Archangels MC: A Reverse Harem Romance (Bad Influence Book 2)

by Ivy Fox

  What a pair we make. Him christened with a name of an avenging angel destined to be the voice of God himself, when he, in reality, rarely uses his voice at all. And me, responding to a name most people cling to in order to keep the faith and trudge on over their burdens, while I have very little hope in anything or anyone, for that matter. Yes, what a duo we make.

  Aurora thinks I found this house for a reason. She believes nothing happens by chance and that there is a justification for every action, even if that reason is cloaked to us and only made clear later on in life.

  I don’t know if there could have ever been a valid reason for anyone to want me dead. My three guardians don’t say it so openly, but I know that is what I escaped from. I don’t share the same convictions as Aurora—to me, shit happens. There are bad people everywhere. They don’t need a reason to hurt or to kill, they only need a victim. I played that role before. I will not play it again.

  So while these three men have my engagement in some form or another, they do not have my loyalty or my trust. That is a commodity I will not give away lightly. They may seem like angels brought down from the sky with the sole intent of healing my body and soul, making me whole again, promising justice and friendship, but it’s still too soon to let them in. I need to be cautious. I need to have my guard up. It’s the safest way.

  There is a small voice that repeats inside my head when I think such thoughts.

  I’m doing this as much for me as I am for them.

  Like I said, looks are deceiving. I think of them as my saviors, my own guardian angels. But what if they mistake me for one, too? What if when they look at me, they see some sort of fallen angel in need of rescue?

  How tragic would it be if they did so, and then discover that maybe I’m the devil sent to their doorstep instead?

  Chapter 10

  Cam

  “I hate this story,” she blurts out, flailing her arms on either side of her body, showing just how frustrated she is.

  “How can you hate this story? It has everything, Hope. Swords, fights, intrigue, suspense, and I even added the girlie thing you all seem to can’t get enough of—true love,” I laugh out, giving her my best flirtatious wink. Still, she seems unimpressed with my book choice for the evening.

  “Please! The story does not have true love in it,” she retorts snarkily.

  “I think a million other people through history would disagree with you, darling,” I add.

  “And they would be wrong,” she counters again, this time crossing her arms over her chest, hoping it emphasizes her statement, but all it’s really doing is making me very aware she’s not wearing a bra under Gabe’s t-shirt. Damn, this woman is sporting some serious heat under there. Without the garment, I can see just how perky her nipples get when she’s enraged. Makes me want to get her nice and excited all the time, just to see those two nubs peek out at me.

  “So you’re telling me that Romeo and Juliet’s story isn’t about true love and sacrifice?” I ask, genuinely intrigued, though. I mean, how many women out there could even hate this story? By my count, only one. The girl whose rack I can’t stop staring at.

  “I’m telling you, it’s about vanity and stupidity. They were both teenagers, with far too much privilege and way too little sense. The way their suicide was romanticized is both ridiculous, and frankly insulting to people who have actually felt that the only way out of their misery was to end it all.”

  I listen to her angry ramblings, as quiet as a whore at Sunday mass. This girl doesn’t remember a thing about herself, yet she is so much in tune with what her shitty life must have at least felt like before. Her anger is too raw not to be coming from a place of living that shit for real. Hope must have looked in the mirror, day in and day out, wondering when it would be her turn to die. So hearing me read a simple play like Romeo and Juliet, where suicide is made out be the ultimate show of love, is just pissing her off, and cooling my libido right along with it.

  “Ok. Hope is not a romantic. Noted,” I say, pretending to write on an imaginary notebook and placing the invisible pencil behind my ear.

  She rolls her eyes at me and leans back on the headboard, making herself more comfortable, but gaining distance from me in the same breath. I don’t move from my seat. My ass is still right on the bed next to her, like it’s always been since the first night I started doing this. I know my closeness makes her uncomfortable, but I see how each day a little bit of that uneasiness starts to thaw. I’m wearing her down. Soon enough, she won’t do little things like that to gain distance from me but will start to do the reverse. At least that’s what I’m betting on—that she’ll start to seek me out in her own way.

  She needs a friend. I don’t think I have ever met anyone in as dire need of actual friendship as Hope, of something pure and altruistic. I’m all in to give her what she needs, but it’s going to take her time to accept my offering. Hope is wary of strangers bearing gifts, as she should be. But soon she’ll realize her worries aren’t warranted. Of course, I’m just offering her friendship and support. My aching cock, however, begs to differ, wanting to give her a little loving, too. Luckily for her, I know the damned devil I’m carrying in my pants doesn’t listen to reason and has been deprived for way too long, therefore I should just ignore his heavy begging.

  Still, the woman is gorgeous, though. Even with no makeup on, messy hair all over the place like it hasn’t seen a comb in days, wearing a generic men’s shirt all the time, I still want to bang the fuck out of her every time I see her. That’s how stunning she is. Wide brown eyes, with dark black lashes that enhance their size. Perfectly-drawn pink lips, like a cupid’s kiss. Rosy cheeks that only redden further when she gets agitated like she is now. Damn wet dream for any man. And she’s still sporting some major eye damage. Imagine when she’s fully recovered and looking after herself. Don’t know if my cock will like it too much with my sole intent with Hope being friends and all. But the big guy’s going to have to suck it up. No pun intended. Girl is too scarred and damaged to think about carnal satisfaction when she’s still nursing her body back to health. Pity, though. Wouldn’t mind making her smile from an earth-shattering orgasm. I’d bet she couldn’t keep the scowl on her face then. Not like she’s doing now, anyway.

  “Whatever,” she mumbles, preventing my wolfish thoughts from getting further carried away and bringing me to the matter at hand.

  “No, no, don’t stop now. This is good. I like learning things about you. Don’t you?” I question, raising my eyebrow inquisitively, to see if she’s going to be forthcoming with her answer.

  “Didn’t you ever hear that saying that ignorance is bliss?” she continues to mock.

  “Shit, darling. I know a lot of fools that don’t know jack shit about anything, who are miserable bastards, too. I prefer to have all the cards on the table,” I tell her plainly.

  She just smirks at my response, but I see she’s found the truth in my rambling.

  “Want me to continue, or not?” I ask, pointing to the book of Shakespeare’s plays I found just this morning.

  “Why not? Don’t have anything better to do. I still can’t believe you guys don’t own a television at least. Or a computer. I mean, who doesn’t have a computer nowadays?”

  “Told you, that shit would be useless here. This place gets lousy reception. Books are our friends. Say it with me, Hope. Books. Are. Our. Friends,” I tease.

  There is a tiny smile sneaking out at the corner of her lips, and I feel like I just won some sort of Olympic gold medal for the achievement. This girl is one hard nut to crack, so any smile I can get, makes me puff out in pride. Which is odd, if I take a minute to think about it. With everyone else that has come and gone from my life, I have had no problem getting them to laugh outright at my antics. I have had the toughest, scariest motherfuckers throw themselves on the floor, crying from laughing so hard at my shenanigans. Yet here I am, working the hardest I ever have, just to get one simple turn of the lip from this girl. And each t
ime I come in close to a smile, I feel ten fucking feet high. It’s the weirdest thing.

  “Don’t tell me this story. Tell me another one,” she replies after a beat.

  “What you in the mood for? I can go up in the attic and bring down one of my mom’s smut books if you’d like?” I tell her, wiggling my fingers on the duvet, pretending to tickle her knee, loving the idea of reading out a sex scene to her and just imagining we’re the duo in the book getting it on.

  So maybe I let my cock run its mouth sometimes. I blame my family genes. I had looked through every closed box my mom stored in the attic, to see if she left any of her naughty books behind, only to find a whole trunk full of the stuff. Mom is a freak just like me. Well, she had to be, since no self-respecting Southern girl like my momma would be caught dead marrying a Yankee biker from Philly. She loved them bad boys, alright. Married one and gave birth to another. Still, whenever she needed her fix of freak, she got them in spades from her books. Grew up with that shit lying all over the house. I probably read my first one at age thirteen, and it became like my own personal tour guide to a woman’s anatomy and which buttons I needed to press in order make a woman cum. For a horny teenager like myself, I studied that shit hard. Wanted to get straight A’s in that class, and not to brag, I haven’t gotten a bad grade yet. If I had it my way, school would always be in session.

  “Funny,” she says, dismissing my urge to get me some good and spicy literature to get her all hot and bothered.

  “Is that a no, Hope?” I grin my toothy white smile, hoping she changes her mind, but she just shrugs me away, as well as my horny intent. I see her lips twitch from side to side, so I know she’s got something on her mind. She wants something, that’s for sure. My cock is just sad that her thoughts are a bazillion light years from what he wants, though.

  “On second thought. I’d rather hear another story. One you won’t need to read from a book at all, but I’m sure you know by heart,” she states, and there is a gleam in her eye she’s trying hard to hide.

  “Ok…” I say, circling my hand in the air for her to continue.

  “What’s the deal with you three?” she finally asks in her silky low voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are three grown-ass men doing living so secluded in the middle of the woods?” she finally blurts out, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of her suggestion.

  “Well, Miss Sunshine, if you must know, this is my family home. Lived here all my life, so I’m used to living in the woods far away from civilization. I guess Michael and Gabe are my roommates of sorts,” I explain, even though I’m sugarcoating it a bit.

  Michael and Gabriel are my family. This is my home, and family sticks together. My brothers living with me is as natural as breathing. Hope wasn’t the only lost soul I found in need of friendship. Those bastards have needed some kind of light all their lives. Michael needed a place where he didn’t have to feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Gabe just needed a place he could breathe without it hurting all the time. My home and my friendship gave them that. In turn, they gave me their respect and brotherhood, and for a single child like myself, I ate that shit up like catnip. I’d be lost without them.

  “Tell me more,” she whispers sweetly, which is so unlike her. Hope is brash and defensive at every turn, so for her to be bringing on some form of awkward charm my way, I know she’s fishing.

  “You’re very inquisitive today,” I deadpan.

  “Humor me, then,” she adds, with a bat of those long eyelashes of hers. She’s playing me like a fiddle, but I don’t see the harm in letting her know a little bit more about us. She’s bound to find out for herself in the long run, if she sticks around, anyway.

  “Fine, what do you want to know?” I pretend to concede, as if it’s a major inconvenience on my part, but seeing that small glimmer in her eyes shine with excitement is one heck of a reward.

  “You guys belong to a motorcycle club, right? Is it a gang or something?” she hushes, trying to confine the words to these four walls and not make their way to my brothers, who are out on the porch drinking and smoking their fill after a hard day at the clubhouse.

  “No, we’re not a gang. Although we are pretty gangster,” I wiggle my brow at her, and she slaps my left knee in discontentment. Still, it’s one of the few times she’s willingly touched me, so I’m going to take that as a win.

  “Stop playing, Cam, and tell it to me straight. Are you criminals?” she asks me dead-on.

  “Define criminals?” The ass in me can’t help but ruffle her feathers a little more.

  “Is there nothing you take seriously?” she huffs.

  “Yep, my club being one of them. Amusing you, coming a close second,” I tell her truthfully, but all it gets me is another roll of the eyes.

  “Fine. I’ll give you something before you tear up the place in search of answers. Even though Doc said you needed a couple more days in bed, I wouldn’t put it past you to seek them out in the middle of the night, while you think we’re all sleeping. Might get yourself hurt in search of nothing, by the way,” I inform her, hoping to get rid of the crazy notion I see starting to take form behind her calculating eyes.

  “I’m bedridden, Cam. Not stupid,” is her only reply, and I see that I’ve just popped her curious bubble into smithereens.

  “Oh, I know you’re far from stupid, darling. But you got some deadly fire in you, and a flame like that is bound to get you in trouble.”

  “More than the one I found myself in? Not likely,” she grumbles, turning her head away from me, so I don’t see the anger and sadness bleeding out of her solemn expression.

  Shit!

  I hate seeing her go there. Sometimes, as hard as I try to distract her from her unruly, chaotic thoughts, she is too much of a prisoner to them to take my hand and escape it all. I see her slipping into this melancholy right before my eyes, as easily as someone slipping their cold feet into warm, fuzzy slippers. It’s almost as if she welcomes the dark feelings over any type of joy. As if that is what comes to her naturally, and not the small smiles I’ve begun to bring out of her. She might think that to get me to talk, she needs to be charming, but in truth, I’d say about anything she wanted just so I don’t see the gut-wrenching sadness sweep across her face.

  “We walk a fine line between the one-percenter’s club. Those are the bike clubs around our beautiful nation that tend to get mixed up in less savory things. They are the original ‘Outlaw Motorcycle Gang,’ or what we call OMGs. The Archangels MC, well… we like to keep our noses clean as much as possible. Still, some jobs pay a pretty penny for us to look the other way,” I start to explain.

  “Like what, for example?” she asks, but her previous mischievous curiosity has long left the room. Now she’s only indulging me in conversation. I hate it. I’d rather have her up in arms, thrashing and cursing at me to leave her the fuck alone, than have this zombie-like Hope.

  “Well, like security. Basically, that’s what we provide, but sometimes we provide it for people that need security from both the law and the lawless. Get my drift?”

  “You think that’s walking a fine line? Cam, I think you’re deluding yourself. If you help criminals pull off criminal behavior, then you’re just as much at fault as they are,” she scorns.

  “This from the girl who says ignorance is bliss. We don’t ask what we’re protecting in our runs, and we don’t want to know. We only have two stipulations. No women or children in any deals, and we always work with our own people. No foreign influences at all. We basically only have to deal with the drivers, who more often than not are even more clueless about what they’re carrying than we are. Everything else is done through contacts, and no money switches hands that can lead directly to the Archangels. But like I said, these are runs we only take from business partners that the MC has known for decades. It’s how things have always been done, and how it will remain. Satisfied?”

&nbs
p; “I guess. So is that how you all met? Joined the same boy’s club?” she asks sarcastically.

  “Well it wasn’t in the boy scouts, that’s for sure.”

  “You’re hilarious, Cam,” she replies to my witty remark, but I see her trying hard to come out of the place her wayward thoughts had led her. So I continue to talk about shit she has no business knowing just so she stays here with me and not some far-away corner in her mind where only her ghosts haunt her.

  “My old man was an Archangel even before I was born, so it was only natural I’d be one too, I guess. Same thing for Michael. Only I could have passed on the club if I wanted. My family didn’t cultivate in me club life as Michael’s had.” I know I should stop my yammering, but the way she’s looking at me—having her full attention, anxiously waiting with the utmost interest for all the words coming out of my mouth—is my fucking Kryptonite.

  “He’s a legacy, see? The last son of the founding family. His pop was Prez before the Dark One took him during a nasty spill on a highway one night. Uri, Aurora’s big brother and Michael’s uncle, took the throne in his place since he was only thirteen at the time his dad kicked it. But it’s a big fucking thing for the Archangels to keep the bloodline going in the club. Uri is still in his thirties, but I know he’s looking toward Michael to fill his shoes once he steps down. Everyone is counting on it, expecting it somehow. It’s a big burden on Michael, too. High expectation and all. To follow in his dead father’s footsteps and take the gavel from the only remaining family he has left isn’t something he’s too keen on doing. But sometimes our fate is already written in the stars. No use fighting it when it’s a done deal already.”

  “You sound sad for him?” she asks, staring into my eyes like she wants to read every thought I’ve ever had. Even the ones I lock away for good measure.