Savage Kiss_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Shattered Hearts MC

by Lena Pierce

  “But I do now,” I say, the suppressed rage in me making my voice low and grave. “I don’t know how the fuck this happened. Right under my nose. Women. Hard drugs. But I didn’t give a damn.” I rest my forehead on my fist. “I didn’t care. That’s the truth. I just wanted to drink and—” I glance at Meghan, cutting short.

  “And womanize,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to protect me. I’m not made of glass.”

  “Yeah. I know. It’s just … I’m trained to see what other folks don’t want me to see. How the hell did I miss this?”

  “You weren’t looking,” she says, lifting my chin with her finger so that I can see her reassuring smile. “How are you supposed to see something you don’t even know to look for?”

  “I guess so,” I murmur. Then I remember that Badger is watching. I move away from Meghan’s touch. “The question is, the fuck are we gonna do about this? ’Cause the way I see it, we’re not about to let him get away with it.”

  “No,” Badger agrees, “we’re not. I’ve been working to try and resolve this peacefully. But Jackson don’t want to resolve this peacefully, because he knows that to do that would be to admit fault and to pull back on his fucked-up business, and he doesn’t want to pull back on that. He’s spent too long building it. And he’s a petty tyrant,” he went on, musing. “Let’s not forget that. He’s king of his own private castle.”

  “So you’ve tried?” Meghan asks. “To make peace, I mean.” She seems intent on the question, as though a lot hinges on it. For her, it does; it’s the difference between peaceful resolutions being possible and laughable. “What did you do?”

  “I’ve sent messengers,” he says. “I can’t even count the number of messengers that I’ve sent. Mostly the men I sent came back empty-handed, but one man came back bleeding from every hole in his body.” His eyes go dead and he glances at Meghan.

  “I can take it,” Meghan says, straightening up. “Don’t coddle me.”

  I find myself smiling and see that Badger’s doing the same. “He came back bleeding from everywhere and barely able to walk. We cleaned him up and sat him down and he’d only say that he wanted to leave the club. Just kept asking to leave. Eventually we had to use—unsavory methods on him. It turns out a man named Rider tortured him in Jackson’s office.”

  “In his office.” I clench my fist and try to breathe away my anger. “In his fucking office, right there in the clubhouse. I might’ve been in the bar collecting my pay packet while it was going on.”

  “Torture angers you?”

  I laugh. “I don’t give a damn about torture. I give a damn about a team I’m part of torturing folks without me knowing about it.”

  “Yes.” Badger nods, stroking his chin. “That makes sense.”

  “I should just kill him,” I mutter. “It would be no hard thing, I reckon. Jackson and his pledges are dangerous men but they’re sloppy and unskilled. They wouldn’t see me coming, especially if I got one of my old army buddies to help me out. It’d be clean, and quick.”

  Meghan bites her lip, opens her mouth, closes it again.

  “What is it?” I ask, when she repeats the same routine twice.

  “I just … I don’t know. It’ll sound stupid. Even to me, it’ll sound stupid.”

  “He’s your brother,” Badger says. “And though you hate him, you don’t want to see him hurt.”

  “I want to see him hurt!” Meghan snaps.

  Badger folds his hands and smiles that detached smile again. “Then you want to see him hurt but the idea still makes you scared and sick.”

  “Yes,” she admits, looking at the floor. She meets my gaze after a moment. “I hate him, Dirk. I really, really hate him. But the idea of you just sneaking up on him and—But you should do it, though. Don’t let me get in the way. It’s for the best after everything he’s done.”

  “I’m not killing him if you don’t want me to,” I murmur, surprising myself.

  “Dirk,” Badger breaks in, “have you ever had any ambition to lead the club?”

  I laugh aloud at that, can’t help it: a burst of laughter. I quiet it with an effort and shake my head. “No, Badger, I’ve never had any ambition in that direction. I’ve lived my life as a soldier and then an enforcer and that was enough for me. Leading men, keeping them honest, keeping them sharp … that’s a job for somebody else.”

  “Is it?” Badger asks, far too eager. “Are you sure? Because it’s men like you, men who actually worry about keeping men honest and sharp, who make the best leaders. I can’t have this, no matter what; I can’t have women sold and men tortured and business stalled because some boy wants to play mafioso. No, something needs to happen. It was different when your father was involved in the MC, Meghan. He was a good man. A steadying influence.”

  “He was a good man,” Meghan whispers.

  “So, what do we do?” I ask, leaning back and watching the two of them. “We aren’t killing him, at least not yet. So what?”

  “You could confront him,” Badger says. “In front of the men, the real men, the ones who are being kept in the dark about all this just like you were. You might be able to turn some of them.”

  “I wouldn’t need many,” I say, nodding. “Just enough to outgun his pledges. And Jackson don’t inspire loyalty the way some men do. The men stick around ’cause they get paid. That’s the only reason I’m here. I reckon there are folks in the club who’ll be angry enough to come over to my side. But it’s a risk, going out in the open like that. A sniper bullet would make a whole lot more sense.”

  “Not for long-term stability,” Meghan says. “Think about it. If you assassinate Jackson, the club will assume it was the Sinners and the war will just get worse.”

  “Shit. Yeah, you’re right.” I shrug. “Confront him, then. See what happens. Badger, will you take Meghan and keep her somewhere safe until this is over?”

  “No.” Meghan is on her feet, arms folded. “I won’t do that. I won’t go with him.”

  “It’s to keep you safe, goddamn.” I stand up and take her by the shoulder.

  She moves away from me, glaring. “I refuse,” she says. “I’m in this, Dirk. I’m part of it now. I won’t just walk away.”

  I grab her arms and bring her close to me, staring into her face. “This is not a game,” I tell her. “I hate to break it to you, Meghan, but your brother’s a fuckin’ psychopath. I met men like him overseas, real cruel bastards who get a kick out of it.”

  “I know,” she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks. “I know exactly what he is. You don’t have to remind me. Which is why I have to be there. I won’t hide from him. He had my whole childhood to dictate me. He doesn’t get to do it anymore!”

  I release her and take a step back. I could force her, I know. I could pay Badger to take her somewhere and lock her up and then I’d come and get her when it was all over. I could do that, easily. And yet as I look into her eyes, I know that I’m not going to. Because I care now, goddamn, care about what she wants as well as what I want. This is important to her. I can tell that just by looking at her.

  “Fuck,” I snarl, turning and kicking a burnt-out stall. My boot goes straight through it. “Fuck! Fuck!”

  After a moment Badger walks up behind me.

  “I forgot you were here,” I say.

  “I didn’t see anything,” he assures me. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a card. “You can reach me at this number. Let me know how it goes.”

  I take the card and drop it into my pocket. Then I turn and it’s only me and Meghan in the store.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Meghan

  I stand statue-still for a long time, thinking. I think about the club and the store and all the effort I put into trying to turn this neighborhood into something different, something better. I was a positive force; that was the whole point. But now … When the first tear falls, I laugh, shocked at myself. But then another slides down my cheek, and another. All of a sudden I’m s
itting on the dirty floor with my face in my hands, weeping violently. Memories flit through my mind, a thousand vignettes from the store, and all I want is for time to reverse so that I can be back there: with Dirk, though, so time can’t reverse all the way.

  I feel Dirk close to me now, standing over me. I peek between my fingers. He’s standing there somewhat awkwardly, hand hovering over me as though he can’t decide whether or not to pat me on the shoulder.

  In the end he sits on the floor next to me and wraps his arm around me, squeezing onto me tightly. “What is it?” he asks.

  “What is it?” I laugh through the tears. “It’s—everything.” The tears take me again, even though I fight them and even though I want to be strong. I try to make myself hard, to kill the crying, but I fail miserably. More and more tears fall until I’m a mess leaning against him. “I just realized, I guess,” I go on, after some of the tears have done their worst, “that there is more at stake here than my store, or even Sissy, or even the club. There’s more at stake here than all of that, and … and I know it sounds selfish, and like I’m the biggest narcissist in the whole world. But I had plans for this neighborhood, Dirk, I mean real, tangible plans; I had them written down.”

  I glance at the roof, at my apartment.

  “I didn’t even back them up! Idiot!”

  “What plans?” he asks softly. He’s rubbing my back. I get the sense he’s doing it because he doesn’t know what else to do with a crying woman.

  “I was going to turn this neighborhood into a friendly place. I’m not deluded. I know there’ll always be crime here, or there will be crime here for a long time unless something massive changes. But I wanted to build a community. I was going to open a string of stores and make sure that each one was friendly to everybody who walked in. Then, one day in the future, the whole neighborhood would be friendlier as a result. And then maybe in the future some businessman type would find himself slumming it and come into one of my stores and realize that the people here aren’t so bad after all. He’d invest, and bring jobs, and …” I trail off. “Now I just sound like a politician.”

  “You have this all mapped out?” he asks. He sounds amazed.

  I look at him; he looks amazed too.

  “I did, yeah.” I wipe my eyes.

  “I’m sure you remember it,” he says. “When I was overseas and it was too dangerous to carry notes, I’d remember the big things first. The type of car, the first name of my target. Then I’d work my way down to the smaller things until I knew everything about it. I can walk you through it, if you want.”

  “Sure,” I say. Then I giggle, because his face is so kind and serious.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Who are you? Because you’re not the man who swaggered into my store just a couple of nights ago.”

  He growls out a laugh and then leans back, closing his eyes. “I see a man,” he says, with a faraway smile on his face. “He’s a mean bastard and he’s, no … he’s an evil prince.”

  “A prince!” I squeal, wiping more tears from my cheeks.

  “A prince,” he says. “That’s right. And he’s so mean and evil that everywhere he goes … ice follows,” he finishes. I can tell storytelling isn’t one of his many skills. “But one day there’s a pretty frog who comes hopping over to him.”

  “I better not be the frog,” I warn.

  “The prince kisses the frog, and the ice melts.” He opens his eyes sheepishly. “Maybe I ought to stick to violence.”

  “No,” I say, aware that I’ve become suddenly serious. “I don’t think that’s true at all. You could work as a mechanic again. Or you could do something else. I’m sure you could do any number of things, Dirk. You were in the army as an intelligence operative!”

  Dirk stands up and looks down at himself. He is covered in soot and grime from head to toe, his cheeks smeared with it, his clothes thick with it. I look down at myself and see that I’m the same.

  “I’ve got a number for a nicer motel,” he says, smiling at me with real kindness. “Maybe I ought to take you somewhere fancy for once, seeing as you’re my old lady now.”

  I leap to my feet and go to him, stand on my tiptoes, and kiss him on the cheek. “Did you mean that?” I ask. “Am I really your girlfriend?”

  “Girlfriend!” He grabs my ass, spanks me, and then grabs it again. “You’re my old lady. That’s much more serious.”

  We go outside to his bike. He hands me the helmet and I pull it on. The smell of the fire is thicker with the helmet closed around me. I feel like I’m breathing in the last moments of the fire. I calm myself, taking a few steady breaths, and then climb on the bike and wrap my arms around Dirk. That calms me even more. His body is solid and unyielding; it’s like clinging onto rock.

  We ride back through the town but this time we go further out, out of the neighborhood and toward the part of town where things start to get nicer. We pass modern apartment buildings and stores, big corporate restaurants and then, finally, a motel with all the lights working and a clean pool, with no sex workers or sex clients in sight. Dirk pulls into the carpark and waits for me to step off the bike.

  “What do you think?” he asks, taking off the helmet for me. “Better?”

  “Will they let us in like this?” I wave a hand at our soot-covered bodies.

  “I did a favor for the owner a long time ago,” he says.

  “What kind of favor?” I follow him toward the entrance booth.

  “Nothing much. He was having trouble with some men who decided they want to sell drugs on his premises. I convinced them that it wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Convinced them how?”

  He smiles at me. “Use your imagination.”

  We get the key and go to the largest room in the place, a suite with its own separate living room and bathroom. The bed is huge, the largest bed I have ever seen in real life. It reminds me of those oversized beds I always see in romantic comedies about rich people. The sheets are silk, and on the dresser there are two silk bathrobes as well as another change of clothes.

  “Wow,” I say, touching his hand as he passes by me. “You really know how to treat your old lady.”

  “We’ll wash and rest up this afternoon,” he says. “Tonight, we ride.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Meghan

  I step into the shower and let the warm water wash over me. Looking down between my legs, I see that the water that swirls down the plughole is almost completely black. I wash my face and my hair, wringing it in big handfuls, and then turn at the sound of the knocking door.

  “Hello?” I call, wondering if I should be having this much fun with what we have to do later. “Who is it?”

  “It’s your worst nightmare,” he replies. “But I’m knocking ’cause I’m a gentleman now, and a gentleman knocks.” He opens the door and looks at me, his jaw clenched, his temple pulsing. I have the shower door open. I turn around, showing him my ass, leaning forward and drinking his expression in. He’s utterly captivated, as though I am the only person in the world. I find myself putting on a show for him, turning and arching my back, pushing my breasts out. I run my wet hands over my wet nipples, grinning in delight as his cock goes hard.

  He undresses slowly, keeping his eyes on me the whole time, until he is standing there naked. Then he folds his arms and watches for a few minutes, muscled chest heaving, cock hard as though it has always been hard and will always been hard.

  “You’re so dirty,” I tell him, touching myself without even thinking about it. “Why don’t you come in here and clean yourself off?”

  “I don’t think I’d be able to refuse that invitation if I lived a thousand lifetimes, ma’am.”

  He walks into the shower and stands close to me, but not touching me. Not yet. Then he takes the shower gel from the counter and squirts some into his hand. “Let me,” he says, running the rose-red gel between his hands. He brings his hands to my ass and massages roughly, squeezing handfuls of flesh. I ba
ck into him, moving my hips from side to side, rocking with the motions of his grip. Sometimes his hands slide between my thighs, brushing my clit, and when that happens a surge moves through me. I shiver, endlessly, though the water is hot and pours over us nonstop.

  I bend forward, pressing my ass against his abs. I feel his cock against my thigh, a rod of pleasure brushing close to my pussy, and then back down. I reach behind me and grab his cock, but he slips away.

  “First you have to clean me,” he says.

  I turn on him. “You’re a monster,” I say, but I take the shower gel and start lathering it into his body. His muscles are as rock-hard as his cock, curving gloriously under my hand, each one rippled and tight. Veins press through some. Others are smooth as stone. I massage the shower gel into his body until my hands turn the color of long-dead fire and then I grab the showerhead and spray him, all while he stares down at me with a cocky grin. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me by making me wait. When he’s clean I return the showerhead to its slot and turn around, bend forward, and reach behind me for his cock.