by Naomi West
“You gonna lie to me now?” I say, getting in his space. “You knew for years the Hounds were passin’ through here with underage girls and you didn’t get nothin’ for keepin’ your trap shut?”
Jackson looks like he might just piss his pants. He’s a pale guy anyway but now he’s paper white as he tries and fails to step away from me. The other two guys are right there, blocking him from going.
“How. Much?” I growl. “And what else you doin’ for them?”
“I didn’t, boss,” he says, shaking his head furiously. “Nothin’.”
“So you didn’t get nothin’ for lettin’ them pass straight through our territory? Just waved ’em on through like they were your buddies on their way to the beach? That don’t seem likely to me. What do you guys think? AJ, Marko?”
AJ and Marko both shake their heads and grumble that it seems indeed unlikely that Jackson would’ve let the Hounds pass through without getting anything in return.
I pull my knife from my belt. My forearm at his chest, the knife digs perilously against the skin of his throat. There is a cost for working against the club. There is a cost for profiting at the peril of our brotherhood. There is a cost for lying, for going against the oaths we all take when we accept Rippers’ colors.
“You wanna keep your tongue, Jackson?” I say, baring my teeth at him. He squirms, but AJ and Marko have him held tight. “Start talkin’. How much have you made on this little venture?”
“Just …” He struggles to keep his voice from cracking. “I got girls, boss. Two girls in a fancy private school. Expensive …”
“Private school’s worth your girls not having a father?” I ask.
“No, no,” he cries. “It ain’t. No. Please. I just let ’em through, boss. It ain’t no big thing. I didn’t share no other business.”
I hesitate. I think he’s telling the truth but even if he is, he’s been making money off of our backs for years. Girls or no girls, he knew better. As a younger man, I’d have slashed his throat the minute I knew what he’d done. I’d surely have cut that tongue right out of his mouth.
That’s my job. Rod managed the routes, placed the guys, glad-handed the clients. I was the heavy.
I am the heavy. I took an oath, too, as Hard Rod’s second. And now, with him preoccupied with family business, I have to play his role and mine, because there’s no one else to do it.
“AJ, Marko,” I say, “Strip him naked. Take his colors, his bike, his phone.”
They go about their task until Jackson is buck naked and shivering in the cool fall air. He’s a paunchy dude with a dad bod and a smattering of bad tattoos. He’s just a shivering, middle-aged man out here.
“What is an appropriate punishment for this offense?” I ask the guys. “Jackson here hasn’t told us how much he’s made on this little deal he had going, but that’s first, right? Makin’ money from another club. Puttin’ our territory and his brothers in danger by lettin’ Hounds cross through with no repercussion. Potentially spillin’ information about our business to our enemies.”
Jackson is sobbing now, shaking his head, repeating “no, no, no” over and over again. I’m inclined to believe he didn’t share information but the other stuff is enough. I just …I can’t be the one to make the decision. I look to AJ and Marko.
Marko, huge and almost as tattooed as me, has two long scars running down his left cheek. He knows what it means to break the oath of a club. He was pretty young when it happened and he, too, was stripped of his colors and sent away bleeding. We took him in because he swore he’d learned his lesson and he’s been a model citizen ever since.
“Bitches gotta learn they lesson, boss,” Marko says.
“Scars and excommunication,” AJ agrees.
“Damn, that’s a big word,” Marko says, grinning.
I step back into Jackson’s face. “You’re lucky you aren’t being buried alive,” I say. “You understand?”
He’s still crying, snot running down his face as I shove my knife into his gut. I do it twice more, and we let him crumple to the ground.
“Get him home,” I order AJ. To Marko, I say, “Call for backup.”
I don’t stay to make sure it gets done. I don’t look back at Jackson, who’s likely to bleed out before he even gets home. I probably just killed a father of two. I feel sick. For the first time in my career with the Rippers, I find this whole business sickening, distasteful.
It’s been a long while since we’ve had any kind of real drama in the club. I haven’t had to draw my weapon for anything but show for a solid two years and I took it for granted. This is reality for us. There are far more violent clubs than ours. We’ve been more violent in the past than we are now. Lately, our business has been steady, easy, and not requiring of threats or drawn blood.
Now, though …The Hounds won’t be happy that we’ve found them out. They won’t be happy because cutting through our territory means saving hours of travel time. Hours saved means hours fewer during which they could be caught in the act of human trafficking.
I’ve got Jackson’s blood on my hands and arms. My shirt is splattered with it. I feel like a walking horror show. I get on my bike, but before I start her up I call headquarters and let them know we need double the men on border duty. They need to be removing Hounds of Hell insignia when they find it. They need to be vigilant about stopping the Hounds from coming through. They can go around peaceably, but if they set their boots an inch inside our territory, we will draw blood. Any Ripper found guilty of assisting them on their way through will be stripped and gutted.
Message received by my guys, I drive and drive. I should go home and clean up. I should change my clothes, get this blood off of me. God knows if I get stopped by a cop, I’ll be fucked.
But I don’t go home. And the weight of the evening presses on me as I drive. I could use a glass of bourbon but I can’t go to a bar wearing another man’s blood.
My mind moves on to Millie. Hazel-eyed Millie in her uptight work clothing. Millie, who was going to marry that stiff-backed prick. Millie and her damn cats. I shouldn’t care about any of those things. My main goal should be in getting what I want, what I need. She owes me, and since she doesn’t have the money to pay me back, then I need to go get my rocks off and let her go back to her little vanilla world.
She’s a means to an end, that’s all. This is not the girl for me, and I don’t have time to deal with an old lady anyway.
Or a kid. No matter how bad I want one.
Chapter 6
Millie
I’m already in my pajamas when the doorbell rings. If this is Phillip, I swear to God …
Ever since Axel shut the door in his face, he’s redoubled his efforts to try to get me back. I even agreed to have dinner with him. He was sweet and attentive, and he said all the right things, but my heart just wasn’t in it. I told him so, and he brushed it off, told me I wasn’t thinking clearly, that we had so much history, that it would be dumb to throw it all away.
I have thought about it, about taking him back. He’s got a good job at the bank and he’s already been promoted twice since he started. He makes good money and I know him. I’ve known him most of my life. He’s been my partner since I was fifteen. He is not a bad person. I mean, yes, he cheated on me. It was surprising and embarrassing, to say the least, but we’ve been together since we were barely more than children. We lost our virginity to each other. I can’t really be angry with him for wanting to see what it’s like to be intimate with someone else, can I?
I think of Axel, tall and broad, and the way he made me feel. With just kisses, he made me feel more than I ever felt for Phillip. So, no, I can’t blame Phillip for wanting that, too. Sex for us was always basic, sweet. It wasn’t passionate or creative. It rarely resulted in my own release. But I didn’t know anything else. I didn’t know that there could be more, that it could be better. Until I felt Axel’s lips on mine, his erection hard against my core, I hadn’t known I could even have more.
As a result, I’m inclined to forgive Phillip, to allow him that time in his life. He explored, and I can’t blame him for that. Maybe it will help us become better at pleasuring each other.
The doorbell rings again as I pull a hoodie over top of my flimsy white tank top. As I open the door, expecting to see Phillip, it’s actually Axel. Axel, whom I think about every day. Axel, who is in my mind every time my hand sneaks between my legs, every time the hot water of the shower stings against my most sensitive parts.
It’s been weeks, and I thought I might never see him again. Hoped he’d stay away. Hoped he’d come back.
And here he is, his hands stained red, splatters of red on his white T-shirt. He looks haunted.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“It’s better if I don’t tell you,” he says.
“Well, you better take it somewhere else,” I say. “I don’t want any part of that in my house.”
His shoulders lack the confident set that I’ve seen in him before. The smirk he wears is gone; his jaw is tense and twitching as he grinds his teeth together. The skin between his eyebrows wrinkles with worry. I feel, in my gut, that everything about his body language is asking for help right now. And this is not the type of man who asks for help.
“All right, fine,” I say, opening the door, beckoning him inside. I look around to see if anyone is outside, but the street is empty. Axel steps inside and I shut the door, locking it quickly, turning to find him standing in the middle of my living room, staring at me.
He opens his mouth but then shuts it again.
“Why don’t you go in and grab a shower?” I ask. “Throw those clothes out the door and I’ll stick them in the wash.”
He nods and I walk him to the tiny bathroom. He’s so big, takes up some much space. I point out the fresh towels and then step out, waiting just outside the door until he hands me his jeans and shirt.
Once I get the laundry going, I decide maybe he needs a hot meal and start pulling pots and pans out. I set some water to boil and start chopping vegetables. Cooking has always been a bit of a stress reliever for me. My mother loves to bake, and she would always bake any time she was worried, so I guess I got this habit honestly.
Axel is here. In my house. Covered in blood. Oh God. I didn’t even ask if it was his blood. Could he be hurt in there?
I chop, chop, chop the zucchini, onion, and tomatoes, trying to hold it together. I am not generally an anxious person but I’m suddenly overcome with worry and I can’t really trace it to any one thought. My head is all over the place, moving from Axel and blood to worrying about Phillip showing up, to thinking that a crime must have been committed.
I hear a creak on the old wooden floorboards and look up to find a very large, very nude man standing in the doorway to my kitchen.
At least, I think he’s nude.
I tilt my head as I assess. Axel’s upper torso is covered in tattoos. Many are dark and swirling tribal pieces, but there is light and color, too. Sugar skulls and skeletons in armor, classic floral, and even a cartoon character. His skin is a canvas, full of artwork, and he nearly looks clothed, there is so little of his olive skin peeking through.
As my gaze moves over his defined chest and abs, it lingers at his hips. He doesn’t have a lot of hair on his chest, but a thin happy trail leads to a thick mass of pubic hair nestling a massive—and I mean massive—penis.
“See anything you like?” he asks, that cocky smirk back on his face.
I gulp, God help me, literally gulp at the question.
When I get my wits, I ask, “Didn’t I show you where the clean towels were?”
He steps closer. “Oh, I’m not wet,” he says. “But I’m hoping you will be soon.”
“Wait, wait,” I say, stepping backwards, my butt hitting the refrigerator. “We have things to discuss.”
“Well, let’s talk then,” he says, coming closer and closer, a predator closing in on his prey.
“All that blood …” I start.
“Not mine,” he says.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “And the person it belonged to …”
“Not dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says in that gravel voice of his.
“Did he … deserve it? Whatever you did to him?” I ask. My heart is about to beat out of my chest.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he closes the last little gap between us and pulls me into his arms, his lips crushing mine.
At first, I beat against him. I’m feeling too anxious, too nervous, too confused to want this. I push my head to the side as my fists pummel at his broad back. His lips are on my neck, then, one of his hands on my flannel-covered rear end and the other at the back of my neck.
“Stop,” I breathe. “Stop, stop.”
He stops, just like that, and backs away only slightly. My breathing is coming in shallow gulps as he meets my gaze. That empty look he wore when he was on my doorstep? It’s gone now, replaced with pure fire.
“I need to say some things, ask some questions,” I say. “Before we … go any further. First, I was making dinner. Can I finish it for you?”
He chews on his bottom lip for a second before giving a short nod and wandering to the kitchen table. He’s seemingly totally unaffected by the fact that he’s naked.
“You don’t … want to throw on a towel or something?” I ask as I move to check the pasta as it boils.
“I’m good,” he says. “That one of your questions?”
“No,” I laugh. “No. First, is Axel your real name?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he answers. “Do you mind if I grab a beer?”
“Go ahead,” I say. “Grab me one, too?”
He’s up in a heartbeat, grabbing beers from the fridge, popping them open. He hands me one and takes a long pull from his before he sits back down again. I can’t help but admire his body—how it moves, the way his muscles work together like a machine.
“You work out a lot?” I ask.
He nods. “I do. You?”
I make a face. “Do I look like I work out?”
“You look good,” he says. “Sexy.”
I take in a long, uneven breath. “So Axel’s not your real name?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. We’ve all got nicknames.”
“For … crime … purposes?” I ask, my voice small. I try to cover it by turning to pull the boiling pot from the stove. I dump the pasta into the colander, but I can hear him chuckling. I feel myself blushing. I don’t know a thing about his world.
I toss all the vegetables together with olive oil, garlic, and herbs. A few minutes later, I’m putting the plate in front of him. He stabs at it with his fork in a way that makes me wonder when he last had a good meal.
“This is good,” he says. “It’s a wonder that dumb guy isn’t a fat ass.”
“Phillip?” I ask.
“He who shouldn’t be named,” he answers.
I eyeball him, one side of my mouth quirking upwards.
“What?” he asks through a mouthful of pasta.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Rowling fan,” I answer.
“You know exactly nothing about me,” he says.
I feel irrationally hurt by this. But also … pissed. “You come in here soaked in some other guy’s blood and you want to be a jerk to me?” I ask. “I could have slammed the door in your face, so use your manners, if you have some.”
He pushes his lips together, presumably to keep from laughing at my little outburst.
“Shut up,” I say. “Your name. Your real name.”
“Keaton,” he says. “Keaton King.”
“Whoa. That’s kind of a sexy name,” I say.
He gives me the side eye, pasta on his fork, midway to his mouth. And then it’s down and he’s up and I’m being picked up and carried to the bedroom.
***
Axel
Seventy-five percent of the guys in my club don’t know my real na
me. Ask them who Keaton King is and they’ll be like, “I have no fucking clue,” and that’s the way I like it. I’ve always been a little embarrassed by it, actually, because my mom named me for Michael Keaton, who played Batman the year I was born. I mean, seriously? Who fucking does that?
Of course, we all know my mom was an addict and an abusive bitch, so …
But damn, hearing Millie Jones say my name is sexy? Forget the fucking pasta. Forget the fucking dumbfuck club member from earlier today. All I want is that woman naked underneath me. And now.