Hunter: MC Romance (Hell Reapers MC Book 1)

by Liz Lorde

  His touch ignited me where his hands fell.

  Stay cool, stay cool. Ignore those desires, Ives, you’re supposed to be detailing and crushing this man’s organization - you can’t afford to have the hots for him.

  But hots I had. Hots in spades.

  “Like this?” I asked sheepish.

  “Yeah,” Hunter rumbled, trailing his hands upwards, his rough fingers tracing my slick skin - sending rivulets of cold fire wherever they touched; he left me burning with a dark desire, a salacious hunger that dully throbbed against my nipples now. I could feel them stiffen. “Now bring your arms out like this,” he whispered, his breath licking against my neck and ear; his hands went from my shoulders, to my wrists, and he stretched my arms out forward, putting them at an equal level.

  “You’re really good at this,” I breathed, feeling a heat swirl in my throat and a joyous press against my heart. I wondered just how good Hunter Synn would be at other activities, outsides of bikes and muscles and the like.

  “It’s what I do,” he said unimpressed with himself, “now bend down like you were sitting on a chair, like this,” he explained, easing me downward. I would have been lying if I’d said I didn’t enjoy every second of feeling his body so tightly pressed against mine; a horribly dirty thought skirted along the surface of my mind when I felt something in particular press firmly against my butt.

  It couldn’t be. I tried to get a look of his crotch, but was unable – not without making it super obvious, and I’d rather not die from embarrassment.

  “There you go,” he encouraged, “now you try it by yourself.”

  ***

  By the time that we finished with all of the push-ups and squats and jogging, I was a complete wreck of exhaustion, hatred and immense sexual frustration. I was disappointed in that he had put his shirt back on, but enjoying a good vanilla cone along the boardwalk with good company was nothing short of pleasant.

  The bustle of the boardwalk itself wasn’t so bad, not nearly as much foot traffic as there usually was. For the most part, Hunter and I were by ourselves.

  “Still can’t believe you’re a vanilla kind of girl, didn’t peg you as one,” Hunter remarked, cursing beneath his breath when a drop of his chocolate, salted caramel and frozen strawberries ice cream fell to his white tee.

  “Don’t tell me, ‘cause I don’t want to know,” I slid my tongue across the icy goodness, my mouth salivating for every taste.

  “I figured you’d go for orange sherbet.”

  I let out a genuine, albeit stiff laugh, “Wow. Really?”

  “The hair,” he smirked. “Do the drape—“

  “No,” I insisted over his voice, “no no no, you’re not asking me that.”

  The cool winds buffeted us, granting a small reprieve from the bombastic heat. “So about last night,” Hunter said as we walked off the boardwalk and up the ancient wooden steps, steps that creaked with our every footing, “you shouldn’t be so embarrassed.”

  I’m always embarrassed, “About what?” I asked. The sound of our footfalls touching my ear as we walked down the sullen pier.

  “Of your voice, it’s the damn near prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, Jessica.”

  I nipped at the ends of my cone, “It’s nothing special,” I decried, “you’re only saying that because you want to get in my pants.” We took several more steps before reaching the end of the pier.

  “If I wanted to be inside of you,” Hunter swiveled to face me, his soulful eyes raking over me, “I would have taken you last night,” he straightened out his posture, before his lips curled into a thin smile; he ate some of his ice cream casually. “Hard.”

  Fingers of fire sifted through my insides, and I felt a ball of need grow between my legs, “If you had, I would have turned you down.”

  “Liar,” he called me out in quick response, eating at the cone of his ice cream now, leaning coolly against the end of the pier – his arm rested against the dark wooden beam. “I could smell it on you, you wanted it just as bad as I did – I just chose not to.”

  “Yeah?” I stepped closer in challenge, “were you afraid, is that it?”

  “I’m not afraid,” Hunter said between his teeth, placing his cone down on the wooden beam and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Spoken like a coward,” I japed.

  Hunter matched my previous step, getting in dangerously close now. He brought a hand up to my chin, his fingers just touching me – but I smacked him away. This only seemed to raise the man’s ire, and he redoubled his efforts; pulling me against him and taking what little remained of my cone away from me, setting it down beside his. He brought his hand back to the spot on my chin.

  All I could do was look up into those eyes that ensnared me, giving in to that golden heat that roared around us in a circle; I submitted to the electricity of our connection.

  Seagulls above sung their songs, and waves thundered as they crashed against the helpless shore.

  “Test me,” Hunter snarled, “and I’ll bend you over right here. I have my reasons for everything that I do,” he said, “but you?”

  I searched his face as he stole the breath from my lungs. The shores were dark; I the drifting boat among the sea, and he the mighty house that shot from the drowning stones I could not see – his light pulling me to harbor. Hunter exhaled a breath, “you’re an enigma. You show up at the club and I can’t keep my eyes off of you. You say you sing for a living, but you’re nervous and shy and sullen; and so many kinds of gorgeous I find everything about you has to be some kind of red flag – but fuck ‘em.”

  I found my voice, that was locked somewhere deep within, “We’re all puzzles wanting, wishing, hoping to be solved,” I confessed, my chest heaving with my breath. I knew that the two of us, even despite how much of an attraction there was, could never be. “That doesn’t mean that we can be,” I continued, “I’m not even sure, if we’re born with all the pieces anyhow.”

  Hunter loosened his grip on me, lowering his hand and stepping backwards, “Yeah?” He asked, “well let’s make some.”

  Chapter 9

  I’d followed Hunter’s red 87 Charger to a place down the way, a dinghy bar called Alister’s. I pulled into the parking lot, which was mostly empty – save for the rows of immaculate motorcycles, all beast and hellish engine and chrome. Stepping out of my car, I slammed down the door and checked the lock - my baby had a case of being particularly stubborn with keeping itself locked.

  Walking around the side of the building, I moved against the cracked pavement. It looked as though some barely pubescent kids had come around and started taking hammers to the concrete; ants nestled between both the natural dips and the yawning crevices – a veritable hodgepodge of weeds were sprouted upwards, reaching for whatever they could.

  Sirens went off in the distance, and what would better pass as rolling death coffins of barely held together scrap rather than real vehicles, sputtered along the roadways. Corner kids dressed in raggedy white tees and baggy denim quietly eyed me like judges passing their mute sentence.

  The side of Alister’s bar was a darkly colored set of bricks, but whereas the neighboring buildings and sidewalks were a mix of poorly done graffiti and other tagging, the bar remained pristine in its appearance – aside from the signs of natural building age. I rounded the corner then, and made my way to the front. There were extravagant, oak double doors that held a series of intricately woven patterns on their face. It looked decidedly decadent in comparison to the rest of the more rustic look of the outside.

  Pushing on through, I went inside.

  All eyes were fixated on me, like I had intruded upon some holy ground - some sacrosanct place that I wasn’t fit for. Couldn’t say that I disagreed, what with half the patrons being dressed in black and leathers or wearing a colorful motley of tattoos – most had all of the above. The lights shone down amber, spilling across the bar and the tables – giving it the feel of walking into some rich man’s privat
e chambers where he would smoke and drink the days away.

  The floor was a bright and fresh set of wood; the bar itself looking more like the double doors, being a rich, dark oak. Behind it was a vast collection of various liquors, wine bottles and other glasses – a plethora of colors to behold.

  There at the head of the bar sat Hunter. He turned around to face me, jumped up from his seat and strode over to me. “Did I lose you?” He inquired.

  “Yeah I just took a wrong turn is all,” I replied.

  “I want you to meet my people,” he said, slinging an arm around my waist and escorting me through; there were some faces that I recognized. Jameson, with his pine cone colored manbun. Reyes, his auburn hair still slicked permanently back - he had a cynical scowl etched on his hard face. Lastly, there was the blond haired woman - for some reason she was staring daggers at me. “Everyone, this is Jessica. She’s good people, so let’s treat her right. And Tommy?”

  Some wild looking creature of a man, with short, chocolate brown hair peeking through the blue of his bandanna, craned his head to look at Hunter. The man had wild green eyes and a goofy, sort of aloof smile that had a curious energy behind it. This Tommy character looked more of a glam rocker than a biker, or perhaps a peculiar mix of the two. “Yeah boss?” Tommy asked.

  “Don’t, for the love of god, get crazy and show her your ass.”

  A dumb, giddy kind of snigger rolled out of Tommy’s throat, “Can’t promise that, you know me too well H!”

  “Yeah,” Hunter exhaled a hard breath, “unfortunately we all know you a little too intimately.”

  The bartender, some ten feet away from me, stoically glanced my way as he polished up a pint glass. He was a short, maybe 5‘5, portly bald headed man with green eyes, and a black bow-tie. He looked closer to 35, whereas the others looked surely no older than 28.

  “That’s Mozz,” Hunter explained, “yes like the cheese.”

  As Hunter hurried me along and I passed them; Jameson flashed me a pleasant and bright smile, where Reyes gave me a hard and biting look, his smoky gray eyes assessing me just as they had the night we met.

  “You do remember those two assholes, yeah?” Hunter’s lips curled into a playful smile.

  “How could I forget,” I shot a forced smile at Reyes.

  “This is Brad,” Hunter stepped away from me, “he’s the President of our little club,” pride was thick in his voice. Brad stood before me with a pearly-white grin, looking like a proper patriarch of the palatial bar.

  “I’ve always heard that you guys were a gang,” I announced, reaching my hand out to Brad. He was a tall guy, older than anyone else in the room - maybe nearing fifty. He had salt for a beard, which was thickly groomed and hadn’t been shaved in years. The man had short, taut curls of silver for a head of hair.

  Brad extended his giant bear paw of a hand to me, shaking hands with me, “A gang is a pack of scum suckers,” his voice boomed with authority, and it had an almost dad like quality to it. Friendly, but not too friendly - intimidating, but only enough to send a shiver through my belly. “A club?” He said, gripping my hand a little tighter than I was comfortable with, “that’s a sacred bond.”

  Jameson chimed in, a somberness to his tone, “A true brotherhood.”

  Reyes’s word came out in a deep rumble, “Family.”

  Brad’s lips curled into a smile then, “Family,” he affirmed. Brad had a fatherly face, and kind light brown eyes. He had a bullish nose, a thick neck and a set of broad shoulders - and from my vantage point I could see the beginnings of some ink beneath his cloudy grey Henley.

  “Well I’d try and convince them otherwise,” I laughed nervously, “but they’d never listen to me anyway.”

  Brad gave me a pensive look, “Right,” he said. Shit, my motor-mouth’s getting me into waters I shouldn’t be wading. “Well if Hunter says you’re legit,” he smiled wide, a gleam of pride in his eye, “I’d be a fool not to trust him.”

  Mozz whistled high, “Hey!” He called out to me, “wha’d’you drink? Stout? Pale? You look like a stout kind’ah girl.”

  I let go of Brad’s hand and swiveled around to face Mozz, “Uh, dealers choice.”

  “Nah,” Hunter said, “trust me, Jess, you don’t want that. All he drinks is piss and bitter thoughts.”

  Most of the bar went up in a fit of light laughter, a couple of jacketed men on the far end snorting beneath their cups.

  Mozz shook his head, “You piss ant,” he announced, “I’ll treat the lady right, but I worry ‘bout the girls you bring in,” he pointed two stubby fingers at Hunter. What did he mean by that, exactly? “Half of ‘em, when you got the decency to bring ‘em in, stumble ‘round my bar half naked and sounding like they came straight outta the valley.”

  “C’mon Mozz,” Hunter rolled his eyes, “the one time I bring in a honest to goodness, bona-fide babe of a woman; somethin’ your pencil dick’s never gonna know, you gotta bring up that shade?” He shook his head, but I could see the playfulness on the lines of his face - this was no doubt a common, every week kind of banter between two friends. “Shut up and get her to cut loose,” Hunter reached into his pocket, pulling out an old, black leather wallet - spreading the opening with his fingers. “Actually,” he produced maybe five or so twenties, “I’m buying a round.”

  The whole place fired up in a roar of cheers and hollers; whistles and claps.

  Brad slapped Hunter on the back, “That’s my golden boy.”

  Reyes got up from his booth and passed Hunter. “Thanks,” he said low in passing.

  Mozz made a come hither motion for me and I raised my brows; shrugged, and let out a deep breath, “It’s a good thing I don’t have anything planned for today. I’m going to get messed up, aren’t I?”

  The bartender howled, “That’s what we do, sweetheart. Break each otha’ down, build ‘em back up - we’re out there in the ocean, but you know what? We’re together,” he said with a smile, filling up a pint glass of golden ale. “And we keep on paddlin’.”

  Mozz sat the glass down on the counter for me, and it stood there like a fountain of some sparkling lost fortune. He then grabbed a shot glass and poured some richly colored, dark whiskey into it – picking up the shot and dropping it in the pint glass; some of the beer foam spilling over the rim of the glass.

  I sent a tentative hand towards the beverage. Its frozen bite chilled my fingers, but the look of it invited me, pulled me onwards to drink it long and deep.

  Hunter walked by me and put a hand on my shoulder, “I’ll be back in a sec,” he whispered.

  “Alright,” I lifted the drink to my lips and drank it down; the smell and taste of cold wheat, with hints of ginger and the burning bite of whiskey coating my throat. I tipped the glass back further, bending back my head and gulping the whole thing down in one go.

  Mozz whistled with appreciation.

  I slammed the glass back down on the bar counter and immediately professed my simultaneous love and loathe for the icy beverage, smacking my lips and gritting my face. “I could do for another, without the whiskey.”

  The man shrugged, “Suit yourself,” he poured me another fresh round.

  From the corner of my eye, I could spot the blond haired woman coming my way. She sat down beside me and we shared a mutual, curious look. “Hi,” I offered simply, though what I really wanted to ask - and I was sure that my face showed it - was ‘why are you trying to fuck me with your eyes?’

  “I don’t know exactly who you are,” the woman started, “but Hunter’s been speaking about you. At least, you look like her,” she pointed at my head, “with that hair and all.”

  Fingers of warmth rapped impatiently across my breastbone, “W-what?” He was talking to her about me?

  “Yeah,” the woman said, looking over to Mozz and motioning with her knuckles - ordering the man to get a drink no doubt. Mozz went quickly to work. She glanced at me again, and I found myself intimidated by those cat-like emerald eyes. “He wouldn
’t shut up about you this morning,” the girl continued, a mischievous smirk on her lips.

  Mozz came back around and sat down her glass of darkest amber, it’s head frothing around the rim. I was certain that I could smell the roasted notes of coffee wafting from it. “Don’t you got work tonight, Holls?”

  “No,” the woman, Holly, I presumed from the nickname, replied, “that asshole Vernon keeps cutting my hours because a couple of guys keep coming in and stirring shit over me. This one egregious, gaping, stinking maw of an asshole likes to heat up pennies with a lighter,” she chewed on her pink lips, annoyed with even recalling the subject. She stuck her thumb out, imitating a lighter, “gets the bastards nice and hot and chucks them at me.”

  Mozz glanced over to his side when one of the nameless, jacketed men called out for his services. He gave Holly a nod and a short, stiff laugh, “That’s tough, you should get one of the boys to take care of ‘em,” he offered before leaving.

  Holly sipped at her beer and then scrunched up her face at me.

  “What’d he say?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Hunt—”

  “Oh,” she said, “right. He just, you know - kept going on and on and on about how great you seemed.” My stomach tightened at her words, “I kept telling him to just, let it go, because he’ll talk your ear off if you let him; had to threaten that I’d cut him just to get him to stop going on.”

  I felt the fire go out of my face, and was certain that I looked quite pale.

  Holly sipped her beer, “Shit kid,” she gave a soft laugh, “I didn’t mean it literally.”

  “I wasn’t sure…”

  “So I heard Reyes and Jameson were there, I mean I saw them that night; but wasn’t so sure how much they were around you,” she went on, straightening herself out in her bar stool. She was a truly gorgeous figure, although her shoulders weren’t quite so feminine - they were broad where mine were more petite. “Wanted to see what they had to say about you, since Hunter kept gabbing like a school girl gushing at getting asked to prom. VP was polite.”