by Cathryn Cade
She fished around on the grass and found her dress. She didn't bother sorting the stretchy tangle, just found the skirt and pulled it over her head. She ended up donning it like a tube dress. Then she scrambled off of the lounger.
"Nothing to say, Ivan?" she asked, her voice sharp and brittle as the icy shards stabbing inside her chest.
"It's late," he said, his voice casual, and completely devoid of the warmth that had infused it earlier. "I need to get back to my boys. As far as this happening again ... maybe. If I have a taste for blonde, and you’re available."
Then he walked away, his booted feet quiet in the grass. The hedge rustled, the gate creaked, and his tall shadow disappeared.
Moving slowly, Sara rose, picked up her tablet and empty wine glass from the side table, found her panties. She walked across the grass and into the house, locking the door behind her.
She set her wineglass down on the counter so sharply it rocked before standing still.
"Damn him," Sara whispered to the quiet house. His words echoed in her head. ‘Maybe. If I have a taste for blonde, and you’re available’.
She cried herself to sleep, muffling the sounds in her pillow. But while her tears began as anger and hurt at the beautiful but cold man who kept tempting her to fall into his arms, she also cried for her Gran, her career, and even her dad, because if he'd been alive, she would have liked to go home to him and get a hug tomorrow, and a reminder that no matter what went wrong, she'd always be Daddy's girl.
But he was gone, his mother gone now too, and when Sara finally slept, it was with the exhaustion of a woman who knew it was up to her to fix her own problems.
Her mom loved her, but she was just waiting for Sara to meet some nice church-going guy with a crew cut and marry him. She totally wouldn't understand this problem.
Her friends were there for her if anyone tried to abuse her, but this one was all on her. Stick was just being himsel, like a polar bear ate the unwary seal that ventured onto his ice floe.
She was the stupid one this time.
* * *
The next evening
Stick lounged in a deck chair on his porch. He had a cold beer in his hand, and a woman between his legs.
Tawny, a pretty redhead who stripped with Misti at the State Line clubs, knelt on the deck between his thighs, his jeans unfastened, his cock in her hand and in her mouth. She was working him with expert enthusiasm, her head bobbing, fingers massaging what her mouth couldn't reach.
Behind him in his house, music played and laughter sounded from Bounce, Snake and two other strippers. One of the women squealed, and the men guffawed. The twins were safely stowed at their friends' farm for the night, and Stick was partying with his men.
His body was reacting predictably to the redhead's efforts, but his gaze was on the hedge between his house and his gorgeous neighbor's. He'd set this up for her benefit, now she'd fuckin' well better be home to witness it.
The night before, after he walked home from having her, he'd sat down to watch a baseball game, but his thoughts had been on her.
With his boys sleeping above him, he'd reflected on the strange, but powerful temptation that had assailed him to remain in Sara's arms. To roll onto his back and sleep there, with her draped over him like a fragrant, warm blanket of woman. To wake her in the night and have her again.
But one thing he did not do, ever, was sleep with a woman. Not after Contessa. Sara was nothing like her, of course, but she sure as hell was not old lady material, either. And since she'd never be content to be his casual fuck on the side, she had to go.
Which brought him back to now. And yeah, there was a shadow on the other side of the gate. A glimpse of blonde hair and white clothing through the green branches of the hedge. And there, her face, a pale oval, her eyes burning into him like blue brands.
His orgasm rolled up out of him in a hot wave, pulsing into the condom and the redhead's willing mouth, but it was for her—the woman watching. Watching him use another woman's mouth the night after he'd enjoyed her pussy.
Then, he'd wanted to lie there, wallow in her embrace. Now, as soon as he came down from the physical high, he felt like a pile of the stray dog's shit. Hollowed out inside instead of warm and satisfied.
He patted the redhead's cheek, and she sat up, eying him for approval. "Thanks, babe."
He dealt with the condom, fastened his jeans, then fished a hundred from his wallet and gave it to her. She'd done as he asked—she just didn't have a clue what it was she'd done.
What was necessary, to keep his life the way it was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The following evening, Stick spent at the clubhouse. When Tawni sidled up to him, all smiles, he pulled the redhead onto his lap and let her sit there triumphantly, smiling and pouring his shots for him.
Cooler, a chunky brother with a bleach blond crew cut and ink from his ears to the tips of his fingers, walked in, scowling. He locked eyes with Stick, nodded and came straight to him.
"What's up, brother?" Stick asked.
"I been downtown. Played some pool at Paddy's on East Sprague. Was keeping an eye on a couple of lowlifes who've been giving shit to a gal I know. In walks that little sneak, Keys' Younger's nephew. Named Leaf, or Weed, or somethin'?"
"Twig," Stick supplied, fully alert. “His name’s Twig.”
"Right. And he goes straight to the two lowlifes. They get all busy talkin' so I walk by, pretend I'm checkin' out some fuckin' old photos on the wall. They shut down immediately. And then, get this—fuckin' Twig gives me a big, shit-eatin' grin and asks me how I'm doin', like we're all best buds or somethin'."
"And?"
Cooler growled, his stout torso tightening as he clenched his fists. "I wanted to clean his clock for him, ‘cause we all know he drew down on Keys and tried to steal from him. But wouldn't you know, there's a couple of off-duty cops playin' pool. So I just reminded him real polite that I was there first, and therefore he was liable to wind up gettin' his ugly little face messed up even uglier if he didn't leave, like right then. He did. The two boys I was after walked out the back. Which," he added, lifting his fists to show that both were bruised, one cut, "Was their mistake."
Stick lifted his chin in acknowledgment. "I assume they won't be botherin' your woman again?"
Cooler grinned. "Nope. And get this—one of 'em told me, 'cause I asked him all friendly-like, that Twig was askin' them if they wanted to make some real money, and have some fun doin' it. And knowin' what Younger's said about the little pissant, that sounds like it has to do with a woman."
"Thanks," Stick said. He looked to Bouncer, Rocker and Moke, all of whom were listening intently. "This is good to know. Tell the brothers to keep eyes on their women, especially Younger and Moran. Twig wants revenge, he'll go after them first."
"On it," Moke said, rising with his phone already out.
Cooler moved on to get himself a drink, and Bouncer jiggled his shot glass. "Twig knows he's not allowed in our territory. He's here, he's fair game, I'd say."
"Agreed," Stick said.
Rocker nodded, but his head was turned toward the open front doors of the club house. "Uh-oh," he murmured. "In-coming."
"What's she doin' here?" Bouncer asked, scowling.
"Prob'ly meetin' up with Kit and Lindi," Rocker said. "They're tight."
Stick heard the staccato of high-heeled sandals, crossing the floor of the bar, and knew immediately who his brothers were talking about. Adrenaline surged through his veins, as if he was headed into a fight.
Sara. Who might be here to meet with her girls, but just the sound of her footsteps told him she was also on the warpath.
He pulled Tawni closer. "You still do that thing with your tongue in a man's ear?" he murmured.
"Yeah," she breathed, and giggled as she leaned in and got busy, her wet tongue lapping at his ear.
The music played on and the club continued to party, but it seemed to him the noise muted somehow.
"H
ey, Sara," Rocker said, smiling. "How you doing?"
"Fine, thanks." Her voice was tight.
Stick turned his head. Tawni leaned with him, her tongue still working.
Sara stood there. Hands on her flaring hips—hips that were clad only in a short, stretchy black dress that laid her shoulders bare and cradled her big tits and little waist like a lover's hands. Her pale hair was caught up in some fuck-me up-do with loose strands hanging around her face and framing her eyes. Eyes that burned down at him, her nostrils flared and her full mouth drawn up in a sneer of distaste.
He wondered, if she knew how magnificent she was just now, if she'd try to hide her anger. Probably.
"Lookin' to party?" Bouncer called to her. "Stick's busy, but I ain't."
Her gaze flicked to him, her nostrils flared in distaste. "What a charming offer. Thank you, but no."
"He's right, I'm busy," Stick told her. "Come back later, if you want to wait your turn."
Bouncer chuckled, and Cooler, who'd drifted back, grinned, but Rocker watched her without moving a muscle, and Moke gazed at nothing, in that way he had of being there but not involved.
She glared at Stick, and anticipation rose in his chest, pulling his cock along with it. She was gonna backtalk him, in front of his club. Good, because then he'd be able to show her her place, once and for all—away from him.
"Wait my turn for you?" she asked him, enunciating in that ladylike way she had. "I would rather lick the toilet seat in the women's restroom. Not much difference, is there? Every pussy in here has been all over both of you."
And then she turned on her heel and walked away, her ass rolling in that little dress.
Stick surged up out of his chair, tossing Tawni into Bouncer's arms, where she landed with a squeal.
As if he'd commanded it, the song ended. Heads turned, voices quieted as he strode across the floor after his rebellious blonde.
"Stop right there, woman," Stick ordered. He waited in the middle of the cleared area near the speakers, legs spread.
She did, and then tossed her head and started onward, her movements quick and jerky now. Good, she'd realized she was in trouble.
Then one of the brother moved to stand directly in her path. She recoiled, and another stood, then another, leaving her with only one path, back to him.
She turned on him, her face pale except for her flushed cheeks, her eyes glittering. "What is this?" she demanded.
He beckoned to her with one finger. "Come here."
She let out a huff, her breasts quivering, and then strode back through the tables toward him. Every head swiveled with her progress, and he knew damn well the men weren't watching her because they were curious.
She stopped before him, hands on her hips again. "Fine. Your men won't let me leave, so I'm here. Say what you have to say, and I'll go. For good."
Stick shook his head, his gaze holding hers. "I'm not the one with something to say. You are."
Her brows shot together. "Me?"
"Da. You just insulted every one of my brothers and their old ladies, by implying I've been in their place."
The color in her cheeks spread, and she scowled at him. "You know very well that isn't what I meant, Stick Vanko."
He narrowed his eyes at her, and watched hers widen. "You say words you don't mean? Then you can take them back."
"Fine. I—I do."
He shook his head. "Not to me. To all of these people."
Her lower lip trembled, and her hands slid from her hips, her hands clenching into fists. Then she lifted her chin.
A surge of unwilling admiration curled through him as she faced the silent club members, most of whom eyed her coldly, some with sly enjoyment. This was a tough crowd, a pack of sorts ... and like a pack, they could turn on outsiders in a heartbeat.
"I'm sorry," she said in a clear, carrying voice. "I misspoke. I certainly would never wish to insult any of the old ladies of this club, or the men who respect and love them. I should have said, every unclaimed pussy in the place has been all over your president."
Someone snickered, and a few giggles followed, probably from old ladies.
She ignored them all, and turned on him, her head tipped with polite inquiry. "There, is that better, Joystick?" The look in her eyes said she knew exactly how he'd come by his nickname.
Stick was torn by the urge to roar with laughter and the competing urge to grab her and haul her off to his bed, spank her ass red and glowing and then fuck her from behind while he admired his handiwork.
But he knew if he laughed now, he risked the disrespect of his men. Half the old ladies were probably on Sara's side. But that was too bad, because despite her courage, and the way she glowed in the bar lights, all flashing eyes, pale silky hair, satin skin and lithe curves, she was not the woman for him.
So instead, he lifted his chin in agreement, putting even more ice in his own gaze.
"Da, that'll do. Now, you can get out ... or like I said, you can wait your turn. Maybe I'll have a taste for blonde when I'm through with red."
And this time, the look in her eyes said he'd done his job, for better or worse. She wasn't one of the club whores who got off on being treated like shit by a rough biker. She was a woman with more heart than sense, and she was something not many in this club were—a lady.
And now she was a woman whom he'd crushed by humiliating her in front of his club, treating her as if she was interchangeable with strippers who got off on doing any act with any man here, and who would take money for it without blinking her false eyelashes.
“No, thanks,” she managed, her voice shaking. “I’ve completely lost my taste for biker boss.”
Because he’d made sure of that. Stick turned away from the shattered look in her eyes and the tremble of her mouth, before he did something completely stupid, like grab her and kiss it all away.
He jerked his chin at Rocker, watching with an unreadable look on his face. “Walk her out, da?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rocker walked Sara out to the Caddy. She wasn't sure she'd have even remembered she'd driven it—not that there were any other big, white land yachts to choose from in this parking lot—without the tall biker's steady arm around her, his deep quiet voice murmuring to her.
She felt sick and cold despite the heat of the July night, and the heat baking off the pavement of the parking lot. Sick with shame. Confronting Stick had been her worst idea ever. She wasn’t built for drama.
"I've never actually been kicked out of a bar before, y'know?" she mumbled.
Rocker chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Yeah, I can believe that, a class act like you."
"Another first for me ... this summer has just been full of them." Her voice was shaking again, it never did that.
"This is your car?" he asked. She blinked at the white bulk of the car, gleaming in the dusk.
"Yes. It was my Gran's. She left it to me with her place."
"Sweet ride, babe." His voice held a note of near reverence. He opened her car door for her, and gave her a gentle push. "Sit."
She folded into the driver's seat, and he closed the door and leaned on the open window frame, his hand on hers. His hands were big and warm. Not as big as Stick's, though.
"Babe, you should move on," Rocker told her. "Stick is a good man ... but he's got bad shit in his past, which means he ain't a good risk for a woman like you."
Sara stared through her windshield at the lights of the clubhouse, and the dark silhouettes of people moving on the porch.
"Don’t worry, after what he did, I’m moving on. But ... what's wrong with me, huh? I mean, I know I'm not as pretty as some of these women or as—as flashy, but—"
Rocker snorted. "Jesus Christ, woman. You are gorgeous, you gotta know that. Got that Hollywood blonde sex-queen thang goin' on. Ain't a straight man alive can resist that. And with your hair all done up, and those fuck-me lips of yours? I guaran-damn-tee you there's a lot of hard-ons bein' dealt with right now after watchin' you s
trut through the place tonight."
Oh. Well, that was flattering in a semi-disgusting way. Or it would be if she wasn't cold and shriveling inside. She shook her head.
Her escort sighed. "Babe. Call Kit, have her meet you somewhere else, instead of here. Have her fill you in on Stick, and why he is the way he is. Surprised she didn't do it by now."
Sara laughed, only it turned into a sob. "I already know. Jack told me. That's the only reason I even tried to ...." To do whatever it was she'd been doing here tonight.
Maybe a tiny part of her had been unwilling to believe he was really the cold-hearted bastard he showed the world. Maybe she thought if she showed some backbone, he’d show her he had a heart.
The tall biker chuckled without humor. "I hear you." Then he straightened, and tapped the bonnet of her Caddy. "Drive careful now, okay?"
Sara nodded. Then she started her car and drove away through the warm night, along the quiet roads. Okay, then. She’d had that one last encounter to prove once and for all that she'd been an idiot. She’d gotten her answer to the puzzle that was Stick, and it had been a giant flashing neon sign that glared 'Road Closed'.
A sports car passed her, the windows open and the dome lights on, revealing two young women with hair out to there and brief clothing, giggling as they preened in the mirrors.
One of them would very likely finish the night in his bed. With his warm, knowing mouth on theirs and his beard tickling their face as he gave them pleasure like they'd never known, his powerful hands holding them just where he wanted them, then his powerful body moving over them, under them while his magnificent cock filled them so tight, so hard ...
No. She had to stop this. Sara stopped with a screech of tires in the drive outside her grandma's door. Then she hurried inside, leaving the door open behind her while she dashed up the stairs to her bedroom. She dragged her suitcase from the closet, and opened it on the bed. Then she started opening drawers and dragging out handfuls of underwear and clothing.
She was leaving. She was going ... somewhere.
And staying there until she could stand the thought of living next door to Ivan—no, Stick. He wasn't Ivan to her, he was Joystick, the lawless, heartless MC president who lived exactly as he pleased, damn the consequences to anyone else, and who used women when he wanted them, and ignored them when he didn't.