by Warren, Rie
“Fine.” I took a shot of bourbon too—the good stuff we for sure didn’t serve to the pussy hipster crew.
“You’re gonna pay a high price for her.” Saint ambled up, knocking his rings against the bar. “Slade filled us all in on that whole White Lair horror story.”
“Bloodbath,” Lennox coughed-said-coughed behind his fist.
“None of that was her fault. She wasn’t even in the city at the time. ’Sides, you don’t know the half of what her kin have put her through.” My teeth ground together, and I turned steely eyes on them all.
Revenge yanked out a stool and took a seat. “Shit. Not as high a price as I paid for bedding that Demi chick the other night. Coulda warned me or something.”
“What was the other one’s name? Hemi?” Sailing a beer to Revenge, Saint stirred up the usual shit. “Two for one?”
Snickering, I sank my bourbon, motioning for another.
“Shit. I’d rather have a Hemi. Gimme a big block engine and squealing tires any day over a screeching woman,” Revenge grumbled.
“Mess with Demi, and you’re bound to get a whole lotta mess.”
“Maybe even an STD.”
Revenge spread his thighs and scratched at his balls worriedly. “Pic kee toi. All y’all.”
Chase entered the bar, rolling the mop/slop bucket on wheels, hands clad in pink rubber gloves.
“See now, Revenge?” I tipped my glass in Chase’s direction. “The prospect’s got the right idea. Glove up before you love up.”
“Don’t wanna damage those delicate hands, right?” Saint made a limp-wristed gesture at our probie.
Slade, who could kill with just one look, merely smirked at the powder pink rubber gloves encasing Chase’s hands up to the elbow.
The prospect flipped his middle finger all across his higher-ranking officers, including me. “Maybe wanna hit the john when you piss next time?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Revenge asked.
Chase looked like he was about ready to throw the dirty mop at us when Mercy quietly entered the room.
My breath held.
Everyone went still.
The mop freaking dripped into the bucket with a plip plop.
Mercy stood uncertainly just inside the door, hair brushed to a pretty sheen. Her tatty T-shirt and baggy jeans replaced by a peasant skirt with some kind of dainty flower embroidered in a chain along the ruffle that flounced to mid thigh. She paired the skirt with a silky black racerback tank top I’d purchased because I selfishly wanted to see more of those shooting star tats.
I was sure I wasn’t the only one to notice her breasts bounced free of restraint.
My gaze cruised to her feet. And my lips quirked. She wore the new tan boots, which were kickass. A completely unusual complement to her outfit, and completely Mercy all at the same time.
Chase quickly snapped off the gloves and shoved them out of sight.
Saint quickly snapped his mouth closed—after slobbering like a fucking dawg.
Slade snapped to attention, but probably for different reasons. Who knew what went through his suspicious mind.
And me? Well, my whole mouth went dry, and my entire body upright. Including—yup—a hard-on.
Should’ve bought her a potato sack to wear.
Should’ve kept her locked in my room.
Christ, what was I thinking?
I wasn’t a Neanderthal. I wasn’t ever so goddamn possessive. And I was nothing whatso-fucking-ever like her asshole kinfolk.
But I damn well didn’t appreciate the dudes licking their chops over her.
“Ah’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt y’all.” Her eyes found mine, a tremulous smile curling across her lips.
I noted the knife strapped to her waist.
Hot.
Slade’s eyes darted to the weapon too. “You know how to use that thing?”
Mercy swish-swayed up to Killian.
“Ah know how to kill and gut a buck. That’s a male deer for you city folk.” She stood up to Killian who loomed over her smaller stature.
Unsheathing the blade with a slither of metal on leather, she tossed the knife up in the air. It sailed end over end in a straight up and down loop-de-loop until the grip landed unerringly in her palm.
“So Ah’m pret’ sure I know where all the good bits are on a real male, and what to do to them.”
Shit. That gorgeous Tennessee lilt sent shivers all the way to my balls and back.
Slade’s eyebrows arched high.
Mercy slammed the tip down on the bar very, very close to his fingers.
Showing zero reaction, Slade pulled out his serrated KA-BAR. “This is Veronica.”
“Cute. You named your blade.” Mercy smirked.
The entire crew busted up at her veiled insult, her subtle tongue-lashing as cutting as any knife could be.
“Nice one.” Lennox almost shot her across the room with his friendly fist bump.
With an affectionate wink, he hauled her back before she toppled straight over.
Mizz Mercy possessed way more fire than I’d given her credit for.
“Why don’t we play darts?” Slade challenged. “With our knives?”
And we all held our breaths.
Throwing knives. Krav Maga. Slitting throats. Killian Slade hadn’t earned the name Killer for nothing.
“On the dartboard?” Mercy pulled her blade free and polished it against her skirt. “That’ll ruin it.”
I stepped between the two of them. “Slade, I don’t think—”
“Bring it.” Mercy hipped me aside to accept Slade’s dare.
The rest of the men drew up to watch the show while Mercy and Slade made their way toward the dartboard.
“One throw each,” Slade murmured.
“I don’t even get to warm up?” My girl gave him a glance that held a hint of . . . amusement?
“Thought that was what you just did with your party trick.” Slade’s mouth tipped into the barest semblance of a smile.
“Whatever happened to chivalry, Slade?” Saint called out.
“I think the little lady can probably take care of herself.”
I really hoped she wiped the floor with him.
“You wanna go first?” Slade invited.
“I think I’d like to study your form instead.”
Only man’s form Mercy needed to study was mine. Needles of jealousy prickled at the back of my neck.
“Suit yourself.” With a loose shrug, Slade squared off with the board.
Asshole could hit the bull’s-eye blindfolded. Maybe he’d slip and stab himself instead.
He took aim, grinned at Mercy, and kept right on smirking at her when he flung the blade.
Show-off.
The KA-BAR whizzed through the air, a flash of metal that hit the center of the board with a slick thunk. The hilt quivered, the tip buried deep in the felt.
Boing.
“I guess I have my work cut out for me.” Mercy chewed her bottom lip, frowning. “Ah’m not sure I can top that.”
Slade made a chivalrous bowing gesture, stepping aside. “Give it your best shot.”
“Give him hell, Mercy!” Saint hollered, her unlikely cheerleader.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She raised her knife and squinted at the dartboard. Looking back at me, she gave a quick wink.
I stood up straighter and leaned closer.
In the next instant, she threw the knife. Her blade flew fast, a graceful arc through the air. The sharp shiny tip scored along Slade’s hilt then plunged into the board. Her knife landed right next to his, the blades kissing all along the length.
Any goddamn closer and she’d have sliced his KA-BAR in half.
Schwing.
And holy shit. The woman could throw.
“Fuck. We should’ve placed bets,” Revenge bleated.
The dudes whistled and stomped their feet while I gathered Mercy in my arms to swing her around.
After ret
rieving the knives, Slade ambled over.
“You hurt Veronica,” he grumbled before handing her blade back. “Damn impressive.”
“No hard feelings?” She slipped the knife into the sheath on her hip.
“Fuck no. You’re my new partner for darts.”
No she isn’t.
I didn’t say that out loud though.
“Hey.” Slade tapped her gently on the shoulder. “Maybe next time we can play pin the man bun on the hipster . . . with our blades.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Okay, enough with the buddy-buddy and bonding already.
Damn, this jealousy thing really sucked. No wonder I’d never fallen in love before.
Didn’t want to process that thought, so instead I scowled at the guys who’d come up to congratulate Mercy. “Don’t y’all have a tattoo parlor to run and a bar to stock?”
“And don’t you have bills to pay and books to go over, M’sieur L’Esperance?” Revenge pointed a finger at me.
“I’ll get my accountant to do it.” Not.
Like we had an accountant. Business plans were scribbled on Thunder Road napkins. Hell, it was a miracle we even had napkins. I really needed to thank the hipsters for keeping us flush with business.
“Get to work!” I boomed out when the dudes showed no signs of getting a fucking move on.
“Slave driver,” Saint groused.
Then he looked Mercy up and down, buffing his chunky rings on his leather cut. “You got any more space on that canvas, I’d be happy to fix you up with some more ink.”
That time I couldn’t stop the growl rumbling up from my chest in a threatening tone.
“Easy, hoss. Friendly offer. Fuck.” Giving me a two-finger salute, Saint winked at Mercy. “See ya, girl.”
He left, hopefully to make some bucks at Tit for Tat next door, and most of the other roughnecks took their leave too.
“Later, Mercy.”
“Take it easy, Mercy.”
She waved, a beguiling blush on her cheeks. Damn, she was gorgeous. Not even the bruise on her face could hide the light shining inside and just waiting to get out.
“Are they always this nice?” she asked.
“Hell no. They’re complete assholes.” I glowered as the bar emptied out of nearly everyone but the two of us.
Yeah. Complete assholes pulling guard duty all hours of the night and day in order to make sure she stayed safe.
We’d set up a perimeter of sorts—an invisible blockade, Slade said—around the neighborhood. So we’d have a little notice if—when—the Aryan bastards decided to pay another visit.
Had to protect Mercy.
Had to safeguard the bar and the tat parlor.
Had to make sure no innocent civilians got caught in any crossfire since we were do-gooder neighbors now and all that. Never mind the exploded truck last night, which Slade had towed off to some scrapyard or junkyard or chop shop before dawn.
There was no way in hell I was gonna let Mercy go back to that den of Nazis. Despite her show of bravado with the darts duel, she was still a fragile bird. A fragile bird with a broken wing still trying to take flight. And her family was the enemy.
Chase and Slade were manning the bar when I opened the doors to customers, Mercy sitting on a stool with a bottle of beer.
And in sashayed Demi.
She didn’t look one hundred percent happy to see me, and even less than impressed when she locked eyes on Mercy sitting pretty and sipping her brew.
Oh shit.
I had a feeling this wasn’t gonna end well.
Six
Mercy
“I THINK THAT’S MY spot.” A feminine voice reverberating with a low growl came from right next to me.
I glanced at Chase—the youngest of the MC men—to gage his reaction first. His jaw set hard, and he furiously rubbed at a nonexistent spot on the bar right in front of me.
So he wasn’t exactly a fan of the woman, at least not at the moment. I turned to the black-haired girl and immediately recognized her. She’d been crawling all over Angel the first night I’d been to the bar.
Ahhh, she thought she had a claim on Angel.
She probably wasn’t the only one either.
“Funny. I didn’t see a reserved sign.” I took a slow sip of beer, shifting on the stool to get more comfortable.
“Yeah? Well, I’m the first fucking lady of the Blood Legion MC as far as you’re concerned.”
Slade shoved Chase aside and crossed his arms on the bar in front of us. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you, Demi.”
“Why?” The woman with heavily outlined eyes batted her lashes at him. “Because she’s Angel’s road hummer for the day?”
“No.” He glanced pointedly at the knife on my hip. “’Cause she’s got a mean throwing arm, and her blade’s way longer than your nails.”
Demi’s glossy lips pruned
I patted Slade’s forearm. “That’s sweet, Slade. But I can take care of myself.”
While Demi seethed, I glimpsed a tall blond steadily approaching.
Angel.
Coming to save the day again.
Slade cut him off at the pass, and I heard him mutter, “I wouldn’t go there if I were you. She just told me off.”
“Who? Demi?”
“No. Your lady of Mercy.”
I felt the intensity of Angel’s gaze on me, but he remained at the other side of Demi instead of intervening.
“Should we try to play nice, or do you want me to demonstrate my knife skills?” I faced Demi fully, giving her the option of backing down or taking this jealous fit farther.
I recognized a territorial woman when I saw one.
I didn’t expect her to give up what she thought was her rightful place as number one without a catfight.
But she scanned me from boots to the new bruise on my face, sneer slowly shifting to something less bitchy.
“Angel didn’t do that to you.” Her hand lifted toward my swollen cheek.
“No. ’Course not.” I looked at Angel, silently beseeching him to give us more space.
Thankfully, Angel, Slade, and Chase found something super important that needed their attention at the far end of the bar as the room filled and noise filtered around us.
But then another woman rolled up, bleach blonde hair teased into a nest on her head. “Need help getting rid of this trash, Demi?”
“Back off, Lulu.” Demi sliced a glare at the bottled blonde. “Mercy and I are just having a drink and a chat. Nothin’ to look at here.”
As if on cue, Chase slid two more bottles of beer down the bar.
Demi caught both and passed one to me.
She took a drink, studying me the entire time. “I heard Angel’s taking you on a date.”
“I don’t know if it’s a date.”
“Figures. He’s been mostly alone as long as I’ve known him. I mean, aside from the one-night thing. Definitely no dates.” She shook her head. “Mercy and Angel. Makes sense though.”
“You never—”
“Slept with him? I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
Relief made me feel warm all over.
“I can cover up that bruise for you if you’d like.” Demi again raised her hand to touch my cheek, never quite closing the distance.
“I’m not one for a lot of makeup.” I glanced at her long purple-black nails without meaning to.
“I wouldn’t be either if I looked like you.” Vulnerability lurked beneath her hard surface. “Well, come on.”
Taking me by the hand, she guided me into the back hallway and hipped her way into the ladies room. She locked the door behind us, and I marveled once again at how clean the men kept the place.
Demi seemed to sense my wonder. “I know, right? It’s because Angel makes the prospect work like a dog so he can earn his MC patch. The hierarchy and all that. But I guess you’ll know a lot more about that than me soon enough seeing as you’re Angel’s woman now and he’s th
e prez.”
“I’m not his woman.” I watched as she emptied oodles of makeup from her purse onto the shiny surface of the counter.
“We’ll see.” Shrugging, she pushed me to a toilet seat with the lid down. “Head up and lean back a little. And relax. I’m not gonna make you look like a hooker, hon.”
“I guess I’ll take your word for it.”
“Hey, you’re in good hands. I’m a certified beautician and everything.”
The sisterly tone of her voice made me smile, and I put myself at her mercy.
Demi gently dotted concealer on my face, blending it in. “Trouble at home?”
“Something like that.”
“I won’t pry.” Her fingers skimmed like whispers against my skin, and I smelled the mint on her breath from the gum she popped and snapped.
“It’s not anyplace I’d really like to call home,” I confessed.
“I get that.” Tilting my face, she asked, “Gonna put a little bit of blush on, okay?”
Just then, the doorknob rattled. Seconds later, someone shouted from out in the hallway.
Demi ducked her head out of the stall. “Fuck off! I’m giving head in here. Wait your goddamn turn!”
I pursed my lips together as laughter bubbled inside.
“Impatient bitches.” Demi rolled her eyes.
After a few more dabs to my cheeks and a fingertip with gloss rolled over my lips, she squinted at her handiwork. “All right, Cinderella. Good to go.”
She pushed me from the bathroom after letting me glance in the mirror. “Knock him dead, hon.”
In the bar, Angel spotted me immediately. His lupine blue eyes widened, boring into me with an eagerness that left me breathless.
Demi hadn’t transformed me—I’d never be a Cinderella—but she’d concealed the worst of the bruising. She’d done something to make my cheekbones look highlighted.
I looked different. I felt prettier. Stronger.
Some of the strength was due to Angel.
Some to Demi.
Some to the MC men.
And from taking on Slade and proving I could play hard with the best of them.
Life could be different.
My life could be better.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
“All set?” Angel swaggered up, topping me by a good twelve inches.