HIS SWEETNESS

by Leah Sharelle

  Squid lost his hearing in one ear and chose to leave when he was offered a discharge instead of staying on in another capacity in the army. Hence why the stupid prick kept slamming everything.

  “Make this crap car work like it’s brand new, boys,” I ordered. Satisfied they had everything under control, I walked towards the front doors of the compound. The two huge wooden doors had the Wounded Souls’ insignia carved into one side—a skull wearing a battle helmet with a crutch and a sniper rifle intersecting each other instead of crossbones. It filled me with pride to see it every time I opened the door to the main room.

  Booth and I had taken out time to come up with that particular design. It represented everything we were. Hard-arse soldiers and broken. Booth’s and my broken might not be able to be seen like some of the brothers, but we were broken and dealing with it every day. Some days are harder than others, I thought to myself as I pushed open the doors and went in search of my pres.

  We’d had a few troubles at two of the club’s businesses. The strip club and the bar and grill. Even though I ran the construction business, as one of the founding members, I had my hand in each of the pies, so to speak.

  It didn’t take me long to find Booth, though it took me longer to figure out what the fuck he was doing. He was in the kitchen with his hands on his hips, staring down at what looked to be some sort of shortbread dessert.

  It actually looks really good, I thought as I realised with all the rushing around this morning, I had forgotten to eat breakfast myself.

  “Brother?”

  Booth turned his head to look at me. He looked totally and completely baffled.

  “You see this?” he asked, pointing at the tempting treat.

  “Yep.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Not sure I understand the question, brother.” And I didn’t. He was acting really weird. Booth was normally sharp as a tack, and his ability to be on point and precise was why he made the best commanding officer—aka CO—I’d ever had. But right now? Right now, I was thinking he was losing his mind.

  “Look at this place, Deck. It’s fucking clean all the time. There is food all…the…time in the fridge and cupboards.” Looking around the kitchen, Booth waved his arms in the air. “And smell that? The fucking smells that come from here now make me hungry all the fucking time!” he ranted at me.

  Jesus Christ, he had finally lost it. Shrapnel or something had moved in his body to his brain and punctured the bloody thing.

  “Booth, mate.”

  “And the clean clothes,” he interrupted me. “My laundry is always done! And smells like fucking flowers and vanilla or some shit.”

  “Okkkaaaay, as entertaining as this meltdown is, we gotta talk about some issues that are going on. Meet in the war room in ten, brother,” I said. I wasn’t sure he’d heard until he gave me a distracted chin lift while still staring down at the shortbread and muttering about spring flowers and ironed seams in his combat pants.

  This could be fun to watch, I thought absently as I walked out of the kitchen to find the club’s VP, enforcer, road captain, and treasurer. All of us made up the founding members of the Wounded Souls, and each of us was head of a particular business. I was head of the construction, and Booth was head of the gun shop and range. VP Steel headed up the bar and grill where his large physical presence helped keep the drunken louts mostly under control. Mannix, being the enforcer, was the perfect choice to work the strip club. The man wasn’t as tall as the rest of us brothers, but damn, he was built like a brick shithouse. He and Darth rivalled each other for size, Darth just winning in my book. Getting Darth—the large prick—to smile was hard, really hard, but my squirt could do it no problem. Shiloh was always bringing a smile to my face.

  Then we had Creed.

  If any of us was broken beyond repair, it was our road captain. He also ran our bike and car custom shop where we offered everyday mechanical work to custom car and bike builds. Seb and Squid worked with him. There was nothing the man couldn’t fix. He could build anything from scratch and make it beautiful. But Shiloh could not make Creed smile no matter how hard she tried. He was never mean to her and took his turn babysitting her, holding her, or kissing her boo-boos when needed, but never did he smile.

  He was broken on the inside and the outside. His face was badly scarred from an exploding IED. Then the other scars on his back and stomach happened when a horrific bike accident took the life of his pregnant wife, which explained why Creed never took a pillion passenger on his bike. Creed was one of my closest friends before the army and during our enlistment, as well as Darth. The club gave Creed a reason not to put a bullet in his brain. Harsh, yes, but a hard fact and a dose of reality when dealing with PTSD.

  “Brothers, war room,” I demanded as I walked past them towards the sanctuary that was only open to patched officers unless otherwise invited.

  Decorated in basic black and dark green, it had comfortable, leather wingback chairs that surrounded a huge oak table with our insignia etched into a glass panel recessed into the table. The rest of the room was tastefully masculine except for the small pink castle playhouse in the corner. Shiloh was a big part of our lives and allowed anywhere we went. The only exception—and I did mean only—to every rule in the club.

  I waited for everyone to take his assigned seat, watching with a smile as Booth dropped into his chair, giving his shirt a whiff as he sat. Stupid prick was certainly letting the laundry issue get to him.

  Looking at the empty chair, I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “Where is Ford?”

  Before I could get an answer, the war room door burst open and in tumbled Ford, and I mean tumbled. This man was a full-blown fucking mess. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair all over the place, his boots not laced properly, but there wasn’t a thing the man couldn’t do with a computer and the club’s finances. He was a fucking genius and a really great bloke. Shiloh adored him, and next to Darth, he was her next best partner in crime.

  “All right, you brought these matters to my attention, Deck, so you take the lead on this,” Booth announced, his game face back on, nice smelling laundry and shortbread put aside.

  “Okay, well, I’m not sure how much of a problem these are, but”—I zeroed in on Mannix and Steel—“I got three phone calls this morning, one after another. First, it seems there have been a few complaints about the food at the bar and grill—off cheese or some shit.” I held up my hand to stop the interruption I knew was coming from Steel. “Hold on, Steel,” I said, waiting for him to acknowledge my request. His jaw ticked, but he gave me a curt chin lift. He was compliant for now. Satisfied, I continued, “Two, I had a call from WorkSafe, saying there is a danger to the staff behind the bar. And three,” I looked at Mannix, “and this one is a bit more serious and worrisome. Officer Prick Face rang me to tell me there are whispers at the cop shop that drugs are being dealt at the strip club.” I knew as soon as the words were out that Mannix was going to lose his shit. He ran a clean club, clean girls, and took a zero-tolerance policy on anything illegal.

  “The fuck you say,” Mannix roared, totally pissed off. “There isn’t one girl there using or dealing. I’ve got that place wired with so many cameras that I can see each and every patron at any time of the night, and I’ve got Dundee glued to the monitors every night.” Leaning forward in his chair, Mannix planted his hand on the table. His scars seemed more pronounced with his anger, and the veins in his neck were jutting out and pulsing. His left eye, dead from the explosion, was not covered by his usually present patch—Shiloh loved his patch—and without it, he was intimidating—even to me.

  “No drugs are in my club,” Mannix said with a growl, his deep as fuck voice full of anger.

  Booth put his hands up and motioned Mannix to calm down. We all knew what could happen if Mannix was let loose to go rogue.

  “Easy, brother. We know. These complaints seem trivial compared to the bar and grill. Steel, take care of the kitchen,
and see that Darth goes around the bar to make sure it’s safe.” Booth was at his best when taking charge and delegating.

  Steel nodded, but his gaze was on Mannix. They were blood brothers, and their bond was palpable. Steel was concerned, so that made me concerned.

  “Ford, pull up all the feeds for the last two weeks at the strip club. Use that fucking expensive recognition software you just had to have and check shit out. I don’t know what is going on, gentlemen, but I want answers, and I wanted them yesterday. We run clean businesses, and for Officer Prick Face to give us a heads up, it must be serious.” Standing up, Booth pushed his chair back in and under the table. We all did—conditioning from our training was to leave everything the way it had been before we’d gotten there. Habits that would probably stay with us forever.

  “Another thing.” Booth stopped and looked at Ford. “Find out who the fuck is cleaning and cooking in my goddamned compound. Ask Vegas to come find me and explain. This shit is pissing me off.”

  I didn’t bother to hide my laughter, and neither did Steel or Mannix.

  “What’s the matter, Pres? You don’t like smelling like spring flowers and vanilla?” I teased, figuring he couldn’t make his way to me before I escaped out the door.

  Booth glared my way. “Maybe I might go pick up Shiloh from day care and the lovely sexy Charlotte,” he goaded, hitting me exactly where he wanted.

  “Fuck you, Booth,” I muttered. Fucking prick.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, arsehole.”

  “Who is Charlotte? How sexy is she?” Ford asked from his chair, obviously completely out of the loop.

  “Mine.” I growled and made my way out of the war room. I still had an hour before I had to leave to pick up my girls. Time to punch something.

  “Creed, wanna go a few rounds?”

  “Fuck, yes,” he said, growling in response.

  Oh, fuck! Maybe I’d picked the wrong brother to go toe to toe with inside the ring today.

  7

  CHARLOTTE

  “Okay, girls, let’s get in line at the barre please.” I had to raise my voice to get the attention of the class.

  Today had been an exercise in control, that’s for sure. Being late had been the least of my worries.

  After Deck dropped me off, then wrangled my car keys from me, and kissed me senseless again, the office attendant made me sign a tardiness form. Seriously! Then I had a lecture from the day care administrator about the tardiness despite my car troubles and it not being my fault. According to Mrs Fumberg, regular maintenance of my vehicle could have prevented such disaster. After all, I had a responsibility to the children to be on time considering ballet was just a token class, and they could be doing much more important things.

  “Miss Char?” Shiloh’s voiced concern interrupted my thoughts. Looking at the girls, I saw they were all ready and waiting for my instruction.

  “Oh, what good girls you are,” I praised them, and then joined them at the barre.

  Placing my hand on the barre, I turned my head to watch my students.

  “Okay, now, first position.”

  And then I lost myself in the barre exercises and teaching.

  ————

  I had to admit I was nervous as I sat outside on the front curb with Shiloh. Her father excited me like no man ever had. Not that I’d had many men. In fact, I had only kissed two men in my life, one of them being Deck. To say I’d lived a sheltered life was an understatement, but I felt ready. Ready to explore something new. I had never wanted to let a boy touch me growing up. I was shy now and was worse as a teenager. Ballet was my escape from my family, their nastiness and their hatred for me, forcing me to create the shell I lived in. Protecting myself became my main mantra, getting away from them my main goal. Something I’d come so close to achieving until…

  “Miss Char?”

  “Yes, precious.”

  My radar picked up. Shiloh was using her hurt voice.

  “Can I still wear my shitkickers to class?”

  What? Where was this coming from?

  “Of course, you can. Shiloh, why are you asking me this?”

  “Mrs Fum said I can’t wear black boots to the dance re-thingy.”

  I stifled a laugh because, despite her vocabulary, Shiloh was being serious.

  “The dance recital is still far away, so we have plenty of time to figure out your shoes for that night. Okay?”

  The big, fat crocodile tears that had been threatening to fall instantly dried up.

  I loved that she looked at me like I had all the answers to the world’s problems. This was what it felt like to be important to someone. It gave me hope.

  “Oh, that’s effing great, lady,” Shiloh declared, reaching her tiny little fist out to me.

  Confused, I was about to ask what she wanted me to do when the deep voice came from beside me.

  “She wants you to bump her fist,” Darth explained. For his size, his stealth was admirable, but it was becoming a habit of this man and his friends. My heart was going to have to get used to it if I wanted to stay around.

  “Oh, um, I’m sorry. Do what to her fist?”

  Shiloh collapsed in a fit of giggles, causing the large bodyguard to smile indulgently at his cute little charge.

  “Here, Miss Char.” Shiloh helped me make a fist, then bumped hers against mine before making a production of miming a hand exploding and adding a puffing noise.

  “I have no idea what that means, but it was fun.”

  “Make the noise, too, Miss Char. Youse hafs to make the bomb noise, too,” Shiloh cried excitedly, making another fist so we could bump again. This time, both of us made a bomb noise at the end.

  “I seriously had a boring childhood,” I mumbled to myself as I got to my feet, only just realising Deck wasn’t here.

  “Deck?” I asked Darth as he performed a more complicated looking fist bump with Shiloh—obviously their own special tradition.

  Never taking his eyes from Shiloh, Darth grabbed her bag and took her hand in his incredibly large one.

  “Doing shit.”

  Okay, that was helpful. Not.

  “Come on, let’s go. Got shit to do,” Darth said, taking off towards his large truck.

  Seriously? How much larger can trucks get? His looked even bigger than Deck’s truck.

  “Gots shit to do, Miss Char,” Shiloh parroted. “Get a move on, woman.”

  That comment earned a low chuckle from Darth and a really loud one from me.

  But my laughter stopped when I came up to the vehicle and realised I was going to have trouble getting into it. My skirt simply would not allow a ladylike climb. Deck had lifted me in and out this morning. Was Darth going to do the same? As I was about to contemplate how I was going to hike up my skirt and still leave my decorum intact, two large, strong hands gripped me around the waist, and like a rag doll, I was tossed rather unceremoniously into the cab of the truck. My body jarred from the force of Darth’s dumping, and I let out a small shriek.

  “Darf! Be gentle with princesses,” Shiloh scolded the large man, who had the decency to look contrite.

  “Sorry, Squirt. Sorry, Charlotte.” His deep voice really was spectacular.

  “You can call me Charlie if you like. Deck seems to have taken it upon himself to shorten my name. You are welcome to, as well,” I offered with a shrug. The truth was, until Deck, no one in my entire life had called me Charlie. I had always been Charlotte—or Charlotte Victoria when I was really in trouble, which wasn’t often. My parents would have needed to care and speak to me for that.

  Darth shook his head no. “Nope, I’m good,” was all he said before he slammed my door closed with a bone-jarring thud.

  Well, okay then. I tried not to feel the sting of his obvious rejection, but I did feel it.

  My day had been horrible. My hours and subsequent docked pay. My car—well, it had to be worse than I’d thought. Deck had growled that it was a piece of shit accident waiting to happen. Another
garnishment payment to my family was due from my bank account today at five p.m., and now Darth obviously didn’t like me.

  So, bursting into sobbing tears made perfect sense, didn’t it? Well, maybe to a twenty-four-year-old woman, it did, but not so much to a three-year-old and a large biker man with a ridiculously deep voice who now looked panicked.

  Then things got worse. Shiloh noticed my heaving sobs, and to Darth’s utter horror, she began her own wailing. Unfortunately for Darth, my sobs fed Shiloh’s and her mine. So I was even more mortified when his phone sounded in the cab through his Bluetooth. The ringing tone rang for three rings before Deck’s clear, strong, deep voice came through the speakers.

  “What?”

  “Brother, listen to this fuckery,” Darth ordered, then was silent so Deck could hear the woeful sounds of two females crying.

  “Sweetness? What the fuck? Hang on—is Shiloh crying, too?”

  I could tell from his raised voice Deck was not pleased, but I seriously couldn’t get myself under control. The floodgates had opened, and there was no closing them yet.

  Simple fact. I needed to cry.

  Shiloh, however, upon hearing her daddy’s voice, was able to talk with no problems.

  “Daddy, Darf frew Miss Char, and he doesn’t like her name,” Shiloh tattled, putting Cindy Brady to shame. Her crying was getting stronger and picking up speed.

  “Darth! What in the ever-loving fuck?” Deck roared across the line. I could almost hear him panting.

  “Deck, seriously, calm the fuck down. I put your woman in the car a little too vigorously. Then she asked me to call her Charlie. I said nope.”

  He looked over at me, his head nodding up and down, encouraging me to agree.

  “You said nope. That’s it? Just nope? You didn’t tell her why? Jesus, brother, just get my girls to me fucking right now.”

  Darth reached over to end the call. “I’ll be fucked if I am getting a timeout for this shit. Hear me, Squirt?” Darth grumbled, looking in the rear-view mirror at Shiloh, who, by now, had just about stopped crying and was busy pressing buttons on the DVD player attached to her car seat. Good Lord, the child had everything.