by Layla Frost
And, based on the matching leather vests they wore, it was unlikely I could count on any of them to rescue me from their president.
It wouldn’t stop me from trying, but I wasn’t holding my breath.
As soon as Psycho picked up the tongs from the platter of fried chicken, everyone dove in.
“Breast or thigh?” he asked. My eyes shot to him and he chuckled, shaking his head. “Got a dirty mind, princess.” He tapped the tongs on the tray. “Which do you want?”
“Not hungry,” I lied.
“We’re all eatin’ it so you know it’s not poisoned. And it’s fuckin’ delicious, better than any wannabe secret herbs or Louisiana spiced.” He dropped a drumstick and thigh on his plate. “But you wanna be a martyr and starve…”
“Fine. Breast.”
“Happy you’re willing to make the sacrifice.”
Food was passed around the table and, other than my chicken preference, Psycho didn’t ask before dumping heaping servings of mashed potatoes, Cajun corn, mac and cheese, braised greens, and cornbread onto my plate. Even with my stomach empty, it was more than I could eat.
Like when he’d tended to my scrapes and cuts, there was something intimately tender about the way he made sure I was fed. In a different life and a much different situation, I may have enjoyed having a badass man take care of me.
But we weren’t a couple on a date.
So, rather than a swooning stomach filled with romantic butterflies, I had a clenching one filled with bile and lead, stealing my appetite.
I forced myself to eat, though. Hunger strikes may work in some cases, but not when I was looking at an escape followed by a fifteen-mile walk—I needed to carb-up.
Everyone talked as they dug in. Not that I was expecting them to start discussing privileged info and future plans, but I still listened as I discreetly checked everyone out, hoping for some sort of clue or tell.
Jury, Swedish, and Haze had been there when Psycho had tossed me in the van, so it was doubtful they’d have a change of heart.
Lash or Scythe—I couldn’t remember which was which—looked pissed and scary, scowling down at his food. He was so thin, he was barely more than olive skin and jutting bones. A jagged scar started at his forehead, going through his left eyebrow, skipping past his eye to continue down his cheek, ending only after it split his top lip.
He caught my gaze, and I braced for him to snarl at me—or worse.
Instead, his scarred and twisted face softened, and he gave me a small smile that could only be described as sweet.
I tried to return it, especially since I knew he must’ve seen the fear and judgment in my eyes, but he looked away before I could.
Other than Swedish, the only other older man had deep brown skin, and while I’d never guess pastel or white ink tattoos could look anything but pretty, his were badass. Bold.
Next was a man more tattooed than Psycho, his ink extending all the way up to cover part of his shaved bald head.
My gaze moved to the blond man next to him, only to find his was already on me. He gave me a dimpled smirk and winked.
“Hollywood,” Psycho bit out.
The man shrugged and went back to scarfing down his food.
Since my efforts to covertly study the men hadn’t been covert nor useful, I turned my attention to the building.
On the far side of the room, a few remaining pews were arranged strategically. There was a massive TV and an even more massive bar. I couldn’t make out the exact labels of the multitude of bottles that lined the wall behind it, but it was safe to say they had every common liquor and then some.
Through the propped open doorway in the front wall, I could see the entrance, a little of the hallway, and the damn alarm.
The back wall was different than the rest—less aged and not as classically designed. My experiences in a church were limited, but the ones I’d been to usually had a stage or dais of some sort. There was nothing like that—just an entryway that led somewhere I couldn’t see.
My curiosity was piqued.
I need to find a way in there.
Something clinked, and my eyes shot to Psycho.
“Eat.” He tapped his fork on the edge of my plate again. “You’re gonna hurt Swedes’ feelings.”
“I don’t think residents of Sweden care if I eat.”
“Swedish.” He used his multipurpose tool fork to point at the grizzly man from the store. “Swedes for short. He cooked.”
I blamed my ingrained manners and the absolute bizarreness of the situation because, rather than snapping out something rude, I offered him a weak smile and the truth. “It’s really delicious.”
He grinned, his chest puffing out proudly. “It’s my secret recipe, better than that mass-produced shit. Takes three days, but it’s worth it.”
“It’s the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.”
“Then definitely worth it.”
I gave a start when Psycho’s hand landed on my knee under the table. He gave it a squeeze, as if signaling his approval, before returning to his meal.
Damn my manners. I really should’ve been a miserable—and justified—bitch so they’ll demand I leave.
Huh.
That idea has a lot of merit.
“What’re you plotting, princess?” Psycho asked.
I glared at him. “Nothing.”
“Good to know your bad at shit-talk and lying. Makes my job easier.”
My glare intensified, but I didn’t say anything because it’d be a lie.
And the laugh he gave told me he knew it.
After a few minutes, Psycho stood, and everyone but me followed. “We’ve got a meeting. Finish your food and hang with Haze.”
The young van driver gave me a flick of the wrist wave.
“I don’t want to keep him from the meeting,” I tried. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“And should I leave the alarm code and keys out here with you?”
“I mean, if you could, that’d be great,” I deadpanned back.
“It’ll be a short one.” He ran his calloused thumb along my jaw. “Try not to miss me too much.”
“I think we’re safe with that.”
He didn’t look insulted. In fact, much like every time I sassed him, he seemed amused, the skin near his eyes crinkling.
Another time, another life, I’d have thought it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
That time, that life? It just pissed me off.
“That’ll change,” he whispered, turning around.
I lost sight of him when they went through the entryway in the back wall, cementing my decision to investigate that space.
My gaze moved to my babysitter, Haze.
Running his hand over his swooped back, brown hair, he smiled, a deep dimple forming on his left cheek.
He looks nice. Maybe I can appeal to him?
“Don’t miss out on my account,” I tried.
And failed again when he tapped the patch on his vest and shared, “Prospects never go to Saturday meetings.”
Damn.
“You probably still have better things to do than babysit me.”
“I do what Prez says.”
“Including kidnapping?” I asked sharply, frustration bitter on my tongue.
And instantly regretted it when his head jerked back as though he’d been slapped.
Okay, so I need to work on my shit-talk and my inner bitch.
The kindness that’d softened his expression disappeared and he no longer looked like a kid who should be worrying about Chem 101 and dating a cheerleader. He looked like an irritated biker who could snap me like a twig. “If Prez tells me to do something, there’s a reason. So, yeah, that includes kidnapping.”
There goes appealing to him.
A few silent minutes stretched before he tilted his head toward the bar. “Want a drink?”
More than ever.
As tempting as a stiff drink was, I wasn’t that stupid. “No, thanks.”
He shrugged, a beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers as he slouched and rested his arm on the top of the chair. “Suit yourself.”
Leaning on the table with my chin in my hand, I scanned the place again with a more thorough eye, picking up small details I’d missed. There were rough-edged words carved into the wood detailing. A fist sized hole was in the wall near the double doors. And, either the men had a flair for unusual vases, or a few large bongs were on the coffee table.
My eyes drifted back to the entryway the men had gone through.
“What’s the meeting about?” I asked, though I didn’t anticipate an answer.
“Club business,” he said, giving me about what I expected before surprising me by adding, “you.”
“Am I club business?”
Haze hiked a brow. “Oh yeah.”
I didn’t know much, but I did know one thing for sure…
That was not good.
CHAPTER FOUR
___________________________
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE
AND KNICKER TORPEDOES
JUDGE
“SHE’S CLUB BUSINESS.”
I slammed my hand on the table. “She’s my business.”
“Brother, you brought her to the club and sat her at a table with us during a dinner no woman has ever been to—including old ladies. And, not for nothin’, you gave her our names.” Hollywood dipped his head toward the door. “She’s club business.”
My hand fisted as I slouched back because, fuck me, he was right.
Taking my silence for what it was—my concession to his point—he moved on. “I’m not sayin’ you were wrong. None of us are arguing that. With shit as crazy as it is, we’ve gotta be careful. We just also need to be on the same page.”
“If shit blows up, it falls on me and me alone. No one else is getting dragged into it. Dair should’ve landed by now, and he’s heading right to Ophelia’s place. Nox is on it, too. The two of ‘em will find out shit even she doesn’t know about herself.”
“And if she’s Nash’s?” Lash asked.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Jury said, using the answer I’d given him earlier.
My brother—the one by blood and not just by choice—might’ve thought I’d lost my mind, but when push came to glock-in-the-face, he had my back.
Always had.
Always would.
“How bad was her place hit?” Swedes asked, genuinely concerned about her and not just our asses.
Man’s a sucker for a compliment about his chicken.
“Bad,” I forced through gritted teeth.
“Most of her shit’s ruined,” Jury expanded. “Left a message and used her underwear to spell it out.”
Before I put a fist through the damn table, I changed the subject. “Got a run next week to Tennessee to plan. Is everything in place? What’s left to do?”
Glitch turned his tablet around and began going over the route, schedule, and other shit no one but him would think of ahead of time. Every once in a while, one of the men glanced my way—likely trying to gauge how out of my damn mind I was—but they kept their mouths shut.
Thank Christ, because there was no denying my head wasn’t where it should’ve been.
It was in the other room with a pissed off princess.
_______________
“Is everyone leaving?”
I turned to see Ophelia standing on her toes to look over my shoulder, her hands fidgeting with her tee.
“Yup,” I confirmed over the roar of bikes. “Meeting wrapped.”
And it took long enough.
I’d hoped to have shit done in under an hour, but between the changes, bickering, and eventual return to talking about Ophelia, it’d stretched to nearly two.
I closed the door, and she took a couple steps back.
Big ones.
I clenched my jaw but didn’t move to close the distance, even though I wanted to. “Told you I’m not gonna touch you ‘til you beg, princess. And I’d never hurt you.”
Her gaze shot to mine, and she opened her mouth before closing it. After a long moment, she asked, “Is this your, uh, gang’s clubhouse?”
Gang?
Fuck, she’s cute.
I nodded. “It is.”
“Aren’t there supposed to be other bikers and parties and… everything?”
“Everything?”
“You know. Fighting and drinking and…” She flung her hands out. “Everything.”
Her words irritated me as much as they amused me. “Should I get some club whores, blow, and guns, too?”
She crossed her arms and glared. “Are there club… women?”
Fuckin’ bingo.
That flare of jealousy in her gray eyes—unguarded and honest, it was reassurance she felt what I did.
‘Cause I was an asshole, I couldn’t resist pushing. “Yeah, there’ve been women at the club.”
“I mean club…” she paused before quickly muttering, “whores.”
“Club what?”
“Whores!” Her face burned bright, and she glared harder. “And that’s a derogatory term. Good on them for enjoying their sexuality, and shame on you for judging.”
“I’m not the one judgin’. You’re accusing me of shit based on what you’ve seen on TV.”
Ophelia’s full lips curved down in a sexy as fuck pout. After a silent moment, she pushed her shoulders back, a challenge replacing the jealousy in her eyes. “Considering we met by you kidnapping me, I think my judgement is justified.”
“Fair point.” I closed the distance between us, stopping when we were almost touching. “Parties happen and can get rowdy, but they rarely turn violent because we’re brothers, and that means having each other’s back, not stabbing each other in it. There’re old ladies, girlfriends, dates, one-night stands, and, yeah, biker bunnies, but we’re not passing around nameless women like a bad case of the clap.”
Her expression softened. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
She eyed me expectantly before prodding, “This is the part where you apologize for kidnapping me.”
“It is?”
She nodded solemnly. “Yes, and then you tell me I can go home.”
“Didja think that’d work?”
“It was worth a shot.” Seeming to catch that she’d let herself relax, she tensed and took a step away. “How long until you let me go?”
Until… never.
I shrugged. “Depends on what we find.”
She growled her frustration. “What is it you think I did? And why? Because we happened to be at the same place at the same time? Because I thought you were hot?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a motherfucker sent a hot chick to try to get on the inside.”
Eyes wide, she gave a slow, stunned shake of the head. “I don’t even know what to say to that. What motherfucker?”
“Be kinda stupid of me to tell you what I know if that’s the info you’re fishin’ for.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me,” she snapped.
In the face of her anger, I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer to wrap my hands around her waist. My fingers nearly touched, reminding me again that even though her attitude was big, she was not.
I’d be a fuckin’ idiot to underestimate her for even a moment.
I was surprised as shit when she didn’t flinch at my contact. She didn’t pause or soften or, the more likely option, tear my dick off.
She didn’t even seem to notice my hands on her.
My wounded fuckin’ heart.
Biting back a smirk, I decided to take it as a positive. If she was already comfortable with my touch, it meant I could do it a fuckuva lot more often.
“If I don’t know what I’m being accused of, how can I defend myself?” Ophelia tipped her head back to stubbornly meet my eyes as she held her arms out. “And if I’m a secret spy for whoever, the longer I’m here, the more chances I have to do spy
-y things.”
“Spy-y things?”
“Wires and bugs and… I dunno. Steal things?”
Fuck, she was killing me.
If I didn’t think I’d end up with her knee smashing into my balls, I’d pull her close and kiss her. Taste her. Feel her.
But I didn’t want to lose what little progress I’d made.
And I sure as fuck didn’t want to haul ass through the damn field when she bolted.
“Nothing to steal, princess. And not a lot of places to hide a bug.” I slid my hands along her sides. “Be happy to check if you’re wearin’ a wire, though.”
Her gaze dropped to my arms before snapping back up as she gripped my forearms. I expected her to push me away, but she only held them as she smiled.
Sexy as it was, it was not a happy smile.
My princess has some wicked witch in her.
“And I’ll be happy to perform a full and thorough cavity search,” she started, digging her nails in like claws, “if you ever touch me again.” Releasing her talon grip and shoving me away with one forceful move, she crossed her arms.
And her hands covered the spot where mine had been.
“If you’re not going to let me go, is there somewhere I can sleep? Being a hostage wears a girl out.”
“C’mon.” I led her out to the front, blocking the door in case she decided to try a repeat performance. She didn’t even glance at it or me as she walked by with her nose in the air and her figurative crown on straight.
I followed, stopping outside my bedroom.
But it was only when she neared the end of the hallway that her steps slowed, her shoulders fell, and she quietly murmured, “Damn it.”
I punched the code into the keyless entry and opened my door, stepping aside.
Ophelia turned and stomped back, stopping in front of me to stick her finger in my face. “Shut up.”
Raising my hands with my palms outward, I couldn’t hide my smirk. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But you were thinking it. Cut it out.”
She continued into the room, and I followed but almost knocked into her when she stopped suddenly.