Needing Me,
Wanting You
C.M. Stunich
Needing Me, Wanting you
Copyright © C.M. Stunich 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 1863 Pioneer Pkwy. E Ste. 203, Springfield, OR 97477-3907.
www.sarianroyal.com
ISBN-10: 193862372X (eBook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-72-1 (eBook)
"Triple M" Name Used With Permission From Melissa, Mireya, and Megan of "Triple M Bookclub"
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to the following people in no particular order. because they're incredible. because they deserve it. and mostly just because I felt like it. ;)
to Stella and Lee from Boston
to Rachael Rushing Pennington
to Amy Jerome
to Susan Harris Avila
to Tracie Blankenship
and of course, to all the wonderful bloggers, readers, and friends I've met along the way. just because your name isn't on this list, doesn't mean I don't heart you. much love
Tease
Chapter 1
I like my job because it's easy. The most difficult part of my day consists of choosing what color eyeshadow to wear, which corset makes me look the curviest. I'm not saying that what I do is going to change the world, but it's all I know, so I roll with it. I think my dad was disappointed in me though. I don't know why, but I always got that feeling when his eyes meet mine from across the room. Like father, like daughter, Dad, I think as I move across the carpet in my heels. Unfortunately, he's not around to ask. Not that he would've admitted it anyway. My dad and I had a strange relationship.
“Emilie,” my brother says, greeting me with a frown and a chaste kiss. Nobody calls me that anymore, but him. Even though I can tell some serious business is brewing, I give him a smile.
“It's good to see you, bro,” I say, and I get the teensiest, tiniest smile back. It only lasts so long though before it's wiped away with responsibility and worry. My brother never stops worrying. It's like a hobby for him. I shrug my jacket up my shoulders and move to the side, giving the Sergeant At Arms of our club, room to face the green-eyed devil everybody calls Tax, but who I still call Dare-Bear. Only when he's not listening, of course.
The two men stand facing each other for a moment before reaching out and shaking hands, hard and gruff. Formal. My brother is really into formalities. And he enforces them. I guess if you can keep a group of seventy-seven wild men in line with a single word, you have the right to. Since the moment our father died, Darren Jr. has been whooping ass and taking names, fighting his way to the top, doing everything in his power to preserve my father's legacies. So whether I agree with the way we do things in Seventy-Seven Brothers or not, I obey.
I look down at the floor beneath my feet, the dark carpeting of the clubhouse framing my black heels in burgundy with cream colored diamonds. I don't have any business here, but I had to see my brother. He's the one that raised me anyhow, so I owe him the courtesy. Besides, it's expected of me. I'm the only woman here who isn't an old lady. I ride with the club out of respect to who my father was, and who my brother is. To everyone else, I'm just a bitch in the garage.
It might bother some ladies, but it doesn't bother me. Despite what you might think, this isn't a blood in, blood out sort of a scenario. I'm free to walk away at any time. I just choose not to. Like I said, my job is easy, and I don't know anything else. The club is my life.
“Go get yourself something to eat, Tease,” Darren tells me, nodding his chin and dismissing me, just like that. I smile again and wink at him, sliding past Oren and his vicious grin. He is absolutely relentless, even in front of my brother. Out of the entire group, that man is by far my least favorite. “I'll come see you later.”
“Is that a promise?” I ask, but Darren's green eyes have already switched off, taken him out of this world and into himself. It means he's thinking about club business and not about me. It used to bother me, but it doesn't anymore. It's amazing how accustomed you can get to something you used to despise. The human race is remarkably adaptable.
A couple of the guys escort me out of the room and down the stairs. Darren might be my brother, but he's still the President of our motorcycle club. Nobody gets in there without some serious trust and a particularly thorough pat down.
Eyes follow me as I move through the halls toward the dining room. Eyes are always following me. That's sort of my whole purpose here. I'm like a walking, talking canvas, a piece of art to be admired. But never touched. A sex symbol who doesn't have sex. Does the name make sense now? Tease is not a monicker I'd have picked out for myself. But then, Emilie Hathorne doesn't work either. I guess I'm just trapped in the in-between. That's okay, though, because I've been here forever and forever I will stay.
“Hungry, princess?” one of the prospects jokes when I move into the dining room, emerging into a frenzied raucous of cheerful shouts and the clinking of silverware. The majority of the club is here tonight for our monthly get-together, and the feeling of family is almost palpable in the air. A real smile tweaks my face then as I gaze around at the crowd in leather and blue. The words Seventy-Seven Brothers stand out at me on the backs of jackets accompanied by two sevens outlined in white.
“The name's Tease,” I tell the man, looking him up and down, immediately casting him aside as any sort of romantic interest. If he's in the MC, I'm not interested. One day, I'm afraid I'll be forced to choose someone to stay, and my chest gets tight. For now, I'm only eighteen years old, and my brother still takes care of me. I have no idea what'll happen later, when I get a little older and he stops looking at me like his little sister and more like a woman with nobody and nothing. I try to tell myself I'm being paranoid, but what happens if Darren isn't the President? What then? “And if Tax hears you calling me that, he'll beat your ass down.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder and move into the room. I'm comfortable here, surrounded by all these people. A good portion of them have been around my entire life, friends to my father and now to my brother. This here is fuckin' family. I tuck my hands in my pockets for a moment and try to decide where to sit. I avoid anybody that doesn't already have an old lady by their side. I'm absolutely, one hundred percent not interested in anyone here, and I don't like people getting ideas. Ideas breed trouble when they're cast in the wrong vein. Besides, most of the men here are twice my age and while I love and respect and even admire many of them, when I do look for a partner, I'd like them to be at least close my own age.
I wander slowly through the group, listening in on snippets of conversation. I try to collect as much information as possible, just in case. You never know when it might come in handy.
“Triple M?” I hear one of my friends ask, leaning forward. Her elbows rest on the table as she runs her tongue over her lips and stares her husband, Cape, down. He's gossiping again which my brother really hates, but situated here around the dinner table, it's hard not to talk about your day. It happens sometimes. “Why does the name sound familiar?” she asks, letting her eyes roll to the ceiling in thought. “They from Virginia?”
“They're not from anywhere,” Cape says, staring into his drink. I think he's had a little too much personally, but I sit down on the bench next to Angelina anyway and watch as his red
face scrunches up. “They travel around the country … ” Cape's voice trails off and he leans in conspiratorially, even when his brother slams his beer down onto the wooden tabletop a bit harder than necessary. “Robbing banks. Banks is their territory.” Cape takes another swig of his drink and sighs. “Robbin' banks and changin' lives, I guess. They're ready to revolutionize the world, one city at a time. Stupid motherfuckers.”
“Goddamn it, Cape,” Tim growls, giving his brother a dark-eyed glare. I pretend not to be interested, reaching into the basket in the center of the table and withdrawing a roll. As Tim continues, voice heavy with anger, I slather butter across the bread and put it to my lips. In a moment or two, somebody will bring me a plate; they always do. If I was here as an old lady, I'd get up and get it myself, take my husband his first. Instead, I get to sit here and pretend I'm one of the guys. It's an illusion, but I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts. “Stop running your mouth and at least get the fucking facts straight.” Tim slaps one big hand into the other for emphasis. “Triple M is a joke. They rob banks and they play games. I don't know what they're getting at here, but starting shit with Bested by Crows and Broken Dallas wasn't the smartest fucking decision. If they keep at this crap, somebody's going to put them down just to prove a point.”
“And what's that point?” I ask. Angelina gives me a look, adjusting the red bandanna she wears on her head. It's not just for looks: Angelina lost her hair in chemo. I reach out and curl my fingers around hers. She's my sister, and I'd do anything for her. I know she'd do the same for me. That's a good feeling. My real sister, Lizzie, she wouldn't give me the scraps from her table.
“The point is that you can't just change the way things are. That's not how the world works. There are rules and you follow 'em. If you're going to try to break boundaries and knock down walls, you have to own them. And they don't. Triple M is a bunch of wannabe riders in easy-to-order jackets. I think we should greet 'em on their way to the coast and take their cuts. They're not worthy of wearing them.” Tim finishes his beer with a huff and stands up, cursing his way across the room and towards the doors in the back corner. He's probably off to smoke and play pool. That's pretty much the favorite activity around here on our Friday night get-togethers. I don't often play, mostly because nobody wants me to, but when I do, I kick all their asses.
I smile.
“Something on your mind, Tease?” Angelina asks me, and I shake my head, resting my chin in my palm. There's something comforting about being here, about knowing that every single fucking person in that room would take a bullet for you. A sense of camaraderie that's hard to find elsewhere. At the same time, it feels like there's a glass ceiling, too. Nobody talks about, but it's there. I can excel, but only in certain areas, only in the places where I'm supposed to excel. There's something soothing about that, too, believe it or not. As long as my head is hitting that ceiling, I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
I touch a hand to my stomach and think about Triple M. I've heard Oren talking about them before. Bank robbers.
I move my hand up my belly and rest it on my chest. My heart is pumping fast, too fast maybe. As I let my thoughts wander, it starts to speed up. Not just bank robbers. Women with patches, with responsibilities, with bikes. With balls.
My soft smile turns into a grin. A big one. Spreading across my face like a sunburn.
Angelina gives me another look, like she has no idea who I am in that moment. By the time a prospect arrives with my plate, the look is gone and I'm back to blending in with the background. Where I belong. Where I'll always belong.
Beck
Chapter 2
Well, shoot.
I run my fingers through my hair and give the little blonde at the bar one, last grin. But she ain't buyin' my shit. Doesn't happen often, but occasionally the ladies get a whiff of my special Beck bullshit and there they go a runnin'.
“No, no, thank you. I'm fine,” she says, grabbing her purse and rising to her feet. She tries to smile at me, but I can tell from the look in her eyes that she knows I'm trouble. “I don't need another drink.” She gives me a look that says she ain't a fan of either my cut or my ink, maybe both. “Have a nice day.” I take a sip of my beer and keep my eyes on her ass as she scurries the fuck out of the bar like she's on fire.
“Aw, baby. I could've set you aflame for real. It woulda been like fireworks in July.” I finish my drink and slide it across the counter. Two seats down, Melissa Diamond is staring at me like I'm a crazy motherfucker. And I am. Honest to God, I really, truly am.
“Boo hoo,” she murmurs, pouting her lips and curling her fingers around her glass. “She was real cute. A genuine Southern belle, like our Little Miss Amy Cross.” Melissa bites off her words and sucks the red straw into her mouth. I give her a look that says I'm doin' my best to find our entertainment for the night, but in this town, it hasn't been easy. These beach babes are smarter than I give 'em credit for.
“Hey, baby. I'm doin' all the heavy lifting over here.” I move over to her and push some hair back from her face. We have a weird relationship, the ex Mrs. Diamond and me. A friendship that nobody else understands. If she wasn't still in love with the late Mr. Diamond, we might've had a chance. But I think Melissa will always care for that scum bag sack o' shit. See, that's the thing about the L-word. You can't control it, can't decide when it bites you in the ass. I've managed to escape it so far, and here's to hopin'. Austin's been walking around with this goofy as shit grin on his damn face, and Gaine … shoot. Fucker went about wooing his woman all the wrong way, but now? He's got that same stupid ass expression. Like they both have been shot in the foot, but are hopped up on morphine. They're both nursin' bleeding wounds they don't even know they have. How stupid is that?
“Well, try harder,” Melissa soothes, spinning around on the stool with her drink. It's somethin' fancy, somethin' blue. I lean over and grab a sip through her straw.
“That's just plain fucking nasty,” I tell her, touching her chin and taking a step back, letting my eyes roam around the semi-darkness of the bar. It's only been three days since we smashed the shit of out Bested by Crows. I'm no fool; shit could go wrong at any minute. I let go of Melissa and run my hands along the denim of my jeans to take note of the weapons there. A small hammer and two knives. I don't carry a whole lot 'cause shit, let's be honest: Beck Evans ain't a bitch. I can kill a man with my bare hands. If you know what you're doing, it isn't all that difficult either. “Why don't you have a beer like a normal person?”
“Why don't you spend less time flapping your lips and more time flirting?” Melissa says, finishing her drink and setting it on the bar behind her. “Preferably with girls that won't flip out when you suggest a threesome to them.” I laugh and rub the stubble on my chin. Damn. The last girl we picked up together, Crystal, she was crazier than a sprayed roach. But hot.
And now she's probably six feet under and rotting.
I blink my eyes, real slow like, just to make sure nobody knows what I'm thinking about. Especially Gaine and Mireya. Last thing I'd need is to let those two assholes know how worried I really am. Far as they know, I'm a big, stupid motherfucker with loose lips and even looser morals. And yeah, I might be big, and I'm sure as shit stupid, but I know what's what. Our existence as an MC is up in the air right now. It shouldn't be, but it is.
Crazy ass Kent. We had a good thing going here. Motorcycles, madness, money. Triple M. Why'd you have to go and screw this crap up?
I glance back at Melissa. Her eyes are all faraway and cloudy again. I hate that look. Tells me she's reminiscing again. I reach out and clamp her shoulder firmly, drawing her back to the here and now. I am straight up proud of this woman. I think Gaine thinks we're in love, but that isn't it at all. I mean, I love the lady, but I'm pretty damn sure I'm not in love with her. I sure as shit ain't walking around with a goofy ass grin on my face. I'm just proud of her for doing what she did before, for taking her vengeance on those flaccid dick holes in Bested by Crows. G
ranted, it isn't entirely their fault that Kent did what he did, went rogue and all. But if Melissa hadn't been there, Gaine might not have made it out alive.
“Hey there, sugar cakes. You alright?” Melissa shrugs and gives me a sultry smile, not half as hot as it was when Kent was alive. Sometimes I think she only liked fuckin' me so much because she knew Kent would flip the fuck out if he knew. I'm not a forbidden fruit no more. Well, crap, shit and damn it. “You want to dance or somethin'? Go down to the beach?” We're right on the coast, and yet, I haven't touched my feet to the sand. Have barely even looked at the sparkling blue waters.
“I liked St. Marlin's better,” Melissa says, looking around the room like this here bar represents the city as a whole. The dark walls and the ratty posters clinging to life with yellowed edges hardly show off what Korbin has to offer. I've been here before, and I know there is a mean ass taffy shop on the boardwalk. “I liked it the first time. Even better the second time. Why did Bested by Crows have to fuck that shit up?” Melissa doesn't answer my questions, just stands up and throws me a wink before heading towards the doors.
I don't follow after her. She wouldn't want me to anyway. The person she's waiting for is never coming back again. I can imagine how that feels. Actually, I don't even need to imagine it. I've been there, done that. And thank you, ma'am, but I am through with that shit.
I snort and run my hand through my hair. The only women left in this bar are hardened and probably immune to my special brand of charm. Best I take my search elsewhere.
I turn on my heel and push my way through the heavy green door at the front. Sunshine slams into my skin with an angry vengeance, teasing the black ink on my arms, making me squint my eyes as I scan the street around me. This here's another quiet, little Southern town with charm and a questionable affiliation with the motorcycle club, Seventy-seven Brothers. I've been worried about them for awhile now. Kimmi, too. Most MCs ride around with chapters, areas, or countries on their bottom rocker. Seventy-seven Brothers rides around with this little gem plastered on the bottom of their leather: Should the Need Arise. Now what the fuck does that mean?
Needing Me, Wanting You Page 1
