by Nia Farrell
It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. Flynn was one of the patched members who lived at the clubhouse. Between there and here, he had everything he needed. Work that he loved. A crew that he valued. A club full of men he could trust. Patched members were faithful to the group and each other, honest, and giving, willing to lay down their lives for their brothers.
But for him, counting his blessings was like trying to cook the books. No matter how many times he added, he still came up short. Something was missing. He knew what it was. But Rose McLanahan soon-to-be O’Flaherty would never be his.
Maybe if he repeated that often enough, eventually, he’d learn to live with it.
Chapter Two
After work, Flynn went to The Taproom Bar and Grill, enjoying their signature pub burger and watching the St. Louis Cardinals and Milwaukee Brewers battle it out on the TV above the bar. He limited himself to a single beer and made it last, nursing his bottle until he’d run out of excuses for being late to Rose’s party.
Parking his custom Softail Fat Boy in his usual spot, he pulled off his helmet and took a deep breath, centering himself before he stepped through the clubhouse door.
The celebration was in full swing. The lounge was filled with patched members, prospects, and associates like Rose’s fiancé Crash, who designed and installed security systems for the club. Old ladies, mamas, and sweetbutts were making sure that the men had food, drinks, and dessert. The air was rife with the pungent mix of tobacco and weed smoke, alcohol, and sex.
“Flynn!” Wild Man lifted his beer in a welcome salute and pushed a blonde head back into his lap. “About time you got here, fucker!”
James Wilde was one of the members who’d been wounded three years ago at Paradise Found in a shootout with two of the remaining members of the Blackwater Demons MC. Unlike Wild Man’s scar worn under his cut, there was no hiding Bobcat’s ear. A lucky—or unlucky, in his case—shot had taken a bite out of it when the Angels were rescuing Mama Mare, the President’s old lady who’d been taken by the Demon’s President, Reaper.
Reaper had wanted Rose. She had managed to escape him, after she was accidentally discovered by the man who was now her fiancé. Just like in the fucking fairytales, Crash had rescued the Angels’ princess and got to keep her.
Unlike the fairytales, the villain had escaped and struck again. Before vanishing, he’d taken and used two more women. One of them was bound to the St. Andrew’s cross, begging her Dominant Mad Dog for more.
Flynn made himself watch. If Isabella was going to start work next week, the more he understood her, the better. Right now, he knew that she had a mob boss uncle, a porn star sister, post-rape PTSD, Krav Maga training, and a gift for photography. She was a painslut who’d gone from wanting to needing pain and humiliation to deal with her issues. Mad Dog would be the one to say when she’d had enough of whatever he was doing. Right now it was a flogger. Later, she might serve as his table or footstool.
“Good to see you, too, Wild Man.” Flynn eyed the blonde giving him head. “Is that Pammy or Tammy?” Fuck if he could tell the busty twins apart.
Wild Man just grinned and shrugged. Flynn waved him off and headed for the end of the bar where Jack Daniels sat with a glass of the same. There were three bartenders tonight, but redheaded Carly was the one who came to take his order.
Flynn motioned to Jack Daniel’s drink. “The same.” He slammed it back and called for another.
Carly quirked a questioning brow. Dominants who wanted to scene held off on the alcohol until aftercare was done.
“No play tonight,” he told her, not that he needed to fucking explain himself. The plan was to numb himself enough to forget everything—including Rose McLanahan—for a few hours and lose himself in some sweetbutt’s pussy or ass before he was too shit-faced drunk to get it up.
Clutching his liquid courage in his left hand, Flynn scanned the lounge and found Rose and Crash in the far corner, sitting with her parents, Papa Bear and Mama Mare. The throngs of well-wishers had already gone on, leaving him a quick in and out, at least. He forced his feet to move and wove his way over, acknowledging Mama Mare with a nod and extending his free hand to Papa Bear first, as his President, then to Crash.
Rose was sitting by his feet, the perfect submissive.
“Congratulations.” He hoped that he sounded sincere. “You’ve got yourself a good one.”
Crash smiled and petted Rose’s hair. “I do,” he agreed. “Thanks, Flynn.”
Rose’s lips curved in a Madonna’s smile. The light of love shining in her green eyes made Flynn’s heart twist in his chest. He’d give anything to have Rose look at him that way, but the Angels’ princess belonged to another. Her time with Flynn was limited to when she was at Angel Ink, working on the books. When they were together, he made certain that any conversation between the two of them was strictly business.
He missed giving Rose a hard time. Missed teasing her enough to get a rise out of that Irish temper of hers or embarrassing her enough to make splashes of color bloom in those cheeks. Since becoming Crash’s submissive, her blushes were saved for when one of her brothers was getting some in the clubhouse lounge. Mad Dog couldn’t keep his dick in his pants around Isabella. Between Sam, Dylan, and Richie McLanahan, chances were good that at least one of them was ball’s deep in some sweetbutt’s mouth or pussy or ass. The only thing sparing Rose now was her position on the floor by her Dominant’s feet. If she’d been sitting beside him, there’d have been no avoiding the sight of Dylan fucking Renata’s face while Sam banged her backdoor.
Nothing surprising there, except she usually handled a host of Angels, with every hole and her two hands filled. The more, the merrier with Renata. With that sweetbutt Cassidy, too.
Looking around, he saw that Cassidy was working the buttons of her jeans while Beast, Hawk, and Link looked on. Raising his glass in a toast to the engaged couple, he tossed back his shot, excused himself, and headed over, intending to get in on the action.
He stepped into place beside Torch, who’d joined the group just ahead of him. “What’s up?” Flynn asked Beast, the beefy, heavily tattoed club enforcer whose looks put the fear of God into most men and whose cock made women either run away or get in line.
Beast didn’t take his eyes off Cassidy. She kicked off her pants and reached for the hem of her tank top with crossed arms. Lifting them over her head, she peeled away the clinging knit to reveal a DoubleD bra that matched the scrap of black lace hiding her shaved pussy. “Cassidy was feeling lonely. She won’t be by the time we’re through. You in?”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t ready to commit just yet—not until he’d explored every option that didn’t involve his fist rubbing one out.
Most of the mamas and sweetbutts were already hooked up. He was about to rejoin Beast when he spied Jolene coming from the kitchen with a tray full of goodies for the party. She set it on the bar and turned to find him watching her with undisguised interest.
She was wearing a form-hugging knit top and a barely-there denim skirt. Her long legs ended in a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals that added five inches to her height.
“Hey, Sweet Thang.” He called her by the nickname that they’d given her the first time she’d opened her mouth and that Southern Belle accent of hers escaped. With long, cinnamon hair and whiskey eyes, Jolene looked like a walking wet dream and sounded like kind of girl who should be playing tennis at a country club and planning charity fundraisers, not serving barbeque meatballs and little Smokies to a bunch of bikers. He didn’t know what the fuck she was doing in Diamond Springs, let alone an MC clubhouse. But the mystery she presented only fueled his interest.
Flynn enjoyed a challenge. Right now, Jolene was the most attractive one around.
“Hey, Picasso.” Suddenly unsure, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it.
As shy as she seemed in public, rumor had it that she was uninhibited in private. Which suited him just fine. Here, he’d be all too aware
of Rose McLanahan. Knowing that Rose was forever out of reach was messing with his head. Every time he caught a glimpse of her and Crash, the shards of his broken dreams stabbed him like a knife to the heart.
Jolene seemed to pick up on his fucked-up mood. “Can I get you anything?” She glanced at the tray of food like she was offering him party fare when what he needed was a party favor.
If he’d played along, they would have gone their separate ways, no harm, no foul. Instead, he caught her hand and led her upstairs to his room, intent on forgetting about Rose, if only for a while.
“Kneel.” He watched her fold her legs and lower herself gracefully to the floor. “Good girl,” he hummed. The soft smile that curved her lips wasn’t lost on him. Jolene would make someone a good permanent sub. It just wouldn’t be him. “If you stay, I’m gonna fuck that pretty mouth of yours. I’m gonna drill your cunt and finish in your ass. Are you okay with that, Sweet Thang? If not, you can leave now. No hard feelings. If you’re staying, lose the clothes.”
He was already taking care of his.
Shrugging off his cut, Flynn hung it on the back of a side chair and reached for the hem of his T-shirt. Jolene pulled off her knit top, folded it neatly, and set it on the floor beside her.
Fuck, yeah.
The bra went next. Undoing the clasp, she freed her breasts, her twin peaks hardening despite the growing heat in the room. Unable to help himself, Flynn caught one nipple between his fingers and gave it a tug and a twist.
Jolene moaned her pleasure.
“Like that, do you?” Pinching her other nipple, he pulled it like it was salt-water taffy.
“Yes, Sir.”
Her voice was a husky whisper, as soft as the stroke of a velvet glove on his cock. Flynn flipped the button of his jeans and tugged down the zipper. Pulling his erection free, he fisted her hair and pulled her face to his groin. Squeezing out a drop of pre-cum, he painted her lips, then teased them open with his erection.
She used the tip of her tongue to trace his rim. Swirling the flat of it around the head, she teased the sensitive spot underneath where the crown met his vein-roped shaft and opened wide for him. Flynn pushed his erection deep into her hungry hole, feeding her his length until her gag reflex kicked in.
“Cocktease,” he growled. “I know you can do better than that. Take it all or get the fuck out. I’m in no mood for games.”
Jolene went still. Raising her eyes, she locked her gaze on him, adjusted her angle, and went down again, not stopping until her chin bumped his balls.
She drew back, cheeks hollowing while she sucked him. She took a breath and swallowed him to the root again.
“God damn,” he grated. “That’s it, Sweet Thang. Suck me until I tell you to stop.”
She obeyed, taking him deep in her throat, again and again. He closed his eyes and pretended her hair was auburn, that it was Rose’s mouth wrapped around his cock, her lips sliding up and down his shaft. When he was close to coming, he ordered Jolene to stop. Grabbing her biceps, he hauled her to her feet and backed her against his bed.
“Turn around and bend over,” he said. “Hands on the bed. Brace yourself on your forearms if you need to, but keep that ass in the air.”
She was still wearing that swath of denim around her hips that passed as a skirt. The hem rode up when she bent over, revealing the toned curves of her bare bottom.
Reaching, Flynn traced her seam with his fingers. Her clean-shaven lips were swollen and slick with her juices. She was as ready as she’d ever be.
Leaving nothing to chance, he wrapped up and sank his length inside her, groaning at the feel of her walls giving way then closing around him. He started to move, gaining strength and momentum with each flex of his hips until he was pile-driving into her hard enough to make her whimper.
She took it. Let herself be used as a receptacle for his lust. She was a substitute, nothing more, for the woman he couldn’t have, the one whose name escaped his lips when he climaxed, filling the end of his condom.
The minute he felt Jolene stiffen beneath him, he knew that he’d screwed up. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath. “Fuck.” Gripping the rolled edge of his rubber, he pulled out free and clear.
Jolene didn’t say a word. Straightening, she pulled down her skirt, found her bra and blouse, and headed for the door. He followed her. Needing to say something—anything—he reached for her arm.
She jerked away, breaking contact. “No!” she hissed. “Don’t you touch me! Don’t you dare touch me!”
“But—”
“Save it!” she snapped and turned to look at him. Her amber eyes were suspiciously bright and held a world of hurt. “I won’t tell,” she said, her voice clipped. “But do us both a favor. Until you’re ready to let go and move on, just leave me the fuck alone.”
Clutching her bra and top to her chest, she jerked open the door and stepped into the hall. The sound of it shutting was as loud as a gunshot to his guilty conscience. He needed to get his head straight. What happened, shouldn’t have. It damn well could have been a fatal mistake. Women took knives to men for shit like that. Thank fuck it was Jolene and not Trixie. He might have woken up to a scavenger hunt for his missing dick.
Pitching his condom in the bathroom that he shared with Hawk, he dragged his ass across the room and threw himself onto his bed, cursing himself for being seven times a fool.
Jolene knew his secret.
She said she wouldn’t tell.
She was also a woman. Who the fuck knew what she’d do the next day or the next?
Flynn shook himself. He needed to clear his mind and get his head on straight. Cut this shit out. He needed to focus on work and ignore his cock until someone came along who could make him forget about Rose.
Like that was ever going to happen.
Damn it all to hell.
Chapter Three
Mad Dog McLanahan pulled his bike up to Angel Ink at ten o’clock Monday morning with Isabella Castellari plastered to his back. When she managed to pry herself away, mob boss Giovanni Visconti’s eighteen-year-old niece looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Come on, babygirl.” Mad Dog undid her helmet for her. Smoothing back her ebony hair, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead and grabbed her purse from his saddlebag. “Flynn has shit to show you before the doors open.”
Flynn locked up behind them rather than risk an unscheduled surprise. “First rule,” he said. “The doors stay locked unless it’s business hours. When we’re getting ready to open or cleaning up at the end of the day, we don’t need walkins complicating things. Chances are, they’re too drunk to read or too full of shit to care. Either way, it’s asking for trouble that’s easily avoided. If you decide to stick around, I’ll get keys made for you so you don’t have to wait for one of us to show. Nice shirt, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Isabella spoke to him but smiled at Mad Dog. He’d dressed her in a black T-shirt with white lettering. It branded her as his property as clearly as if she’d worn an old lady’s version of his Avenging Angels cut.
“The office is in the back. Come on and we’ll get the paperwork out of the way.”
Flynn took a seat behind his desk and had Mad Dog pull up a chair for Isabella. She got her employment application and photocopies of her ID from her purse and slid them onto the desk. A quick glance showed that she’d completed everything in neat, clearly legible block print with black ink.
So far, so good.
Flynn looked at his VP’s submissive. “Right now, Kaylee, Blue, and I do the tats. Gryphon does some, but he mostly pierces. The work you’ll be doing is basic front desk/receptionist stuff. Answering the phone, booking appointments, making sure that customers complete their intake forms, double-checking IDs and ages. Eighteen, clear-headed, and sober, no exceptions. No weeping women or moody ass men. And no minors on the premises while mommy or daddy is getting pierced or inked. Our house, our rules. If they don’t like it, show them the door. If they want
the best, they can hire a fucking babysitter and come back alone.
“You’ll be checking in deliveries, balancing the cash drawer, calling in lunch orders for delivery, making sure the restrooms and reception area are clean, that kind of thing. I’m starting you out like anyone else, at minimum wage. Prove your worth, and in thirty days, you can expect your paycheck to get bigger. Mad Dog thinks you might have a talent for tats. If you do and you want to learn, your value increases accordingly. But that’s down the road. First, you need to see how you like it here. We have a good crew. Solid. I think you’ll make a good addition to the team. What do you think, Isabella? Got any questions for me?”
She glanced at Mad Dog and blushed. “Yes. Umm. Where’s the ladies’ room?”
Flynn managed to not smile at her discomfort. “Go left down the hall, past the laundry and break rooms. The door will be on the right.”
“Thanks. Excuse me.”
Isabella disappeared, leaving Flynn alone with Mad Dog.
“Think she’ll do?”
Flynn nodded. “Pretty sure. I’ll do what I can to make it happen. I wasn’t kidding when I said that she’d make a good addition to our team. She’s smart. She writes neat enough to do lettering, and she’s submissive. Hopefully, we can give her the structure she needs to be productive and the boundaries she needs to feel safe. Everything else—well, it’s all in the details. Learning the ropes and remembering where everything is takes time. She’ll get there eventually, but it won’t be overnight. She needs to be patient. We’ll all need to be patient. Right?”
Mad Dog rubbed the back of his neck under his ponytail and blew out softly. “Right. And remember, no sneaking up on her and no sudden moves. You’ll let the others know?”
