OWNED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blood Warriors MC)

by Naomi West

  “I could eat,” she replied.

  “Good,” he said, getting out of bed and pulling his pants on from where he'd just dropped everything on the floor before crawling back beneath the sheets with her.

  She slid out of bed behind him and started to grab her clothes from where she'd carefully draped them over the back of a small chair he kept in the corner. Together, they padded out of his bunk on bare feet, headed through the hallway, out through the rec-room, and into the kitchen. All around them, the clubhouse was silent as a tomb. All the guys were still off working their shift at Farm to Fable, making sure the doors stayed open through this troubled time. A little bit of guilt tickled at Cutter for abandoning them like this, especially when they were two men down, but Smalls had been insistent. He knew they needed Liona protected, knew that she was the key to all this.

  “What's for lunch today, Chef?” Liona asked as she took her spot from the previous day at the barstool.

  “I was thinking a Hot Dutch,” Cutter said as he went over to the big industrial fridge and opened it up. He squatted down and began digging through all the piles and piles of groceries, fresh produce, cold cuts, and various cheeses they kept the place stocked with.

  “Hot Dutch?” she asked from behind him. He could practically hear the face she made. “What's that? Sounds like a bad sex position.”

  He laughed. “It's like a grilled cheese, but it's got ham on it.”

  “Why not just call it a ham and cheese melt, then?”

  “Because, it's got Gouda on it,” he said, pulling all the necessary ingredients out and putting them on the counter. “It's different, okay? My mom used to make them for me all the time.”

  “Is it even a thing?”

  “It was in our household,” he said.

  They talked while he cooked and prepped, bantering back and forth just like they used to, when they were back in high school. Questions about his family, telling stories back and forth about what they'd done after high school. He was impressed she'd gotten a psychology degree, even if she wasn't overly enthused about her academic accomplishment. It was better than he'd ever done in school, that was for damn sure, and he told her as much.

  “But what do I do with such a useless degree?” she asked, laughing.

  “Well, why'd you even get it if it's useless?”

  “Killing time,” she said, honestly.

  He was watching the sandwich grill up and grunted without turning around to give her the go ahead to continue.

  “I hate to say it, now,” she went on, “but, I think I was just getting a degree to get a degree. Like, my mom and dad expected it out of me. And, I figured, what would it matter what I got? I was going to be eventually married to Wyland West anyways, right? I'd be taken care of, having babies like I was supposed to, doing everything life had planned for me ...”

  Cutter plated her sandwich and filled her empty bowl with soup. “But, that was before law school,” Cutter finished for her.

  She nodded, her hands folded tightly together. “Yeah.”

  “Well,” he said, gesturing to the food. “Eat up.”

  She dug in with gusto, just like the night before. To Cutter's pleasant surprise, she seemed to like the Hot Dutch even more than the grilled cheese. “So, this is like a grilled cheese with ham added to it, right?” she asked after he'd turned back to finish preparing his own sandwich.

  “Right.”

  “Why don't you just call it that, instead? You know, a grilled cheese with ham on it.”

  “Because a grilled cheese has two primary ingredients,” he said as he looked back at her. “Bread. Cheese. You add in anything else and it becomes something besides a grilled cheese. Calling it a grilled cheese with ham is a perversion. It's a Hot Dutch for a reason.”

  Liona laughed and dipped the sandwich into her soup, rolling her eyes at his adamant insistence. “Whatever, Cutter.”

  As Cutter was plating his own sandwich and setting down to eat, he could tell that something was bugging Liona. For once, he decided not to pry. She'd tell him when she wanted to. After a few minutes of silence, it finally came out. “I've been thinking,” she slowly said, picking her words carefully as she moved through the sentence. “Unless you plan on letting me wander around here naked while I'm doing laundry ...”

  A crystal clear mental image of the slight woman wandering the halls of the clubhouse popped into his mind. He immediately shook it free and realized what she was getting at. “Go on,” Cutter said around a mouthful of Dutch. “What's your point?”

  “Well, I only had the one set of clothing when I took off.”

  “And you need more, then?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, and tapped his chin. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed it aside. “But, Liona, you know you can't leave. At least, we can't just take you shopping. What if Wyland finds you?”

  “Well, I was thinking about that,” she said, grabbing her bowl with both hands and beginning to bring it to her lips, “and I think I have a solution. Carly!”

  “Carly?” he asked, confused. “Who's that?”

  “My maid of honor. She's my only real friend here, besides you. And, I think I can get her to bring me some outfits from my apartments.”

  “But, won't Wyland try and stop her?”

  She set her bowl of tomato bisque back down, untouched. “I don't know. I mean, maybe? But, he can't just hurt her and make her disappear, can he? He'd just make proof against himself!”

  Cutter shook his head. “I don't know about this, Liona. I mean, this is a pretty big risk, for you and your friend.”

  She sighed and looked away. “Look, Cutter,” she said, her voice wavering a little. “I need clothes. I can't wear the same panties for days on end, or the same clothes over and over. You have to help me with this.”

  The plan was perilous for everyone involved. But she was right. A person needed clothing. While it was her fault for not planning better, he couldn't exactly blame her for poorly executing a spur of the moment plan. He sighed and popped the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

  As he chewed his sandwich, and thought over her words, she added one more shot: “Are you my protector here, or my captor?”

  That one actually stunned and shocked him a little. He hadn't felt that way, but he admitted that he had to control her movements a little bit, if only to protect her from the dangers in the outside world. He dusted his hands free of crumbs. “Fine,” he said. “Call her. But she's going to have to meet us in a place we can be sure she's not being followed to, especially if she's getting clothes from your place.”

  She nodded and gave him a little smile. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 18

  Liona

  “No, Carly, no. I'm okay, I promise you I'm fine,” Liona said into the phone, trying to placate her best friend. It wasn't going so well, though.

  “Well, why in the fuck haven't you called me till now, then!?” Carly screamed into the phone. “I've been fucking worried sick about you!”

  “I'm sorry,” Liona said for probably the tenth or twentieth time to no avail. She was sitting in Cutter's room, alone, praying the walls were thicker than they seemed. And praying, too, that Carly would help her out with all this. “I'm so sorry, girl! I just didn't know if it would be safe to call you!”

  “Safe! You didn't know if it would be fucking safe!” she screamed back, more statement than question.

  In fear for her ear drum's safety, Liona yanked the phone away from her. “Yes, okay? Look, alright, I need you to trust me on this, okay? If you can't, I'll find someone else who can.” That last part sounded snotty as it passed her lips but she knew it would get Carly’s attention.

  “Who?” Carly said, with more vehemence than Liona had ever heard from her friend. “You haven't spoken to any of our other friends in years, Liona. I'm the only one you have left.”

  Her heart sank. She was right. Liona hadn't been a very good friend. In the end, though, it had
been easier to acquiesce to Wyland's demands when it came to maintaining her friendships. Most of them had simply withered away. “I ... I know ... that's kind of what this is about,” Liona said, her voice soft and dejected.

  “Shit,” Carly said much more quietly than before, almost a whisper in comparison. “Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to come out that way.”

  “No, you're right,” Liona said. “But, I'm trying to change that, okay? So, I need you to listen to me.

  On the other end of the line, Liona's best friend took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said after a long, slow exhale. “Okay, I got you. We've got this together. Alright?”

  “Good,” Liona said, her finger going back to idly twirl a lock of hair. “Now, this is what I need ...”

  # # #

  Liona and Cutter rode out to their meeting point later that night. It was off in the backroads, nestled back in the trees, and away from any major highways. The roads were so treacherous, with theirs twisting and winding, that it would have been suicide to trust yourself on them without headlights. Which, Cutter had explained, was the point. If anyone came out here, following after Carly, they’d know. Especially with how far out from the main thoroughfares this place was, and how late they were having their meeting.

  “How'd you know about this place?” Liona asked, mildly suspicious, as they dismounted from Cutter's bike at a small dead end. There was a small parking place, and then the road faded out of existence and became an ATV trail that disappeared off into the dark, mist-infused woods.

  She knew the myths and legends about the outlaw motorcycle gangs, the Hell's Angels, the Bandidos. She knew that not all gangs were like that, though. She'd tried not to push too much on knowing about the dealings of the Vanguard since she'd first arrived at the clubhouse. Their president was, after all, one of her oldest friends and her personal savior. Not to mention, of course, she was sharing his bed. And, other than being a little rough around the edges, the guys all seemed pretty alright.

  Of course, if Liona was being honest, the guys in the MC seemed more than just a little rough. They seemed positively jagged. Almost serrated. And, to top it all off, Cutter hadn't exactly seemed forthcoming when it came to information that didn't directly concern her, especially when it was related to the club. “Club business,” was all he would say, nine times out of ten.

  It was a surprise to her then when he answered her question. “My father used to bring me out here to go deer hunting. Knew these woods like the back of my hand when I was a kid. We had a deer stand about a mile's hike up that trail.”

  Liona laughed. “Figured you'd just say 'club business' again,” she said, impersonating his growling baritone on the last two words.

  “Ha,” Cutter said, slapping his gloves on his thigh to brush the road dust from them, “ha.”

  “How much longer till she shows up?” she asked with a shiver. The early spring air had a chill to it, the kind you normally only found in the early hours of the morning, just before sunset. Tonight, though, a soft wind stirred the new leaves on the trees, sending their branches dancing to and fro in the blue-black sky. It was just before midnight, and the cool air seemed early for this time of year.

  “Probably a few more minutes,” Cutter said, patting the spot next to him on the bike. “Take a load off, the engine'll keep you warm.”

  Frowning, Liona bit her lower lip. “Do you think he'd really follow her?”

  Cutter shrugged. “Maybe he will. Maybe he won't. But we both know Wyland and how he is, best not to take any unnecessary risks. You remember back in school.”

  She remembered. Wyland had gotten out of line a number of times, and it should have been a warning sign to her. She should have seen all of this coming from a mile way, just because of that one thing. Neither her nor Cutter seemed able to bring it up by name, like it was taboo or something. Beside her, though, he had tensed up a little at the memory. Clearly, it wasn't just water under the bridge to him. Liona let the issue simmer and linger, just beneath the surface.

  A pair of headlights broke the moment. They belonged to a late model sedan, a Honda, and they slowed as the car came closer. Liona brought up a hand, shielding her eyes from the blinding light of the high beams, and peered out at the car from around her fingers. When the lights finally illuminated Liona and Cutter fully, the car came to complete halt and killed the engine and, thankfully, the headlights, too. Liona thought the car looked like Carly's, but she couldn't be for sure in the dim light of the stars overhead, no matter how bountiful they were this far out from town. She glanced to Cutter, who glanced back at her.

  “That her?” Cutter asked. His hand was inside his coat. What he was grabbing, Liona couldn't tell for sure. Was it a gun? A knife? Honestly, neither would have surprised her. The only thing that did actually surprise her was how secure she felt knowing he might be armed. Never in a million years could you have convinced pre-wedding Liona Copeland that being around a weapon of some sort would one day make her feel safe. But, here she was.

  The car door opened, but the dome light didn't trigger. Silently, the driver stepped out.

  “Liona?” Carly whispered.

  “Carly?” Liona whispered back.

  “You can talk normally,” Cutter said, his voice drier than the Sahara during a drought. His leather coat creaked and rustled a little as he withdrew his hand from inside.

  “Oh,” Carly said. She fumbled with her keys in the dark and popped her trunk. She turned back to her, and waved her hands in the air in celebration. “I got your stuff!”

  Liona clapped and went running over to her. They met halfway and hugged.

  “Oh,” Carly said as they held each other, just like sisters, “I'm so going to fucking kill you when this is over with.” She soothed the back of Liona's hair down as they both laughed.

  Liona's former maid-of-honor pulled back from the hug, grabbed her by both arms, and held her at arm's length. “You are okay, right?” she asked, emphasizing the verb.

  “Yes,” Liona replied, nearly exasperated. “I told you that fifty times over the phone, girl. Why don't you believe me?”

  “Well, gee, Liona, lemme fucking think about it,” she said, really laying sarcasm on thick and heavy. “Because you told me everything was fine on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday fucking morning, before you literally jumped out a window and disappeared from your wedding.”

  Liona almost stamped her foot in frustration. Her friend was right to be worried. Even though Liona had escaped a bad situation, Carly didn't know the particulars of everything. She just thought her friend had lost her ever-loving mind.

  “Who's tall, dark, and tattoo-guy over there, anyway?” Carly asked, nodding her head past Liona to Cutter.

  “That?” Liona asked. “That's Cutter.”

  “Cutter, huh? He the new boy-toy, or something?”

  “What?” Liona asked, the astonishment at her friend's accusation filling her voice. “Why would you-?”

  “Look, girl,” Carly said, “I get it. Wyland's a fucking tool. Sure, he's rich and had a good job, but he's so creepy and fake.”

  “Wait,” Liona said, holding up a hand. “You thought he was creepy and fake? And you never told me?”

  Carly shrugged. “You liked him, so I kept my mouth shut.” She shifted her look back to Cutter and gave him a little wave. “I like the new one, though. He looks rough. Is he?”

  “Is he what?”

  “Well, you know,” Carly replied, her eyes lighting up, even in the darkness of the deserted road, “rough?”

  Liona rolled her eyes. “God, you're the worst.”

  “You love me,” her friend replied. “Do I get to meet him, at least?”

  “Yes, you get to meet him. And, by the way, no, he's not my new boy toy. I didn't plan to run off with him.”

  Carly frowned a little, like her hopes had been dashes against the rocks of reality. Clearly, she'd wanted an illicit love affair, or something equally flashy and fun, to be the ultimate cause o
f Liona's fleeing. The more they spoke, though, the more that look in Carly's eyes began to slowly fade away.

  “Did you bring my bag?” Liona asked.

  “Got it in the trunk. I see why you wanted it in a backpack, by the way. Roller luggage wouldn't work on a bike, would it?”

  Together, they went back to Carly's trunk and grabbed Liona's bag. In the yellowish light from the trunk's overhead light, Carly peered at her best friend, seemingly looking for signs of weakness, fear, or deceit. Liona grabbed the backpack, her old college bag, and slipped it on.

  “Wyland said,” Carly began, the words clearly leaving a bad taste in her mouth, “to tell you that he'll still take you back, even after all the trouble you put him through.”