Dark Curves (Dangerous Curves Book 6)

by James, Marysol

  He got to his feet, stared down at Lisa there on her knees. She stared right back at him, totally confused. None of the guys had ever turned down a blow job… like never, ever. Derby was a mystery to her, and to all the other hellions, too. He was like the club’s great, white whale… and there were some pretty heated bets on who was going to land him.

  Lisa took one look at his face, guessed that it wasn’t going to be her. And definitely not tonight.

  “I said I’m out of here,” he said, his voice so cold, she almost shivered. “So get up.”

  “Aw, now,” said Nails. The club Vice-President was lolling in the chair next to Warren’s, already unzipping his jeans. “As long as you’re down there, darlin’, crawl on over here. Seems a shame to waste what’s being offered.”

  Right away, Lisa gave him a huge smile. “Sure thing, baby.”

  Warren turned away from the deeply disturbing sight of Nails’ dick bobbing around, made eye contact with Ace and Joker. Ace waved at him and with an internal sigh, Warren walked over.

  “Hey, Prez,” he said, paying the man the proper respect. “It’s OK that I’m heading out?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Ace told him. “I just wanted to let you know that I need you at the clubhouse at eight o’clock.”

  Warren glanced at the clock on his cell. Just over five hours from now. He sighed internally again. He hadn’t slept a solid eight hours in eight months, and he ached for a blissful, uninterrupted, untroubled rest. But Ace’s word was law, and no discussion.

  “Sure thing,” Warren said.

  “Good.”

  Warren nodded at his cousin, wished him dead for about the thousandth time, headed out the door of the bar.

  It was freezing outside, but he had to ride his motorcycle home in the sub-zero January night, since everything was about appearances. He had to wear the cut, ride the bike, plaster on the scowl, play the part of the big, bad, one-percenter biker asshole. All day, every day. Forever. Until the day he died.

  And when he considered the way that his life was headed, that day might not be so far off.

  Yeah. Dead end, that’s for goddamn sure.

  **

  Four hours later, Warren slammed the button on his alarm clock, rolled over with a groan. Jesus God, he was tired. He’d slept badly, far worse than usual, and his sheets were a tangled mess all around him.

  He forced his ass up, forced his ass in to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, took in his eyes all bloodshot from lack of sleep, his tousled dark-blond hair, his muscular chest covered in tattoos. He ran his hand over his beard, briefly considered giving it a trim, decided against it.

  Of all the the ways that he’d changed over the past eight months, there were only two that he actually liked. The first was the tattoos, though he hated that the large one on his upper back was the Fallen Angels tat, since it made him feel marked and dirty. At least it was behind him, so he didn’t have to look at it. The second was his beard.

  Warren was almost twenty-six years old, but he’d always looked way younger. He knew now that it had partly been a naturally youthful appearance, but it had also been a certain innocence that he’d had. He’d never been stupid – though he’d never been very book-smart – but he’d definitely been naïve.

  Once upon a time, that naïvety had been written bright and large all over his face, and had made every person around him call him annoying things like ‘kid’ and ‘sport’. The beard had been a stab at looking older, and it had worked… though Warren now wondered how much of his suddenly-much-older appearance was the beard, and how much was the world-weary, hardened look in his blue eyes.

  Sighing, he stripped off his boxers, stepped in to the shower. He turned it on as hot as it would go, then just stood under its relentless spray, his hands against the tile, his head hanging low, his eyes closed. Wishing hard for things that were too late to wish for; wishing away things that had strolled on in to his life and taken up permanent residence.

  Feeling the minutes ticking away, he pulled himself together. He shampooed and soaped and rinsed, then with nothing but regret, he stepped out in to the world again. He toweled off roughly, then stalked back in to the bedroom to get dressed.

  As usual, he put off donning the final article of clothing for as long as possible. As always, he shrugged it on in the end, since he had zero choice in the matter.

  He regarded his cut in the mirror with nothing but distaste. It was stunning, he supposed, with its expensive leather and red, white and blue background, and the red and black ‘1%’ patch on the shoulders. Even the club insignia – a skeleton with angel’s wings, stretched across its entire upper back, mirroring the tattoo it now hid – was arresting, eye-catching, breathtaking. Put all those elements together and you had a piece of art, and as much as he hated having the thing on his body, Warren could see the staggering beauty of the cut.

  He also knew what it represented to people who saw it coming at them. For most people, it was a clear sign to get the hell out of the way. Since he’d put it on, Warren had noticed people crossing streets to avoid him, leaving shops to get away from him, ushering their children far away from him, as fast as they could manage it. It made him a leper in many ways.

  It had gotten him faster service in bars, though, and had attracted some admiring looks from women keen to fuck a bad boy. Guys liked it as well, and that more than anything told him just how many people aspired to life in an MC, how many people wanted his life.

  And he’d let them have it, in a heartbeat.

  He threw back a cup of coffee – with milk and plenty of sugar, to hell with drinking it black when he was alone – and then headed out to the garage. He got on his motorcycle, already dreading the freezing air, the biting wind. He covered his ears more snugly with his knit hat, flexed his fingers in his thick gloves. Kicked his bike to start it up, and headed out to the clubhouse.

  That was the first moment when he allowed himself to wonder just what the hell Ace had waiting for him. Whatever it was, he hoped that it was easy, quick, and clean.

  He had no idea then that what was coming in to his life was going to be difficult, drawn-out, and fucking messy.

  He also had no idea that it was going to be the one – the only – thing that he’d be willing to live and die for. That it was going to be his sole reason for getting up in the morning and breathing; it was going to be the thing that gave him hope and bring light in to the dark, dismal hole that had become his entire existence on earth.

  It was the thing that was going to change everything. Forever.

  Chapter Two

  Warren entered the clubhouse at ten to eight and followed the smell of coffee. He poured a huge mug of the stuff, ignored the milk and sugar. It was an unspoken rule that real men drank black coffee, and although he hated the bitter taste, he needed the caffeine. Badly.

  He leaned against the wall, sipping his coffee, and surveyed the large main room. It was a disaster area, naturally, as it always was first thing in the morning. Broken glass and cigarette butts covered the floor, empty bottles and articles of women’s clothing were strewn around all over the damn place, and the women themselves were naked and draped over the furniture, passed out cold.

  He averted his eyes from the miles of flesh on display, hoped hard that none of the girls had been forced the night before. Nobody had ever complained, but then again, this wasn’t the kind of place where a sexual assault claim would be taken all that seriously.

  “Derby.”

  Warren turned to the harsh voice behind him, nodded at Ace. The man looked rough, man, like he hadn’t slept, and was nursing a mammoth hangover to boot.

  “Ace,” he replied.

  Ace yawned, stretched, wandered over to the coffee machine. “Fuck,” he remarked. “Lisa wore me out last night.”

  “Yeah?” Warren asked, not caring whatsoever, but he ha
d to make polite conversation.

  “Hell, yeah. That skank knows how to suck and fuck.”

  Warren didn’t react to Ace’s chosen way to refer to Lisa. ‘Skank’ was the club equivalent of ‘chick’, and Warren had long ago learned to not so much as blink when he heard it used. He still despised it, though, and he fought down a sneer of contempt.

  “Yeah, I’m sure she does,” he said now.

  “Ummm-hmmm.” Ace blinked at him, his black eyes flat and dead in his rugged face. “You really should take her up on her offer next time, man. She’d rock your world, I fucking swear it.”

  “Maybe,” Warren said in the most non-committal voice that he felt he could get away with.

  “Anyway,” Ace said. “I have a job for you. It’s easy, but it’ll take a few days.”

  Thrilled to be getting away from the topic of the club pass-arounds, Warren tilted his head at his President. “OK.”

  “It’s in here,” Ace said.

  Warren picked up his coffee, followed Ace in to one of the back rooms. It had obviously been used the night before: it reeked of sex and perfume. He slapped on his ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about anything’ face, glared around the room, trying to spot this mysterious ‘it’ that Ace had referred to. He saw nothing at all, and he stared at Ace, waiting for his instructions.

  Just then, the second door swung open, and Joker stood there grinning at him.

  “Hey, Derby,” he said.

  “Joker,” Warren said. “How you doing?”

  “Great.” He glanced over at Ace. “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joker nodded, turned, went back in to the attached conference room. Silence, then a dragging sound.

  Warren stood up straighter, every instinct in his body on red alert. Yeah, he knew that sound, knew it intimately. It was the sound of a person actively resisting being moved. His heart sank, though his face remained totally disinterested.

  Joker reappeared now and sure enough, he was grappling with someone. Warren couldn’t see who it was, since their head was covered with a black hood, but he knew it was a woman – and not just because of the long, slim figure. She was sobbing, sobbing wildly, and his stomach clenched at the thought that she may be hurt. He saw that her hands were bound together, so tight that he saw bloody marks and purple bruises on her wrists. The sight of that damage on her pale skin kicked him in the chest, for some reason, before he took command of himself again.

  “Shut up,” Joker hissed at her, giving her a shake. “Shut up or I fucking smack you.”

  Right away, she went silent and slumped in his grasp, and Joker bodily dragged her the last few feet in to the room. He gave her a rough shove and down she went, landing on her hip on the floor.

  She cried out, a sharp sound of pain and surprise, and Warren had to fight to keep his feet in place. No way he was making a move to help her, since it was clear that whoever she was, she was trouble. She was also his job, whatever the hell that meant, and after eight months, he knew better than to make any assumptions about anything. Especially a job.

  Ace stepped forward and without a word, he tore the hood off her head. She cried out again, then shut her eyes against the light coming in through the window.

  “Shut up,” Joker repeated. “Fuck, Ace, she’s been bawling for a fucking hour, man, and the Vegas boys said she cried like a bitch the whole drive down here. They got here an hour earlier just to get rid of her.”

  The woman sobbed once more, and Joker took a menacing step towards her.

  “I just said –” he growled, his arm raised to backhand her.

  “Hold up,” Ace said, stopping Joker. “Nobody touches her. Kirk’s orders. He wants her unharmed until negotiations begin, in case we have to provide proof of life.”

  At the mention of Kirk’s name, Joker backed up, and Warren quietly exhaled in relief. He was happy that beating a woman around didn’t appear to be in his job description, since he had no stomach for that at all.

  Having said that, he wasn’t totally delighted that this woman somehow had ties to Kirk Jensen. Warren made a point of staying away from him as much as possible, and had managed to avoid so much as making direct eye contact with the man. But if this woman was on Kirk’s shit list, and Warren was involved with her in some way, then his luck had just run out. He stared at her now, his face as blank as he knew how to make it, giving away none of his annoyance and unease.

  His first thought was that she wasn’t much to look at, although that was probably because she was a fucking mess. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled back in what might have been a bun once, but was now falling in straggles around her face and down her neck. Her mouth was bound, her lips gray around the cloth. She was wearing glasses, and they were almost falling off her little button nose.

  Speaking of her nose, it was bright red, and so were her eyes, and if she’d had any makeup on, it was a distant memory. Her clothes were rumpled but even if they’d been fresh and pressed, they’d still have done nothing for her. She was in a massive knit sweater and loose black jeans, and if she had any curves hidden under there, he wouldn’t know it.

  She stared up at the three men, and the look of terror on her face was heart-stopping. Warren didn’t like her looking at him like that, but no way he was about to say or do anything comforting. That wasn’t his place here.

  “So,” Ace said. “This is your job, man.”

  “What do I do with her?” Warren rasped, and she froze at his voice. He didn’t like that either; it was like she thought he’d be ripping her clothes off and forcing her to fuck him.

  “Watch her,” Ace said. “You’re babysitting.”

  “OK,” Warren said. “Here?”

  “Nope. We have a place in the mountains all set up for you. The one we used after Blade got shot on that job.”

  “Right. I remember it.”

  “You go home and pack, yeah? We’ll throw her in the back of a cage, and you drive up and meet us at the cabin as soon as you can. I’ll fill you in there.” Ace ran a hand through his dark hair. “When this whole thing blows wide open, we’re all gonna be watched like crazy back here, so nobody will be able to get back up to you for at least a week. Maybe longer. We can’t risk being followed.”

  “Do I need to bring some food?”

  “Nah. You’re set for at least a month.”

  “OK. Sure thing.” Warren shrugged, as if he was uncaring about any of this. “Anything specific I need to bring, then?”

  “Your favorite brand of condom,” Joker said. “If you want to pass the time that way.”

  Right away, she shuddered, fought down a small scream. She shot Joker a petrified glance, then slammed her bound hands over her mouth, jamming the gag in tighter.

  “That’s right, bitch,” Joker said. “Stay quiet.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut now, and Warren saw that she was still shaking. Despite his determination to not give a crap about this woman, he found himself softening, worrying. Wanting to offer her some comfort.

  But how could he and he didn’t just mean because Ace and Joker were standing right there. Even if he were alone with her, he’d have no damn place soothing her fears, telling her that things would be OK. Not when he had no idea who she was, or what she was doing there, or what Jensen had planned for her. For all Warren knew, she should be terrified and crying and freaking out. Maybe she was right to be so afraid.

  Maybe she was a dead woman walking.

  So he just nodded, turned to go home and pack. Left her there.

  Well, what the hell else was he going to do?

  **

  Three hours later, Warren shut and locked the door behind Ace and Joker. And there he was: all alone in a remote cabin, way up high in the Rocky Mountains, with a woman that he now knew to be Shay Alcott.

  A woman that he now knew to be a hostage, a bargaining ch
ip, a hopeful ace-in-the-hole. A messy, worrying, dangerous headache.

  Goddammit.

  Warren sighed, turned to face her. This whole time, she’d been sitting on the sofa bound and gagged. As Ace had filled him in, Warren had studied her closely, watching her reactions. She’d look stunned as what was going on had become clear to her, then she had started to cry again, without making a sound. Her shoulders had shaken, though, and he’d felt her terror from six feet away.

  He approached her now, and she pushed herself against the sofa back. He stood over her, and she stared down at the floor, avoiding his gaze.

  “Hey,” he said, his deep voice coming out way harsher than he’d intended. She flinched as though he’d struck her, and he cleared his throat. “Hey.”

  She nodded to acknowledge him, but didn’t look away from her feet.

  “Eyes up here.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her chin. Her eyes focused on his throat, still not meeting his cold, hard stare.

  “No,” he snapped. “Up here.”

  She jumped, raised her chin a bit more. And suddenly, Warren was staring in to the most amazing eyes that he’d ever seen. They were the strangest color, actually. Light and clear, but not mint-green and most definitely not emerald-green. They had a glow to them, a light that seemed to shine from within this woman. They looked… pure, somehow.

  For some insane reason, the words ‘sea foam green’ popped in to his head. He wasn’t sure what color that even was, or where the hell he’d have picked it up in his life – but it was all he could think about now.

  He stiffened his resolve, scowled at her. His moment of weakness had passed and he was back in control.

  “If I untie and ungag you, will you behave yourself?” he snarled.

  She backed up a bit and nodded. He reached in to his jeans pocket, pulled out his knife. Those incredible eyes widened in panic when he flicked it open and when he reached for her hands, she gave a muffled cry, moved away again.