by Amber Morgan
She pulled on her borrowed clothes and stole to the bathroom. The hot water was the best thing she'd felt in days, calming, soothing, and invigorating. She would have lingered there for hours, letting the steam and the heat beat some life back into her, but she was conscious that some naked, burly biker dude might crash in at any second. So she kept it short, towel-dried her hair, and shrugged back into the clothes. She hoped she'd get a chance to thank the owner at some point.
Downstairs, the bar was silent and empty, but she heard music playing in the kitchen and after some internal debate, headed that way. Peering inside, she saw Shelby at the sink, up to her arms in soapy water. She was dressed in denim cut-offs and a mint-green tank top, her short hair shining in the light coming through the window. A radio sat on the windowsill, playing cheery, sugary pop songs.
A second woman leaned against the island in the middle of the kitchen, leafing through a newspaper. She bore a striking resemblance to Elena, and she looked up as Freya loitered in the doorway, a welcoming smile gracing her lovely face.
“Don't skulk out there,” she said. “Come in. You must be Freya.”
Shelby glanced over her shoulder at her. “That's her,” she confirmed. “Fresh from the Whore House. Sorry ... Hot House.” She made a show of slapping her own wrist.
Freya bristled. “Do you stop being a bitch after coffee, or are you just like this all day long?”
Shelby opened her mouth. The other woman raised her hand and Shelby shut up, turning back to the sink.
“I'm Roxy,” the woman said. “Feel free to ignore Shelby.”
“I will do,” Freya said, joining Roxy at the island. “I'm not trying to get in anyone's way, honestly. I know us being here is ... problematic,” she finished apologetically. Something about Roxy's kind smile made her feel guilty.
After she'd left Slater last night, the guilt had started gnawing with a vengeance. It was the intensity in his voice when he'd told her she'd never have to find out what being without him meant. That had kickstarted a whole riot of emotions in her, in fact. Not just guilt, but warmth and a yearning that had caught her off-guard.
She flushed just thinking about it. She'd been certain then he was going to kiss her, and she'd been uncertain whether she'd let him. But wondering what that kiss would be like had definitely helped keep her awake.
“Believe me, honey, I've seen it all here,” Roxy said. She pushed away from the island, heading for the coffee machine on the counter. “Problematic is easy.”
“We're still imposing though,” Freya said. And they still had no plan. She realized wearily that she'd have to ask someone to take them home. Maybe from there they could call the police. Kayden had always been adamantly against getting the cops involved, but what choice was there now?
Except that might mean having to tell their parents. Freya's insides flipped, the smell of brewing coffee suddenly making her nauseated.
“Two extra bodies around here won't make any difference,” Roxy said, waving off her concerns.
“One or two mob goons might though,” Shelby said, echoing Freya's own thoughts. “I'm not trying to be mean,” she said when Roxy shot her a dark look. “Just being honest. We don't want to lose anyone else.”
Roxy's eyes flashed, but she said nothing, and Freya sensed a tipping of the balance in the room. The atmosphere darkened, and as much as Freya disliked Shelby, she couldn't help seeing her side. She and Kayden were unknown quantities. Combustible elements. Freya wouldn't want them showing up on her doorstep either, if she was Shelby.
Or maybe Shelby wanted her gone for another reason. The intrusive idea that Shelby might have slept with Slater flittered through her mind. That was what these girls were here for, right?
“Well,” Roxy said, too cheerfully, “as far as I know, all this Mafia talk is just talk right now. There's been no horse heads left in the garage.”
Yet, Freya thought. An awkward silence fell, and she was relieved when Slater appeared. The desire to move to his side was compelling. At least he was her ally. Whatever his reasons, he'd left her in no doubt of that. She settled for smiling at him. His answering smile made her wonder about that kiss again, sending a delicate shiver through her.
He looked like he hadn't slept either, shadows under his eyes and a faint trace of stubble on his jaw. She imagined running her fingers down his cheeks and was alarmed at the flush of arousal that gripped her. What had she decided yesterday about letting her libido get in the way? What had shifted overnight that was making that feel like such a stupid decision this morning?
It was seeing him here with other women, she realized. Women he might have slept with.
“Hey,” he said, breaking her careening train of thoughts. “You sleep okay?”
“No. But Kayden's still asleep, which is good. He needs the rest more than me.” She ran her fingers through her still-damp hair, feeling awkward for a whole host of reasons. “I was wondering if we could get a ride home? Once he's awake, I mean.”
Slater looked alarmed. “Why? You don't know that it's going to be safe.”
“We can't stay here forever,” she said, aware of Roxy and Shelby watching. She'd have preferred no audience. Nothing about this conversation was fun. “You guys were really generous last night, and you know... God, I hate to think what would have happened without you, but—”
“But nothing. There's absolutely no reason—”
“Slater,” Roxy cut in, a wry smile on her face. “Maybe the girl would at least like to collect some clean clothes? Make-up, toothbrush, that kind of thing? Tamsin will want her gear back eventually.”
He looked like he was going to argue, but Roxy held her hand up, as she had with Shelby earlier, and just like Shelby, Slater fell quiet.
“Besides,” she said, “it'll give Nash more time to figure out what to do.”
That seemed to sway him, although Freya still read reluctance in his eyes. “I guess.”
“Nobody's going to be staking the place out in broad daylight,” Shelby said. “Not over something as small-fry as this.”
Freya couldn't help glaring at her. “Is it small-fry, or is it so dangerous you can't afford to have us in the building?” she snapped.
Shelby recoiled, then bit her lip and turned away, starting to dry the dishes she'd washed. Freya saw Slater smirk and felt a flicker of petty satisfaction.
“Fine,” Slater said. “But just to grab you some clothes, cash, whatever. Then we're coming straight back here.”
Freya didn't argue. “I'll just let Kayden—”
“I'll tell him if he wakes up before you're back,” Shelby threw over her shoulder, surprising her.
“Great, thanks,” Slater said, a little dismissively. He offered Freya his hand. “Let's move.”
Part of her really wanted to take it. But would that send him the wrong message?
Hell, she didn't even know what message she wanted to send anymore. Fuck it. She took his hand, and allowed herself to bask in the warm, speculative smile he gave her.
“What's up with Shelby?” she asked once they were outside. “Hanging out with her is a real roller-coaster.”
Slater shrugged, squeezing her hand. “I don't know her that well, to be honest. I guess she's just mercurial.”
“Fancy word.” She was surprised when he guided them toward a truck rather than his bike.
“I'm a fancy guy,” he said, opening the door for her.
It was a gleaming cobalt blue beast, and she had to jump a little to make it inside. The interior still had that new-leather scent that made her think of rich men and luxury hotels. A pine-scented air freshener hung from the rearview mirror and she flicked it with her fingers, making it dance.
“Is this yours?” she asked, running her hand over the butter-soft leather seat.
He patted the steering wheel with unmistakable pride. “My birthday present to myself this spring. I've always loved Silverados.” He turned the key and beamed at her as the engine roared to life. “Hear t
hat baby purr. Third-best sound in the world.”
Freya knew a little about vintage muscle cars, but anything made after the Seventies was a mystery to her. Still, she had to admit she liked the sound. It was powerful, aggressive. “What are the other best sounds in the world then?” she asked.
He shot her a look that burned irresistibly hot. It took her straight back to their private dance, the light in his eyes as he watched her writhe, his hand pumping at his cock, and she felt her cheeks burning.
“The sound of a Harley engine and the sound of a woman screaming your name,” he said.
The truck was air-conditioned, but Freya was on fire nonetheless, heat licking between her legs with an embarrassing suddenness. She squeezed her thighs together, throat dry. “In what order?”
“Depends on the woman.” He wet his lips, hand frozen on the gear stick. “I did pay, you know.”
“What?” Freya blinked, startled by the change in subject. “Pay for what?”
“The dance. I gave the money to Benedict, which explains why you didn't know anything about it, I guess.” His look was apologetic now.
Freya sank down in her seat with a sigh. She'd managed not to think about Benedict and Sammy the Asshat for a good five minutes, and now it was all crashing back. The bright day dulled. “It would have ended up with him anyway,” she said, bitterness killing her arousal. “You just cut out the middle woman.”
“I'm going to make it up to you,” he said.
She bit her lip, staring out the window instead of at him. He'd thrown cold water on the heat he'd created, and she could tell he was trying to stoke it back to life. And she wasn't opposed to that. Not at all. He was sexy as hell, he was generous and fierce, and now she knew he wasn't a cheapskate after all. He had no reason to stick his neck on the line for her and Kayden, but he was doing it anyway, and even if he was a touch domineering, she couldn't deny how attractive that was when she was up to her neck in trouble.
But on the other hand, she was up to her neck in trouble, and undoubtedly still sinking. It was clear that his biker brothers weren't keen to be involved, and who could blame them? And then even if you took Sammy out of the equation somehow, she still had to think about Kayden. For him to get clean was going to take time, devotion, and support, and that wouldn't leave much space for a relationship.
Assuming that was what Slater wanted.
And what did she want? She hadn't the luxury of thinking about that for a while. Sometimes it felt like she hadn't had anything for herself from the moment she'd found out about Kayden. But here she was now, in a badass truck, next to a man who was making no secret of how much he wanted her, a man who knew how much shit she was in and didn't give a damn. A man who was trying to help her find a way out. A man she very, very badly wanted to kiss.
That much she was sure of.
She reached out and turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. Slater's eyes widened in surprise, then anticipation when she slid along the seat, closing the distance between them.
“So make it up to me,” she said.
He didn't need any more encouragement. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he pulled her head back and caught her mouth in a bruising, hungry kiss.
Chapter Nineteen
Oh fuck, she tastes good, Slater thought. So sweet, so hot, her body melting against his, her surprised moan sending electric shivers racing through him. His cock stiffened as she sank her fingernails into his chest, tugging at his t-shirt as if yearning to tear it off him. She tasted like honey and pears, and he was desperate to know if her pussy tasted the same. He dropped his hands to her ass, squeezing the delectable curves and picturing his cock buried between those perfect cheeks.
The vision was overwhelming. Freya was too damn responsive, all the reservation he'd sensed in her before vanished. She arched against him, rubbing her breasts against him like a cat in heat, nipping lightly at his lips while she raked her nails down his chest.
It was absolutely fucking perfect, and he wanted more, needed more, and this was absolutely not the time or the place for it.
Breaking the kiss was physically painful. His shaft throbbed, eager for use. Freya whimpered a protest, which didn't help at all. He forced himself to put her at arm's length, drinking in the sight of her. Lips swollen, hair in disarray, she looked like they'd fucked, and fucked good.
He couldn't wait to see her after they really had.
She ran her fingers over her lips, eyes glazed. “Well,” she said.
Before she could say more, his phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump. Benedict's name flashed on the screen. Slater cursed under his breath, considered ending the calling, then answered anyway. He had some choice words for the little prick.
But it wasn't Benedict who spoke.
“The little bitch isn't worth it, biker boy,” a strange man told him, his casually cold voice making Slater's skin crawl. “Not her, not her little junkie brother. Walk away.”
“I could offer you the same advice,” Slater said. It had to be Sammy Alessi, he guessed. “Is this really worth your while, big man?”
Alessi laughed. “For the drugs? No. But little Pinky has been right inside my operation, hasn't she? Seen faces. Heard names.” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “A smart guy like you can fill in the blanks, I'm sure.”
Slater's blood ran cold. He didn't wait to hear anymore. He just hung up and grabbed Freya by the hand. “Back inside.”
“That was Sammy, wasn't it?” she asked, voice shaking. She fumbled with the truck's door handle. “How bad is it?”
“Don't worry about it.” He leapt out, running around to her side of the truck to get the door for her.
Freya laughed. “Don't worry about it? I've been worrying about this for months. I've been worrying about it for long before I even knew you existed.”
He caught her around the waist, lifting her out and to the ground. “Well, now I'm here—”
The vicious screech of tires cut him off. He swung around in time to see a black van hurtling through the gates to the mill, going too fast, way too fucking fast, and barreling directly for Slater's truck.
Instinct seized him. He grabbed Freya by the arm and flung her away, sending her stumbling toward the mill. She picked herself up and ran, never looking back. Good girl. Slater was right on her heels, the roar of the van's engine pushing him along like a physical force. He threw open the mill doors and shoved Freya in, ignoring her indignant squeak. Her pride was the least thing at risk here.
He should have followed her in. If he was smart, he would have. Instead, he slammed the door shut and threw his back to it, watching in futile, shocked anger as the van ploughed straight into his truck with a sickening crunch. The truck skidded along a few feet under the impact, metal groaning. The van veered off, spraying dust and grit into the air as it sped away from the mill again, blinding Slater.
It was over in seconds. All that was left was Slater and his ruined truck, gleaming in the autumn sun. It was over, he told himself, barely able to hear his thoughts over the wild pounding of his own heart. It was over, except it wasn't over at all.
This meant it was just beginning.
****
It took less than an hour for Nash to lock the mill down. All the women were in the bar—and in dark apart from Freya, and she was under stern instructions from Nash not to say anything.
The men—officers, brothers, and prospects, were all in chapel. There weren't enough chairs for everyone, so Slater and the rest of the prospects stood against the wall while the officers took their seats. Nash sat at the head of the table, looking as grim as a thundercloud, and Slater had the distinct, crawling feeling that an ax was about to fall.
Probably on him.
“Let's start with an easy question,” Nash said, scanning the row of prospects. “Who the fuck was on lock-up duty last night?”
Slater heard the shuffle of feet around him as several prospects shifted uneasily. Lock-up duty was the easiest fucking jo
b on the rota. Prospects took it in turns to lock the gates to the grounds and the front and back doors of the mill. That was it. That was fucking it.
And whoever should have didn't last night, giving that van a clear path through the gates and straight into Slater's Silverado. He curled his hands into fists, a spear of rage piercing him. If he and Freya had still been inside...
Next to Slater, Glass cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Slater got ready to aim his anger straight at the big moron.
“Zeke,” Glass said, sounding pained. “It was Zeke.”
There was a cry of protest from down the line. Slater jerked in surprise, then remembered. Of course. Of course it was fucking Zeke, because Zeke had been coked out of his fucking mind with Elena last night.
“Zeke?” Nash's tone was deceptively mild. “Is that true?”
Zeke stepped forward, pale face bright red. “I wasn't... I didn't...Yeah, but I mean, this isn't my fault! I didn't bring two fucking mob targets here, did I?”
Slater exploded. “You asshole!”
He didn't even realize he'd flown at Zeke until the yelling started and someone grabbed him around the waist, hauling him back. He swung his fists anyway, missing Zeke's shocked face by a hair's breadth.
“What if we'd been in the fucking truck?” he yelled, raising his voice over the cries of his brothers. “What then, huh? You fucking moron. You wanna tell them why you forgot to lock up? You wanna tell Nash what you were fucking doing last night?”
“Slater!” Glass boomed in his ear, shaking him. Glass's arms were like iron around him. No matter how hard Slater fought his grip, Glass didn't budge, squeezing just enough to make Slater gasp for air. He kept reaching for Zeke anyway, too hot with anger to stop.
Men crowded between them. Rattler rose from his chair to yank Zeke out of Slater's reach, his face a mask of fury. Punk hopped up to stand beside Glass, one hand on Slater's shoulder, chattering in his ear. Slater had no fucking clue what he was saying. All he could think was that they could have been in the truck, him and Freya. Hell, the van could have collided with them out on the road. His blood ran cold at the thought, but that did nothing to chill the fire in his veins.