Needing Me, Wanting You

by C. M. Stunich

  I thrust my knife into the man's gut, smiling while I do it. Breaking inside. I pull my blade out and hit him again, and again, and again. One more time for good measure, splattering my face with more red, staining my devil driven heart a darker shade of black. Without waiting around to see what he does, I surge to my feet and swing into another group of Brothers. I unleash the motherfuckin' beast and pray to God I can at least get my friends out of here alive. I don't have time to look around and check on them. The odds, even for me are overwhelming. If everybody in Triple M had been where I've been, this would be a piece of cake. As things stand, I'll be lucky to find out that some folks were at least able to hold their own.

  I swing my hammer like a fucking sword, smashing the metal into the bodies of the men around me, their black jackets and blue colors a blur to my wild vision. Beck Evans takes a break sometimes, steps out of his body and lets the animal take over. Right now, that animal is furious. I spin around and through a gap in the melee, I see the bloodstained spot where Mel had been laying. But she's not there anymore. Christopher is, but he isn't fucking moving. I look around, my eyes scanning the gathered crowd as quick as I can. I manage to find Kimmi and Austin, but I don't see Mel anywhere. If she could get up and fight, I'm sure she would, but I don't see 'er. I do not fuckin' see 'er.

  “Mel!” I shout, shoving back another guy, moving into the street. I hate fights like this, where chaos is erupting and exploding all around you. I feel like I'm floatin' above the damn ground, peering down at this gathered crowd o' fools. “Mel!” I don't see nothing, and I don't hear nothing that gives me a clue as to where she might be. But I do see lights at the end of the street, red and blue. Two cop cars wait at the intersection in the road, near the beach. They don't bother to do shit at this point. I mean, hell, what the fuck they gonna do? Fight a hundred plus bikers with stun guns and rubber bullets? Shoot, man.

  You can bet though that they're calling in reinforcements. Fuck and shit.

  “Austin!” I shout, turning back to the melee, wading into a group of jackets and grabbing a man by the hair. Around me, I can hear the sound of motors. Most of the Triple M'ers are climbing onto their rides. I toss the man to the side, using his hair to send him rolling onto the pavement as I come up to my Pres.

  “Get on your fucking bike, Beck. We're getting the fuck out of here.” Austin is breathing hard and blood is running down his face, but he looks alright. “I just sent Kimmi up for the others. At this point, we've got to go. I'm spreading the word to run. We'll meet up on the highway. If you see the cops, keep going and we'll find each other later. Go.”

  “Where the fuck is Mel?” I demand, noticing that we're not the only ones pulling back. Seventy-seven Brothers knows what a few cop cars now can mean later. With all the shit we been pullin', I would not be surprised to see an entire SWAT team. Fuckin' shit. “Where is she?” I scream when Austin doesn't answer. He gives me a look that says he don't know crap, and turns his attention to getting the group together. Me, I move forward and try to catch sight of the men leaving on their bikes. They aren't going to let this go, not after that bloodbath. I'm about to give up and go after Austin when I see her.

  Melissa.

  Fuck! I run forward as fast as I can and hop on my bike. There's not a fucking second to spare. For whatever fucking reason, fate or whatnot, I ain't got the slightest, somebody from Seventy-seven Brothers has got Melissa on their ride. They're taking my wounded friend, but why? Well, to make sure we pay. That's fucking why. If they take her, we can either leave our friend to a fate worse than death or we can follow after.

  I am bound and motherfucking Goddamn determined to take that advantage away from them.

  “Beck!” Austin screams after me, but I'm already kicking away from the curve and flying down the road, chasing blue and white and broken dreams.

  Tease

  Chapter 8

  I decide to devote my entire day to people-watching, waiting for the sun to set in the sky and remind me that I should head to the clubhouse sooner rather than later. I'm going to spend as much time with my brother as I can before he disappears to God only knows where. I'd had plans to clean up the house, maybe get some paint for the living room. It's looking less than ideal in there. My mother passed away midway through her renovation of the old house, so some rooms, like the kitchen, are near perfect. Others, like the living room need some work. I'm not much of a do-it-yourselfer, but I think I'm capable of throwing up a coat of pale yellow paint. But instead of doing that, I'm still sitting here fantasizing about the lives of strangers.

  Today's crowd is a lot more interesting than usual. I've seen a man in clown makeup, a lady with no shoes, and three separate groups of Japanese tourists. I'm starting up another cigarette and smiling at a pair of girls in matching pink T-shirts when I hear the sound of a bike coming my way. Not many riders come down this street – anyone that knows their shit knows Seventy-seven Brothers has their clubhouse here. Occasionally we get a rider or two who has no idea who we are, who doesn't even know there's an entire world buried below the surface of their lives. Leisure riders, folks who own a motorcycle but have nothing to do with any club. My brother doesn't mind these people, but what he does mind are full patched riders sliding through his territory.

  The cigarette tumbles from my lips and hits the denim of my jeans. I swipe at it and knock it to the floor where it crackles and burns, a single spot of orange in the shadows of the porch. I'm not looking at it though. I can't. The only thing I'm capable of staring at is the insanity that's going on right in front of me. A rider blasts down our street, sliding to a stop directly in front of the house, tires skidding across the pavement, burning the road with the hot scent of rubber.

  I stand up and move towards the railing, curling my fingers around the old wood. Inside my chest, my heart beats a broken rhythm of surprise. I felt both light-headed and grounded at the same time. The air in my lungs becomes stagnant when I forget to breathe. I blow it out in a rush and suck in a massive breath, letting my chest get tight with sunshine and sweet ocean air.

  What … what happened today? I wonder as the man climbs off his bike, his entire face and torso splattered with red. He's wearing a leather vest with patches on the front. One of them says MFFM. My brother's club wears one like that, too. BFFM. It means Brothers Forever, Forever Brothers. I can't be sure what his means, but I can take an educated guess. M Forever, Forever M. Triple M. This man is from Triple M.

  I stagger back a step when his eyes find mine, green boring into green. Through the red splatters on his face, I see tracks like tears. We stand there for a long moment, my heart still racing, his fists clenching tight at his sides. That's when I realize I've made a really stupid fucking mistake. I'm wearing my jacket. It got chilly out earlier as a cloud passed over the sun and cut through the beautiful day. I was so entranced with the lady with no shoes on that I just grabbed the first thing hanging on the coat tree.

  My brother always warns me about wearing club colors at the house. Usually, there are guys hanging around here just in case, but today, there aren't any. Most of the club went out to meet Triple M, and the rest are at the clubhouse. They might only be blocks away, but that's ten blocks too far. I've made it eighteen years without getting into any shit with another MC. Looks like my lucky streak is up.

  I start to move back, realizing too late that this redheaded demon staring straight at me is serious trouble. Triple M. I can see the letters tattooed on his massive bicep. He's so magnetic, I'm having a hard time drawing my gaze away. Down below, my body stirs, tightening places low. Unconsciously, I run my tongue over my lips, even as I start to run, as I reach for the handle on the screen door.

  Footsteps pound behind me, unbelievably fast, almost inhumanly quick. I think then that maybe I made a second mistake. I just turned around and flashed the rockers on the back of my jacket. Property of Tax. Seventy-seven Brothers. It's all right there, whatever evidence this man needed to make his decision.

  His
hand wraps around my hair and drags me back a step, ripping my fingers painfully from the handle of the door.

  “Who are you to them?” he growls at me, yanking my head so far back that I can see his face, dripping with sweat, cutting more tracks through the dried blood. His voice is broken and his eyes wild. We're both breathing fast, chests rising and falling at the same rate. My fingers slide down my pants, searching for a weapon. In the front left pocket, I've got a small knife. As I swallow hard and dig my fingers under the denim, I try to answer him.

  How this guy got down here without anybody seeing, I don't know. But if I can hold him back from whatever he's planning on doing for just a few minutes, somebody from the club is bound to drive by and see us grappling here on the porch. Hell, even a normal citizen walking by would probably call the police. The man's a bit spooked. I can tell; his eyes are darting this way and that. He's probably wondering why he found me here. After all, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that he was looking for the clubhouse.

  “Are you his ol' lady?” the redhead snarls, drawing me back further. My hair is embedded in his tattooed knuckles and pain is shooting through my skull. In my eyes, I see stars silhouetted against the brightness of the sun. I run my tongue over my lips again and try to speak.

  “Who?” My voice is crooked, weak from the angle of my neck. And the pain … I'm the first to admit that I've led a fairly charmed life. This is probably the most physical pain I've ever been in.

  “Sergeant at arms. Your Sergeant at fucking arms. Are you his ol' lady?”

  “No,” I whisper as I finally get my fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife. “I'm Tax's sister.” And then I swing my hand back, aiming for his thigh. A massive hand grabs my wrist, fingers curling so tight around my skin that I cry out and drop the knife. The man lets go of my hair and spins me around, shoving me hard into the wall of the house, right underneath the historical plaque. His green eyes are devastatingly gorgeous, a well of color and emotion. A shade that echoes my own, like we speak the same language through our gazes. My knees feel weak as hot breath brushes over my face, making my eyes flutter closed. What is wrong with me? Something about this whole MC is getting me deep down. I didn't know anything about them, and I was having visceral reactions to the stories. Why? As I stand there with the massive stranger towering over me, I think I know why. I don't want to admit it to myself, but I get a niggling in my belly. You want to belong, but maybe, you don't want to belong here?

  I shake the blasphemous thought away as my eyes fly open, and I spit into the redhead's face. I don't know what he's going to do to me, but whatever it is, I'll be okay. I can get through this. On the outside, I might seem weak, but on the inside, I'm strong.

  “Tax?” he whispers, ignoring my insult. “Why you wearin' a property patch if you're his fucking sister?” The man's voice is faraway, like maybe he's only here in body and not soul. Whatever happened today, whoever's blood that is, it hurt him bad. What did you do, Darren? And are you okay? Please be okay. “Doesn't matter. I don't fuckin' care.” The man shifts his shoulder forward and uses the fabric on his T-shirt to wipe away some of the sweat and my spit from his face. “You're comin' with me, sweetheart.”

  “Fuck I am,” I blurt at him, doing my best to come up with a plan. I'm shoeless which is a huge hindrance. I could kick at him, but it probably wouldn't do me any good. My brain spins as I think up a hundred different scenarios. My brother's taught me how to defend myself. Today's just been a mix-up of strange circumstances and poor mistakes. And this odd ache in my belly. This weird connection to the bastard towering over me. I suck in a massive breath and get ready to scream.

  I hardly get out a squeak before I'm being tugged forward by my wrists and have a gun pressed into my belly. My captor presses his forehead to mine, closing his eyes and sighing heavily, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

  “I do not want to shoot you, sugar cakes. But if I have to, I will. I'm sorry, but I'll do it, and I won't look back.”

  The man opens his green eyes and locks gazes with me, stealing my breath away, knocking the sense from my head. He releases my wrists and steps away, gesturing down the steps with his gun. I could keep fighting here; my brother would probably respect me more if I did. But I can tell on this guy's face: he's serious. He'd put that bullet in me and walk away twice as broken as he is now. I don't want to die facedown on this porch. I can't. It's just not the way things are supposed to be.

  Besides, I know from his look, the deep set of his frown, the tightness of the skin on his face, that whatever happened back there, Seventy-seven Brothers burned him hard. Oh, no, no, no, no. This was not supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to happen.

  Or maybe, just maybe, in some grand scheme of the universe, it was.

  Tease

  Chapter 9

  Once I'm situated on the front of the redhead's bike, I don't bother to fight. As someone who grew up around bikes could tell you, a crash on one of these things hurts. There's nothing between you and the road, but a bit of leather. Or today, in my case, some old jeans. My flesh would be stripped from my bones if we were to take a fall. So no, I don't fight, but I think about it. About what I'm going to do when we stop.

  Right now, I've got the wind in my face, and my heart in my throat. It's still pumping furiously, reminding me that a couple hundred pounds of rock hard muscle is wrapped around my body. I am keenly aware of his scent, a mixture of blood, sweat, and some sort of spicy soap that gives me the chills. I want to be sitting here hating him, but I can't find it in me. Obviously, something happened to him, something that my club was responsible for. I don't see malice in his eyes or lust or greed, just frustration and fear. Besides, if he'd wanted to hurt them, he could've simply killed me. There's another motive here.

  I swallow hard and listen to the rapid thumping of this man's heart. It's pressed tight against my back, beating a rhythm that's a near perfect match to mine. We're both worked up, pumped full of adrenaline and breathing hard. For one of the first times in a long time, I get to ponder the question: what the hell happens next?

  We move down the highway at a blistering speed, right up until a series of red and blue lights flashes by us on the opposite side of the divider wall. I feel the man behind me tense and then all of a sudden, we're flying down a ramp and into a suburban area I know I've been to before. We maneuver through the area at lightning speed, racing around slow moving minivans and slipping right out of the clusters of houses and perfect yards and into the countryside.

  We haven't been traveling for more than an hour when suddenly, we're pulling sharply onto the gravel shoulder of the road and stopping on a dime. The redhead gets off of the bike and takes a few steps back from me, putting his hands on the back of his head and breathing in sharply.

  “Shoot and fuck and Goddamn it, Mother Mary and Christ the Lord. Why?”

  He screams his frustration into the quiet air, getting some very strange looks from a herd of nearby cows. I know he's still got the gun on him, so I stay put on the motorcycle, watching as he moves in a small circle and then pauses, drawing a cellphone from his pocket. He dials a number, waits. Hangs up. Tries again. “Fuck a pig,” he growls, squeezing the phone in his hand for a moment before reconsidering and sticking it back in his pocket.

  Then he pauses for a moment and just stares at me. I get that strange feeling in my stomach again, that pull that makes me wish I could step off the bike and move across the gravel towards him. Towards my kidnapper. Towards a member of a rival gang, one that might possibly have hurt my brother. I touch a hand to my chest and listen to the beat of my heart through my fingertips.

  “What's your name, sweetheart?” he asks me. The wind picks up for a moment, blows my red hair around my face and sticks it to my lips. I consider not answering him, but what will that gain me? The club will know I'm missing sooner rather than later, and they'll come looking for me. If negotiations aren't made first. He'll learn my name somehow, someway. Anyway, I
might stand a better chance escaping this unscathed if I make him look at me as a person and not an object to be bartered with.

  “Tease.” I pause and then add, “Or Emilie Hathorne.” The man stands there staring at me for a long, long moment, his own red hair whirling around in the breeze. After a moment, he takes out a cigarette and puts it between his lips.

  “Beck Evans.” He takes a drag and then drops it, crushing it out with the heel of his boot.

  “What are you going to do to me, Beck?” I ask, not liking the way the question comes out. Almost like a come-on. “My brother is extremely possessive of me. Right now, you're risking your life having me here. As soon as he finds us, he'll kill you.”

  “Bring it on, baby,” Beck says, his voice rough, strained to the edge of breaking. “That's sort of the idea here anyhow. For him to find us. Soon as he does, he gives me back my friend.” Beck shrugs. “I give 'im back his sister.” I start to turn slightly in my seat, but stop when Beck puts his hand on his gun.

  “Tax. My brother. He's the President of Seventy-seven Brothers.” I debated with myself, on whether or not I should admit this. But I think it might help my cause. Beck will know I'm worth something for sure. I'm not just an old lady, a bitch for one of the members to keep in his garage, clean his bike, serve his food. I'm blood related, protected over, guarded.