by Hilliard, RB
“Mom wouldn’t let me ask the club for help, made me swear that I wouldn’t. I had two jobs left with that douchebag, and then I would be home free.” Buck had no way of knowing that one of them was going to forever change how he saw himself, not to mention the way he lived his life. Moving back to the topic of Reyn, he said, “She didn’t leave her apartment for weeks after that.”
“Where was I when all of this was happening?” Ax asked, betrayal written all over his face.
“Gone from here, which is where you needed to be.” Realizing how harsh that sounded, Buck scrubbed his hands through his hair and let out a long breath. “The guy was fucking crazy. No one could have predicted that he would take it that far. And even if they had, they couldn’t have stopped him.”
“The club sure as hell could have,” Jake commented.
Buck shook his head. “You didn’t know Dooley. The guy was as powerful as he was crazy and unpredictable.”
Jake huffed. “And you’re saying we’re not powerful?”
“Let me put it to you this way, there’s conscious thought behind what we do. We gather the necessary information and then weigh it, vote on it, and make an informed decision. If Dooley Shane decided he wanted something, he took it. If he decided he didn’t like you, then you were dead. He kidnapped a woman. Why? Simply because she intrigued him.” Ignoring Jake’s look of doubt, Buck said, “You should have seen Reyn before Zeke got ahold of her. She smiled all the time. No joke, the girl was so damn sweet you could practically taste it.” His gaze shifted to the weapon-filled duffel. “This must be her way of taking back some of what she lost.”
“Does that mean you’re claiming her?” Jake asked. The energy in the room stilled.
“Now’s not the time,” Steele growled.
Pretending innocence, Jake said, “I simply want to know her importance to him, in order to weigh how we proceed from here.” The fuck he was. He was trying to force Buck’s hand.
Buck gave him a hard look. “She’s too good for this life.”
“So, you’re not claiming her?” he questioned. Buck wanted to knock the evil glint off the fucker’s face.
“The club can claim her,” Rider spoke up. Buck knew that would never stand. If he didn’t stake claim right here and now, the club would be forced to let her go, and she’d be dead within the week. It was the way things were done. If Steele offered her protection without a claim, it wouldn’t be for long. Buck knew what he had to do, and he hated Jake for making him do it.
“The club can offer temporary—” Steele started to say.
Buck cut him off. “I’ll take responsibility.” Ax swore. Jake, the fucker sat there smiling, as if he’d pulled one over on Buck by forcing him to do something he didn’t want to do. If anything, he’d given Buck a reason to do what he should have done years ago. Buck wanted Reyn more than he wanted his next breath. It was Reyn he was worried about.
“Now that that’s decided, what’re we gonna do about those?” Loco asked, nodding toward the duffel.
In a dismissive tone, Steele said, “We’ll decide that later. For now, we need to figure out how, if at all, this is related to what’s been going down at the club.”
“Did Carver find anything?” Buck asked.
“No,” Loco answered for him. “After acting like a self-important dick cheese, he came up with nothing other than the dead guy. He wants to question Reyn, though.”
“Someone could have followed you to her house. When’s the last time you were there?” Ax asked Buck.
“I went by last month to switch the camera angle, but it was in the middle of the night and I was careful.”
Nodding, Steele said, “We need to figure out if the two are related. Buck, I need you to rack your brain. Ax and Rider, I need you two to talk to Aimee tomorrow and see if you can shake anything loose about the guys who jumped her.”
Ax held his hand up and Steele paused. “I remember something. When I was talking with Reyn earlier, she mentioned the guys who were in her house. She called one of them Ponytail and said something about them taking orders from someone named Rye.”
Steele stared at him for a long moment. “And you didn’t think to tell us this earlier?”
“She just said it like forty-five minutes ago. I haven’t had a chance yet,” Ax muttered.
Glancing over at Buck, Steele said, “We need to talk to her before Carver does.”
“When?” Buck asked.
Glancing down at his watch, he replied, “It’s four now. Carver said he’d call around nine. Let’s all get a few hours’ sleep and meet back here around seven thirty.
Buck dragged his exhausted ass up to his bedroom. After thanking Tiny, he opened the door, only to discover a wide-awake and fuming-mad Reyn. She held up her hand and it took him a moment to connect that she was holding his phone. As a precautionary tactic, he’d taken hers and given it to Ax. He could have sworn he put his in his dresser drawer when he came in earlier to check on her.
“Either you let me go right now, Clay Buckson, or I’m calling the police.” From the pissed-off look on her face, not to mention the use of his whole name—something he had no idea she even knew—Buck could tell she meant business. He had to admit, he kind of liked this side of her.
Chapter Seven
REYN WOKE TO find herself alone in Buck’s room. She didn’t know what to think. Angry with herself for letting her guard down, not to mention embarrassed at having fallen asleep on the guy, she took in her surroundings. His room wasn’t much more than a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and the chair that she was sitting on. She noted that there were no embellishments, but at least it was clean. Tom’s place was always messy. Her eyes welled at the thought of Tom. She still couldn’t believe he was gone. She may not have wanted to spend forever with him, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care about him. Now he was gone, and the finality of it was heartbreaking. She wanted to call Camille, or even her mom, but seeing as Buck had her things, she couldn’t. And even if she could, what would she say? How would she explain what happened to Tom? Or that she was being held captive by a motorcycle club?
“Get a grip,” she whispered. Her sore muscles protested as she pushed up from the chair and onto her feet. She scanned the room and gasped when she spied her bag on the floor. Hoping to find her phone inside, she dropped to her knees and began to search. Darn it, no phone. Grabbing her toiletries, she went in search of a bathroom. Like the bedroom, Buck’s bathroom wasn’t big, but it was clean. A clean freak with no personality didn’t exactly fit the Buck she thought she knew, but then again, she truly didn’t know him at all.
After a quick shower, she dressed in a t-shirt and comfy leggings. By this point she was starting to get angry. Where was he? Even more so, why was she waiting on him? Because Ax, the ass told her not to wander around? If they didn’t want her wandering around the place, then they shouldn’t have left her alone. Decision made, she grabbed her bag, flung open the door, and locked gazes with what had to be one of the biggest men she’d ever seen. The giant from the Harry Potter movies immediately came to mind. Hagrid was his name. Add a beard, leather vest, and dangling pocket-chain thingy, and this could be Hagrid’s twin.
“Buck wants you to stay put,” he said, his voice all deep and growly. She thought about telling him that for all she cared Buck could take a giant leap from a tall building, but as he was such a colossal guy, she thought better of it. She did slam the door in his face, though.
As she paced back and forth across the carpet, she considered her options. It was hard to believe that just yesterday morning she was sitting at her desk enjoying her morning latte without a worry in the world except for which bands to pick for the next show. Now she was trapped inside a decorator’s nightmare with the Jolly Green Giant as her guard dog. Think Reyn. Scanning the room, her eyes stopped on the window and froze. In a burst of excitement, she raced over and attempted to open it. It wouldn’t budge. Not even a little. A growl of frustration burst from her lips as she
scanned the room for something to break it with. Other than a nightstand there wasn’t a lamp or anything portable that she could use. Racing back across the room, Reyn jerked open Buck’s top dresser drawer and gasped when she spotted his phone. It was in her hands for a total of three seconds when he walked in. Freaked that he’d busted her, Reyn did the only thing she could think to do; she threatened to call the police.
“Go ahead,” Buck told her. His flippant response surprised her, and then it made her mad. Challenge accepted, she thought as she clicked the center button and prepared to dial. A picture of a motorcycle appeared on the screen, along with a passcode prompt, and the anger she’d been keeping such a tight hold on started to slip.
“I need your passcode,” she bit out through clenched teeth.
Buck yawned. “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. Reyn watched as he pivoted toward the bed and stripped off his shirt. Sculpted muscles. Colorful tattoos. Seriously hot guy. If he was trying to distract her, he was doing a good job of it.
Peeling her gaze from his Adonis of an upper body, she repeated, “Passcode.”
“Not gonna happen,” he tossed over his shoulder in that same, irritatingly flippant tone. She wanted to slap him. She also couldn’t take her eyes off of him, which only added fuel to her building rage. She didn’t want to be attracted to him. She simply wanted to leave.
Hands curled into fists, she gritted out, “Yes, it is.”
Buck turned to face her, his lips tilting into a smile—a smile that made her lower extremities tingle. Slowly, making sure to annunciate each word, he replied, “No. It’s. Not.” Tingles turned to tears at the thought that he was mocking her. His smile widened, as if he knew he’d won, and he held out his hand, wiggling his fingers in a “Give me” motion. This was too much, and she completely snapped. He wants his phone! She’d give him his damn phone. An enraged scream shot from her lips as she reared her arm back and chucked it at him. Thankfully he ducked or it would have smacked him in the face.
Shocked by what she’d done, she gasped, “God, Buck, I’m sorry!” To stop herself from saying, or doing, anything else, she slapped her hands over her mouth. What did he do? He laughed. Not lightly either. Mortified by her behavior, she stood there staring at him with her hands over her mouth, while trying to think of something to say that would excuse her violent actions. It wasn’t until he mentioned her needing anger management classes that she saw the humor in it. She had to admit it felt good to laugh. It was either that or cry, and she’d already done that too many times to count.
The laughter died in Reyn’s throat when Buck began to unzip his jeans. Surely, he wasn’t, but then off went his pants. There was nothing funny about a boxer-briefed Clay Buckson. Blinded by his glory, Reyn tried to recall what he looked like five years ago. All she could remember was that his hair was longer and that he didn’t have a beard or as many tattoos. He seemed . . . less. Now, with shorter hair, a full beard, a gazillion tattoos, and that . . . body, he was so much more. So, so much more.
Acting as if she wasn’t standing right there, Buck dug a hand inside his briefs and not-so-gingerly adjusted himself, before dropping like a sack of potatoes onto the bed. And just like that, reality kicked back in. Clearing her throat—as well as the vision of him with his hand down his briefs from her brain—she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Sleep,” he muttered from somewhere beneath the pillows. Reyn didn’t want to sleep. Her headache was back with a vengeance and she simply wanted to leave.
“Buck,” she called out.
“Sleep,” he repeated more forcefully.
“I can’t sleep with my head hurting,” she snapped, then followed it with a softer, “Please, just let me go.”
Levering up to one elbow, he hit her with a concerned look. “Did you take the pills Doc gave you? They should have helped with the pain.” She thought about lying, but what would be the point?
“No, they’re in my pocket.” Guilt blossomed at his look of exasperation.
“They’re in your pocket,” he repeated, as if trying to understand how she could do such a thing.
Suddenly overcome by the need to explain, she said, “I don’t know Doc. I don’t know any of you, or even what this place is. I feel as if I’ve entered an alternate universe. I mean, seriously, one minute I’m falling down a ravine and the next I’m being locked inside this room.”
Frowning, Buck said, “That was for your safety.” There was that word again.
“That’s just it! You all keep telling me I’m safe, but then you treat me like a prisoner.”
“You know me,” Buck growled. “I would cut off my arm before I’d let anything happen to you.”
Ignoring the butterflies that were now flitting in her stomach, she asked, “So what? You’re just going to keep me here?”
“What if I say yes? What if I want to keep you?” The deadly edge to his voice made her pause. Was he serious?
Reyn scrambled for something to say, but all she could come up with was, “I’m sure that would thrill your girlfriend to no end.” At the confused look on his face, she added, “Earlier—the girl in your bed—please tell me you haven’t already forgotten?”
Amusement lit up his face. “Tara’s a club girl, babe, not my girlfriend.” He acted as if that made all the sense in the world when it made no sense at all. None of it did. As she waited for him to explain, visions of strippers, or even worse, prostitutes, gyrated through her head. Was that what this place was? A modern-day brothel under the guise of a motorcycle club? She suddenly felt sick.
“Define club girl.”
“If I do, will you agree to take the pills Doc gave you and let me sleep?” he asked.
She thought about it for a moment, before asking, “Do you swear they’re safe?”
“On my life.” He then followed it with, “Or I can give you ibuprofen. I’m pretty sure I have some in the bathroom. It won’t be as good as what Doc gave you, but at least it’ll take the edge off.”
“After that will you let me go?”
“First Steele wants a word—”
“Of course, he does,” she muttered. He held up his hand and she gave him an eye roll, which made him smile. This caused the butterflies to take flight. He was way too hot for his own good.
“After that, the police want to question you.” Even though she knew it was coming, she still dreaded it.
“And then can I go?” she asked.
“Then we’ll see.”
She huffed. “You know this is crazy, right?”
Buck smiled. “Welcome to my world, Little Ninja.” That was the second time he’d called her that. It wasn’t exactly endearing, but somehow, he made it seem so. He nodded to the bottle of water on his dresser. “Now, be a good girl and take your pills.” Grabbing the bottle, Reyn dug the pills out of her pocket and popped them into her mouth, before chasing them with a deep draw of water. She could feel Buck watching her. Yawning, she crawled into the chair, and gave him an expectant look.
_______________
Jesus, even bruised and defiant, she was gorgeous. The look on her face when she realized the phone needed a password was priceless. The best part was that she didn’t need a password to call 9-1-1. Buck’s cock twitched beneath the sheets. The fucker was so hard he could pound nails with it. The last thing he wanted was to answer her question, but he’d promised.
“Club girls hang around the club,” he told her, hoping that would be the end of it. He knew better.
“Please,” she uttered, sarcasm heavy in her tone. Buck smiled. He found himself doing that a lot around her.
“You’re a smart girl. Do I actually have to spell it out?”
“No, but tell me one thing, are they strippers or prostitutes?” Shocked speechless, he just stared at her. He considered fucking with her, telling her they were both, but he knew how mean the girls could be. If they found out, he would never hear the end of it, and Reyn would be ostracized.
Needing for her
to understand that she couldn’t go around spouting this shit, he said, “Wow, talk about judgmental. You’re not a virgin. Does that make you a stripper or a prostitute?”
She sputtered, clearly surprised at being called on the carpet, before answering, “I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t mean—You called them club girls, I just assumed they—”
“Were strippers or prostitutes, yeah, I know,” he dryly replied.
Eyes dropping to her lap, she gave him a light, “I’m sorry.”
“Look at me.” Her eyes met his and the tortured look in them made him feel bad.
“Two types of women exist in this world: ol’ ladies and club girls. Now this is important, so listen up.” She nodded that she was with him, and he continued. “Ol’ ladies are claimed women. This gives them status. They’re to be respected at all times. You’ll see them with their men, at most club functions, and on the backs of bikes. Club girls are girls that like to have a good time. They don’t belong to anyone. They’re always up for a party and they generally don’t care whose bed they warm afterwards.” Reyn stared at him, her eyes three times wider than normal, and he couldn’t tell if it was from shock or something else. He was pretty sure it was the former. “Do you have any questions?” She shook her head. “Can we sleep now?” She nodded. “Great,” he sighed as he flopped onto the pillows and closed his eyes.
Buck was almost asleep when he heard Reyn moving around in the chair. He rolled over to check on her and found that she was sound asleep, her neck cocked at an uncomfortable-looking angle. Pushing to his feet, he walked to the chair and lifted her into his arms. She didn’t so much as twitch when he placed her onto his bed and crawled in beside her. It was then that he finally found sleep.
Chapter Eight
DRIFTING ON THE verge of awake, Reyn snuggled deeper into the pillows. The warmth at her back felt good. She didn’t want to rouse because then she would have to acknowledge that she was in Buck’s bed. Not only that, but she would have to admit that she didn’t exactly mind being there. She still wanted to leave, yet at the same time, she felt safe, which made no sense whatsoever. Her psychiatrist would most likely call it Stockholm syndrome. Not quite ready to explore the dysfunctionality of that, she relaxed into a state of partial wakefulness, letting her mind wander. Buck had been watching her. That he knew exactly when to swoop in and save her last night, bothered her, but what bothered her more was that he viewed her as a damsel in distress. Someone in need of rescuing. She was hardly a damsel. She was, however, beginning to catch on. Clay Buckson was the type of man to take what he wanted without asking. The last man who took what he wanted without asking almost got her killed. Twice now she’d faced death: once from choosing the wrong man and again from choosing the right one. If there was a lesson to be learned, she clearly wasn’t getting it.