Falling for you

Chapter Seven

JUDGE

My words hang in the air, daring her to refute me, but she’s trapped just like me in the lust of the moment.

She sucks in that bottom lip again, and triangulates her field of vision in a provocative trifecta. Her elegantly manicured nails trace small circles on my hand, lightly scratching the skin into a pleasurable trance.

Who would have thought after the things I’ve seen and done that my mind could go blank, relishing the sensation of her petal-like touch, softer than the rarest Ladakhi Cashmere.

I grab her hand by instinct, plucking a startled gasp from those parted, kissable lips. That deliciously furtive sound—the same one I’ll draw when my mouth comes to feast on her throbbing c**t. Any trace of decency frays like a cheap woollen scarf, as strands of inappropriate thoughts knit us closer together.

And I wonder… how the sensitive skin between her thighs will feel wrapped around my head.

She knows what’s coming next.

Her eyes search for anything to preserve her modesty a moment longer and land on the sheet of plastic covering the dance floor. I’ll give her that; the girl’s situational awareness is through the roof.

Roadster—ever the watcher—looks over with a chilling countenance, inquiring if the plan is still in motion. My jaw ticks into an imperceptible nod.

She threatens to throw the entire thing off; somehow, I don't give a damn.

It's almost as if she catches on, but she can’t know.

Not really.

“Ummm…. What's the tarp for?” Her fingers, upgrading to spelling her name on my nape. Yet, her playful eyes tell me I’ll need to bring my A-game if I’m to steal a kiss.

“Renovations.” I shrug at my bodily disagreement. This sack of meat and bones is dying to come clean, but my mind shuts that s**t down.

I’m not lying. It’s true to an extent, just not the kind she’s thinking about.

When I say renovations, I mean a bureau adjustment, which translates into a small and contained m******e.

Our MC is a one-percenter, looking to sever its last ties with the mother charter. To say we have grievances with its leadership and business portfolio doesn't even scratch the surface.

Any semblance of a friendly relationship fell by the wayside long ago, and the only connection we have is the monthly kickback and the club's name. We make our own rules that differ from theirs. They’ve been getting up to some real evil s**t, and we will not turn a blind eye.

As Uncle Sam’s Golden Goose of semi-retired first-class soldiers, stationed in an allied country and taking the Black Ops that others can’t, we have cultivated quite a reputation. We are who they call when they want people with Strap II Clearance—two tiers above Top Secret s**t—to cover up things that ain't exactly on the f*****g up-and-up.

Tonight is the night we weed through the bullshit and call in some favors. It won’t come to that, though. Killing the group of bikers that National sent will be small potatoes. Nobody will know what happened here. We are methodical and efficient. Bodies will meet their end in an acid bath or take a nap in the incinerator. And this stunner almost made me forget what tonight is actually all about.

Fuck my life.

“You're not serial killers, are you?” She hijacks my train of thought with the effortless skills of Jesse James and the soft touch of Billy the Kid.

“Not in our spare time, no.” She purses her lips, trying not to laugh.

“You had a girl worried there for a second, but I guess if you were… my last question would have been the final nail in the coffin. I’m in too deep, being able to pin your hideout on a map.”

In too deep...

That word—a bullet to the brain—ricocheting in my skull till both heads throb.

“Gosh… no need to dig a hole out back; I’m already doing it right here and halfway to China.” She swats my chest in jest with a rueful smile as I pull away, not knowing who needs the space more—me or her.

Fuck me sideways; the rigor mortis in my pants is killing me right now.

“No hole. As you admired our dedication to the holiday, maybe a bonfire would be better suited to Hallows’ Eve.” I grin into my drink as my eyes flicker back to the dark-haired beauty who holds my gaze—unflinching and tongue-in-cheek.

“Oh my, oh my… was the president of the Devil’s Sons listening in on our conversation?” With one elbow propped up on the bar, her saucy lilt and glare flit from Roadster back to me.

“Perhaps… Or maybe I just know everything that goes on around here.” Roadster, f*****g tickled by my comment, scoffs brazenly, downing his drink along with a comeback.

“Well, that funeral pyre better be hot. Because bone only burns to ash at 600 degrees Celsius.” Quietly muttering that smart-ass remark to herself as she hops off the seat.

Both Roadster and I exchange looks, setting our drinks down. The loud pause at mid-swallow has alarm bells ringing in her head, as apprehension visibly floods her person.

So the prospect of danger doesn’t faze her, but us catching on—she’s no airhead—does? As I said, very, very, f*****g interesting.

“Sorry, did I say that aloud?” I nod, chortling at the inner workings of her big brain.

“You’re going to fit right in, princess.” Roadster f***s around, pushing the Little Bird further into the macabre with an inscrutable mug I know all too well.

"I—I would?" Bless her heart. The flicker of panic, snuffed out by something unexpected. Hope. Acceptance. And a second later, realization.

“Between the floorboards and the foundation.” He shoves that little birdy straight into the frying pan.

Didn’t I say dry and dark?

However, both Bane and Roadster saw the gumption of a firecracker, and she doesn’t disappoint.

“Ha... Ha. Now that's just sick. At the very least, I deserve to be rolled into a Clark Sickle-Leaf Persian rug. We wouldn’t want to add Death to Good Taste to your criminal record now, would we?” She snaps right back, pretending to be offended by our choice of funerary arrangements.

Twisted and witty. This girl is driving me crazy.

“What did I say, princess—.” He mirrors her face like a chimp at the zoo, bending down to her eye level and dissecting each move to the point one can’t distinguish between the test subject and the mad scientist.

I slap a bow on it and call it even.

Something tells me we’ve met our match here.

“Enough with the grizzly jokes, you two; we are at a party.” Kissing my tumbler with a s**t-eating grin.

She’s focused on Roadster and doesn’t look over to see that I’m kidding.

“Sorry, did I go too far? At times, I must admit I can be a bit socially inept.” I stop and let the whiskey sting the apple in my throat. I’ve let myself forget the root cause of why she’s here tonight.

My son has bullied her to the extent of feeling less than worthy of company, and that’s merely the tip of its deep-seated ramifications.

“Don’t pay it no mind, Little Bird. It’s Roadster who needs to reel it in.” My second-in-command turns his attention on me like a predator sniffing the air.

“For a good-looking guy, his face right about now sure resembles something I drew with my left hand. I mean, I’ve had bowel movements that stink less at comebacks.” His narrowed, overacted glower spurs me on.

My smile widens, childish and smug, as he pits himself against me—one short breath of taking each other outside among the tumbleweeds.

But it’s all for show, and we know it.

The bar goes dead quiet, and out of nowhere radiant notes of glee timidly flutter through the desolate corridor of our standoff. As she comes into view, her laughter grows louder; she snorts, sticking her tongue out, and digging a bit further to see if either of us will come in for a second bite.

Did I just get played?

Trouble with a capital T has jumped into our tiger enclosure and is stroking us both like we are a bunch of docile little cubs.

Roadster, the toughest son of a gun I know, just rolls his eyes, battling to hold back a smirk. He might as well get down on one knee and propose; that’s how much his thumping gizzard of a heart is f*****g smitten. Heck, I want to do that. But we can’t.

I should ask her to leave before all hell breaks loose.

I don’t have to, though. When her friend arrives, he will get her the f**k out faster than I can count, and that will be that. That's how it should end. Yet, the thought of it tightens my grip around the tumbler. I want to see her again. And what bowls me over is that every reaction tonight has alluded to me developing a continued relationship with her. This is bad—no, terrible.

I have to execute my plan—whether I like it or not—and my Little Bird can't be here when it happens.

A moment of silence ticks by, coming to that reluctant decision. Nevertheless, it’s for the best, even if my d**k can’t come to terms with it. And albeit I’ve already made up my mind, I’m compelled to have a change of heart. It’s a back and forth, bound to those dark obsidian eyes that stir something deep inside.

I’ve clocked how the other chapter is rubbernecking our ole ladies and sisters. Yet, it’s in shaking my head at my own make-believe dilemma when I see what their f****d-up pervy stares are claiming as a trophy.

They want her.

And tonight, each and every one of them will die—an excruciating death—for thinking about laying a finger on what’s mine.

A scowl carves across my face, mentally scolding myself for rejoicing at the excuse—however, I try to spin it. An anointed blind man with one foot through the pearly gates would turn on his decision, for she's hotter than six shades of hell.

I may not be the chivalrous knight girls yearn for or the roughneck everyone pictures at the sight of the leather cut, but I’m certainly nothing but a devil’s hound dog with a muzzle on.

This is my porch, my club, and my home. Hell, I might even be Hades himself, trapping his Persephone. His queen. That being said, I made a promise, and I’ll be damned if I don’t intend to keep it.