Angels and Demons

by A. C. Bextor

I’ve never witnessed anything as carnal as that in my life. Not in the movies, on television, not even in the books I once thought treaded a racy line.

  Before leaving her and walking away, he turns back to me. I stare at the patch on his cut, marking him as “Leglas.” Beneath this, “Vice President.” A sliver of fear crawls up my spine, afraid he’s about to do to me what he did to her, but instead he winks.

  I exhale, my cheeks puffing as I do.

  “That’s Leglas,” Cricket answers the unasked question as he walks away.

  When I turn to her, she’s looking down. All signs of happy smiles and whatever transpired between them gone. I want to ask who he really is and more. I want to know who he is to her. I don’t, though. My focus shifts direction.

  The last to open the door is a very tall, very broad man with dark hair a shade past needing a healthy trim. He walks at his own pace, not paying attention to those standing around or me at all.

  Once further inside the room, he stops at Cricket. I watch with stomach fluttering fascination as he bends, picks her off her feet, and hugs her tightly in his tattoo-covered arms. She giggles and I can hear him whispering something into her ear.

  “I know. And I’m glad you’re home,” she gets out when he sets her to her feet and cups her cheeks with his big tattooed hands.

  All distractions are cast away as the man searches her face. Seemingly satisfied she’s happy; he lets her go.

  Having no idea what that was about, I’d say her run-in with the dark-haired man was just as intense as the one who kissed her. In a very different way.

  “El, this is Mia,” she introduces and I startle.

  Elevent’s head turns. His dark brown eyes hit mine and I hold in a breath.

  “She just got in,” Cricket presses next. “So far she’s met the girls and Vante.”

  “Mia,” Elevent nods. His voice is raspy and smooth, his face void of expression.

  Turning to Cricket, he instructs, “Get her to her room for now. Guys and I’ll be done in here soon.”

  Cricket nods, still smiling.

  When he steps away, viewing the open area, his eyes narrow.

  Now that all the men are gathered around the kitchen, going through cabinets, and opening and shutting the refrigerator doors; I have an uninterrupted view of them sharing jabs, slapping shoulders, and doing what they do. The exchanges between them are comfortable—practiced.

  “Where’s Ziah?” Elevent abruptly questions.

  “Here I am!” Ziah calls, racing to him and landing square against his hip.

  Elevent returns the hug with one arm and smiles down. A gentle smile forms, one sent not from a biker to a tagalong, but from a grown man to a young boy.

  “Elevent’s the president of this Saint’s chapter,” Cricket informs. “Also, the one who made the deal with Vlad that you could hang here.”

  Interesting. Myra said Elevent was ‘the shit.’ Wren spoke highly of him. I wonder how Wren knows Elevent and how their paths had crossed.

  With my curiosity of him piqued, I take a closer look.

  Elevent detaches Ziah from his hip to remove his vest and set it aside. His scuffed boots mark the floor with chunks of dirt. The bottom of his worn jeans are tattered and torn. His powerful thighs lead to a small waist. His chest is broad, the black tee shirt strains over the muscles beneath. A colorful tattoo covers his arm, down his wrist, to the front of his hand. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but neither are any of the others.

  I am Elevent’s, Lane had said.

  Interesting. Elevent doesn’t appear a man who’d take or belong to anyone. Nor does he appear a man who’d need to. He seems his own person.

  When someone hands him an open bottle of beer, he accepts. He’s holding it casually in the tips of his fingers, dropping it to rest on his thigh. His other hand runs through his thick dark hair, which needs washing.

  “Elevent,” I whisper, testing the name on my tongue.

  Cricket returns my whisper with her own. “Elevent’s good. All the way around,” she tells me.

  The other men give him space, doing so out of respect. They’re giving him quiet among the chaos and he’s taking advantage.

  Continuing, Cricket says, “El let Pyke take Ziah in when Ziah was lost.”

  Twisting my neck, I scan Cricket’s face while prompting, “Ziah was lost?”

  Sadness streaks her eyes and she replies, “Bad story there, but everything is all good now.”

  I hate to dwell over the bad story that brought Ziah to live here, in this filth, with these men. But judging how the others pat his small head, or side hug him, he’s obviously safe here. And there’s no denying Pyke is his nearest and dearest friend.

  I’m glad he has that. We all should.

  Turning our attention back to the room, I grasp my bag tightly.

  “And then, Pyke was all like, ‘Get him now, Ziah!’” the boy reenacts, holding his arm up as if holding a gun. “He scared him away before I had my shot.”

  “But you had a shot and just couldn’t do it,” the woman I remember as Jizzy answers. She’s hanging onto Vante as if she’s done this before.

  “Yeah,” Ziah self-shames, looking down to his boots. “I couldn’t. Wanted to, though. And maybe I should have.”

  Elevent runs his hand over the top of Ziah’s head. Bending at the waist, he whispers in the boy’s ear and Ziah smiles wide. Happy, approval’s given; he rushes off in the opposite direction.

  “Let’s get you settled,” Cricket calls on a whisper, grabbing my arm with care. “Then Sunny and I can show you around more.”

  “Okay,” I reply, following where she goes.

  Before taking the stairs up, I chance one last look back. Lane is standing in Elevent’s arms. He’s holding her close, so close there’s not a single space between them. Even standing, her legs are tangled in his. Her arms around his waist.

  He’s looking down on her with what appears to be a starving need.

  I’ve never had anyone look at me that way: with adoration, longing, or otherwise. A sudden reminder of loneliness settles deep. I’m twenty-five years old, hardly an old crow. Yet, as I study this group of tightly knit friends who’ve made themselves a family, I realize just how completely alone I truly am.

  “El, did you hear what I said?” Lane nags, standing at my side as I move to unlock my door.

  We’re standing in the hallway of my room, upstairs toward the back of the building.

  I hadn’t noticed Lane waiting, knees up and ass to ground in front of my door, until I was already up the stairs and on my way. Fuck knows how long she’d been here. Once I glanced down to see her standing alone, posture defeated and fidgeting, the hurt in her eyes said all it needed to.

  Lane isn’t comfortable with new guest. She feels threatened, and when women like her feel threatened, they tend to do stupid shit, acting out in ways a man like me has no time or patience for.

  Since Mia arrived, I’ve been careful to keep my distance from the girls. Granted, this is a club and though I won’t curtail my behavior or those of my men completely, I’ve done what I can to keep what goes on here to a minimum. This includes having Lane walking around gloating after being thoroughly fucked in my room.

  With the changes coming to the club, I need to focus. I need time to myself. We’ve got to bring in more recruits. If needed, we’ll have to reach out to other MCs in our region to do so. This takes work—concentration I need to have.

  What I don’t need is any shit from Lane.

  I’m not like some of the other brothers. I don’t randomly fuck any open pussy thrown in my face. I fuck Lane because she’s as close to me ever taking a woman as it gets.

  Lane is overly flirtatious and friendly with all the brothers, but she’s been told as long as she’s in my bed, she’s not to be in theirs. She also understands my feelings for her come with only sexual intent.

  This is to say, I appreciate her ass, don’t hate her tits, and her pussy is always readily ava
ilable. Not to mention, she doesn’t make me work hard to have a taste of any of it. She’ll do as I tell her, because she’s come to appreciate the perks of what she assumes being my personal whore gives her over the others.

  Mia may be here for a while. She’s not a piece brought in for entertainment. Yet, those bitches are in their rooms alone at night, jerking off to the memory of her tight body and sweet voice.

  “I heard you, Lane,” I lie. “But now’s not a good time.”

  Truth is, my mind hasn’t been on Lane in over a week. Further truth, my hand and the image of Mia has been better than any other woman in my bed. And by age and right, I’ve had a few.

  If you’d asked me two weeks ago what Myra’s little sister looked like, I’d say she likely paled in comparison because Myra was gifted all the beautiful glory.

  I would’ve been wrong. Very fucking wrong.

  Mia doesn’t have Myra’s brown eyes; hers are blue with long, black lashes framing them. Her angelic skin has a natural blush. And her lips are a slight shade of pink. She has long, wavy dark hair, which I’d bet is soft to the touch.

  Beneath the tight body, carried by toned, tanned legs, could be a fiery-tempered temptress waiting to claw her way out. Any man—namely me—would spend hours worshipping every inch for the shot to get inside it.

  Not to mention, Mia has a smile that could bring that same man to his knees. I haven’t gotten the courtesy of this yet; so far it’s been saved for a few of the men, mainly Vante, Pyke, and little Ziah.

  And fuck, but those goddamn dresses she’s been wearing.

  Christ.

  My rule to those here clearly stated Mia wasn’t to be touched. I should’ve added she wasn’t to be on display. Because as the men got their first look at the innocence she carries, Mia Zanders was not only being touched by every pair eyes in the room, she was being violated by them.

  When she’s so much as in sensing distance, the brothers push their chests out, their dicks get hard, and I lose their focus and attention.

  The woman comes so pure and clean, she has no fuckin’ clue of their reactions.

  “You’re distracted,” Lane rightfully accuses. “I know because you’re not listening.”

  Bringing my gaze to hers, I find what I always do with Lane.

  Willingness. Submission. Obedience. Need.

  She wants a commitment, but she’s not willing to put in the time and effort to get it. Unfortunately for her, I’m not interested anyway. Not anymore.

  “This is about her,” Lane guesses, her eyes narrowed and body rocking back on a foot as if I’ve slapped her. “You never say no when I come to you.”

  Turning back to my door, I grab the handle and I insist, “Let it go, Lane.”

  Lane doesn’t let this go. She rarely does.

  Wrapping her arms around my waist from behind, she snakes her hand down my abs, finally coming to rest against my cock. She rubs the zipper hard, while using her other hand to work the button of my jeans.

  As of now, this shit stops.

  “Um,” a small voice calls and I turn my head. In my peripheral, I watch Lane’s turn as well.

  Mia, wearing another fucking dress, this one white with red markings over it, stands not five feet away. She’s wearing her hair in a single braid down her shoulder. Her legs are mostly bare and she’s wearing a pair of what looks to be red slippers.

  Lane takes her in as I do and huffs, keeping her hands where they are.

  Mia studies Lane working my zipper before she looks away. My cock pulses as I glare at her teeth biting her bottom lip. Her cheeks and neck are flushed, and she’s putting all of her weight to one foot, mindlessly tapping the other.

  “I’m supposed to come find you,” Mia informs. “Sty said to tell you Mom and Pop are an hour out.”

  “Thank you,” I return evenly.

  Mia makes no move to exit and Lane, being used to competition, ups her game by sliding her hand under my shirt and over my abs, while now aggressively working my jean-covered cock.

  “Anything else?” I prompt, bringing Mia’s eyes back to mine, in hopes to shield her in some way.

  Shaking her head, Mia’s eyes narrow before she rolls them in challenge. Once she’s finished, she hits Lane with a catty glare and says, “I’ll tell Sty you’ll need a minute… for whatever.”

  “Thirty minutes,” Lane returns tersely. “Elevent likes to take his time.”

  At this remark, Mia winces.

  Fucking bitches.

  Grabbing Lane’s hand and shoving it back at her, I unlock my room and inform, “Comin’ down now.”

  When I turn back, Mia’s already gone.

  Fucking catty-ass biker bitches.

  “Oh, my handsome boy!” a woman the others are calling ‘Mom’ chants as she drops her bag and rushes to Sty. “My sweet, sweet beautiful boy!”

  Sty’s smile is genuine, as he gazes down at her with familiarity and adoration. The dimples on both sides of his cheeks come, and she reaches up to squeeze them in her chubby fists.

  When the handsome, older couple walked in the front door, the air in the room evaporated at the thunderous expression the man wore. The string of broken words uttered in Spanish were led in next by a short, round Mexican woman pushing, no shoving, at his back.

  I don’t know much Spanish, but her tone told all that she wasn’t happy.

  “And you!” Mom points, freeing Sty and taking two steps to his side. She wraps her arms around Sunny. “Just as beautiful as the last time I saw you.” She hugs Sunny tightly, Sunny having to bend at the waist to hold Mom close.

  “Woman, can you shut up for a goddamn minute?” the man called ‘Pop’ clips in irritation, as he grabs a half-empty bottle of beer from another member’s hand. “Driving me to goddamn drink already, and we just got here.”

  Pop is short—no more than five foot five. He’s mostly bald, and the hair he does have at the back and sides is all gray. His tanned face is cut, his nose likely broken more than once. His eyes are kind, even if his tone isn’t.

  After their tumultuous arrival, everyone stood and rushed toward them; with the exception of me, of course. I stayed behind the bar and tried to look busy.

  Before they got in, I was instructed to find Elevent and give the word they were en route. When I did find him, the scene was tasteless and a little gross.

  Lane was telling the truth, even though I hadn’t understood. She is no doubt with Elevent. Not because she was with him the first night I arrived, but because a woman knows when another is staking her territory. And her point was clearly made.

  The vision of her wrapped around him, stroking him for all the world and me to see, will be forever etched in my mind. Right next to the image of how he glared at me as this was happening.

  Without words, Elevent’s expression relayed an apology. I sensed he was doing what he did to guard me from seeing what I’d walked in on, rather than giving me a chance for full view.

  Just over a week has passed since I met Lane, and luckily, I haven’t seen much of her at all. When I have, she’s been with Jizzy and Joz. Intentionally or not, most of the women have ignored my presence. Which is fine, seeing as I’m ignoring theirs.

  I’ve seen Elevent twice.

  Once I was alone, walking aimlessly around the clubhouse. I happened to stumble into a room full of biker men, wearing cuts and sitting around an old, wooden table. The door had been cracked, and as soon as I pushed it open, all scary and intense eyes came to mine. Vante stood, smiled, as if my interruption was amusing, and immediately escorted me out.

  I haven’t roamed since but rather have stuck to my room, where I’ve gotten more practice in cursing Vlad Zalesky for his keen ability to make such threatening enemies.

  The second time, he was standing near the door, watching me work behind narrowed eyes. I didn’t look away. There’s no reason to deny how badly I want to leave, but until my sister gets back, I’m stuck.

  “Oh, my sweet baby Jesus,” Mom startles, c
asting a glance in my direction then locking on me, eye to eye.

  Standing in what is a one-piece, one-size-fits-all muumuu, she begins to assess. Her expression is guarded, even hard. She must see me as an outsider as God himself knows I must look it.

  I offer a small wave when Sunny explains, “Mom, this is Mia.”

  Examining me further, Mom travels the short steps until she’s behind the bar. She drops her gaze from mine in order to scan the array of boxes messing the floor. Stepping around the cardboard piles, she stops within a foot of where I stand.

  “Beautiful face,” she says quietly and from what I gather sincerely. “Beautiful hair,” she adds more, roaming over said hair with an appreciative gaze.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  “And those eyes,” she gushes, standing tiptoe to get a better look. “Sent from the heavens, this one,” she promises, turning to the others and pointing to my face.

  I hear Pop pass a quiet, “Fuck” as Pyke, who I hadn’t seen come into the room, slaps Pop’s shoulders and murmurs, “Told you.”

  Sty smiles. Sunny beams. Ziah grins.

  “Thank you,” I utter again, sounding lame.

  I mean, what else can I say? I’m being picked over by a woman I’ve never met, inside a place I don’t belong.

  Ignoring my apprehension, Mom does another investigative scan and her eyes drop to my dress, down to my legs, to the red dress slippers on my feet.

  “Beautiful,” she says again. Her expression reads confused as she questions, “But, bella, who are you?”

  Lifting my brow, I repeat, “Who am I?”

  Nodding profusely, she tersely questions, “Why are you here?”

  “Um.”

  With no shame, and no ill will intended, she points out, “You’re not like the others. What are you doing here? I do not understand.”

  “We’re doin’ her family a favor,” Sty chimes, saving me from having to explain.

  “I see,” Mom notes, not looking away.

  “I’ll only be here for a little while,” I tell her, in all truth hoping I’m right.

  “Well, while you’re here, we’ll see what to do about this,” she insists, grabbing my waist and wrapping her small hands around it, as though checking its size. Without a choice, I lift my arms to give her room to move. “You have nice hips. Which means beautiful babies. But you need to eat.”