Sugar (The Henchmen MC Book 12)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "She's..." I started, fumbling, not quite ready to claim her. At least not to my brothers. Not yet. That was serious shit. You didn't do it lightly. Just to get the image of the woman you were fucking out of some other man's head. "She's more mine than yours. So keep her out of your head."

  He nodded a bit at that, letting it go.

  "I got the night shift tonight," he explained since I had missed Reign earlier. "You got it tomorrow."

  So no Peyton.

  Considering I had spent every night with her for the past four days, I shouldn't have been unhappy with missing one of them. Especially since I planned to spend the day with her.

  But I was.

  Unhappy about it, that is.

  "Got it," I agreed, saluting him with my beer as he moved off. "What are you doing out here?" I asked when a giant white bird came flying onto the bar, walking on clomping feet over to the stack of napkins and attacking them with relish.

  Charlie was Rey's bird.

  One of a few.

  She had all her beasts holed up in the old prospect room since she wasn't allowed to go home to her place much anymore. Where she kept a goddamn small zoo normally.

  "Where the heck did you go?" Rey's soft, sing-song voice called, doing it in that way all chicks did when they were talking to animals, baby-talking it. "You better not be eating the windowsill again. Reign is going to kill me. Oh," she said, coming to a stop in the main room. "Sorry," she said, shaking her head as she went over to him, tidying the mess with one hand and holding onto the bird's feet with the other. "He saw an opportunity and took it," she explained. "I haven't seen you much lately."

  She would know.

  Since she didn't work outside the house, she was pretty much at the compound non-stop. Either with her animals, or in Reeve's room. But she was ever-present, cooking her meals that were full of vegetables even though she claimed she only put a little in.

  "I've been... out," I hedged.

  "With the girl who was here the other night. Lenny told me," she explained. "They bonded."

  There was a certain sadness in her tone at that. It was no secret that she had been a bit slower to make friends in the girls club. The older members were solid, bound by years of bonding, of having kids that played together. And of the newer women - Bethany, Kennedy, Reese, and Lenny - she hadn't really found much common ground with any of them.

  "Don't worry, babe," I said, chucking her on the cheek as I moved past. "The way these men are dropping, you'll have a new friend around here in no time."

  She made a sound at that, not quite agreement, but not disagreement either, as she took Charlie back to the animal room.

  As for me, I made my way to my bedroom, knowing it was going to be a long ass day tomorrow, and deciding to get some sleep ahead of it.

  "Yo," Virgin said, coming down the hall as I opened my door. We both moved inside, knowing this was not a conversation to have in the common areas.

  "Did he find anything?" I asked, kicking out of my boots.

  We'd finally decided to outsource, knowing we were too isolated to be able to do much from where we were. And while, normally, Jstorm or Alex would have been our go-to when it came to tracking down someone, we didn't want to put them in the position of keeping shit from their men.

  So, we went to Barrett.

  Who, for all intents and purposes, could be considered just as good. Even if he was more of a pain in the ass to work with.

  "He said there was some static online about the prez a few months back. A few of the guys like us asking questions."

  "But nothing on the prez himself?" I asked, running a hand up the back of my neck, sick of this shit already. The texts just kept on coming, full of threats and promises of long, tortuous deaths if we didn't give him 'the money.'

  Problem was, we didn't have 'the money.' We didn't even know what money he meant. The MC had done alright, but we had never been rolling in it. Virgin and I had just enough to get by while we were there, and barely enough to get us to Navesink Bank when we left. We certainly weren't stashing some huge sum of cash.

  Let alone his cash.

  We didn't even know he had it.

  How could we have taken it?

  But when I had tried - now that my phone was being watched by Barrett - to tell him as much, there was simply no reasoning with him. He had his mind made up. We were the ones he believed took his money. There was nothing I could say to change his mind.

  So... it was a waiting game.

  For Barrett to try to get a lead, to point us in a direction so we could handle things.

  We knew what 'handle things' meant, too.

  We didn't like it.

  But we accepted it.

  Sometimes you had to do shit that you didn't want to.

  Like track down and kill your old president.

  Neither one of us had left a lot of bodies in our wake, but we both did what had to be done in certain situations. Virgin took his first life in a deal gone wrong when he was sixteen. I didn't have a body until I was twenty-one. But we'd both done it. Because we needed to. And we would do it again... when the situation called for it.

  And when a man who clearly had a screw loose was coming after you for something you didn't have, and in doing so threatened the new life you had built for yourself... well, the situation called for it.

  Case closed.

  Once it was handled, we could bring it to Reign.

  Hopefully, it wouldn't be too much longer.

  We already had to watch our backs because of V. We didn't need more reasons on top of that.

  "Nothing by his name. But who would keep their name when they are on the run?" Virgin said with a shrug. Trying to be casual, but it was clear it was weighing on him too. "But he's only been on it two days. It's gonna take time."

  "Hopefully we have it," I agreed.

  "Yeah," he said, moving back toward the door. "He said he'd check in tomorrow."

  "I am taking Peyton shooting," I admitted, pretending to ignore the interested look he shot me.

  "'Aight," he said, nodding. "I'll deal with him then."

  "Just until the afternoon," I specified, feeling guilty suddenly. I didn't put anything before my brothers, before Virgin especially. I certainly never chose a chick over him.

  "Don't worry about it," he said, and he meant it. He wasn't someone who would bullshit me to my face just to keep the peace. If he had a problem with me, he told me. "Fill you in when you get back," he added, already out the door.

  I stripped down, took a shower, and climbed into bed, intent on falling asleep fast. But all I could seem to do was stare up at my ceiling, images of her running through my head.

  The sexy ones were expected.

  Her riding me.

  Her bent over the counter, letting me take her ass.

  Those thoughts invaded my head the majority of the day.

  It was the other ones that troubled me.

  Seeing the way her eyes danced right before she said something smartass or off-the-wall. The way she laughed. The sarcastic sense of humor. The way she was softer, sweeter, more open after sex.

  That was the shit I couldn't stop rolling around my mind.

  For what felt like hours.

  Before I finally passed out.

  I was standing in the doorway when she pulled in, parking her car up front since she knew we would be taking it later.

  She didn't get right out, though.

  From where I was standing, I could see her lean forward, gently banging her head against the steering wheel.

  So one could say that this woman was not a morning person.

  Me? I was used to getting my jobs swung around. I functioned fine no matter what time of the day. This was clearly not true of Peyton as she climbed out of the car with an audible grumble I could hear even from a few yards away, her colorful hair tied back, giant cat-eye sunglasses taking over most of her face. Her legs were swallowed up by tight black jeans, and she had a cut-off white tee on wi
th simple black lettering.

  Talk dewey to me.

  And, because this was Peyton, she had ankle-breaking heels on. Even at ten after seven in the morning.

  "Nice shirt."

  She made that growl again as she moved past me. "It's too early for you to say things," she grumbled at me as she pushed the door fully open, and invited herself inside.

  "There's coffee in the kitchen," I called as I moved inside, realizing when Virgin shot me a raised brow that I was smiling at her back.

  "Not yet," she said, cradling her cup in front of her mouth as I moved into the kitchen with her. "Still not yet," she said after drinking one full mug, then pouring another. Once she finished that, she took a deep breath, and reached up to pull off her sunglasses. She'd done a fair bit of makeup, but it didn't exactly escape me that she had left out the contacts. "Okay. You may speak," she declared, giving me a nod.

  "Sure you're awake enough to trust with a loaded gun?" I asked, brows drawing low as she went to pour yet another cup.

  "I took the last of it," she informed Roderick as he moved into the space with us, waving around the coffee pot. "Sorry."

  "It's cool, mami. I'm not a huge coffee fan."

  "Burn the witch!" she declared dramatically, pointing at Roderick in a full-on Salem-witch-trial-accusers impersonation.

  "Think that's about enough coffee," I declared, shaking my head at her.

  "You say this as though such a thing as enough coffee exists. Don't worry," she said, following me out of the kitchen. "I normally have shots in my morning coffee too. I'm not going to get an eager trigger finger and shoot you or anything."

  "What?" Laz asked, stopping short, looking back at us.

  "She wants to learn how to shoot," I explained.

  "You gonna shoot up the building like Summer did when Reign tried to teach her?" Cash asked, coming out of nowhere.

  "Taking her to the woods," I explained. "We don't need the heat from the NBPD if someone complains."

  He nodded at that, giving Peyton a smile. "Let her pick out her own gun," he told me, giving me the permission I sort of needed to bring her down into the vault. "Let her get a feel for them. What works for you might not work for her."

  "Thanks," I said, nodding. "Come on. Let's pick you something out."

  "Something big and mean-looking," she demanded.

  "They're guns, baby. They're all mean-looking."

  With that, I led her down the stairs to the basement, the temperature dropping a good ten degrees, and I watched as a small shiver moved through her. "Want a sweatshirt?" I asked, gesturing over toward the laundry section in the corner.

  "If it's yours. And just so you know, the second I put it on, it is no longer yours."

  "Fucking chicks. Taking all our hoodies," I said, shaking my head as I moved to snag a bright red New York sweatshirt, handing it to her, watching as she balanced her cup on the edge of the washer so she could shrug it on.

  "Where's the hood?" she asked, reaching up to run her hand around the frayed edge of the neck.

  "Feel like I'm fuckin' strangling with them on. Cut it off."

  "Interesting. Alright. I'm warm. Show me to the guns!"

  With that, I did.

  And, morbid curiosity aside, she managed to make herself turn around when I went to punch the code without me having to ask her.

  "Oh, this is so very dramatic," she declared when the whoosh of air sound filled the quiet space as the door slid open. "Holy crap," was her next comment as we moved inside.

  And, well, that was an appropriate response.

  The vault was huge, big enough to fit all the brothers in at once, the walls lined with either shelves or hangers for the bigger guns.

  "What the hell is this?" she asked, putting her cup on a shelf, and moving over toward the hanging guns. "It looks like something a nineteen-fifties suit-clad mobster would he holding out of the suicide doors of his car."

  I smiled at that because it was cute as fuck. But also accurate.

  Moving beside her, I reached up to put my hand on it.

  "It's a Streetsweeper."

  "It's a what?" she asked, looking over at me with drawn-together brows, seeming to think she misheard me.

  "A Streetsweeper," I repeated.

  "No way!" she hissed, whacking me in the chest.

  "What?"

  "That Nelly song! You know when he goes down your road in a Range Rover... with a Streetsweeper. It was about doing a drive-by!"

  "Ah... yeah," I said, shaking my head at her. "What the fuck else would you think? An actual street sweeper?"

  "Well, sorry I am not an outlaw biker who knows about these kinds of things."

  "He says it is cocked and ready to go," I reasoned.

  "My childhood has been corrupted," she said, holding her heart.

  "Out of curiosity," I said, lips quirking up, "did you think "Ridin' Dirty" was about having a car in need of a wash?"

  "I had no idea that "Butterfly" by Crazy Town was about sex for like years."

  "The entire fuckin' chorus is him telling her to come," I said, chuckling.

  "Right," she agreed, running her hands over an M4. Which were one of the few assault rifles that were illegal to own. I had no idea how the fuck Reign got his hands on a small shipment of them. "But I had no idea what coming was until I was fifteen."

  Fifteen?

  The fuck?

  I knew what coming was before I was out of elementary school. Granted, I grew up in a biker compound, but still. I doubted anyone made it out of middle school without knowing the term.

  "How is that possible?"

  "My parents never gave us the sex talk," she explained casually as she moved over toward the handguns. "And school was all about anatomy. I could tell you everything you need to know about your vas deferens," she added, giving me a raised-brow look over her shoulder."

  "Think I'm good on that front."

  "So, yeah, I didn't know what an orgasm was, let alone the synonyms for it."

  "Did your sister teach you? She's older, right?"

  "Yeah, Autumn is the older sister. But she didn't know much that far ahead of me either. She kinda learned in a... trial by error way. And then she was gone. Moved out," she clarified, picking up a Colt .45 and aiming it at the wall.

  "And opened a sex store," I said, smiling when she did.

  "Yeah, our parents loved that, let me tell you. Almost as much as they love my hair, tattoos, piercings, and potty mouth."

  "I like your potty mouth." The words were out of me before I could even think them through, making her gaze shoot to mine, almost seeming a bit taken aback by the compliment. Rushing to cover, I waved a hand out. "Did you pick one yet?"

  "I like this one," she said, holding up a Ruger Super Blackhawk which was practically the size of her goddamn forearm.

  "Nah. Not a revolver. Pick a handgun."

  "Why? This one is huge. And it has the spinny thing!"

  "The cylinder," I said, running a hand up the back of my neck while I smiled at her. This woman.

  "Yeah, the cylinder. So I can like do this," she said, spinning it, then holding it up, closing one of her eyes, and aiming at what she thought was likely my chest, but if she were actually going to shoot, it would barely graze my shoulder. "And quote Dirty Harry before I shoot."

  "It's too heavy for your first time," I said, moving over to pick up a pistol instead. "This would be better."

  "Ugh," she grumbled, putting her fun gun away and taking my boring one. "This looks like a cop gun."

  "It is a cop gun. Glock 22 is pretty standard issue for a lot of cops. It's got the power of a .45 caliber but the flexibility of a 9mm."

  And, I shit you not, this woman started humming "'9mm.'"

  "David Banner?" I asked, smirking at her as I grabbed a few other guns and ammo to try out.

  "Featuring Snoop Dogg, Lil' Wayne, and Akon," she agreed, a bottomless fountain of musical information.

  "Alright, give me that," I deman
ded, holding my hand out.

  "I want to hold it."

  "It's going in my bag in the back of your fuckin' hearse. You get to hold it when I'm sure we don't get pulled over."

  "You'd go to jail for me, Suga Suga?" she asked, clearly teasing.

  "Better me than you," I said, snatching it out of her hand. And she seemed too surprised to fight me.

  After that, I relocked the vault, we loaded up the car, and we headed out.

  I learned some other things about Peyton on the drive out of town.

  She slapped your hand if you touched her iPod.

  She shamelessly belted out fucking Miley Cyrus.

  And she had a bit of road rage.

  "Oh my fucking god," she yelled at her windshield. "If you don't know how to drive it, don't buy it, sweetheart!" she added to the giant Expedition in front of her.

  "You could beep at her," I suggested, not sure what the purpose was of yelling at someone when the windows were up, and they couldn't hear you.

  "What kind of animal beeps at another person?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

  "But yelling at her is fine?"

  "Well, how is she going to learn if I don't inform her she drives like a ninety-six-year-old with nothing left to lose?"

  "You're a fucking trip," I said, slapping a hand down on her thigh and giving it a squeeze. Why I left it there for the rest of the trip, well, I think I was starting to understand that shit.

  And, yeah, it was new.

  Weird.

  Something that made not a damn bit of sense.

  But I just wasn't someone who fought shit like that.

  I went with it.

  Life was a lot fucking easier if you didn't turn everything into a battle.

  So, I was into her.

  In a somewhat serious way.

  And, well, I was just going to roll with it.

  "Oh, fuckin' hell," I groaned as the song changed away from some tolerable early 2000s alternative to, as fate would have it, Baby Bash.

  My head slammed back on the headrest, staring at the ceiling as Peyton went fucking HAAM on the track.

  "Do you have a problem with it being wood grain and raw hide when we ride?" she asked, tone serious as the song came to an end.