“I’m sure he’ll be getting shit from Harvey about the same.” Kiko shrugged. “It’s the price of what we’re asking.” He rubbed his nose a second, thinking about the situation, then murmured, “You are in fighting form, aren’t you, J? Those fuckers are a tough bunch, and I don’t know which you’ll be fighting.”
J frowned. “I’m fighting fit, don’t worry about that. But what do you mean? This isn’t a Council dictate?”
Kiko shook his head. “No. We need you to approach them individually. Like you’re not acting on Council orders.”
“Why?”
As Kiko stared into the distance, the large yard a mud-strewn battleground after having dozens of bears trawling around on it the week before, he murmured softly, “Because the intention is to put a halt to any talk of a war, J—not to start one. If the brothers know we’re behind this, that we’re plotting, it could be the tsunami that drags us under.”
Chapter Seven
Mischa stared up at the ceiling. It was as boring as the last ten thousandth time she’d checked, but she was on edge, antsy.
She had been ever since she’d woken up this morning and realized she’d been Claimed—that she was no longer a single entity, but part of a pair. A mated pair.
It wasn’t that the notion bothered her. It was that she bothered her.
Thus far, it had all been about her. Her needs and wants. She’d practically drooled at the idea of having Kiko as a mate. He’d keep her safe, protect her from any and all boo-boos. But now that she was joined to him, that wasn’t enough.
What did she bring to the table?
Neuroses? Phobias? Nightmares?
What use, what help, were they to her mate?
He’d never considered any of that, she felt sure. He was just so relieved that she was a part of his life. And if she were as old as he was, then she guessed she could understand the desperate need to no longer be alone. Plus, since he was aware his mate was out there somewhere, the gaping hole of her absence would have been sorely felt… All that mattered to him was her presence.
But that wasn’t enough for her.
She had no talents, nothing to bring to him.
Sure, she could speak English, a little French. Russian, of course. But what good were languages?
She was a cleaner, a housekeeper here at the clubhouse, and that was the rub. This morning, when she’d gone and started her chores, Jarvis and Hendricks had shooed her out of the kitchen. She’d gawked at their six-feet plus selves, leather clad and sporting aprons around their waists like they were housewives in some rock video that was mocking feminism or something. She’d watched, aghast, as they cooked… as they took over her job.
That was her role. She helped with the cooking and the cleaning.
But now she was a mate, and the men wouldn’t let her.
It was why she’d been outside the Council room waiting for Kiko.
She’d needed a dose of normalcy, needed to be with the one man who was becoming her rock, only to learn that the shitstorm brewing in the MC was coming to a head.
So now, she was on edge about her place in the MC, as well as concerned about the MC’s ongoing existence.
Huh, like that made things easier.
She pulled out the duvet a little and scurried underneath the blankets. Tucking herself in, she curled on her side, giving the door a chance to beat her in a staring contest. What she was waiting for, she didn’t really know.
If Kiko came, he only brought with him more questions in need of answering.
If he didn’t come, she was left to rot with her thoughts.
Annette had purpose. Christie seemed to be too laden down with morning sickness to do more than sleep, eat, and puke—literally. Mischa had sat with her yesterday, and in the space of an hour, Christie had been up and down more than a dancer. And though she was pregnant, if anything, she seemed to be losing weight rather than gaining it. Christie was the cradle of life, whereas Mischa was… unemployed.
Grimacing, she cuddled deeper into the covers and thought about how she could do some good. She’d always helped her grandfather with his administration work. Could she help Kiko or Mars, heck, the Council, to keep their affairs in order?
But would they trust her?
Just because she was a mate didn’t mean she was trustworthy, or even competent. They didn’t know she was a genius at admin, that she could create order in chaos. Because her grandfather had thrived in a disaster zone, she was used to clearing up the mess. Just because they didn’t know that now didn’t mean they couldn’t learn. Which meant she’d have to prove her capabilities… Maybe Annette would help her with that?
Mischa didn’t think she could stand the idea of days where she had nothing to do save wait for Kiko to come back from whatever the hell it was he actually did.
None of the men had regular jobs save for Mundo, who seemed to work ordinary hours at a garage the MC owned. But aside from those workers, they all hung around the clubhouse, until, with a dust cloud that rivalled a tsunami, they took off for parts unknown on the backs of their bikes.
She knew they transported weed. She knew guns were on the table too. But Annette had assured her Mars was trying to make the MC a more legal kind of business, which was why there was mutiny in the ranks.
Legal didn’t pay as well as illegal.
That didn’t change, no matter where you were in the world.
Funny how that was reassuring in its own bizarre way. People didn’t change. Not really. The language might be different, and there could be cultural clashes, but still… at their most basic, people rarely jumped out of their allotted spots.
That, on the other hand, wasn’t reassuring at all.
Not considering her past.
Making a face, determined not to spoil today any more than she already had with the strange start to the morning, she tried to wonder if she could be the administrative help to an organization that peddled arms and hashish. From boring transliterations to weed, could her world have become any more insane?
The thought had her grinning and then openly laughing out loud. Of course, Kiko had to choose right that moment to come in, didn’t he? When she looked as mad as the Mad Hatter.
“What are you chuckling at?” he asked, a smile on his lips—a smile that was there because of her.
It warmed her all the way through, core to outer shell. How could it not? His basic contentedness was so engaging that when she threw in the pleasure he felt at seeing her smile, it was like being cosseted in a huge, fluffy, sometimes erect blanket.
Thinking about the sometimes erect part had her cheeks pinkening, but she managed to stutter out, “Just thinking about how crazy the world is.”
“And it’s getting weirder.” He shook his head. “I swear, things were so much simpler back when I was kid.”
“When was that?” she asked, genuinely curious. Thus far, he’d said surprisingly little about his past, and because they had a seemingly unlimited time together, she was in no rush to learn everything all at once. But sometimes, when there was an opening, you just had to dive in all the way. Especially when her mate, she feared, had a tendency to be close-mouthed.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teased, shooting her a cheeky grin as he headed over to the chest of drawers at the other side of the room. When he stood there, rifling through the top drawer, the sunlight shone through the windows highlighting the thousands of distinct colors in his hair. On a woman, that coloring would have spoken of a supremely expensive hair job. She’d never seen anything like it. Hundreds of different browns and blacks and blondes, all together in a tawny mass that she had the privilege of being able to run her fingers through. His face was craggy, but she knew he’d been in the Second World War… as a young man, and yet, he barely looked like he was in his thirties.
The thought had her scowling. “Will you stay looking all young and handsome while I grow old and haggard?”
His head shot up at that, then he snorted at the sight
of her scowl. “We’ll age together. At the same rate, anyway. Vanity, thy name is woman.”
His chiding had her huffing and deciding that if he could be a smartass, two could play that game. “You know that’s a misquote, right?”
His lips twitched. “Really?”
She nodded, smug in the knowledge that she was right and he was wrong. “Frailty, thy name is woman. Was what Shakespeare wrote. And it isn’t vain to not want to be eighty when your mate looks forty. It wouldn’t be fair at all!”
She could tell from the way he wiggled his head, he was doing some mental arithmetic, but the numbers that flashed through his head were a little hard for her to process. Her belief was compounded by his reply. “That’s not the right ratio. When you’re eighty, you’ll probably look late twenties.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she didn’t care that she looked like a goldfish. “You’re the fountain of youth!”
“Hardly. It seems like a blessing, but I promise you, when you’re alone for that length of time, it isn’t.”
She grimaced. “No, I guess not. Which brings me back to my original question. When were you born?”
“You won’t like the answer.” His matter of fact attitude had her frowning. Then, she frowned harder when he carried on rifling through his drawers, ignoring her.
“What are you looking for?”
He paused in his hunt. “A comfortable shirt.”
“What’s wrong with the one you’re wearing?”
He grimaced, repeating, “You won’t like the answer.”
“Maybe you should just think it and then I’ll know the answer without you having to say a word.” When she felt his studied blankness, she knew he was trying to shield himself from her, but then she caught sight of an image that had her gawking—women dressed in petticoats and crinoline skirts, men in tailored suits and top hats. Carriages on the streets. Horse crap everywhere. Orphans running around barefoot, scavenging for food. Pickpockets running amok. She could almost smell the stench of coal burning, the smog in the air thick and foul. The vivacity of the pictures practically choked her lungs.
She managed to splutter, “You were born last century?”
He grimaced. “Damn. I need to figure out a way to stop you from reading my mind.”
“Good luck at that. I didn’t read your mind. I just saw a memory and pieced the puzzle together.”
“Your gift is getting stronger then.” He rolled his eyes. “Great. Just what I need.”
“Well, that answers, kind of, when you were born. But I still don’t know why you’re getting changed. You’re clean. I mean, I’ve seen you walk around dirtier when you’re cleaning up your bike.”
His grin had her mouth curling into a matching curve. It was impossible to quell; that smile was contagious. “You still haven’t been on the back of her, have you?”
“Oh, no. You think your bike is female?” She groaned and grabbed her pillow, then shoved it over her head to hide from the hideous truth.
“Would you prefer me to be riding a dude?” he huffed. “I know which side my bread is buttered.”
She peeked at him from under the pillow then laughed at the disgruntled look on his face. “Tell me why you’re changing clothes, and we can go for a ride tonight.”
“Oh, you’ll let me take you out, will you?” he said, half-teasing. “How kind of you.”
“I know. I’m generous like that.”
He huffed again then admitted, “Justiss was smoking pot. I hate the smell.”
Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“What? That I dislike the smell or that Justiss was smoking weed?”
“Well, both, I guess.” She removed her arms from under the covers and folded them on her chest. “You’re an MC. I just figured you guys were into drugs.”
That had him snorting out a laugh. “Yeah, because that fits with the guys you’ve been dealing with. Bears are, if you hadn’t noticed, big. Very big. We need a hell of a lot of anything for it to affect our systems. Even then, it’s more the psychedelic shit—things that affect the central nervous system rather than, well, other parts.”
“Very scientifically phrased,” she teased, smirking at him. “But I get what you mean. I suppose it makes sense. With your weight alone, you’re not going to get much of a buzz on something like crack or coke.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
“So why is Justiss smoking pot then?”
“Bad habit, by the sound of it. Like humans, we are capable of addictive behavior.”
“So, he smokes that like we’d smoke tobacco?”
“It seems that way, yes.”
“And why do I sense you don’t approve?”
He let out a sigh. “Because I don’t. Not really. I mean, if I didn’t have plans for him, I wouldn’t mind. It’s his body. But I know Mars doesn’t approve of drugs in a big way. You know how humans view junkies? Like they’re depraved or subhuman?”
“I guess. But we don’t all see them that way.”
“Wait until they steal from you, then they’re all subhuman.” He grunted. “Not saying it’s fair or nice, just making a comparison here… roll with it, okay?” When she nodded her agreement, he continued, “Shifters who use drugs on a consistent basis might as well be junkies in our eyes. It’s just how we are. We don’t like other Shifters who have judgment issues or control problems. Mars is worse than most. He’s a real critical bastard when it comes to shit like this.”
“But if the drugs don’t affect you like they do us, then why would it cause any kind of concern?”
“Because it does.” He jerked a shoulder. “Not saying it makes sense. Just how it is.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Maybe. But that’s how we live. We’re beasts at heart, mate. You can’t forget that. Whatever disturbs the animal, disturbs the Clan. And drugs, while they’re not difficult for the human body to process, are inordinately difficult for the creature to cope with. Weed, not so much, but some of the hardcore shit? If a Shifter happened to change during a session, we’d have a rampage on our hands. No matter if the drug is a depressant. The Bear never deals well with chemicals raging through its system. It’s like asking to trigger a riot, and if you haven’t noticed, we try to keep that part of ourselves under wraps. We’re an MC; that brings a certain amount of notoriety. But we’re not known as being Shifters. Drugs endanger that, and that pisses off guys like Mars who have issues with drugs anyway.”
“Yeah, I can see how having two ton beasts running around town wouldn’t do anyone any good.”
“Exactly.” Apparently satisfied she understood, he stripped off his shirt and replaced it with one he’d found in the dresser. She watched as he crossed the room to the laundry hamper, shoved the ‘dirty’ one into it, then headed for the foot of the bed where he stood, his posture mimicking hers—arms folded across his chest.
Only, she doubted she looked half as impressive as he did. Christ, he was huge.
Especially in a supine position.
KIKO (MC Bear Mates Book 3) Page 14
