by Zoey Parker
Being the smart guy that I was, I figured that a knife in the neck probably wasn’t good for my blood flow. I reconsidered the hellfire of profanity that I had been about to unleash on good ole President Croak across the desk from me. Instead, I took a deep breath to try to calm down. Maybe reasoning with him would work.
“With all due respect, sir,” I said, twisting away from Steezy and giving him a glare. He sat back down behind me, but not without tugging up his sleeves to show me the glint of a knife tip shining against his skin. Brothers be damned—this was business.
“If this is about money and the deals with the Mexicans falling through, I don’t give a damn. There’ll be plenty more opportunities to make cash, and plenty of those don’t require me to latch myself to some dumb Austin slut for the rest of my goddamn life.” I chose my words carefully, even though I was still seething with rage underneath.
“I hear you, brother,” Croak said. “And I know what you’re about. What’s more, I understand your reservations. Marriage ain’t for everyone. But this one has got to happen. So, just to help your peace of mind, I’ll let you in on something that I don’t want floating around the clubhouse just yet.”
Curiosity overtook my anger. It wasn’t like Croak to keep secrets. He’d always run a transparent operation. Every brother, from the youngest prospect to the grizzliest old fucker in the clubhouse, was kept in the loop about what was going down at all times. For him to say something like this meant that there was very serious shit at stake.
Croak knew he had my attention, so he paused before he continued. “The Diablos del Muertos have started to make some noise down south of the border,” he told me. “We’ve heard reports of some shit that is, how should I say this, out of line with the agreement we worked out a few years back. The cartel council doesn’t like what the Diablos are doing, but they’ve got a young new guy calling the shots and he doesn’t seem to want to respect the old order.”
Of course, the fucking Diablos. What a bunch of greasy-haired fuckers. They were a real snot-nosed operation, doing whatever the hell they wanted in spite of more than a decade of a well-respected peace treaty that had been signed by leadership on both sides of the border.
We’d had more than a few clashes with their guys during our drug runs down near El Paso. The whole ruckus had gotten the cartel council involved, and at first they’d stepped in to quiet the Diablos. It worked, for a while at least. But the latest intel we’d gotten suggested that the Diablos had gotten a hold of a new strain of methamphetamine and were prepping for a huge push of the product into the States. It violated all the rules of conduct that the cartels and the MCs had agreed upon, but all signs told us that this rowdy young fuck, Lobo, who had taken over the Diablos from his father, simply didn’t give a shit.
Men—good men, my brothers—were going to die if something wasn’t done to restore the balance.
I sighed. Croak had me by the balls.
“Given what we know about this son of a bitch, Lobo, it seems like now would be a damn good time to have all of the Inked Angels on the same page. You feel me?”
I nodded begrudgingly.
“And to make that happen, this is what we’ve worked about,” he said. “A nice little marriage to bring everyone together. We’ll drink and make nice with the Austin charter, and at the end of the day we’ll have a holy bond to keep our two charters cooperating all friend-like with one another.”
He laid his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward towards me.
“You’re the only guy senior enough to do the job who ain’t already hitched. So you’re it. It’s what’s gotta happen, Blaze.”
Behind me, Steezy started laughing again.
I didn’t have a choice. I was about to get married, whether I liked it or not.
Even whiskey wouldn’t be able to fix this situation.
I was sure as hell willing to give the drink a chance to try, though. I sat at the bar with more than a dozen empty shot glasses arranged around me. The strip club around me was hazy, whether because I was drunk or pissed off or both.
Black lights pinwheeled across strippers and escorts mingling with the crowd. It was mostly drunk older businessmen, the type of squares who tell their wives they’re working late at the office then come here to grope some chick’s ass and pay through the nose to act out their pathetic fantasies. Fuckers, all of them.
The strippers themselves were hardly any better. I’d banged a few of them, yeah, but they were just as broken and greedy as the men they served.
I was just sick of people. I needed a break from the world.
I looked to my right. A fat man sat on a stool with an escort perched on his lap. His tie hung loose around his neck and his shirt was untucked. Rolls of blubber peeked out from underneath the loose edge.
The stripper was a babe with big, perky tits that rose into pointed nipples. Her ass waggled around the g-string she wore. The man whispered in her ear and cackled. She pretended to laugh along with him, but I could see the disgust in her eyes.
They both hated each other, really. But they were willing to suck each other dry for everything the other one had.
I watched as they kept talking for a bit. The man’s hand crept higher and higher up the chick’s leg, like he was hoping he’d just be able to sneak it in her pussy without paying for it. A couple times she picked it up and placed it down closer to her knee, but that was just staving off the inevitable.
I hailed the bartender and told him to get me another shot and a beer. When they came, I tossed the shot down my gullet and sucked down the brew.
Marriage. Jesus Christ. Me, Blaze, getting stuck to some broad I didn’t even know until the day I finally shit myself and said goodbye to this goddamn world. I couldn’t believe how unlucky I was.
The shittiest part was that I knew I didn’t have a choice. There were lives on the line here. The Diablos were damn near to getting out of control, and us Houston boys weren’t enough to take them down on our own. Meanwhile, the cartel council had gotten finicky lately, scared of some unwanted attention from the media and the Mexican government. They’d decided to lie low—no firefights, no major unrest, just keep everything nice and tranquilo, that’s what they wanted.
Pussies. I spat on the floor next to me.
That left the Inked Angels as the last line of defense between this fragile peace and all-out mayhem. And just like Croak had said, neither charter could handle those crazy fuckin’ Diablos on our own. We needed each other.
Enter: me, everyone’s favorite sacrificial fuckin’ lamb.
“Another shot, hombre,” I called down the bar. Fuck, I was getting hammered. No time like the present, I guessed. Might as well enjoy the last of my freedom while I still had the chance.
“Actually, two more,” I said. “I’m gettin’ married next week, so I’m doing my damnedest to kill myself before then. So as a matter of fact, just keep ’em coming,” I told the bartender. He nodded and did like he was told.
I looked back at the man and his stripper. I saw a flash of gold on his left hand.
“Ay, you poor old fucker,” I yelled to him over the music. “How’s marriage?”
The man gave me a cross-eyed look. “Fuck off,” he told me.
I laughed. This dumbass didn’t know what he was getting himself into.
“Aw, c’mon now, pal!” I said, sidling over to stand in front of him. “Tell me all ’bout it! It seems like marriage is going real well for you, seeing as I’m sure this is your wife you’re hangin’ out with, isn’t it?”
The sarcasm didn’t register. “Didn’t I tell you to fuck off?” the man huffed at me.
I grinned. “Well, you might have, but I’m a little drunk, so why don’t you tell me again?”
The man stared blankly at me. “Fuck off, you—” He couldn’t get the rest of the words out of his mouth before I’d smashed down the beer bottle in my hand on his dome. Glass shattered and blood started to pour from the man’s scalp. He screamed and thr
ew the girl off his lap, clapping his hands over his head.
“Are you fucking insane?” he wailed. Blood streamed between his fingers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I grabbed his tie and jerked it up to his neck. His eyes bulged as he started to choke. I lifted him up by the throat and slammed him against the wall.
I brought my face just inches away from the man’s and stared him down. I could see the panic erupting within him.
“Listen to me, you dumb fuck,” I hissed. “I’m an Inked Angel, do you know what that means?”
He tried to stutter an apology, but I yanked the tie even tighter. He struggled to breathe. The tips of his shoes tap-danced on the ground, desperate for purchase.
“It means I could kill you right now and every single person in this bar would testify that you put this knife in your own throat.” I waggled a blade in front of him. “It means you are a piece of shit. It means this: Do. Not. Fuck with me.”
I dropped him. He fell to his knees, sobbing. He’d even wet himself, I saw. I stepped over his huddled body, disgusted.
People are so weak, I thought to myself as I stalked out of the bar. No backbone. Nothing to stand for. Buncha pussies, all of them.
I swung my leg over my bike and kicked the engine starter. It came to life with a thunderous roar. I smiled, letting the vibration work its calming magic over my bones. This is where I belong, I thought as I took off down the blacktop.
But then, just when I thought the drink and the fight and the bike had brought me back to my happy place, there was that damned voice again.
I know who you really are, Blaze.
I growled audibly to myself as I biked into the distance.
“Fuck off.”
The clubhouse had mostly cleared out by the time I made it back. I pushed through the doors, clawing for something more to drink, but the bar was barren.
“Yo, brother, come back here. Hang out with us,” called Ember from the back. I looked over my shoulder to see him slumped back on the couch, a girl curled up on either side of him, each stroking his chest. He dangled a full beer in my direction.
I stumbled my way towards him. I was trying as hard as I could not to think about marriage. I didn’t want this shit, I didn’t need this shit. I needed to be as far away from people as I could, not swapping vows about keeping one bitch by my side for the rest of eternity. How did I end up in this goddamn trap?
I pulled up a chair and snatched the beer from Ember. He laughed as I gulped it down, but goddamn did I need more. Anything to silence the chaos running through my brain.
“Rough night, brother?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. I just stared at him. He knew damn well what I was feeling. “Tell you what,” he offered, pushing one of the girls towards me. “Take this one. I like the blonde better anyway.” I looked at the girl he was shoving in my direction.
By any objective measures, she was fine as hell. Big, full lips that would look nice wrapped around my cock, an ass just begging for a nice red hand print on either cheek. Her eyes were half-lidded with a combination of raw desire and the drugs coursing through her system. She was ripe for the taking. In other words, standard clubhouse fare.
But right now, I didn’t want anything to do with her. “Fuck that,” I told him. “Not even an appetite for pussy right now.”
“Hey, you’ll be fine,” he counseled. Ember was a young kid, fresh and wild. He was still buzzing around with balls full of testosterone, trying to shoot a load in or on every bitch he came across. Every brother had gone through the same phase, of course. It was part of the process.
“Marriage ain’t so bad,” he said.
“Ain’t so bad? What could possibly be worse?” I mumbled, bringing the bottle back up to my lips.
“Could be an ugly bitch you’re marrying.” He laughed. “At least this one’s a dime.”
“How the hell do you know what she looks like?” I asked him. “I don’t even know who the bitch is.”
Ember was drunk. He’d started to snooze in between sips of his beer.
“Yo, wake up,” I snapped at him, smacking him lightly in the face a couple times. “Answer me. How do you know what she looks like?”
His voice was drowsy with sleep. “’Cause everyone knows that Luke Morris’ sister is a sexy piece of ass,” he said.
My stomach dropped and my balls leaped up into my throat.
He went on. “My boy up in Austin has been trying to get after her for years. Says she’s stone cold, though. No luck. I just can’t believe that bastard Luke is trading his sister like cattle. Fuck it, more power to ya.” He started to raise his bottle to toast me, but faltered halfway, spilling it on his lap instead.
“What…what the fuck did you just say?” I asked him.
Ember didn’t respond. I leapt up and grabbed his shirt. He woke up with a start. “What’re you doin’, man?” he said to me.
“Repeat what you just said!” I yelled.
“Luke Morris’ sister! Damn! Lemme go, dude!” Ember barked.
I dropped him. My head was spinning—not from the alcohol, but from the wave of emotion that had just hit me.
Olivia Morris…my soon-to-be wife.
I blacked out.
* * *
I came to on the back of my bike, several miles outside of town. I pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. Stepping off my bike, I stumbled and fell to the ground. I must still be drunk, I thought to myself.
Fuckin’ A. What a bad day.
The night overhead was punctured with thousands of stars. I couldn’t believe the shit I was about to wade into. Olivia Morris…
I hadn’t thought about her in years. Rather, I’d done my damnedest to suppress every thought of her. Which really meant that I thought about her constantly.
I’d replayed that last night with her in my head over and over again, focusing always on one moment—my lips meeting hers. It was enough to make my head churn all on its own. Her mouth had been so soft and warm against mine, our tongues rolling together, her hips fitting so snugly into my hands, the butter softness of her thighs pressing together.
I wanted all of her, and I would’ve gotten the chance to do it, too, if her asshole of a brother hadn’t intervened. Without thinking, one hand went to the knotted scar on my thigh where he’d put hot lead in me. I didn’t know how I’d ever manage to face him down again without wanting to kill him. No one shot me and got to live to tell about it.
I yelled, smashing a fist into the dirt. The whole goddamn world—Croak, Luke Morris, Lobo—was conspiring to fuck me over.
And yet, maybe this was my chance to finally get what I’d been denied five years ago. I imagined Olivia bent over, legs spread in front of me. I could picture the way her calves swooped into those creamy thighs, reaching my hands up and up until I could stroke at her wetness. It was so easy to make her come, I imagined—just a dip of a finger inside her, one quick swipe at her clit with my thumb, and boom, fireworks, her biting her lip, letting loose a soft moan that turned the burgeoning erection in my jeans into a rod of steel. It would all be so perfect; flipping her over so I could stare her straight in those mismatched eyes as I rubbed myself against her moist opening and began to enter, inch by inch.
No. I couldn’t do it.
This was a sham marriage. It was a fake, a ruse, political at best and meaningless no matter what. She wasn’t my wife any more than I was a goddamn Diablo, and this skull tattooed on my shoulder meant I would never be a fucker like that.
Fucking Olivia would be worse than rape, even—it would be lying to her and to myself. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.
Goddammit, though, my body wanted her more than anything. It was going to be impossible to be near her. How could I stand across from the girl I wanted so badly five years ago, exchange I dos, even pucker up and kiss in front of all my brothers? How could I do that without giving in to the urge to throw her over my shoulder and devastate her in a room of our own?
&nbs
p; How could I sleep next to her, night after night, without acting on the hardening insistence of my cock that I plunge it into her?
She’d wanted me back then. Thinking back on that night, she’d given me exactly the look. She was as hungry for me as I was for her.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter 3: ’Til Death Do Us Part
Olivia
I wanted to scream.
Luke was trying to calm me down, but I wasn’t having any of it. I kept my hands clamped over my ears, pretending desperately that he hadn’t just told me the news.