“Prospects don’t get paid,” I point out.
Ignoring the part about not trusting her, it’s not like I have a good track record in picking trustworthy women to hitch my goddamn star to. I don’t even want to think about Charm, the cunt, but the fact that I let her manipulate me says a hell of a lot.
He snorts. “You’re right, they fucking do not.”
“Pamela needs clothes and girl shit.”
I heard everything that she said. She has the clothes on her back, nothing else. I want her to be mine, but I can’t provide shit for her. I can’t even clothe her. I feel fucking sick asking Dragon for a fucking thing, especially since he allowed me to live. I don’t deserve a goddamn thing, but Pamela doesn’t deserve to suffer at the same time.
“I’ll get her taken care of. I’ll get Pink on it.”
“She won’t take a handout.”
Dragon smirks. “She’ll work for it.”
“She ain’t whorin’,” I growl, trying to stand, but my body won’t fucking work for me.
Dragon narrows his eyes on me. “Never would I force a woman to do that. I took Della from her father as payment, but she came goddamn willingly and spread even more willingly. Pamela can help Pink around the goddamn bar. Pink has taken a shine to her, like a fuckin’ mama bear,” he snaps.
Relaxing a bit, I jerk my chin. Dragon shakes his head a couple of times, his gaze connecting to mine before he sighs.
“We got a long way to go, but if you want this, want your family back then we’ll get there, Jag.”
“Will we?” I ask. “Fucked up the biggest way a brother can fuck up.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. You didn’t and you own it. Owning your fuckup is half the battle. The other half is proving yourself and you’ve already started doing that shit.”
Without another word, he turns and walks away from me. I watch him go and about five minutes later, Pinkie is at the door, a few bags in her hands. Frowning, I watch her as she makes her way straight for me.
“Brought you some food. I don’t think the girl has had a decent meal since she’s been here. I’ve caught her trying to sneak snacks from the kitchen, including some bone broth left over from one of the Old Ladies, that I assumed was for you. She’s a bit jumpy, nervous, that one. I didn’t want to scare her.”
Reaching for the bags, I set them next to me on the bed. “Thanks, Pink,” I rasp. “She’s been through a lot.”
“Yeah, Dragon said to get her some clothes and girlie shit, figure she won’t tell me what she needs though, would she?”
Chuckling, I shake my head a couple of times. “Reckon probably not.”
Pinkie’s nose wrinkles and she lets out a heavy sigh. “I feel like an old lady, I don’t know what the kids wear and what products they use these days, makeup and stuff.”
There’s something I don’t recognize in her voice, at least not something she usually carries with her—longing. I don’t quite understand it, and I’m in too much fucking pain to ask her about it. I make a note to talk to her, check her mental status when I don’t feel like I’m about to croak at any second.
“She don’t need makeup,” I snap. “Beautiful just the way that she is.”
Pinkie whistles. “You got it bad.” She deadpans. The way she’s looking at me, I have a feeling that she doesn’t approve of me having anything for Pamela at all.
I shrug a shoulder. I can’t deny that my dick gets hard for Pamela, it definitely does. Can’t do nothin’ about it though. Pinkie doesn’t need to worry about it, nothing is going to happen. I’m helping her to get right with myself, with my club. I like her plenty, but I can’t take her down with me. I can’t do shit for her.
Not a goddamn thing.
“I’ll do what I can, maybe Trista and Avah can help me. They’re in on the trends.”
Pinkie leaves me alone with the food and I forget to thank her, once again proving that I’m a fucking worthless asshole, selfish in every goddamn way possible. I’m trying to change, but fuck me, I don’t think it’s possible.
Chapter Eight
PAMELA
I don’t ask where they come from, knowing that it’s probably Della’s doing. I also don’t ignore it and act ungrateful, because beggars can’t be choosers and I’m happy to have a few more pairs of panties and more than one pair of shorts and one tank.
What I do, is make a note on a piece of paper that I found next to the phone about what has been given to me, so that I can pay it back. Because I will pay it back. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll figure out a way.
Dylan limps from the bathroom, and I turn my head to look at him. It’s been two days since he finally gained consciousness and although he looks better, he still looks like hell. He leans against the bathroom doorjamb and grins at me.
“Why do you look guilty?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I press my lips together and hold up the clothes. “Your friends gave me some clothes and toiletries. I can’t pay them back.”
His lips twitch and curve up into a smile. He stays where he’s standing, unmoving as he continues to watch me for a long moment. “Yeah, they’re good people like that. Don’t worry about any of it.”
“I do,” I confess.
He clears his throat, then pushes off of the wall and my entire body flinches, ready to go after him, but I don’t. He wants to do this on his own. He needs it and I can see that in his eyes. He is strong, but he feels weak and he is sick and tired of that shit. I don’t blame him. I’m weak and dependent, always have been and I’m equally as tired of it.
“Yeah, me too.”
The fact that he worries about anything surprises me. He sinks down on the edge of the bed, his gaze finding mine and he dips his chin, holding me hostage with his eyes. I love it. I love looking into the depth of him, seeing as much of him as he allows and surprisingly enough, I think he allows quite a bit.
“I’m not going to pretend that any of this will be easy, but what I will promise you is that you’ll never have to give yourself to anyone unwillingly. We don’t work that way, I don’t work that way. Nothing else is promised, Sunny. Not a goddamn thing. Now, I have to go and do my job, whatever that shit entails right now. I want you to go and hang with Pinkie. She’s good people and she’ll guide you.”
Pinkie is comfortable and familiar. I don’t really understand why, but being around her just makes me feel at ease—and at peace.
Watching him for a moment, I wonder why he’s really telling me all of this. Why he’s reassuring me at all. Men don’t typically have conversations with me, with any women.
So, after days of just caring for him, of sharing a few short words with him, this surprises me. He lifts his hand and cups my cheek, his skin warm and rough against my own, and I can’t deny that I truly love the way it feels.
“Do you want me to be like her?” I ask, wondering if he wants me to be a clubwhore like she is.
Something flashes in his eyes. They look dangerous and I can’t help but lick my lips at the sight and hold in a shiver of desire. No matter what, no matter how much these men terrify me, there is something to be said about a man who holds danger inside of him so close to the surface.
It’s sexy as shit, which is probably why my life will always be in shambles, because I doubt I’ll ever find that nice suburban man who drives a minivan. It just doesn’t seem like anything I’d ever want to be tied to.
“Never,” he rasps. “But what I want isn’t healthy. So, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” I exhale.
His lips twitch into a smile, the danger dies in his eyes and he chuckles as he shakes his head a couple of times.
“No, Sunny, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be back later sometime.”
Without another word, he slowly stands with a long groan and limps out of the room. I watch him go, wondering how he’s going to do anything in the condition that he’s in. I gather my new things and take them to the room where I was staying before Dylan was hurt.
> Since I’ve been taking care of him, I’ve been sleeping in the chair in the corner of his room. Now that he’s doing better, I decide that it’s time for me to move back in with the girls. Thankfully, they have an empty bed.
I leave the clothes and bag of toiletries on my bed and head into the bar to find Pinkie. I don’t get far. Dragon is watching me, his gaze penetrating. He shouts my name, then tells me he wants to speak to me in his office.
Gulping, I take in the room and realize that there are only a few people milling around. Pinkie is behind the bar, cleaning, her eyes catching mine and her lips turning up into a reassuring smile. I don’t return the look, my mind spinning with about a million different scenarios of what is about to happen.
“Close the door,” Dragon’s deep voice murmurs from behind his desk.
Closing the door, I don’t lock it, wishing that I could keep it wide open as a means of escape. Inhaling a deep breath, I walk toward the center of the room, standing in front of Dragon’s desk, and I wait.
“You need a job, yeah?” he asks, though he sounds as if he is bored, as if this is something he truly doesn’t give a fuck about.
“I do,” I breathe, wondering what he’s about to offer me.
He clears his throat, leaning back in his chair, his eyes finding mine and holding my gaze. He watches me for a moment and I feel extremely uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but his mind is working, his eyes are watching and taking me in.
I try not to fidget beneath his intensity. I try not to shift from side to side or beg him to, just fucking get on with it, the way that I want to. I fail completely. He is completely unnerving. Pressing my lips together, I watch him and I wait.
“Pinkie has some stuff at the bar that you could do. Clean, serve drinks, keep track of booze. Shit like that. She’s your boss.”
I continue to hold my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When does he tell me about my other duties? I’m sure that they’re included. There is no way he’s going to let me live here and just clean the bar and serve a few drinks.
“Is that okay?” he asks, his words coming out slowly.
Nodding my head, I release my lips. “And then what happens?” I ask.
“With?” Dragon arches a brow, his lips twitching into a small smile that I can see beneath his beard.
“Me, everything, the future?”
“You’re eighteen today, yeah?” he asks.
My heart starts to slam against my ribs. This is when it comes. This is when he drops the shoe, the hammer, whatever the fuck you want to call it.
Except.
He doesn’t.
“Happy birthday, babe.”
I blink, waiting for him to say something else. Waiting for him to give me the extra duties that I know he’s going to. Waiting for him to tell me that I’m going to have to spread my legs to earn my keep.
“Pinkie’ll take care of you. If you have any problems, let me know.”
It’s clearly my silent go-ahead to leave. Turning from him, I walk toward the door. Lifting my hand to the knob, he calls my name. Letting out a breath, I realize that this is it. Turning my head, I look back over my shoulder at him and wait for the blow.
“Prefer if you didn’t leave the clubhouse. We don’t know where Riot is and I’d hate to see him get ahold of you. Also, no phone calls.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, okay,” I breathe.
He dips his chin to look down at his desk, his pen moving over some paperwork, and I realize that he’s finished with me. There isn’t any demand for allowing his men to use me. There is no demand for anything, except to work for my keep.
Slipping from his office, confusion filling my entire body as I make my way toward Pinkie. I feel as if I’m walking in a daze. None of this feels normal. Then again, do I even know what normal is? No. No, I don’t.
JAGUAR
I’m not surprised to see Mamba watching me as I walk through the warehouse door. What I am surprised to see is a fuckload of product. It’s everywhere, but it isn’t broken up or packaged at all. It’s all sitting stacked high on about five rectangle banquet tables.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask.
Mamba arches a brow, obviously not too willing to give me all of the information quickly. He clears his throat, then jerks his chin toward the lone folding chair that is sitting behind one of the rectangle tables.
“Sit,” he demands.
I don’t deny the demand, not only because I’m his bitch and every other patched members’ bitch until I earn my place back, if I earn my place back. Clearing my throat, I try to hide my groan of pain as I sink down in the chair.
“Your bitch job for now is to package and weigh the coke.”
“Sure you don’t need me to cut it with anything?” I ask like a smart-ass. This is a woman’s job. I have never known a man to actually package this shit, but I know that they’re having me do it, partially because I physically can’t do much else, also because it demeans me.
“Pretty fuckin’ sure,” Mamba grunts. “Package those into one gram baggies.”
“Seems like a lot of legwork for us. Why don’t the Italians just do that shit themselves?” I ask.
Mamba’s eyes narrow on me, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. It’s no longer my place to question a damn fucking thing. This is going to be a lot fucking harder than I’d anticipated. Swallowing, I dip my chin and reach for the first brick.
“Seriously though, do I need to cut it with anything?” I ask.
Mamba grunts. “Comes cut with caffeine,” he explains. “We order it that way to cut down on the actual packaging time. We got rid of our packagers. Too many hands in the cookie jar, too many people fucking up.”
“This have anything to do with Maci Marshall?” I ask.
“Has to do with her piece of shit father, yeah,” he grunts.
I get it now. Slipping on the medical rubber gloves, I unwrap the brick and get to work, but not before I ask one more question.
“Where is she, Maci Marshall?” I ask.
Mamba doesn’t say anything right away, he watches me and I can tell that he’s not sure if he should tell me or not. Maybe he doesn’t know, or maybe he wants me to wonder. It doesn’t matter much to me. It wasn’t Pamela, and she’s the one I have been concerned with this entire time.
“Bones took her to the Sinister Skulls,” he announces after a long silence.
Clearing my throat, I keep my head down and work. I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. I have trust to earn and I’m going to do that too. I wonder how much of this shit I can package in a day, because I honestly don’t think I can stay with my ass planted in this chair for weeks at a time.
“A couple of prospects should be in here soon to help you. This shit needs to be done today.”
Nodding my head, I don’t say anything right away in response. I work in silence for a while, Mamba watching over me. Then the warehouse door opens. Lifting my head, I watch as Maria makes her way toward him.
She stops close enough that she could touch him if she reached out, but she doesn’t. “I need to talk to you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Shifting my gaze back to my work, I try not to eavesdrop, but I can’t help myself. Mamba, Gator, and Maria intrigue me, they always have. I always thought Mamba leaned more toward his own sex. It always surprised me when he would be with a woman.
I think he likes women, he thinks they’re sexy and beautiful, but I truly believe he prefers the company of men.
So, when they all three got together, I wondered how that would play out—looks like I’m about to have a front row ticket to the conclusion of the story. Maria sounds as if she’s nervous but resolute, so I have a feeling something serious is about to go down.
“It’s time,” Maria murmurs. “I need to leave.”
Chapter Nine
PAMELA
Pinkie giggles at something that one of the
men says. I don’t know all of their names yet, I don’t even know half of them. She gave me the duty of cleaning the glasses and I’m glad for it. Washing and drying glasses is mindless work and I can listen to the world around me, then get lost in my own thoughts.
Then I hear a woman shout as the door to the bar flies open. There is a man charging after her. He stops and turns to another man. “Go and watch Jag, I got to deal with this shit,” he growls.
“This shit?” the woman screeches.
I don’t recognize her, but I’ve seen him around the past week. There is a moment of silence while they stare one another down. He takes a step toward her, reaching out, he wraps his fingers around her elbow and tugs her against him.
I’m frozen staring at them. There is something between them, something heavy, I can practically taste it. They have a pull, but it’s frayed and a bit torn. Pressing my lips together, I can’t look away from them.
“It doesn’t work for me anymore,” she announces. “I’ve been trying to tell you, trying to make it work, but it just doesn’t anymore.”
“Maria,” he growls.
“I love you both,” she whispers.
My eyes widen at the declaration and I know this must be big, because everyone in the room is completely silent and watching them together as well. He releases her and takes a step back.
“You don’t. But?” he demands.
“But it’s not working. It’s simply just not working.”
“For who?” he growls.
She sniffles and I know that she must be crying. “For all of us. But mostly for you and Gator.”
The conversation doesn’t continue. She takes one step toward him, then another before she runs past him. He doesn’t move, he stands frozen in the middle of the room, all of our gazes still focused on him.
He clears his throat, then I watch as he walks in the opposite direction of where she ran out and heads toward the bedrooms.
“Someone better call Gator, that don’t look too good,” a man’s voice booms. He’s older, he has some graying, but he’s still really handsome.
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