He doesn’t even look away from the TV. “You found a way to not be a complete waste of time and space?”
His words hurt just as much as his hands sometimes, because I know they’re true. I am worthless and stupid. He’s right when he tells me I’m nothing. “I found a job today.”
“Well, congratu-fucking-lations. Can you go find some food and do what you think is cooking? I’m so hungry that even the slop you serve me sounds fucking appetizing.”
I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. I’ve read tons of cookbooks over the years and tried my best, but my efforts are never any good. I bread some chicken, then fry it up, and steam some vegetables, setting out one plate, a knife, and a fork. His water sits at two o’clock to his plate. I don’t ever eat the meals I cook for him. Since I don’t contribute to the house in any way, I have no right to eat the food that he pays for. I take out my loaf of bread and make my usual peanut butter and jelly, then go into the other room to do my nightly workout.
Gaining weight is unacceptable. If I expect Dylan to take care of me then I need to make sure that I keep myself presentable for him. It’s my job to keep him happy, clean the house, and make sure that everything he needs is done, because that’s what wives do.
By the time I’ve run on the treadmill, cleaned up after myself, and showered, it’s almost ten o’clock. I’m so exhausted, I can barely keep my eyes open.
When I walk into the bedroom to get dressed, Dylan is sitting on the bed waiting for me. I can smell the beer on his breath. It’s hard to not scrunch my nose from the stench but I manage it.
Years of practice.
As I round the bed, keeping a tight hold on the towel wrapped around my body, I see the look in his eye and know there’s no point in me getting dressed. I walk over to him, he grabs my wrist, his fingers biting into my flesh as I hold back a wince. He yanks me to him and the back of my head connects with the headboard. He stands and pushes me onto the bed with a carnal look in his eyes.
I zone out during sex. It’s not enjoyable for me, and if you listen to Dylan, it’s not that great for him, either. It’s easier to not be in the present, to escape to a world where the man above me cherishes me, where he kisses me softly and his hands caress me. Sometimes, if I think hard enough, I can remember what gentle feels like. He used to be gentle, in the beginning.
Soft kisses.
Ghosting fingertips.
Featherlight touches.
He made me feel special. It’s what made me fall so hard for him.
Without a word, he thrusts himself inside me and I bite my lip, a cry catching in my throat. He pumps in and out of me and I grasp the sheets in my hands, so dry that each thrust feels like sandpaper and I know the burn will linger long into the night. Long after he has rolled off me and fallen asleep, oblivious to the shaking figure curled up on the opposite side of the bed.
His hand clasps my throat and I gasp. He squeezes, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I want to hear you, bitch. You have to at least be able to do this shit for me.”
The edges of my vision start to curl in and blood rushes through my ears. When I start to moan and writhe against him he releases my throat, but I can still feel the imprint of his fingers, the burn of his touch. I keep up the sounds of pleasure until he finishes inside me. I’ve never had an orgasm, mainly because Dylan has no concern for my pleasure, but I understand that it’s not something I deserve so I concentrate all my efforts on making sure he enjoys himself. It’s what good wives do.
He leaves the room briefly and I hurry to tug on my clothes. He doesn’t like to see me naked if we’re not having sex. He says it makes him sick. I look down at my stomach, at the small bump in the skin that refuses to disappear and mentally add another ten minutes to my run tomorrow.
The toilet flushes and the lights go out. I pull the blanket up over my body and stay still. Dylan won’t be able to sleep if I toss and turn and he needs his rest. Staring up at the ceiling as his snores echo off the four walls of the room, I try to fall asleep even as my mind is racing. Tomorrow is my first day working with Cutter and I want to make a good impression.
I pray I don’t screw it up.
Chapter Two
Cutter
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
She closes the door behind her and her application falls from the desk, fluttering to the ground. Ordinarily I’d snatch it up, choosing organization and order over chaos in the office, but I can’t quite bring my eyes to leave the spot where she was just standing, mere inches from me.
Jasmine Burke. Her smooth feminine voice was like silk, and to top it off she was absolutely gorgeous. When she gazed up at me with those big brown eyes that looked up at me like she would do anything I asked, my skin felt too tight for my body. It was why I wrapped the interview up quickly. The longer I breathed her air, the harder it became not to imagine the long dark hair that fell over her shoulders in waves tangled in my fist as I tugged on it, lifting her chin, exposing the smooth stretch of skin at her throat. My body began to betray me.
Jesus, I need to get a damn grip.
I need an assistant. That’s it. And you don’t shit where you eat. There are plenty of girls at the clubhouse I can go to if I get desperate. Plus, just looking at her I know there’s no way she could handle me or the life that I live.
"Cutter!"
The shout comes from the bar. Tracie can hold her own usually, so when she calls me I know it's important. As old lady to our VP, Torch, she’s seen more than most and can handle more than a lot of guys. I break out into a jog down the hall as soon as I spot four guys from the Hell Raisers, one of our rival clubs, standing in front. Their eyes are on Tracie, their shoulders squared. I know that stance. I’ve held it many times myself. Luckily her mouth isn’t moving. She knows better than to mouth off to a brother—except Torch.
“Can I help you?”
The men turn toward me. The tallest one steps forward as if he’ll intimidate me, he looks down at me expecting me to back down like I’m sure most people do. Well I’m not most people so he’s about to be surprised. Little does he know it’s not the size of the man, but how fast you can take him down. “Your bitch behind the bar won’t fuckin’ serve us.”
I look to Tracie, who shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe because she’s an old lady and you fellas need to learn some manners. Now as far as I know, you aren’t even supposed to be in here.” I look from him to the three men crowding us.
“We were on a long run and needed a pit stop. Ain’t here to cause no trouble.”
I scan the room. It’s still early, but the sight of telltale cuts, our club logo proudly displayed on the back, tells me I have at least five of my brothers to back me up. Brick looks up and lifts an eyebrow, nudging Wrench to his left. I give a small shake of my head and he stands down. I can see him watching, though. The brothers will have my back, whatever decision I make, but even so, I think trying to kick them out would be worse than letting them stay. A bar brawl between rival clubs, most of us packing and not afraid to draw a weapon, doesn’t exactly scream “come on in” for customers, many of whom have lied to their wives and girlfriends about where they are. Kinda hard to deny where you were if the police call you as a witness.
"One drink. After that, you need to leave and not make it a habit of making pit stops here." I keep my eyes trained on him, not blinking or looking away.
“Deal.” He nods at me and walks over to the bar.
Tracie shoots me a look and I know I’ll be hearing about this later. She respects all the brothers and the rules to the club in public, but she isn’t afraid to give any of us hell behind closed doors.
I send Pres a text as I head back to the office, letting him know about the Hell Raisers being here and that I’ve taken care of it.
The papers scattered all over the desk make me wish I had just told Jasmine to start tonight. Being the club treasurer has been easy until Pres asked me to take over Ambrosia because Tracie had too much on her hands. He wasn’t
kidding, this place is a fucking wreck. There are receipts, forms, and bullshit all over the desk and the ones that are put away aren’t organized in any way.
My door flies open and Tracie walks in, holding her tongue until it slams closed.
“I thought the rule was no one from another club gets served here without Twisted letting me know first?” The fact that she’s trying to use Pres in her argument doesn’t impress me. The old ladies think they have pull.
They don’t.
“Yeah, well, sometimes you make concessions. I already told Pres and he’s good with it. Just admit you’re more pissed off that I made you serve them after you stomped your foot and said no.” I cock an eyebrow and watch her eyes narrow.
“I don’t like you.” She crosses her arms, but the corner of her lip twitches.
“Lie.” I smile and she laughs. “Now go back out there and chew some poor guy’s head off to make you feel better.”
“Yeah, the asshole that has caused trouble in here twice before is in tonight. He gets his third strike, he’s banned.”
“Don’t take so much joy in playing dictator, Hitler.”
She flips me off, before walking out the door.
I chuckle to myself and settle behind the desk. It’s going to take hours to get through what needs doing, and that’s before I even look at shit for the MC. I question why I agreed to take this all on, and it isn’t the first time.
Elbow deep in invoices and pay slips, I jump when the door opens again and Whip saunters in. He takes the seat in front of the desk, spinning it and resting his arms on the back. I know Pres has a mountain of shit going on, so him sending our sergeant at arms to check in isn’t a surprise. “Pres send you here because of the Hell Raisers?”
“I was out anyway.” His hand runs through his hair, pushing it back off his face as he looks around the office. “You get the assistant?”
I nod, tossing Jasmine’s application at him. He catches it in one hand. Quick fucker. “Here’s her file. Have Wrench run a background check.”
"Brick said he saw the pretty little thing leave. Called her a mouse." He runs the file back and forth between his fingers, eyes on me. I know he's thinking the same thing I am.
Will she be able to handle it here?
I ignore the fact that Brick noticing her pisses me off. He’s right about her demeanor, though. Jasmine is nothing like the other women we have here. I don’t know anything about Jasmine Burke, but I have a feeling . . .
Something I have to act on.
I just have no fucking idea what it is.
***
Traffic at this time of the morning sucks. I’ve got that much shit to do, I wanted to be here earlier. Now it’s ten to nine and I’m only just walking through the doors. I hate being late. It pisses me off.
I find Jasmine sitting on a chair at one of the tables, her back stiff, her gaze zeroing in on the pole in the center of the stage. God, she's beautiful. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her skin glowing under the dim lighting of the room. Her brown eyes shine with a sadness that makes me want to know more about her.
She’s clearly been here a while. Early for her first shift. Beautiful and punctual.
My kind of woman.
Clearing my throat, I make my way toward her slowly, so as not to spook her. She’s looking around, eyes darting all over the place, her foot tapping, wringing her hands. Her shoulders are stiff. I can sense the fight or flight response in her. One wrong move from me, she’ll be up and out of here in no time.
I cough and she looks over at me, standing up and brushing her hands over her button-up shirt and skirt.
Before I can say anything, Tracie’s voice fills the room. She’s on the phone, yelling about a shipment being wrong, and this is Tracie somewhat calm. The mouth on that woman. I shake my head.
Jasmine’s eyes track Tracie to the bar. They’re wide and her mouth has dropped. She turns away, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Maybe . . . maybe this was a bad idea.”
I hold up a hand. “Your shift hasn’t even started. Don’t give up yet.” I nod toward the bar. “Tracie is all bark. And besides, you’ll be in the back with me.”
Chewing her bottom lip, she looks around before her eyes land on me. She waits, frozen in place while she stares at me. A lock of her hair falls against her cheek and she jumps, her face flushing as a shaking hand darts up to tuck the wayward strand behind her ear.
“Have you ever worked in an office?” I ask, crossing my arms.
She shakes her head, and the light bounces off the wetness that has appeared in the corner of her eyes.
"Come," I say, heading down the hallway. Her heels click close behind me as we make our way toward the office and an image of her legs over my shoulders still wearing those heels comes into my head. I swallow deeply, trying to ease my impending hard-on.
I am so fucked.
“I need your help with paperwork. As you can see, I have a shit-ton and no idea what the hell to do with it.” I wave my hand toward the desk, gesturing to the mess that looks no more organized than it did yesterday, despite hours of work.
She nods and walks up to the desk, picking up a pile of papers. “Where do you want me?” she asks, and it’s a good thing she’s close because otherwise I might not have heard her.
Well, that's a loaded question. "Anywhere you can find a spot. Those are bills," I say, pointing to her hand. "I tried organizing some but I got busy."
She looks around the room, chewing her bottom lip again.
That move is enough to drive a man insane. “Sit, Jasmine.” My tone is firm but gentle, my curiosity winning out, needing to know how she’ll respond to the command.
Her body stiffens but she doesn’t move.
Piles upon piles of paperwork lay on the couch, tossed haphazardly, so deep that I only know it’s black leather because I remember what it was like before it became a breeding ground for invoices. Why doesn't she just move them so that she can sit down?
Instead of making her stand there waiting, since she clearly is not going to move until I do something about it, I walk up to the couch. Moving the papers from the cushions to the floor, I step back. “Sit,” I repeat, my voice firm.
She quickly moves to the couch and sits, her body relaxing.
Control.
Something about being told what to do has a calm wash over her.
Interesting.
Chapter Three
Jasmine
I don’t know what’s going on.
Every time he tells me what to do I have this urge to listen. A compulsion to act. When he speaks, his voice seeps into my skin and seems to invade every inch of me, until all I can focus on is him.
As I sift through the mess, from time to time I catch him glancing at me. It isn’t a normal look. It is a dark gaze behind hooded eyes, eyes that feel like they can see into the depths of my soul. It scares me. I don’t like drawing attention to myself. I spend most of my time actively working to avoid it. And I certainly don’t need or want Cutter’s attention. Dylan would kill me for not only working here, but for ever acknowledging that someone else might find me attractive.
Maybe he can see how broken I am? Scrap that, I’m sure he can. Dylan has told me before that a man can spot a weak woman right away. That’s what I am: weak.
I lose my grip on the stack of papers in my hand and they scatter all over the floor. Heart racing in my chest, I look up to see if he is watching. Thankfully, his back is turned to me, his attention on the phone grasped in his large hand.
I drop to the floor, trying to scoop up the papers before he can notice my mistake. When I reach under the coffee table to get the few there, I hit my head on the edge and have to bite my lip to keep from crying out, my ears ringing and a sore patch already forming on my crown.
I can feel his eyes on me before I even look up. I choose not to make eye contact but to just keep picking up the papers, trying to not screw up more than I already have. My fingers dig in
to the papers, causing small dents and creases where they were once unmarred. I don’t care how tight I have to hold them. I can’t lose this job.
That’s when he appears in front of me. He crouches down and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. I jump at the unexpected contact. “Are you okay?”
God, now he’s going to think that I’m some damn freak. I knew Dylan was right, but the realization still causes an ache in my chest. Anywhere I go, they’ll see me for what I am, what I always have been: an idiot who can never accomplish anything.
I need to get out of here. I stand and shove the papers in my hand at him, almost tripping over my own feet as I begin to walk toward the door. When I feel a strong hand close upon my wrist, tugging gently to spin me around to face him, I freeze in fear.
"Where are you going?"
I train my eyes on the floor. “I just . . . I need to leave. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”
He doesn’t let go of my wrist and the familiar panic starts to rise up inside of me. We stand there in silence before he speaks again. “Look at me.”
My body reacts to his command instantaneously, and when I meet his gaze, I await his next instruction.
“What happened to you?”
He’s not talking about my head. I just know it. My chest feels tight and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. My shirt sticks to my skin and I feel the flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. Then they would all know how pathetic I am. How I can’t even do the one thing a woman is meant for and keep the man in her life happy.
He leads me back to the couch. “I don’t want you to leave. Stay.”
A knock at the door makes me jump and Cutter releases my wrist. I immediately pull it to me, my fingers searching for the pain that should be there, but that is noticeably absent. I look down. There isn’t even a red mark.
“Come in.” Cutter’s voice is clipped and a part of me knows I caused it.
The door opens slowly and a man stands in the frame. He doesn’t introduce himself or say anything, just glances over at me, then back at Cutter. He is wearing a vest that is exactly like Cutter’s except for a couple patches on it. Cutter exhales and walks over, leaving me alone on the couch.
Mayhem (Deathstalkers MC Book 5) Page 2