by Anne Malcom
“What the fuck do you want?” I hissed angrily.
This was not okay. Could I not enjoy something as mundane as a trip to the grocery store without getting stalked by my ex-kidnapper?
He held his manicured hands up to placate me. “I’m not here to hurt you, Miss Abrams, nor do I intend to disrupt your life any more than I have to,” he stated calmly.
I snorted, gripping the pasta jar. “Yeah, right. I’m going to believe a sociopath who kidnapped and tortured me when he assures me I’m safe. Do I look like I’m on crack?” I asked sarcastically, ignoring the fear curling in my stomach.
Clark regarded me. “I do regret that course of action more than you know, considering I lost ten of my men.” He didn’t seem too broken up about it.
“Sorry, should I have sent you condolence flowers?” I spat, feeling momentarily stunned at how many guys the Sons had managed to off.
Clark sighed. “As much as I enjoy this banter, Miss Abrams, I’m pressed for time. I’d like for you to do something for me.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. Maybe this guy was on crack.
“Are you suffering from syphilis?” I asked seriously.
A chink in Clark’s emotionless façade showed when he looked visibly confused. “I’m not sure I follow the reason for asking such a question.”
“Well, insanity is a common symptom of the disease. Just ask Henry the Eighth. I’m thinking that waltzing up to me while I’m doing my grocery shopping, treating me like a business acquaintance and asking me a favor after detaining and nearly killing me is nothing short of insanity,” I explained.
Clark’s jaw twitched. “I do enjoy you, Miss Abrams. Under other circumstances I feel I would have enjoyed you in many other ways.”
Ick.
“The situation the way it is, I feel that course of action has passed. What I would like you to do is call your boyfriend for me,” he requested calmly.
“Yeah I’ll get right on that, after I call the police and tell them a murderer and kidnapper is shooting the breeze with me in the parking lot of the supermarket,” I said, fumbling through my bag for my phone. If only I had something useful in there like a taser or a gun. The only thing I had that could do some damage was some questionable lipstick colors.
Clark stepped forward and I retreated, smacking my head on the trunk of my car. I ignored the lancing pain through my skull and focused on the fact I was not getting freakin’ kidnapped again.
“I would urge you the refrain from calling the authorities. We have existed without them thus far and I think that should be the way we continue, considering I could tie your boyfriend and his gang to ten murders,” he threatened softly.
“Club,” I blurted automatically. “They’re a motorcycle club.”
“Whatever they are, their efforts to sabotage my business and kill me are getting a little irritating. All I want is to talk to them and unfortunately I don’t have many channels to do so. You are my only option.”
“Yeah, so I’m just going to call them and tell them to come and have a little meeting with you and the twenty or so guys you have hidden somewhere to shoot them. Not gonna happen, no matter how much you get your little knife boy to try and persuade me otherwise.” I crossed my arms defiantly.
My gaze wandered around the parking lot. A couple of people were walking in and out with their groceries. But they looked like normal, everyday people. I couldn’t expect them to come to my rescue against a crime lord.
Clark’s gaze watched my scan of the parking lot. “I give you my word that I am here alone, apart from my driver. I have no intention of turning this street into a warzone. I’m not into that kind of attention.”
I chewed my lip, not trusting him for a second. I didn’t want to put the men in danger. But I had a feeling he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
I glared at him. “If you’re lying and one of those men gets hurt, I swear to you I’ll find a way to burn your tasteless mansion to the ground with you inside it,” I hissed.
Clark nodded.
I pulled out my phone.
“Babe,” Brock answered.
“I thought we talked about this. That’s not a way to answer the phone Brock. ‘Babe’ is not a substitute for greetings, answers to questions or explanations for actions,” I said automatically.
“Okay. Hello, my beautiful, vivacious Amy, how are you?” he murmured.
I eyed Clark. “I’m not the best since I’m currently sharing the same air of Clark Devon and he won’t let me leave, which means my ice cream is going to melt,” I informed him calmly.
I heard his sharp indrawn breath, then curse. “Jesus, Amy, why in the fuck was that not the first thing you said?” he yelled and I flinched slightly. “Where are you?” His voice was laced with fury.
“In the parking lot of Trader Joes,” I said. “Clark seems to want to have a meeting with you and the boys and it seems I’m his unwilling secretary. He’s not my idea of a suitable employer—his health benefits suck,” I told him, glaring at the pompous psychopath in front of me.
I heard Brock barking orders in the background. “We’ll be there in five,” he paused. “Are you okay, baby?” his voice was soft.
“I’m fine. Pissed off, but fine.”
“He’s dead if he touches a fuckin’ hair on your beautiful head,” he growled.
“I’d rethink the murder plan due to all of the witnesses,” I stated. “I’m thinking that’s why Clark chose this particular location.”
Another curse. “Sit tight. We’re coming to get you.”
I hung up and glared at Clark. “They’ll be here momentarily, Mr. Devon. Can I do anything else for you? Open a vein? Oh no, wait, I’ve already done that. How about I pick up your dry cleaning?” I asked sarcastically.
“If this meeting goes as I hope, Miss Abrams, this will be the last time you hear from me.”
“A girl can dream,” I muttered.
Silence descended upon us and I was itching to get out of this man’s presence. What seemed like seconds later the roar of motorcycles filled the air. They must have broken the land speed record getting here.
Brock pulled up close to us, leaping off his bike. He strode toward me, pulling me behind him and yanking a gun out of his waistband to point at Clark’s head. Clark looked unruffled. I had to give it to him; the guy had a mean poker face.
I touched Brock’s sleeve lightly. “Maybe not the best place to be pointing a deadly weapon at a man’s head, sweetie,” I said quietly, eyeing the parking lot.
“Give me one reason not to blow your fuckin’ head off right here,” Brock snarled at Clark, ignoring me. Cade, Lucky, Bull, Asher, and to my surprise Steg all flanked Brock, while a couple of prospects spanned the lot.
“A long stay in a state penitentiary would be a good motivation,” Clark replied, tipping his head to the people walking out of the store, then to the cameras perched in our direction.
Brock seemed to struggle with that for a moment, not lowering his gun.
“As much as I would like to see this fucker’s brains splattered on the sidewalk, I can think of some other things I’d like to spend shitloads of money on other than lawyer’s fees,” Cade muttered quietly, hand on Brock’s shoulder. All of the men seemed on high alert, resting their hands on their belts. Brock breathed, then lowered the gun.
“Get Amy out of here,” he instructed Cade.
I clutched his arm before one of the men could drag me off. “I’m not going anywhere,” I declared.
Brock’s jaw hardened, not taking his eyes off Clark. “Yes, you fuckin’ are.”
I held my ground. “I’m the one that is involved in this whole mess. I’d like to see it to the end.” My voice was strong.
Brock sighed. “You got ten seconds then I disregard what my brother and my woman say and I do the world a favor,” Brock hissed.
“I want to propose a truce,” Clark said simply, unbuttoning his suit jacket in the weird way men did.
“N
ot gonna happen,” Brock replied.
Clark didn’t seem surprised at this. “I already know you are trying your hardest to make sure I don’t see my next birthday. I assume you already know the resources I have at my disposal. Neither of us wants war, I’m sure. And I can guarantee you don’t want to lose any more brothers.” He glanced at Bull knowingly. “Or women.”
The men all stiffened at the threat and Bull stepped forward, hand on his gun. Steg held him back.
“That’s the last time you threaten my brothers and even fuckin mention our women,” Cade cut in calmly, “or I’ll put a bullet in you myself. I don’t care if I’ve got a whole bus full of witnesses.”
Clark nodded. “Fair enough. I only wanted to point out that this is a fight that you neither need nor want. I would rather not have a nationwide motorcycle club,” his eyes rested pointedly on me before going back to Cade, “interrupting my life. And I’m sure you could do without any complications resulting from this. So I would like to suggest a ceasefire.”
“You took one of our women. Fucking tortured her. Nearly killed her. You really think we’re gonna forgive and forget that?” Cade answered.
Clark shook his head. “I do not. I do suggest I will overlook the slaying of almost a dozen of my men and personally deliver the man responsible for the injuries Amy sustained during her stay with me.”
“So you think handing us one of your foot soldiers is enough to forget what you did? Think again, old man,” Cade glared at him.
“Rafael is not a foot soldier,” Clark said calmly. “He is my son.”
I hissed in a breath and this and even the staunch men were taken aback. This was fucked up.
“You think I’d trust a man willing to kill his own kin in order to save himself?” Cade bit out in disgust.
A glimmer of something flicked through Clark’s eyes. “Why else would I hand over my son if I wasn’t going to keep my word?”
There was silence as everyone chewed on this.
“You hand him to us, and any fuckin’ inkling that I get you’re setting your eyes in our general direction it’s war,” Cade said finally.
Clark nodded. “I assure you we will never cross paths again. You have my word.” He handed Cade a card.
All of the men simultaneously stepped forward as he held it out, Brock pulling me behind his back yet again.
Clark ignored this. “A number you can reach me on. You pick the time and place for our exchange.”
He glanced around the group. “Good doing business with you, gentlemen.” His eyes found mine. “As always, Miss Abrams, a pleasure. Be well.”
“The pleasure was all yours,” I snapped.
Clark turned around and got into his car. We all stood and watched it pull out of the lot.
“That guy is off his fuckin rocker insane.” Lucky broke the silence.
“Back to the clubhouse. Now,” Cade commanded. He looked at Brock. “Bring Amy. I’m getting Gwen and Belle. We’re on lockdown until I’m satisfied this crazy fucker means what he says.”
“I have to say I’m growing to hate these lockdowns,” Rosie declared, sipping a margarita.
I sipped my own. “Me too. As much as I love a good margarita and the quality of the company, I’m not too fond of the not being able to leave part.”
“I know, and I had a date tonight.” Rosie frowned down at her phone.
I perked up, loving to hear about Rosie’s latest men. They rivaled the revolving door I had back in my heyday. I don’t know where she found them all, considering she had an entire clubhouse full of protective older brothers.
“This guy is a professional swimmer. You should see his arms.” Her face was dreamy.
I myself thought her serial dating was an effort to forget about a certain law enforcement officer who had a serious hatred for her brother. That had dimmed slightly, however, with his fondness for Gwen and baby Belle. I suspected he still wanted to put Cade behind bars, but his friendship with Gwen had made him slightly less eager to have Belle grow up without a father. He came into the store sometimes bearing coffee and giving us some eye candy. His banter with Rosie was easy, but I caught the way she looked at him.
“Dreamier than Luke?” I asked mischievously.
Rosie’s face snapped to me. “What are you talking about?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You know what I’m talking about. It’s time you gave me the lowdown.”
Before I could get the goss Gwen plonked down beside me, snatching my glass. “So getting Belle to sleep in an unfamiliar bedroom was not the funnest thing in the world, especially when she decided that today was the day she was going to give me my first experience of projectile poo,” she declared, draining my drink.
I screwed my nose up at this. Gross.
“Luckily I’ve got good reflexes. I would have had a minor breakdown if I got crap on this dress. It’s vintage.”
Gwen didn’t look like one of those stressed out, sleep-deprived mothers with unstyled hair and a slightly crazed gaze. Her chocolate brown hair was shiny and falling around her face. Her outfit was, like always, perfect. And she had pretty much lost all of her baby weight; the extra she was still carrying actually looked good on her. The bitch.
“That’s why I’m not having kids,” I informed them. “That and I’m quite fond of how my vagina looks.”
Gwen scowled at me. “My vagina looks great! Better than before, in fact,” she argued defensively.
I patted her hand. “I’m sure it does, sweetie. You’re just an exception to the rule. It’s like playing Russian roulette with your downstairs area.”
Gwen gave me a look. “It’s also the most amazing thing, having a little human who you love more than life itself.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess you’ve got a point.” My mind wandered to how much I already loved Belle and to the day when Brock held her so tenderly. Maybe I would risk my vagina for having that with Brock.
“So,” Gwen turned to me. “Cade had no explanation as to why this was happening. Since he was in badass mode all I got were sexy grunts and orders. Spill,” she demanded, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I didn’t get any of the lowdown—even Lucky seemed grim. Tell us,” Rosie chipped in. I wondered if it was more out of motivation to get the subject away from Luke.
I sighed and filled them in on the parking lot showdown. When I was done they both gazed at me with mouths agape.
“So this guy is just handing over his freaking son? That is beyond cold. That’s crazy!” Rosie exclaimed with a disgusted look on her face.
“Yep,” I agreed, unable to believe this was my life. We were in a biker clubhouse talking about the man who tortured me getting handed over to my boyfriend by his own father. My boyfriend, the sergeant in arms of said motorcycle club, was most likely going to kill said torturer. This way a far cry from sitting around a table in Manhattan drinking overpriced cocktails and talking about the latest it bag. Granted, I had been away from my island for over a year and this isn’t the first time I was involved in a club ‘lockdown’, but it was the first time I was smack dab in the middle of it. I frowned at the empty glass, feeling slightly miffed at Gwen for draining it. This, like so many problems in my life, was a job for alcohol. Glancing at Gwen I realized she might have needed it more than me.
“You okay, Gwennie?” I asked softly.
She jerked up, her eyes focusing on me. “Oh yeah, it’s all in the job description of being an old lady, right? Discussing a father setting up his own son’s murder. A murder my husband will most likely be involved in.”
“I still think I’d rather live this life than have to face nightly dinners with my mother,” I replied honestly and Rosie smirked.
Gwen sighed. “That’s the thing. Even with all of this I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Neither would I.
“Are we going to get to sleep in a room that hasn’t seen more traffic than Grand Central station tomorrow night?” I asked Brock sweetly as I
rubbed moisturizer on my hands.
He shrugged his cut off and placed his knife and gun on the desk across from his bed. “Can’t say for sure, babe, but the prospect is looking likely,” he replied, undressing.
I looked around his room. It was messy like the last time I had been in it, but this time I was a verified ‘old lady”. It felt different. I also felt vaguely sick thinking of the other women who had shared this bed after me.
“Sparky?” a soft voice asked.
I jerked back to reality and looked into Brock’s eyes. “How many?” I asked.
Brock looked confused. “How many what, babe?”
“Girls,” I said quietly. “I know I have no right to ask and I’m not going to claw your face off when you tell me the truth. I just need to know.” I hated myself for asking this. It was like emotional self-flagellation, but the unknown was worse.
Brock sighed and ran his hand through his hair before directing his gaze back at me. “You want the truth?”
I nodded, even though the sensible Amy shook her head internally.
“Those first few weeks, before I got a taste of you, before I knew what it felt like to be inside you, I tried to fuck you out of my system. Not gonna lie, babe, there were girls. But every time I sunk into some bitch all I could see was red hair and the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.” He stroked my face. “After I got in there—” He slipped his hand to cup me between my legs. I felt myself get turned on, despite the subject matter. “After I felt what it was to be inside you I was fuckin’ ruined, Sparky. All the shit we went through—sometimes I fuckin’ wished I could forget about you, go back to mindless fucking.” His eyes met mine, blazing. “I couldn’t. You had me under your spell, baby. For months I didn’t get to touch you, get to slip into your heat. I thought I’d fuckin’ die from blue balls.” He smirked slightly. My breathing got heavier as his hand worked between my legs. “I tried to forget long enough to fuck some sweet butt. I swear my dick shriveled up the moment I touched them,” he murmured.
My shoulders sagged.
We were silent for a moment. I didn’t miss the fact he didn’t ask about Ian, about if I slept with him. Guilt washed through me.