FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Vivian Lux

  There was no place on his face that I could kiss him without fear of causing him pain. So I lifted his battered knuckles to my face instead. I kissed the back of his hand, all scraped and raw, then pressed it to my face. "I love you."

  "Love you too, Em," he whispered. "Now get the fuck out of here."

  I grabbed the list of sublets that still sat in the tray of his printer and waved them encouragingly at him. Then I blew him a kiss and turned quickly to hide my tears. As I stepped out into the hall, I thought I heard my mother stirring and was hit with another wave of guilt. I couldn't face her today. Not after all that had happened. I would call today, I promised myself. Just as soon as I had a chance.

  I tapped my old door open. Case was lying face down in my bed. It looked like he had just fallen down and stayed like that. "Case?"

  He pushed himself up so quickly I stepped back in alarm. "You okay?"

  "Yes," I breathed and his shoulders relaxed. "But I want to go now."

  "Yup." He swung his legs over the side of my bed which bowed dangerously in the center.

  J. was waiting for us downstairs, sitting gingerly at the edge of the recliner. "Ready?" he asked.

  "Just one thing." I tiptoed quickly to the kitchen and found a scrap of looseleaf from Andy's school binder.

  I'm okay. I will call. I love you, - Emilia

  "I'm ready."

  Without Case there, I don't know how I would have gotten J. to the car. I was grateful for his immense strength. J. tried valiantly to move on his own, but his injuries combined with the stiffness of sleeping on the floor had rendered him barely able to stand upright, much less walk.

  "Goddamn, fuck!" J. spat as he leaned so heavily on my arm I stumbled.

  "For fuck's sake, stop trying to walk, you stubborn piece of shit," Case admonished.

  "What you think you could carry me?"

  "With one hand. You're an adorable little stringbean." Case smiled.

  I saw J. duck his head, his mouth working hard to suppress his smile. "I'm not descended directly from Vikings." He held out his arm and ran a finger along the smooth chocolate skin. "Clearly."

  "Yeah. Too much melanin, I'd say."

  "Least I don't get sunburned by the moon."

  Case was smiling widely, his face registering relief. Something unsaid had passed between them. The apologies he made last night seemed to have been accepted. I wondered if I would ever know, then decided I was too tired to worry about that too.

  We got J. into the passenger seat of the pickup with much swearing and shoving. I got behind the wheel of the unfamiliar vehicle and paused.

  "You okay?"

  I sat back in the seat, noticing the papers still clutched in my hand. J. noticed them too. "Whatcha got there?"

  "J.," I started to say. "I'm not going back to the clubhouse with you." I heard how harsh I sounded and hated it.

  "You're what?" He sounded incredulous.

  I waved the papers, clenching them like they were a lifeline. ""I can't keep doing this." I shifted away from his distracting nearness and tried to soldier on with what I had to say in spite of his crestfallen face. "Running from place to place, depending on other people to put me up. I need to stand on my own two feet."

  He leaned in to me across the bench seat. His eyes were alight with excitement. "I thought of that, Em," he said eagerly. "Randall said he'll take you. He owes me, you know how he owes me." His lips were suddenly at my neck, peppering kisses with every word. "You'll be safe there. He'll keep you safe."

  "That's not your responsibility," I squeaked. His lips on my skin made it hard to think.

  "Yeah it is," he growled. "I'm not living with this worry anymore, and I sure as shit am not living without you."

  "And I'm not living without you," I murmured. I placed a hand on his chest and pushed slightly. "But J., this is crazy." He must have been absolutely desperate to go to his family like that. The thought of him swallowing his anger to supplicate himself on my behalf brought tears to my eyes. "I can't do that."

  His mouth opened a little and I could tell he was going to protest.

  "No don't," I held up my hand. "I can't go live with your family. Thank you. But I can't."

  "You can." But the fire had gone out of his words. He was listening.

  I tried to explain to him, make him see. "If I don't learn to take care of myself, then what is all this for? I've bounced from father to fiancé to," I hesitated, "boyfriend," he smiled a private smile, "and all this time they've taken care of me. For better and usually for worse." I sighed and grabbed his hands, rough and calloused and strong. "I need to be on my own, in my own space. I need to know that I can do this." I waved the papers at his still uncomprehending face. "I'm looking for sublets. An apartment all my own for the summer! I'm going to live on my own!"

  HIs shoulders slumped with relief and I flung myself into his arms. "You had me scared there, Em," he murmured, stroking my hair back from my face.

  "What did you think I meant?"

  "Thought you'd finally come to your senses or something."

  I laughed into his shoulder, smelling his scent. "I have come to my senses," I scolded him. "Finally." I pulled back to look him in the eye, square and true. No subservience, no dependence. As equals.

  The sun was just peeking over the hills as we rounded the entrance to the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

  It was the morning of a new day and the dawn of the new Emilia.

  Epilogue

  Teach didn't say anything, only dropped the paper to the ground as J. prepped the bike for the long-distance ride. J. looked at the fallen paper and saw the business section of the Inquirer blaring the headline, "Whitestone Looks to Future in Face of Failures."

  A streak of bad luck, both personal and business related have plagued Robert Whitestone III, the younger scion of the Philadelphia establishment. His properties have been met with a plague of vandalism. His own car was stolen in broad daylight from a parking garage at 4th and Walnut. Citing intimidation from sources unknown, his five person staff quit his office the same day, leaving him scrambling to hire and train temp workers. All this distraction has been costly to the family business. Philly real estate watchers cite the eleventh hour breakdown of negotiations for the new office tower at 23rd and JFK to be the biggest slip-up of his up-to-now storied career.

  "Good," he nodded. "They're keeping him busy." Reminding him that they were watching. He had to hand it to the Storm Riders. Their network was a lot larger than he had first realized. It was safer to have Robert's harassment be at their hands than at his. Much less satisfying, though.

  Case appeared over his shoulder, scanning the paper quickly. "I still say we should have just taken the fucker out," he growled.

  "Wasn't our call." J. sat back on his heels and squeezed the paper in his fist, crushing the picture of Robert Whitestone III looking hopefully towards the future. "It was Emmy's call. And she ain't like that."

  Case ginned a lopsided little half-smile. "Where the hell has she been, anyway? I miss her. And her tits."

  "You are such an asshole." J. shook his head and slammed his kit shut. His bike was prepped for this afternoon's ride to the Shore. It was going to be good to get out of the city for a while. He had been stuck here too long. "She's been moving. That chick Sammie..."

  "I like her tits too," Case interjected fondly.

  "Can I finish?" Case smirked as J. continued. "They got an apartment together down in South Philly. I'm fucking relieved she's out of that rathole sublet. She loved it but it made me crazy having her in a basement apartment."

  Case nodded. "Anyone could have kicked those windows in."

  "Don't remind me. Her new place is above street-level." J. walked over to the trash can and shoved the newspaper section deep into the smelly recesses. "She's been moving in slowly all week, in between shifts at the restaurant. I'm supposed to go help today. Move some things around before we ride out."

  "Watch your posture," Case warned.

 
"You are such an old woman. Watch my fucking posture, really?"

  "Shut up and be careful."

  J. pressed his lips together. Case was right. He still hadn't fully healed from the brawl that awful night at Emmy's parents'. His neck was prone to locking up with stiffness, making riding all but impossible until he could stand to turn again. His knee, which had born the brunt of the impact when he landed on the pavement, had never regained its full range of motion.

  It pissed him off on a daily basis to have to coddle it, but the only other option was to go to Hahnemann for surgery and who the fuck had that kind of money? Doctor D. didn't have a practice anymore. The best he could do was call in favors at pharmacies. So J. downed pain pills chased with bourbon and tried to grit through it.

  Emmy didn't know any of this, of course. He knew how guilty she still felt about the damage Robert's goon had inflicted on him. Sometimes as they lay in bed after making love, she would trace the scars left over and her eyes would go dark and empty. J. knew not to question her when the blankness took over. He could only hold her until she came back to him. He, of all people, understood what it was like having that darkness take hold.

  "I'll be careful," J. agreed.

  Case nodded, his eyes darting back and forth over J.'s face before nodding again and heading towards the bunkhouse. Case's hovering was starting to get annoying. J. could tell him ten thousand times that he was over it, but Case still jumped every time J. needed something. Sometimes J. wondered if the 'discipline' had hurt Case more deeply than it had hurt him.

  It was still bullshit. That much hadn't changed. But it was bullshit that was in his rearview mirror, fading in the distance and diminishing in importance. As long as he rode fast and hard, it couldn't catch up with him. And as long as Emmy's arms stayed around his waist as he travelled, the road to the future looked pretty damned good.

  Speaking of which... J. jammed the helmet onto his head, sighing as it squeezed his ears. He didn't like being proven wrong so dramatically, but the crash hadn't killed him like it should have, and it was because of the stupid helmet. So he wore one now, ignoring the jokes from the rest of the Sons and Storm Riders. He didn't give a fuck anymore. He had something sweet to live for. Time to go get her.

  The End

  Steel

  My Love

  Sons of Steel Motorcycle Club #3

  Vivian Lux

  Copyright 2014, 2015

  All Rights Reserved

  This book contains adult themes, explicit language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature audiences.

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  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Please respect the work of this author. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any similarities to events or situations are also coincidental.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks and locations mentioned in this book. Trademarks and locations are not sponsored or endorsed by trademark owners.

  (C) 2015 by Vivian Lux and Velvetfire Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  Prologue

  The air had changed, and I knew he felt it too, when he finally stopped fidgeting and his hands were still. His nearness was suddenly too much for me to bear.

  As my heart raced, he slowly raised his head from staring at his feet, to finally look me in the eye. The paleness of the blue of his eyes was disturbing. I felt my heart lurch.

  It was taking all of my strength not to kiss him.

  I forced myself to place my palms flat on my thighs. I felt a pain and realized it was my own fingernails digging in to my soft flesh. Unclenching them one by one, I watched, fascinated, as the blood rushed back into the little white half moons.

  "Casey?"

  My voice sounded squeaky and young, and I felt a flush of embarrassment.

  "Casey?" I repeated, unable, it seemed, to say anything but his name.

  "Lexi." The sarcasm and gentle teasing humor of just moments ago was gone from his voice. The low yearning stirred something else inside of me and once again I had to fight the urge to fling myself into his arms.

  Instead I flopped backwards onto my bed. It felt vulnerable to be lying there next to him, a vulnerability I hadn't felt when he had first come to the door and asked if we could hang out. My parents were gone and both of my sisters were at various practices, so I had a rare moment of quiet in my usually crowded house. It hadn't felt wrong to invite him in. Not until this moment.

  I knew my mother would be scandalized. In all of our friendship, she had never let us close the door to my bedroom when Casey and I spent time together. I was only fourteen. Too young to have boys alone in my bedroom. But until this moment I hadn't considered Casey to be a boy in the sense that my mother considered it.

  He was just my friend.

  "Lexi." He repeated my name with a heaviness in his voice. Like saying it was painful.

  And then he touched me.

  It was a gentle caress, just his fingertips, trailing lightly up my forearm. Nothing more. It was innocent, a friend touching a friend.

  Except I knew that wasn't what he meant when he placed his hand on my fevered skin. I knew he meant it the way I meant it.

  And I wanted him to touch me like that again.

  "Casey," I breathed. My heart was about to beat out of my chest. I wondered if he could hear the fevered pounding too. Conscious of the fact that if I looked at him now, I would lose what little powers of speech I still possessed, I instead stared fixedly at the ceiling. "Casey, what do you think of me?"

  I don't know why I asked that. As soon as the question left my lips, I wanted to snatch it back and stuff it down inside my throat. It sounded desperate, clinging, the kind of sniveling desperation I despised in other girls my age. The way they were with boys our age.

  I had always thought myself to be smarter than that. I had told myself my friendship with Casey would never make me stupid that way.

  I was wrong.

  I heard him inhale sharply. "I think...." The bed springs shifted under his weight. Though he was only two years older than me, Casey already had the size and bulk of a grown man. My tiny twin bed was struggling to hold the two of us.

  "I think," he repeated, "that I've never met a girl like you before."

  My fragile self-control broke wide open. The desire to kiss him and hold him and have him hold me became too much.

  It lifted me upward and straight into his lips.

  It was my first kiss.

  At the first soft brush of his lips against mine, I nearly startled and pulled away. But his huge hands caught the back of my head. He tangled his fingers in my wild red curls, gripping me firmly. When his lips parted and his tongue met mine, I gasped.

  This was bad. This was wrong. This was sinful.

  I didn't stop. It felt so good to have our mouths meld together. I wanted to dissolve into him even more.

  It was everything I'd ever hoped it would be.

  Our hands were everywhere. Gripping, stroking, beating. Tugging at clothes. The wild sensation of need was unlike anything I had ever felt before. The guilt, and reluctance, died away as I felt the surge of what I realized could only be love. The need to say it rose up from my stomach, drowning out all of my other thoughts until it was the only thing that I could say.

  "I love you Casey," I gasped, finally saying what I had known for so long.

  He pulled back from my lips. His pale blue eyes were so close to mine, I could
drown in their icy depths and never return. The moment stretched out long and interminable, and my excitement began to wither in shame.

  Until his mouth twitched, and the pale light in his eyes gleamed bright and warm and trusting.

  "I love you too."

  Our next kiss was even more frenetic. Our hands were even more fast-moving. The clothes that kept me from feeling his skin on mine became unbearable. I slid my hands under his shirt, wanting to feel every inch of him against my own body.

  He pulled back sharply, and swatted my hands away. "Leave it," he ordered, in a tone that broached no argument. His words hit me like a punch to the gut.

  "I'm sorry, I…" I hesitated. "Did I hurt you?"

  His mouth twisted and his voice caught as if he was trying to stifle the words before they came out. "No," he said. "You didn't hurt me."

  The way he said it left something hanging in the air. A question he wanted to me to ask him. So I did.

  "Who hurt you?"

  His eyes met mine and he searched me for several moments. They darted back and forth wildly. I saw panic in his face.

  "Who hurt you?" I hadn't known what I was asking at first. But now it was vital to know. Concern made my voice louder. "Did someone hurt you Casey?"

  He still didn't answer. He looked everywhere but at my face, his whole body tense, ready to run. It seemed like a struggle for him to even be in the room. He looked down at where my hands sat, still resting on the skin of his belly. Following the cue of his gaze, I slowly lifted his shirt.

  "Casey," I breathed. "Oh my God, Casey. Who did this to you?"

  His stomach was a roadmap of scars, criss-crossing his abdomen in a wild landscape of wounds old and new. They snaked around each other, the deep old brown scars and the angry new red ones all coiled together like a nest of vipers.

  I stared, horrified. The tears rushed to my eyes and I feared I would vomit.