by Marie James
“Frances, you don’t—”
Cristina holds her hands up, and a miracle happens. My son snaps his jaw closed and shuts the fuck up.
“We’ll discuss business tomorrow?” Lynch nods at her as I tug her to the chapel doors.
As if she’s been here watching over me forever, she heads right for my room, opening the door and locking us inside.
“I don’t know how to be gentle anymore.” She doesn’t deserve what I’ve been giving to the whores since she left. “You’ll have to remind me.”
Her hands are on my zipper as her head shakes back and forth. “I don’t want gentle, Cowboy. I’ve heard all of the stories. Heard that you can’t find a woman who can handle what you have to give.”
Her mouth presses against my jaw, and I hate the coke I’ve been snorting for decades. It leaves my skin without sensation. Her warm breath barely registers, and I drop my eyes, ashamed of the mess I’ve become since she left.
“Why did you leave me?” The emotion in my voice hasn’t been around in a very long time. Since before Massachusetts. Before Hell broke loose in Miami.
“I’m not going anywhere, baby.” Her hands press against my chest, and I fall to the bed, thankful she’s able to get my boots off. I can’t recall the last time I’ve fucked someone completely naked, but Cristina deserves to see every inch of my body. She needs to see the scars she left behind, and I hope she’s aware of all of my pain. There’s no way she could have a full understanding unless she reached into my chest and pulled out my dead heart, the very same organ that stopped beating so many years ago right along with hers.
“Impressive,” she praises as her hand strokes the length of my nearly hard cock.
“Please,” I beg. “Make love to me.”
Not one single time in my life have I ever uttered those words, but they feel like the right thing to say.
“Love isn’t what I need.”
Faster than my brain can read, she’s on her knees, my cock disappearing into her mouth.
“Jesus, baby.” Cupping the back of her head, I frown when she tangles her fingers in mine, forcing my hand to grip her harder.
“Fuck my mouth,” she pants. “Make me choke on it.”
“What?” My girl would never say shit like that. She always got mad when I lost control and shoved in too far.
Unsatisfied with my effort, she bends down further, swallowing around my head with her nose pressed to my stomach.
“Goddammit,” I hiss. It’s the most incredible feeling in the world, but at the same time, it’s all wrong. “Stop.”
With my hand tangled in her hair, I rip her off my cock.
“Is this how you’ve spent your time away from me?” Her brows draw together, but heat fills her eyes as her perfect, pink tongue licks at her lips. “You leave me to turn into a whore?”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. “I’ve always been a whore.”
“Is that what you want?” I seethe.
“There he is,” she taunts as I throw her on the fucking bed.
She may have approached me earlier in black leather pants and a tank top that barely held her tits, but as if by a miracle, she’s laying back on my bed naked with her legs parted. The heaven at the apex of her thighs is completely bare, glistening with arousal just like every whore that has shown up at the clubhouse.
“What the fuck have you done?” Cristina would never shave her pussy. I’d begged more times than I could count, and she refused every time. She’d tell me she wasn’t a whore. That only whores shaved their cunts.
“You seem angry,” Cristina taunts from the bed as her fingers slip down her stomach and graze her clit.
This woman is exactly what I thought I wanted so many years ago. I wanted her to be as filthy as the bitches I had to fuck on the side. I wanted the bare pussy and deep-throating. I wanted a woman who moans instead of bitches when I pinched her nipples or tried to fuck her ass. Now that she’s acting this way, I realize I never wanted my girl to be a whore. She was perfect how she was.
“I’m pissed,” I spit, answering her words.
“Take it out on me then. I can handle whatever you dish out.”
Leaning over her, she barely has time to pull her fingers from her slurping cunt before I slam inside of her.
“Yes,” she moans, her eyes pinned to mine. They’re full of filth and promise, and a ton of other things my muddled brain can’t distinguish right now. “That’s it. Fuck me harder.”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Quit complaining. You’ll take what I give you, and fucking beg for more.”
A confused look draws her brows in, but then a sexy moan escapes her lips as I shift my hips and enter her at a different angle. By pure instinct, my hand slips up and circles her throat. I may get a handful of seconds before she tells me to stop, so I take full advantage of her blissed-out distraction.
“Harder,” she moans, swiveling her hips.
I’m fixing to confess my inability to thrust any harder than I already am, but realize my mistake when her hand grips mine and she presses harder around her neck.
“You fucking slut,” I spit as my hand clenches harder. “God, I love your Colombian pussy.”
“I’m going to fucking come.” Her words are barely audible with her loss of breath.
Jesus, I’ve never felt something so perfect in my life. Her body convulses under mine, pussy squeezing me tighter than I’ve ever felt in my life. My eyes slam shut as I pound harder. My thrusts take more concentration than they should. I vow just as my cum is spilling inside of her that I’m done with the drugs and the hard life. I want to remember every second of the time I spend inside of her.
Crashing down on the bed, I pull her against my chest before my breathing can calm completely.
“I’m so fucking glad you’re home,” I whisper against her forehead as blackness claims me.
Chapter 12
Today
Like always, my head is pounding a vicious tempo as the sun sweeps across the room. Time doesn’t matter. It hasn’t for some time now. Shifting my legs, I groan at the stiffness in them.
Last night’s dream comes barreling back into my head, and a smile I haven’t felt in as long as I can remember spreads across my face. Dreaming of Cristina is a regular occurrence for me. Actually waking up feeling as if I spent my night inside of her doesn’t happen very often.
I turn my head and frown when my beard tangles with dark brown hair. I never fuck brunettes. Since Cristina was taken from me, I’ve preferred blondes and redheads. The pain is always too much with a woman with dark hair under me or tied to my bed.
“Get out,” I mumble, shifting my arm to get the woman off of me. “Get the fuck out!”
When she doesn’t move, I shove at her. She’s stiff under my hands.
“You know better than to fall asleep in here.”
It isn’t until I climb out of bed and look down that my heart stops for a few beats before thundering in my chest.
Cristina’s vacant eyes stare back up at me. Her arms are stiff, holding an awkward position. Her skin is dark purple, and in my head, I know that her blood has pooled under the skin while she was face down, but nothing fucking makes sense.
“Baby?” I mutter as my stomach roils and turns.
She doesn’t respond. Of course, she fucking doesn’t.
“Cristina!” I yell.
I reach for her but think better of it. I can’t do this again. Losing her the first time was hard enough. There’s no way I can survive this a second time.
“No, no, no,” I chant as I reach behind me and open my bedroom door.
I expect to fall on the floor when my door swings open, but rough hands grip me until I’m standing.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Lynch?” I turn around and stare into my son’s eyes. My stomach turns again. He was only a boy the first time his mother left us. There’s no way he can survive this now.
“Why all the fucking screaming?”
Briar walks down the hallway, scratching his bare chest.
“Dad?” Lynch repeats. I turn so his back is to the room. My brain is running, but no actual ideas are coming up. I can’t let him see her, so I position myself against the wall and force him to face me.
“Awe, fuck,” Briar mutters. “What have you done, Cowboy?”
I reach for Lynch’s shoulders, but he spins out of my grip too fast.
I can’t look into the room, but I hear Briar’s voice.
“She’s been gone for a while. From the looks of her, I’d say shortly after they came in here last night.”
“What the fuck have you done?” I’ve seen my son livid before, but it’s been a while. He’s an expert at schooling his emotions. I should expect nothing less, though. I want to reach for him, to explain I know exactly what he’s feeling. That I know how hard it is to see your mother dead, but this isn’t my situation. This isn’t walking in on your mother with a needle still in her arm because she choked on her own vomit.
“I-I don’t know what happened,” I stammer.
I honestly don’t, but the look in his eyes isn’t forgiving. Hatred is all I see.
“Church,” Lynch spits. “Briar, wake all the other fuckers up. We have a fucking situation.”
My son steps past Briar and enters my room. From the corner of my eye, I see him cover his mother up with the crumpled sheet before stepping back out into the hallway.
“Cover your fucking dick up,” he spits as clothes are tossed into my arms.
My bedroom door is slammed as I shove my trembling legs into my jeans. With rough hands, he guides me down the long hall. I anticipate him leading me out of the house through the kitchen, but instead, he shoves open the doors to the chapel and pushes me into a chair. Then the fucker takes a seat at the head of the table. My fucking seat. His back is rod straight, and if I were a better man, I could admit how good he looks sitting there, but I’m not a good man. The sight of him in my spot makes me want to split his head open with a fucking machete.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve,” I hiss.
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Listen here, you—”
With a thunderous noise, his fists hit the table. “I’ll fucking gag you if I have to.”
The fire in his eyes guarantees he’s telling the truth.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” My head drops. Can’t he see this is killing me, too? That the love of my life is cold and stiff in my fucking bed.
My guys file inside, and I have no doubt that Briar has filled them in on my sins because none of them look in my direction. Everyone’s eyes are at the head of the table where I should be sitting.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Lynch asks once the chapel doors snap closed.
A lump clogs my throat, leaving speech impossible.
“Frances Jimenez’s husband took over for Alejandro when he died a couple of years ago. Despite your fuck up in Miami decades ago, they were willing to open up their lines for us, but you just fucking ensured each of our fucking deaths.”
I don’t bother even hiding my confusion. “What does that have to do with Cristina?”
A huff comes from the side. I’m certain it’s TJ, but my eyes don’t leave my oldest son.
“My mother fucking died because of your coke problem twenty-five fucking years ago. Last night you killed her fucking sister, my goddamned aunt,” Lynch says each word slowly as if he’s well aware I won’t understand him anyway.
“Sister?” My head is shaking of its own accord.
“The fuck are we going to do now?” TJ asks his brother.
“We’re fucked,” Briar says.
“There’s no way to cover this up,” Lynch says.
“Jesus,” Manic hisses as his phone starts to ring. “It’s Luis.”
“Don’t answer it,” TJ urges.
“That’s not how we do business,” Lynch spits as he snaps the phone out of Manic’s hand.
He answers the phone in perfect Spanish, and once again I’m confused. I didn’t even know the asshole knew the damn language.
“Keep an eye on him,” Lynch says as he presses the phone to his chest before walking out of the room.
Silence fills the room, and I want to beg for forgiveness. I’m so fucking confused about what’s going on, and there’s only one way to clear my mind.
“TJ, get my tin,” I order.
“Fuck you, old man. You don’t get to make demands any longer. You sure as fuck don’t need any more fucking dope.”
Looking around the table, I try to find one person that will do as I say, but half of the guys I barely recognize. When did I get so fucking lost that I don’t know my own men? Each and every damn one of them has my club’s patch on their chests, but their faces aren’t familiar.
Dropping my head in defeat, I close my eyes. Wishing this fucking day away doesn’t work.
“What do you think is going to happen?”
“Shut the fuck up, TJ,” Briar snaps.
The doors open again after what seems like days, and Lynch walks in, handing the phone back to Manic.
“Brother?” my best friend asks. My head lifts, and I see him deferring to my son rather than me. It stings more than I’ll ever admit.
“Jiménez has only one demand to make this right,” Lynch says.
“Fuck,” Manic mutters as if Lynch explained what has to happen, but I never heard the damn words. “There’s no other way?”
“It’s been a long-ass time coming,” TJ adds with enthusiasm.
From the looks in their eyes, I know what’s coming. I guess I always knew it would happen this way. I just never thought it would be over some chick. I still can’t wrap my head around it not being Cristina dead in my bed, but I’m grateful for their explanation. I couldn’t live with myself if she was killed a second time because of me.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode when my head reminds me that her death was also on my hands. Twenty-plus years of time has done nothing to ease the pain in my chest. Kilo after kilo of coke over the years has only made that pain ache more.
“Get him to the basement,” Lynch mutters. “I’ll meet you guys down there.”
I stand, willing my legs to move on their own. I’ll be damned if I’ll be a pussy and force these men to carry me kicking and screaming into the basement.
“Where’s Molly?” I ask.
“At boarding school,” TJ mutters. “Where she’s been for years. She doesn’t need to see this shit.”
“I want to talk to her,” I demand.
Lynch spins around and presses his chest against mine. It’s been so long since we’ve been this close, I’m honestly surprised that he’s grown taller than me. “You don’t get to make demands. We’ll all be lucky if Jiménez doesn’t go back on his word, killing her to get back at the club.”
My head nods, even though my heart breaks a little more. Everything I’ve fucking done with this club was to ensure my children’s safety and security. I know I’ve gotten lost a little on the way. I also know that my son is forced to do exactly what he’s doing. I can die knowing the club is in good hands.
Chapter 13
“You fucking pussy,” I hiss as TJ’s fist meets my jaw for the third time.
“I fucking hate you,” he roars as his elbow meets my mouth on the backswing.
Spitting blood at his feet, I smile back at him. “Then I’ve done my fucking job.”
An urge to fight back, to show his ungrateful ass how a real man fights hits me square in the chest. Pulling at my wrists does nothing but irritate the skin under the ropes. TJ took a lot of pleasure in tying me up. Seems he has a fondness for rope just like his brother.
Lynch enters, pulling TJ back. The very rope he’s become famous for flows through his fingers as if it’s a living breathing thing. Without a word, he slips the noose over my head, tightening it before nodding to some asshole at my back. I’m lifted up until my feet are resting on a sturdy c
rate.
His hands reach up, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to wrap his arms around me. I stiffen when he gets closer. I didn’t raise him to be emotional. He doesn’t reach around me though. His hand pulls just short of my leather cut.
“You have disgraced this club for as long as I can remember.” With nimble fingers, he rips my PRESIDENT patch from my chest.
I nearly give in to the rope around my neck. The loss of that simple strip of fabric feels as if my legs have been cut off at the hips.
“So this is it?” My mouth is parched. The blood flowing from the corners is the only moisture available to quench my thirst. The taste of copper fills my mouth as I lick my lips, but the effort is futile. There’s no need to drink when I won’t be alive long enough to even begin the early stages of dehydration.
Cold, soulless eyes stare back at me. He doesn’t respond, and I don’t ever expect him to. I created him in my image. His entire life has been spent learning how to be an astute businessman in a world where mistakes are paid for with a life.
I made a mistake.
Now, I’ll pay.
For a brief moment, his eyes glass over. Emotion is a useless tool in our world, and I’m disgusted to see even a flash of it in his eyes.
If my hands weren’t tied behind my back, my fist would meet his nose for the infraction. Rolling my head on my shoulders, I revel in the burn of the rope as it chafes my wrists.
I refuse to pull my eyes from his, refuse to look away. I won’t give him a reprieve. He has to face what he’s doing, and when he lays his head down tonight, he has to live with it. As always, he disappoints me when he looks away first.
“Look me in the eye,” I demand.
The clench of his jaw is telling. He hates me. He loves me. He’s going to become me.
His eyes finally meet mine, mere seconds after nodding his head at my second in command.
The emotion in his eyes from earlier is gone. The only thing that remains is the callous cruelty I’ve been desperate to see for years.
“See you in Hell, Dad.”
Pride fills my black heart just as the crate is kicked out from underneath my boots.