by V. Theia
Good gracious, how powerful was that one smile?
“We make our own rules. At least, bikers do, and I’m all for screwing with the rules if it suits us.” He fielded, dropping a kiss to her nose, he picked up the towel he’d dropped, slung it around his neck. “I need to get a fast shower, then I want you to come somewhere with me.”
“Again? Where? I’m supposed to be working. I will get fired if I keep leaving. You don’t know my boss, he’s, how do you say, head like a mule!”
Tag barked a laugh. “I think he’ll go easy on you.”
Exasperated, he was being bossy. She sighed, it was futile arguing. “Fine. I shall work until you shower, because you smell.”
“Wasn’t saying that a minute ago.”
“I was holding my breath.”
“’Cause you had your tongue down my throat.” He gloated, licking the corner of his lip. Marianna escaped before she flung herself at him.
Over her shoulder she repeated, “I’m not having sex with you.”
He was not fazed. “No problem, darlin’, got other stuff we can do.”
What?
What did he mean?
Oh, she knew what he meant. Her damp sex understood his meaning perfectly.
She was chewing on her bottom lip when he met her outside. He strode like a warrior, his hips aligned with that of a fighter and a man who knew he was gorgeous. With watchful eyes, he checked both sides of the street. She understood his caution for trouble.
She still sometimes expected to see one of the Bratva men around every corner to take her back to a nightmare.
Fear was manageable when it lurked only in her mind.
“What do you want from me, Luke?” She asked, at the same time he pulled a white fluffy wool hat down on her head until it covered most of her hair and her ears.
His thoughtfulness was beautiful and almost brought tears to her eyes.
“Heavy question. Ready for the answer? Once you know means you can’t run away, get me?”
Was she ready?
His steady gaze told her exactly what he wanted, and it was more than to get into her panties for a fast fumble.
She could blame it on being starved of human contact.
But it was more than that.
Being a victim made her angry. She hated self-pity more than anything. How fucking tragic she’d bowed her will to the hands of idiots when she saw no way out.
How would Tag react when he knew her whole pathetic story?
He’d probably think she was stupid too.
“There you go, thinking loudly again,” hooking up her hand, he clasped it.
He led her across the street to where his big truck was parked in a private spot.
“You still can’t believe I enjoy your company? Or I like doing stuff for you just because I like it, not ‘cause I’m getting anything from it.”
“It’s not as though I chat your head off.” She said, somewhat shamed.
“When you speak, it means something, darlin’. I like your accent and how you soak up conversations and then learning the meaning of words if you don’t understand. You laugh at our butchered phrases.”
Nose wrinkled. “I don’t always understand them.”
“That’s what’s cute as fuck.”
Tenderness seeped through the thickness of her coat. Against her protective conviction, she smiled and gave a piece of herself to him, “I enjoy your company too, Prince Charming.”
His eyes flared, and she was sure he was going to kiss her there on the street. Instead, he grunted and helped her into the truck. Then heard him muttering, “fucking trouble, this one,” as he rounded the hood and climbed in too.
Tag drove to a supermarket, shoving a cart at her with an instruction to fill it with canned goods, snacks, and fresh meat.
“I don’t need groceries, Luke,” she insisted, knowing he rarely listened when he brought sacks of food to stock her fridge. A hand curled around her nape as he tossed many packages of cookies in the cart. His sweet tooth was showing.
“This isn’t for you.”
Oh. “For your MC?”
“Nah, darlin’. The house mouse sees to that.”
The who? He grinned at her confusion, “fucking cute. A MC house mouse is someone who takes care of the clubhouse. Like a housekeeper.”
The cart was bulging in no time.
“Then who is it for?”
“We’re taking it to the local kids’ shelter, they run out of shit like this fast.”
Her heart galloped. He was donating over $500 worth of food to a shelter. If Marianna had less restraint, she would have flung herself at his face and kissed him.
“That is a lovely thing to do.”
He shrugged as if it were no big deal. She knew different. The kindness from a stranger stayed with a person for life.
Along with the mountain of food, there was also a box of new books and toiletries in the back of the truck.
Goodness, would she ever discover the full depth to this man?
Her attraction to Tag went nuclear.
When they lugged the stuff up a long pathway to a huge brick house on the outskirts of the city, he talked to the manager. An attractive purple-haired woman gave him the biggest hug.
Jealousy pinched nastily at Marianna’s insides, but it dissipated when Tag’s touch stroked along her arm on his return.
“How often do you do that?”
“Couple times a month, more if they’re running low. The club does a charity bike run every year for the cancer hospital here. The town gets behind it. We do what we can. Kids are innocent, you know?”
A sluggish thud happened inside Marianna.
It was affection, for this great big man with his floppy blond hair, yawning awake.
Whatever anyone else thought about bikers, she knew he was a good man.
Placing her hand on his arm; he cast his broody eyes at her.
“You always call me cute, but it is you who is cute this time, Tag. You are doing a lovely thing.”
He shrugged, embarrassed.
He was cute.
And handsome.
Her friend who she wanted to kiss desperately.
So that’s what she did when they climbed back into his truck. Refusing to let silly insecurities fog her mind. Not thinking at all when she reached over, cupped his face, and put her lips on his.
He grunted and opened. She took the invite to slide her tongue inside.
The easiest decision she’d ever made.
“Taking you home with me tonight, Marianna.” He groaned into her mouth, licking and biting. Sucking hard enough, she saw stars and ached in places that needed a rough touch. “I wanna touch you.”
She stalled. Breathing into his lips. “Oh…”
She pulsed so hard.
“Only touching. You can set the pace.”
Those big shovel hands already whipped Marianna into a frenzy only from a light, innocent stroke. If he had an idea to stick them into her panties, she might pass out.
Her pussy walls trembled. Needing him.
Anxiety and doubts wouldn’t get in the way because the thumb stroking her cheek was very persuasive.
Do not get attached.
Do not get attached.
Ah, damn. Who was she kidding here?
Attachment 101 had started the day he sat down across from her at the diner and offered her a lifeline.
Whether he grew tired of her eventually, she was attached to Tag in impractical ways.
“Okay.” She agreed, making his eyes flare. “Take me back to work before I am fired.”
SIXTEEN
“Something stinks. And it’s not the garbage.” - Rider
Toeing the line was never a factor within the Renegade Souls ranks.
Playing by their own laws suited Tag down to the ground.
His cage fighting, for instance, would have gone through a gambit of rules and regulations had he joined the MMA circuit.
Most days he was
a pretty easy-going guy, but hated being dictated to by those in power.
Rider was the exception, holding a lot of respect for the Prez.
Rider didn’t have to prospect a punk-ass kid like him, didn’t have to give Tag a chance, but he did. It was Rider who fronted the money for Tag’s first cage fight. He helped Tag focus his attitude into the one thing he was good at.
Hawk taught him about security systems.
It was Preacher who spent hours with Tag at target practice.
Grinder trained Tag in the basics of how to track someone.
The list went on for every man sitting around the church table.
And now the skills and talents got passed down to the fresh meat prospects.
He dropped Marianna off at the gym so he could attend a church meeting. She was gonna try to avoid him later.
She was good at that, was his little Russian.
Tag had to set thoughts of his woman aside.
He tuned back into the meeting.
The past few months for the club had been good ones.
No new enemies. Check.
Profits rocketing. Check.
No blow back from the Bratva Pakhan. Check fucking check.
The most excitement in Tag’s life recently was nearly being permanently blinded.
“We have a visitor coming to town in a few.” Rider announced. “In fact, Coop texted before I came in and to let me know Rex was in his motorcade coming through Denver.”
Every man at the table rolled his eyes. It was Capone in his accented deep tones that piped up. “Like he’s the fucking president. Maybe we roll out the red carpet for the cabrón.”
Rex, also known as Rider’s dipshit of an uncle, former president of the MC, was not respected. The guy was pushing seventy, and still thought himself a cocky nineteen-year-old trying to stick it to the establishment.
At that age, Tag wanted to be settled somewhere quiet, beer, cigars, and his woman around him. Maybe a few kids and talking about the glory days. Not plotting like he was Dastardly and Mutley.
Rex had a screw loose that much was clear. Because he was becoming a bore and an irritant to the Souls, the fuckwit had to be stopped.
The Souls had all but bankrupted Rex’s businesses. Undercutting his suppliers, breaking bread with Rex’s foes. Little did Rex know, Rider sneaked a mole into his house. Every few weeks, their prospect, Juicy, headed to Austin and fed strategic info to Rex about the club. They got a kick out of that old fucker lapping it up like candy. When he thought Rider was investing in coke, he got there first and lost a cool 200k. When he was told Rider was buying car washes, he got there first and bought them for ten times their worth.
Rex’s ego was fucking himself in the ass. Hating not having the gavel. Hating Rider more for being the better Prez.
Tag was gonna enjoy playing a role in putting the last nail in Rex’s economic coffin.
The Russian mob had proven to be adequate foes.
Rex Marinos was a pitiful cakewalk in comparison.
“Ready to do your part, Tag?”
Tag half-grinned, rapping his calloused knuckles on the tabletop. “If I could charm my way into the panties of a Victoria’s Secret model with a chastity oath, Prez, being friendly to one old dipshit isn’t gonna break me out in a sweat.”
His brothers snickered.
“Long as you don’t get into his crusty drawers, hermano.” Shuddered Capone.
Capone’s role in the club as Sergeant at Arms was different to Tag’s.
Tag was club security.
On any lockdown, Tag was the first man to see order was executed. Making sure all members were accounted for, and old ladies and significant others were brought to the club. Capone’s SAA role meant he dealt with any in house beef among the patched members. He knew the lay of the land of any other neighboring MC and relayed it to the Prez and VP. If any member stepped out of line, or broke their bylaws, Capone could bring it up to the Prez for a vote on stripping the patch. The pair worked well alongside each other.
Tag had mad respect for his brother, despite his shocking taste in music. But the guy could cook like a five-star chef.
Tag flipped Capone the middle finger.
“I’d get in your tighty whities first, fucker.” He retorted.
“Can’t do that, papi. I don’t wear ‘em.”
He enjoyed these meetings when they got shit done.
Letting Rex come to town wasn’t to show the Souls being pushovers.
Feeble and old, Rex still had an ear to the ground and knew firsthand how the club got rid of the Bratva. Proving the ex-prez didn’t have a smart brain cell in that head of his if he was still hard to steal the MC back. He couldn’t trot his fat-ass into town fast enough, smirking about getting one over on Rider. So he thought.
Rider had a plan, and the Souls were following it.
A man like Rex, who valued his self-inflated status, was nothing without it.
It wasn’t enough to take the man’s life. Where was the fun in that? Especially for a bottom feeder like Rex Marinos. The guy needed a special send off.
Rider wanted to buckle him.
You don’t fuck with the Souls and live to cackle over it with a glass of malt whiskey.
The meeting broke up. The brothers went their own ways.
Tag’s stomach demanded filling, so he ambled to the kitchen. When he had his mouth full of minted lamb and pitta bread, he pulled out his phone.
Like an addict, he needed to check in with Marianna several times a day if he couldn’t be at his gym. He never planned to be a hands-on boss. Ever since he took her under his wing, he’d been in that office more times than he could count.
He enjoyed being near in case she needed him.
Yeah, right. Sappy fucker.
He was near because he needed to be.
Tag: Missing me, darlin’?
Marianna: My boss is a taskmaster, I have no time for missing anyone.
Cheeky little thing included those emojis women loved to talk with.
It was rare she joked with him, so he was fucking loving it.
His dick hurt, having been so long since he fucked, it probably thought Tag hated it.
Not the case at all. He wanted to use his dick until he was in a sated coma. It wouldn’t take any effort to saunter out into the central room and jut his chin to a groupie. They were always here. He could spend a few hours exhausting himself between the thighs of a very willing woman.
He wanted to fuck.
Wanted to fuck the stubborn woman until all she tasted in her throat were the screams he put there.
He ached.
Fucking throbbed. A dick should not be this neglected. It was inhumane.
They were gonna send him a eunuch welcome certificate any day now.
Swallowing the last bite of food, Tag washed the plate and then dried off his hands before sauntering through to the clubhouse. Preacher strolled in from the entryway, a blast of cold air following, along with his oldest son, Sebastian, the boy made a beeline for Hawk and Sunshine.
Spending a couple of minutes talking to Reaper who’d been out in the shop, it didn’t take long for Tag to feel someone staring at him. The new girl, Kerrie, wasn’t being subtle as she checked Tag out. Wearing ripped jeans painted on long legs and a belly top which showed off a silver bar through her navel. Tattoos along one arm, she flipped her hair, smiling over.
“You caught a live one, brother?” Asked Reaper.
The guy hadn’t looked up, but the ghost was always aware of everything around him. Tag guessed it was all those years he hardly spoke a word to anyone. Reaper’s body hunched over his knees, little tools in both hands while he tried to fix Paige’s watch. He’d been at it for days now. It was a sentimental gift from Paige’s old life before she lost her memory. Which meant Reaper would do anything to get it ticking again on her wrist.
“Seems like.” He answered as Kerrie slid off the stool and started the journey over to him. Sashaying her hips,
licking her lips, eyeing him with promises of hot sex on cool sheets. Or right here, where every voyeuristic pervert could watch and hold up score cards.
Tag possessed the correct working organs in his body, telling him to eat, drink, take a piss and when to sleep. He also had the big one reminding him how horny he’d felt for months, with no relief in sight. Other than his poor abused hand.
A jolt from his brain reminded Tag he was single.
He could fuck who he wanted to.
Good times were had in this very clubhouse.
All before a cold as ice Russian princess overtook his frontal lobe.
“Hey, baby.” Kerrie purred. He gave her props for not touching him. “You look thirsty, is there anything I can get for you?”
At his side, Reaper snickered low.
He was so fucking thirsty; he was a man dying in the desert.
But there was only one pussy he’d saved it up for, and she wasn’t here.
* * *
In front of Rider, sat his uncle and two cousins.
Weak excuse for men, he thought. Constantly holding onto daddy’s hand, waiting for the say so before they even took a piss. He’d never liked them.
“Listen, boy—” Rex started, and Rider stopped him dead with a stare cold enough to strip the skin off his old bones.
“Kicking off this meeting which I allowed you to have, with disrespect isn’t gonna make me happy. I’m not a boy. I haven’t been called boy for a very long time.” Rider stated. “You don’t throw out demands to me. Show your fuckin’ respect and we can discuss. Or me and my VP will walk out of here.”
Hawk gave the suits me fine glower from his standpoint by the door.
Rider witnessed the hit find the right target - Rex’s ego - when his plump face, skin stretched too tight, turned ruddy. “Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to your elder this way? You’ll remember who I am.”
It was noted how quiet his two sons remained.
Those weak idiots wouldn’t dare speak out of turn.
Rider would be surprised if they knew how to fuck their wives without daddy’s command first.
Cocking his head toward Hawk—an avenging demon—arms crossed over his leather coat. “Remind me, who asked for this meet.”