Mountain Misfits MC: Complete Box Set

by Deja Voss

  It doesn’t make a difference either way. I know better than to throw away everything I’ve worked so hard for just to be known as another dirty birdie, another hang-around slut, revered but disposable as soon as someone younger and prettier comes around. I purposely don’t let myself get tangled up with these men, as difficult as it is sometimes to resist. I am still allowed to fantasize, though. I bet his thighs are thick and strong. In another life, I’d let him wrap them around my neck in a heartbeat.

  “Are you going to get me another beer or what?” Buzzy whines. He’s a skinny guy with beady eyes and a bad attitude. He’s not affiliated with the club at all, but he sure does like to act like he has some clout around here. I hate to break it to him that the thirty-five dollars a week he spends here doesn’t even cover the water bill. If anything, he’s just a royal pain in my ass.

  “You know I can’t do that, Buzz,” I say as calmly as possible. I don’t know why he continues to ask the same questions every night. Maybe he thinks one day I’ll lose my mind and accidentally say yes. “We open at ten in the morning. You’re more than welcome to come back then.”

  “Whatever,” he mutters. “You bartenders think you’re so powerful just because you control the beer. If I worked back there, it’d be a completely different story.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for a job, I need someone to come in and clean the bathrooms every morning. It’s kinda shitty, but maybe if you do a good job you can work your way up, and someday you can be all powerful like me.”

  “In your fucking dreams, lady.”

  Tank steps behind the bar and grabs Buzzy’s bottle, tossing it in the recycling bin.

  “Time to go, chief,” he says.

  “If I worked here I wouldn’t need my boyfriend to do my dirty work for me,” he grumbles.

  “Please don’t make me tell you again,” Tank says, and lets out a long sigh. He’s trying not to laugh. I can tell by the way he’s staring at the floor and smirking.

  “Here’s your tip,” he says, tossing a handful of change on the bar.

  “I’ll try not to spend it all in one place, Buzz. You’re the best.”

  “You know, maybe if your boss actually paid you a decent wage you wouldn’t have to walk around with your tits out, begging for money off the paying customers.”

  “Well, that’s definitely grounds for me to throw you through the window, Buzzy,” Tank chuckles. “Or would you prefer I try and chuck you through the stainless steel door? Your choice.”

  “I’m leaving,” he says, stumbling a little bit as he steps down from the stool.

  “Are you sure? It would be my pleasure.”

  Tank holds the door open for him and deadbolts it behind him.

  “Why is it always the same with that man?” I groan. “I feel like I’m in Groundhog’s Day.”

  “You know I’ll take care of him if you want,” he says, shrugging. He begins grabbing empty bottles from the tables and bringing them up to the bar for me, but I have other business to tend to first.

  “You don’t have to take care of him for me,” I say, pouring a draft beer for myself, “and you definitely don’t have to help me clean up. Why don’t you come have a beer with me? I need to get these fucking boots off.”

  I sit down on the barstool with a groan, instantly regretting this decision. Getting back up again is going to be the worst. I let out a loud sigh as I unzip my boot, letting it crash to the floor.

  “Goddamn, that’s good,” I shout as I kick my foot up on the adjoining stool. He empties the rest of the bottles into the recycling bin and then takes the trash out the backdoor, locking it behind him. I feel bad letting him do all my work for me, but I need at least another ten minutes to marinate.

  He grabs a bottle of beer from the roll top cooler and sits down next to me, taking my foot in his hand, rubbing it with the pads of his thumb as I try to stifle the noises about to come out of my mouth that will certainly sound overly sexual.

  “You’re a brave man, Tank. I don’t even want to touch my own feet right now.” His hand moves up my leg a little bit, and he digs in to my calf, squeezing my muscles just to the edge of pain. When he lets go, I feel like a new woman. “Oh, you’re way too good at that.”

  “We need to find you some insoles or something,” he says. “These boots are not good for the arches of your feet.”

  “Are you the guy who just threatened to throw a guy through a glass window or are you really an undercover podiatrist?” I ask. I don’t ever know how to read this guy. The way he’s touching me is so intimate, but I don’t feel like he’s hitting on me. He’s never made a move on me as far as I can tell, and it’s not like he doesn’t have an entourage of girls who I think are way more attractive than I am following him around most of the time.

  He’s probably just being a good friend, and I probably should appreciate that. Not many women get to see the side of these guys that I do, and I guess if it means being permanently “friend-zoned”, I’ll just have to take what I can get.

  “You want me to do the other one?” he asks.

  I slide my foot up on his lap and throw my head back and groan.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tank:

  I n a perfect world, Olive and I would be married right now. We’d live in a little cottage in the woods with a white picket fence and a handful of kids running around. I’d own my own bike garage and she would do whatever the hell she wanted or nothing at all; I wouldn’t care, because she would be the queen of my life.

  When you’re a Mountain Misfit, though, there’s no such thing as a perfect world. There’s maybe a day or two where things are less fucked-up than usual, and don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as hell, but through the eyes of the rest of society, we’re about as far from perfection as you could get.

  I love the way she’s writhing away while I rub her feet. I love that I know all the right buttons to push, even if it’s in a completely platonic fashion. If she’d let me rub her leg a little higher, I could show her a million ways I could make her feel even better.

  From the minute this little blonde walked into my life, I’ve been a changed man. Two years ago, Gavin, our vice president, hired her to run the Bucktail while he was trying to get into her best friend’s pants. I know they say that making decisions with your dick is a bad idea, but we lucked out with Olive.

  She’s goofy as hell, she’s kind, she knows where she came from, and she’s not too proud to admit it. She works harder than any other bartender in the joint, but always has a smile on her face and a dirty joke to go with it. She’s a wild woman at heart, doing keg stands and rolling the tightest joints I’ve ever seen, but in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard of anyone lucky enough to get her in bed. She prances around this place in less than a bikini most of the time, and still manages to command the respect of most men. Obviously, I’m here to take care of the ones who try anything stupid.

  That, and just for an excuse to spend more time with her without Red busting my balls.

  “I swear if you keep that up, you’re going to have to carry me to my car,” she laughs. “I’m about to pass out in bliss.” Her cotton candy pink lipstick matches the tips on her bleached blonde curly hair, and she presses them into a pout, closing her eyes. I really should kiss her right now.

  But I’m not going to. It’s not part of the deal.

  “I really do need to get home, though,” she says, sucking down the last sip of her beer. “I have to do this again tomorrow night, and I’m gonna need to spend at least twelve hours on my back with my legs up in the air if I want to be able to walk straight.”

  “That’s not usually how that works, Olive,” I tease her.

  “How what works?” she asks, crossing her bright blue eyes and sticking out her tongue. God, she’s so cute.

  “You seriously want me to carry you to your car?”

  “If it means I don’t have to put these boots back on, then yes. Fuck yes.”

  I walk around, shutting
off all the lights, and crouch down so she can hop on my back. She wraps her arms around my neck and I swing open the front door to the pouring rain.

  “Shit,” she mutters. “I didn’t think it was supposed to do this until tomorrow morning.”

  Thunder booms in the distance and bolts of lightning tear through the sky sideways.

  “Yeah, me neither,” I say.

  “You brought the bike, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did,” I say regretfully.

  “That’s ok; I’ll drive you home.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her. I don’t really want my ass to get struck by lightning, but I’ve ridden in worse.

  “Don’t be ridiculous; it’s on my way anyway” she says. “Get in the Jeep, Tank.”

  The rain is pelting down on both of us, and I can barely see my hand in front of my face.

  I open the door for her and she hops off my back and into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition and blasting the heat.

  “I probably look like a drowned rat,” she giggles as I hop in the other side. She wipes at the mascara running down her cheeks. Even soaking wet, she still looks like the most gorgeous girl in the world to me. I fidget with the radio for lack of a better option, not sure why being in close quarters like this with her is so suddenly uncomfortable.

  Maybe it’s because any normal guy would use this as an opportunity to make his move. Hell, I’d be stupid not to. I should invite her inside my house for a beer, offer her something comfy to change into, put something really fucking boring on TV while we cuddle up on the couch, see where the night takes us.

  There’s only one hitch to that plan. One loud, impulsive, crazy motherfucker of a hitch that happens to be my best friend and roommate. Red and I were prospects together, and the bond we share is so tight, we might as well be blood brothers. We might be polar opposites in personality, but we do agree on a lot of things. And one of those things is that we don’t fight over women, ever.

  Obviously we both feel the same way about Olive. Isn’t that the way these things always work? He fell hard and fast the day she walked into our lives, and I don’t doubt for one second that he doesn’t love this girl as much as I do. Which is why we have this hands-off agreement going. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to keep our friendship and club loyalty intact than to try and pretend like everything is ok when she chooses which one of us she wants to be with, if she even chooses one of us at all.

  His way of coping with his feelings is by playing the avoidance game. Trying not to be alone with her. Hiding out when she comes around.

  I must really fucking hate myself, or get off on being tortured, because I do the exact opposite. I guess I’m just hoping she’ll do something so appalling that she’ll break this spell she has over me.

  That, or I’ll do something so appalling that she’ll never want to see me again.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, her eyes trained on the road. Her windshield wipers are going a million miles a minute and she’s gripping the steering wheel so tight her knuckles are white. The rain continues to fall harder, and the roads are wet. “Is my driving scaring you?”

  I’m looking at her like that because, in this moment, sitting here in close quarters with her, smelling her perfume, staring at that black heart tattoo that just barely pokes out of the top of her shirt like an arrow to her cleavage, Red’s solution to this situation is becoming more and more appealing. I don’t know how one goes about bringing up something like that, though. I’ve always shut him down before we could even go into the logistics.

  “You’re fine,” I say to her. “Are you scared? Do you want me to drive?”

  “I’m good,” she says, taking her hand off the steering wheel and resting it on my knee. “It looks like the rain is letting up anyway.”

  We ride along in silence, the radio playing quietly in the background, and every time a boom of thunder cracks, she jumps a little bit, squeezing my knee a little harder. Her touch is enough to make me feel a little bold. My mind is made up.

  We pull into the driveway of our cabin in the woods.

  “You’re probably tired,” she says.

  “I could probably go for another beer,” I tell her. “You want to come in?” I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m just hoping I can get a word in with Red without her noticing. And that we don’t come off as total creeps.

  “I could do that,” she says. “You’re going to have to let me borrow some clothes though. I’m soaking wet and freezing cold.”

  “No problem.” She jumps out of her Jeep and follows me up the porch steps. I go to turn the doorknob and it’s locked. He’s not home.

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t just tell her I changed my mind. The fact that I am standing on my porch with a girl I’m crazy about, and I’m worried about my roommate not being home, makes me severely question my sanity.

  Loyalty to my club, to our friendship, always comes first. I’m probably getting ahead of myself here anyway. She’s just a nice girl. She’s just my friend. Flirtation is in her nature, and it’s not fair for me to try and read into shit. I turn my key in the lock and open the door, flipping the light on in the living room.

  “My room is on the left,” I say, pointing to my bedroom door. “There’s clean towels in the bathroom. Help yourself to whatever you want.” I purposely avoid following her. Just knowing that she’s in my bedroom taking off her clothes is frustrating enough. “Do you want something to eat?” I shout through the slightly cracked door.

  “You don’t have to go out of your way,” she says, “but I could definitely eat.”

  I go into the kitchen and root around in the fridge, trying to keep my hands and my mind busy. I pull out some stuff to make sandwiches and set it on the island.

  What the hell is wrong with you? I laugh to myself. I have never had a problem with taking a girl home and getting her in my bed. Now I’m standing here fixing to feed her cookies and milk like I’m her nanny or something. Olive has me stupid.

  I spot the candle on the mantel out of the corner of my eye. Red calls it the sex candle. He bought it from some flea market from a lady who claimed to be a voodoo priestess when we were down in Daytona for bike week. It’s kind of a running joke in our house, because we both know it’s bullshit, but I light it anyway. It gives the place an ambiance at least. I fluff the pillows on the couch and fold the throw blanket over the back. I tidy up Red’s dirty laundry laying around and toss it into his room.

  I’m definitely losing my mind.

  “Seriously?” she asks, appearing from my bedroom in one of my t-shirts that basically swallows her body and comes down past her knees. She looks hot as hell and I try not to stare. “You don’t have to clean up for me. It’s three in the morning. You should see my house,” she laughs.

  “How about a beer?” I offer her a bottle from the fridge and she cracks it open and takes a sip.

  She makes a sandwich and I play with the remote. I don’t even bother with small talk. It’s not really my thing anyway. I don’t think she minds too much, especially after dealing with the public too much. When she sits down on the couch next to me, she doesn’t leave any space between us, her knee touching mine. I notice the goosebumps on her skin.

  “Are you cold?” I ask her, reaching for the blanket behind my head and draping it over her lap.

  “I don’t want to get too comfy,” she giggles. “I could probably fall asleep like this.”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “You can always stay here.”

  She rests her head on my chest and I flip through the channels, resisting my urges to run my fingers through her hair, kiss her, carry her into my bedroom, and let go of two years’ worth of pent-up ‘friendship’ on her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Olive:

  I ’ve seen enough over the years to know that if it’s after 3 a.m. and you’re still awake, hanging out alone with a guy you have a crush on, in his house, on his couch, there’
s a good likelihood that you’re on the cusp of making a poor life choice. I’ve been nursing my beer, trying to tell myself that I’m going to get up, go home to my own bed, fall asleep like it’s just another normal day.

  It just feels good resting my head on his solid chest, while we stare at some boring ass show on TV about how plastic bottles are manufactured and packaged for distribution. I know Tank is a pretty steady and quiet guy, but his choice in shows is more middle-aged youth group pastor dad of six than a guy who fixes bikes and intimidates hardened criminals for a living. Maybe this is how he stays so calm, watching these bottle caps lined up all neatly on a conveyor belt: order and consistency and quiet humming.

  Or maybe he’s doing that thing where he’s not really worried about what’s on because he wants to make out. I highly doubt it. He’s had a million opportunities to make a move, and I’m not going to force his hand. I am playing with fire as it is being here, even toying with the idea of letting these walls I’ve worked so hard to build collapse. I like my job. I like my life. I can’t let the fantasy of what could possibly happen between us get in the way of my reality.

  It’s not often that I get to spend time at his house with him alone. Usually, his roommate, Red, is around, and if Tank knows how to command a room with his quiet charisma, Red isn’t afraid to command a room by being the loudest, funniest, and most unpredictable person around.

  Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against him. In fact, I find him just as attractive as Tank, only in his own way. He’s my “type.” Unpredictable, impulsive, collecting tattoos and battle scars like baseball cards, and always saying exactly what’s on his mind. Red and I would be a match made in hell. We’d probably end up dead in a year if we ever dated. The thought is slightly thrilling, but it’s never going to happen.