There it was. The pain I glimpsed every time we crossed paths. The sadness that never seemed to leave him.
“You’re better than you think,” I whispered. “I didn’t realize it when I was little—didn’t understand that look in your eyes, why you always looked so sad—but I get it now. Someone got inside of you and messed you all up, made up down and left right, so now you think you’re shit when you’re not even close. So you need to listen to me when I tell you that you are better than you think. You’re even better than that. To me, you’re the best.”
His nostrils flared. “Eva,” he groaned.
“What?”
“Shut up.” His mouth met mine, and we kissed slowly, deeply, deliciously lazy.
“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he muttered into my mouth.
Oh. Good. So good.
“OK,” I breathed.
And he did. Up against a dirty brick wall, in a garbage-filled alleyway home to rats and feral cats, while warm summer rain poured down over us. And it was perfect. Better than I’d imagined. Better than anything. The best.
• • •
I spent the next four years in college, spent my days studying, shopping with Kami, trying to ditch Frankie, and enjoying my life. And I spent my nights reliving my moments with Deuce. All four of them.
The day after my graduation ceremony, I packed a backpack, grabbed Kami, wrote my father a note, and got on an airplane headed for Miles City, Montana.
Headed for Deuce.
CHAPTER FIVE
If I needed any more proof that the Hell’s Horsemen were into some seriously illegal shit—other than their alliance with my father—all I had to do was take one look at their clubhouse.
Smack dab in the middle of the Montana hills, down a barely there dirt road, enclosed with an electric fence topped with razor wire, sat their whitewashed warehouse, massive at around thirty thousand square feet, with their insignia painted huge on the front of the building. A line of Harleys was parked outside, along with some pickup trucks and a shiny red sports car.
I pulled our rental car up to the gate and peered into the camera. The intercom underneath crackled.
“Help you with somethin’, darlin’?”
I cleared my throat. I was so nervous.
“I…um…wanted to…um…”
“Smooth, Evie,” Kami whispered. “Really smooth.”
I glared at her.
“You here to party?” the intercom crackled.
“Uh,” I said and glanced at Kami. She bugged out her eyes. “Say yes, you idiot!”
“Uh, yes.”
The gate clicked and slowly swung open, and Kami started jumping around excitedly.
I was parking when two guys came running outside. Kami grinned.
“H-O-T,” she spelled out. “Me wanna lick.”
I gave a shaky laugh. My stomach was in knots. I hadn’t seen Deuce in four years—not since the night I gave him my virginity. I wasn’t sure how he was going to react to me just showing up.
A well-built, good-looking Latino guy with a shaved head, lots of body piercings, and tattoos as far as the eye could see grinned at us.
“Name’s Cox,” he said, looking me up and down. “This is Ripper.” He jerked his thumb at the man standing next to him. A drop-dead gorgeous man. He looked like a surfer straight out of Cali. Long, wavy blond hair and dark blue eyes. There was man candy to be had all around.
“Hey,” Ripper said, his eyes on Kami. “You two been here before?”
I shook my head. “I’m looking for Deuce.”
“I’m not,” Kami said. “I’m looking for you.”
I covered my mouth, stifling my laughter.
“Or you,” she said to Cox, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter.”
Cox and Ripper looked at each other.
“Don’t wanna fight you, brother,” Ripper said. “But I fuckin’ will.”
“You’ll lose,” Cox growled.
“Boys?” Kami swept her long blonde hair over her shoulder and cocked her hip. “This is my last summer of freedom. My dad is a rich asshole who is making me marry another rich asshole. I have three months left before I become a proper little Jackie O and have to start fucking my staff just so I can get off. That being said, if you guys don’t mind sharing, I’ve got a whole lot to give.”
“I don’t,” Cox said quickly.
“Nope, me either,” Ripper said.
“Awesome, now do you have any liquor in this big, scary building of yours?”
Ripper grabbed her elbow, Cox slung his arm over her shoulder, and they steered her toward the clubhouse.
Sheesh. It was like I was invisible.
Rolling my eyes, I followed them inside.
All around me were bikers ranging from age eighteen to eighty and the sluts who loved them. I realized that the Hell’s Horsemen were having what my boys in New York called a “pussy party,” which was undoubtedly the only reason Kami and I had been allowed inside. I scanned the room looking for Deuce.
The inside of the warehouse looked nothing like the outside. The entire place had been gutted, renovated, and remodeled. Running the length of the warehouse front was one giant man cave with fifteen-feet ceilings and modern skylights that gave it a cathedral-like appearance.
A fully stocked bar lined the entire right side of the room surrounded by several bar tables and stools, and beyond, five large pool tables took up a good portion of the room. The opposite side gave the impression of a high-class men’s club, complete with dark leather furniture as far as the eye could see, flat-screen televisions, and a state-of-the-art stereo system. There were two hallway entrances on either side of the back wall and smack dab in the center were a set of doors surrounded by photographs of the members. Above the doors was a plank of wood nailed to the wall that read “Prez’s Office.” My heart started pounding, and my hands went clammy.
I willed my feet to move and headed toward his office. Taking a deep breath, I curled my hand into a fist and rapped on the door.
“WHAT?”
Oh God, that voice—that hard, rough, beautiful voice.
I swallowed hard and turned the knob.
I saw a woman first. Tall, blonde, very tan, and curvy as hell. Beautiful. She was wearing a tight jean skirt, frayed at the bottom, and a hot pink tank top that showed off her copious amount of cleavage. I had large breasts, but I almost never put them on display unless I was going out. I just didn’t see the point.
I glanced down at my Led Zeppelin cropped tee, way too baggy jeans that hung low, and my Chucks. The tee had once belonged to my mother, and I altered it to make it more my style to show off my belly ring and the circle of black and pink stars I had tattooed around my belly button. The jeans I’d had forever; I wasn’t even sure where I’d gotten them. Frankie, maybe? That was a running theme during my teenage years, stealing his clothing. They were comfy, and so deliciously broken in, they felt like silk against my skin. Most importantly, they dragged when I walked. That was a thing for me; I liked to be able to hide my feet inside my pants at all costs. Weird, I know, but I was an only child—and a girl, no less—who grew up with a single MC president, his crew, and Crazy Frankie. I could have turned out a whole lot weirder.
But I felt like a homeless person next to this woman. This super-model-sort-of-beautiful woman who was more than likely his wife.
Deuce was seated behind a desk, turned away from me, cursing into a cell phone.
Whoever had decorated the office was either secretly gay or of the female variety. Although the dark oak desk, hutch, and meeting table were distinctly male, no man—correction, no biker—would have ever picked out these particular pieces to coordinate with each other. They were too perfect, each piece different yet worked fashionably together. A woman—I surmised, probably this woman—had a hand in decorating. Knowing this made me feel incredibly uncomfortable.
The blonde glanced over at me, gave me a once-over, and her pink-painted lips curled into a sneer. “Who the fuc
k are you?”
“I…um…was looking for Deuce.”
“Well, you…um…fuckin’ found him.”
Sheesh. Attitude.
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Deuce growled into his phone. “You tell Street he gets his ass to the docks and picks up the shipment, or I will fuckin’ bury your chapter! You feel me? I will scatter your boys and take you to ground! You don’t fuckin’ mess with the Buonarroti family! I made fuckin’ promises, and I aim to keep them. A man’s fuckin’ word is a man’s fuckin’ word. You think this is a game? No? Good. Now get your fuckin’ ass in gear!”
He swiveled around, his narrowed eyes swept over the blonde, across the room, and then finally to me. And stared.
He had let his beard grow out; there were signs of gray interspersed among the blond and a few lines around his eyes. I sucked in a breath. He’d grown even more beautiful with age.
“Gotta go,” he said into his phone and tossed it on the desk.
I cleared my throat. “I was in the neighborhood,” I said dumbly. “Thought I’d stop by.”
“You were in the neighborhood,” he repeated.
I nodded. Wow. I was such an idiot. If she’d heard this, Kami would have kicked my ass.
“Cole,” the woman hissed. “Who the fuck is this girl?”
I have never heard anyone call Deuce anything but Deuce. I knew his real name, Cole West, but it didn’t fit. Deuce, meaning “Devil,” fit him.
Deuce blinked and looked back at the blonde. “Get the fuck outta here, Christine. You got your fuckin’ money, now go.”
He glanced back at me, and I watched his icy blues drink me in from head to toe and back up again, stopping on his father’s medallion. His lips curved into a smile.
I felt my body go soft, warm, and needy. He did this to me just by looking at me. His power over me was incredible and indescribable, as it had always been. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen him in four years; I wanted him every bit as badly as the last time and the time before that. Even more because I had him and had craved him ever since.
He saw the change in me, noticed it instantly. His nostrils flared, and his eyes darkened with hunger. I knew this look. Deuce was hungry, and I was food.
I loved that look. It made me feel beautiful, powerful, and utterly feminine.
I sucked in air through my nose, willing myself to stay put when I wanted nothing more than to run to him, strip him naked, and fuck him blind.
“You here alone?” he asked roughly.
I shook my head. “Brought Kami with me.”
His eyes narrowed, and I stifled a laugh. He obviously remembered her.
“Where is she?”
“Entertaining a few of your boys.”
He smirked. “Cox?”
“And Ripper.”
He rolled his eyes. “Nice.”
“Cole! Who the fuck is this bitch, and why the fuck is she wearin’ a Horsemen tag?”
His head swiveled back to Christine. “What the fuck did I say to you? Get the fuck outta here!”
Her face went arctic. Glacial. “No,” she hissed. “Tell me why this little girl is standin’ in your office wearin’ a Horsemen tag! Old ladies don’t get ’em. Kids don’t get ’em unless they get a cut, and ain’t no girl ever got a cut. And whores sure as fuck don’t get ’em. So why the fuck does this bitch have one?!”
Deuce stood up. His Harley belt buckle sagged low on his low-rise, baggy jeans, jeans that were as equally holey as his white T-shirt. To quote Kami, H-O-T.
“Get out,” he growled.
“TELL ME WHY SHE’S WEARIN’ IT!”
Deuce’s fists came slamming down on his desk, sending papers and file folders flying everywhere. “Because I fuckin’ gave it to her!”
Christine’s head snapped sideways. “You little fuckin’ whore!” she screamed.
My mouth fell open, and I took a step backward. This was exactly why my father didn’t allow his boys’ old ladies in the club unless it was a planned visit or a Sunday barbeque.
“Christine!” Deuce bellowed. “Take the money you came for and get your fuckin’ ass outta here!”
Ignoring Deuce, she kept her frightening gaze on me. “What the fuck did you have to do to get that?” she hissed. “You some kinda kinky fucked-up whore who takes on three brothers at a time? Was that your fuckin’ prize for being such a goddamn slut, for fuckin’ other women’s men? You fuckin’ proud of yourself, you stupid little skank bitch?”
Wow. Just…wow. How did one respond to that?
I looked to Deuce for help. I didn’t know what to do or say or if I should do or say anything at all. This hadn’t gone at all like I planned. Not that I actually planned on anything specific happening—only vague scenarios, all including Deuce without pants on and being really happy to see me. Being screamed at by Deuce’s wife, I can honestly say, hadn’t crossed my mind.
“Christine,” he growled low. Scary low. “Only gonna say this one more time. Get your fuckin’ ass outta my club.”
“I’m gonna bleed you dry,” she hissed. “Gonna take everything you fuckin’ have. Gonna take your kids, your money, and when I tell the fuckin’ cops what goes on ’round here, I’m gonna take your fuckin’ freedom.”
This had gone past uncomfortable and well into hazardous. I should have never come here. Since they were busy glaring at each other, I started backing out of the room and backed right into a hard body.
The biker standing behind me I recognized. His name was Mick, and I had seen him here and there growing up. His messy black hair hung long. He had pretty green eyes and a well-trimmed goatee. He was tall, leanly muscled, and looked extremely pissed off.
“Prez?” he asked. “You need help with this bitch?”
Deuce was rounding his desk and advancing on Christine. She met him head on, swinging her purse through the air. He ducked, grabbed her purse strap, and barreled into her. She went up and over his shoulder, screaming and flailing.
Deuce, with Christine, stalked across the room. Mick and I hurried out of the way. As soon as Deuce was gone, Mick turned to me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. What?
He shook his head, glaring at me. “Thought Deuce learned his lesson when Preacher put him in the hospital, but, Christ, the two of you just keep goin’ back for more.”
My heart stopped beating. “What did you say?” I whispered.
“Your old man, babe, capped him twice. He nearly bled out. He was in surgery for a fuckin’ minute. Needed a transfusion. Was in the hospital for weeks.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to process everything he just said. Shot him twice? Bled out. Surgery. Transfusion.
“Because of me?” I whispered. My voice caught, and my eyes filled with tears. I hadn’t known. If I had, I would have stayed away from him. Never, ever, would I have put Deuce in danger. God, I was so stupid. Stupid to push him into having sex with me. Stupid to think my father wouldn’t know. He always knew; he knew everything.
• • •
“Go,” Deuce demanded, pushing his wife toward her car. “Now.”
“Who is that?” she screeched. He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing. God, this fucking woman.
“She is none of your fuckin’ business, bitch. Now fuckin’ go.”
“I fuckin’ saw the way you were lookin’ at her! You’ve never looked at me that way! Never!”
“Never looked at you like much of anything ’cause you’re not much of anything ’cept a crazy fuckin’ bitch.”
She came at him, fake nails flying. Grabbing her shoulders, he threw her up against her car. “Get the fuck outta here!” he bellowed.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” she demanded. “What’s she got that I don’t?”
He let her go and backed away from her. “What’s wrong with you?” he sneered. “You’re not her; that’s what’s wrong with you. What’s she got that you don’t? Bitch, she’s
got me, and you never fuckin’ did.”
He watched her suck in air. She blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears he knew were coming. He wanted to care, he really did, but he didn’t. Not anymore. Too much ugly shit had gone down between them for too many fucking years. Met her at twenty-five, married her when she got pregnant, and lived in misery with her ever since. There was only so much nagging, screaming, and crying a man can take. He had stopped fucking her years ago, and now he could barely stomach looking at her.
“Leavin’ you, Christine, and gonna move to the cabin,” he said quietly. “Can’t do this shit no more. Haven’t slept at home in over a year. You been showin’ up here, demandin’ money, spewin’ attitude, and just plain pissin’ me off with your fuckin’ threats. Can’t do it no more.”
She put her hand on her throat, and her giant diamond engagement ring caught the sun. He had taken his ring off years ago, not to pick up women because that had never been a problem, but because looking at it made him sick.
“You gave her a tag,” she whispered hoarsely. “You don’t let any of your boys give their women tags.”
He stared at her. “She doesn’t belong to one of my boys. She’s fuckin’ mine.”
It hit him then how right that sounded. Four years had gone by since he’d been inside her—four years of thinking about her, wondering what she was doing, and who she was doing.
Always thinking about her.
“Cole,” she whispered. “Don’t do this. We can make it work. We’ve done it before.”
“Go!” he barked. “Don’t fuckin’ come back here.”
He left her crying and stalked back inside. He had just reached his office when what he heard from inside made his blood boil.
“Yeah, babe. He almost died. Because of you. So I’m standin’ here, lookin’ at you, wonderin’ why the fuck he thinks you’re fuckin’ worth gettin’ shot for ’cause I sure as fuck ain’t seein’ it. You got a golden pussy or somethin’? Or was it the fuckin’ innocent act he’s likin’?”
“What the fuck?” he seethed.
Mick whirled around. A quick glance at Eva only enraged him further. She was shaking, trembling, tears pouring down her face.
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