by Lee Savino
Three nights in, and my life falls into a rhythm, an easy back and forth to a soundtrack of men’s voices and heavy machinery. I sleep all day and emerge for dinner, laughing and talking and entertaining the guys until it’s time for them to clear the table for my dance.
Jagger and I make elaborate playlists with everything Nicki Minaj to 80s power ballads. I figure out the guy’s preferred music styles, and on their night, I dance to their favorite songs. Or I choose se songs that make me think of them. Booty Shorts by Gucci Mane and Lady Marmalade for Saint. The Man by the Killers, Girl Money by the Kix and Yankin by Lady for Lincoln.
Elon and Oren: Identical Twins by Crumbächer and Who Can It Be Now? by Men at Work.
Attention by Charlie Puth for Jagger. You Can’t Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones. And, of course, Moves Like Jagger by Maroon 5. He got up and danced with me during the last one.
Lincoln was right about Roy and Tommy—they both are perfectly polite, but decline a night with me and wave away any lap dances. Two less guys to fuck and I’m so grateful, I dedicate a performance to them and go with a food theme: Cherry Pie by Warrant, Cookie by R. Kelly and Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard.
But for Mason… ah, Mason. I find a song by Cruel Youth called Hate Fuck for him. And Undisclosed Desires by Muse. Although the last song might have more to do with how I feel about him. His gaze cuts me so hard during the set I have to force myself not to retreat behind Lincoln or Jagger. Even Saint’s carefully blank mask would be easier to face than Mason’s smoldering hatred.
“Well, Mason?” I ask when the last chord fades. Roy and Tommy have already disappeared, along with the twins. I’ll bet Elon and Oren went to jack off and pass out on their Franken-bed. Last night I danced and stroked and did everything I could to get them upright so I could fuck them a second, then a third time. Gotta love their youthful stamina. We fucked so much I have rug burn on my boobs and back from their rusty chest hair.
Mason stares carefully at the wall.
“Mason,” I singsong. He can’t ignore me forever. We are not twelve. “It’s your night. I don’t usually sleep with guys prettier than me, but it’s part of the gig—”
“No.”
“C’mon man, it’s been awhile. You obviously need a good lay.” Jagger spasms with laughter.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mason mutters in his work mate’s direction. “I don’t need pity pussy.”
“Then I suggest Prozac,” I say sweetly. Mason knifes up, ready with some insult, but before he can stab me, Lincoln stands up between us.
“Come on, Sierra.”
I let the crew chief pull me into his room. After he shuts the door, I breathe easy. The tightness in my chest from the day I learned I was pregnant hasn’t gone away.
“How you doin’?” Lincoln asks. He stands between me and the door, a solid obstacle to anyone or anything that would come to get me. Safe, his broad body whispers to mine in the dim light. His dark eyes invite me to break.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I ask.
His sigh washes through me, settling into my bones as I melt onto the bed. “I hoped Mason would come around.”
I shrug. “I didn’t do anything to him.”
“I know. Give him time.”
I gnaw my lip. Should I keep offering to fuck him? “I don’t want to be annoying. Like a little sister.”
“Trust me, Sierra,” Lincoln stretches out next to me on the bed, and my whole body starts to tingle. “No one here thinks of you as a sister.”
Chapter 5
Sierra
Mornings in the lodge are my favorite. The lodge empties out just after breakfast, long before the scent of coffee entices me from my bed. What to Expect When You’re Expecting advises against coffee, but I’ve already given up wine, and I don’t want to lose my will to live. I’m careful to drink only a little of the tarlike stuff, adding tons of milk and sugar. Baby doesn’t appreciate caffeine on an empty stomach.
I stroke my belly, studying myself in the mirror. The smallest curve, the slightest convex arc. Not enough for a man to notice, unless he was searching for it. Nothing a sweatshirt can’t hide. By the time fall is here, I’ll be swimming in sweaters. The guys will think all of Saint’s good food finally took hold. I suck in a breath, hold my stomach in, like a teenager worried she’s getting fat. Such a trivial worry, compared to the terror my life holds now.
I’m halfway to the kitchen, stomach gurgling after all the contorting I did in front of the mirror. If I keep raiding the fridge every few hours, I will become fat.
The sound of motorcycle pipes has me freeze.
Oh no, not here. Not when I’ve come so far, and tried so hard to hide.
Shouts in the yard—whoever is here was expected. I scuttle into the kitchen just as the door opens and Saint walks in, holding a helmet and wearing the largest leather jacket ever made. He stops when he sees me. His boots are spattered with mud.
“Sierra?”
I find my voice. “You ride?” I try for a smile, but it slips from my face.
He cocks his head, studying me. We’ve come to a truce, Saint and I. He feeds me, I eat his food and he doesn’t send Lincoln to get a different woman.
“On my day off. Got a bike in the back. Took it out to make sure it’s still running.”
“Ah.” I don’t ask him why he’s off when everyone else is working. As far as I can tell, he announces what he wants to do, and everyone tiptoes around making it work.
I realize I’m staring and drop my gaze to the floor. “So,” I say shakily. “We should talk about… your night.”
His expression goes blank, the way it did when he first saw me, or when I dance. He brushes by me, putting his helmet on the kitchen counter.
“Lincoln told me I should talk to you about it. First.”
A pause. He opens the fridge door, peers inside. “Have you eaten?”
“I had a biscuit earlier.” Saliva pools in my mouth. Now that I’m getting six meals a day, the nausea has retreated. But I’m always up for more food. “I could eat.”
“What are you in the mood for?” He solemnly regards the contents of the fridge. Food is serious business to Saint.
“Is there any chocolate?” I blurt, and wish I could take it back.
“You got a craving, girl?” His head is hidden in the fridge, but I hear the smile.
“No! Not that. Not a craving.” Only pregnant women get cravings, right? Saint twists toward me, and I search his face for any sign that he knows my condition. Why else would he use the word ‘craving?’ “I just love chocolate. I used to eat if for breakfast. Sometimes I wouldn’t eat anything but chocolate all day.”
His eyes narrow.
“But I’m good. I can wait for lunch. I’m not… I don’t have a craving.” My hands are hovering around my belly. Saint fixes his gaze on them and I force them to drop to my hips. Gah, it’s like he can read my mind. Think non-pregnant thoughts.
“Come on.” He heads down the hall, motioning me to follow. I feel like Jack in the Beanstalk, tiptoeing behind the giant.
Saint’s room is the very last, and bigger than anyone else’s. As I enter he’s turning, a large chocolate bar in his hand. I could cry with happiness, but then I spot the shelves behind him.
“Holy crap,” I shout. Saint’s room is filled with just about the only thing that can distract me from chocolate.
Books.
“You read?” he rumbles after I’ve spun in a circle, taking in the rows and rows and stacks and stacks. There’s enough to fill a library and then some.
“Uh, yeah,” I scoff, until I realize he’s kidding me. “Do you? Have you read all these?”
“Yep.”
“Awesome,” I breathe, turning to the nearest shelf and running a reverent hand down the spines. There’s everything from math textbooks to big printed bestsellers. A faded copy of Call of the Wild, right next to the bed.
“You like to read?”
“Yes.�
�� I blink, near tears. Saint’s room smells like chocolate and a library. My favorite smells. Wherever I was, wherever my mother dragged me in her crazy hippie wanderlust or loyalty to a random biker man, I’d settle with books and chocolate and I’d know I was home.
I kept tracing titles with my fingers. Saint had a varied collection. Classics, mysteries, even romance and business psychology. Some covers are faded, others have creased spines and dirty edges. When I come to one showing a woman hugging her big pregnant belly, I stop breathing for a second. “These books—can I borrow some? I’ll bring them back.”
“Take what you like.”
I step away and pretend to peruse other titles, grabbing a few at random before returning to slip the pregnancy guide into a pile. I don’t know what an eight-foot 300 pound guy is doing with a book like What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but I’m not about to ask him why.
Actually, I do know. The sight of Saint is enough to make a girl pregnant.
Yesterday I saw him in the shower, eyes closed, water streaming over his obsidian skin, running in sleek rivulets over the planes of his chest and over his pebbled abs. He turned slightly, and a dark, snaking monster poked out from a granite-carved thigh. I scurried out before he caught me, rushed to my room and got myself off in a few soft touches. After that glimpse through the half-cracked door, I would’ve been pregnant, if I wasn’t already.
Maybe that’s why he has the book.
Once the pregnancy manual is safely hidden between a few romance novels and a thick thriller, I turn, clutching the books close. Saint has his back to me, rifling through a few piles before turning.
“Here.” He thrusts a book at me. “Read this.”
“Sex at Dawn?” I turn the title into a question mark. “Is it a romance novel?”
“Non-fiction.”
I frown and turn it over to read the back description. Saint motions me to sit, so I do, setting down my other finds, opening the book.
I look up fifteen minutes later, blinking. “Humans were meant to be poly.”
Saint’s sitting a few feet away, on a trunk of some sort. His lips split over white teeth when he grins. “You read fast.”
“I used to read through my classes.” Lynny moved us around a lot, I was always behind. I learned to read through text books to catch up. As a result, I never was held back a grade. I would’ve graduated, if not at the top of my class, then at least not anywhere near the bottom. But then Lynny died, and I didn’t go back to school. I was too busy following her questionable example, hanging around a motorcycle club and attaching myself to the nearest available guy who looked like he wouldn’t slap me around. And look where that got me.
“Here.” Saint hands me the candy bar. “Eat that. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. I hoover down the chewy chocolate and relax, one hand on the pile of books as if they give me strength. Saint says nothing, his expression signals nothing, and he sits with his arms crossed over his great chest, chocolate eyes firmly fixed on me. When I’m done eating, he motions to the trash can where I can throw the wrapper, but makes no move to say anything more or kick me out.
The sugar gives me courage to meet his stare. “Tonight… do you want to fuck me?”
He scratches his stubbled chin, still watching me. He doesn’t move, but I feel pieced apart, each portion of my body separated and weighed against some unseen balance. Perhaps he’s wondering if I’m strong enough to take him. I flush just thinking about it, remembering his naked body in the shower. My pussy tingles at the look in his eye. “Not tonight,” he says finally. “Saturday. Rest all day, then come to me.”
I stand in the shower, letting the hot water soothe my hurts away. The tightness in my chest has eased somewhat, after the visit with Saint and the loan of some books. I already started reading the pregnancy one. It’s pretty generic, bland in some parts, a little scary in others. There are so many variables. So many things that could go wrong. But just to get a child, so many things have to go right. Maybe things will work out.
I’m about to finish up when footsteps echo around me. I’m alone in the big communal shower. Saint went out for an errand in the truck, and the rest of the guys are still working. As far as I know, the lodge and entire lot is empty.
“Saint?” I call, my voice quavering in the empty space. The footsteps pause. Before I can turn the water off and grab a towel, Mason walks in, barefoot, shirtless, wearing jeans. “Mason? What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer. His gaze sweeps over my naked form and his lips twist.
I reach for the water knob.
“No,” his angry voice rings out. I stand small and naked and vulnerable under the warm spray, as he paces forward and stops when the water spatters the hem of his jeans. His breath rasps in and out, his tanned skin flushed at the tips of his cheekbones. Hate in his dark eyes. All his unexplained rage, directed at me.
He takes another step forward, the movement drawing my eyes down, and I see his arousal, even through the thick fabric of his jeans. I open my mouth to say something when he gives me another harsh order.
“Face the wall.”
Numb, I do as he says.
“Hands on the tile.”
I plant my palms, more to hold myself up than to obey. My legs are parted just a little.
The sound of the water changes, drumming against a man’s hard back and chest and solid jeans. I wonder if the water running over his face does anything to soften his expression, the anger he holds like armor between us. Then his hand clamps down on the back of my neck, holding me rigid, pressing my forehead against the wall. My body goes weak as his fingers tighten alongside my throat. For a moment, everything goes dark, just the sound of water slapping our bodies, Mason’s breath hissing by my ear.
“Fucking whore,” he mutters.
I lick my lips and work my mouth up and down before I’m brave enough to answer. “Whore, cocksucker, slut—you really need to work on your insults.”
“Shut up.” His grip changes, his hand sliding under my chin, holding me upright. His thumb strokes my pulse. His other arm jerks in the corner of my vision. My fists tighten on the slick wall as Mason’s breathing grows rapid. He’s beating off, I’m sure of it. His cock aimed at my backside. I make a little noise and his finger’s tighten on my throat. I’ll have bruises tonight. I’ll have to cover them with makeup, or explain them to Lincoln.
“Anita,” he groans, and I stiffen. What the fuck?
“Mason,” I start, and his fingers tighten, biting and cruel. “No,” I wriggle. My skin is wet, it makes it easy to slip out of his grasp. Or perhaps once I actually fight him he lets me go.
I turn and meet his glare. I was right, his jeans are open just enough for him to hold his cock. Rivulets run down the tight V leading to his crotch.
What the fuck do you think you’re doing? His eyes say, narrowed under angry brows. The hand on my arm tries to turn me back to face the wall.
“No,” I say. “You look at me when you fuck me.”
He tilts his head and water runs down that angelic face, twisted into a demon’s. Will he ever look at me with anything but disgust?
I stand my ground, as authoritative as I can be without clothes on. The water’s turning cool.
Fine, then. He tugs my arm, pulling me down. “Kneel.”
I obey, lowering carefully. His left hand takes a hold on my wet hair as he guides his cock toward my lips.
“Suck.”
Pussy tingling, I take a deep breath and open my mouth.
Water pours over both of us, blurring my vision. He’s warm in my mouth and I hum a little, angling my head, adjusting. I reach up to help and he shakes his head. No hands. Meanwhile, his hands move my head this way and that, controlling me. I let myself go limp and embrace his unspoken commands. His hand moving my head up and down in a rough rhythm. Like this. The beat of his hips, driving his cock further into my mouth. Don’t stop. A pinch as his grip tightens
in my hair. That’s it. Take it all.
I choke, hands suspended in the air above his hard thighs. My tears mingle with the shower spray. He tugs me off, his grip sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. A breath, and he forces me back down. I let my spine loosen, my whole body a puppet in the hands of a master. A groan tells me it’ll be over soon. Something salty flows over my tongue and then Mason pulls back. I twitch my face away, eyes closed as the shower washes everything away.
A gentle touch on my jaw. Good girl. I reach up to cover his hand, but he’s already stepping away, turning off the water and walking off in wet jeans. I’m still on my knees, wondering what the fuck just happened.
Later that night, I lay in bed stroking my belly, What to Expect When You’re Expecting beside me, hidden under a large print thriller.
“You doin’ okay?” Jagger slouches in the doorframe, waiting until I wave him in.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“We wear you out?” His eyes crinkle with humor.
I laugh. “You know it.”
“Seriously, though,” he sits by my feet, picking them up and plopping them in his lap. Still not big on boundaries is Jagger. “You holding up okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I yawn and stretch. His thumb strokes up the arch of my foot, and I melt into a moan. “Oh, do that again.”
“Everyone treating you right?”
“You sound like Lincoln.” The big crew chief came in after tonight’s dance to quiz me carefully on what I thought of the job thus far.
“What did he say?”
“He just wanted to know if I was cool with everything. I told him so far there weren’t any OSHA violations.”
Jagger keeps kneading my feet, chuckling. “Who’s night is it?”
“Uhhh, I think it’s still Mason’s.” Except Mason and I already had our moment. Sorta. “I don’t know. Saint wants me Saturday. I did everyone else, except Roy and Tommy.”
