“Maybe not,” she whispered, turning her head up briefly, taking in the vastness of the stars, and she yanked him down again to meet her mouth, to tug and bite rawly on his full lips. She reached to undo the top button of his jeans, where he was hard, straining through his cotton boxers, hard for her and her alone, and that was enough to make her wet again, priming herself for him. “But tonight I am. So keep going.” With a little grunt, she yanked away the fabric constraining him and guided him back toward her, leaning back, the formerly cold concrete now warm from her body heat.
She let out a harsh little yelp as he passed the threshold and entered, the walls of her vagina closing around him, accepting him, guiding him. She squeezed every muscle of her body, closing her eyes then opening them again as he thrust, once, twice, three times, and she tried to match his rhythm, until he moaned and threw himself forward with finality. He bit down on the skin her neck, animalistic, a bite to claim her, melting her. She grabbed him, wanting to feel his head in the cradle of her neck. He deserved that, deserved to take a piece of her for himself, after all this time. She watched him close his eyes, felt his breathing relax ever so slightly, as she buried her fingers in the thickness of his hair.
“You’re shivering,” he whispered when he opened them again, grabbing his flannel button down and draping it lightly over her.
“No I’m not,” she countered automatically.
He laughed lightly. “Believe me, you are. Do you want to go inside? It’s warmer,” he said. “Sort of.”
“Not yet,” she whispered, and she watched as he turned over, hands behinds his head, staring up at the exact same portion of the sky she was looking at. “Do you?”
“Hell no.” He turned his head a little, his eyelashes lowering momentarily as gazed upward at the clouded over sky, shrouding the Milky Way, but giving a glimpse to the universe that lay just beyond their sight. They didn’t have to see it to know it was there, to know, despite light years, it could be reached, eventually, somehow. Something about the freedom of the open sky, of the infinite night, she knew he cherished more than most. “But come here,” he said suddenly, a slight smile, hand outstretched to her. Obediently, she scooted her body closer, nestling herself in his solidity and strength, their silhouettes interlocking. “Closer,” he teased. She rolled her eyes and burrowed downward, arranging his shirt so it covered them both as much as the thin fabric would allow.
“Helena said I was dangerous,” she whispered. “Am I?”
Nick turned his head away a little, and she smiled when she saw he was laughing, and to see him even briefly happy, without the dust storm of worry that sometimes seemed to cloud his features, cheered her, too. “Maybe,” he said, with a soft kiss to her temple. “But that’s what I like.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Liana didn’t quite understand why an unfamiliar cellphone ring tone jarred her out of her dreamless sleep. Or, it had been dreamless, until she found herself in a leotard, performing on an vast, empty stage, a sole patron sitting in the audience, rhythmically clapping, face shrouded in darkness. She picked up the elaborate bouquet he had tossed, bending to inhale the intoxicating aroma of white carnations and purple lilies. She knew who had someone entirely different who had sent the bouquet. Someone her heart was whispering that she wanted to see standing before her in the wings. Someone who filled her entire body with elation, with well-being, with peace.
It is right that he should be here, she thought. New York, as she knew, was cold and lonely and impersonal, but, somehow, with Nick here, nothing could harm her. Nothing could ever be wrong. It was the way things were meant to be.
“Nick,” she murmured, breathing in the aroma once again. “But how did you ever—” She lowered the bouquet, only to see herself face to face with Jack Camus, his black eyes swirling like twin fires.
“Hi,” he said, blowing out the word like a puff of smoke. “Miss me?”
Then she awoke, sat bolt upright with a little shriek. “Nick?” She whipped out her hand and hit something warm and solid—which turned out to be Nick’s shirtless back, curled as it was next to the couch, a tortoiseshell cat curled up peacefully purring on his lap.
He pawed the dingy cement floor like a dog being awoken by a sharp whistle, like a soldier sleeping past reveille. Like someone who didn’t quite understand that he was allowed to properly rest like anybody else. “Liana,” he murmured, his voice full of concern. She watched out of the corner of her eye, the startled cat yelped and skittered under a motorcycle tire. “So much for Pussy Galore,” he said. “Are you okay?”
She yawned, momentarily transfixed by the sight of his bleary gray-green eyes blinking back at her, alive with concern. “I—I’m fine. I had a—a dream,” she finished hastily. She paused for the first time to take in her unfamiliar surroundings. She had no memory of how she had gotten downstairs to the garage, or why she was tucked on the couch, naked, with a velour blanket around her, one that looked like it matched the set at Tryg and Kirrily’s house and that Nick had probably borrowed at some point and forgotten to give back. “I stole your bed,” she remarked groggily.
He laughed. “You didn’t steal it, and it’s not even really a bed. Besides, I didn’t sleep. Much.”
“You didn’t sleep?” she demanded. “What were you—Oh.” Jack. It only took a second for her to remember her dream, to remember the night before—to remember the entire reason she had returned to Prudence to begin with. The memory of Jack Camus seemed to crawl into her mind and body as if it had been some noxious gas seeping under a doorframe. Even if she had momentarily forgotten, it was clear Nick hadn’t. She owed him for that. “Thank you,” she whispered, cupping his chin and giving him a kiss. Even when their lips broke apart, he stayed in that position, looking at her, curiously, almost confused, as if he had been surprised to be touched by her—or to be in this position to begin with. She hoped she’d have enough time get him used to that, to condition him to being touched by her, but the memory of Jack Camus had reminded her time was a luxury they didn’t exactly have right now.
The cellphone was ringing again. Nick patted the floor beside him, eyeing it frantically, then finally reaching underneath the cabinet the fridge sat on. Nick’s end of the conversation didn’t reveal much. “Yeah. Okay. When?”
But she knew already it wasn’t just Tomahawk calling to schedule another escort to Cleveland, or Kirrily calling to invite him over for dinner.
“A meeting,” he said, looking down at the floor, then back up at Liana, biting his lip briefly. His tone was flat, as if he were afraid if he revealed too much, it would spook her. She was tempted to demand more details, but letting Nick know that she trusted him to make the right decision was the best thing she could do for both of them, at least for right now. “With Tryg.”
“You should go,” she said. “I’ll be gone by the time you get back.”
“No,” he said.
She looked up sharply from where she had grabbed her jeans, which Nick must have collected from the roof and place neatly on the wooden kitchen chair next to the couch.
“He wants you, too.”
“How did he—”
“Know you were here?” She nodded. “He didn’t. But he suspected.”
“Did Tomahawk—”
“No. He wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Helena?”
Nick nodded a little and sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I was an idiot to think I could get her out of the picture this easily. Look, just—there’s no way he can know what we—about last night okay? Nobody knows. So—”
“Nick.” She caught his hand and brought it down from where it still nervously touched his hair, squeezing his rough fingers together, turning his palm over, feeling the racing of his pulse. Not all of that, she knew, was apprehension about Tryg would think if he knew. Some of it was residual. Nick was an old hand at being blamed for things; he’d come to expect it. The sword of Damocles, dangling over him, waiting to impale, was
an old friend of his, and it was going to take a long time for him to get out from under its shadow. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t do anything wrong. And nothing about this can work if we have to hide. Remember what happened the first time?” He nodded resolutely. “But we’ll wait for the right time, okay?”
He smiled. “Okay.” He grabbed his shirt from where he tossed it over a cardboard box of spare headlights, and started buttoning it. Suddenly, he stopped and glanced back at her slyly. “You want to ride with me?” he asked, his mouth showing slight amusement.
“I wouldn’t go any other way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Riding with Nick was entirely different from riding with Tomahawk. Last night, she had felt wild, dangerous, a little crazy – like she was riding into some unknown destiny. Now, she felt cocooned, safe, and extraordinarily at home, staring into the giant “Black Sparks MC, Prudence, Ohio.” On the back of Nick Stone’s bike, she felt safer than she had ever felt, so much safer than riding in Jack Camus’ cruiser with the lights going; the sirens always made her feel like something terrible was about to happen. It helped that the clubhouse was only five blocks away and they weren’t going very fast, but she couldn’t help but feel a little smug as the housewives sitting on their porches stared out at her, the teenage girls at the bus stop, the only thing that could distract them from their SnapChat conversations. She could tell Nick was trying not to glance back at her too much, to play it cool. He’d had girls on his bike before, including Helena, probably. She tried not to think about that.
“Worried about me?” she asked, pressing her thighs tighter around the seat, tighter around his body, as he took a corner into the driveway of the clubhouse, knowing he could feel every shift in her body, every sharp intake of breath, every release of tension. He was that attuned. He reached back and patted her thigh. “Oh that’s right,” she raised her voice over the noise. “You don’t worry.”
“Never,” he agreed with a grin. He cut the engine, and just sat there for a second, as if to collect his thoughts, his resolve. She swatted the back of his jacket.
The ride was over in less than three minutes, and soon they stood outside the door to the clubhouse, the bikes lined up outside like gleaming chrome-trimmed soldiers, standing at attention. It was meant to be intimidating; Liana knew that. But before they stepped through the dusty, mostly-empty bar and into the oak wood-paneled back room, past old photos and memorabilia, something about the place felt familiar to her as she walked reverently through it, something she remembered long ago, like the smell of gasoline and beer taps and leather. Something elemental in her.
Unconsciously she squeezed his hand, interlacing their fingers, and, to her surprise, Nick, all gentlemanly, brought her hand up to his mouth to kiss. But they weren’t holding hands now. Whatever bomb Tryg was about to drop, it wouldn’t be smart to choose to parade themselves like a happy couple right in front of him—not when Tryg, as recently as yesterday, had declared that Liana was no longer Nick’s concern. They pushed open the heavy oak door.
From the other end of the long council table, Jack Camus stood up. Liana froze, stepping backward, her feet practically racing in place as she pressed into Nick’s chest, trying to escape.
“It’s okay,” Nick murmured into her ear in an attempt to calm her. He was as confused as she was.
But she had to be brave. She swallowed and raised her head, averting her eyes from the man across the room.
There was no sign of struggle, of blood on the floor, of chairs tipped over. Jack Camus had walked right into the Black Sparks clubhouse as if he’d owned the place, then stood there, cold, clinical, calculating. In fact, the mere ordinariness of it was the most terrifying thing at all.
“What are you doing here, Camus?” Nick demanded. “Did you think I was joking when I told you to stay the fuck away from us?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Jack. “But I also told you that, no matter what, I’d collect what’s mine. And thanks to your club president, I’ve found an even easier way.”
“What easier way?” Nick asked. “There was no easier way. You told me what you wanted, but there was no deal. I never agreed to turn over Liana.”
“No,” said Jack, his eyes ever-so-slightly shifting to the left, where the club president stood, arms crossed, black eyes boring down on Nick, daring him to challenge his rule. “But Tryg did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Watching Liana tremble under the gaze of Jack Camus, Nick knew instantly that he’d made a mistake. He never should have agreed to leave Liana alone. She was strong, sure, but this was entirely different from of fear, like she was looking into the face of her nightmares comes true.
He never should have agreed to go on that date with Helena. He’d been selfish; he’d only been looking out for his own interests, thinking that would be pleasing Tryg. But Tryg had made a mistake, too; he had fallen for Jack Camus’ lines, the same way Liana once had. And now all of them had fallen into Jack’s trap.
Liana, her face gone colorless and ashen, turned around, but Martin Malone was faster than her. He grabbed her by the arm. Nick shoved the skinny man away.
“Keep your filthy hands off her,” Nick growled, reaching for Liana, but she still spun away, as if she didn’t even see him.
Drops of sweat had broken out on her pale forehead. She moved deliberately, as if a loaded gun had been pointed at her neck. Nick didn’t even want to think about what that meant for what Jack had done to her in the past, or what he was capable of now.
Worst of all, there was nothing Nick could do. He could only watch helplessly as Martin moved to the door to the meeting room and closed it firmly, blocking it with his body, arms crossed in a self-satisfactory way that made Nick want to wring his scrawny neck.
“What the hell is going on here, anyway?” Nick demanded, turning back to the club’s president, who stood like a slab of marble at the other end of the room, emotionless. “You can’t just give Liana away like she was some patch on a jacket, some prize you can award to the highest bidder. She’s a person, Tryg. And your niece.”
There was a long pause as Nick watched Tryg’s chest move up, then down. “No,” he said finally. “You’re right. I can’t. I can’t give her away.” Jack still hadn’t said anything. He didn’t have to. “But I can make her be an offer.”
“An offer? You don’t offer anything to this psychopath,” he insisted, gesturing to Jack. “Do you know what he’s capable of? Do you know what he—” He couldn’t bear to look at the young woman, as if speaking the words out loud would evoke the trauma all over again.
“I know what Liana said he was capable of. That doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”
“What?”
“Never discount the value of girl talk. I have it from a reliable source that Liana admitted to making up most of that stuff about Jack.”
Helena, Nick thought with bitterness. “She’s a liar, too. Ask Liana. Your own niece. Ask her if she was lying.”
Liana’s hands were balled into fists, frantically looking from Nick, to Tryg, to Jack. Her lips seemed to tremble. Still she was silent.
“I know you don’t like Helena, Nick. I thought sending you on that date would help, but obviously it didn’t.”
“But that doesn’t mean—”
Suddenly, Nick heard Liana’s voice, so quiet as to be indistinguishable. He turned to look at the young woman, and he couldn’t believe it. He knew she was shocked and terrified that her own uncle would put her face to face with the man she feared more than anyone else in the world. Still she spoke steadily. “No. He’s right. I was lying. I made it all up.”
Nick spun around. “What?”
Liana wouldn’t look at him as she spoke. “I lied because I was embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone to know the real reason why I came back – that I moved to New York, that I got involved with someone and that I failed. I wanted you to think I was stronger than that. I wanted you to think I came back because I was brave
enough to leave somebody who was hurting me. But really I was just being immature. I was too afraid to put in the time to make it work.”
Nick felt his jaw drop. “But now I’m ready.” She took a step forward toward Jack. A thin smile appeared on the cop’s taut, pale face. “I know where I belong now, and I’m ready.”
Jack put his arm around her. “That’s my girl.” He bent down to plant a kiss on the side of her face, and Liana didn’t look up, but she also didn’t flinch. She just stood there, letting it happen, the same way she had back at Tryg and Kirrily’s house when Nick had tried to kiss her in a fit of angry passion. It was as if she had just shut down, as if she shoved the part of her that was capable of caring, of feeling, of loving, into the deepest, darkest reaches of her psyche. To know she was capable of doing that made Nick hurt. He never wanted her to have to do that—not with him, and especially not with Jack Camus.
“Jack,” Tryg went on, “has offered to help us with our little Viper problem.”
“His help is the last thing in the world we need,” said Nick. He’d turned away from Liana.
Nick looked at Tryg, who looked at Jack as if he were a son he’d just adopted. It made Nick want to retch. He couldn’t believe it had come to this.
“In that case,” Jack finally spoke up, “I couldn’t guarantee that the Vipers wouldn’t continue to make trouble for you.”
“Because you’ll order them to make trouble.”
“I’m not ordering anybody to do anything,” Jack insisted, holding up his hands. “I’m a cop, not some neighborhood gang lord. But I do have influence. Now don’t play dumb. I told you exactly what I’m offering you during our little chat yesterday and you gave me the brush-off and told me to get out, said that if you the choice came down between being with Liana and helping the Black Sparks back on top where they belong—” Jack’s teeth gleamed. He had Nick where he wanted him. “You choose the skirt.”
Long Ride: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Black Sparks MC) (Whiskey Bad Boys Book 1) Page 17
