by Mackenzy Fox
“So, I’ll leave it with you then?” He cocks his head, goading me. That volcanic energy inside me now feels nuclear; I could explode at any moment.
“No,” I say haughtily as I fling the papers right back at him. He looks momentarily stunned, which gives me about two seconds of satisfaction. “You can tell your precious Prez to go jam this up his...”
He cuts me off with a raised palm before I can finish. “Don’t go spouting things you’ll regret,” he warns.
“Or what?” I fire back. I feel a little bit more satisfaction mixed with a tiny bit of fear as his nostrils flair at my tone. “And who says I’m going to regret it? Or are you just here to teach me a lesson not to mess with you?”
He might be a badass biker and maybe I’ve gone too far in the yelling department, but I don’t care, they can’t do this to me.
He doesn’t look impressed, not one bit. Oh, that’s right, these bikers are Neanderthals, not to mention sexist assholes; I can’t expect them to reason.
Women don’t make decisions around here. God, are they living in the Dark Ages? Do they go around pounding their chests and treating all women like total idiots? Or is it just me? These dudes need to get a grip on the reality of the times.
He leans forward again. “I’d like to teach you a lesson.” His tone is low, his eyes dark.
I open my mouth and then quickly close it again. Trying to calm my rage, I bite back another feisty comeback. Umm, what?
His eyes are smoldering as we glare at one another. I don’t do this; I don’t swoon over guys, especially sexist pigs who clearly think that women are stupid.
“Well, that’s certainly not going to happen,” I assure him after a moment too long. I fold my arms over my chest with finality. Who does he think he is, talking to me like that?
For the first time, a smile almost crosses his face. Almost. I can only tell by the crinkle of his eyes. It fades as quickly as it appeared. I’ve never come across anybody like this: someone who’s so hot and cold and zero to a hundred in two seconds. Now the look in his eyes tells me he might be enjoying this after all, just as I suspected. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks back at me totally unmoved, and for once in my life I am totally speechless. I’ve got nothing.
I go to get up. “When your Prez decides to come back with an offer that doesn’t insult my intelligence, then I’ll think about re-negotiating. For the moment, the offer is off the table, I’ll keep the clubhouse for the time being.” There. Take that, assholes.
I see his jaw tighten. Not the outcome he was expecting. Good. If I were him, I would’ve gone with flattery.
The sting that lingers after that pathetic counteroffer makes me want to tear the contract up, make confetti, and throw it in the air, preferably in his face. I refrain from doing that, obviously, but he’s declared war.
I think about what they could do to me if they really want to shut me up, and I realize that they aren’t very good things. I’ve always had a feisty temper, though, and now I’ve let him get under my skin. Anyway, Stef wouldn’t let anything happen to me, would she?
“As you wish,” he says darkly, watching me get up from the table as he stays seated.
I whirl around. He has the good grace to be taken aback by my sudden movement. Maybe he thinks I’m unhinged. Maybe I am.
“And just in case any of you get any funny ideas, there are people who know I’m here by the way, you know, should any ‘accidents’ happen.”
He cocks a brow again; hopefully I’ve hit a nerve. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He barks. Like he doesn’t know.
I wave my hand in the air. “Biker gangs,” I blurt out. “In case I get knocked off or mysteriously disappear or something, there are people that would come looking for me. Just so you know.”
He stares at me unblinking for a few moments. Maybe I’ve gone a step too far.
He seems to sense the panic in my eyes. I turn to leave, but before I can even take a step, he’s up out of the seat behind me and grabbing onto my arm. I jerk out of it and step back wildly.
He holds his hands up in front of him, palms facing me, as if in surrender. Then, he towers over me as he cages me in against the wall. His hands rest on the frosted glass on either side of my head as I look up at him in shock. His eyes are ablaze, and not in a good way. He actually looks really pissed.
“One,” he says as I back up against the wall with nowhere to go. “We’re not a biker gang, and we’re not one percenters. The club is completely legitimate, and we all work for a living, so whatever’s whirling around in that head of yours is completely off base.”
I have no idea what that lingo means, but his growly tone tells me all I need to know.
“Two. Nobody is going to knock anybody off. This isn’t the movies, Princess. This isn’t a cabaret. We’re civilized people, believe it or not, and we settle things above board, fairly. And three. Do you really think we’d do something like that?”
Above board? He has some nerve if that crummy offer is anything to go by.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I feel my heart hammering wildly.
Something flashes behind his eyes, and his brow furrows again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, as if suddenly registering my concern.
I nod, but I know I must look scared because he backs off, pushing away from the wall.
“We’re not boy scouts, but we’re not into hurting women or making them disappear,” he goes on, like I’ve slapped him. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that since we’re just a bunch of dirty bikers, right?”
He stares down at me and runs an exasperated hand through his messy hair, like he doesn’t know what to do with me. I’m too stunned to feel smug.
I nod again, hoping he’ll leave. Even though he’s a monster in size and clearly agitated, I don’t feel afraid. Still, I know I should, especially where angry men are concerned. Maybe I’m just naïve, or maybe I just need a strong shot of something.
“My job as enforcer is to avoid violence and only use it when absolutely necessary, and before you jump in, I don’t use violence against women, period. You’re judging the club because of what you think you know, and you don’t know shit.”
I stare at him. “Enlighten me then,” I hear myself say.
He raises a brow. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I nod. Clearly I’ve lost my mind.
“What would you like to know?”
I flatten my hands on the wall behind me. “What’s a ‘one percenter’?”
His dark eyes seem to get frostier. “Outlaws. Clubs who do illegal shit.”
“Oh,” I whisper quietly.
“That it?”
I swallow hard. “Did you really think I’d just sign that contract?”
He purses his lips. “Honestly? No.”
I frown. “Then why’d you do it?”
“I don’t get to pick and choose, princess. I’ve got orders, and I follow them.”
“Like all good club enforcers?” I challenge.
His eyes crease again at the corners. “You got spunk. I’ll give you that.”
My eyes go slightly wide. “I’d say thanks, but I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“We done?”
I huff out a slow breath.
“Please tell your boss I don’t accept the offer… I need time to think… and… and I need to get back to work.”
“It’s Prez.”
“What?” I stammer.
“It’s Prez, not boss to you, Sweetheart.”
“Prez, then,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
He regards me with an almost bemused expression. “Thought you said for him to go shove it up his ass?”
Somehow my bravado has suddenly left the building. “Yes, that too.”
He crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t move. We stare at each other, and I don’t know if I’m the only one who feels the strange electricity buzzing between us, but I don’t think it’s healthy.
He’s a complete alpha male, and I cannot fathom what he’s thinking. But there’s something strangely sexy about that. My eyes drop to his mouth as I wonder what it would be like to kiss a man with a beard. Before I linger there too long, he speaks.
“If you were mine, princess, trust me, I’d find more interesting and productive things to do with that smart mouth of yours.”
I gape as he smirks at me, satisfied it seems now that he’s got the upper hand. Then he turns and stalks off across the room, heading back into the bar and clutching the crumpled papers in his fist as he leaves.
I stare after him. What the hell was that?
With a jolt of adrenaline, I wonder if he will actually tell his precious Prez to go shove it up his ass, courtesy of me. Well, if I’ve just pissed off the entire club, then there’s not much I can do about it now. I’m not going to tuck my tail and run away. I’ve got nothing to lose.
It crosses my mind that it may not be the smartest idea in the world to pick a fight with a motorcycle club. I also don’t want to be stuck here in Bracken Ridge for any longer than I have to be, but they’re the ones drawing this out, not me. They’re the ones making it complicated.
If you were mine, princess, I’d find more interesting and productive things to do with that smart mouth of yours.
I scoff at his boldness, but I know my protest is half-hearted. My mind whirls instead at my body’s reaction to him. The fierceness in his eyes and the dark and dangerous cloud around him spell trouble, and I have no idea why that appeals to me on some level. Like he said, they’re no boy scouts, and I definitely believe that. Maybe I need a lobotomy.
I’m not going to hurt you. We’re not boy scouts, but we’re not into hurting women or making them disappear. I push my stupid thoughts away and stomp back to the bar. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s putting on a brave face and slinging beers while I do it.
5
Steel
I roar home a little ticked off. I’m definitely not used to being spoken to in that way by anybody, much less someone I don’t know, and especially not a woman. Though you have to expect some lip from non-club girls who don’t know their place. Yes, that is completely sexist and misogynistic, but I come from a long line of them. Not that it’s any excuse, but serving in the military and now being a part of the Bracken Ridge Rebels MC means that kind of shit is ingrained into you.
I love women, and I meant what I said; I don’t treat them badly. I don’t even mind a little bit of lip, but not in front of my brothers, that won’t do. And I definitely don’t enjoy insinuations being thrown at me by this woman who knows nothing about me or the club. That’s only asking for trouble. The only place I allow myself to be even remotely dominated is in the bedroom, and even then those moments are rare. I take control in all things, and this hot little chick from Cali is driving me crazy.
Sienna Morgan is trouble with a capital T. She’s clearly tough, to stand up to me like that; the woman has balls. I’d scared her, though, and that wasn’t my intention, which is why I backed off immediately. Maybe she has men issues, or maybe it’s just me.
Her lips. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, her lips are beautiful. If only she didn’t have such a smart mouth.
The cold wind on my face feels good as I ride home in a fury. I’ve only had one beer and I rarely get drunk, but right now I need a shot... or three.
I also have the joyful task of letting Hutch know the outcome, which I’m sure he saw coming, though a part of me thinks he was actually convinced she’d go for it. Another strange part of me feels a little bit smug that she’s hell on wheels. She turns a beautiful color when she’s mad. I don’t really like her rage being aimed at me, but still.
It doesn’t matter how pretty or hot Sienna is, though. The scowl on her face shows she clearly doesn’t like me, that’s abundantly obvious. That kind of comes with the territory of being Sergeant at Arms and part of the M.C., but she definitely isn’t like other girls. Most chicks usually like how I look, or the ones at the club do anyway. They like the tats, the brawn, and perhaps the power that my position holds at the club, but few actually dare to come over to me, only the brave ones. Something about wearing a cut and being the guy I am tends to keep them at bay. They’re not really sure if they should approach or run a mile. I like how Sienna didn’t run.
I always attract the wrong girls, though. There’s always easy chicks going around Church, sweet butts that would do anything to be part of the club and get in with a brother. Most of them that hang around there are all pretty easy.
Sienna’s a good girl. It’s written all over her. She definitely isn’t the type of chick you take home for a one-night stand, and she definitely isn’t looking for a bad boy to tame or whatever it is chicks try to do. Not this girl. Unobtainable.
Christ, that does nothing for the hard on I’m sporting just thinking about her pretty little mouth on me that I’ll never have. Or her on the back of my sled – hellfire. The thought is equally arousing and depressing. The things we could do, the things I could do to her if she’d let me. I’d make it good; I’m not selfish in the bedroom. I’d take my time and worship her like she truly deserves.
I haven’t been with a good girl since college... I should stop thinking thoughts like this; they won’t do me any good. I have nobody to go home to and relieve the tension, just me and my palm again, which is not an appealing thought.
I park in the garage next to the workshop and lock up. I text Hutch that the deal was a no-go, and I can’t help but grin. She has gumption, that’s for sure, but Prez is sure to be pissed. He likes things to go his way, in all areas, so this little spitfire is sure to be an unexpected surprise.
I switch the lights off in the workshop and head upstairs to my vacant, except-for-a-snoring-dog, apartment and kick my boots off. I reach for the top shelf in the kitchen and pull out the bottle of Jack that has been calling my name all the way home. I don’t even bother with a glass, and I don’t feel the sting as it glides down my throat with ease. I wait about ten seconds before I sigh and pick my stray boots up off the floor and place them in my closet again next to my old ones. I can’t leave anything scattered around. Habits like order are hard to break. When I have order, I have a clear mind.
I glance at my bed, and though it’s calling me with fresh new sheets that smell inviting, I don’t crawl into it just yet. My baby is asleep in her bed below my feet, and she doesn’t even raise her head. Her light snore is like warmth to my heart.
I leave her and go back into the living room to switch the television on, thinking maybe there’s a game on or something murderous like Game of Thrones that I can fall asleep to while chasing away all thoughts of Sienna fucking Morgan.
*
I’m an early riser by nature. If I do happen to sleep in, which is mainly on the weekends when the garage is closed, I still wake up at the same time. It’s like a curse. If I don’t, Lola will come and lick my face and try to play with me until I give up and drag my ass out of bed so she can be fed.
I ended up downing almost a full bottle of Jack, not that it really has any effect anymore. I spend all of Sunday working on my project in the garage, a custom Fat Boy; it’s a work in progress. Monday rolls around fast, and I have a shitload of paperwork to do, which reminds me again that I need to hire a new office girl. Unlike my neat and orderly apartment and workshop, the office is a complete wreck. None of the club girls will work for me because apparently I’m not nice to work for. Really, they just don’t like to work so they whine about everything. Lily helps me when she can, but now that she has a beauty salon in town, she’s always booked and can’t get by to help me as often. I know I’m behind on invoicing, which is my least favorite thing to do because I don’t know shit about computers.
I make a mental note to text Lucy, Rubble’s ol’ lady, to see if she can come in and help me clean up. Rubble’s wife is the best bookkeeper this side of Bracken Ridge, and thankfully I haven’t pissed her off enough to tell me to shov
e it. The downside is she’s always busy with the tow truck biz and doing the books for Brock’s junkyard. At least Rubble’s paperwork is under control; he’s one lucky son of a bitch. Maybe if I had an ol’ lady she’d be able to get my books in order too, but that’s hardly a good enough excuse to do something ridiculously stupid like get tied down. I’m not that desperate.
I glance at the clock. 5:55am – right before my alarm - like clockwork. I sigh and throw the top sheet off. I pull on a fresh pair of boxer briefs out of my nightstand and stretch my arms out wide with a growly yawn. I quickly make the bed and tuck the edges in nice and tight, fluffing the pillows up so they don’t keep the indentation of my head.
Lola is nowhere to be seen. I go to the bathroom, take a leak, and wash my face with cold water – hoping that will help with the dark circles. It doesn’t. They’re always there, like battle scars, a reminder that I’m not invincible and that same son of a bitch stares back at me. My sleep is a lot better now that I have Lola, but I still don’t get enough.
I spray some deodorant on, brush my teeth, and comb my hair up into a messy ponytail. After that I go to the Keurig that sits proudly on my countertop, a gift from my mother at Christmas. The one woman who knows the key to my heart.
My mom is the most beautiful person on the planet, she’s a nurse at the local hospital.
I switch the thing on and grab the milk out of the fridge. If I don’t have a decent cup of coffee first thing in the morning, it sometimes sways my mood for the rest of the day. I’m a pretty moody person at the best of times, so I don’t like to chance it.
I pull out the drawer that stores all my coffee pods and select donut caramel. I shove it into the pod contraption and put my clear thermal cup below the spout before pushing the button.
While it’s doing its thing, I look around for Lola. I find her curled up on the couch, but she’s awake and watching me. It’s a little early for her breakfast, so I place some fresh dog biscuits in her bowl and top up her water as she yawns. She looks how I feel. Thank fuck she’s a good dog and not needy, not that I would mind anyway. That’s probably why we get along so well.
