The Rush: The Hell's Disciples MC (The Hell's Disciples MC Series)

by Jaci J

  Touching my lip, I wince.

  I’m mad at T, at my fucking self.

  I knew this would happen.

  In the back of my mind, I just knew.

  The forever optimist, I pushed it out of my mind, determined to do what I needed to do, and that was work.

  Stormi is sitting next to me, her hand rubbing my back. “Are you okay?” she asks, turning to look at me with sympathy and concern.

  Nodding, I brush the tears away from my face, squaring my shoulders. “I’m fine.”

  I’m done crying over this shit.

  “You sure, babe?”

  Stormi is a real friend. She’s sweet and she cares, but she can’t fix this. The only person who can is looking back at me in the mirror, weak and pathetic.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bailey!” I hear Tyler shout from down the hall, his voice loud over the music and voices. My body flinching involuntarily hearing his thunderous voice.

  For a moment, I debate on getting up and hiding. Maybe locking myself in the bathroom or crawling out a fucking window. I know it won’t do any good, though.

  T will find me.

  This fight is inevitable.

  Seconds later, the door flies open, hitting the wall behind it, making me flinch again.

  I watch from the mirror as T walks into the room and stops, his eyes taking me in through the mirror. He sees the mark on my face and the cut on my lip, and proceeds to lose his mind.

  Kicking a chair out of his way to get to me, I watch it skid into the wall, leaving a small hole in the drywall behind it.

  “What the fuck happened?” he roars, striding toward me and pulling me out of my chair and into him, his hands wrapped around my arms.

  He’s not gentle with me.

  But he is when he touches my face. Still, it makes me flinch.

  He sees it.

  Stormi sees it.

  His brothers at the door see it.

  “Back off,” Stormi snaps, pushing her hand between us, trying to shield me.

  It’s fucking useless.

  “Don’t tell me to back off. In fact, don’t tell me shit. This is between me and my girl,” T grinds out through clenched teeth, shoving Stormi away from me. “Poncho, come get this bitch.”

  And Poncho does.

  He grabs her around the waist, hauling her toward the door. “Come on, girl, stay out of their shit.”

  “Get your hands off me!” She fights, struggling against his hold.

  “Not gonna happen,” Poncho heaves, pulling on her, dragging her through the door.

  “Bailey?” she questions hesitantly. “You sure?”

  I nod, not wanting to worry her more.

  What else am I going to do? T’s not going anywhere.

  “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  As soon as Poncho gets Stormi out the door, Rock closes it, leaving T and I alone.

  T’s got both of his hands on either side of my face, this thumb brushing my cheek and lip, and I hate how right it feels. “What happened?” he asks, looking into my eyes, looking for my lies.

  His hands on me feels good.

  Too good.

  Pulling away from him, I match his stare. “I don’t know. You fucking tell me?”

  He paces away from me, agitated.

  “What the fuck does that mean? I didn’t do this. I’d never fucking hit you,” he hisses, hands gripping the back of his neck.

  Just like this afternoon, he looks dangerous. Rage in his eyes. Stone in his features.

  “Didn’t you, though?” I snap, blaming something on him he didn’t physically do. “This,” I shout, touching my bloodied lip, “is your goddamn fault. The owner of the club came in here, grilling me about you and your fucking club, asking about last night, and when I didn’t have the answers he was looking for, he hit me.”

  Rage.

  Pure, white-hot rage washes over his features.

  “He what?” he asks, deceptively calm. His voice is deadly flat, almost eerily calm in contrast to the look on his ruggedly handsome face.

  “I pushed him away from me and told him to fuck off, and he hit me!” I scream, a tear leaking from my eye and traveling down my cheek.

  I don’t even try to hide it.

  T doesn’t say anything else. He just turns away from me and storms out of the dressing room.

  I make the mistake of following him.

  Walking to the end of the hall, he stops at Victor’s door. He doesn’t knock, he just kicks it in. His big boot covered foot goes right through the door, the wood splintering.

  “The fuck!” Sonny shouts, running down the hall toward us. He doesn’t get far because Rocky thrusts his arm out, catching my manager by his collar. “Whoa, there. You might wanna stop shouting and take your ass back out to the floor. This shit doesn’t concern you.”

  For once in his life, Sonny listens, nodding stiffly before disappearing.

  “What the hell…?”

  I recognize the broken English accent immediately.

  Victor.

  From the door of the office, I watch T walk in and hit Victor without a word. He hits him hard and then he grabs him, smashing his face off the desk before Victor can react. His head bounces like a damn rubber ball, bouncing off the wood.

  I watch, unable to look away.

  It’s a fucking train wreck.

  A goddamn car accident.

  Grabbing around the back of his neck, T lifts Victor’s head up and leans down close to his bloody face. “Ever put your hands on my girl again, I will kill you. This deal? Done. Dead. Fucking buried. You hear me?” T’s voice is quiet, but serious.

  My boss doesn’t do anything.

  He doesn’t nod and he doesn’t agree.

  T doesn’t appreciate that because he smashes his face against the desk again, making me jerk in surprise at the sound that Victor’s face makes when it hits the wood.

  “You fucking hear me, motherfucker?”

  Victor nods this time. “Yeah,” he splutters, blood and spit dripping out of his mouth and onto the desk in a small pool under his chin. “I—I hear you.”

  I feel numb.

  I also feel vindicated, horrified, and turned on, all at the same time.

  20

  T

  BAILEY DOESN’T WANT me to touch her, but I couldn’t give a fuck less.

  I need to touch her.

  I need that shit like I need a cigarette or a shot of alcohol, or a goddamn bullet for the Russian’s brain.

  “Don’t,” I growl, grabbing her hips and lifting her up, even when she pushes me away.

  “T—”

  “Don’t.”

  Bailey gives in.

  She wraps her legs around me, but only because she doesn’t have a choice.

  “I can’t be with you.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Fuck me?”

  “You heard me,” she counters.

  “Bailey.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Her words fucking cut.

  She doesn’t trust me?

  She doesn’t trust me?

  “Is that so?” I provoke, trying to reign in my temper. “You fuckin’ scared of me? Scared I’ll do to you what I did to that asshole who hit you?”

  Pushing her against the wall, her body between mine and the wood, I stare down into her big brown eyes, wide and determined to hate me, her jaw clenched.

  I know the answer to my fucking questions without even having to hear the words.

  She doesn’t hate me.

  She hates that she wants me.

  She hates that we’re in deep.

  “That’s what I fucking thought.”

  “Still doesn’t make it right.”

  “So him hitting you over some bullshit you had fuck all to do with was okay?”

  “No.”

  “An eye for a fucking eye, Doll Face.” I inhale her scent when I bury my face in her neck.

  I fucking need her.

&nbs
p; Right now, I need her more than I usually do.

  She shivers, sucking in a breath when I kiss the skin below her ear. “That’s how I fucking handle shit. Don’t question it, and don’t question me. Trust what I do.”

  “Tyler,” she sighs, trying to pull away.

  She’s shaking. Either from the loss of adrenaline or need, I don’t fucking know, but she tenses when I slide one hand along her hip and down to her ass, lifting her higher and closer to me. I want her as close as I can fucking get her. “I don’t want to do this,” she moans when I kiss down her neck toward her chest. “Not like this.”

  “You don’t want me anymore?” I ask her, carrying her into the dressing room and setting her on one of the vanities, knocking bottles and shit over when I do.

  “No, not when I’m in the middle of something I know nothing about.”

  “This shit won’t touch you, not again.”

  “You don’t know that,” she whispers, her head falling back against the mirror behind her when I tug her top down, her tits springing free from the material.

  “Yeah,” I growl, burying my face in her cleavage. “I fucking do.”

  Nipping at the underside of her tit, I work my hand between her thighs, pushing the material of her little panties to the side, exposing her juicy cunt.

  She feels the same way about me as I do about her—fucking crazy.

  “Don’t,” she pleads, her fight fading when I slide two fingers between her slick pussy lips, teasing her entrance with my fingers.

  “Don’t what?” Pushing my fingers inside of her warm body, her cunt tightens around my fingers. “Don’t fuck my woman?” I tease.

  “I’m not your woman. I’m not yours, T,” she tells me, her head lulling to the side, giving me access to her neck.

  Kissing her there, I growl into her ear, “Your wet pussy says differently, baby.”

  She nods slowly, painfully, like acknowledging that shit hurts. “I shouldn’t want you.”

  “But you do, baby, as bad I fucking want you.”

  “I hate it,” she moans when I rub my thumb against her clit, kissing down her neck and to her chest, sucking a hard nipple between my lips.

  “Yeah, Doll, I’ll give you what you need.”

  I don’t give her romantic or sweet. I don’t give her time or draw it out. I give her what her body wants, which is my cock, hard and fast.

  Pulling my fingers out of her tight wetness, I jerk on my fly, popping the button and unzipping my zipper. Pushing my jeans down, I fist my cock with one hand and hold her panties to the side with the other.

  Bailey shivers and moans when I run the head of my cock through her juicy pussy lips, stopping at her entrance to play before shoving into her without warning.

  “Oh shit,” Bailey gasps, her fingers gripping my shoulders, nails digging into the muscle.

  “Fuck, baby.”

  Her pussy is so wet and tight, instantly squeezing the shit out of my cock, keeping me deep inside of her. Her muscles tighten when I start to move, her cunt milking me with each thrust.

  Moving my hand from between her legs, I grab her neck, wrapping my hands around her delicate throat, angling her head back so she can look up at me.

  “You’re mine,” I remind her, squeezing just enough to get my point across.

  “I’m yours,” she replies, breathing hard.

  “I’m your fucking man, you feel me?” Stopping deep inside of her, I grind down hard against her cunt. “No one puts their hands on you but me. No one fucks this pussy but me.”

  “Yesss,” she cries out, wiggling against me, needing more contact.

  Between her warm, wet cunt working me and her panties rubbing against my cock, I’m having a fuck of a time not blowing my load, but I’ve got a point to make and shit to drive home first.

  “Who’s your man?” I demand, pulling out of her slowly before slamming back into her, the vanity she’s on hitting the wall with a loud thud.

  “You.”

  “Whose hands do you want on you?”

  “Yours.”

  “Who’s dick you riding from here on out?”

  “Yours.”

  Slamming back into her, I take great fucking pleasure in her words and her body. “Goddamn right. You’re mine.”

  “And you’re mine,” she whimpers when I grab a handful of her tit, squeezing it roughly.

  “Yeah, baby. Always.” And that’s not smoke I’m blowing up her ass either. I’m hers, and I’m fucking man enough to admit it. This bitch fucking owns me.

  Thrusting into her, I feel the pressure building in my balls. I’m gonna nut, but not before I fuck the orgasm out of her. “You gonna come for your man?” I pant, pushing deeper, my hand slipping between us and rubbing at her clit.

  Her nails dig into my skin, her teeth biting down on her lip.

  My girl is working for it, squeezing on my dick. “Yeah,” she moans, tightening her cunt down on my cock. “Don’t pull out,” she pleads, surprising the hell out of me.

  I don’t have a condom on, but I don’t give a fuck. Only with Bailey. I’ll come in her until she’s pregnant, and I’ll keep fucking doing it.

  “Wasn’t plannin’ on it, baby.”

  She jerks and trembles, her cunt so tight it damn near hurts.

  Tightening my hold on her neck, I squeeze, and it does the trick.

  She comes.

  “Oh shiiit, baby.”

  And I fucking come, deep inside of her, and I feel no fucking remorse.

  BAILEY

  T helps me off the back of his bike, his arm steadying me and my hand in his. He’s strong and solid, taking my full weight like I weigh nothing.

  “Where are we?” I ask him, looking at the house and driveway we’re standing in front of, and then at him.

  I’m bone tired.

  Exhausted.

  I left my club on the back of T’s bike and didn’t look back.

  I couldn’t.

  I stopped thinking and started feeling, and that’s where I am right now—feeling.

  “My place,” he answers, getting off his bike, his long muscular legs lifting him up and off gracefully.

  “Your place?” I repeat, looking back at the simple house in front of me.

  “Yeah, Doll, my place. The place I make the payments on.”

  I’m surprised.

  Pleasantly surprised.

  After the day and night we’ve had, I figured we’d end up in his bed at his club. I didn’t expect him to take me to the place he calls home.

  “Do you stay here often?” I question, following him onto the small wooden porch.

  Clean and well-kempt, his house is painted a nice blue with white trim. A small craftsman style house with a good yard and a big garage at the end of a paved driveway. It’s nice.

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “If you’re staying here with me or not.”

  “Oh yeah?” I laugh quietly, following him inside.

  “Yeah. House ain’t a home without my woman in it making me dinner.”

  Sexist asshole.

  Rolling my eyes, I walk ahead, T smacking my ass playfully.

  After unlocking the door, he flips on the lights, illuminating the room. Just like the outside, the inside is clean and simple. Nice. A couch along one wall and a TV on the other. A large recliner next to the couch and coffee table. Nice hardwood floors and white walls.

  “You want me to feed you or bathe your first?” T asks, pulling off his cut and tossing it on the back of the recliner.

  On the wall, behind the couch, are a bunch of photos, all black and white. They’re pictures of the club, of friends, and what I assume are family. Cookouts and rallies. Guys standing by their bikes and the girls on the backs. They’re old photos. The seventies and eighties, and some new ones mixed in.

  Engrossed in the pictures, I don’t hear T until he’s right behind me, wrapping his strong arms around me, his chin on my shoulder. “In the shower. Now.”


  “For someone who just got off, you’re pretty damn pushy about getting me naked.”

  “I’ve been waitin’ to get you naked, and my hands and mouth on your body for a year. It’s gonna be a long fucking time before I’m not feigning for it.”

  “So, you’re saying someday, you might get sick of me and my body?”

  T makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “Fucking doubtful, baby. Your body is my goddamn addiction.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Believe that shit, Doll. Your mind, your body, that fucking pussy, it’s all like a goddamn drug.”

  Jesus.

  “Shower?” I coax, changing the subject.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, shower.”

  _______________

  T doesn’t shower with me, but he watches me. Standing in the bathroom, leaning against the sink, his phone in his hand, he smirks when I hold up my hand, trying to block his camera. “You’re a pervert.”

  “Yeah? How you fucking figure?” he growls, pushing my hand down and taking a picture of my wet, naked body.

  “You’re taking pictures of me naked.”

  “The fuck you expect me to jerk off to when you’re not here? Porn?”

  “Or memory.”

  “Nothin’ is better than the real thing, but a picture of these pretty tits and tight cunt will work in a pinch.”

  The man is certifiable.

  Rinsing the shampoo from my hair, shampoo that smells like T, like a man—my man—I have my eyes closed and my head back when I feel his hands on my chest, kneading my tits. His hands make me groan and press my thighs together.

  “How big you think these tits are gonna get when I knock you up?” he says out of nowhere.

  That catches me off-guard.

  Too fucking fast.

  Too fucking soon.

  “What?” I cough.

  “You fucking heard me.”

  “We’re not even in a relationship.”

  Instantly, T’s face darkens. “Didn’t we just do this shit? Didn’t we fucking do it yesterday? The day before that? You’re mine. If that’s not a damn relationship, then I don’t know what the fuck is.”

  “But you’re talking about getting me pregnant. So soon?”

  “Did I not just come inside of you?”

  “T,” I moan, and not in pleasure, but in shock and embarrassment. “You’re crazy. I’m on birth control.”