Pagan (The Henchmen MC Book 8)

by Jessica Gadziala

  There was no more dream.

  There was no chance for advancement.

  "Kenny," Benny piped in, voice a little pleading, likely picking up on exactly what I was feeling right then.

  I shook my head at him, blinking rapidly a few times, pushing the emotional stuff away to be dealt with later. Likely with more store brand ice cream and five-dollar wine.

  I was going to be as big as a house if the disappointments kept rolling in.

  "I get that you don't want to hear that, Kennedy," Niro said, bringing my attention back to him, "but I figure you'd want to hear it now before he's got you at some restaurant next week and sliding his slimy hands all over you, trying to convince you that you could talk over the specifics after he fucks you. Don't really know you, but I can see this vagina shop of yours means a lot to you. But it's sure as fuck not worth getting into bed with that shithead."

  It was never going to go that far.

  I might have been desperate, but not anywhere near desperate enough to whore myself out for what I wanted. I'd leave that to the pros down on Third Street and the gold diggers on the other side of town.

  "He's not her type," Benny decided to add, making Niro's lips tip up.

  "Oh yeah? What's her type then?"

  "Well, our Kenny here came from the wrong side of the train tracks so to speak. She grew up crushing on the bad boys."

  Oh lovely.

  Good old Benny.

  "Bad boys, huh?" Niro asked, obviously loving my discomfort.

  "Though, she hasn't had any..."

  "Oh good God, shut the hell up," I gasped, eyes feeling like they were going to pop out of my skull they were so big. Was he really going to betray that trust? To a complete stranger? Christ.

  There was a low, deep, rolling chuckle from Niro as he leaned against the counter. "Since you're full of information," he said, talking to Benny, "why does she call me Niro when she trips the switch?"

  My eyes closed. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. And I was suddenly hoping that if God had any plans for a rapture, that it could happen right about that moment, so I didn't have to live through another second of that kind of embarrassment.

  "Our Kenny here is a big action movie fan. And when she saw you, she thought you looked like a better looking younger Robert De Niro from Taxi Driver. And since she didn't ever catch your name, she calls you Niro."

  "She talk about me a lot?"

  "I'm standing right here," I protested.

  "Really working those short shorts too," Niro agreed, not even sparing me a glance. "But give us a minute, pet, the boys are talking."

  "Oh, I've heard your name a few times. Or your fake name, as it turns out. What is your real name? Wait, no. Don't tell me. If it's something lame like Dylan or Bryce or some shit, it will completely ruin it for me. At least Niro is a sexy name."

  "It's Pagan," he replied easily, making me stiffen.

  "No shit?" Benny asked, smiling huge, obviously loving that information.

  Pagan?

  Pagan?

  Who the hell had a name like Pagan?

  "No shit," Pagan agreed, looking amused by his reaction.

  And even breaking through the disappointment about Ethan, and the shock of his strange, demonic little name, I realized I really liked how he interacted with Benny. It was my personal opinion that how a man responded to another man who liked men (and maybe even flirted with them a bit) said a lot of them as a person. Pagan didn't seem offended or, worse yet, grossed out, by Benny's attention. He didn't do that condescending thing that Ethan did when he called him a lady. He just treated it like it was no big deal. And it was no big deal, but in my experience, not all men felt that way.

  I found myself really liking that about this practical stranger whose fingers I was better acquainted with than his brain.

  "On paper and everything?" Benny pressed.

  "Not originally," Pagan admitted, then shrugged, "but now, yes."

  "You changed your name to Pagan. Is that a biker thing?"

  "It was an underground fighter thing," he countered.

  "I knew that wasn't just a rumor. I told you it was real," Benny said, accusing me.

  We had totally talked about something he heard about an underground fighting ring in Navesink Bank. I had insisted that it was likely something like a bunch of teenagers watched Fight Club a few too many times and got some ideas.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  I didn't quite know how I felt about that.

  I mean, any idiot in Navesink Bank knew there was stuff that went on beneath the radar. The Henchmen were a prime example. We had a compound full of gun runners right on the main drag in town. Then there was that weird military or survivalist camp thing up on the hill. There was Third Street with their hookers. And, growing up on the side of town I grew up on, I had heard some rumors about the family who owned a bunch of other businesses, but most notably, Chaz's, being actual, real life loan sharks. Knee-cap breakers.

  But things like underground fighting sounded a little too far-fetched to my ears.

  I guess you learn something new every day.

  "I have a fight tomorrow night if you want tickets," Pagan offered, but did so to Benny who he simply knew was the bigger sucker.

  "Oh," Benny said, looking over at me. "We are so going."

  "You can go," I offered. "I need to wor..."

  "Oh, woman," Benny scoffed, shaking his head, grabbing the appointment book which showed a big fat nothing after six PM the next night. "And don't pull that 'what if someone drops in' crap either. You need a night out. You need about half a dozen cocktails and an excuse to put on something pretty."

  He wasn't exactly wrong.

  I needed a distraction from all the stress.

  But I was pretty sure going to some underground fight where Pagan was going to be in the ring was not the kind of distraction I needed. Besides, cocktails cost money, and while I did have a small little bit of 'mad money' laying around, I had planned to maybe buy some new higher-end hair products for the shop with it.

  "You're going. If I have to drag you." For many, that was an empty threat. For Benny, it wasn't.

  Apparently, I was going to an underground fight and wasting precious money that would end in a stomach ache because I had a feeling his cage fights would be just as bloody as his fight at the compound.

  "I'll put your names on the list," Pagan offered. "Just park at the old school and follow the crowd," he told Benny before finally turning fully toward me.

  No, he didn't just turn toward me.

  He turned, let his eyes move over me in a way that was so intense it was practically like they stroked over every inch of skin they inspected. Which, well, made me feel flushed all over, made my chest start to get tight, made an unmistakable tightening start between my legs.

  But then he wasn't just looking at me; he was walking toward me.

  It was a slow, deliberate gait, like a lion stalking its prey.

  I had never felt so much like prey in my life.

  But my instinct wasn't to run.

  Oh, no.

  It was to let myself be caught.

  To let him sink his teeth in.

  Oh, God, yes.

  "Like that look," his voice said, low, quiet enough to keep it between the two of us though Benny was only a few feet away. Before I could even think to respond, if there even was an appropriate response to that, his lips crashed down on mine.

  Somehow, it was even harder, hungrier than it had been at the compound. Maybe over a week of pent-up frustration did that to us. But his lips bruised into mine; his teeth bit; his tongue owned mine.

  And it coursed through me, making my brain fuzzy, making my skin tingle, making me flush, putting every kind of alcohol I had ever had to shame. Anytime, any day, I would much prefer the sensation of being drunk on Pagan than anything else.

  I swayed against him, my hands going up to grab his biceps, sure I would just melt into a puddle of need on the floor if
I didn't hold onto something solid.

  Then, just as suddenly as it started, it was over. His lips ripped from mine. My eyelids fluttered open, my breathing heavy, my gaze just a little sex-hazy. His hand rose, snagging my chin.

  "Wear whatever the fuck you want," he said as way of parting words, turned, and was gone.

  "Giiiirl," Benny said, fanning himself with the appointment book. "I'm as gay as Todrick's ballet shoes and even I have a semi from that." I exhaled a long, deep breath. "Oh, honey, you got a case of the blue tubes right now, don't you?" he asked, looking sympathetic. "If it's any consolation, it's only one more day until that man can be all up in your lady cave."

  That, somehow, managed to break through the almost overwhelming need coursing through my veins, setting my whole body on fire.

  "I'm not getting involved with some arms-dealing biker named Pagan, Benny."

  "Why not?" he asked, looking genuinely confused.

  "Arms. Dealing. Biker."

  "We all have our flaws," he tried, but his eyes were dancing.

  "Yeah like stretch marks on our asses or drinking out of the carton, not buying and selling guns illegally and cage fighting."

  "Listen, sister. I'm no expert in the pink peach area," he said, and I chuckled. He could say 'vagina' when he talked about the wall color, but heaven forbid he actually talked about the actual thing with the right word. "But I think you might be nearing that re-virgination thing. Take the bad boy for a ride. That's all it would be. A good, fast, dirty, bed-breaking ride. Then move on. Trust me, life always seems a lot more tolerable after a good orgasm."

  There was a part of me, maybe even a big part of me, that had a feeling that before Monday night was over, I might have been feeling a lot less... stressed.

  It was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

  SIX

  Pagan

  "Where were you?" Repo asked when I walked in, going directly behind the bar for a beer because, well, it was hot as balls out and I needed something cool. That and maybe I needed a little oblivion to stop obsessing about fucking goddamn Kennedy already.

  "Oh, didn't you know?" Maze asked, her hair perfectly dyed from the Benny guy. "Pagan has a giiiirlfriend," she teased, shooting me a smile. "Pagan and Kennedy sitting in a tree..."

  "Come the fuck on!" Cyrus said, slamming his drink down on the coffee table. "No way are you settling down with that girl. Granted, she's gorgeous and all that, but I need my wingman."

  "Got a room full of new prospects," I said, waving a hand toward the new addition that was set up barracks-style for just that reason. Then, realizing exactly what I had just said- insinuating that I was serious about Kennedy- I rushed to cover. "Besides, I'm not fucking dating anyone. You know me enough to know that's not my style."

  "Wasn't supposed to be any of those fucks' style," Cyrus complained, waving a hand toward Cash, Reign, and Duke who were on the other side of the room talking, "and yet they're all locked down now. Love Summer, Lo, Penny, and all the other crazy chicks, you too Maze, angel," he said, shooting her a smile that worked on way too many girls in bars. But Maze, having his number, was unaffected. "But we're too young for settling down. Booze and brotherhood and b... ladies," he covered when Penny walked in, raising a brow at his almost-slip.

  "Where are the puppies?" Maze asked, looking around. "Did you guys lock them up so they don't piddle on the rug again?"

  "Sugar, Virgin, and Roderick all went to the gym," Cyrus said, lip curling slightly.

  "Aw, the bromance begins," Maze said, walking toward Cyrus and sitting down. "Where's that other one then? The one who looks like he was maybe raised in the woods?"

  That'd be Roan.

  He did sort of have that primal, wolf-like look to him.

  "Mult timp în urmā, frate," Edison's growl dragged my attention to where he and the man in question had been walking out of the kitchen. "Mult timp," he added with a nod as he moved away.

  Generally, I didn't give a fuck about the background of my brothers. Maybe a part of that was because I didn't want them to know all of mine, but there was something about Edison that I just could never put my finger on. Maybe it was as simple as strange characters like Wolf and Roan seemed to know who he was by name and reputation alone, while the rest of us barely knew one damn detail about him.

  And while Edison wasn't exactly afflicted with some kind of trauma that made him talk in as short of sentences as possible, he was a quiet fuck. He didn't engage in small talk. He didn't volunteer any personal details. The fuck was even tight-lipped when he had an entire handle of vodka in his system.

  So Roan having some information on him was intriguing, to say the least.

  "Did you invite her to your fight?" Maze asked, smiling big, a little too eager to be going herself. She had been too pregnant then breast-feeding in the past, and this was going to be her first one. In fact, all Henchmen old ladies were showing up for once, having made some kind of deal with their other girls club members to deal with the ankle-biters for the night so they could get out.

  "Do you think that was a good idea?" Laz added, coming in out of nowhere. "You do realize she fucking ran when she saw you pounding into that idiot during the open house. And that shit was tame compared to you in the ring. Especially after being benched for so long."

  "Yeah, I mean, I couldn't watch your fight," Bethany added, immediately getting wrapped up by Laz because they were in love and shit like that.

  "Girl is wound like a top," I said, trying to shrug off the completely unfamiliar twinge of insecurity. That wasn't me. I didn't give a shit what people thought. My entire goddamn life was a testament to that fact. "She'll be six cocktails deep before I step in the ring. By then, it won't matter how much of Slate is leaking out of him."

  "Nice visual," Bethany said, face scrunching up.

  "So tell us about this Kennedy girl," Penny demanded as she sat down next to Cy.

  "Don't get attached," I warned her.

  "Right, because when one of these guys," Maze said, waving a hand around, "starts getting those puppy dog eyes like you have, history has totally shown that he fucks her and dumps her."

  "Jesus fuck," I growled, tipping up my beer and draining it. "I need something stronger than this to put up with this shit."

  Fact of the matter was, I wasn't a relationship guy. Not once. Never. Fuck, I wasn't even sure I had ever taken a woman to dinner. That just wasn't the kind of life I led. I couldn't even make a commitment to keeping a pet; I damn sure wasn't going to shackle myself to another person.

  People could accuse me, rightly, of being a lot of things: violent, reckless, outspoken, filter-free, foolhardy, cocky, impulsive, blunt.

  But no one would ever accuse me of being steady.

  And likewise, no one could say I made promises I didn't keep.

  So since my life consisted of cage-fighting, gun-running, ATV-crashing, plane-jumping, car-racing, drinking, and any number of other stupidly dangerous things, getting myself a nice, steady woman was fucked up.

  Not because I thought there was anything inherently wrong with how I lived my life, but because it was not the kind of shit a decent woman wanted to settle down with. And while I was fine reaching for a clubwhore or some chick in the bar when the mood struck, which was often, those were not the kinds of women I could ever see myself wanting more than one night with. Maybe that made me a dick, but that was just how it was.

  There were one-night kind of girls, and there were settling down kind of girls.

  The former loved my lifestyle. It was hot, scary, dangerous, sexy, but safe because they knew none of it would ever actually touch them. I would just be the story they told their girlfriends when they were old, sitting around a cheap dining room table drinking Starbucks, and discussing the good old days before the shitty husband, and three bratty kids, and the life that was eating away at their souls. I was that spark of fun. I was that outlaw biker who fucked them until they saw the face of God back in the day.

  Noth
ing more, nothing less.

  The latter, though, were the kind to look at the package that I presented to them and say 'no fucking way.'

  Kennedy though, it was painfully clear she wasn't some one-night girl, despite the fact that she let me finger fuck her in an alley at a crowded party. She probably would have let me do more too. But that wasn't who she was, how she was. That was the product of what was obviously a shitty interaction with some rich asshole who wanted to fuck her and whose touch she wanted to forget about. It also likely had a fuckuva lot to do with the fact that, as her co-worker implied, she hadn't gotten any in a long time.

  But in need of a fuck or not, she was quality.

  She had a business it was clear she put a lot of herself into.

  She apparently came from the wrong side of the tracks, but didn't show that in any of her mannerisms, speech, or style.

  She had, obviously, been the metaphorical 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps' kind of person.

  You had to admire that.

  The fact that I was even thinking about shit like her merits as a person instead of her tits and ass was really saying something, though.

  It was saying I was interested.

  And not just interested in seeing all the dirty ways she would let me have her.

  I was interested in her as a goddamn person.

  What the fuck was wrong with me?

  "First time you caught feelings?" Roan asked, it maybe being the first time he addressed me directly before. And the strange mix of accents, all too varied to place as any one in particular, was even more prominent.

  "I don't even know the woman," I half-denied. It was true enough.

  "Had a compound full of women after she ran off on you last week." I knew where he was going. "Didn't see you take any back to your bed."

  That was true.

  Granted, I wasn't a man who needed to fuck every single night, though what man didn't want that? But I generally didn't go a week unless I was laid up with some kind of serious injury. Not many qualified. Broken leg? She could ride. Busted ribs? Blow job and ride my face.