I nodded.
She put her cup down. “You realize he’s doing it to protect you?”
I gave a noncommittal shrug. Then, “I know it’s to do with what he does for the club. But...I mean, how bad can it be?”
She fixed me with a look and my stomach turned over. Pretty freakin’ bad.
What if Carrick was right not to tell me? What if he told me and I couldn’t handle it? What if it made me want to run?
But if he didn’t tell me, if he kept trying to protect me, he’d be pushing me away forever.
“It takes a special kind of woman to love these guys,” Mom said. “You gotta understand them. Understand the club and why they love it the way you do, because you can’t ever come between them and it. And the bad stuff they do? You gotta look inside them, where it matters, and see that the angel outweighs the demon.”
“Angel?”
Mom shrugged. “Even Satan started out as a fallen angel.” She pressed her lips together. “But it ain’t just about you and accepting what he does. Carrick’s harder than most to get to know. He’s loyal to the club—maybe too loyal. He carries a ton of weight for them but he never lets them help him. Didn’t you wonder why he rode off to Teston alone to save you?”
I blinked. I hadn’t thought of that.
“He loves these guys, but he’s afraid to lean on them,” said Mom. “I don’t know why. I know it drives Mac crazy. He’s certainly never let a woman get close...hell, he doesn’t even let girls ride on his bike. Not until you.”
Now I knew why everyone had stared when we’d rode into the compound together. My heart started to crash in my chest.
“A special kind of woman,” Mom repeated, watching me carefully.
I nodded to myself and sat there stroking Mr. Fluffy as I thought. I tried to wrap my brain around my feelings, but they were too deep and too strong to get a proper hold of. Why couldn’t this stuff be simple, like gear ratios?
Then I saw something on a kitchen shelf that I did understand. I gently lifted Mr. Fluffy off my lap and stood up. “Can I borrow this?” I asked, picking up the little glass bottle of almond oil.
“Of course you can,” said Mom. “What are you going to do? Bake him a cake?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled, flushing again.
20
Carrick
I slammed my fist down on the table. “We got to ride to Teston. Wipe the fuckers out.”
The meeting room was so quiet, I could hear the scratch as Mac rubbed at his stubble. “We can’t just wade in there,” he said slowly. “There’s too much we don’t know.”
“We know enough!” I snapped. I was leaning forward in my seat, shoulders tensed like I was about to drive my fist through the table. I could hear the Irish coming out thick in my voice. “Jesus, they came right into town, our town, and they took her like she was theirs!”
Mac gave me that sad, solemn look I’d seen so many times before when one of us gets riled. I’d never been on the receiving end, before. “I know you’re pissed,” he told me. “We’d all be pissed if it was our girl.”
“She’s not my girl,” I ground out.
Everyone just looked at me. What the fuck was the matter with them?
“They’ll be back,” I snarled. “We can’t just wait around until they try again.”
Mac held up a calming hand. “We won’t, brother,” he said softly. “But we need to know what’s going on. Something’s not right here. They took a big chance, coming into our town. They knew they might run into us—that’s why they sent so many guys. Why go to all that trouble? Why not just grab a different girl?”
Because she’s one of a kind, I wanted to say. But what Mac said rang true. Life was cheap to the Blood Spiders. A woman was replaceable. Why risk war with the Hell’s Princes to get her back? I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”
“What about the cops?” asked Hunter.
Everyone looked uneasy. Hunter used to be on the other side of the law—kind of—when he was a bounty hunter. He still distrusts them, but not as much as the rest of us.
“We solve our own problems,” Mac told him.
“This is serious shit,” Hunter pressed. “Human fucking trafficking? We should talk to the feds!”
Mac shook his head. “The feds always want something—nothing’s ever free. Plus, we get a fed sniffing around here, they could get wind of the guns. I can’t risk the club.”
Now Ox spoke up. “Hunter’s right. That auction is messed up.” I could hear the anger building in his voice. Ox has a slow-burning fuse, but once he goes off…. “We can’t let that go on.”
“It’s not our town,” said Viking.
“I don’t care if it’s not our state!” Ox slammed his palms down on the table and, with his bearlike strength, it was enough to lift the opposite table legs off the floor. “No one’s selling women on our watch!”
Shit. This was going to end in a fight. Normally, Ox and Hunter were the calm ones but this thing was putting them on a collision course with Mac. And it’s all my fault, I thought, the frustration tight in my chest. This is why I never let the club get involved in my problems! I forced myself to calm down. Now I had gotten them involved, I needed to support my pres.
“No one’s saying we let it stand!” Mac growled. “We’ll stop the auctions. But we need to know what’s going on. We need to get hold of their President and ask him some questions.”
Ox slowly nodded, though he looked far from happy, and lifted his hands. The table settled back onto all four legs.
“Their pres is a guy called Hay,” I said, forcing my voice to be calm. “Mean fucker but not brave. We put a gun to his head, he’ll talk.”
“We need to get hold of him away from their clubhouse,” said Mac. “Make sure we have him outnumbered and outgunned.”
“I’ll go over there tonight,” said Hunter. “Sneak around and find out where he’s going to be.”
No one argued. Hunter does stealthy like no one I’ve ever met. He can be standing a foot behind you and you won’t know he’s there.
“Okay, then.” Mac stayed standing, maybe to remind us who was the boss. “We’ll meet up tomorrow morning, Hunter will tell us the place and time, and we’ll move.” He banged the gavel to end the meeting and everyone started to filter out. Ox was still muttering to Hunter about the auctions and I knew he’d be in a mood for days. Mac sighed in frustration.
I stayed behind until everyone had left. “Sorry,” I muttered. I thought back to how I’d reassured him, when I’d first brought Annabelle to the clubhouse. It’s done, I’d said. “Didn’t mean this to turn into your problem.”
Mac came around the table stood in front of me, slowly shaking his head. “We got your back, brother. When are you gonna figure that out?” He cocked his head to one side. “Why didn’t you ask us to go with you, when you rode to Teston to rescue her? We all would have come.”
I stared at the table. I knew he was right: they all would have rode out with me and stormed the Blood Spider’s bar. We could have put a stop to the auctions right then and there and maybe the Blood Spiders wouldn’t have come after Annabelle. It would have been easier, safer, saner. But….
But I couldn’t accept their help. I’d die for this club but I wouldn’t let them put themselves at risk for me. I gave, but I wouldn’t take.
Until Annabelle came along. She was the one thing I’d bend my rules for. They’d already helped me save her on the highway and now I was letting them go up against the Blood Spiders again. I hated it but I had no choice.
I stood up, shoving my chair back. I pulled Mac close and slapped his back. “I love you, brother.”
He thumped me on the back. But when we separated, I could see the concern on his face. We used to be tight, him and me. When we first set up our gun-running operation, it was me who he’d trusted to go with him to the Black Sea to meet the Russian mafia guy who’d be supplying us. But as the club bonded closer and closer, I�
�d always stayed a little way apart. Me having to accept help, this one time, had just made it even clearer that I normally didn’t. He wanted me to stop keeping the club at a distance. And I couldn’t.
As I walked out, I clenched my fists. This has to end. Tomorrow. I needed to finish this thing...and I’d kill that bastard Hay, if that’s what it took. Then Annabelle would be safe and things could go back to normal.
Outside, I found Annabelle standing in the sunshine, hand shielding her eyes as she looked up into a cloudless sky. She was facing away from me and I took a second to admire her body. My eyes traced a lazy “S:” over the pale, bare shoulders I wanted to grip and kiss and bite as I thrust into her from behind, down the elegant curve of her spine, in to the little dip at the small of her back, the smooth skin revealed by the gap between tank top and jeans, then out over those ripe ass cheeks, my eyes doing what my hands longed to. God, she was perfect. Her long red hair was billowing out in the breeze and, as I walked closer, the very tips of the strands just brushed my face. I stopped, closed my eyes and inhaled, smelling her. Honeysuckle shampoo coupled with that warm, feminine scent that drove me wild. I could have stood there all day.
I heard her turn and opened my eyes, but for a second I couldn’t say anything. This is why I was letting the club help: I was crazy about this girl.
“We’re going to fix this,” I told her. “We’ll make sure they don’t come after you again. But for tonight, we need to keep you safe.” I looked over my shoulder at the clubhouse. “I was going to say you could crash in one of the spare rooms, but...it gets quiet here at night, when there’s not a party on. And I don’t want you here alone.”
When I looked back at her, she was staring right into my eyes. We both knew what I was going to say next.
“You’re sleeping at my place tonight,” I told her.
21
Annabelle
To get to Carrick’s place, we cut through the center of town. As we cruised up to the intersection on Main Street, I watched the sunset turn the lake orange and gold. It was a beautiful place. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the Hell’s Princes being here. They were criminals, right? And I associated criminals with grimy cities. This place was as small town as it got.
The light went red ahead of us and Carrick slowed to a stop. As cars pulled up alongside us, I saw the drivers turn to look at us. Most quickly looked away. Some gave a quick nod of respect.
“Things work different, out here.” The deep, Irish rasp startled me. Carrick had twisted in the saddle to look at me. He jerked his head towards the nearby Sheriff’s office. “The cops don’t have the manpower to look after things. So we do.”
A guy in a sheriff’s uniform was sipping coffee in the parking lot, watching the sunset. He nodded at Carrick, who nodded back. I realized it was the same guy we’d seem when we first rode into town. “Sheriff Harris is a friend,” Carrick told me. He lowered his voice. “Turns a blind eye to most of what we do. In return, we make sure the streets stay clean. No hard drugs in town, no trouble.”
I looked again at the drivers around us. The Hell’s Princes, I realized, were like a band of rowdy swordsmen who slayed the local dragons and protected the town. People didn’t necessarily like them. But they needed them.
Then the light changed and we roared off, the sudden acceleration making me clutch his waist tight.
Carrick’s house was a small, one-storey place on a big lot: one of those quirks of town planning where there isn’t quite room to fit two houses but there’s way too much space for one. Most people would have built onto the house, or put up a garage or a deck or something, but Carrick had left the empty land as knee-high grass, as if he wanted space between him and his neighbors.
Inside, there was just one bedroom, a tiny kitchen and bathroom and a living room that was barely big enough for a couch and a TV. The place didn’t seem big enough to contain a man like Carrick. He glanced around sullenly. “Don’t entertain much,” he muttered by way of explanation. Then he flexed his left shoulder and winced.
That reminded me of my plan. “Sit down,” I said. “I’m going to take care of your shoulders.”
He turned and stared at me. “What?”
I showed him the little bottle of almond oil. “I’m going to massage you.”
He made a face as if I’d suggested painting his toenails. “I don’t need that.”
“The hell you don’t. I’ve felt your shoulders: they’re like concrete. Sit down.”
He glared at me and I could see it in his eyes: the frustration mixed with barely-contained lust. I swallowed.
“Please,” I said. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me do this one thing for you.”
He kept glaring, the broad slabs of his pecs rising and falling under his white t-shirt as he drew in deep, slow breaths. I felt the mood shift. What the hell are you doing, his eyes asked.
I swallowed again and looked at him defiantly. It’s just a massage.
He took off his cut and laid it carefully over the back of the couch. Then he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and peeled it off. I stared at the tan ridges of his abs: God, every part of him was hard, chiseled by a hundred bar room brawls and a thousand hours twisting and leaning in the saddle.
And sex. Don’t forget that. I could imagine him using all that coiled power in his midsection to lunge and thrust, to control my thrashing body. I followed the hem of the t-shirt as it rose over his chest. The cotton had to stretch almost to breaking point to clear his powerful shoulders.
I looked up and found his eyes challenging me. And that’s when I realized what was going on in his head. He thought this something else. He thought this was me trying to seduce him, to drive him beyond the point of control.
“T—Turn around,” I stammered. “Sit backwards on a chair.”
He stared at me a second longer then silently turned around, grabbed a kitchen chair and straddled it. I stood there staring at his back, at the Hell’s Princes tattoo and the network of thin, raised knife scars he’d picked up over the years. My mind was whirling. How did I tell him he’d gotten the wrong idea? I looked down at the bottle of oil in my hand. Shit, what am I doing?! But it was too late to back out now.
“You really know how to do this?” he muttered.
I swallowed. “Sure.” And I meant it. I’d never massaged anyone before, but bodies are just complicated machines. I looked at his back and I could see where the muscles ran, where the tissue was stretched tight with worry and stress. It was just mechanics and pressure. I uncapped the bottle and squirted a stream of the amber liquid over his shoulders, watching it trickle down his back. Just mechanics and pressure. That’s all this is.
Except...suddenly, I was second-guessing myself. Was he right?! Was I trying to seduce him? I wasn’t like that! I didn’t have any goddamn feminine wiles!
A little voice inside me laughed.
I watched the oil trickle further and further down his back. If I didn’t act fast, it was going to stain his jeans. I took a shuddering breath, stepped forward and put my hands on him, my thumbs either side of the tiny shamrock tattoo.
I wasn’t ready for how he felt. I’d pressed up against him on the bike enough times but palms and fingertips are a lot more sensitive. I could feel the softness of his skin and the hardness of the muscle beneath. He was so solid, so unshakably, unquestionably there, larger than life and hotly alive, all my fantasies made flesh. I slid my hands slowly up his back, the oil collecting and pooling along the tops of my fingers and thumbs. Behind my hands, I left him shining and glistening, the room’s lone, weak bulb turning his muscles into a study of light and shadow.
He drew in his breath and I could feel his lungs fill beneath my palms. I gulped. I’d never been so in touch with another person. I swore I could feel each beat of his heart….
I glanced away to try to get myself together but as soon as I saw the couch, an image flashed into my head: me on my back, jeans balled around my ankles, him between my thighs….
Then my hands reached his shoulders and I could feel the pain and the tension. I dragged my mind back to what I was supposed to be doing. I’d started this with good intentions; I had to finish it. I pressed my thumbs into the muscles: God, he really was knotted up there. He felt like a hunk of rubber that’s been twisted and twisted until it’s as hard and unyielding as iron. I pressed hard and he groaned.
“Does that hurt?” I asked, worried.
“Yeah,” he spat. Then, after a second, “Keep going.”
Encouraged, I worked my thumbs outward, stretching him like dough. He groaned again. I dug in circles, kneading and pulling. At first, there was no change except for him occasionally wincing and tensing. But gradually, I felt things ease, almost imperceptibly at first but then faster and faster. The frozen rubber started to thaw, becoming pliant. It turned to taffy and then melted taffy.
“You’re good at this,” he muttered.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
As I kept working at his muscles, something started to happen. As he unknotted and unwound, everything he’d been pushing down deep started to rise towards the surface. The silence in the room grew and grew. I could feel him getting ready to tell me. And I needed to hear it because I knew we were never going to get any closer until that happened. But I’d learned my lesson: I wasn’t going to push him this time. I’d massage all night if I had to.
He’d saved me. Now I had to save him.
I dug my thumbs in and drew them slowly outward in circles and he suddenly took a deep lungful of air and said, “Feck!”
I froze. It was the most Irish I’d ever heard his voice, hard and dark and beautiful. Not quite the same as fuck. Softened for my benefit.
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