We Belong

by Evie Bennet

  Look Inside

  “Fuck,” he hissed, slamming his palm against the building. “God, you’re so fucking good.” He buried me in praises and hair strokes as I pumped along.

  So thick. So hot and solid.

  “Get up, baby.”

  In a strange little shimmy, I let the caked dirt fall off my knees as he hooked his forearms under them and hoisted me against the wall, pinning me with his hips.

  “You good?”

  “Mmhm.”

  My whole body was tingling.

  It’s too much for him. It’s so much fucking weight, responsibility. You shouldn’t—

  But then his length pushed into me and the doubt in my head was obliterated amidst that full, warm feeling. Being spread apart ignited my desire. Knowing that I’d made him so worked up, sweat dripping down his neck, his eyes gone black with need, made me clench around him, ready to take and give whatever he needed. Heavy, thumping heat urged us on.

  “Tell me that you need me,” he grit out.

  “I need you, Reed.” The black bandana jumped on my chest with a harder thrust. “I do.”

  His arms trembled, his knees getting weak as his self control unraveled.

  “Please give it to me, Reedsy. I want your come inside me. I want you,” I insisted, delicately framing his face with my hands, the tenderness urging him into my cunt so powerfully that I felt like I was being destroyed

  and created all at once.

  He slammed into me with the force of a hurricane, his whole body pushing harder into mine. I was so happy and full of him that I wasn’t even sure if I was coming again or just so mind-numbingly full of ecstasy I might as well be.

  “I fucking love you,” he murmured, biting and kissing my shoulder and neck as he came down. The warm wetness soaking between us felt good. A balm. I kissed his face, kissed everything I could reach with that humming still buzzing in my veins until my feet were gently lowered to the ground and he pulled out of me.

  Although it was a little hard to walk when I was still fairly boneless in bliss, I wobbled back into my underwear, uncaring of the mess for the moment.

  We Belong

  Rattler Romance Book One

  Evie Bennet

  Published by Blushing Books

  An Imprint of

  ABCD Graphics and Design, Inc.

  A Virginia Corporation

  977 Seminole Trail #233

  Charlottesville, VA 22901

  ©2020

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The trademark Blushing Books is pending in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  Evie Bennet

  We Belong

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-64563-211-5

  v1

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book contains fantasy themes appropriate for mature readers only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual sexual activity.

  Contents

  1. Thunder

  2. Words

  3. Deny

  4. Or

  5. Embrace

  6. X

  7. Better

  8. Home

  9. Worse

  10. Love

  11. Plan B

  12. Past

  13. Luck

  14. Family

  15. Spotlight

  16. Touch

  17. Tattoo

  Evie Bennet

  Blushing Books

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  1

  Thunder

  The wrench cranked its metallic spiral, joining the crescendo of my favorite song, “We Belong,” by Pat Benatar.

  I tilted my head back, ponytail tickling the arch between my shoulder blades as I belted, “We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder,” into a spark plug like it could amplify my call to the wild in the empty metal shop.

  It was a christening – a serenade and celebration of my new way of living. With my own business in a town where no one knew me, I had agency–an ode to everything that I knew life could be. Overwhelming. Personal, intimate glory.

  The song had me spinning, fixing things and singing, free to drown out anything that wasn’t within this new realm of possibility. The floor might as well have been covered in oil because I was gliding, restoring machines and every confidence I needed.

  A ring of the entrance bell snapped me out of my solo. I turned to the front of the garage where three muscular men in torn-up jeans and scuffed shirts sauntered in, all eyes fixed on my passionate pose: the one on the left looked on in mirth, the one on the right in confusion, and the center man in curiosity.

  After a second, I unfroze, trying not to blatantly stare like they were gawking at me.

  Probably because they thought I was a freak.

  They were all a little roughed up, but my gaze lingered on the one in the middle who had a plaid button-down shirt knotted around his waist. Sweat clung to his collarbones under a white tank top. Thick, wavy black hair was shoved back under a red bandana. I wondered if it was the humidity keeping it hidden away or if it was always that pretty. The other two men were handsome, too, but he was a client.

  My hand shot back down to my side as if I hadn’t been serenading the world with a spark plug. “Hi! How can I help you?”

  “Karaoke night at Sidewinders,” the gentleman with a stud earring suggested. His tall friend with an abundance of neck tattoos laughed. The bandana-wearer gave them both an exhausted glare and slapped their arms with the back of his hand.

  My lip twitched in embarrassment as I hurried towards the stereo to turn down my favorite power ballad.

  What kind of business owner sang into spark plugs? It made me look like I couldn’t control myself. I could. I just couldn’t let myself get carried away again.

  Looking apologetic, the guy with the plaid shirt tied around his waist stepped forward, hips shifting like he was trying to disguise a wince. “Hey. Sorry about them. We banged up our bikes and we were hoping you could take a look at them.”

  It was the first time any motorcycle owners had come into the shop. From what I understood, there was a huge motorcycle club chapter in town. They could have been repeat customers. Or just customers.

  Still, they had just caught me belting out Pat Benatar in the middle of the workday, so I was probably in for an uphill battle to earn their respect–let alone their business. I was nobody in West Ridge. That was part of the appeal to move here in the first place. I did want to be somebody to someone, eventually. I think I was ready to rebuild and reintegrate myself to being productive and helpful.

  Based on their greeting, maybe they weren’t swayed by seriousness or singing. I corrected my posture anyway. There was no harm in being professional.

  “Of course. Do you need help retrieving them or were you able to bring them here?”

  “They’re in the pickup truck out front.”

  “Great. I’ll retract the door and you can back them in here for a closer look. Sound good?”

  “Yeah.” Bandana-boy flashed me a lopsided smile. Nice. Freckles. Or maybe they were beauty marks.

  I focused on the door controls and the muted red of the pickup truck, my fingers trembling with adrenaline. It was almost the same model as my old neighbor Frank Knope’s, just a different color. It was well worn, too. I probably would never see him again, but it reminded me of when I felt safe, for once.

  Of course, the truck was a coincidence. I needed to let go of all aspects of the past to enjoy the present and future ahead of me.

  De
spite the recent accident, the bikes were in good shape. I ran my fingers gently over the bodies, the scratches grooved into their black, shiny sides.

  The bandana-wearer helped me lift them into the station. “They’re what we like to call well-loved.”

  “I love them, too. They’re beautiful.”

  He smiled at me just a little, enough to make heat splash on my chest, but his gaze swooped back to the bike quickly enough that the burn didn’t linger.

  I kind of yearned for that happy ache.

  Trying to focus on the project at hand, I reminded myself that not all relationships led to happiness.

  The bike wasn’t in terrible shape, especially if the spill was nasty enough for him to want to disguise any pain. His elbow was scraped up too, but not as badly as it should’ve been. My gaze swept over him, the scuffed jeans, narrow hips, broad shoulders, lean muscles.

  Desperate for a distraction, I averted my attention from the potential client.

  There were leather jackets in the seat of the truck. They must have taken them off before coming in. Why? Were they Rattlers? I vaguely remembered that name and icon on the patches I’d seen on leather jackets throughout town.

  He cleared his throat, gaze studiously fixed on the motorcycles. “So, what do you think?”

  His apprehension surprised me. Maybe he was worried I wouldn’t serve him because of the gang affiliation.

  I spread my palms on my overalls. “I have to order a few parts, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  “How much?”

  Thankfully, it didn’t require too much mental math before I had the answers for them, per bike and total.

  “I told you that fucker in Knoxville was trying to rip us off,” the one with the neck tattoos glowered and said, elbowing the one with the earring’s arm like the pricing was a call to their honor.

  The bandana-wearer’s eyebrow arched in what I hoped was respect. “Really? That’s it?”

  “Yeah, although you’re making me feel like maybe I should charge more.” I smiled, my gaze drawn to the cut on his lip. “While we’re at it, you look like you could use some patching up yourself.”

  “I’m fine.” His chin ducked down, causing a stray curl to slip from under his bandana. Maybe that was why he wore it, to keep those dark locks out of his eyes when he was driving. A curious itch to play with it took root in my fingers.

  Touching him would likely be playing with fire. As ready as I was to rebuild my life, I couldn’t jump into a fully-fledged crush and burn myself out on it.

  “It’s no trouble,” I offered brightly. “I have a first aid kit in the main office that I use to patch myself up with all the time. Hazard of working with sharp objects.” Wiggling my bandaged, ungloved hands at him seemed to lighten the fog of unease in the air.

  “Okay. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  A surge of giddiness bubbled up in my chest. I tried to hold my breath to suppress it, spinning to face his companions. “Do any of you need anything? Water? Bandages?”

  “No, we’re fine. Go on and help the judge.”

  “Judge?” I quirked an eyebrow, enjoying the way the man next to me seemed to slouch even more as he spared a withering look at his friends.

  “It’s a nickname. My actual… well, my normal nickname is Reed.”

  “Reed,” I repeated, feeling the unique name wrap around my tongue and tie itself like a pretty little ribbon.

  “Yeah.” This time his wince seemed to be from emotional embarrassment. “Like read a book, but spelled wrong, because… irony.”

  His sense of humor made everything seem lighter, even the mental images flitting through my brain. “In ancient times, they used to sharpen reeds to write books. The reed plant, I mean.”

  He smirked, massaging his wrist. “What a coincidence.”

  “I’m Betty.”

  “Betty. Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand, which although bandaged, was at least clean. He considered it for a moment before clasping it firmly. His fingers grazed the inside of my wrist as we parted, and it nearly took my breath away.

  “Thanks for helping us with our bikes.”

  “My pleasure.”

  There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, like maybe I was different. Maybe I could understand. Thrumming with excitement, I directed him to a chair in the private office and unpacked the alcohol, cotton and bandages.

  The scrape on his elbow was easy enough to patch, but the one on his lip… that one looked like such a pretty, dark brushstroke. I wanted to touch it with my fingers. Maybe…

  Stop, I begged myself, but the pad of my finger dabbed the plush rawness of his lip, and it was like all the air was pushed out of my lungs. A full-on body slam of sensation.

  His head rocked back, eyes flickering curiously at my fingers. Probably wondering if I was clean.

  “Sorry. Just wanted to see how deep it was. This is going to sting.”

  I cupped his jaw gently, pressing the alcohol-soaked cotton to his lip.

  That’s it, baby. I’ve got you, my chest hummed as he hissed, eyes watering.

  “Shit.” His tongue darted over the spot I just sanitized, no doubt tasting salty, sterile flesh. “You weren’t kidding when you said it stings.”

  “I don’t kid about pain.” I was pretty sure I was smiling. I must have been. It was light. Easy. I pushed the cotton swab further into my palm, then into my pocket.

  By the time the men left, I had two phone numbers and a general address on the south side of West Ridge. Chewy, the guy with the neck tattoos, and Reed said goodbye to their bikes while Milo, the one with the earring and pickup truck, reminded me about karaoke night. I got the parts ordered and tried to steady my excitement when they paid in cash.

  “See you soon,” I said brightly.

  “I hope so.” Reed smiled, glancing back at his bike, but he looked at me too.

  It could mean something.

  I beamed at his motorcycle, securing the scratched side mirror.

  He didn’t leave the things he loved behind, especially not just because they were a little broken down and he couldn’t use them at the moment.

  My fingers slid across the cotton ball in my pocket for reassurance.

  Sidewinders were actually a type of rattlesnake, I found out after a quick internet search, which made it a very appropriate name for their particular club’s base and bar. Not entirely sure if I wanted Reed and company to see me yet, I dressed incognito and scoped the place out to get used to the patterns and patrons.

  Despite the motorcycles outside and the casual atmosphere, I felt anxious going in.

  It was probably a bad idea to go into a motorcycle club bar on my own, but I certainly couldn’t make friends if I didn’t put myself out there. Of course, I didn’t want to be too out there.

  I scanned the first floor, quickly spotting a staircase to a small balcony space that had a few more pool tables as well as some high-top tables and chairs. It was someplace quiet and out of the way which was exactly where I needed to be to get my fix.

  Before West Ridge, I hadn’t really had the opportunity to strike out on my own. Any attempts I made to bring people into my life were met with challenge, scrutiny, and in some cases, destruction. Getting to know people from a distance seemed easier. Safer, definitely. No one would purge my phone, burn my diaries, drown my photos, or threaten anyone if they didn’t suspect anything on my end or theirs. I just wanted to treasure any little piece of intimacy from the people who mattered to me. Once, I’d tried to keep a guitar pick from the boy next door only to have the hard plastic carved into my forearm for ‘betraying’ the only intimacy I was supposed to need.

  Soft things were better to keep. Photos, too. Those usually couldn’t hurt me as tangibly if anyone discovered them. Not that anyone who used to hurt me would know where to find me. Of course, there was always the risk that the memory that meant so much to me might be nothing to the person I shared it with. Maybe my fantasies were unsettling. It wasn
’t like I had a lot of them. Just the guitar pick, the cotton ball. Zack and Reed–and I didn’t have Reed yet, I was just curious and affectionate. We had a moment.

  The boy next door didn’t love me, but I had to hold onto the hope that I’d find a healthy, loving relationship one day. Frank Knope taught me that I didn’t need to look through a window to pine for love that could be. I had to walk out the door until I found and forged a loving reality–and that had to start with me. Moving to West Ridge and running the garage was a big change in a loving reality.

  Yet, I couldn’t help hiding.

  Scratching absently at my forearm, I tugged my olive-green trucker hat further down and wished I could get away with wearing sunglasses indoors for an added layer of protection. My makeup tonight was different than what I’d normally do in the hopes I wouldn’t stand out too much from any other patron.

  Of course, some guys noticed me and offered me a drink. I declined as politely as I could, although playing pool and participating in light chatter seemed like a harmless enough cover while I craned my neck over the balcony to see if the trio from the garage had come in yet. When I spotted them, I abandoned my game with a quick apology and parked on a stool nearby. Some drunken man with a prickly-looking beard kept winking at me and calling me a good luck charm. If only good luck was as easy as being in someone’s orbit.

  The guys didn’t look up, which made watching them easier and more relaxing. Although I couldn’t just stare at them – at him – indiscriminately the whole night, I did manage to pick up enough to sate my need to know him better.