she was pregnant—which she wasn’t since she had to sacrifice her baby to continue with the illusion of everything that hadn’t happened to her—he’d never believe the baby was his.
His gaze flickered over her hair, her eyes, her nose. Her mouth. The silver in his beautiful eyes swallowed up the gray, leaving behind a burning intensity that melted Kendall’s insides. Looking at him, smelling his cologne, hardened her nipples and wet her panties. Because he was her illusion. The man she hadn’t expected to see again but whose memories she clung to.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he greeted with a heart-stopping smile. “What brings you back to my club?”
Johnnie studied the woman who sat on the barstool, clutching her oversized bag like a shield, her red hair blanketing her. She wore a gray suit with a white blouse, the skirt revealing long legs that drew his eye to her thighs, clenched closed.
She followed his line of vision and flushed. He winked at her.
He hadn’t gotten the night he’d spent with her out of his head and often wondered what had become of her, sure there was more to her than met the eye.
“Give John Boy your letter, Red,” Mortician ordered, turning a shit-eating grin to Johnnie. “She here for employment.”
Her jerky movements and sallow skin filled him with unease. Something wasn’t right with her. The least of which was her showing up at the club for a job. Her mannerisms. Her dazed expression. None of it matched the woman he’d had in his bed five weeks ago. He cocked his head to the side. “Are you all right?”
Instead of answering, she dropped her gaze to his dick and his cock swelled and jumped in memory. She’d sucked him off so well.
But the jury remained out on which part of her he’d enjoyed more—mouth or pussy. Maybe, he needed to sample both again to make the final call.
“She want to be the club’s lawyer,” Val said into the silence, his eyes twinkling.
The fuckhead found Johnnie’s attraction to the woman amusing. Sipping his beer, Johnnie flipped Val off. The man just laughed and Johnnie smiled, happy to hear that sound from his friend. He’d been shot a little over a week ago at the wedding of their MC president who was also Johnnie’s cousin, Christopher “Outlaw” Caldwell. Val had spent hours in surgery and had been released from the hospital a day ago. His normally shaved hair had grown out during his recovery time and he’d decided to go with that look. Of course, hopped up on pills, he wasn’t feeling much and was giving a fuck about even less.
Digger nudged him, grinning like an idiot. “You heard, John Boy?”
“Probably not,” Mortician commented, setting glasses on the bar and grabbing a bottle of rum. “He too busy thinking of refucking Red to answer.”
“Red” looked mortified, like she wanted to sink into the floor. Another clue she wasn’t a whore. He’d let her walk away that night. When he thought of her, he always regretted not asking for a way to contact her. She intrigued him. He suspected she’d been at the club for reasons other than whoring and he wanted to know what those reasons were, even though he’d searched for—and hadn’t found any—wire taps in his room. The club also hadn’t had any type of trouble stemming from that night.
But she hadn’t just happened upon the club. Not the night of Christopher’s bachelor party. And not tonight. He’d discover her business. Listen to her husky voice. Maybe, sink into her hot pussy and fuck her again.
One thing at a time. Right now, he’d listen to her. In a little while, he’d sink into her. And, then, he’d get to the heart of her visits.
“Ignore my imbecile brothers, beauty. They were fucking dropped on their heads as lads.”
She laughed, a quick sound that pulled a smile from him, but didn’t take away her sadness. He leaned closer to her and panic entered her eyes, competing with her bleakness.
“Go to my room, sweetheart,” he whispered, close to her ear, before stepping back and gazing at her from head-to-toe, pausing at her gorgeous legs. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Where he intended to strip her and kiss each inch of skin he bared. Put her at ease. He slid some of her hair behind her ear, wanting to devour her, worship her beautiful body from head-to-toe. Her shy, flickering gazes between his eyes and his mouth and her hitching breath encouraged him to continue. “Do you want another kiss from me? Your pussy is the most delicious I’ve ever tasted and I’ve wanted to eat you again since you got away from me.”
Instead of deepening her arousal, she paled again and withdrew, raising her oversized purse and pressing it to her chest. Not wanting her to fall, he snaked an arm around her. “It’s that t-time—“ She paused and lowered her lashes, her face crumpling. “I-I mean I can’t.”
He studied her nervous, twitchy movements. Her inability to meet his gaze. The pulse point thumping in her slender neck.
She resembled a hare caught in a snare, making him all the more determined to get her to his room, get inside of her, and, after they were sated, he’d get her to open up. “A little blood never hurt me, gorgeous. I have towels and condoms.”
“Would you stop?” she snapped on a loud whisper, puckering her lips. A blank expression stole the small liveliness she’d exhibited and her dark red eyebrows drew together. “I-I mean, I’m sorry.” She squirmed and dropped her bag to her lap. “Please? Don’t say anymore.”
He ran a finger along her cheek, then took her chin between his fingertips and raised her face toward him. She flinched and blinked. Dark circles ringed the delicate skin around her eyes. Breathing in her scent, he finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the bar. She leaned into his touch, like a lost, vulnerable little girl.
Mortician sat another beer on the counter and joined Johnnie in studying the flustered woman, whose name he didn’t know. She had yet to give him the letter and didn’t seemed inclined to do it. He wondered if she remembered her reason for being on premise.
Johnnie called bullshit on it, though he didn’t know what it was yet. Her raw helplessness might be an act, although he couldn’t imagine what end she expected. Death for her if she was trying to fuck with them.
Death for him if he thought to help her.
He drank from the bottle again, contemplating her bountiful breasts and what lay between them. A microphone, maybe?
Only one way to find out.
“I think you need your clothes removed,” he murmured. The pulse at the base of her neck kicked up and Johnnie breathed in her scent. “Nice and slow. I want to see your beautiful tits and lick them like I did before.”
His mind surfed through all kinds of scenarios but always returned to one. She was wired. Whether she was a mole for law enforcement or one of the club’s enemies, he didn’t know. “Would you suck my dick again?”
Fuck, a cop wouldn’t have sashayed into the club, gyrated all over Christopher and then fucked the hell out of him. That meant, then, she was there for one of their rivals. But, fuck, who? He didn’t need this bullshit when he’d managed to keep everything in order in Christopher’s absence. She wanted to fuck with the club? By the time he finished with her, she’d be fucking sorry.
“You must suck plenty of dicks in your life to be so good at it. Tell me who sent you again on the night of Outlaw’s bachelor party? I want to know how long you’ve fucked for a living.”
She choked and pulled away, the haunted look returning and pulling her features down. Fuck. Was she in some kind of trouble? Somehow been forced into…w
hatever the fuck she was doing?
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she whispered, her skin pale, her eyes so very sad.
K-P stomped through the door that led to the kitchens and headed behind the bar, preventing Johnnie’s answer.
The club treasurer stopped and slapped the side of Mortician’s head. “I need a word with you,” K-P growled.
The gorgeous redhead blinked.
“Fuck off.” Mortician skipped the glass and guzzled from the bottle. “I know what the fuck this is about and I’m already regretting fucking calling that bitch.”
Another slap. “You want beef, brother?” K-P snarled, the movement of his jaw shaking his silver beard. Sweat gleamed off the man’s bald head, the strap from his eye patch tight enough to squeeze his brain. “Do you?”
“Over your daughter?” Mortician snorted. “No. Just had a moment of weakness.” He snatched a baggie out of his cut and slammed it onto the bar, glaring at K-P. “I fucking told Bailey not to open her fucking mouth.”
K-P narrowed his eyes. “You aren’t even supposed to have her number.”
“Look, motherfucker. I wanted to chill for a minute. No bitch around here would do, so I called Bailey.”
“Enough!” Johnnie cut in, turning away from the mysterious woman to get his brothers in hand. What fucking rabbit hole had he stepped in? “Hanging out with Bailey is the quickest way to get your dick in her.”
“Wasn’t like that,” Mortician insisted.
Johnnie glowered at the club enforcer and the man had the grace to look away, unable to deny Johnnie’s logic for a second time. Or, maybe, he knew, Johnnie would’ve knocked him on his ass.
“How the fuck you got her number, anyway?” Taller and leaner than his older brother, Digger had gradually cut his dreadlocks off. He wanted to step outside of his older brother’s shadow. Still, he didn’t want his brother squashed if he didn’t answer K-P’s question. “You mean I might be winning my 5Gs?”
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 57
