Frost
Rolling Thunder Birmingham
Candace Blevins
Frost © July 2020 by Candace Blevins
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
Cover design © 2020 Candace Blevins
First Edition July 2020
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Contents
Connect with Candace
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Bibliography
Razor Excerpt
About the Author
Connect with Candace
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Description
Meet the men of the Birmingham RTMC...
Fresh out of prison, Frost had still been finding his way in post-battle Birmingham when Banshee walked out of the clubhouse for the last time. He didn’t know how much he was going to miss her until she was gone. He’d had use of the fiery little sweetbutt anytime he wanted, so he hadn’t considered turning her into something more. Now it was too late. She’d turned her back on the club, and it’s nearly impossible to come back from that.
Banshee couldn’t bear being around Frost without being seen by him another day, so she’d walked out instead of accepting consequences for being a brat. Most days, she’s certain she made the right decision. She’d been the club’s plaything while she figured out where her life was going, but she was back on track now, and it didn’t matter how much she’d cared for Frost, because he hadn’t cared enough to tell her not to leave. Besides, there was no going back — not only because of what the club would require for her to make amends, but it would destroy her if Frost treated her as a faceless sweetbutt, no matter how badly she craved having him in her life.
Can the lynx and the owl shifter find a way back to each other? With so many obstacles in their way, should they even try?
Other Books in the Birmingham RTMC series:
Dementor
Bobcat
Frost
Squatch (2020)
Chapter One
Frost
It was a normal evening in the clubhouse, the night Banshee walked out.
Though at the time, I hadn’t been out of jail long enough for anything to seem normal. You’d think it would after three months, but not so much. Some days, it felt as if everything had changed while I was inside, and I knew that wasn’t actually the case, but society had broken down to practically nothing and was trying to come back. There were growing pains all around.
I hadn’t realized how often I’d gone to Banshee over the other sweetbutts until the little lynx wasn’t around anymore. I didn’t just miss her, I craved her.
But once she was gone, that was it. She’d have to come back on her own. No way would I go and beg her back. Besides, she’d have to take licks from Squatch before she could return, and my brothers might even vote that she’d have to go through the weekend-long initiation train all over again, too.
Not for the first time, I thought back to that night. She’d rebuffed Khan first, but he’s on loan to us from the Mobile chapter, and pretty laid back, so he’d grabbed another sweetbutt and went to town on her. However, not ten minutes later, Squatch ordered her to blow him and she’d turned around and walked away. He’d then ordered her to pull her skirt up and bend over the back of the sofa, and she’d told him to find someone else. Squatch is our Sergeant-at-Arms. The guy responsible for internal discipline. He’s the last of my brothers you want to fuck with. Well, except me, but we don’t advertise that too much.
While Squatch and Mad Dog decided how many licks she was going to get, and with what, she’d stared at me. I’m sure she wanted me to intervene, but I don’t know what I could’ve done at that point. She’d dug herself a hole.
Still, if I’d known how much I was going to miss the little lynx, it’s possible I’d have thought of something.
Her only saving grace was her words before she left. She’d told Mad Dog, “I’ve valued my time here. I like some of you more than others, and having to fuck whoever wants me isn’t working for me anymore, so I’ll leave.”
And then she’d walked out, and I hadn’t seen her since. I’d thought about finding her a few times, but what would I say? I miss fucking your ass and hearing you scream and beg for relief?
I had no business with her, anyway. I needed to tear into a woman every once in a while with something more than my cock. A belt, or a whip, or worse. Banshee got off on us tearing her up while we fucked her ass, but she’d only been turned on for mild-to-medium spankings, and it had taken us a while to work her up to that. The little kitty cat wasn’t likely to agree to let me tie her up and hurt her bad.
But oh, how I wanted to do just that. I mean, not in a serial killer kind of way — in most of my fantasies, I wanted to make her orgasm while I hurt her. Only a few times had I fantasized about hurting her for real, and I wasn’t going to go through with that. I know the difference between fantasy and reality. Sometimes, situations arise where I can exercise my sadistic impulses full out, but most of the time, I can satisfy them with consensual sexual sadism.
Oddly, I’d been able to enjoy actual sadism in jail a whole lot more than I was managing now that I was out, but that was okay, because sex on the outside also feeds a need.
And here’s the thing,
I wanted to hurt Banshee and then take care of her afterwards. That was new to me. It isn’t that I’ve never done the whole aftercare thing, it’s that it’s always been a chore, like cleaning the dishes after you cook. I wanted to take care of Banshee.
But it wasn’t going to happen. I’d let her walk out the door. She’d looked right at me. She’d given me a chance to step forward and claim her. I’d known, in that instance, it was now-or-never, and I hadn’t moved a muscle to stop her.
I put my truck into park and opened my tablet to look over my notes before I stepped onto the jobsite.
The MC had waited for me to get out of jail before officially opening the construction company. Birmingham needed to be rebuilt, so we’d jump on the bandwagon and help — and make a lot of money in the process. This venture was my baby, and I looked forward to helping rebuild the city. There were a lot of companies needing contractors, and a lot of people needing jobs. I was directly overseeing crews on five large projects and a handful of small ones, and not getting a lot of sleep. Some days, I didn’t fuck anyone. Other days, I fucked a half-dozen women, and not all of them sweetbutts.
And Banshee was in the back of my mind anytime I sank my dick into any of a woman’s holes. Fuck, but that woman could get me going and keep me there.
I was sitting in the parking lot of one of our big jobs — a new build of an old-folks home. Excuse me. Retirement home. The owner was promoting it for rich people, but he was taking shortcuts with building expenses wherever he could. Nothing unsafe — I wouldn’t have gone for that — but cosmetic stuff. For instance, the entryway was a huge room with what looked like massive marble columns, but the plans called for us to make them out of concrete and then have an artist paint them to look like marble. Our regular painting subcontractor wouldn’t do for this, so we’d used a different firm.
They came well recommended, but I still needed to check on them. The floor and two walls of the sunroom were supposed to look like a French veranda once the artist was finished. I’d have done that room last, but this firm’s artist was starting in there. I found my notes about her —Cheyenne Grace, but her boss called her Shy. Her portfolio was damned impressive, and I looked forward to seeing her make this space come alive. I finally jumped out of my truck and went in.
The flooring people were laying the tile in the grand entrance. I checked out the auditorium and nodded to the people installing the seating, looked in on work in the kitchen and huge dining hall, and finally made my way to the sunroom. Thirty yards away, I smelled lynx. Not just any lynx.
Banshee.
The doors were propped open, and I stood just outside the immense sunroom and watched Banshee, standing high on a scaffolding, those long, slender arms with compact muscles skillfully painted decorative molding onto a flat surface. Her fingers had paint on them, wrapped around the paintbrush handle. So graceful. I remembered how those fingers had looked moving on my dick.
Her long hair had been restrained in a ponytail and then wrapped around itself, and I wanted to let it loose and hold it like a handle.
My dick throbbed in my pants, but I brought it under control while I was far enough away she wouldn’t scent the small dip in my control.
Without turning around, she said, “This isn’t a spectator sport. If you aren’t here to help, you should leave.”
“That ass in those jeans? You could sell tickets.” And that was the god’s honest truth. The jeans had been washed so many times they were barely blue. They cupped her ass so perfectly, it was a work of art.
She turned around so fast, I worried she’d fall — but she’s a cat, so she was fine.
“The fuck you doin’ here?”
Those green, green eyes. They’d always threatened to do me in. The color of the first buds on a tree in the spring, only more vibrant.
“I take it your boss didn’t tell you who the GC is on this job?” The RTMC were the general contractors, and we subcontracted for specialized skills, like electrical work, plumbing, and painting. Technically, we were Rolling Thunder General Contractors and Commercial Construction, but everyone knew it was an RTMC owned business.
She closed her eyes a few seconds, and opened them with a look of resignation.
“Damn. No, he didn’t, but I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. I know I can’t be on MC property, but this isn’t...” She shrugged. “This is different. I’m working. Professional.”
“Yeah, I hadn’t even considered walking you off the property.”
She turned back to the wall and resumed painting. “Well then, if there’s nothing else, I should get back to it.”
I have no idea what came over me. I’d like to be able to blame it on my inner owl, but I’m pretty sure the human has to take full responsibility. I took a few steps inside, listened for heartbeats, heard only Banshee’s, and closed the doors going into the sunroom.
“I’ve missed you.”
“You let me walk out.”
“That’s the way it works. No one’s there against their will.”
“You know what I mean.”
I sighed. “Yeah, but I didn’t realize I was going to miss you until you were gone. Expecting me to figure it all out in five seconds was...” I walked to one of the walls of windows and looked out. “I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out before you left.”
“Not sorry enough to look me up, though.”
“Your boss called you Shy?”
“Boss?” She asked it with a deriding laugh. “How about ex-husband?”
“You work for your ex?”
“Fuck no. We started the painting firm together. Can’t live together, but we make good business partners. We separated just before the riots, moved back together during them — mostly because I was worried about his kids — and now he lives next door. We can’t live together without wanting to kill each other, but we seem to be doing okay as neighbors.”
“He’s a Pack wolf.”
The club is supposed to vet our sweetbutts, to make sure we aren’t infiltrated. I’d assumed Mad Dog had been doing that. The old VP had done it before the battles. Had that job fallen through the cracks when he was killed? We shouldn’t have had anyone that close to a pack wolf inside our clubhouse.
“Yeah, and he’s my ex. Mad Dog talked to me about it. I told him I had no intention of talking to my ex-husband about my social or sexual life. We’re business partners now, and parenting partners. Kind of.” She sounded aggravated, as if she didn’t want to explain any of this to me. “I’d grown close to his kids from his former marriage. Their mom died in the fighting, so they live with him now, but they’re at my house a lot.”
I turned away from the wall of windows to look at her, but her back was to me again while she painted. “And I assume the kids are wolves?”
“Yes.”
“Pack wolves.”
She turned back around and gave me an exasperated look. “Yes! Pack wolves! Get over it already.”
When the Rolling Thunder MC started, decades ago, it was all wolves. Specifically, it was the wolves who didn’t want to join the Pack, which fully explains why the Pack and the Club didn’t get along. At all. Over the years, the MC’s human enemies figured out our numbers were smaller around the three nights of the full moon. They didn’t know why, but you can imagine the rumors.
So, the MC had opened membership up to any shifter who wasn’t bound to a leader more powerful than them. Technically, owls are bound to the Owl King, but I’d gotten myself banished, sort of.
In some cities, relations between the Pack and Club are better now that we aren’t two all-wolf groups, but tensions were still high between the two organizations in Birmingham.
But I needed to talk to Banshee. No. She wasn’t a sweetbutt anymore. I should get used to thinking of her as Shy. I wondered how she spelled the shortened version.
“Does everyone call you Shy, or just your ex?”
“My dad. My ex. Most of my friends.”
“But your mom uses your
full name?”
“Fuck, Frost. Why all the questions?”
Because I wanted to get to know her better, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve missed my ass.”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve missed more than your ass. I’ve missed having you around.”
“I walked out. You and I both know I’m not coming back.”
“So maybe you and I can go out. No clubhouse.”
She shook her head and kept working. I needed to see her face, but couldn’t figure out how to get her to turn around.
“Being a fucktoy worked for me, for a while. I was gettin’ over Gil, figuring my life out. I don’t need that anymore.”
I looked at my watch. Not even nine o’clock yet. “What time do you break for lunch?”
“When my arm gets tired and I’m hungry. One of the perks of being the boss.”
Fuck, she wasn’t making this easy. “What if I bring burgers and milkshakes and fries back around noon so we can eat together? No sex. Just food and conversation.”
Chapter Two
Cheyenne
Birds have excellent eyesight, and most can pick up micro expressions. They rely on this more than scent, and I’d never practiced trying to control my face. So, I was keeping my back to him so he wouldn’t see how badly I wanted to run into his arms. I could control my scent, but that wasn’t going to help.
Frost (Rolling Thunder MC Birmingham Book 3) Page 1