by April Lust
Officer Jameson gave us a ride back to my apartment. He looked at me carefully. “Do you have a place to stay? Your apartment is technically a crime scene right now. You won’t be able to go inside for a few days.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah,” I said, thinking of Elizabeth. “I have a friend I can stay with.”
Jameson nodded. “Good. Do you need an escort to the hospital?”
I shook my head. “We’re fine, thanks,” I said.
Jameson gazed from me to Carson. He wagged a finger in our direction. “Remember what I told you,” Jameson warned. “Both of you.”
Carson nodded. “We’ll remember,” he said gruffly. “Thanks for the lift.”
Carson handed me a helmet and I climbed on the back of his bike. Wrapping my arms around him and clinging tightly felt like the most natural thing in the world. It was hard to imagine that soon I wouldn’t have him around anymore. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t imagine that he’d actually want to stay with me. The hospital could be the last place I saw him.
The drive seemed to take no time at all. Carson parked his bike and we walked towards the emergency entrance together. He looked down at me and raked a hand through his blond hair.
“Doesn’t really feel real, does it?”
“What?” I looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, this isn’t really an emergency,” Carson said with a smirk. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
“It’s important,” I said, blushing. “You might be hurt.”
Carson rolled his eyes. “I’m not hurt,” he grumbled. “But we’ll get this done and taken care of.”
As we walked into the emergency room, all eyes were on Carson. People gasped when they realized he was covered in blood and he grinned and held up his hands. I had the sense that he was enjoying this. Against my better judgment, a ripple of excitement went through my body.
After we’d checked in, I settled down on the leatherette chairs next to Carson. His frame was so big that he took up three seats and he stretched out and sighed.
“How long do you think we’ll be here?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Carson looked away and I felt that pang of anxiety flash through me again. “It’s fine,” he said. “Damn, what a week though, right?”
I nodded uneasily. “The worst I’ve ever had, probably,” I said. “Probably more typical for you.”
Carson laughed drily. “Not even a chance,” he said. “This tops almost everything to happen lately.”
A nurse stepped out from the back and called his name. He got up and followed her down the hall, turning around to glance at me one last time.
“I won’t be long,” he called. “Can you wait here?”
I nodded. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” I told him. But he’d already left.
When I was alone, I shut my eyes and let my head drop into my hands. I was so tired that reality seemed to have cling-wrap coating it. But every time I was without Carson, things just seemed so much worse. Maybe in another time, or another life, we could have gotten together and loved each other. Maybe. But not now, I thought dully. Not after all this .
I hated Lucas. I was glad that he was behind bars. A small part of me was even glad that Carson had beaten him so badly. He deserves it , I thought. I blushed. It was probably one of the meanest thoughts I’d ever had in my whole life, but it was true.
It took a couple of hours for Carson to re-appear. He swaggered out in his jeans, carrying his MC vest in his arms. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We walked out to the bike in silence. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Carson said. “I’m fine. How are you?”
I yawned. Carson laughed. “About like that,” I admitted, rubbing my face. “I want a bath. And a nap. And a pizza.”
Carson climbed on his bike and I got on behind him. I’d miss this, this speeding around on a big black engine. It made me feel both powerful and protected, like Carson himself was responsible for the thrill of riding a motorcycle. I shivered; the day was turning into dusk and I wasn’t wearing a heavy jacket.
The ride to Carson’s apartment took a long time. In my head, I was thinking of what I would say to Elizabeth. She’d bitch about it, but she’d let me stay, especially after I told her what happened. I closed my eyes and imagined the rest of my life alone, a spinster aunt to Amy. Elizabeth would probably get remarried. But after this, I knew I had to stay away from men for the rest of my life, especially men like Carson, men who were dangerous, because I could fall in love with them.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said in a strained voice. We were standing in the parking lot and I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. “I appreciate it. I’m gonna call my friend Elizabeth now. I think she’ll let me crash with her.”
Carson frowned. “And just why are you leaving?”
I looked at him. His face was completely open and sincere. But telling him was going to be hard. “Because I fucked up,” I said, looking down. “I fucked up and I assumed things were over between us. I put you in danger. I put you at risk of going to prison again!” Tears were beginning to prick my eyes and I looked at the ground, rubbing my toe against the asphalt. “I’m sorry,” I added. “I know that’s not good enough, but if I could change everything, if I could go back, I would in a heartbeat!”
“Caroline,” Carson said in his trademark gruff voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Come on,” I said bitterly. “You wouldn’t want to be with me now. You don’t want a woman who puts herself and you in bad situations all the time. And after everything that happened with Lucas?” I sniffed. “I know there’s no way it could work out between us.”
Carson sighed loudly. He put his helmet down on his bike and looked into my eyes. I felt a shiver of fear and arousal spike through my body when I realized I had no idea what he was thinking. “Caroline, that’s not true,” he said. “None of it is. I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to be without you.”
My heart lurched in my chest. “What?” I looked up at him. “But what about when I left? What about when I ran away from you the other night?”
Carson laughed. “So don’t do it again,” he said in a lighter tone. “And besides, you apologized for that. When you called me earlier today, you said you were sorry. Apology accepted.”
I stared at him, feeling dumbfounded. “Are you sure?”
Carson reached out and wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me close. In a second, I felt my body slam against his. “I’m more than sure,” he said, nuzzling my hair. A spark of electricity jumped between us. “And if you ever try to leave again, I’ll tie you to my bed.”
I sagged against him. Relief and love were flooding my body. “I love you,” I said quietly into his chest. “I love you, Carson.”
Carson hugged me tighter. “I love you too,” he said. “Now come on. Let’s go inside. I have a feeling we have a lot of catching up to do.”
THE END
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BEAST: Renegade Reapers MC
By April Lust
THE BEAST WANTS A BITE OF ME.
It was the perfect name for a man like him.
Beast.
I was just bait in his trap.
But now he’s about to swallow me whole.
Bikers and mobsters and violence, oh my.
I was innocent, ignorant…
Until a past I’d forgotten came racing back to consume me.
Until a beast came out of the darkness.
Not just any beast – but Beast himself.
He’s rugged and tatted, scarred and seductive.
He licks his lips when he sees me like I’m some tas
ty treat.
And when he lays his hands on me, I realize the truth:
That’s exactly what he thinks I am.
He wants to use me so he can win his bloody war.
But once he gets a taste of my body, he wants to use me for other things, too.
I want away from this hell, by any means possible.
But not if it means leaving Beast behind.
Because the only thing I want more than my old life back…
Is for him to take me like an animal.
Chapter 1 Beast
I enter the theater at half-past nine, wearing a jet-black shirt and coat over dress pants. I’m a man on a mission. It’s chilly out, late winter, and New York City is covered in a blanket of white dust. I’m here to kidnap the rising star dancer, Natalia Pestova, a beautiful vixen with curly brown hair and large almond eyes. In the last photo I saw of her, she was in full costume preparing to twirl her way across a hardwood floor. She’s been plastered on posters, featured in magazines, and I’ve read countless interviews detailing her life thus far as a dancer.
Adopted from Russia, Natalia has no clue who her real parents are. But I know. Her father is the infamous Abram Pestov, a Russian motorcycle boss who’s been killing my guys on my turf. He’s a man feared across New York City. I’ve heard terrible stories of the things he’s done both in and out of Russia. I’m not sure when he immigrated to the U.S., but his presence here has been a dark cloud over my existence. When I saw him last, we got into a fight so bad I broke my arm and my nose. But that’s old news.
We recently decided it’s time to put an end to this. Tonight, my boys and I are going to make sure Pestov is killed. Even if it takes every one of the Renegade Reapers to do it.
In the meantime, I’m going to lure him to me in the only way I know how: through his darling daughter, Natalia.
The production isn’t meant to go on until tomorrow night. They’re going to be performing Swan Lake , one of my favorites. I may look like a rough guy, but I’ve always had a soft spot for the arts. It’s something I get from my mother. Back before I got involved in all this dealing and lying, my mother would read Edith Wharton to me every night before bed. It didn’t matter to her that I was young and could hardly understand the concept of The House of Mirth , let alone enjoy it. It’s what got me interested in literature in the first place. The mere fact that Natalia is performing Swan Lake is incredible to me. It brings back so many memories of my youth and of the dreams I once had that were taken away from me. I try not to think about that now, though. That shit’s too painful – it’s long gone, and right now, I know I need to focus on the present.
I see the ballerinas are preparing. They’re floating across the waxy stage, their tutus like flowers fluttering in the wind. I stick to the back of the theater, ducking into the last red row of chairs before anyone can see me. I doubt I’d be in trouble if I were caught, though it would definitely be more difficult to kidnap Natalia.
I can tell she’s the prima ballerina, what with the way she floats across the stage ahead of the other girls. She’s got the hottest body out of all of them. Every time she moves I see muscles rising and falling like dark waves in a sea. Some of the other girls stare at her angrily, while others are concentrating on their own movements. They leap, fall against each other, roll their calves back and forth, and I find I’m attracted to all of them, wanting to take each one into my arms.
The last woman I’d slept with was killed in a turf war with Abram. We’d traveled to Brooklyn to a warehouse party, intent on drinking and having a good time. When we got there, everything seemed fine. The warehouse was enormous and lit from the inside with dark red lights. It was meant to resemble the red-light district, and all the partygoers were dressed as pimps and prostitutes.
I could hardly make out what music was playing, let alone what language it was being sang in. We’d be running around the floors on the upper level, each of us wearing the black and red attire of the Renegade Reapers, but we didn’t care if we stuck out. Until we ran into Abram’s guys. They thought we were encroaching on their turf; one of my guys had drugs on him, dealing to the people at the party. Before I knew what was happening, she was gone. I tried to make sense of it for weeks, spending my nights breaking what I could: my life, mailboxes, windows, doorways, you name it. I robbed more than I ever have before, and it was fun. It managed to make things feel a little okay, though they weren’t.
They almost caught me. More than once. But one time sticks out the most. I’d been snooping around the master bedroom of a brownstone when I heard the front door open. A couple entered, a man and a woman, young and in love. I could hear their feathery voices and giggles wafting up the staircase. Her perfume was vanilla and strong. His aftershave was light and had hints of blueberry. I wanted so badly to strangle them, so their lungs fizzled out like bright red balloons. I heard them running up to the bedroom, the man tossing his shoes into the foyer while the woman shouted at him.
They burst into the room and flopped down on the bed and began kissing all over one another’s bodies. I was hiding in the closet with my legs pressed up against the hardwood. It’s not something I’ll ever admit to anyone, but I thought of my late ex, her hair, the sweet scent on the back of her neck and began to cry.
The last time I had cried was when the school bullies broke my nose as a kid. My father beat the shit out of me, told me not to be weak, and then made me a bowl of soup. From that point forward, I vowed never to cry again. But Abram took something from me. He took my woman, her life cut short because of the selfishness of another.
I can hardly think about it without growing red with anger, without becoming murderous. Twice Doc and I have gotten into drunken bar fights because of this. My emotions get the best of me, and I take it out on everyone around me in the hopes of fixing my problems. Does it ever work? Well I haven’t murdered anyone today, so I suppose the answer to that question would be “yes.”
There’s no point in killing off their gang; it would only result in more violence based on which gangs take our side and vice versa. Violence begets violence and thus continues the cycle.
At least, that’s what most people think.
“Hi,” says a cheery voice.
I jump slightly before realizing one of the dancers is sitting next to me. “Hey,” I say, turning to find a girl dressed all in pink. She looks much younger than the others, probably in her early twenties. Her hair is pulled back tightly into a blond bun. When I look into her eyes I see they’re cornflower blue. Her skin is as pale as a piece of paper. She looks like a ghost.
I don’t know why she’s talking me, but she makes me curious. I want to learn more about her. I don’t get to hang out with other people. The gang kind of prevents that. In fact, I’m the leader, and I’m busy enough as it is selling and buying. I want to learn more, though. I want to get inside her head. If it’ll make getting Natalia easier, I’ll do anything.
“Why aren’t you up on the stage performing?” I ask, gesturing towards the others. We might as well have a halfway decent conversation while I’m still here.
“I’m just the backup,” she says glumly. I watch as she rests her head on her fists, the universal sign of stress and boredom.
“Well, that’s okay, too,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll make it in someday.”
Out of all the things I could be doing, I have no idea why I’m coaxing this chick into making it to the stage. She’s not even afraid of me, which certainly says something about her character. She’s probably dated older men like me before, dangerous guys who pushed her around and threatened her with cigarettes.
“Why are you talking to me?” I ask, my voice gruff and low. Behind us a door opens and closes. The sound guy walks towards his booth and begins to tool around with the knobs. Immediately the room is flooded with music. I crane my head towards the girl and notice she’s gotten up and is now floating down the aisle towards the others. Like an apparition, her clothing moves behind her. She looks l
ike the ghost of an exotic fruit come to haunt the other girls into eating her.
The woman in charge emerges from the front row and begins to shout directions at the girls. She explains to them that in this moment, they must be fully committed to their craft. She needs them to think about what it’s like to live the double life—as both swan and girl.
I understand this better than anyone. The concept of lying during the day and telling the truth only at night. Many of my family members have abandoned me because of what I’ve become. They think I’m a monster, someone who deserves to spend the rest of his life in jail. And maybe they’re right.
A little over a year ago, I realized I had to cut ties with my family members because of who I am with the club.
It was a beautiful day outside, and I was spending time at my mother’s house in Staten Island. We were having a cookout in the backyard to celebrate the twentieth year she’d been divorced. My mother enjoys the stranger things in life, which is probably why I turned out the way I did.