Viper_A Dark Alpha Motorcycle Club Romance

by Marata Eros

Tension eases from her shoulders.

  “Come on.” I take her hand. “Since you're not up to kicking my ass, let's go eat pancakes.”

  Candice doesn't say anything, just takes my hand and follows me up the stairs.

  *

  Candice

  I'm terrified.

  Not of what might happen, having a broken rib, or the mess with Storm.

  The fear comes from how I feel. How Viper makes me feel. That's why I need to get the hell out of here.

  I don't want to do what I must. But I will.

  Vince moves around the kitchen without a shirt on and barefoot. Confident.

  He's hot. Virile. He's everything I thought I'd never find in a man, and in the most unlikely of places.

  If someone had told me I would have scorching chemistry with a man that was part of—no—in charge of a motorcycle club, I would have asked them how much crack they'd been smoking.

  Not even the explanation of them keeping their territory undefiled is enough to justify their processes. The FBI suspects Road Kill of gunrunning.

  As I watch Viper make pancakes for a woman he kidnapped, I try on the perspective of him as a biker. And can't make who he's been with me fit with what the reality is. That's when I know I've made the one, critical mistake.

  Caring.

  I only see the human being, not the suspect.

  Sadness wells up inside me, with no place to go. When I close my eyes, I can still feel his body moving inside me. The expression on his face was brutally tender. A mixture of lust, sadness, and joy. I don't know why he has that mix of emotions, but it was like I was looking in a mirror.

  Like Viper finally found what he was looking for, and in the process, so did I.

  “Hey,” Viper says, plopping a stack of pancakes in front of me, “you okay?”

  I shake my head, saying what I can. “Rib hurts like hell.”

  Fate is a bitch, my mind whispers.

  Viper snaps his fingers. “I'll take you to Doc. He'll tape it. Make it feel more stable.” His eyes meet mine. “There's no fixing the rib if it's broken.” He looks out the window, eyes to the drive. “Goddamned Storm.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Of course I do.

  Viper's eyebrows lower over his eyes. “You been injured like this before?”

  I cut the pancakes instead of looking at him. “Yes.”

  A couple seconds of silence beat the hell out of the moment.

  His large hand flattens beside my plate. It’s blurry through tears I won't shed.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  I pour the syrup over the stack and watch the pat of butter mix with the amber liquid. “Not really.” I take a shallow breath, memories assailing me.

  “Little slut, you come, or I'll break another one.”

  My pussy seems to accept the command, and deep pulses shock me as I lay beneath his pounding assault. Too tired to breathe.

  Too exhausted to fight.

  Like Pavlov's dog, I know what happens if I do what he says, and I want the reward of his absence with such raw need that my body does what he says so I don't have to think about the horror of what's happening to me. So I can escape it.

  So he'll go away.

  There's nothing as good as that.

  Then Puck's there, dragging our father off me. Puck gets beaten, saving me from round two and another broken rib.

  That time.

  Eventually, there comes a time when Puck's the one doing the beating, and our horror of a sperm donor never touches me again.

  Then Puck takes me far away from that man. The man who helped create me.

  The man who murdered me without a weapon.

  Murdered us both.

  I stuff a bite of pancake in my mouth and mechanically chew it.

  Viper lifts his hand, and he comes around the counter, slowly spinning the stool I sit on. Gripping the sides, he cages me with his strong hands, staring into my face.

  I swallow the load.

  Releasing the stool, he captures my face in his hands. “I don't know what's wrong, but I know there's something in there.” He presses a soft touch to the center of my forehead. “Something I want to make better.” His eyes catch mine again. “Erase.”

  His pale-blue eyes hold a care for me inside them they shouldn't.

  He has no right to care about me.

  Never in my life have I wanted so badly to cry. My throat and the backs of my eyes burn with tears. My soul's on fire. Fire to have someone besides my brother love me and not hurt me.

  I put myself back together in pieces, like picking up shards of glass and gluing the whole mess back together again.

  And Viper watches it all. “No, goddammit,” he says quietly. “Don't you hide from me, Candice Arlington.”

  “It's Candi,” I say softly.

  He drags me off the stool and into his arms. I let him. And a part of me dies, thinking about what comes next.

  Because it has to.

  This is bigger than me. It's bigger than all of us.

  I have his trust. Because he's just that instinctive. During the short time we’ve known each other, Viper's read something in me that no one else could. And now he's going to regret that, second-guess himself.

  I hate that he will. For the first time in my life, I've felt something real. And I want to grab at it in case that beautiful thing disappears.

  But it's like smoke in my hand.

  Turning my head, I lay my cheek against his bare chest. “Thank you.” My voice only trembles a little, but the sincerity of my gratitude is completely genuine. So deep, there's no end.

  He steps away, and a slight frown mars the space between his eyes. “For what?”

  I tip my head back to look up at him.

  For what. “For believing in me.”

  His laugh is rueful. “Never had much of a choice. You kinda ran right over the top of me.”

  “Yeah.” I know exactly what he means.

  Chapter 13

  Puck

  Candi, oh my God! I can't find you.

  I slam my fist on the wheel of my car and scream my rage into the tight space.

  I'll kill the fuckers that hurt her.

  She's more than family. Candi's my best friend. My partner in crime—against crime. My confidant.

  The only blood worth having.

  “Jesus, how did this job get so fucked up?”

  I toss my head back against the car seat, taking deep breaths. Drumming my fingers lightly on the steering wheel, I try to think things through.

  “She was on her way to the drop with the kid.”

  My head jerks up. I grab my cell and utter into the voice-to-call feature, “Mule.”

  It rings.

  I pray that somehow Candi can answer.

  More ringing.

  My heart sinks.

  Fuck.

  I tap End Call.

  Clenching my eyelids, I grate, “Mover.”

  It rings and is snatched up almost immediately. “Mover,” his smooth baritone answers.

  What is it with people who answer the phone and say their own name? Is it an ego stroke or what?

  “Mule's late for the switch.”

  “I'm sorry. This isn't the best time to discuss recipes.”

  Read: Cell's not secure.

  Fuck me running.

  “I'm missing a key ingredient.”

  After a heartbeat of silence, Mover says, “I've just been made aware.”

  “Let's talk about the cooking in, say…” Right now! “As soon as I can get to the club.”

  “I am at your disposal.”

  I bet.

  I tap End Call.

  Feeling numb, I back out of Candi's driveway and head over to the Chaos Riders Clubhouse. I won't be undercover after this stint. I'm never doing it again. Candi and I will not be used by our respective law enforcement entities ever again.

  Shit just got real.

  We've lost ourselves. And now she's in trouble.

  We
were only able to be what we are today because the file on the shit that happened when we were young is sealed. We both squeaked by psyche exams, somehow.

  Probably were so determined to get over our past, we faked it until we made it.

  Hang on, Candi. I'm coming.

  *

  Viper

  She's hiding something.

  Not the sort of thing a person would assume. It’s about more than her real role within this rat's nest of crime against the kids.

  It’s something about herself. On a personal level. But I've done all I can in our brief acquaintance to fuck things up and make things right.

  Sort of contrary.

  I loaded up on a plate of carb discs. And that kid? Holy shit. He ate almost as much as me. Couldn't believe it. Took down an entire bottle of my best maple syrup between the three of us.

  Finally, I stretch, giving Candice a circumspect look. She gonna bolt? Or will she decide to stick around.

  Fuck it, as Noose says. “I'm going downstairs. Going to toss my shit on.”

  Calem looks at me.

  “Clothes and shoes,” I expound.

  “Everyone saw you naked, even Miss Candi.” His small eyebrows pop.

  Marvelous. “Well, all my stuff was on the floor.”

  “Why was it on the floor?” Calem sets his fork on top of his plate, giving me his full attention.

  Shit. “ʼCause I was working on getting changed.”

  “Huh.”

  Candi turns her face away, hiding a smile.

  Glad I can be amusing. I'm just amusing the hell out of everyone. In fact, why haven't the three musketeers—or four, if I count Snare—been blowing up my phone with texts?

  I pat down my jean pockets.

  Ah. That's why. Phone’s downstairs on my nightstand.

  “Stay here.” I point at Candice.

  She lifts her palms, trying to look innocent.

  I think of going to town on her delicious pussy.

  Our eyes lock.

  Nope. Beautiful. Mysterious. Not innocent.

  “I'll be waiting.”

  I'm back up there in about five seconds—boots and socks in one hand, cell shoved in my back pocket, and shirt slammed over my head.

  “Nice shirt.”

  It's solid black but faded from wear. Scrawled across the front in fancy cursive lettering it reads Fucks Given, with a fat arrow pointing to the right underneath the two word phrase.

  We both look at Calem.

  Maybe he's too young to sound that shit out.

  Gingerly, Candice slides off the stool, hand going to her side.

  “Need help?”

  A smile quirks her lips. “I'll be okay, just moving slow. That thing with Storm didn't help.”

  Yeah. “Know it. Had a different agenda before…”

  Candice says, “Before?”

  “Just before.” I don't offer additional explanation. Fuck, there's no explaining anything, especially when even I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

  Sitting down on the edge of the oldest couch in the universe, I pull on my socks, stuff my feet into my beat-up black boots, and zip.

  Standing, I shrug on my cut I always hang on a wire hook right next to the door leading down to the basement.

  “You'll freeze.”

  “We're not going on a bike?”

  I shake my head then jerk my jaw toward the kid, who's commandeered my ancient TV.

  Fucking kids and tech. It's like they're born knowing how.

  There was about ten text messages on my phone and two missed calls.

  Half are from Noose.

  If anyone can find out more about Candice Arlington, it's him.

  And I've got vested interest now.

  “Come on,” I say and walk to a dinky closet my grandma would’ve called an armoire. It holds shit like coats and that. But it's worth much more to me because it's a family piece.

  Opening the cabinet door, I jerk a puffy coat off the hanger.

  “It's not that cold,” she protests.

  Ignoring her, I thrust it her way. “Humor me. Just put the thing on.”

  That's all I need—a starving, cold, unsatisfied female. Come to think of it, I've ticked off a lot of things on the do-right-by-a-woman boxes.

  Except throwing her into walls. That shit'll haunt a man.

  Candice slips on the charcoal-colored jacket then flaps her arms up and down. The sleeves are about half a foot too long. The length hits her mid-thigh.

  “This yours?”

  I nod. “Don't wear it much. Mainly for doing outside work around here.”

  She looks around for a full minute, and though I want to get the fuck out of Dodge, I wait through her perusal.

  I'm already catering to the Power of the Pussy. Swell.

  “This is so real.”

  Okay. Not what I was expecting.

  Candice looks at me watching her. Blushes. “I mean, it feels like this little house just grew out of the ground.”

  Kind of did. “My great-grandpa built the entire thing with one cedar tree.”

  Her head whips to mine. “Really?”

  I nod.

  “That's really something.”

  I nod then say quietly, “Let's go.”

  She touches the injured rib absently and turns to the kid. “Let's go, Calem.”

  He shuts off the TV and walks over to her. She takes his hand.

  I stare. Can't help noticing her hands are barely bigger than his.

  But I remember perfectly what they felt like on my throat. And the clear image of them pinching Storm's throat.

  I'm clearly insane.

  And there isn't one of the men that won't question my rationale about Candice Arlington.

  Hell, I'm questioning it.

  Hardcore.

  *

  Candice doesn't like the blindfold, but I have to do at least that much.

  Instead of complaining like I expect, though, she peppers me with questions about the house. My family.

  I try to keep my eyes on the road instead of her lips. Harder than I think it'll be.

  She seems strangely interested in all my history but doesn't ask any questions about the club.

  Not one.

  By the time we get to the club, I'm talked out. Especially with what I know will be waiting.

  But first, Storm's going to get a first-class dressing down.

  That fucker is not going to be the circus trainer in my act. If he ever comes to my house unannounced again and doing the helicopter with his dick, I'll fuck him right up—brother or not.

  I slip out of my souped-up black SUV and walk slowly around to the passenger side to take off Candice's blindfold.

  “Stealthy.” She blinks in the bright sunlight, shading her eyes with a palm.

  “As I already said, at best, we have an uneasy alliance.”

  “At worst?”

  My eyes trail to the front door of our refurbished World War II bunker. Sun glints off the top, sprinkling diamonds of light everywhere it refracts. The old ladies insisted on a greenhouse thing.

  They made good on it, too. They got after the perimeter of the club too, river rock creating a loose border, and wildflowers blooming between building and stone.

  The guys bitch about the vagina look, but I chuckle. I'm old enough to appreciate the beauty—and damn happy I didn't have to do it.

  I have plenty of jobs. Wrangling the boys is like corralling headless chickens.

  “This had to be you.” Candice takes in the details that personalize the club.

  I like old shit. Repurposing it, restoring it and enjoying the result. Then I'm on to the next project.

  I'm not liking how insightful she is. There's also something so unique about what she notices.

  I'll add being bright to the list of things that are beginning to stand out about Candice Arlington. It doesn't give me answers—her attributes only deepen the mystery. That only makes me more, not less, determined to find out who she
is.

  Finally, after studying the structure for every bit of three minutes in silence, she asks, “Is this going to be an interrogation?”

  Can't lie. “Yes.”

  “Okay.” The wistful longing leaves her eyes. Indifference slides in, taking its place.

  “Is he going to be okay?” She looks to Calem, and he's already tumbled out of the big rig and puts his hand in hers.

  “Yes,” I turn to her. “I've already told you Road Kill's stake in this. Nobody's going to piss in our Wheaties—or hurt kids.”

  We're at the front door. “There'll be an old lady here.” I jerk my jaw in the direction of the door. “One of them will watch the kid—Calem.”

  Candice turns back and surveys the SUV, an oddity with all the bikes lined up on either side of the only non-bike in the parking lot area.

  Straightening her spine, she turns back to me.

  I notice her eyes tighten from the pain as I open the door for her and Calem. As we step inside, the noise is the usual slap in the face.

  Chapter 14

  Candice

  I'm trying not to analyze my actions. But it's not going down easy.

  I fucked up. I'm not so deep undercover that I had to have sex with the president of the rival MC that I'm using to locate a human trafficker. Nope. Wasn't that desperate. Didn't have to play that card.

  I won't lie to myself.

  I wanted him. Viper. Plus, he offered my release in exchange. And I trusted he would let me go.

  Dumb or intuitive? We'll see.

  However, here I am, supposedly to get my rib taped. But now that medical “fix” has become the vehicle for his band of badass bikers to give me the third degree.

  I'd rather not see Storm again. There's only so many ways a woman can surprise a man who outweighs her by a hundred pounds. No matter my skills, I'm still small. And that disparity is never more glaring than when I'm in the middle of a hand-to-hand situation.

  A young woman runs up to us wearing a leather cut like the other bikers, but fitted to a woman's figure.

  I know she's an old lady because of her clothes. Usually—but not always—the old ladies have an air of sexy with a streak of slutty. The club whores of the MC persuasion just can't seem to get there. It's all slutty with a streak of cheap—and that's being kind.