Possessive_Sons of Chaos MC

by Kathryn Thomas

  That was a distraction that he should not be indulging in. He was not here for her. He had to remember that. He'd given Jessie his number, with his new name, and she would reach out, or she wouldn't. He wouldn't know until she did, and he couldn't sit around moping like a fucking kid waiting to find out which one it would be.

  Goddamnit, his head was cold. His ears were cold. He should have put on his fucking helmet, but he'd needed to be risky tonight, to find that adrenaline thrill some other way, since he wouldn't be sinking his cock into Jessie tonight. There were plenty of other women at the club he could have, if he wanted them, but it would be like eating a fast food hamburger after smelling a gourmet meal. It was sustenance, but it wasn't what he wanted. He missed his hair, the long curls he'd worn since he was a teenager, but they made him too recognizable. And he needed to be incognito, at least for a little while. That was why he hadn't worn his vest into town, with the Sons of Chaos logo on the back and the President patch over his heart.

  With a sigh, he turned his bike in the direction of the farm he and his club were in the process of turning into a clubhouse. His inheritance had them set to get the work done, and they were close enough to town that they could keep an eye on things, without necessarily being close enough to give the Racketeer's the head's up that the Sons were following through on their promises. Tex hadn't been President of the Sons for long, but he'd already made it very clear that he was going to do things very, very differently than his predecessor had. Any of the guys who didn't want to be in a clean club were welcome to go on their way, but he wanted something better for himself. He wanted to pretend that someday, he could be proud to patch his own son in. Or, hell, his daughter. Providing he ever had one of either.

  If Jessie called him, that would move him in one direction. But regardless of whether or not his phone rang in the morning, he had a job to do. He'd sworn he would never see another kid die like Danny, and that if he ever got the chance to see bring the son of a bitch who'd run down his best friend to justice, he would do it. One way or the other, he would see it done.

  When Garret's phone rang in the morning, it took him a long moment to recollect himself enough to pick it up and answer. He'd been out riding until well past when any reasonable human being would be asleep. He hadn't seen the sun rise, but the stars had started to fade into the sky before he'd made it back to the makeshift building the Sons were using as their clubhouse for the time being. He'd stumbled back to his room, locking the door behind him, and fallen into bed. He was so tired by then that he barely even noticed the low ache in his balls from how aroused he'd been without relief.

  A few of the girls from Los Angeles had followed the guys up here, and he could have brought one in to bed with him, but it would have been a perfunctory fucking, nothing more than thrusting into a damp wet hole until he spilled, and shit, he could do that on his own with his fist. He'd never been fond of using women in that way, and hell if he was going to start now. Not that sex always had to be intense and meaningful and deep. That nonsense was for straights who lived in houses with fences and enrolled their kids in private schools and would never dream of getting ink on their inner wrist to remind them of their true purpose.

  But it was nice when it meant more than absolutely nothing. When it was at least memorable for one reason or another.

  The phone was still ringing. He reached over and swiped to answer the call. The number was unknown, and that made his heart throb for a moment. He swallowed the hope. Hope wouldn't help him, not now. "Yeah," he said. Should he have been more polite? Just in case it was her? No, better to be honest about who he was. What he'd become.

  Too late for that now, asshole.

  Tex pushed that little voice away. He could hear someone breathing on the other end of the line, and he told himself it was a woman who was there. The inhale was breathy, the exhale nervous. Goddamn he was a fool. "Jessie?"

  "Who are you?" Her voice sounded as tired and drawn out as he felt. Had she been up late, too? Had she run her fingers down her stomach, seeking out that sweet place inside her body that would make her unfurl for him? He found himself wondering whether or not she groomed her pussy, and he was rock hard and weeping on the sheets, fast as that. He wanted to take himself in hand and stroke while he talked to her. That would be a rush like nothing else in his life.

  "Tex Brewer," he said. His throat was tight, taut. Full of wanting her.

  "I don't know anyone named Tex Brewer," Jessie said, and he could hear so much anger in her voice. His cock wilted a little, remembering there was more at stake than convincing her to let him into whatever sweet little panties she wore—or didn't wear—these days. "And neither did my brother. So explain yourself, now, or I'll call the cops and turn over this card. They never closed the investigation, you know."

  "I do know," he said, and he hadn't meant to tell her this much, and certainly not this much over the phone. "I've talked to Pedroza a couple times a year. We never gave up on Danny, Jessie. We never did."

  There was a long silence. It took him a moment to realize that her breathing had changed. She was crying, and trying to hide it. God, he wanted to hold her. He had only gotten to hold her that one time. Yesterday didn't count, not really. She hadn't known it was him. And after the fucking mess he was making of all of this, there was no way she'd let him hold her in the future, either.

  "I'm making a goddamn mess of this," he said, figuring the best way to move forward might be to tell the truth and hope for the fucking best. "Look, can we meet up somewhere? Is there still that cute little bakery on the corner of Main and North? I need to tell you why I'm here, and what's going on, and then you can decide if I have a place in your life or not. But even if you never want to see me again after this, there are things you deserve to know."

  The silence stretched out, and he let it. She didn't need to rush. He had all the time in the world. For her, he'd wait forever.

  "Yeah," she said, after a while. "But the bakery's gone. Can I meet you somewhere? Where do you—do you live around here? Are you staying nearby? I don't know anything about you, man."

  "Tell a friend where you're going to be. Bring someone with you, if you want. Someone you trust. Whatever you need to do. I don't want you to be afraid to see me, Jessie." He was going way too far with this, sounding desperate, and that was the kiss of death in a moment like this. Any second now, he was going to hear the odd electric click of the line shutting down in his ear.

  Only it didn't. Only she kept sitting there, still breathing, a little less out of control now. "Tell me where you are," she said.

  "You remember the farm Logan Polanco had, southeast of town? With the orange grove?"

  This time, she couldn't hide the little sob. "Yes."

  Way too obvious, Tex, Jesus. He and Danny used to come here to buy all kinds of fresh citrus. They'd bike out of town—on regular bicycles at that point, still—and then they'd ride back to Castello with a kid carrier full of oranges and cherries and peaches, and then they would sit out with Jessie and devour the fresh fruit. It was when he'd fallen in love with her in the first place. She was so young, and quiet, and soft, and she'd looked over at him with peach juice running down her chin, and damn she'd been amazing. But her memories of those afternoons were probably incredibly different than his.

  "I'm staying there, with a bunch of friends." Describing the Sons as friends was a stretch and an understatement, but you didn't say "motorcycle club" until you were sure of someone. If all she'd ever seen was that damn show on TV, she was going to have a completely wrong idea of who and what the Sons of Chaos were. "You'll see a lot of bikes out front. Motorcycles. My office is right in the house. I'll let the folks out front know to look for you.”

  "Motorcycles on a farm that Mr. Polanco sold five years ago. If I walk in with my phone broadcasting to social media, you'll know why."

  "Whatever you need to do to feel safe," he reiterated, and she let out a long sigh.

  "When?"

  "When
ever you can get here."

  "About half an hour, then."

  "I'll be waiting."

  She closed the line without saying goodbye. His cock was weeping again, remembering the peach juice on her chin and the feeling of her skin under his thumb when he'd reached over to wipe it clean. Half an hour gave him time.

  He wrapped his fist around his cock and stroked hard. He wasn't in a mood to finesse or tease himself; he was achingly horny, and if he didn't take the edge off before he saw Jessie again, he would screw the pooch all over again. She wasn't ever going to want him, that was just a thing he needed to admit to himself, but that didn't mean he had to wreck whatever good memories she had of that summer.

  He did allow himself to picture her, an older version of her, looking back at him with his hand on her chin. Instead of leaning forward and kissing him, though—all he'd dreamed of that long ago summer afternoon—she would lean forward and wrap her mouth around his cock. She'd tease at the head of him with her tongue, her lips sticky from fruit juice, and when he came she'd groan in delight at catching his essence in her mouth—

  He bit back a cry as he came into his own hand. He pumped into his fist for another moment as he spurted, then let himself lie still for a few moments as his breathing settled back down. He still wanted her, but he might actually be able to hold a conversation without mauling that little divot at the base of her throat.

  Maybe.

  He reached off the narrow bed and grabbed yesterday's t-shirt where he'd tossed it when he came in. He cleaned himself off as well as he could, then dressed in clean, dark blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Normally, he'd throw his leather vest with its patches over that, but it was already hot, and most of the guys would be going without today, as well. Unless they had to ride, anyway.

  He opened the door of his small room and went into the clubhouse.

  He'd bought the farm from Polanco three years ago, as soon as he'd heard it was for sale. At the time, he hadn't planned on doing anything much with it, but when he'd heard that the Racketeers were making a move on Castello, it was the perfect place to stage a clubhouse. Most of the guys had stayed behind, closer to L.A., while he and a few handpicked members got things settled out here. They'd turned the old workers’ quarters into the clubhouse, set up the old barn to work as a machine and bike shop, and converted the old farmhouse into their Church, offices, and even upgraded the kitchen a bit to make cooking for a dozen a bit easier. Some of the guys had brought their girls with them, and some of the girls who were non-voting members of the club had decided to come along, too.

  As he walked across the farmyard to the front of the house, he bumped into Take Marshall. Tex had tried to leave his Sergeant-at-Arms back in L.A., reminding the man that someone with experience needed to hold down the fort, just in case the Racketeer's decided to fuck things up down there with the Sons' strength reduced. Marshall had nodded and nodded and nodded, and then when Tex had mounted up, the grizzled old man had mounted up right behind him. He and Marshall had been tight since Tex had taken over as President for the Sons of Chaos. Some had argued that Marshall should have been next in line for the job, but he wanted none of it. "All I want to do is ride and protect my brothers," Take had said. He'd walked away from plenty in his life, traumatized by PTSD both in the war and from his family's confusion about his gender. With the Sons, he'd found a home that worked for him. And he apparently wasn't down for sitting on the sidelines, any more than Tex was himself.

  "Heard from Bird," Take said, referring to the Vice President who was still in L.A. "Nothing new from the Racketeers, and as far as he can tell, most of them are still in La-la-land. If they're moving up here, they're doing it slow, and without interrupting their distribution."

  "That's almost scarier," Tex said. "Anything else?"

  "Nah," Take said. "Other than the usual guys wondering why the fuck we're sitting here in the middle of nowhere when we should be explaining to the Racketeers that they don't treat women and kids like meat on our turf. Nothing new."

  Take's tone was mild, but his words were not. The guys were good guys, but they didn't understand why this vendetta was coming up now, after fifteen years of silence. Tex had tried to explain, and everyone nodded along, but Danny was nothing to them.

  Castello was a podunk resort town on the ass edge of nowhere. It wasn't even the right season to spot celebrities. The hell did it mean to them if their arch-rivals started selling drugs and guns in a tiny town hours north of their stomping grounds?

  Tex had pitched it as a dangerous pattern of expansion, and everyone had agreed, but he wasn't sure exactly how far he could stretch their understanding. He was young, as Presidents went, and there had been grumblings when he was elected that Take or Bird or even Smokey would have done a better job in the role. If any of them had wanted it, Tex would have had a real problem on his hands.

  "I'll have a lead soon, or else we'll get out of here," Tex said. He had to believe it. He had to believe that he could find the man responsible for the death of his childhood best friend. Because he couldn't live with this yawning space under his ribcage any more. "There's a woman heading out. She should be here in about half an hour."

  "Pretty?" Take wiggled his eyebrows, as if women were anything more than window dressing to him. Half the club girls were desperate for a ride inside his leather chaps, but he seemed supremely uninterested in sex. Happy to watch, but no need to touch. Which, hey, whatever made him happy.

  "Gorgeous," Tex said. "Tall, leggy, dark hair. She's part of this whole—quest. When she gets here, make sure she gets up to my office, all right?"

  "Sure, boss," Take said, nodding. "Anything else happening?"

  "Not at the moment," Tex said. "But I hope she will be able to help me with some information."

  Chapter Five

  It had been years since she'd even thought of Polanco's farm. It had been a fixture of her childhood, and it had meant so much to her, back in the days when she had been tagging along with Danny and Cody, everywhere she could get permission to go. She could remember the way Cody had looked at her, the nascent sense of power from doing something as simple as biting into a piece of fruit. Was that how Eve had felt, back in the day? That day, Jessie hadn't been able to put words to her feelings. Now, she knew she'd felt sexy, and aroused, and tempted. Ever so tempted.

  And then everything had gone completely wrong. Everything had been flat out ruined, and there hadn't been anything she could do to get her life back on track. Dating someone who knew Danny was impossible; all they did was look at her with sad eyes and talk about how sorry they were. Dating someone who didn't know Danny was just as impossible, however; first of all, in a town as small as Castello, everyone knew Danny. Secondly, they couldn't understand why she might burst into tears because they offered to buy her popcorn at the movies—Danny had always shared his popcorn, and bought those horrible mint things to mix into it, too—or why she almost always vomited when she heard the sound of a motorcycle.

  That had gotten better, at least. And Tex had warned her about all the bikes outside of the old barn. So they wouldn't be a surprise to her system.

  She was sure that she wasn't supposed to be doing this. Driving out of town to meet a man she didn't know, who claimed to have information about her brother. It was the set-up to a thriller novel, where the girl ended up cut into tiny bloody chunks that were mailed to her family. What could possibly go wrong?

  "Lots of things," Jessie muttered to herself as she pulled off the road into the dusty yard of Logan Polanco's citrus orchard.

  The buildings looked basically the same as they had when she was a kid, but instead of a crowd of family and migrant workers moving busily around the grounds, a crowd of tough looking dudes was moving around. She saw half a dozen men, most of them sunburned. Some were clean-shaven, others wore thick beards. There were leather vests emblazoned with the words "Sons of Chaos" over the elaborate details of an eight-pointed star. Ink, everywhere. And there were women, as we
ll, and not the stereotypical busty ladies with hot pants and halter tops. Some women were dressed that way, and seemed completely comfortable with putting their sexuality in every sway of their hips, but there were other women dressed no different than the men, even wearing versions of the vests that had a slightly different fit. Some were heavy, some were lean, some looked strong, and some were kind of too thin and nervous looking.

  No one looked all that happy to see her decade-old foreign hybrid pulling into the yard. She pulled into the dusty turn-around in front of the old farmhouse and took a moment to plaster a friendly smile onto her face. She had plenty of experience with that; so many tourists came into the salon with their noses in the air. Same problem, different source. People were never as comfortable with those they thought of as outsiders in one way or another.

  She'd dressed casually, jeans and a loose jersey top in a bright teal. The jewel tones looked bright and vibrant against her light brown skin, and her curly black hair had been conveniently agreeable about twisting up into a messy bun. Delilah would slay her on sight if she showed up for a shift at the salon dressed like this, but in this moment, she felt shockingly overdressed.