A Ride or Die Kind of Love

by Chelsea Camaron

  Kami snorted. “She’s eighteen, Chase. What did you expect?”

  “To have some fucking sense and realize it wasn’t going anywhere,” he muttered. “It wasn’t as if she could have forgotten I was married, not with the five million pictures of you that you annoyingly wallpapered my office with. Pictures she saw up close and personal when I was bending her over my desk.”

  “Gross!” Kami cried out. “You should have at least moved the pictures!”

  “Nah,” he said. “I like to look at you while I’m fucking other women.”

  “Hmm,” Kami said thoughtfully. “I don’t like to look at you ever.”

  “Ahh,” he replied. “So that’s why you always have a pillow over your face when I’m fucking you.”

  “Pretty much,” she said cheerfully.

  “You guys are so weird,” I informed them.

  “You’d be weird, too, if your dad forced you to marry a douchebag.”

  Chase raised his glass in the air. “Cheers to that,” he murmured.

  Kami rolled to her side and brushed my hair out of my face. “Let’s go shopping,” she said softly. “Retail therapy. It’s on Chase.”

  I giggled. “Not exactly hurting for cash, Kam.”

  “My cash is legally earned,” Chase stated. “Not a drop of blood on it.”

  I glared at him. “You’re a lawyer, Chase. There’s blood all over you.”

  “Kinky, Eva,” he murmured silkily. “I like it.”

  I wrinkled up my nose. “Maybe you should have a cup of coffee.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If I accept my drinking problem and turn to God, does that mean you’ll finally accept my offer and become my mistress?”

  This was exactly why Frankie hated Chase.

  “God, Chase, you’re so pathetic. Eva would never fuck you. Hell, the only reason I fuck you is because I have to.”

  “Eva will fuck me eventually,” Chase said lazily. “Everyone has their price; I just haven’t found hers yet.”

  Any normal person would have found this insulting, but this was Chase, and I was used to it. So I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.

  “Chase,” I purred. “You wanna know why you’ll never get this?” I swept my hand down the length of my body.

  “Do tell,” Chase said, staring at my chest.

  “Because, baby, I’m wild pussy, and wild pussy can’t be bought. Wild pussy doesn’t like having pretty things thrown at it and being expected to do the samba on someone’s cock in return. Wild pussy doesn’t do deals. Wild pussy lives free and for itself and takes it however it likes it—on a bed, on a couch, on the hood of a car, in a bathroom stall, or up against a wall in an alleyway—and it laughs the entire time. I’ve known you for a while now, Chase. I know you’ve never had wild pussy, and I know you never will. Wild pussy doesn’t fuck uptight cock. And it sure as hell doesn’t like silk boxers.”

  Chase’s mouth fell open.

  Kami’s high-pitched laughter echoed throughout the large room.

  “Time to go shopping,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “Pick me up some cotton boxers while you’re out,” Chase muttered.

  “Pick them up yourself!”

  “Can’t. I’m going to be jerking off all day to the beautiful imagery of Eva’s pussy that she has so graciously provided me with.”

  • • •

  Courtesy of Chase, Kami and I spent the entire day shopping—Kami, because she can shop for weeks without tiring, and me, because I wanted to be nowhere near the club.

  Around eleven and after a few drinks at a neighborhood bar, Kami’s driver took us to the clubhouse. Three Harleys with Montana plates were still parked out front, and Kami was beside herself with excitement.

  I was beside myself with anxiety.

  We found them in the club’s spacious living room with several of my Demon boys and their girls. Mick had a whore on his lap, and Cox was in the middle of a heated debate with my cousin Trey. No Deuce. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset.

  The second we entered the room, Cox locked on Kami.

  “Babe,” he groaned. “You up and left me in the middle of the fuckin’ night. Haven’t slept good since.”

  Kami grinned. “You need me to tire you out?”

  Cox bolted across the room, scooped her up over his shoulder, and headed for the stairwell.

  “Christ,” Mick muttered.

  “Second floor,” I called after them. “Empty beds!”

  “Frankie?” I asked a Demon named Split.

  He grinned. “Passed out cold awhile ago. Took three of us to lug him upstairs.”

  I gave Split a kiss on the cheek, waved to Trey, and turned to go.

  I was halfway to the stairwell when a large hand came down on my shoulder. I quickly shrugged out of Mick’s grasp. “Don’t ever touch me,” I said evenly.

  His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, darlin’. Just wanted to apologize for how shit went down last time we crossed paths. Deuce is my prez and my brother, and I got love for him, you feel me?”

  “I feel you,” I snapped. “But none of that changes how you treated me when you didn’t know shit about me! So keep in mind you’re in my club, these are my boys, and if you fuck with anyone, I will bury you myself.”

  He stared down at me. “You’ve gotten harder, babe. Fire’s burnin’ brighter; life’s takin’ its toll on you, ain’t it?”

  I blinked, and it was Deuce’s face I saw.

  You’re a good kid, darlin’. A good, sweet kid. Promise me you’ll stay that way, yeah? No matter what you see, no matter what sort of fucked-up shit happens to you, don’t let this life turn you bitter.

  I wasn’t hard, was I? I definitely wasn’t bitter. Right? Why did I suddenly feel like crying?

  “Whatever, Mick. Just stay out of my way and don’t fuck with my club.”

  He smiled. “I feel you, babe. You got love for the club, I get that, and I admire that in an old lady. Been hearing ’bout how fuckin’ awesome you are all day.”

  I glared at him. “I am not an old lady.”

  “You in Frankie’s bed?”

  “Nope,” I shot back. “Frankie’s in mine.”

  Turning on my heel, I left him to stew on that.

  After dumping my purchases in my room and divesting Frankie of his boots and jeans, I made my way downstairs. Yawning, I pushed open the door to the kitchen and felt around for the light. It switched on.

  Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, I trudged to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of purple Gatorade, and turned to go.

  I dropped the Gatorade.

  There was Deuce, leaning back against the opposite wall—mere inches from the light switch—with his pants around his ankles and his hands full of badly bleached-blonde biker babe hair. The space of three years closed, and I was back in Deuce’s kitchen watching Miranda bounce in his lap.

  “What the fuck?” I whispered hoarsely.

  The girl jerked her head up; Deuce shoved her back and laughed bitterly.

  “What the fuck? You sneak out of my bed in the middle of the fuckin’ night and hop straight into Frankie’s and have the fuckin’ nerve to ask me what the fuck!”

  The girl jerked again, and again he pushed her back. “Bitch, you stop suckin’ one more time, and I’m gonna slap you,” he threatened.

  I gaped at him. “You’re a pig,” I choked out.

  “Yeah.”

  “No, really, you’re a sick pig.”

  “Yeah, darlin’, I know.”

  Furious, disgusted, feeling oddly betrayed and heartbroken—and a whole bunch of other emotions I couldn’t pinpoint because my mind was spinning wildly, trying to comprehend and deal with what I’d just walked in on and couldn’t—I ran for the door. Deuce’s hand shot out and hooked around my forearm, his grip as tight as a vice.

  Tears burned in my eyes. “Let me go!”

  “No.”

  “This is sick,” I whi
spered.

  “Yeah, babe,” he whispered back. “I just don’t give a fuck.”

  He yanked me sideways, and I tripped over the girl’s feet. Deuce pulled me forward, and I fell into his chest, right on top of the girl.

  My stomach was pushed against the girl’s head, and I was straddling her back. Back and forth, I went with her as she continued sucking him off.

  Our lips were nearly touching; Deuce was breathing hard, his hot breath smelling strongly of rum. Actually, his entire self smelled like rum, like he had taken a bath in it.

  “I’ll scream,” I hissed.

  “Go ahead,” he shot back. “I really don’t give a fuck.”

  God, he really didn’t. His beautiful eyes looked empty. But I wouldn’t resort to screaming. Screaming would result in Deuce’s death. And I loved him far too much to be the bearer of that blow.

  “Just let me go,” I whispered. “You’re shitfaced!”

  “Yeah. Your fault, babe. Want you so bad I fuckin’ ache.”

  Oh God. Pain and regret so violent gripped my insides, and my knees buckled under the onslaught. Deuce caught me under my arms and hauled me back up.

  He pressed his mouth against mine and breathed into it. “One fuckin’ kiss, baby,” he whispered.

  I choked on a sob. “Deuce,” I whispered through my tears. “Please don’t do this. This is really, really fucked-up.”

  “That’s the thing, darlin’, I’ve always been really, really fucked up. For some fuckin’ reason, you weren’t seein’ it. But you get it now, so shut the fuck up and lemme fuckin’ kiss you and pretend that hot mouth around my cock is your sweet pussy.”

  “Deuce, please…”

  “Yeah,” he breathed into my mouth. “Keep beggin’.”

  “Fuck you,” I whispered.

  “No, babe,” he gritted out. He released me, and his hands shot into my hair, gripping handfuls. “Fuck you.”

  He shoved his tongue in my mouth and tightened his grip on my hair to keep me in place. He came moments later, groaning, and I burst into tears.

  “Please, please,” I begged. “Please let me go.”

  His nostrils flared. “Let you go?” he hissed. “Let you fuckin’ go?”

  He pushed me backward, and I tripped over the girl’s legs and landed hard on my backside. Deuce shoved the girl away from him and hiked up his jeans. He glared down at me.

  “Been tryin’ to let you go, been tryin’ for fuckin’ years,” he said roughly. “Haven’t figured out how yet.”

  Speechless, I watched him stalk out of the kitchen.

  The girl, who I had just realized was Lynn—my uncle Joe’s favorite girl—wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and looked over at me. “Bikers, Eva,” she huffed. “Fuckin’ crazy.”

  “Don’t say anything to Joe,” I whispered.

  “No worries, baby.”

  I heard the telltale sounds of Harley pipes growling loudly, and then fading off into the distance. I wondered if this was the last I would ever see of Deuce. For five years, I wondered.

  Then one summer night I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deuce cut his engine, toed his kickstand down, and studied the farmhouse in front of him. Mick pulled up beside him. Five more of his boys followed suit.

  “You sure ’bout this, Prez?” Ripper asked, leaning forward on his handlebars. Even in the dark, Deuce could see the ugly-looking slashes that marred the entire right side of Ripper’s face. Right eye gone, right side of his mouth slashed, frozen in an ugly-looking frown. His chest was worse. This was all courtesy of Crazy Frankie, who had done him over real good about two years back. Frankie was all about the torture before the killing. Luckily, Ripper had gotten away before the fucker could do him in.

  “How can you ask that?” Mick said. “After what he fuckin’ did to you?”

  Ripper shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, Mickey. I want the fucker dead more than any of you.”

  He wasn’t so sure about that.

  “I’m just lookin’ out for the club. We do this, we do Frankie, and we’re at war with Preacher. Full-out war. Shit won’t be easy; it will be downright fuckin’ ugly.”

  He looked back at the house. Loud music was blaring; bikes and a few pickups covered the lawn. Through the lit windows, he could see people dancing with beers in their hands. It was a typical MC party.

  But he wasn’t here to party; he was here to kill the Silver Demons’ VP.

  He looked back at his brothers. “We all agree, or we all leave.”

  Tag, ZZ, Cox, Mick, and Jase all gave him the thumbs-up. He looked at Ripper.

  Ripper stared at the house. “We got the manpower to go up against Preacher. We got the connections, we got the money, we got the Russians, fuck, we even got some of Preacher’s connections ready to go up against Preacher for the right price—so what the fuck? Let’s do it. ’Bout time someone put that rabid dog down.”

  Deuce nodded to Cox. “You and me are goin’ in. Tag and ZZ take back. Mick and Jase take front, and Ripper…you just fuckin’ wait. I’ll bring the fucker right to you, and you can gut him like the fuckin’ pig he is.”

  Ripper grinned his deformed half grin. “You sure do know how to turn a guy on, Prez.”

  He shoved an extra clip in the back of his leathers. “I try,” he said dryly.

  He grabbed Cox’s arm before they entered. “Remember, we need to be cool. Frankie knows we got a beef. Look like you’re here to party. Start drinking, just don’t get shitfaced or grab some pussy, but keep your eye on your phone.”

  “You got it.”

  It wasn’t hard to grab pussy at an MC party; it was usually a free-for-all. But Cox being Cox—shaved head, pierced every-fucking-where, and covered from neck to ankle in tats—the women fucking flocked. Boy didn’t even have to crook his finger. They just magically appeared on their knees in front of him.

  They walked in and split up. The place was packed solid with Demons. He saw a few Red Devil cuts wandering around and a healthy mix of nomads, but fuck, there was a crapload of Demons. He went straight to the kitchen, nabbed a blue, pushed off a crack whore who’d grabbed at him, and started walking around, getting the lay of the place.

  “Horseman!” a familiar voice shouted. A meaty hand hit his shoulder.

  He turned around and faced the three-hundred-pound, sweat-covered asshole.

  “Tiny,” he said evenly.

  “Whatcha doin’ in Virginia?”

  “Passin’ through.”

  “Lucked out, brother. Mad fuckin’ pussy here. Got sugar, too.”

  Fucking morons. Snorting what they’re supposed to be selling. Fuck-ing mor-ons.

  “Gonna get some pussy first. Been on the road for weeks. You gonna be around?”

  Tiny slapped his bicep. “Blow your load and come find me. Got some side business goin’ on that you might be interested in.”

  Rolling his eyes, he resumed walking, stepping over drunk fucks and drunks fucking. When he reached the back, a closed-in porch that ran the length of the house, he stopped walking and started staring.

  Leaning casually against the wall, smack dab in the middle of a long line of Demons, was motherfucking Frankie. And no, his eyes hadn’t gotten any less crazy. But he had gotten a fuck of a lot bigger.

  His long brown hair was pulled back in a man bun, displaying his spiderweb neck tattoos interspersed with extensive, thick scars. His beard was long and ratty, and the brother’s muscles were bulging out of the skintight Van Halen tee he had on.

  He might have half an inch on Frankie, but bodily, they were evenly matched. And with the asshole being as crazy as he was, Deuce wasn’t too sure he’d come out on top.

  Frankie and his crazy eyes were fixated on something across the room. He followed his line of sight.

  Fuck.

  Black Harley tee with the collar cut off, causing it to fall off her shoulder, exposing a new tat of a colorful collage of flowers. Her tight pants were leather
, and on her feet, sparkly silver Chucks. Her dark, wavy hair had grown even longer, nearly reaching her ass. She’d gained a little weight, none of it bad. How long had it been since he’d seen her last and acted like a fucking asshole? Four years? Five? She had to be around thirty now. She didn’t look it. If he didn’t know her, he’d think she was in her early twenties.

  He wanted her still. Fucking. Bad.

  He looked back at Frankie whose gaze hadn’t moved, whose body hadn’t moved. Every inch of him was solidly trained on Eva.

  Crazy. Fucking scary crazy.

  Eva looked up from her conversation with another woman—older, battered-looking, wearing stripper heels, definitely an MC whore—and her gaze caught Frankie’s. Frankie’s eyes fucking blazed with possession and…insanity.

  Eva handed her beer to the woman next to her and started for Frankie. Crazy fuck never took his eyes off her, watched her like a vulture does when it’s waiting for something to die.

  When she reached him, his arm wrapped around her wrist, and he pulled her up against him. His head lowered, his mouth covered hers, and he just fucking ate at her. Eva’s arms went up around his neck; she pressed her body into his and kissed him back just as hard.

  He stared at them, his fists clenched and his chest aching something fierce.

  Frankie pushed Eva off him. “Got business, babe,” he yelled over the music. “Stay right fuckin’ here until I get back, or you’re gonna catch a lot of fuckin’ shit from me that you know you don’t fuckin’ want. And I don’t wanna give it to you, but I fuckin’ will if you don’t fuckin’ listen.”

  She nodded. She just fucking nodded. Frankie walked off and disappeared out the back door.

  Turning around, he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed Cox. Brother answered on the first ring, breathing hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin came through the phone loud and clear.

  “Yeah?”

  “Got a problem.”

  “Fuck. What is it?”

  “Eva.”

  “She here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Kami here?”

  Deuce closed his eyes. What. The. Fuck.

  “No, asshole. Kami is not here.”