I know that’s why he stays away from me. I don’t know why he thinks I’d make him angry, but I’ve seen him lose his shit over a game of pool, an overcooked hamburger, and once when Pig Iron changed the channel when Nickel was watching Nat Geo Explorer so…his caution is probably legit. Still, it drives me crazy.
I want him, and he wants me, and all I get are these stolen moments when I’m on stage or when I stalk him at the clubhouse, and I feel his eyes burning into me, and even though they’re black as pitch, I can see how he’s starving. I’m starving, too, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold out, waiting for scraps.
The dancing takes the edge off. It’s amazing that I can get paid for doing what I love, and so what if The White Van’s a little skeevy? So was the Happy Trails trailer park, and honestly, so was Petty’s Mill High. I always knew I’d probably end up stripping like Ma, and looking back, I’m pretty sure my teachers knew it, too.
I know that sooner or later, something’s gotta give—this is a stupid high school crush, and it’s going nowhere—but for now? I’m still dopey when I change into my Juicy tracksuit at the end of my shift, all because Nickel Kobald let me see him check out my rack.
When he looks at me, it’s not like the other guys gawking at the merchandise. Nickel glares at my body and a war plays across his face. He wants to cover me up like he tried to in that bathroom back in the day, but he also wants to touch. He wants to get closer, but he won’t, so his biceps bunch and his shoulders square like he’s bracing for impact.
He fights himself over me, and it breaks my heart, and it turns me on, and it’s so fucked up.
I am how I am, though, so it doesn’t get me down for too long. I’m chill again by the time I’m near my car. Minus Cue’s cut, I cleared one-fifty tonight, and with tomorrow night’s tips, that’s rent.
Besides, I have a bottle of Chablis at home that Ma’s boyfriend, Larry, brought home from his family, and since Ma won’t touch anything from them until they accept her and accept the relationship, it’s all mine. I’m going to drink it while I lay in bed and think about Nickel, leaning back in that booth, that long neck pressed to his—
“Ah!”
Out of nowhere, a cold hand grabs my wrist like a vise. I swing my purse high, screaming, “Cue!”
Where is he? He always stands at the back door when we walk to our cars after close. There’s a thunk as my purse makes contact and the thud of boots on concrete coming from the building.
“Fuck!” The voice is curt, growly. Nickel?
He’s in the shadows by my Kia, his hand cupping his eye.
“Oh, shit. Did I hurt you?” My purse has a metal buckle, and it looks like it grazed his forehead, right by his left eyebrow.
“Why you attackin’ the girls in the parking lot?” Cue bellows over from where he’s stopped under a light post. He must have seen it was Nickel.
“Girls is attackin’ me in the parking lot,” Nickel calls back. Cue snorts and strolls back to the door, and then we’re alone in the parking lot. Nickel and me.
My stomach swirls. Little bubbles pop and fizz all over my insides. He’s staring at me, dead serious, and there’s a trickle of blood at the edge of his eye socket.
“Oh, shit. You’re bleeding. You want a tissue? I got some in here—” I babble, digging in my purse. Hair brush, tampons, wallet, a pen, Wet Ones, some acorns Ernestine’s oldest grandbaby gave me—there! Tissues!
I hand the tiny pack to Nickel, and he takes it with two fingers, mystified.
“For your face.” I gesture to the trickle of blood. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a mugger.”
Nickel hands the tissues back and swipes the blood with the sleeve of his grey Henley. “Why the fuck you stop then?”
Huh?
Nickel swallows, the cords rising in his neck. “You think you’re gettin’ mugged, don’t stop. Don’t you have mace in that thing? Somethin’?”
Nickel eyes my purse like it has teeth. I actually do have mace. I’d probably have to dump the whole thing on the hood of my car to find it, but it’s in there.
“I wasn’t getting mugged, Nickel.”
“You got the survival instincts of a fuckin’ toddler.”
“You’ve got shit for manners.” Fuck him. If I was a man, I’d be Clint freakin’ Eastwood. I fight off a man in a dark parking lot, and I’m some kind of dumbass damsel in distress? Hah.
He stares at me, and I stare at him. Now is when he’s going to stomp away. Roll his eyes, scoff, and turn his back, but even though he’s being all bossy, I don’t want him to. This close, I can smell him, and—gross.
“Why do you smell like Cue’s office?” I wrinkle my nose.
Nickel blinks, thrown for a second, and then he dips his head to sniff his shoulder. “Oh. Cigars.”
“You smoke now?”
Nickel clicks his tongue, irritated. He starts pacing in front of me, so I lean back against the car door and settle in.
Nickel is never at rest unless he’s backing up one of his brothers. Otherwise, it’s like he’s got some Tasmanian devil under his skin, racing from limb to limb, trying to get out or else drag his ass somewhere. I love to watch him. He’s like a tiger in the zoo, stalking his cage like he knows a way out, he’s just biding his time.
“Fuck,” Nickel grunts after a few moments and nails me with one of his meanest glares. “You got to quit this job.”
“Not gonna do that, Nickel.”
“You can’t be makin’ much. It’s Friday night, and what did you clear? A C-note?”
“One fifty. That’s over twenty bucks an hour. My day job at General Goods only pays eight.” I might be shit at reading, but I can do math fine. Nothing in Petty’s Mill pays as good as The White Van if you only have a high school diploma. Nothing I want to do, anyway.
Nickel’s nostrils flare. “There’s other shit you could do.”
“I love dancing.” I do. The music, the high of the applause and the hollering, the strange kind of drunken happiness in a room where a bunch of men are getting exactly what they want? It’s amazing. The groping, the weird smells, and the asshole suits from Pyle who don’t tip? Not so much. “What is it that you want me to do?”
He can’t answer, and that pisses him off even more. His fists clench so tight, I can see the veins in his forearms pop where he’s pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.
If he hits something, I hope it’s not my car. It’s made of aluminum foil; it’ll definitely dent.
“Nickel, where’s this comin’ from?” I sigh, folding my arms.
This ain’t the first time we’ve had this talk. When I started at The White Van, we had it at least once a week. He’d tell me to quit. I’d say no. He’d hit a wall or a locker, and storm off. It’s pretty much the only conversation we’ve ever had if you don’t count me coming on to him and him telling me to get lost.
“That man I was with tonight.” Nickel stops his pacing.
“He your real brother?”
Nickel nods. “Stay away from him.”
“Okay.”
Nickel’s told me to steer clear of certain guys before, usually pervs and drug dealers. It’s nice to get a heads up since—and I will never admit this to him—I don’t scare as easy as maybe I should.
“I’m serious, Story.”
“I know. I said okay.”
Nickel’s shoulders flex. He doesn’t believe me, so he’s working himself up. I’ve seen this before a dozen times. It’s usually the point Heavy or Charge hustles him out of the room or presses a beer in his hand.
“He’s a bad man.” Nickel snarls. “He hurts women.”
“I won’t talk to him.” I take a step forward. I don’t know why. As if I’m gonna calm him down by getting close? I trigger this guy, and I know it.
“He asks you for a dance, you tell him your shift’s over. He asks for your number, you tell him to fuck himself.” Nickel’s eyes dart in the sockets, as if he’s seeing all these terrible things in his head
. “You do not ask him to buy you a drink.”
“I won’t.”
“And you do not walk to your car without Cue. Make that lazy fucker walk you.” He pierces me with his manic gaze and grabs me by the shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “You understand?”
I smother a hiss of pain. If I say let go, he will. I know. He’ll turn all the rage on himself, and he’ll bolt, and I don’t want that ‘cause I can feel the heat coming in waves off his body, and all I want to do is make him pull me closer. So I sneak attack.
“Hey,” I say and smile, putting every bit of happy I have in it, and I have a lot, since Nickel is here with me, alone, in the dark.
He glances down, and I know the second I have him trapped. His eyelids drift closed like he’s praying. I stand on my toes and wriggle my shoulders, loosening his grip. And then I bounce up and I—
I kiss his chin? Damn. He’s too tall; I missed his lips.
“Huh?” Nickel drops his arms in surprise, and he goes very, very still. He’s freakin’ mind boggled. A jolt of pure feminine satisfaction runs straight between my thighs. I rest my hands on his rock-hard chest, stand back up on my tippy toes, and I plant another one on his jaw. The light beard he’s growing out prickles my lips.
I slide a hand up and cup his neck, urging him down, but he won’t budge.
“What are you doing?” he growls, his breath catching on his next inhale.
Since he’s not bending, and I can’t get to his lips, I work my way down, brushing kisses over the pulse that throbs under his ear and the cords straining in his neck. He hisses, as if he’s in pain, but he keeps as still as a statue.
When I reach his chest, I inhale as deep as I can. Beneath the stinky cigar, there’s the scent that unlocks my insides every time. Nickel’s smell. Male musk, fresh-cut wood, and cheap laundry powder. My swirly stomach clenches and my pussy lips swell. I press closer, winding my arms around his neck, sighing as I rest my cheek on his chest.
“Touch me back,” I murmur.
“You shouldn’t do this.” His voice is torn up, his arms ramrod straight at his side. His fingers twitch.
“Why not?” I stroke my fingers down the back of his neck, and I listen to his heart try to crack his rib cage.
“You know how I am,” he growls, frustration finally trumping the element of surprise. I know I only have seconds left before he runs so I cant my hips forward, reveling in the feel of his hard length trying to punch through his jeans and press against my belly. This is for me. Only me. A whimper escapes my lips.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I want it,” I murmur, punch drunk on his closeness, his scent, his raspy voice.
“Fuck, Story!” He jerks away, throws up his palms to ward me off. “Since you can’t think so good, at least fuckin’ listen. Stay away from my brother. Stay away from me. Fuck!”
He whirls back, slams his palm against Cue’s truck. Good thing it’s a Chevy or that would’ve left a dent.
Nickel’s shoulders are heaving, and he has his back to me, but he doesn’t leave. I know why. I’m not safe in my car yet.
“Nickel?”
He ignores me. It’s so quiet I can hear cars whoosh down Route 7. I sigh and sort around in my purse until I find my key fob. The double beep breaks the silence, and I slide into my seat. I give it a moment, ‘cause I’m an optimist, but he’s shut down tight as a drum again. Won’t even look at me.
“I’m not afraid of you, Nickel Kobald,” I say, and he stiffens like I hit him in the kidneys.
“I know,” he says, real quiet as he walks away, and he sounds so damn disappointed.
It takes me five long minutes of blaring the radio and singing along to “Uptown Girl” before I feel right again.
This is good. This is progress. A step forward.
Next time I’m gonna get a stool or something so I can reach his lips. He’s so close to cracking; I can feel it. All I need to do is hold the course, and that man is gonna be mine.
CHAPTER 6
NICKEL
The party’s been goin’ an hour at most, the clubhouse is only half full, and this night is already goin’ to shit.
Story’s hangin’ by the jukebox like she always does, waitin’ for someone to dance with her, and she’s letting a prospect drape his arm around her like she’s the bench seat of an Impala. The ugly, a wave of hot fury, washes through me, prickling my skin.
So it begins. The way every rage begins. The chemicals in my body surge, whipping my muscles into action and clouding my brain until beating something or someone to death seems like the only logical outcome to any given situation. It usually ends with blood splatter and Charge tryin’ to talk down the police.
When I was younger, it was a high. Still is sometimes. But mostly it’s tiresome and fucking depressing.
I don’t want to kill the prospect. I actually kind of like him. He knows his way around an engine, and besides, I guarantee Charge or Forty told him to steer clear of Story—even though I ain’t never said shit or made a claim—and dude still has the balls to rub up on her. I respect the cojones. I still want to rip his arm off, though.
“What’s that fucker’s name again?” I ask Wall as I break, sending the seven-ball hopping to the concrete floor.
Wall shrugs, chalks his stick. “One of the dead presidents.”
We got four prospects around the same time. One’s name is Roosevelt, so Heavy thought it’d be funny to name the rest accordingly. There’s a Bush, a Wash, for Washington, and a Boom who started out as Eisenhower.
Road names are stupid.
Charge gave me mine off of one time I kept begging for a nickel so I could get a pop. Seriously. If I’d have been short ten cents, they’d be callin’ me Dime.
The prospect hands Story his beer, and she takes a sip, eyein’ me. Waiting. She hasn’t tried this shit in a few years. Not since I sat in a bar stool and held her eyes, not blinkin’, as she walked out with a hang-around named Dean.
Dean don’t hang around no more.
I’ve managed to avoid her all week, had Forty cover the shift we shared, and until this moment, I’d only seen her every wakin’ fuckin’ moment of the day, in my mind, tilting her face back to kiss my cheek, snuggling to my chest, her silky hair tickling the crook of my neck. Another wave of fury crashes through me.
She acts like this is my choice. Like any man could have all that sweet and soft in his arms and decide to turn it down. It ain’t a choice. If you’re blind, you don’t fuckin’ drive a car. It’s that simple.
Fuck.
I need air.
I need to see if Scrap is settin’ up any fights out back; I need to beat on something. I need to hurt. But Story’s over by the jukebox with a prospect’s arm around her neck, and she’s my anchor. My feet ain’t goin’ nowhere.
And damn, but she’s so pretty tonight. She left her hair down, but she braided pieces on either side of her face and tied them back with a hot pink bow. She’s wearing a dress to match—skin tight, cut low in front and almost up to her ass cheeks in the back—and white leather platform pumps.
The prospect thinks he won the stripper lottery, but he don’t know what I know. Those are Fay-Lee’s shoes, and they’re at least a size too small. That’s why she’s favoring one foot and then the other.
She’s wearin’ briefs—the prospect definitely noticed that, impossible not to—not a thong or bare ass like another girl would with that dress. Every man here can see her panty lines, and she’s oblivious. I guarantee Sunny, her ma, picked out the dress. Left to her own devices, Story shows up places lookin’ like Punky Brewster bein’ raised by Harley Quinn.
The prospect cracks a joke, Story snorts, and I can see the moment she forgets about makin’ me jealous. She loses herself in the laugh, and every man in the room can’t help but glance over and smile cause Story laughing is a raw hit of pure joy. Like when Ernestine’s youngest grandbaby gurgles and shrieks when Charge blows bubbles on her tummy
.
Ain’t nothin’ so beautiful, so perfect. This world is gonna kill that. Stomp it into the mud. Don’t know how it hasn’t yet.
She keeps this up, chasin’ after me, workin’ at The White Van, she’s gonna be club pussy soon enough. And then she’s gonna get burnt out and bitter, and a fucker like Ike Kobald’s gonna move in, promisin’ shit he has no intention of delivering.
She needs to get out of here. Out of Petty’s Mill. Move to some big city where she can teach rich bitches how to strip for a workout like I saw on TV. She stays here…it’s a matter of time before I break. I ain’t a good man. I will ruin a girl like her ‘cause she’ll think she can change me. That I’m salvageable. I ain’t.
“Beer?” Danielle saunters over, handing a fresh one to Wall and me. She leans against the pool table, eyes it, then raises one of her weird, penciled-in eyebrows.
Yeah. Wall’s about to run the table on me.
“You playing blindfolded tonight, Nick?”
“Hey. He’s doin’ better’n he usually do.” Wall sinks the eight-ball.
Danielle winces. “I got loser.” She pats Wall on the ass.
He sinks to a couch and takes out his phone. He’s wide as a door and has fifty pounds on every dude in this place, but he’s a chill guy. Only brother besides Heavy I’ve never brawled with over something stupid. Guess when you’re as big as him you have zero to prove.
“You rack ‘em,” Danielle bosses and picks a stick. She’s hot tonight, as always. We went to school together. She was two years ahead. Gave me my first blow job behind the concession stand at a pep rally. I lasted ten seconds, and she told everyone I had a monster cock.
Liked her ever since.
She breaks. Table scratch. She looks me a question, and I gesture for her to take another shot. She does.
“You know you didn’t have to,” she says.
I shrug. “I didn’t have a clear shot.”
Nickel's Story: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 5