Sugar (The Henchmen MC Book 12)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "Arse," I snorted, feeling some of the anger drain, annoyed with myself for letting it be there in the first place.

  I was not that kind of girl.

  The one who waited by her phone.

  The one who was hurt when it didn't ring.

  No.

  Not me.

  "Not that it's a chore to stand here and look at ya, we're supposed to be teaching ya to hit."

  "This feels silly all of a sudden," I admitted, my voice all warbled from the mouth guard.

  "Ya came in here in a mood, didn't ya?" he asked, tipping his head to the side, eyes mischievous. "Something to do with the screaming match I heard yesterday?"

  "I didn't scream," I objected, small-eyeing him, embarrassed that I totally almost had.

  "Did he dump ya?" he asked, blunt, almost painfully so. I knew he was trying to goad me, but he did it so effortlessly. "Tell ya he was sick of fucking ya, wanted more variety?"

  "No," I objected. And while he was using the wrong material, just the mention of Sugar right then was starting to tick me off again.

  I had apologized.

  Owned up.

  Agreed to talk. Full-well knowing that if we talked, feelings would be involved, and that I was about as emotionally inarticulate as a human being could get. So that was huge for me.

  "Come on," he demanded, doing the 'come at me, bro,' fingers.

  I planted my feet, pulled my right arm back, then thrust it forward, slamming into his shoulder.

  Adler wasn't a brick wall of a man. He was tall and lithe. As such, I expected my punch to knock him back a bit.

  But he didn't budge.

  "Hand hurt?" he asked, smiling.

  "Shut up," I told him with small eyes as I tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Sometime in the next twenty minutes, I finally admitted I was pissed because Sugar was ignoring me, to which he had nothing to say but to keep goading me on.

  "It's like getting a massage from a kitten," he informed me, patting my arm, making me push a hand into his chest with a laugh.

  "The fuck is this?"

  Well, that was a fine way to spoil the good mood I had finally gotten into after twenty minutes of attempting to beat up Adler as he heckled me.

  "Uh oh," Adler said with a guilty look at me.

  "This is me taking a boxing lesson," I said, lifting my chin a little.

  "Wasn't talking to you," he said, not bothering to look at me as he kept advancing the ring.

  I'd seen a lot in those gorgeous eyes of his since I met him, but I had never seen this. Anger.

  Even as he ducked under the ropes, his body was tense, taut as a coil ready to spring.

  Adler's arm moved out, catching me fully across the chest, pushing me back several feet effortlessly as Sugar got closer.

  "Told you to keep her out your fuckin' head. You take that to mean to put your hands on her instead?" Sugar asked, slamming his hands into Adler's shoulders hard. Hard enough to send the man who - to me had been unmovable - back several feet.

  "Ya don't want to do this, man," Adler warned, voice carrying a threat I didn't know him well enough to understand.

  "Don't tell me what I want. I get a call saying you're down here sparring with her," he said, pushing Adler again, this time pressing him back into the ropes.

  "Don't be mad at me because ya can't treat yer woman right," Adler shot back, for whatever reason choosing not to de-escalate the situation by telling the truth.

  That, well, that was the wrong thing to say.

  I blinked, and suddenly the men were tearing into each other.

  Some women romanticize the idea of men literally fighting over you, but right here in the muck of it all, watching two men I liked slamming fists into each other, drawing blood, hissing in pain, yeah, no. There was nothing romantic about it.

  It was ugly.

  Brutal.

  And I didn't know enough about how to get between them without getting hurt.

  "Do something," I demanded, seeing a few of the guys standing around watching.

  "They got to get it out," one of them shot back, shrugging.

  "Shoulda called yer woman back," Adler said, blood dripping down the corner of his lip, but he was smiling. Like he was enjoying this somehow.

  "You fuckin' knew I was on guard all night, and sleeping in today," Sugar shot back, angry still, but not swinging suddenly. "You could have told her."

  "Ain't my job to do yer job," Adler shot back.

  "You're a fuckin' asshole, Adler," Sugar declared, breathing a little hard, but seeming to lose some of the rage.

  "Never claimed anything different," he agreed, then turned to look at me. "Ya wanna go again, kitty paws, let me know," he said, then ducked out of the ring as though he hadn't just gotten into a fight.

  I took a deep breath, watching as Sugar seemed to do the same thing. His hand rose, the knuckles a little raw, rubbing the back of his neck. On a sigh, he turned back to me. "I just fuckin' got up," he said, shaking his head.

  And right then, I could see it.

  He looked beat.

  "You couldn't wait like half a fuckin' day before you went all vengeful on me?" he asked, his tone strained, but his lips were twitching slightly.

  "I just wanted a good workout," I lied.

  "Bullshit," he called me out, smile starting. "I heard you were feeling throat-stompy. Figure 'cause you finally got your head out of your ass and texted me. And thought I was giving you the silent treatment."

  "My head was not up my ass," I objected, small-eyeing him.

  "So far up your ass it was back on your shoulders again," he countered.

  "Don't be a dick," I shot back.

  "What are you gonna do about it?" he asked, head dipping to the side. "Hit me?"

  "Don't tempt me," I said, lifting a brow at him.

  "Take a shot, baby," he invited, holding his arms out. "Don't be a chickenshit," he added, using the same word he threw at me the day before.

  And, well, I'd be damned if I'd get called a chickenshit again.

  Unlike Adler, though, he wasn't just going to stand there and let me wail into him. Oh, no. But I didn't know that until I tried to strike a second time and found my wrist grabbed and twisted until I was somehow turned around, my back slamming into his chest, his arm going around my waist, holding me in place.

  "Admit it."

  "Admit what?" I asked, trying to twist, to sink down, to find some way to get away from him. My pride was not liking being so helpless.

  "Admit what we got here is more than just fucking," he specified, letting me go, spinning me out.

  "And if I won't?" I asked, all bluster now that he wasn't holding me hostage.

  "I'll make you," he promised. It shouldn't have, but it made my sex clench hard.

  "Bring it," I demanded, charging at him.

  It wasn't two minutes before I slammed back hard onto the mat.

  "Admit it," he demanded again, looking down at me while I tried to catch the breath that had gotten knocked out of me.

  "Nope," I shot back, kicking a leg out, landing in his shin, sending him down on a knee with a hard hiss. "Fighting dirty," he accused, but he sounded almost... proud.

  "Just wait until I start taking my classes. I will wipe the floor with you," I said, rolling to my side so I could push up.

  "I'd like to see that," he said, moving so fast that he blurred, pressing into my shoulder so that I lost my balance, falling onto my back again. His hands grabbed my wrists, pinning them up above my head. "Now admit it," he tried again, eyes on me, body completely preventing me from moving even an inch.

  "This is good foreplay," I said instead, making him let out a low, rolling chuckle that made my insides go all gooey.

  "You're a fuckin' trip," he told me. "Now admit it." When I said nothing, his smile went wicked. "I can play dirty too," he told me, head lowering to run his tongue up the side of my neck, sending a shiver through my body even as
his hips shifted, pressed my thighs open, and his cock pushed against my pussy. "Got no shame. I'll keep going," he added, snagging my earlobe between his teeth. "Tell me you want more than fuckin' from me."

  Feeling desire like a live wire through my system, wanting to get it out so we could get out of here and do something about it, I took as deep a breath as my pinned body could, and forced the words out. "I want more than just fucking with you," I admitted, my words small and choked.

  When Sugar pressed back up to look down on me, his smile was victorious.

  "Was that so hard, you stubborn ass?"

  "Yes, actually, it was," I shot back, tone snippy.

  "Get used to it," he said, pushing back onto his heels. "If we are committing to more, you are gonna have to fuckin' talk to me."

  "Ugh, fine," I grumbled, reaching for the hand he extended to me, letting him drag me back onto my feet. "You owe Adler an apology," I informed him as he unwrapped my hands.

  "No, I don't."

  "Yes, actually, you do."

  "No, Peyt."

  "You came charging in here and flew at him."

  "Yep."

  "He didn't do anything."

  "Yeah, he did."

  "He just happened to be here," I insisted. "Lo picked him to spar with me. That was it. He didn't do anything wrong."

  "He did, baby."

  "What? Because he wasn't your errand boy?"

  "Because he knew he should have sent you in my direction. Or called me himself."

  I rolled my eyes at that, tossing my mouth guard into the little holder he held out to me, making a mental note to wash it out later.

  "Even if he tried to send me in your direction, I would have stayed here. Would you rather I spar with one of these other randos? They might not have kept it as PG as Adler did."

  "There are rules, Peyt. In an MC, there are rules. You don't get that yet. He knows, and did his own thing. So he paid for it. It's not personal. We'll raise a glass later and laugh about it."

  "Guys are stupid," I decided.

  "Says the girl with the emotional intelligence of a goldfish," he teased, throwing an arm across my shoulders in a way that I would never admit aloud, but I loved. "So, am I coming back with you?" he asked, clearly meaning to my apartment.

  "For?"

  "Well, aren't you supposed to patch me up? I defended your honor and shit."

  "First, my honor did not need defending. Second, I'll trade you patching up for sex in the shower and lunch before I have to get to work."

  "I can work with that."

  And so he did.

  FOURTEEN

  Sugar

  It went like that for a solid week.

  On the days I happened to get the morning shift, I dropped by her place after work. She cooked. We watched movies, talked, fucked. On the nights I pulled overnights, she drove over to the compound to sit with me in the glass walls, trying her best to distract me from my job for a while before cracking open one of her books, content to just sit with me.

  That shit? It was nice.

  Nicer than I ever could have imagined.

  And it was easy.

  I thought there would be a learning curve, growing pains. But we just settled in. It was effortless. She'd introduced me officially to Savea who I knew was around some nights, but usually crashed before I got there. Jamie was around some nights for dinner, for movies.

  I liked them too, her people.

  I liked shit like listening to them recall stories of the crazy shit they had done - or, more accurately, Peyton had done - and laugh until they practically pissed themselves, sitting there rolling into one another, holding their stomachs, gasping for air.

  It was nice.

  I guess I never really realized how nice it could be to just hang with women. Sure, there were a lot of them at the compound here and there, but the dynamic was different.

  But it wasn't only about her and her people.

  It was about me and mine as well.

  She had, in her short visits to the compound, met all the men. And Peyton just had this ability to get on with anyone. Even difficult people to get on with at times. Like Renny. Who, when he met her for five minutes, declared her daddy issues were showing, and flat-out asked her if he used to abuse her.

  I went to fly up out of my chair, but found my wrist snagged in her hand.

  "Well, he refused to buy me that Baby from Dinosaurs. You know, the one that said Not the mama when you pulled the string in his back. If that isn't abuse, then I don't know what is."

  And because she didn't get pissed, because she didn't fly off the handle at his accusations, Renny backed right off. I'd even caught the two sitting and talking early one morning. Well, early for Peyton. It was around nine-thirty for the rest of us.

  "Yo," Virgin said, coming in from another meeting with Barrett.

  "Anything?" I asked, starting to feel apathetic about the whole thing. It was getting old - the threats. The waiting to see if there were any signs that he knew where we were.

  "That last text pinged off a cell tower in Jersey," he said, giving me a gut punch.

  "Shit."

  "He could just be passing through. Could be catching a train into the city."

  "I don't like the coulds," I admitted. Coulds meant that there could be a fucking lunatic in Navesink Bank. There could be someone showing up at the compound and starting shit. We could get our asses handed to us by Reign once his men had to handle a situation that we brought on them unwittingly.

  "Might be time for a talk," he said, sensing where my mind was at as well.

  "Yeah," I agreed.

  "He'll be back tomorrow," he added.

  "If you see him before I do, catch him," I demanded, clamping a hand on his shoulder as I made my way toward the door, having already told him I was meeting Peyton after her class at the gym.

  I had maybe figured she was going to let it slide for a while, get back to it after we had spent some time together.

  But nope.

  I was learning quickly that whatever you expected Peyton to do, she had this tendency to do the exact opposite.

  She liked to keep everyone on their toes.

  The fucking lunatic apparently spent a lot of time watching gore makeup Youtube tutorials. And went fuckin' HAAM on her face, looking like she'd been goddamned mauled, splashed herself in fake blood, and laid down in the hallway of her apartment building on April Fools Day. Then jumped up at you when you got close.

  Two days later, she showed up at the compound and declared we were going into the city for a show.

  That show?

  Drag burlesque.

  The following morning, I shit you not, she dressed up like some goddamn Little House on the Prairie kid, all buttoned-up and demure, and made me this elaborate breakfast... then made me paint her toenails.

  Like... you couldn't make this shit up.

  I guess that was the most amazing thing about her.

  She didn't give a fuck about conventions, about what other people thought. She was the most authentic person I had ever met, just one-hundred percent herself, doing what made her happy, what she thought would be fun or interesting.

  It was easy to think she was out for the attention, to judge her craziness as some front she put on. But it wasn't the case. She just... lived fully. She wanted pizza at three in the morning? She got out of bed and made it. She wanted to paint her living room wall neon green while listening to Loggins and Messina? She did that too. She wanted to spend three hours getting into some pin-up outfit only to sit in the living room and watch Carnivale reruns? Yep, her ass was on the couch with heels and victory rolls.

  You never knew what you might walk into when you went to her place, what she was in the mood to do, what she would want from you.

  It was interesting.

  She was interesting.

  And the more time I spent with her, the more I knew it.

  She knew it too, even if she was still too chickenshit to really admit
it.

  This was going somewhere.

  This was something special.

  I'd never met a woman like her, so fearless in everything but her own emotions. But she had gotten to the point where she didn't stiffen up if I said we on occasion.

  That was progress.

  With her dick of a dad, I understood it was going to take her longer to be completely open with me. Which was fine. As far as I was concerned, we had nothing but time.

  "Bob Ross and George Carlin in a threesome..." she was saying as she came out of the door to the gym as I stood there and waited for her. Her bright hair was pulled back as it always was when she left. Her Ramones tee was sliced off at the sleeves and tied to a small knot in the front and it in no way matched the purple leggings she had on with little kittens giving the finger - even though kittens didn't even have fingers - all over them. I didn't know where the fuck such pieces of clothing were made, but she seemed to own stock in the company from what I could tell from her wardrobe.

  "I don't think I want to know," I said, shaking my head at her as she waved at whomever she had been talking to inside.

  "Fantasy threesomes. Duh."

  "Yeah, you're gonna have to explain that one, baby. Because, no."

  "Um... have you ever watched The Joy of Painting? I bet women from coast to coast masturbate to his voice and that laid-back 'everything is okay' vibe he has."

  "Little fucked still, but okay. But... George Carlin?"

  "Have you ever seen his standup? That man knows a lot about pussies. It's intriguing."

  Intriguing.

  She could have picked that dude from that fuckin' MC TV show, or that dude with the long hair who threw axes and shit.

  But no.

  My girl wanted to fuck some hippie painter and some old geezer of a comedian. Both of whom were dead.

  "How about some living candidates," I suggested, watching as she really gave it some thought.

  "You know Oz?" she asked, knowing full-well I did because she somehow found that show 'soothing' and put it on as background noise to go to sleep at night. Soothing. Men routinely getting shivved, blinded, or crucified. But this piece of work found it soothing.

  "Yeah, babe. I can practically quote that shit now."

  "Well... I wouldn't mind getting between Tobias and Chris."