by Callie Hart
Nobody.
“Well, that was a crap shoot, huh?” I say. Ramirez’s guy doesn’t hear me, though, because he’s out cold on the ground right where I left him. I go back to him and sigh, standing over him, wondering what the fuck I should do now. If I leave him here, at some point someone will find him. The cutthroat, savage part of me thinks I should probably just kill him. Shoot him in the head with his own gun and drive his sedan out into the desert, have myself a little bonfire. But then again, I’m not the man I used to be. Killing doesn’t thrill or excite me these days. This guy’s out cold, defenseless, and yeah, my own thoughts from a moment ago replay in my head, chastising me: there really is no honor in killing a man without looking him in the eye.
Fuck.
So what, then? I bundle him up and take him back to the club compound with me? Where the fuck would we put him? The basement underneath the barn is dangerously crowded these days. Our permanent resident takes up a lot of fucking space. And Rebel’s head would probably explode if I showed up in one of Ramirez’s cars with a body in the trunk. No. That’s not going to work.
Crouching down, I grab hold of the guy by his hair and yank his head back so I can get a proper look at him. His face really is a mess. He’s going to look like shit tomorrow, that’s for sure. The guy blearily cracks an eye, consciousness fighting to return. “Morning, sailor.” I grin and wave with my free hand. “Little sleepy, are we?”
“Fuck. You,” he wheezes. I think some of his teeth might be broken.
“Oh, I think you’re the one that just got fucked, sunshine.” My Spanish is better than okay, but I can’t make out what he says in response to this, either because the language is too colorful, or his jaw is shattered. “Okay,” I tell him, nodding. “I’m gonna pretend like I caught that and move on. Since we’re here, y’know, chatting, I have a question for you.”
The guy starts laughing, though it looks like it really hurts. He spits blood out of his mouth. “I ain’t…answering no questions for you, cabron.”
I tighten the grip I have on his hair, yanking his head back a little farther. Leaning down, I shove my face into his. “You will if you ever wanna see out of your right eye again.”
Both his left and right eyes swivel to look at me, so wide I can see the whites. “What you gonna do?” he snaps, bravado in his voice. “You ain’t gonna do nothing.”
I give him the same sour smile I used to give my grandmother when she made me eat her famous rabbit stew—the woman was a saint, but she couldn’t fucking cook to save her life. “Shall we find out?” I glance around, trying to find a rock the right size and shape for my purpose, but then I see something even better, far more suited to the task at hand. On the ground a few feet away lies a smouldering cigarette—the very same cigarette the guy lit when he got out of his car, I assume. How ironic. I reach over and pick it up, holding it in the air for my new friend to see.
“Do you think this would hurt?” I ask. Hovering it close to his face so he can feel the heat, I give him a closer look at what I’m going to be stubbing out into his eyeball if he doesn’t play along. “I think it would. But that’s just me.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” the guy spits. “Ramirez won’t stand for it. He’ll wipe out your whole club if you even touch—”
I do more than touch him with it. I roll the brightly burning cherry of the cigarette onto his skin, right on his cheekbone, leaving it there long enough to make him whimper in pain. A stream of Spanish comes pouring out of his mouth, but once again I have no idea what the hell he’s saying. His eyes are watering, rivers of tears running down his face. “Yep. That really looked like it hurt,” I say. Putting the other end of the smoke into my mouth, I pull on it, dragging the fumes down into my lungs. “So, yeah. I think I’ll aim a little higher next time.”
“Fuck you. I don’t even know anything. I’m just a fucking driver, man!”
I tut, giving him my disappointed face. “You knew who I was just fine. I’m confident you’ll be able to answer this question for me.”
The guy glares up at me hatefully. “Ask your fucking question then, and let me fucking go.”
I almost laugh at his indignant tone. “All right, all right. Your boss has been gone for five days. He just came back from...where?”
My captive scowls. “Who knows? I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“That’s a shame. And there you were, telling me your were a driver a moment ago. Drivers usually know where they’re driving to.” I roll the cigarette on his face again, grimacing—you forget after a while what human flesh smells like when it’s cooking. This reminder is unpleasant to say the least. Ramirez’s guy howls as I leave the burning ember on his skin for longer this time.
“Fine, fine! Fuck! He was in Seattle. He was in Seattle.”
I take the cigarette and put it back in my mouth. Seattle? That’s a little too coincidental. Too much has gone down in Seattle in the last six months for that to be a fluke. Ryan was killed there, after all. That was where Ramirez was due to be tried for murder. And it was in Seattle that I first laid eyes on Sophia. “What was he doing there?” I ask.
“He was looking for someone. Some old guy.”
“And he obviously found him. I just saw him being hauled inside the farmhouse back there.” I draw on the cigarette and blow a smoke ring, thinking. “Who is he? And what does Ramirez want with him?”
“I don’t fucking know what he wants with him!” the guy hisses. “I don’t get to question every single fucking thing Ramirez does. He says point and shoot, and I point I shoot. I don’t know why, man. All I know is that he’s some doctor. Some dude who makes sure people are put to sleep when they’re operated on or some shit.”
“An anaesthesiologist?”
“Yeah! Yeah, one of those.”
The cigarette is burning down to the butt. I only have another minute before it’s spent and I have to find something equally as effective to play with. “And his name?” I say. “I’m sure you know his name.”
“Alan. Alan Romera,” he says, spitting the information out quickly. “The guy’s name is Doctor Alan Romera. There! Are you happy now? Fuck you, man. Let me fucking go.”
CHAPTER ONE
SOPHIA
I used to dream about white picket fences. I refused to admit it, though. I swore I’d never spill my secret. Never in a million years. My sister, Sloane, wouldn’t have understood. Since we were tiny, all she ever wanted to do was follow in Dad’s footsteps and become a doctor. She was so driven and focused on her career that the idea of a husband and a family just never occurred to her. I asked her once whether she was going to get married and take time off to have babies after she graduated from medical school, and she just looked at me like I was a perplexing puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. Mom and Dad would have been thrilled to know I wanted to build a home and a family for myself, but I could never voice my dreams to them for some reason. They made me feel uncomfortable in a way that I didn’t know how to handle. Embarrassed, almost. Nearly every woman I knew wanted to achieve greatness, to strive for some seemingly unobtainable goal, to grow and better themselves. It seemed like wanting a family was such a small dream. Pointless in the grand scheme of things, as though being a mother or a wife was always meant to be a secondary role I was meant to play, and my main purpose in life was something far greater.
It’s laughable to think back on all the hours I spent slogging away over test studies and group assignments in college now, though. I never planned on witnessing a murder, getting kidnapped, being spirited away across two states, and falling in love with the president of a motorcycle gang. It never crossed my mind that I might end up running away from everything I ever held dear to me. That I would be laying in bed with a man who stole my heart so thoroughly that I feel like I can barely breathe without him by my side.
It’s been six months. Six months since Jamie found me. The best and the worst six months of my entire life. I’m used to waking up next to him now.
I’m used to the roar of motorcycle engines rumbling in the dark as members of the Widow Makers MC return to the compound—I don’t even notice the sound anymore. I sleep like a baby, my head resting on Louis James Aubertin III’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, and it seems utterly normal that twenty armed men are sleeping in a bunk house only a hundred feet away from us. It’s strange how time and exposure to violence can dull its impact on you. It’s strange how one decision can change your life forever.
“You still sleeping, Prospect?” Jamie whispers into my hair. Sunlight lances through the gap between the heavy curtains, casting long fingers of gold and white across our bodies and up the opposite wall. Dust motes hover in the still air, refracting the light. I’ve been watching them spin for the past twenty minutes, enjoying the way Jamie’s naked body feels tangled up in mine, while I’ve listened to his heartbeat beneath my ear. It’s always the same: slow and steady, never erratic or unpredictable. It calms me. No matter what’s going on in our lives, no matter how much shit seems to be raining down on us, he’s always there, steady like his heart beat, always watching over me.
“Mmm. You’ll never get tired of that, will you?” I whisper.
He strokes a hand lightly over my hair. “What?”
He knows exactly what I’m talking about, but I humor him all the same. “Calling me Prospect,” I say, prodding him in the side. Ever since that night in the desert after we buried Raphael together, the night he agreed that I could prospect for the Widow Makers, he’s taken great delight in calling me that name. He finds it amusing that his girlfriend has to bend over backwards twenty-four seven in an attempt to be accepted into his motorcycle club.
“I guess not,” he says softly, stroking his hand up and down my bare side, making me shiver a little. “It’s good to know you have to behave yourself and do as your told. What can I say? This power I hold over you has gone to my head.”
He’s so fucking ridiculous. He knows I rarely do as I’m told, and he knows I rarely behave myself. He’s clearly asking for trouble. I can hear the smile in his voice, taunting me. I tilt my head so I can graze his chest with my teeth, biting down a little. “You’re dreaming, buddy.”
“Such a pleasant dream, though.” He moves quickly, shifting out from underneath me, throwing one leg over mine and pinning me to the mattress. Taking hold of both my hands, he secures my wrists high above my head. Not for the first time, the pale icy blue of his eyes shocks me. They’re beautiful. Haunting. He’s so incredible I can hardly bear it. His torso, packed with muscle, is covered in tattoos—some in Farsi, some in English. Two colorful birds rest on either side of his pecs, and an intricate skull complete with thorns and roses covers his side. Beneath, the words: Forgive Me Father, For I Have Sinned.
The last tattoo is fairly ironic, given that Jamie could care less about his father. Or these days he doesn’t, anyway. Louis James Aubertin II is a megalomaniac. One of the most vile, spiteful people I’ve ever come across. How Jamie didn’t end up the same way is a mystery. He leans down, rubbing the tip of his nose against mine. “Were you planning on riding your Ducati today?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and bites down hard. “I’m about to fuck you senseless, sugar. By the time I’m done with you, you’re not gonna be able to sit down properly for a week.”
Heat flowers all over my body. God, I don’t know how he still does this to me. I have a very limited frame of reference—my ex, Matt, was hardly the most sexual person on the face of the planet—but I’m pretty sure most people grow comfortable with each other. The intensity of first love burns off, to be replaced by something calmer and deeper if you’re lucky. But with him, with Jamie, that hasn’t happened. The fire that existed between us from the very beginning still remains, burning strong, coupled with such a fathomless love that only seems to strengthen as the seconds pass. I never knew a person could feel like this and stay sane. The power of such a love constantly feels like it’s about to overwhelm me, rob me of my senses, take what little control I have left within me and dash it into pieces. And it feels incredible.
Jamie shakes his head as he looks down at me. He has this way of staring into me that makes my head spin. I don’t feel like I’m me when he looks at me like this. From the expression on his face, it seems as though he’s seeing something magnificent and beautiful for the very first time and it’s bringing him to his knees. There’s no way he can be seeing me, the girl he calls sugar. I’ve seen myself in the mirror, after all. I know I’m not an entirely unattractive girl, but Jamie’s reaction to me always takes me by surprise. Dipping down, he presses his mouth against mine and hums. I love kissing this man. Our bodies were made for each other, and so were our mouths. When he kisses me, it feels like I’m coming alive. I melt into the bed, allowing my body to fall limp as he increases the pressure of his lips against mine. His bare chest brushes against mine, making my nipples tighten and grow hyper sensitive, and Jamie breathes out hard—I can see the way the contact affects him, his skin breaks out in goose bumps.
He’s so warm. Groaning softly, he lowers himself down onto me and I feel like I’m suddenly on fire, prickling all over from the heat he’s kicking out of his body. Using one knee, Jamie pushes my legs apart and adjusts his position so that he’s in between them. His cock is hard already, trapped between our bodies, placed in a position that sends waves of excitement through me. He angles his hips up and presses forward, and it feels like my whole body is surging with electricity. My clit is already swollen, my pussy already wet—Jamie feels just how wet I am and swears under his breath.
“Jesus Christ, Soph. You have no idea what that does to me. Fuck. You’re always so ready for me. Always so turned on. You’re so fucking sexy. I can smell it on you.”
A long time ago, I would have blushed at this. I would have tried to hide my face in embarrassment, buried myself under the covers and tried not to break down from mortification. Now, I know better. I know that he really does mean it. When I’m turned on, he’s turned on. It works both ways. And he’s right—he can smell how turned on I am, because I can smell it on him, too. He smells like sex in the very best way. His body puts out the most intense, amazing scent when he’s about to fuck me, and my own body responds in kind. It drives me absolutely crazy.
“D’you wanna get punished now, Soph?” Jamie licks at my lips, tracing the tip of his tongue over my mouth, and I can’t help myself. I arch my back up off the bed, crushing my breasts against his body, moaning.
“That depends. How are you going to punish me?”
“You’re not cleared for that information, I’m afraid.” He nips at my top lip, pinching my flesh between his teeth just hard enough to make me cry out. “But I can show you if you’d like. Sound good?”
I nod, breathless, and Jamie grins wickedly. “Good girl. Why don’t you start off by showing me how well behaved you’re going to be?” He may know that I never really do as I’m told as a prospect for the club, but in this situation Jamie is king and I am his humble servant. It thrills me to give him what he wants. It excites me to the point of insanity to obey him in every way. Jamie knows this all too well. “Suck,” he says, opening his mouth. He darts his tongue past my lips and I do as I’m told, sucking his tongue, licking at his mouth, trying not to get too ahead of myself just yet.
My arms are starting to ache in the most delicious fucking way. He’s still holding them high over my head, pinning them to the pillow above us, and my wrists are burning. He won’t let go unless I ask him to, and I’m not about to do that. I love feeling vulnerable with him. I love feeling like he has absolute control. He’s so much bigger than me, stronger, more commanding. He could really hurt me if he wanted to, and something about that knowledge tips me over the edge every time. I know with every molecule of my body that he never would hurt me. He makes threats and sometimes even promises, but it’s all bullshit. Under no circumstances would he ever do
anything I didn’t want him to do, especially if it might cause me harm.
Jamie groans as I suck a little harder on his tongue. He pulls back and ducks down, nuzzling into the crook of my neck so he can bite and kiss me there. My neck is my biggest weakness. My whole body hums with excitement, goose bumps everywhere, as he uses his teeth and his tongue on me, sucking, making me pant as he grinds himself against me between my legs.
Letting my hands go, he leans back, palming his cock. “Roll onto your stomach,” he tells me.
Oh god. This is going to be so intense. I turn over, planning on sliding my legs in between his so that he’s straddling me, but Jamie has other plans. He grabs me by the ankles and spreads my legs again, jerking me toward him as he pulls me down the bed. I’m exposed, open to him, my pussy laid bare as he continues to stroke his hand up and down his erection. “Fuck, Soph. You are in some serious trouble right now, girl. I’d apologize ahead of time, but I get the feeling you’re going to like this.”
I should probably protest. As the Widow Makers’ prospect, it’s my job to prepare breakfast for everyone in the mornings. Just one of the shitty tasks I have to complete without bitching. If I bitch, I add time onto my term as a non-member of the club. Letting Jamie have his way with me right now will make me late, and being late to put food in front of twenty hungry bikers is a very bad idea. But still…I can’t do it. I can’t say no. This is going to be too delicious.
“You could still apologize,” I tell him. “At least pretend you’re sorry that you’re about to get me into trouble.”
Behind me, Jamie growls. “No way, Sugar. I don’t hand out apologies unless they’re one hundred percent necessary. You can get your ass up and go start scrambling eggs if you like. I’d prefer not to, but I can finish off this job by myself if you have someplace to be.” He slaps my right ass cheek, making me hiss.
