Jack (The Kings of Mayhem MC TENNESSEE series, book 1)

by Penny Dee

  In the bar, Mel Torme’s, “Comin’ Home Baby” blares from the speakers as Bronte dances with the twins near the couches lining the far wall.

  Another poker game is underway, but a couple of my brothers are watching Bronte dance, and I feel my mood darken even further. As I walked past them toward the bar, I make eye contact and give them a dark look. Immediately, all eyes snap back to the card game.

  When Bronte sees me walk in, she squeals with delight and runs over to me. She’s drunk, and her hair is tousled and tangled from dancing.

  Yeah, just how it would look after an afternoon in my bed. I can’t help the thought and mentally kick myself in the balls.

  “Oh my God, I had completely forgotten how much fun it was in the clubhouse!” Her face is flushed, her eyes sparkly. “I’ve missed this place so much.” She throws her arms around, me and the sudden softness of her breasts pressed into me makes my dick twitch with appreciation. My body’s reaction is completely unwelcome.

  I put down my drink so I can control how much contact my body has with her sweet curves, which is now minimal. I don’t need to know how warm and supple she feels against me. I don’t need to feel the ample swell of her breasts or the silkiness of her hair as it glides over my arms.

  “I think I’m drunk,” she slurs, looking up at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Drunk ain’t the half of it, darlin’. You’re bonafide wasted.” I shoot Bam and Loki a what-did-you-do-to-her look, but they just shrug at me like they had no part of it.

  “I think I need to go to bed.” She tries to walk, but her legs give way, so I lurch forward and grab her before she falls.

  “Come on, you can sleep it off in my room.”

  I think back to last night to her asleep on my lap, and a rush of unexpected longing courses through me, but I bite it back as I steer her toward my bedroom.

  Because I’m president, I get the palatial room. In its heyday, it’d been the presidential suite of the hotel. The sheen has worn away over the years, but it’s still a damn fine bedroom.

  Inside, she stumbles, so I lift her into my arms and carry her over to the bed, plopping her down amongst the pillows. She moans and whimpers, and I bite back a groan.

  I haven’t come since our last ride.

  That’s why I have a raging hard dick in my jeans.

  Not because seeing Bronte lying there sends every lustful thought down my brainstem straight to my dick.

  Mentally fighting with my dick, I turn away and leave the room.

  BRONTE

  The first thing I feel is pain.

  The first thing I hear is my pulse racing through my ears.

  The first thing I smell is him.

  Because I’m cocooned in his sheets as I slowly wake to a motherfucker of a hangover.

  I stir and stretch but don’t open my eyes because I know the moment I let the light in, my hangover will slice through my brain like it’s made of butter.

  I let my mind drift. Last night had been fun and distracting which is a good thing. Surrounded by the MC, I felt safe. Like I could relax and breathe, and it’s been months since I’ve felt like that, maybe even longer. To be honest, it’s getting to the point where I can’t even remember living without the slow prickle of fear and anxiety creeping up my spine.

  I frown and shake the thought out of my mind, determined not to go there. Instead, I draw in a deep breath and stretch again, and Jack falls into my thoughts. His scent lingers in the linen wrapped around me—it’s comforting and warm and sexy as hell. The thought triggers a physical response in a body that hasn’t climaxed in months, and a surprising, pleasurable throb takes up between my legs.

  I keep my eyes shut and let his scent settle on me. Let it caress my skin like silk. Let it fill my head with the heady notes of musk and man. Feeling a spark of excitement, my hand slides down my body and settles over the skimpy lace of my G-string. I breathe in another deep breath of him and jolt when my fingers slide beneath the fabric and through the wetness.

  Riley once told me that pleasure receptors reach the brain quicker than pain receptors, so making my body hum with desire seems like the most responsible thing to do, given my hangover.

  My pulse quickens as my body wakes.

  Lust curls between my thighs.

  The throb is delicious—a warm and pulsating beat reverberating through to my pelvis.

  Sucking in my lower lip, I circle and rub and tease the little nub of nerves that offers so much temptation. I gasp. The tension is sweet and tight and building steadily.

  I start to squirm.

  Start to breathe heavily.

  Happiness floats in.

  I’m going to come.

  All the telltale signs are there. The restless legs. The coil of tension unfurling in my belly. My lips part with a sigh. My heart speeds up. My breath tightens in my throat, and a sweet surge of bliss tells me an orgasm isn’t far away.

  Anticipation crashes over me because it’s been months since I’ve been able to come.

  Months of trying.

  Months of nothing because my head is so fucked up with anxiety, confusion, and fear.

  And now, finally—finally—it’s going to happen.

  I let out a gasp, my fingers racing, my heart pounding, my toes curling.

  I’m going to come.

  But in an act of utter self-sabotage, the sudden realization that it’s finally going to happen surges forward and chases the climax away, and I want to fucking cry because I’m so desperate for the release.

  Frustration prickles across my skin.

  But then I think of him. and my excitement roars back to life.

  Him.

  Jack.

  He’s all around me. His smell. His things. And it’s everything—a perfect blend of sweet musk and man.

  He lies in this bed.

  He dreams in this bed.

  He fucks in this bed.

  The imagery sends a new wave of lust rising inside me.

  I can almost feel him. Those big arms wrapped around me. His strong body sliding against mine as he whispers filthy words of encouragement in my ear.

  It’s wrong.

  But it’s exactly what I need to break the drought and send me over the edge.

  My toes anchor to the bed. My legs stiffen. Wetness coats my fingers, and I have to bite down on my lip as my orgasm ignites. Jack. His glorious naked body swings before my eyes. His broad chest and big arms. His thick cock. I can hear him moan. Hear him groan my name. Hear him command me to come. I cry out. The pleasure is insurmountable, crashing over me as my body pounds with a climax so sweet and so raw, and so overdue, it overpowers me with a rush of all-consuming ecstasy.

  Crying out again, I press my head deeper into the pillow and disappear into the blissful world behind closed lids.

  Jack.

  My breath shakes as the pleasure slowly recedes, and I’m left with nothing but a pounding heartbeat and a wet, throbbing pussy.

  I sit up and start to laugh, but it quickly fades as a wave of nausea crashes over me, and I have to race to the adjoining bathroom to throw up.

  JACK

  I wake in the bar surrounded by the stench of stale smoke and spilled liquor. I’m on one of the couches over by the far wall near the old jukebox. Dust motes dance in the pale morning light as the bones of the clubhouse start to creak with heat from the rising sun.

  Sitting up, I yawn and stretch, the kink in my neck telling me I am not a young man anymore. Next birthday, I’ll be hitting the big 4-0, and try as I might with regular gym sessions and curbing my need for alcohol, I’m not going to outrun getting older. My time for couch sleeping has clearly passed.

  Not that I had much of a choice. The card game had gone on until the small hours and because Bronte was full of tequila and sleeping it off in my bed, I’d opted for the couch. Because there was no way in hell I was sharing that bed with her.

  Not because I don’t trust myself or because I think lying next to her might lead
to something.

  No, it’s because I’m a fucking gentleman, that’s why.

  Groaning, I run my palm over the nape of my neck and knead the muscles to loosen the kink.

  Across the room, Ghoul is sitting upright on another couch with his head dropped back and his eyes closed as the blanket over him bobs up and down. When the bobbing increases with speed, he bites down on his lip, and his knuckles turn white as they fist beside him.

  Jesus.

  I look away and rub my eyes.

  Seeing one of my brothers getting a blow job first thing is too much.

  But to be honest, it’s probably not the last time I’ll see it. Following a clubhouse party, anything is possible.

  Ignoring Ghoul and whoever is under the blanket, I walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of water from one of the glass refrigerators and scull it down until it is empty.

  I’m not hungover. Far from it. Just sore from a night on the couch and not enough sleep.

  But I have shit to do—people to see.

  But first, I have to get Bronte home.

  I find her in the bathroom adjoined to my bedroom, slumped around the toilet, her hair a curtain of tangles. I can’t help but grin. She never could handle her liquor.

  Sensing me in the doorway, she raises her head. “I think I might actually be dying,” she moans out.

  Despite the sweat and puke, she looks damn cute.

  “I told you to take it easy,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.

  She’s dressed in nothing but her T-shirt and a tiny pair of panties.

  Fuck.

  I drag my eyes away.

  “Come on,” I declare, needing the distraction. “I’ll drive you home.”

  After getting Bronte into the truck, I pull out of the clubhouse parking lot and head for home. It’s one of those hot summer days, where the sweltering heat gets into your veins and leaves you with a sheen of sweat all over your skin.

  In a nutshell, it’s the worst kind of day for a hangover.

  Bronte moans. “I’m never fucking drinking again.”

  Grinning, I glance over at her. She’s slumped against the door of my truck, her eyes closed, her face pale. She’s suffering all right.

  “We’ve all said that before,” I reply. Hell, I’ve said it more times than I can count. “You’ll feel better after a sleep.”

  “The only thing that’s going to help would be a brain transplant.” She groans again and presses her fingers to her temples. “When did the road get so bumpy?”

  “About the same time you were downing shots of tequila like they were water.”

  “Oh God, don’t remind me.” She opens one eye. “I can’t think about it. I might puke again.”

  “Not possible, wildflower. I don’t think you’ve got anything left.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Linda Blair has nothing on me.”

  I laugh at her Exorcist reference. She might be right. She’s vomited a couple of more times since I found her on the floor of the bathroom. For someone so tiny, I’m surprised by how much she can keep in her stomach.

  “We’re almost home,” I say. “The torture is almost over.”

  “It won’t be over until I’m dead.”

  She closes her eyes, and a small whimper leaves her slightly parted lips.

  I flick on the radio because the last thing I need is to hear those whimpers.

  Pulling into her driveway, I park near the front steps. She’s out cold, so I carry her inside and while she’s in my arms, she moans and snuggles her face into my chest.

  Ignoring the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, I lay her down on her bed, and she whimpers a little before sinking back into a deep sleep, her body settling into the mattress as she murmurs, “Thank you, Jack.”

  In the kitchen, I find a bottle of Advil in a basket by the phone and pour her a glass of water from the tap. The house is quiet, but an odd sound breaks into the stillness and stops me. I pause, listening to see where it has come from.

  It’s nothing.

  Just an old house creaking and moving as it settles in the deep summer heat.

  Even so, before heading back upstairs, I check the back door is locked and the windows are closed.

  Inside Bronte’s bedroom, I put the Advil and water on the bedside table for when she wakes. She’s moved while I’ve been out of the room. Rolled onto her back with her head slightly turned toward the window, her hair falling across the pillow like silk. Her T-shirt has ridden up to show her flat belly and her denim shorts lie low on her slender hips. My eyes linger for a moment longer than what I think is appropriate, yet I can’t tear them away. Her chest rises and falls slowly, the swell of her breasts telling me she isn’t a kid anymore.

  I turn away.

  No good will come from me standing there another minute. I’m not comfortable thinking about Bronte in any other way than a friend. No matter how sweet her kiss tasted on my lips. She’s as off-limits to me as anyone can be. Yet, seeing her beautiful golden body stretched out on the bed, something inside me shifts. She’s a grown woman now, and despite the familiarity of her, it’s like I’m meeting her for the first time.

  Frowning, I turn to leave but a framed photograph on the desk in the corner of the room catches my eye, so I stop. It’s of Bronte and Cooper, taken the summer before he died. I pick it up and study the image for a moment, pain snagging in my throat, cold and tight, making the muscles in my jaw tighten like screws. In the picture, Cooper only had nine months to live.

  Feeling the grief spiral through me, I put the framed picture down and walk out of the room.

  Seeing my brother in that photo frame reminds me of what I’ve lost.

  It’s also a good reminder that I have no business looking at his best friend as anything more than the girl who grew up next door.

  BRONTE

  Hangovers are a bitch.

  And this is a royal one.

  Leaning down to splash water on my face, the sudden memory of giving myself an orgasm in Jack’s bed makes me straighten with a snap.

  Oh God, no.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Oh God, yes.

  I groan. “Stupid alcohol.”

  Feeling a flush of warmth in my cheeks, I grab my toothbrush to wash the taste of death and shame from my mouth. Somewhere along the way, the wiring in my brain has become tangled and frayed because Jack is off-limits to me—he’s made it clear—yet thinking about him as I touched myself had given me my first orgasm after months of trying. And it was a mind-shattering orgasm at that.

  Even remembering it now is making me hot.

  Frowning, I shake my head.

  I really am screwed up.

  But then, I already know that.

  Spitting out toothpaste, I decide not to read too much into it. I know this was more about me trying to get back to being the girl I used to be, more than it was about wanting Jack. It’s about me overcoming the mental block that has annoyingly lodged itself in my brain and somehow masked any ability for me to be able to have an orgasm.

  And if getting over it means fantasizing about a man who would never be a real option in real life, then so be it.

  I’m ready to do anything at this point.

  Yet there it is, the traitorous little pulse between my thighs when I think about him. I squeeze my legs together to quell the throb and decide to focus on something else instead. Like last night and how much fun it had been. It felt good to let go, to drink too much and forget. Bam and Loki are just as much fun as I remember, and there’s something comforting about the clubhouse.

  Again, my mind drifts back to waking up in Jack’s bed this morning and the pleasure that followed, and a renewed flush spreads across my skin.

  Ugh.

  I stop brushing and stare at my reflection in the mirror, mouth open and toothpaste foam coating my lips.

  Forget about him, you crazy lush.

  A text alert on my cell makes me jump, and I stare at my phone
like it’s a ticking time bomb.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake.

  My jumpiness is driving me crazy.

  It’s probably Riley or Sebastian checking in on me, so I grab my cell and look at the message. But within seconds, fear sizzles into every nerve ending in my body as I read the words.

  Unknown: I will search far and wide. Try as you might, but you cannot hide.

  I drop my phone like it’s hot lava and sink to the floor.

  It’s from him.

  My own personal incubus.

  Two nights ago, I left town under a cloak of darkness to get away from him. But apparently, if I think leaving town is going to get rid of him, then I’m dead wrong.

  The Poet is going to find me no matter what I do.

  Two Nights Earlier

  I was shaking all over as I eyed Officer Johnson’s gun in his holster and mentally reminded myself to buy a gun when the sun came up.

  Standing at my front door, he was inspecting the locks. “Are you sure you locked it?” he asked, the frown on his face telling me he was beginning to think I’d made the whole thing up.

  I stared at him. “Of course, I am. I locked it and fixed the chain. I’m telling you, officer, he’s been inside my apartment, and he took this photo.”

  I shoved my cell in front of his face again so he could see the picture The Poet had sent to me. But Officer Johnson didn’t bother looking. He was too busy studying my face. Either he was trying to work out if I was lying, or he was wondering if I was rowing with only one oar in the water. This was the second time he’d been to my apartment in two months, and he was giving me the impression I was wasting his time. Young and perhaps a little green, I’d met him a few months earlier at Remy’s Rum Shack, one of the popular bars near the college. He’d offered to buy me a drink, but I had turned him down because I was there with friends and wasn’t in the mood for company. To say it was awkward when he turned up at my apartment a few weeks later on official business was keeping it obvious. He’d been the one I’d spoken to about the two Polaroids pinned to my door.