Honestly, as weird as this has been so far, it’s also one of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever been to.
At the end of the ceremony, Cas turns to another man behind him and hands Mariana off. He takes both Jenna’s hands in his, and Rock’s voice booms out over the crowd.
“Ghost Watkins, you may now kiss your bride.”
My brow crinkles in confusion at the name Rock calls him, but I don’t have time to wonder about it, because Cas is leaning forward. He pulls Jenna into his arms, tilting her head back toward his, and the kiss they exchange is so full of passion and love that I half-laugh, half-sob as I capture the moment.
For a couple of seconds, there’s an almost reverent silence.
Then, a raucous cheer erupts from the crowd.
“HELL YES!” someone yells over the others. “Let’s get this party started!”
3
Hawk
Twenty minutes into the reception, I’m already taking bets with myself on how long the hot photographer is gonna last before she freaks out and runs away.
As soon as the wedding ends, I head into Geno’s house to put away my guitar, before one of the men gets drunk and disorderly and does something stupid like use it for batting practice. It’s not a very expensive guitar, but it has a lot of sentimental value. It’s the only thing I have left of my older brother, who died when I was seventeen.
This morning, the brothers set up everything necessary for an epic party in the field behind Geno’s house. At the club level, the preparations for this day have been going on for weeks. This is one of our brothers who’s getting married, after all. And not just any brother, either. Ghost is our Sergeant at Arms — the man who keeps our club in order. Normally he’d be the one making sure things didn’t get dangerously out of hand today, but as the groom he’s officially off the clock, so all bets are off.
The whole point of today is to make goddamn sure that Ghost and Jenna start off their married life with a blowout that will be the stuff of club legend.
Our VP Angel, Ghost’s best buddy and Jenna’s brother, has had enough booze and food brought in for as long as the Lords can keep this party going. A bunch of long tables are set up in the middle of the field, probably by the prospects early this morning. A couple of the tables are laden with main and side dishes and desserts, courtesy of the old ladies and club girls, who make it a point of pride to feed their men well. Our enormous custom-made grill has been hauled here from the clubhouse, ready to be filled with steak and chicken for the men and women, and hamburgers and hot dogs for the kids. Off to the side, our smoker is emitting the fucking delicious smell of barbecue, expertly manned by Tank.
When I come back out of Geno’s place, the huge sound system that Striker and Tweak set up is already blasting classic rock at a volume that’s almost hard to believe. If Geno had anyone living close by, we’d be at risk of getting the cops called out here. But as it is, he’s so far out of town there’s no one anywhere near close enough to be bothered by us. Geno does not like neighbors. Or people in general, really.
The older kids have rounded up the younger kids to take them inside for their own party, a massive sleepover in Geno’s basement. His man cave features a seventy-five inch flat screen TV, a game system, a popcorn machine, and more movies than any one man could watch in a lifetime. The kids will hang out and eventually crash there, leaving the adults to get on with their own craziness. Already, a bunch of the brothers have started to party in earnest. There’s a few groups trading shots of whiskey over at one table. Some others are gathered over by the smoker trading stories and laughing their asses off. More than one has decided to skip the formalities and go straight for the pussy.
I’ve been watching the hot photographer since even before the wedding ceremony started. She is definitely not the kind of chick you usually see hanging around an MC. Not that our club girls and old ladies aren’t hot. Shit, our women could compete with any women from any MC I’ve seen in terms of looks. But the photographer stands out among all of them, in more ways than one. For one thing, she’s dressed differently, in a no-nonsense black button-down blouse and black pants. It’s clear from her clothes she’s trying not to be noticed, and I guess that makes sense. After all, I suppose it’s tough to take pictures of people acting naturally when they’re aware that you’re watching them with a camera pointed at their every move.
The thing is, though, even with the inconspicuous clothes she’s wearing, there’s no way in hell this girl could ever be invisible. She’s fucking gorgeous: long, straight, glossy chocolate-brown hair, a tiny waist that rounds out into full, luscious curves, and big, dark, doe-like eyes. It doesn’t look like she’s wearing any makeup, but Jesus, she doesn’t need to. Her skin is absolutely perfect, her mouth full and pouty. As I watch her move unobtrusively around the crowd and snap pictures of Jenna, Ghost, and the others, her brow furrows in concentration and somehow it makes her even more beautiful. When she bites her lip while staring down at the screen of her camera, I want to bite it for her.
In my experience, people who’ve never been around the club before tend to be pretty fucking intimidated by us. And probably with good damn reason. So I watch in surprise and amusement over the next hour or so as this chick seems to barely acknowledge that any of the shit happening around her is anything but completely normal.
She takes tons of pictures of Ghost and Jenna, dutifully averting the lens whenever their kissing and groping starts to turn X-rated.
She moves in close to capture a shot of Beast — who’s got to be almost two feet taller than her and weighs close to three times as much — as he downs half a bottle of bourbon in one go to win a bet with Gunner.
And she doesn’t bat an eye when Tweak passes out first, and a few of the brothers decide to tie ropes around his bike and haul it up into a tree for him to find when he wakes up.
I’m staring in open admiration at her when Thorn comes up behind me, his eyes following my gaze.
“She’s a ride, isn’t she?” he says, his Irish brogue deepening as it always does when he’s been drinking.
“That she is,” I agree, chuckling appreciatively. “I’ve been thinking about riding her ever since she stepped foot onto the farm.”
Which is true. My dick’s been standing at half-attention for a while now, wondering if he’s gonna be called into duty. I should leave the girl alone, though. She’s just trying to do her job. And Jenna might be pissed if I scare away her wedding photographer.
Just then, Melanie, Rachel, and Tammy, three of the club girls, come over to where Thorn and I are standing. All three of them have progressed to the drunk and giggly phase.
“You’ve been ignoring us!” pouts Tammy, batting her heavily mascara’ed eyes first at Thorn, then me. She leans forward toward Thorn, but then stumbles on her high heels and falls clumsily against his chest.
“You’ve already had a bit of a craic, haven’t ye?” Thorn laughs, setting Tammy to rights.
“What?” she asks, confusion twisting her pretty face. “I have not!”
Thorn snorts. “No matter, love. English is optional for what we’re about to do.” Before Tammy knows what’s happening, Thorn’s picked her up and swung her over his shoulder. She squeals in mock-protest, but pleasure is obvious in her voice.
“Careful not to shake her too hard,” I call out with a laugh as he carries her off. “She’s likely to spring a leak.”
“So noted,” he calls back.
Melanie and Rachel sidle up next to me expectantly. They look like twins, even down to what they’re wearing. Both of them have a full cascade of almost white-blond hair — though Rachel’s definitely isn’t natural. I know from experience how good they are in bed, and that they really get off on giving a man a show together before moving on to the main event.
“So,” Melanie purrs, running a long, lacquered nail down my chest. “You wanna come help us find someplace private? We’re bored, and Rach was just saying how fun you are.”
&nb
sp; I’m not in the habit of turning down a little fun, especially not in the form of a threesome. But just as I’m opening my mouth to answer, I happen to glance over toward the tables of food. The hot photographer is standing there, camera raised, but she’s not looking at the tables. She’s looking at me.
Our eyes lock. She freezes, like a small animal caught in a hunter’s rifle sight. For a second, neither one of us looks away. It’s a repeat of earlier, when I caught her taking my picture playing guitar at the beginning of the wedding.
Then her eyes shift, taking in the girls as they hang on me. A slight look of disgust flashes across her features, and she looks quickly away, her lip curling a bit. Her whole demeanor stiffens, and she crouches down and goes back to her work, positioning the camera so as to take in the spread of food and some of the people laughing and eating in the background.
I don’t know why I care. It’s not like I’m all surprised that a nice little white-bread girl would be shocked or disgusted by what people in the club get up to. Outlaw MCs exist precisely because people like her look down at people like us.
But somehow, it kind of chaps my ass. She’s been completely professional and hasn’t batted an eye about anything all afternoon, and she then chooses me to have a fucking problem with.
For the next minute or so, she ignores me so completely that I almost fall for it. I almost mistake her act for indifference. But just as I’m about to leave with Melanie and Rachel and find us a private spot to fuck, I catch the photographer just barely turning her head toward us, and I realize she’s sneaking a glance to see if I’m still there.
Then it hits me. Whatever she feels about me, it’s sure as shit not indifference.
I should leave her alone, I tell myself for the dozenth time. Let her survive her brush with the wild side unscathed, and go back to photographing little kids’ birthday parties or whatever she does most of the time.
But damned if I don’t want to hear what her voice sounds like, and watch her bite that lip from close up. I want to see her skin flush as she pretends she hasn’t been watching my every move.
It can’t hurt anything to just go talk to her.
So, ignoring my better judgment and my better nature, I tell Melanie and Rachel I’ll take a rain check, and head over to say hello.
4
Samantha
The tattooed guitarist detaches himself from the two blond bombshells and starts to amble toward me.
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath. “Shit shit shit.”
I thought I’d been doing a good job of avoiding the guitar player guy. After the weird whatever-that-was when we locked eyes at the beginning of the wedding, I felt so flustered that I didn’t trust myself to take any more pictures of him, or even be around him. So I’ve been doing my best to give him a wide berth at the reception. But of course, in order to do that, I have to have some idea of where he is. Which means that I’ve been periodically scanning the crowd to keep tabs on him. It’s been working perfectly well for a couple of hours now.
Except that when I did my last scan just now, he had his tongue halfway down the throat of one woman while another was sliding her hand down to his crotch.
And before I could manage to look away, his eyes were locked with mine again as I struggled to keep the shock and revulsion off my face.
He’s already closed half the distance between us when I realize what’s about to happen. Before I can even think what I’m doing, I’ve bolted from where I’m standing by the food table — hoping not to look like I’m running away and probably failing miserably.
I try to walk with purpose, like I’ve just seen a shot I need to capture. Unfortunately, the only thing in the direction I’m heading is the bar. So I make a beeline for that and lean against it, my breathing shallow and labored like I’m a drowning person who’s just reached the life raft.
“Hey, can I get a gin and tonic?” I say nervously to the tall, pretty woman who’s mixing drinks. “A double.” Normally I don’t drink on the job, but suddenly my nerves are jangling and I need something to calm myself down.
“Sure thing, honey,” she says, eyeing me speculatively. I literally have to stop myself from drumming my fingers on the bar as she mixes it. When she finally hands it to me, I take the glass from her and gulp down a long swallow. Then I take a deep breath and turn around to scan for my next exit route.
“Glad to see you loosening up a little bit.”
I shriek and almost dump my drink on his chest. Which would hardly be my damn fault if I did, because he is standing literally six inches in front of me.
“Jesus!” I sputter. “Haven’t you ever heard of personal space?” My gin and tonic sloshes over the side of the cup onto my fingers. Shaking a little, I transfer the glass to my other hand and lick the liquid off them.
“I take it back,” he chuckles. “Apparently it’s gonna take more than a gin and tonic to loosen you up.”
“I’m not supposed to be loosened up,” I spit. “I’m supposed to be working.”
I expect him to fling some cocky retort at me, but for a moment he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me intently. With a start, I realize he’s watching me as I suck the remaining splashes of gin and tonic from my fingers. I pull my hand away from my mouth self-consciously and blush.
“It’s a party,” he says. “In case you hadn’t noticed.” His voice softens a little, a bit of husk in his tone. “Pretty sure Jenna won’t mind if you actually have a good time.”
I glance over to where she and Cas are slow-dancing to the ballad that’s playing on the sound system. Cas’s hands are roaming over Jenna’s ass, and their eyes are locked onto each other like there’s no one else in the world.
“Maybe not,” I admit. “But I do have a job to do. Jenna didn’t hire me to sit around and drink. Besides,” I say, nodding my head toward the Doublemint twins. “Don’t you have enough company for one night?”
He laughs. “Them? Don’t worry about Melanie and Rachel. They’re just some of the club girls.”
“What does that mean?” It sounds vaguely… prostitute-y.
“It means they hang around the MC, hoping one of us will put a ring on it.” He flashes me a sexy grin and glances down at my camera. “Come on. Take a little break. I’m guessing you’ve taken enough pictures to fill forty wedding albums.”
“And do what?” I shoot back at him.
“Get to know someone new.” His grin grows wider, and becomes a challenge as he holds out his hand in a half-mocking gesture for me to shake it. I don’t want to take it, but I don’t want him to think he’s rattling me, so I do anyway.
His touch feels like I’ve been jolted by a cattle prod. A burst of heat flames through me, immediate and unexpected. I audibly gasp, but I think I don’t do it loud enough that he hears me over the music.
My mouth opens a little, my breath speeding up as heat and lust begin coursing through my veins.
He pulls me toward him during the shake, until I’m so close to him I can feel the heat of his skin. His scent is manly, musky with just a slight hint of whiskey. The few men I’ve been with haven’t smelled anything like this. It’s raw… intoxicating. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” he rasps against my ear.
“Uh, it’s not sweetheart,” I retort, struggling to keep my composure. Shakily, I pull my hand away from his and take a step back. When I break contact, my skin instantly misses his. With my other hand, I raise my glass and take a big gulp of the gin and tonic.
He seems completely unfazed. “Well, then, give me something else to call you,” he shrugs.
His tone is maddeningly reasonable. A wave of irritation washes over me. I’ve never met someone I was so instantly exasperated by and attracted to at the same time. And what’s even more infuriating is, I’m almost certain he knows I’m attracted to him.
As if he can read my mind, he cocks his head and smirks at me. “Well?”
I know he’s trying to get to me. He’s trying to get me pull down my de
fenses. And damn it, it’s working. I resist the urge to scream in frustration.
“I’m… Samantha,” I choke out. No one calls me that except my grandmother, but for some reason right now it is absolutely important to keep some distance between us, however small.
He winks at me like he’s not fooled. “Pleased to meet you, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice dipping into a low, sexy growl. “I’m Hawk.”
I struggle against the fog of rage in my brain. The only defense I have against this man is sarcasm and mockery, I realize. So I use them.
“Hawk?” I snort, trying to knock him off balance. “What kind of a name is that?”
A slight frown crosses his features. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or amused. I feel a tiny zing of triumph.
“You don’t like my name,” he says in a tone I can’t read. “I didn’t insult your name.”
To be honest, he doesn’t seem in the least bit hurt. But even so, I still feel weirdly bad about making fun of him. And that makes me even madder, but also throws me a little.
I shrug, fighting the urge to apologize. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
“Oh, so you do like it,” he smirks. “That’s good.”
Goddamnit, I’ve been played again. “Oh, my God!” I roll my eyes, exasperated. “I didn’t say that either! Jesus, is there any way to have just a normal conversation with you?”
“You want a normal conversation?” He nods. “Go ahead.”
I eye him suspiciously.
“What?” he asks, spreading his hands wide and feigning innocence.
I sigh. I don’t know why I’m doing this. “Fine,” I huff, and raise my glass to take another drink. “So. Hawk. Is that your real name?”
HAWK (Lords of Carnage MC) Page 2