To a spectator, it probably appears as though my hands are shaking like a teenage boy by the time I slide my hand behind her ass, reaching...and I’m trying to get her off. I’m serious. I really am. I’m trying to get her off then get her OFF—as in have her leave. It’s getting late, and there’s club shit to do, I’m sure. And between you and me, this shit’s getting really real, really quick—and I don’t even know who the fuck she is!
But when my fingertip brushes the tiny puckered flesh, and her back that was bowed over me arches back as her nails rake down my naked inked chest, I don’t know what happens. I’m telling you—I just meant to fucking get this sweet little lamb off. It was supposed to fucking be about her! I’m out of rubbers! Otherwise, brothers, I’d have been shoved ten inches deep inside fucking heaven!
So for the life of me, I don’t know what I was thinking when I reached my hand from fucking with her asshole, to positioning my cock and slamming straight home like it was mine.
I don’t know, therefore, I cannot tell you what the fuck happened.
“FUUUUCK!” I grunt, sputtering out a long line of other offensive words as her tight cunt contracts, gripping, before pulling my cock even deeper and milking it for everything it’s worthless, bare self is worth. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I blindly mutter, catching sight of my mother's crucifix hanging from around her neck when it glints off the sun beginning to filter through the compound window. But when she leans in and her mouth smothers mine, whatever process of thought I had fucking leaves me.
I swear to Christ, this woman is unlike anything...
It’s not a vision, and it’s not like an insight… it’s like a—flash. A revelation, or a fucking epiphany, as cliché as it sounds. But it’s the hardest I’ve ever come in my entire life. And then the kiss? When her swollen lips pull away from mine, I nip at them quickly, but miss. Then, as much as I hate to admit, I stretch my neck up, trying to kiss her again, still muttering profanities.
“Holy fucking shit.” I blink when she reaches over and flips on the bedside light. She’s still straddling me, in all of her bare feminine rawness. And goddamn, she’s fucking beautiful. Stunning.
As soon as my eyes land on hers, however, my world stops.
And I fly the fuck off the bed. Holy fucking shit.
Holy. “Fucking shit. Holy fucking shit.” I pin her to the spot on my bed where she landed when I shot off that motherfucker. I reach down and try to tuck her hair behind her ears, getting it out of her face, when she takes over tucking her hair out of my damn way. And when she does, and I see that she is, indeed, Ilsa fucking Blakeney’s kid daughter—the goddamn air in my lungs stills. “You’re Ilsa’s fucking kid!” I accuse, as my eyes travel her, scanning her from naked head to naked toe, under UN-false pretenses and on their own volition.
She’s...different. She’s...grown.
I mentally face plant. Of course she’s grown. I’m pretty sure you just tested that out, asshole.
“What?” she spits.
Holy shit, she’s grown. Without even blinking, she stands from the bed and makes her way to where our clothes are strewn everywhere from last night. “How the hell do you know that?” she asks as she hops her jeans up her legs. Tight jeans. Long. Toned. Tanned. Legs. Wait—where’s her fucking panties?
“Your drawers?” I sputter. “Where are they?” What. Am. I. Saying? “Kid, you gotta get the fuck out. Now. If you ever.”
Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking. “Shit. Holy fucking shit. How old are you? You were how old in Chicago?” I do the math quickly in my head and almost hit my knees, but I force my feet in front of me and begin pacing. Thinking. Pacing. And thinking.
Ben. Did she come with Ben? Shit. Is she with Ben?
When I spin back around, zeroing my eyes to wherever she’s at, she’s patiently waiting and completely dressed, standing by the door. “Who’d you come here with? How’d you get here?”
Answer!
“You’re fucking welcome, by the way,” she spits.
Not answering shit!
“For what?” I bark.
And for a second, I swear to God, I think I see tears in her eyes before her face hardens and she swallows. After she blinks, she speaks. “For my V-card, asshole. It’s funny—I always thought maybe you were fate.”
And that’s all she says. That’s all she opens her mouth and speaks to me before turning and leaving, running down the stairs, taking them two at a time. I run after her, but have to stop myself midway down the stairs when I realize I’m naked as the day I was born. Again. Only this time, chasing after a fucking underage girl from my personal damn quarters of the compound—when I turn the fuck around and make my way back up the few stairs I’d taken without thinking.
After showering, I dress and throw my cut on over my shoulder holster. I honestly gave myself a little more time than needed getting ready, but I figure with her little juvenile ass, she isn’t going anywhere. She can wait. So once I’ve pulled my boots up, I grab my keys/wallet, and hook the chain to my belt loop. When I notice my mother’s crucifix is missing from the chain, I hesitate when I remember where I saw it last.
Mother. Fucking. Shit! I think, before heading through the door.
And I want you all to know that I’m aware how all of this fucking looks. I’m aware that it don’t look good, and I’m aware how hard it may be for you to not judge and scoff behind your offended hand, that this shit does happen. In the real world.
Because—it does happen. It just usually doesn’t happen to me.
I’m not like Ben—I don’t fuck with girls younger than me. Hell, if you look at my record, I prefer them older. More mature, if you know what I mean. I don’t favor the squealers. Or the young ones. They favor me. Hence the sign out front.
And last night, somewhere between the copious amounts of liquor, smoke, and other party favors, I slipped up on a damn virgin. Jesus fucking Christ—and Ilsa’s damn virgin at that.
“Mornin’, brother,” Ben shouts, twisting the beer top off a bottle of beer through his t-shirt, even though it’s morning. “You want one?”
“No, I’m good. Where’d she go?” I look around the compound, slightly cursing myself for saying the first words that came to my mind. Then, before heading towards where the bay windows and garage doors are open to the boneyard, I wave him off when he mumbles something, quickly scanning every dark head and trying to get a look at their faces.
“She who? Rox?” Ben asks, pulling me back into a conversation I want out of.
“No.” I shake my head. “Fuck Roxy, man. Were there some kids here?” I keep it as vague as I can, and hope he thinks this has to do with the sign out front. “This morning, were there any kids fucking off around here?” I come back to the bar, feeling my hackles rising.
Shit. How did I find myself in this mess?
“No. No kids.” He shakes his head before shrugging and pulling a tug from his bottle of beer. “That damn girl of Ilsa’s, the one that’s been after my dick since she was eight, her and her friends were here. I asked Rox to take ‘em home when she got in after her night shift. She’s not your old lady anymore, right, man?”
“Who?” I ask, feeling like I’m in the damn twilight-zone as I watch Rox’s black jeep pull off the compound grounds and onto the main road. I turn back towards the bar just as Mandy and one of her ‘friends’, Brandy, walk in. I throw a girl’s name out, and pray to God he’s not talking about her. Ilsa’s daughter. “Roxy?” I ask.
“Yeah. How long have the two of you been split up?”
Why is Ben asking about Rox? Why is Rox taking Ilsa’s kid home? What the fuck happened last night?
My brain scrambles to even recall when last night went off the rails. It was like everything was going fine. Everything. The stress and all the tension that’d been choking the hell out of the club all but completely disappeared after my long chat with Pops and Ben.
Right, so what happened after? And how the fuck did I wake up with Ilsa Blakeney’s kid i
n my bed, before she screwed my damn brains out? Jesus Christ—she’s fucking SIXTEEN!
Mandy and Brandy slide up to the bar, and I’m listening to Ben. I’m watching his mouth move, but with thoughts circling my damn foggy head, and Mandy and Brandy both sliding their hands down the front of my jeans, it’s making it a little more than fucking difficult.
“This is Brandy…” Mandy’s tongue flicks out and catches the lobe of my left ear, right about the time her friend Brandy nuzzles against my right.
“Never mind, brother. We’ll chat when you’re not so busy.” Ben chuckles then turns to leave, and if these damn women don’t get off me!
“Now, if you’re through playing with a child—” Both girls are just giggling at first, until it turns into full laughter. Then one of them, don’t fucking even ask me which says, “Yeah, maybe now you’d like a taste of something a little more adult.” I feel not one, but two left hands grasp my cock.
Not one—two. When Ben turns again where he stands, slowly pivoting in place, his green eyes lock on mine.
“You fucked Eden Blakeney?” His voice thunders through the compound and the entire building stills. Even the goddamn bikes of the upward of seventy-five members still left after last night had been revving constantly over the last forty-eight hours shut the fuck up and died in the wake of Bentley Cain’s resounding inquisition.
The left hand on the right moves from my shaft to cup my balls, and the bitch—the fuck was her name? Brandy? —chuckles in my ear. “The tweenie with the dark hair? Yeah, she left with his girlfriend. That’s rich, too, by the way. Even for someone with your reputation.”
And that’s when it happens. That’s when sanity splits from reason. Over a fucking teenage girl. My Pops always told me there was a calm before the storm. And I know with all the stress and tension lately, this shit’s probably been a long time coming. But the next thing I remember, the flat of my nines are slamming against the forehead of the bitch on my left and the bitch on my right. My eyes not once unlock from Ben’s. “I didn’t fuck her. I didn’t—” I shove the pistols in my grip before glancing towards the bay doors. “Mandy, I wouldn’t fucking come back here, bitch. Actually, I think it’s in your best interest if you and your friends stay the fuck away for a while. I’m getting a little fucking tired of trash.” I quickly whistle through my looped tongue, and when Dreads looks up from behind the bar, I nod at the women. “I don’t want ‘em back.”
Once I’ve got both nines re-holstered under my cut, I rake my hands through my shoulder length hair, and when I look back up at Ben, I don’t know what the fuck—I growled. “Follow me. Now.” I lead the way out the back, and after Ben follows, a couple of the prospects file in behind in formation, but I wave them off, continuing to speak on our way across the boneyard. “This is my house, Bentley. First and motherfucking foremost, you ever talk to me like that in front of the brothers again, and I’mma put a bullet through your skull. No fucking questions. Understood?”
“Jacques, you don’t know—”
“Hey!” I spin on him, just as fast as the scrambled thoughts in my head spin for the hundredth time. And it’s not even fucking noon yet. When I point to the dirt between our feet, I finish, pissed beyond measure. “MY HOUSE! And this goes to the fucking steeple, right goddamn now!”
Once I’ve said, all I need to damn well say, we both storm towards to the steeple.
It hurts when he doesn't even care about you. I mean, the physical part, that hurts, too. Don’t get me wrong, losing my virginity, or the morning after losing my virginity, hurt. I was tender. The muscles in between my wobbly legs throbbed with every step I took. Muscles I didn’t know I possessed until this morning were tender. As hell. And it did hurt. But not anything like the mess he made of my heart. That hurt is an entirely different hurt. And I gotta be honest, it’s the first time for me that rejection actually hurt that fucking bad instead of just pissing me off like usual.
I don’t know where Lauryn and Eden went last night, either. The only person I could find before I was told by Ben to get the fuck out was Ty, and obviously, the girlfriend of the guy I’ve been obsessed with since I was eight. Excuse me, I mean old lady. Though, I didn’t know that’s who she was at the time.
I could hardly see through the tears when Ben saw me still there the next morning, trying like hell to find Lauryn, Ty, and Eden.
But all I could find was Ty, still cuddled up on a corner sectional sofa set off to the side of the main room, sawing logs like a baby in his own damn bed.
I nudged him before glancing around for my sister and our other friend.
“Ty, wake the hell up. Where’s L and Eden?”
“The fuck are y’all still doing here? I told your sister and her gay ass friends to leave! Rox!” Ben, Eden’s fucking asshole boyfriend, barks from the main area of the club before pointing at the both of us then hooking his pointer finger, motioning for us to come here.
‘Shit.’ The thought crossed my mind for the hundredth time that morning as I grabbed Ty around his scrawny bicep and began tugging him. “Ty, fucking come on. Shit!”
Once I’d got him pulled up and standing, I looped my arm around Ty’s and slowly headed in Ben’s direction, just as I was beckoned by the pompous fucker. And I decided in that moment, no matter what happened, after tonight—I fucking hated bikers. And everything that had anything to do with them. Especially Eden’s piece of shit excuse of a boyfriend, Ben.
He glared knives at the both of us when we stepped closer to the bar and into the area of the club where he stood, when this four-foot-nine pixie/fairy biker-looking chick with boy short pale blonde hair walked up, dressed in teal scrubs. She screwed her face up at me before scanning me from the ground up. “This is the shit that gets your dick hard, Ben?” Her head shook back and forth before she sadly smiled at me and pierced my eyes with hers. “Sad, really. What are you, like nineteen, sweetheart?”
But it was like my mind couldn’t keep up with the words being spat out at me because every one before the last that was spoken was like another strip of blade sharp shrapnel splintering my already riddled and mutilated heart.
“This is Rox, Jacques’ old lady.” Ben hooked his thumb at her. “I doubt you’ve met him, anyway. Rox just got off work. Go find the rest of your group and she’ll get y’all home.”
Ty’s thin but strong arm circled my waist just before he whispered in my ear, “Come on, Cinderella. I told you last night before that fifth shot of tequila we should’ve left with L and Eden.”
“We didn’t leave with L and Eden?” I was certain somehow his mind read mine—that or I might have actually said the rambling thought aloud.
“Yeah—no, sweet pea. We didn’t. But at least you gave it a shot. True love always deserves a shot, right? And look.” He smiled before looking down at my Doc Martins and whispering so the rest of the room couldn’t overhear. “At least you have both of your glass slippers.”
Roxy scoffed, obviously hearing him. “Yeah, and I’m beginning to run a little thin on what’s left of my patience for the night. Ben, keep a side of your bed warm for me.” She turned and headed towards the row of open garage doors leading outside then said over her shoulder, “I’m gonna need a bed and a pillow after I drop off these toddlers. And I don’t even want to fucking know what Jacques still has in his bed leftover from last night.”
All I heard of Ben’s response was, “Fuck. Yeah!” as Ty and I followed in line, like little freaking ducks wobbling after their momma through the club’s exit door.
The lines of bikes row after row gleaming under the sun already set so high in the sky were startling to say the least. The chrome and all the different contrasting colors patterned across the blacktop as we walked past bike after bike caused my feet to slow ‘til Ty tugged at my arm still looped around his, dragging me forward through some black gravel scattered across the black as ink asphalt. “Girl, shit. I’m not gonna drag you! These people want us—have WANTED us gone! Now, I’m leaving. Are
you coming or not?”
“Shoot! Ty, sorry!” I quickened my footsteps until I’d caught back up with him and I was not lying or exaggerating when I said, “I’m still trying to figure out what the hell happened last night. I don’t drink, Ty. I never freaking drink. Babe, what the hell?” I jerked my arm slightly, trying to get his attention when he stopped. “Ty, what the hell? How did he…” I pointed to the massive red building with huge graffiti artwork spelling out Sons Of Silencers MC with a crucifix that mirrored the one in my dreams lightly shaded in behind it. “…Show up in this horrid freaking mistake of a night?”
“Right. A night neither of you will fucking repeat, either,” Roxy said as she unlocked the half door of a black chromed out Jeep. The top wasn’t on, but the two doors still were. “Look, y’all came with Ben and some of his gang, right? Is that how you children found yourselves amongst men...where the streets have no name in this damn city? Where’s your friends?” When she crossed her arms over her chest it shifted her scrub top down, revealing what I’d assumed were smaller breasts, shoving them up, and I must say, it did sting a bit when I’d realized the difference between her body and mine.
Ty shook his head in my peripheral. “No. It’s just us,” he responded, but my thoughts were already too rampaging to really focus.
While I may have gone through puberty, and I may have noticed the curves that seemed to show up overnight, ‘I don’t look like her,’ I thought, as the evil, sneaky low self-esteem pulled, shredding the last frays of thread holding together my little teenage heart when her words hit it.
“Jacques, the VP of this club; I’m his old lady. And I have been for a very long fucking time. And I can promise you…” She pointed to a huge, and until that point, completely unnoticed sign out front that read: NO ONE UNDERAGE PERMITTED. 21 or OLDER!!! SEX, DRUGS, AND ROLLING BIKES HAPPENING HERE! “…That’s one rule Jacques and Arch Cain follow. If you want to stay alive, I’d forget about this place and everything you saw happen here last night.”
Though she was tiny, she was voluptuous. ‘I’m not,’ I thought, hating my own self-pity. I’m gawky and tall. I mean, I have curves, just not like hers. Not at all like hers.
If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 9
