“Who is it, sweetheart?” Belle asks.
“My boss.”
“That snake in the grass from the striptease company?”
“Yeah.” The phone keeps ringing.
“Let me have it.” Belle holds out her hand and I reluctantly surrender it to her.
She accepts the call and switches it to speaker. “Hello?”
“Serafina?” Ben asks.
“This is Serafina’s phone. You’re speaking with her mother.”
Ben clears his throat. I can imagine him loosening his tie and leaning back in his chair, nervous. “I’ve been trying to reach her.”
“Serafina is safe. She won’t be working for you again, Ben.”
“Excuse me?” His voice goes up an octave. “Apparently, you’re unaware of the contract she signed with me, Mrs. Scala . . .”
“I don’t give a shit about the contract,” Belle says. “In fact, if you keep harassing my daughter, I’ll send legal counsel to Arkansas to explain exactly what you can do with that piece of paper. Am I making myself abundantly clear, Mr. Matthews?”
I cover my mouth with both hands, stifling a laugh and in complete shock. I’ve never heard anyone talk to Ben that way. Sure, I’ve called him an asshole on occasion, but he has so much money and influence, he always gets his way.
There’s a long, awkward pause.
“Have I been disrespectful, Mrs. Scala?”
“Yes,” Belle answers. “You tricked my daughter into becoming a stripper, you piece of shit. That qualifies as disrespect and so much more.”
She knows about it? Eagle must have told her. That’s why Mama Belle will always have the right to lead the old ladies. As Eagle’s wife, the honor falls to me, but I would never cheat Belle out of her role.
She gazes at me and grins.
I mouth the words thank you and she nods.
“Wherever Serafina is, will you please tell her I called? I have a paycheck for her.”
“Serafina doesn’t need your money, Mr. Matthews. Perhaps you should use that as part of your retainer for your defense attorney.”
“Defense attorney?”
“If you contact my daughter again, she’ll file charges against you. I’m pretty sure the district attorney would be interested in hearing how you coerced Serafina into working for you—not to mention fraud.”
The line goes dead.
“Oh. My. God,” I say, standing up and rushing over to my newest champion. “Y-you’re wonderful.”
She shrugs and shoves my phone in my hand. “I love you, girl. That asshole won’t be bothering you again.”
I get another group hug and a second margarita for good measure.
“Drink up, Angel. We need to get started on your hair soon,” Belle says.
While I sample a plate of all the yummy treats the ladies made, Belle finishes prepping her work station to do my hair.
Five hours later, I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror admiring my blond locks and the new silver bra and panty set I received as a gift. My fingernails and toenails are freshly painted and Belle worked her magic again with makeup.
I admit, this is all so sudden. Reuniting with Eagle, the club, and the women who always welcomed me as if I was born Iron Norsemen royalty. But as Belle helps me slip into my wedding gown, I realize as long as I’m here, surrounded by the people who truly love and understand me, time doesn’t matter. It has no power over me. My love for Eagle lived on in my dreams while we were apart. So why shouldn’t I marry him tonight? Why shouldn’t I risk everything to reclaim the life I thought was over?
Why shouldn’t I stand next to the only man I’ve ever loved, who saved me, and accept him as my husband? Speak a sacred vow in front of a priest where I promise to love, honor, and obey the man who will keep me safe, father my children, and love me until the day he dies? Those traditional words aren’t for every woman. But if I want to be an old lady, if I want to embrace the life, I’m expected to do what all old ladies do—respect my man and defer to his decisions regarding our futures.
That’s the purest form of love, trusting Eagle to take care of me no matter what.
The Iron Norsemen are my family. This clubhouse is my home. Belle is my second mother. And all the women who greeted me today are my sisters.
Belle hugs me from behind as she smiles at my reflection. “See? This dress was made for you.”
I can’t hide my joy or the effects of the butterfly wings fluttering inside my belly. I’m nervous and anxious to see Eagle.
I don’t even know where he’s been all day.
The clingy material of the dress hugs every curve I have. The high waist complements my slim figure and large breasts. I turn slightly so I can see my ass in the mirror.
“You’re a beautiful bride, Angel.”
“Thank you.” I choke up, a ball of emotions caught in my throat.
I wait as Belle adds the final touches to my appearance. She pins a barrette decorated with fresh white roses in my hair and then attaches the gold choker around my neck. Finally, I slip into the silver four-inch heels. With a last look at myself, I reach for the remains of my fourth margarita.
“Be right back,” Belle says, and rushes from the bedroom.
If she doesn’t get back soon, I’m going to wear a hole in the carpet. I breathe a sigh of relief when she returns with a lovely bouquet of white roses, violets, and baby’s breath, held together by colorful ribbons.
“I hope you approve?” she asks, as she reaches in the closet and takes a pink dress off a hanger.
“Of the flowers or your dress?”
She chuckles as she strips out of her jeans and blouse. I’ve never seen Belle in a dress. She’s a jeans-and-boots kind of girl. But once the silky garment is on her, I can’t help admiring her. She’s covered in tats, the most prominent on her left arm—PROPERTY OF TONSILS AND THE IRON NORSEMEN. Thorny vines snake around her shoulder and down her arm, all the way to her fingers. The occasional blossom, done in yellow and green, breaks up the bold black of her ink. Thor’s hammer covers her belly, NORWEGIAN-BORN in fancy script crowns the pagan symbol.
“Am I pretty in pink?” she asks, stepping in front of the mirror.
“Sure are.” Belle could wear anything and look beautiful to me. “I haven’t officially asked you to be my matron of honor yet.”
She turns around. “No need to. I know what you want, baby girl.”
We leave the bedroom together after she puts her sandals on, and wait in the hallway as the violin rendition of the wedding march starts.
Chapter Thirty-one
Eagle
To say I haven’t waited for this moment all of my life would be a lie. Finding the right woman has always been something I aspired to. Though I don’t see my parents too often, my mom and dad have a great relationship with each other. It set a good example for me in my formative years. Yeah, I’ve fucked my way across Louisiana like any other brother, but I want forever.
Seeing her in that dress seals the deal. I’m lost in her brown eyes. Angelique is perfect for me. I smile as she gets closer, walking behind Belle, trying to keep pace with that damn song the musician is playing.
If I had my way, we’d be outside dancing to some Cajun music in the sand.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I greet her as we join hands and then face the priest from Saint Patrick’s Church up the street. “Glad you could make it.” I squeeze her fingers.
“You, too,” she says. “Thank you for wearing the tux.”
I did it for her. I’m dressed head-to-toe in steel gray, a white dress shirt underneath the jacket. As soon as we take a few pictures, I intend on changing into my black jeans and T-shirt, donning my colors for the afterparty.
We didn’t plan anything special for the ceremony. We were both raised Catholic, like most of the residents of Holly Beach. I’ve known Father Dominique since I started kindergarten. I’ve made weekly confessions to the man for twenty years. He’s never judged me, never questioned my life
choices.
Angel and I kneel on the silk pillows in front of Father Dominique and he blesses us and reads some scriptures and says a prayer. Next, we repeat our vows and exchange rings, completing the necessary steps to make Angel mine—in the eyes of God, legally, and most importantly, in the eyes of this club.
“You may kiss the bride,” Father Dominique announces.
I lift Angel off her feet and twirl her around, grinning like a fool. She squeals like a happy kid and wraps her arms around my neck. Then I lower her to the floor and take that kiss with unending hunger. Her lips are soft and pliant. She opens her mouth and my tongue meets hers, passionate heat blazing a trail from my heart to my cock. I want her in every way imaginable. In my bed and in my life until the hereafter.
My brothers and the old ladies applaud and congratulate us with genuine enthusiasm. Belle shoves a champagne flute into my hands and another into Angel’s. Once everyone in the crowd is served, Tonsils drapes his arm across Belle’s shoulders and raises his glass.
“Time and distance didn’t make a fucking difference for the two of you,” he says. “You overcame the worst of circumstances, Eagle and Angel . . . may God keep you, and if he doesn’t, you have backup—the brotherhood.”
I tap my glass against Angel’s and we both take generous sips of the expensive Dom Pérignon I had Belle pick up at a liquor store in Lake Charles.
“Are you happy, Angel?” I ask, knowing it’s a question I’ll ask her every day for the rest of our lives.
She nods, her cheeks flushed. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, Eagle?” She caresses my cheek, her wedding ring shimmering in the bright lights.
“No,” I say, hoping she will. I lace my fingers with hers. “Remind me.”
She stands on her toes and whispers Shakespeare in my ear. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.”
I growl, aroused and fiercely possessive of my new wife. I pluck the flute from her hand and give it to whoever is standing next to me. Then I drag her to a quiet corner, desperate to taste her again. I push her against the wall and raise her hands over her head, holding her tiny wrists together with one hand, cupping her breast with the other. I love the way she feels, how she trembles whenever I’m this close, how she waited all these years for me.
“Mine,” I whisper close to her ear. “Angel Orani or Serafina Scala, whoever you want to be, I really don’t care. As long as we’re together.” I plunder that delectable mouth, our tongues hot and hungry for each other’s.
She tastes sweet, like champagne and strawberries. I shower her with light kisses, from the corner of her mouth, up her neck, to one of her tiny ears. She shivers and grins, her eyes shut.
“I prefer Angelique Laramie.”
Another searing jolt of lust shoots through my body as she speaks that name and I slant my mouth over hers. I have a wife now. Angel. The only girl I’ve ever loved. Resurrected and as perfect as she’s always been. I pull back and stare at her features. Her eyes flutter open and I’m lost in a sea of dark brown—those ever-familiar eyes. “You’re beautiful, Angel Laramie.”
“So are you, Eagle.” She locks her arms around my neck and pulls me in for another kiss.
“Hey! Get a room, goddamnit!” Tonsils yells to us.
I rest my forehead against Angel’s and we both laugh.
“We’re duty-bound to indulge the brothers for a few hours,” I inform her. “I’ll go change and meet you by the front doors in five minutes. Okay?”
She nods and releases me.
I rush to the bedroom where I left my clothes and strip out of the tux, happy to be free of it. Wearing my jeans, T-shirt, cut, and boots, I rejoin my wife. Everyone is ready to escape the confines of the clubhouse and head to the beach across the street. That’s where the reception is.
“Kick off those heels,” I instruct Angel.
She does, then I sweep her off her feet and carry her out.
Two tents have been set up next to the water. There’s dozens of lit torches and a blazing bonfire. The sun is setting and the Louisiana sky is filled with color—reds and yellows, on fire like my heart.
I set Angel down in the sand and she smiles so warmly, my heart melts.
“This is where we met,” she observes, facing the Gulf of Mexico and raising her chin, letting the cool breeze wash over her.
“It is,” I confirm. “Let’s start our new life here.” I raise my hand and music drifts out of one of the tents. It’s a traditional Cajun waltz, the same song we danced to all those years ago, when Angel tripped her way into my heart.
I twirl her around, take her hands, and tug her into my body. “Feel that?” I growl, jamming my erection into her stomach.
Without the slightest hesitation, she caresses me through my pants. “I love how big you are,” she whispers. “I love how you make me feel whenever you’re inside me. It reminds me of what I almost lost—what I’ve missed out on for the last six years.”
Unable to resist, I cup her ass and lift her. Her ankles lock behind my back and we’re spinning and kissing uncontrollably, not caring about who’s watching. Wedding vows were just a formality. I claimed her the day we met, speaking the words in my heart. My brothers knew it without me having to explain. That’s what happens when the right woman enters your life. That’s why Angel was so easily accepted by the club and the old ladies. There’s something special about her. A purity of heart and kindness that leaves everyone whose lives she’s touched a little better for it.
We both suck in a breath at the same time and I let her slide to her feet. “Okay?” I ask.
“More than okay.”
“Hungry?”
She looks around, eyeing the grill and the fifty-gallon pots on the open fires. “Is that . . .”
“The best Cajun boil in the state?” I chuckle. “Smell it? Crawfish, crab, shrimp, kielbasa, potatoes, corn, onions, celery, and lemon . . . don’t forget Aunt Birdie’s secret seasoning.”
Tears fill her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m about to cry over crawfish.”
“You’re finally home, Angel, that’s why. This place—Holly Beach in general—and all these people are your family. You’ve missed us. And God help me, I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.”
I grab her hand and we walk to the grilling area where half a dozen brothers and my aunt are supervising the wedding feast. Seating for a hundred people is set up in one tent, and the live band and dance floor is in the other. The local news forecasted rain tonight, but somehow we got lucky—it’s clear and warm outside.
Out of necessity, honoring longstanding friendships, some of the residents of Holly Beach were invited to the reception. All they know is that I married a girl from out of town. Once I eliminate any threats to Angel’s life, she can reestablish her true identity and live as Angel Laramie. Until then, she’s Serafina.
We spend the next four hours partying our asses off, dancing and laughing. By eleven o’clock my girl is yawning, and I’m ready to take her away from all the noise. I’m a selfish asshole.
A couple of brothers took care of the honeymoon arrangements at the cabin. I’ll plan a trip to Europe next year when we have free time. But for now, she’ll be happy spending quality time at the Red River. We say our goodbyes and I lead her back across the street to the shop.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
That’s when I point to the bike I haven’t ridden in six years. The day I thought Angel died, I retired my Heritage Softail Classic. My palms are itching to test its speed with her arms wrapped around my waist, her breasts jammed into my back, and the wind ripping through her long, blond hair.
She smiles. “You still have the same bike?”
“I do. Though I haven’t had her out since the day . . . there’s a surprise for you in the bathroom.”
Her smile fades a bit, like she understands how I’m feeling.
She lets go of my hand and walks into the shop. While I wait for her, I circle the bike, running my hands over the seat and tank, appreciating the midnight blue and pearl custom paint job.
Minutes later, I turn toward the shop just in time to see her step outside. Decked in black leather—a form-fitting halter top, pants, and boots—I’m more than tempted to bend her over my Harley and fuck her all night. I hold my breath as she steps closer, her new jacket draped over her arm.
“I kind of feel like Olivia Newton John in Grease.”
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “At the end of the movie?”
“Yes.” She holds up the jacket. “You really want me to wear this?”
The patch on the back of the leather says PROPERTY OF EAGLE. “Do it,” I demand, needing to see that jacket on her body.
I watch as she slides her arm into the left sleeve, then the right. It fits perfectly. She spins around slowly so I can see. Fuck. Is it even possible to be more turned on than I was already?
I straddle my seat and start the bike. The engine roars to life.
Angel approaches and I gesture for her to climb on. “Put that sweet ass where it belongs.”
I close my eyes as I feel her slide behind me. Her hands fold over my stomach and she squeezes my hips with her thighs. “I’m ready, Eagle.”
My girl doesn’t know the half of it. How deep this love goes, what I’m willing to do to keep her safe—to keep her on the back of this bike. We get one week of R&R, then I have to get back to work, possibly start a war with the Dead Dogs. Angel is worth every drop of spilled blood, every year a judge might sentence one of the Iron Norsemen to.
We ride down Main Street, waving at our wedding guests as we go by.
“I love you, Eagle,” she says.
“Hold on tight, baby.” Time to get my speed fix, and then I’m going to make love to my wife.
Chapter Thirty-two
Serafina
Describing the last four days I’ve spent with Eagle at the cabin as perfect would be a gross understatement. We make love all night long and sleep until noon, then we ride to Georgie’s restaurant for a late breakfast. A part of me wishes it could be this way forever. Away from the past—my new husband mine alone.
One Taste of Angel Page 18