Until Mayhem: Happily Ever Alpha World

by Layla Frost

Moving quickly before she came into the kitchen and thought I was jerking it to the Mrs. Butterworth bottle, I shoved my hand down the waistband of my jeans and adjusted myself. “Did he tell you O’s not working for Nash or was he too busy sippin’ tea and runnin’ his damn mouth?”

  “Nah, he told us. His gut is saying the shit with her apartment is linked to Nash and the Irish, but he’s got no clue how. And since Ophelia is linked to Ms. Carol Anne and Gus, he’s on edge. He still wants us to make the Tennessee run, but after that, it’s all hands on deck with this shit.”

  Shit, the Tennessee run.

  Taking Ophelia on the road opened up chances for her to bolt—especially if she talked to a Mayson. Leaving her home wasn’t much better. She’d be safe in Nox’s heavily secured warehouse, but she’d be a helluva lot safer with me, where I could keep an eye on her.

  And other body parts if she’d let me.

  After washing my hands, I opened the freezer, pulled out the homemade waffles Swedes had texted me about, and popped some in the toaster. “Tell Glitch to get me my own room.”

  “Already done. Said he figured you’d be bringing her and wouldn’t be open to a slumber party. Hollywood offered to pack the face masks and bath bombs that chick sent him when she dumped him, but still guessed you’d pass.”

  “Considering I just spent a whack on all that shit and O refuses to even open it, think she’s fully stocked.”

  He laughed. “So the night went well.”

  “She went for my piece when she thought I was asleep, and I’m not talkin’ about the one between my legs.”

  Most people would be worried about that, but my brother only laughed harder. “That bad?”

  “That good.”

  “You’re fucked in the head.”

  I didn’t argue ‘cause he was right.

  Popping another round of waffles into the toaster, I grabbed plates and forks. “Anything else I need to know about?”

  “Business as usual.”

  “Good. Be in touch if things go to hell, otherwise fuck off.”

  “Got it.”

  Hanging up, I started coffee before plating the food, snagging the syrup and butter, and heading into the family room, my mind on how I wanted to wake O. I didn’t get to use any of my ideas—yet—because when I pushed open the door, she was already at the table, sitting in the same spot she’d been in at dinner.

  “You’re up.”

  “Got hungry,” she said, her eyes on the plates in my hand.

  “Want coffee?”

  “Want me to function?”

  “Take that as a yes.” I set everything down and returned to the kitchen to pour a mug of coffee for me and the biggest cup we had for her. I tried like hell not to burn myself as I carried them, the milk, and some sugar back out. “I don’t have any flavored creamer ‘cause Swedes says it’s an insult to coffee.”

  Ophelia poured a shit-ton of milk in before adding sugar. “I’d drink instant coffee black right now, so I’m good with whatever.”

  My dick, that’d gone down, instantly hardened as Ophelia’s full lips blew on the steaming drink. It became painfully hard when she took a sip and closed her eyes, pleasure filling her expression.

  One day, it’ll be me who gets her to make that face.

  “This is the best coffee I’ve ever had, and I’m not just saying that because I’m desperate. What blend is it?”

  I shrugged. “Swedes stocks it. He’s all about trying organic, fair trade, whatever. You’ll have to ask him.”

  She glanced down the table. “Will everyone be here later?”

  “We don’t have anything planned. The family room is open to everyone twenty-four-seven, but they’re probably steering clear.”

  “Because of me.”

  “No one wants to get in the path of a pissed-off woman.”

  I expected her to shoot back something about her anger being warranted, but she just smirked and said, “Smart of them.”

  Fuckin’ hell.

  Going to town spreading butter on her waffle, she glanced at me. “What’s the family room?”

  I gestured around us with my fork.

  “Why do you call it that?”

  “That’s what it is. Rooms down the hall are locked, minus the can. Back room is for patched brothers only. Even though I live here, kitchen is Swedes’ and he gets territorial. But out here is for everyone to feel at home. No matter what bullshit is going on, what pissin’ matches, personal problems, or beefs, you step through that door and it all gets left outside.”

  “You live here?”

  “Used to have an apartment next town over but spent most of my time here. Seemed a waste to pay a shit-ton of rent for a place that sat empty.”

  “What about when… I mean… Don’t you miss the, uh, privacy?” Her light tone was forced, and her eye were narrowed, sparking with jealousy.

  Dropping my fork, I pushed away from the table before gripping her arm and carefully tugging her onto my lap.

  Surprisingly, she let me without jamming her own fork into my jugular.

  “First, like I said, rooms down the hall are locked. I want privacy, I go there. It’s rare ‘cause I like being around people. Second, if you’re asking about women, I’m thirty-three. I got a past. Bettin’ you do, too, but I sure as fuck don’t wanna hear that shit beyond whether you’re clean and what protection you choose. Though I’m puttin’ it out there now, I’ve always been safe, have proof, and, in our case, prefer that protection to not be a layer between us.”

  “We’re not—”

  “We are. And ‘cause we’re up against enough bullshit without your jealousy flaring up hot enough to make you go for my piece again, none of the chicks that’ll be around here have had me. No one has had me like you do, period, but I don’t want you side-eyeing every bunny, wonderin’ if she’s been in your spot. And if one wants to start shit and claim she has, lemme know ‘cause that bitch will be out permanently.”

  Her eyes widened as she gasped, whispering, “Permanently, as in… dead?”

  My head jerked back. “Permanently, like never allowed back here.” I looked at the tiny woman on my lap and wondered—not for the first time—if she was hiding some crazy femme fatale past. “Fuck, you’ve got a ruthless streak.”

  “No, I don’t. And I’m not jealous. And we’re not going to… we’re not anything.” Crossing her arms, she glared up at me, daring me to disagree. Challenging me.

  But what she didn’t do, not even once, was try to move away.

  “Whatever you say.” Starting at the top of her ear, I skimmed my finger along the curve, loving the way she trembled, her full lips parting. When I reached the bottom, I gave her small hoop earring a little tug. “Just don’t expect me to bail you out when you kick off your shoes, pull out your earrings, and beat a chick down in a jealous rage.”

  “There’s only one problem with that,” she whispered, putting her palms flat to my chest and slowly rubbing.

  Like a hypnotist, a temptress, a fuckin’ siren, her gray eyes lured me in.

  “What’s that?” I murmured. My eyes fell to her mouth, my mind on taking it.

  With my mouth.

  With my dick.

  I thought about dragging her up my legs so her rounded ass was pressed against my aching cock.

  And that was a mistake when it came to Ophelia. Dropping my guard. Forgetting that, unlike men twice her size, she didn’t hesitate to go toe-to-toe with me.

  Because while my mind was on getting her under me, she took her opening.

  Gripping one of my nipples in each hand, she pinched.

  Hard.

  “It’s not the chick that’d get the beatdown,” Ophelia said with a sweet as sin smile before twisting.

  My hands shot to my chest but I didn’t have to pry her off. She released her death grip, likely knowing the pain would radiate worse. Happy as could be, she hopped off my lap and returned to her seat.

  “Shit. Who purple nurples still?”
<
br />   She cut into her waffle. “It was effective, wasn’t it?”

  “Fair fuckin’ point.” I rubbed the abused skin. “No wonder you suck at shit-talk. You just go straight to violence.”

  She rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded a lot like, “Big baby.”

  Grabbing the syrup, I poured some on my lukewarm waffle before holding it out to her. When she shook her head, I asked, “Not a syrup fan?”

  “I just don’t want to make you jealous.”

  My brows lowered. “What?”

  Ophelia worked—and failed—to hide a smile as her gaze darted between me and the syrup bottle. “I went looking for you when I woke up and walked in on you two having a, uh, moment together.”

  Fuckin’ hell.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ___________________________

  DUN-DUN

  OPHELIA

  JUDGE’S MOUTH OPENED then snapped shut before opening again. “You know I wasn’t—”

  “Hey,” I interrupted, holding my hands up, “what you and your condiments do in the privacy of your kitchen is your own business.”

  He grinned—transforming his face into a sexy masterpiece—and I couldn’t hold back my own. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and his smile fell as his eyes grew hooded. “Fuckin’ boom.”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’.” Leaning back, he shoved a bite of waffle into his mouth. “Eat, then we gotta talk.”

  Even though his words killed my appetite, I still did as he said. I was glad I did because the waffles were the best I’d ever had and wasting them would be a crime against food.

  As I ate, I tried to reprimand myself for letting my guard down—again. I tried to tell myself that he was dangerous. I tried to remember all the whys and hows of the fucked up-ness of the situation.

  I desperately needed to build my walls back up or I’d fall right into the black hole of too-stupid-to-live.

  Once our plates were cleared and Judge had refilled my coffee, he slouched back in his chair. “If I pull you back onto my lap—”

  “I’ve always wondered if nipples could be twisted,” I made a pop noise, “right off.”

  “Figured.” Crossing his legs so one of his shitkickers rested on his knee, he rubbed his jaw. “I’m tellin’ you all I can ‘cause some of this isn’t my story to tell. And I’m trusting you won’t go to the cops, but also that you won’t Nancy Drew it and get yourself pulled in any deeper. These aren’t men who’re gonna admire your give ‘em hell attitude. You don’t wanna be on their radar.”

  Apprehension filled my stomach, but curiosity had me clutching my coffee cup and leaning forward like I was about to listen to an epic audiobook.

  Something told me that wasn’t far off.

  “This shit is confusing, so tell me if I lose you. Remember when Nox asked if you knew a man named Nash?” At my nod, he said, “He’s a nasty motherfucker who owns clubs—strip and otherwise—and uses them to run guns, drugs, and women. He used to be just a pain in the ass, but then he got greedy. Then, thanks to high-ups with a taste for his drugs, women, or both, he got cocky and thought he was invincible.”

  Wow. This is like The Wire or Law and Order.

  “He made moves a while back that blew up in his face and had…” He hesitated. “It got him some attention. We thought he’d smartened up, but then there were whispers about him teaming up with the Irish mob.”

  And The Sopranos.

  “I know Providence has a strong,” I automatically lowered my voice to whisper, “mob presence, but I didn’t know there was a big one here.”

  Judge chuckled, his cream soda eyes filled with amusement at my expense. “It’s okay, they’re not gonna hear you.”

  I would’ve flipped him off, but I didn’t want to delay the true crimes story he was weaving.

  “Italians fly under the radar and run protection, though they’ll fuck shit up if pressed. Irish are always crazy, out in the open, and up for anything. They were happy to team up with Nash and were planning to go after a rival strip club. But the Irish also have big mouths, so word got out before it could go down.”

  Thinking about the conversation the night before, I asked, “Does Nox own the other club?”

  “No.”

  “Is he involved in this?”

  “Yes.”

  I scowled in frustration. “Is this part of the story that’s not yours to tell?”

  Rather than touching his own nose to tell me I was correct, Judge reached over and tapped mine.

  Had it been anyone else, the move would’ve been as condescending as telling me to relax—and I wouldn’t have hesitated to let them know. But his smile made it playful rather than insulting. And in the midst of talking about illegal activities, the mob, and corruption, the levity was needed.

  “Based on your paranoia with me… observing you in the store, I’m guessing Nash hasn’t backed away?”

  “No. He’s been playing it friendly for a few months, sending,” he lifted his hands to make finger quotes, “gifts and incentives—”

  “What kind…” I started before remembering what Judge said Nash ran. “Never mind.”

  “We turned them away—and not nicely. Instead of moving on, we think he put one of his girls in Mayhem.”

  “How?”

  “She was hangin’ at a bar, and a brother tried to pick her up, but she played the long con. It worked. He pursued her hard and fell harder. Swore she was made just for him. And he was fuckin’ right. Every word, every look, every childhood story, and future goal had been crafted to hook him and get close, likely to collect info to report back to Nash.”

  I wasn’t sure what info they’d have that a man like Nash would want, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. That didn’t stop me from asking, “Did she get anything?”

  “His heart. Someone else’s dick in her mouth.” I gasped, and he quickly amended, “Her choice, not fuckin’ forced. Jesus.”

  “I didn’t think that.”

  At least I hoped it wasn’t that.

  Judge shot me a disbelieving look as he drained the rest of his mug. “He was careful with what he shared ‘cause he may have been stupid for her, but she wasn’t his old lady. And thank fuckin’ Christ she got caught before it got that far.”

  “Caught with someone else’s…”

  “Yeah. Friend of the club saw her out and recognized her from the pictures the brother had been showing off. Watched her chat up a dude, take a wad of cash, then take a different—”

  I put my hand up. “I do not need the details.”

  “Chance location. Chance timing.” Something I couldn’t read crossed his face. “Just fate.”

  “Badass bikers believe in fate?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  It didn’t work and my heart kicked into overdrive when he said, “They do when they’ve experienced it.”

  Breaking the intense moment, I chugged my coffee like I was dying of thirst, and it was the most important thing in the world.

  Which, well, it kinda was, but that was beside the point.

  Judge smiled like he thought my evasion was cute before turning serious. “Nox is gonna send over some pictures for you to look at, see if you recognize anyone.”

  A lifetime of binge-watching Law and Order had me primed and excited to do a photo array. At the same time, though, it made the surreal situation more real, the gravity of it sitting heavily on my chest.

  Someone actually destroyed my apartment on purpose. This isn’t a slapstick case of mistaken identity and over the top coincidences.

  Whoever is behind this was after me. Not some doppelganger. Not someone in the apartment one floor below me.

  Why am I on the radar of someone who runs guns, drugs, and women?

  “I’ve never even touched a gun,” I said out loud, staring at my cup. “I smoked a little weed in high school, but that’s it. And I think women are beautiful treasures, but I’ve never slept with one and certainly never paid to do it.”
>
  I jumped when Judge’s hands spanned my waist. On his knees, he turned me so I was facing him. “O—”

  “If you hadn’t taken me, I would’ve gone home to that disaster scene. I live alone. What if…” My words caught in my throat, coming out in a choked whisper. “What if they came back while I was there? While I was sleeping?” I gave a small, disbelieving scoff. “Never thought I’d say this, but it’s a really good thing I was kidnapped.”

  Judge squeezed my waist. “Fate.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ___________________________

  NEATLY STACKED AND STORED HOOKERS

  OPHELIA

  “WE’RE GOING OUT with some brothers.”

  Looking up from my book, I saw Judge leaning on the doorjamb of his bedroom, his hands shoved into the front pockets of his black jeans—ones with jagged rips at the knee that I was willing to bet hadn’t been there when he’d bought them. His white tee was bright and clean, contrasting with the well-worn black leather of his vest—no, his cut.

  In the almost week since I’d been brought there, I hadn’t left. And short of one time for a few hours, neither had he. I’d asked what he did for a living that allowed him to stay home for so long, and he’d said security. He hadn’t expanded, which I’d taken to mean I likely didn’t want to know.

  He may not have left, but a constant rotation of brothers came to see him. They’d had two meetings in their back room.

  Swedes had shown up every day to cook lunch and get dinner started or prepped. I’d tried telling him he didn’t have to, but him being territorial about the kitchen had not been an exaggeration.

  A couple of nights, brothers, and even some bunnies, had come by to chill and drink.

  The first time they’d shown, Judge had been in the back room with Jury, so I’d retreated to the bedroom—partially because I was an outsider in their territory and partially because I’d been intimidated. The next night when they’d come to watch a Bruins game, I’d tried to sneak off again, but a tipsy Judge had pulled me into his lap.

  I should’ve gone for his nipples.

  I should’ve just stood since his hold was possessive but not tight.

  I should’ve done anything but sit there, sharing sips of his vodka tonics and laughing at the hilarious stories of drunken nights—and some afternoons.