Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC)

by Bink Cummings

  Another haphazard shrug is what he offers me. “I unplanned it.”

  What?!

  The kicker to this is he doesn’t even sound the least bit remorseful. What is wrong with him? This is a load of bull-honky!

  “You unplanned it? Unplanned, my plans?!” I shrill, then drop my tone to one that comes from a deep place; a place where I care for Lachlan. “What’s going on with you today? Are you okay?” Months ago, I would’ve been too nervous to address him. Now, I’m not the least bit afraid.

  “Aye, I unplanned them with Pip this mornin’. I’ll meet ye by the bike.” Lachlan dips his head, and doesn’t wait for my subsequent argument before he saunters away.

  I watch him go with tight lips and the itch to unleash, arguing the unfairness of it all. However, I keep it bottled up where it belongs. This isn’t my house. I might feel at home here, which is strange enough in itself, but it’s his domain. I’m only a visitor passing through.

  Stomping like an errant child to gather my things, I then clomp my way out the front door, slamming it in my wake. The adult temper tantrum does nothing to squash my irritation as I grumble my way over to the motorcycle that Lachlan is suavely straddling in the drive.

  When I moved in here, I’d made a deal with myself that I wouldn’t spend more than three seconds staring at him on his motorcycle, in fear that my ovaries might explode. I’m at twelve seconds now, and any moment, they’re bound to detonate like a stick of dynamite.

  Some men own Harley’s because they wanna be badass. Then there're men like Lachlan, who put the badass in Harley. Black and sleek, with lots of chrome, his motorcycle nestles itself between his legs like it was made for him, like they’re one. The engine loudly idles, and the rumbling of his tailpipe turns my legs to Jell-O.

  I wobble forth, resting my hand on the black, leather bitch-seat to stable myself.

  God, I really wish I didn’t love motorcycles and cars so damn much. They’re a serious weakness.

  Watching Cas tow Viola from the barn last week to his shop had me in tears of both remorse and happiness. Her history and getting the chance to fix her was all emotionally coinciding.

  Now, as I watch Lachlan on his motorcycle, wearing his Corrupt Chaos vest, a pair of shades, and a black helmet covered in stickers, I’m getting a much different feeling than remorse or happiness. It’s a lot different.

  I’m screwed. Way, way, way screwed.

  Lachlan drapes a matching black helmet off his finger and gestures to it with the incline of his head. “Yers.”

  Slipping it on, I tighten the chin strap before my first attempt of swinging my leg over the bike. I fail miserably and die a little on the inside at the sheer embarrassment. Redness showers my cheeks as Lachlan watches with keen eyes but doesn’t say anything. Apparently, he’s letting me go at it alone. With my outburst in the house, I can’t blame him.

  Defeated, I slump my shoulders and kick the gravel, berating myself for even trying to get on the back of his bike. I wish my leg worked like she used to. It’s still too stiff.

  “Here!” Lachlan yells over the roar of the pipes, and I lift my head.

  Scooting forward, he leaves enough open space at the back of his seat for me to straddle. It’s lower than the bitch-seat, and easier for me to hike my leg over. Taking his offer without argument, I place my hand on his shoulder, feeling the smooth leather under my palm, and kick over. This time it works, only my body is suddenly plastered to Lachlan. Boobs to back, thighs cradling his butt. Touching. Too much touching.

  Like I’ve been scalded, I shoot to the rear of the bike and Lachlan slips back into place.

  Unfazed by our closeness, his hand coolly taps the pegs for me to place my feet, and I comply.

  “When I lean, ye lean a wee bit, but mostly stay straight,” he instructs, unemotionally.

  Now wanting to sound like a complete amateur, I respond confidently. “This ain’t my first rodeo.” And it’s not; it’s my third. Truth be told, I don’t trust most men with motorcycles. They’re unskilled, and adding a person on the back is an extra liability. I don’t want to be the liability. Too many variables. Too much trust. Too much of everything that you have to willingly place in the operator’s hands. Lachlan has skilled hands, and he rides his motorcycle more than he drives a car. This, is why I trust him, and some other reasons that I don’t wish to discuss right now.

  “Right.” He thumps his helmet, pats the outside of my leg, and then we’re off, rolling through the tree-lined path, away from Lachlan’s and toward the main road. Gravel kicks up under us, spitting out of the back tires.

  A mixture of nervousness and excitement crashes through me as I swallow hard and cup my hands on Lachlan’s sides to use as support for the upcoming turn. God, I hope I don’t screw this up and further humiliate myself.

  A furnace consumes my hand on his side and yanks me till my arms are curled around his torso, my boobs smashed to his back. I don’t like this one bit.

  The turn has us leaning before we hit open road, then eyes move to roaming his helmet. It’s the only distraction there is at this point. Thinking about where my arms are will only do stuff to my insides that I’d rather leave dormant.

  Sticker reading it is. . .

  Too Loud? Too Bad.

  You don’t need a dick to ride a motorcycle, but it helps to have balls.

  My inner child is a mean little fucker.

  Then I hit the one that makes me giggle aloud.

  Up Yer Kilt.

  That sounds like something the brooding and exceedingly stubborn Lachlan would say. I don’t know how I know that; I just do. It suits him. The fact that it’s directly in the back of his helmet, and not overlapped by other stickers, tells me he loves it too.

  I continue to focus on reading the stickers on the way into town. Halfway there, I might have attempted to sneak a peek of the countryside and the beauty it offers. Mainly, though, I ignore all the sensations trying to capture me. The vibrating between my legs, and the hard body I’m plastered to, mixed with the smell of leather and his scent. . .not to mention the outdoors wafting in my face. I try my best to disregard it all and focus on something else, like stickers and my new job. A job I know I’m going to love maybe even more than any job I’ve had before. If only I could stick around long enough to really appreciate it. Fat chance that’ll happen, though. Once Viola’s fixed, I’m gone. New York is still screaming my name.

  Lachlan rolls to a smooth stop in front of Cas’s, puts his feet down, and Sniper strolls out of the bay, wiping his dirty hands with an even dirtier shop rag.

  This is home. Home sweet home.

  I disengage from Lachlan and don’t wait another second to clumsily dismount the bike. My hands are seriously craving to wrap themselves around a wrench, something—anything. A firm hand on my shoulder halts my need to sprint inside and see my Viola. I’ve missed her.

  Lachlan spins me around, before releasing me and setting his hand on his long, thick, ridiculously sexy, jean-clad thigh. Sniper halts at my side.

  “What’s wrong with yer leg?” Lachlan flicks his eyes to my bad one.

  I shrug dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

  I’m lying, lying, and lying some more. Not that I want to lie. I just don’t see another way out of this. Another Dr. Jerk-head had suggested a specific physical therapist to aid in recovery. I don’t know the area well, so I relented and took his advice—big mistake. Melanie Drexel has become the bane of my existence. Two hours a week I have to spend with her, and that grates on my nerves so severely that I find myself snappy and ran ragged by the time I leave. And, no, it’s not because she’s working me over hard. She’s working on my last flippin’ nerve, that’s what. The woman’s immature, flighty, and doesn’t know how to do her job. If, in fact, she actually graduated with the degree she’s supposed to have obtained, which I highly doubt.

  The first time I’d been in her office that she shares with four others, I thought I was in the wrong place. Pink walls and a
bubbly receptionist greeted me, before I sat in the posh waiting room for almost an hour for her highness to finally see me.

  How can anyone take a platinum blonde Barbie doll, with brown roots, fake boobs, and bubblegum pink lipstick seriously is beyond me. Especially when her voice matches her looks. It’s like “air-head” should be tattooed across her botoxed forehead. Now, I’m not one to stereotype or discriminate, but I’ve been paying this woman to do a job. A job she’s incapable of.

  I spend most of my time working myself over as she flirts with the men. It doesn’t matter what male—old, fat, hot, young, they’re all fair game. They all chew her up like the bubblegum on her lips, and adore her so much that they undoubtedly fake ailments to get the unencumbered attention. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve witnessed her paying them gushing compliments about their biceps, rugged good looks, or sweet personality. Yuck; make me gag.

  Earlier this week, I’d stretched for ten minutes and spent the remainder of the time in the bathroom texting Bridget, who knows Melanie’s the bane of my existence and sympathizes with me. In a nutshell, I dread physical therapy because of her. The end.

  Lachlan grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, and Casanova joins us at the end of the drive. He’s covered in grease.

  “Ready for your first day?” Cas bumps my shoulder.

  I gift him with a bright, closed mouth smile. “Yes, Boss.”

  “How’s the leg?” he adds.

  Bobbing my head in reply, I slap the side of my pant leg. “Pretty good. Yours?” My gaze drops to his leg, the fake one, then returns to his face.

  Swiping his hair off his forehead, he pushes it back. “You know about it, huh?” He taps the side of his leg, and I nod. “Wasn’t sure if you’d got the memo about it yet. Livin’ in a small town, and you knowin’ Whisky, figured ya already knew. Nice to see ya don’t beat around the bush. I like that.” He bumps shoulders with me again, which warms me from the inside out, feelin’ accepted already.

  “Now,” he winks, “how about you get your sexy ass to work?”

  Lachlan doesn’t seem to like Cas’s forwardness when he crudely curses at him, as his intense eyes convey something that I can’t interpret. So, I try to ignore Lachlan’s flare-up altogether. But, Cas seems to pick up on the unspoken words when he mutters, “Rightttt,” in an amused manner before turning his attention back to me.

  “Viola’s got her own dock in the back. Why don’t ya go check that beaut out, and I’ll give ya a tour in ten?”

  Fair enough.

  Removing my helmet, I set it on the back of Lachlan’s bike and wave to him as I all but skip into my new job. It’s a decent size garage, and it’s not too hard for me to find Viola. She’s all-by-her-lonesome in the back with a huge toolbox setup right next to her. I run my fingers over her sleek hood, and stop when my eyes catch a name engraved on the black toolbox.

  My mouth gapes in astonishment. Mag’s tools. Oh. My. God. It says Mag’s tools, and I’m Mags!

  Running my finger over the nameplate, I’m unable to suppress the girly squeal that rushes out. I have my own toolbox! I’ve never had my own before. This. . .oh. . .god. . .this is too damn sweet.

  Tears dampen my eyes, and my bottom lip quivers as I suck in a sharp breath.

  They got me my very own toolbox. . .

  They really do accept me.

  A couple of tiny tears drip down my cheeks and I rub them away. Now’s not the time to go all estrogeny. I’m a woman in a man’s world, and it’s time to show them what I’m made of.

  Wish me luck.

  Ekkk.

  Mags doesn’t even say bye tae me except for a fuckin’ wave. I tip my head tae her when all I wanna do is kiss her, hug her, and tell her tae have an amazin’ first day at work. Not gonna happen.

  My eyes narrow on Cas as Sniper snorts his enjoyment. “You called his woman sexy.”

  “I did. And she’s not actually his chick yet. Who knows what—” Cas tries tae finish, but I’m off my bike and in his face before he can say another bloody fuckin’ word that’ll make me take my dagger out and stab him in the gut.

  “Enough,” I bite off, nose-tae-nose, my hands fistin’ and unfistin’ at my sides, ready tae kick his arse. “There are gonna be some ground rules if Mags is gonna be workin’ here.” I dinnae give a shit if he likes it or not, he’s gonna listen and he’s gonna listen good. Club VP or not, she’s mine, and he bloody well understands that he cannae be tryin’ tae fuck her. I call dibs.

  Cas takes a step back, and I let him. Then he pulls the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it, takin’ a long drag with the corner of his lip tipped in amusement. A loud squeal tears my attention from him tae the garage bay. I take a step forward. I know that was Mags, and I need tae be sure she’s all right.

  Sniper pats my chest, haltin’ me. “She musta found her toolbox. Let her enjoy it.”

  “Her toolbox?” I cross my arms over my chest. A toolbox? They’d better not have.

  Cas blows a ring. “Yeah, a fuckin’ toolbox. She needed her own, since we don’t share. We talked,” he gestures tae Sniper, “and knew she didn’t have the money to afford her own. Rallied some favors and got her, her own box.”

  I should be grateful, and be over the damn moon that my brothers like her enough tae buy her a toolbox. I should be slappin’ them on the backs, and thankin’ them for doin’ this. There’s a lotta shit I should be doin’ or feelin’ at this point, but happy and grateful ain’t one of ‘em. I’m pissed and guilty as hell for not thinkin’ aboot her needin’ this first. I shoulda been the one tae buy her the tools. We shoulda bought ‘em together. Not my brothers. Fuck!

  Sniper’s hand on my shoulder rips me from the deep abyss that my guilt resides in. “Take your hand off your hip.” He jostles my shoulder, and I drop my hand from my dagger that I didnae know I was grippin’.

  “Rules?” Cas prompts, not the least bit concerned that I’m ready tae do some damage. Glad he knows me well enough tae know that I wouldn’t kick his arse unless I had tae. Really hopin’ I dinnae have tae.

  Right. Rules.

  Time tae pull my head outta my arse.

  “Na tryin’ tae fuck her, and na more buyin’ her shit. If ye think she needs somethin’ ye tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

  Cas rolls the tip of his finished cigarette between his fingers, snuffin’ it out, then tucks the butt into his front pocket. “I get what you want, Smoke. Problem with that is: you know the rules.”

  Rules, my arse. He better not be talkin’ aboot what I think he’s talkin’ aboot.

  “She ain’t your old lady, brother.” Sniper sympathetically claps me on the shoulder, givin’ it a squeeze. “Club takes care of ours. She’s one of ours. But she ain’t yours.” He nods tae Cas. “If he wants to go there, there’s nothin’ stopping him. I respect you. And I love you, brother. But you know the rules. Only way to change that is if you want Mags to be your property.”

  What kind of fuckin’ question is that? Shit.

  “Aye.” I throw my hands up, growlin’. “She’s mine.”

  Mags might not know it, but that bonnie lass is mine. Cannae touch her, or fuck her, but I sure as hell can make sure na other bloody arsehole gets tae touch her either. Not that Cas is an arsehole; he’s a good lad, and a damn fine brother. Problem with that is: he didnae get the name Casanova for nothin’—he’s smooth with the lassies and fucks anythin’ with two legs, a decent rack, and a pussy. Mags has way more tae offer than that. Doesn’t surprise me he’d wanna piece. Still, his arse ain’t touchin’ it. Nobody’s touchin’ a piece of her but me, and I’m not even gonna do that.

  When I look tae Cas, he’s got a shit-eatin’ grin on his face. “I was hoping that’d get you to step up to the fuckin’ plate and take what you want.”

  Fucker was testin’ me. Shoulda known.

  Sniper punches my shoulder. “Welcome to the world of dick whipping.”

  Dick whipping? I chuckle under my breath. Only Sn
iper would come up with that shit.

  Smirkin’, I raise an amused brow at him. “Dick whippin’?”

  “Hell yeah. . .It’s when you bang your old lady so good, that she’ll do anything for you, anytime you want. It’s like pussy whipped, except we’re the ones who’re. . .In. Fucking. Charge.”

  Shakin’ my head, still smirkin’, I punch his shoulder, nod tae Cas, then turn back tae my bike and swing my leg over. I fire her up, and when I do, I’m hit with the memory of havin’ Mags wrapped around me, tits tae pussy, heat on heat.

  My cock stirs.

  “Be good tae her. I’ll be back at four tae pick her up!” I yell tae Cas and Sniper, who’ve already made it halfway back up the drive. Cas raises his hand in acknowledgement, and I take off, hittin’ the open road tae let off some steam.

  Told Mags I had shit tae do today, when I actually have jackshit planned. If she’d known I’d argued with Pip this mornin’ aboot her takin’ the Tahoe, she’d have dropped more attitude on me than she already did. Dinnae blame her. I was bein’ an arse. What the hell was I supposed tae do? Not tell her that she looked like every man’s wet dream in that bloody fuckin’ outfit? Did she listen? Na! She got me hard. Rip-roarin’-ready-tae-lose-my-shit, hard.

  Who the hell am I kiddin’? As of late, I’ve spent more time with my hand on my cock, and pukin’ afterward, that I can barely think straight. Thought the distance would work. Thought stayin’ busy, and workin’ out would take this sick cravin’ away. Na, it makes it worse.

  Headin’ into my house, I can smell her. I look in my damn fridge, and she’s made me food and lemonade. I take a piss, and her stuff’s on the counter and her towel’s hangin’ on the rack. I cannae tell ye the last time I’ve ever seen a towel hangin’ from a rack, or havin’ a bathroom that doesn’t stink like vomit and alcohol because of Meredith. When I do laundry, her wee panties are always there, mockin’ me. I try tae sleep on the couch and find myself unable to. So, I become a bloody creeper and stand in the doorway of her bedroom, watchin’ her sleep. Which makes me rock-hard, and my mind so damn crazed that I’m back tae jackin’ in the bathroom and purgin’ in the toilet. The guilt keeps barrin’ down, sinkin’ me lower, makin’ it harder tae breathe and do anythin’ but think aboot her in my house, in my bed, under me, or in my arms. And when I finally do sleep, I’m dreamin’ these vivid as hell dreams, aboot her blood on my hands. Aboot her dyin’. Aboot her fuckin’ me. Aboot her movin’ away. Aboot all sorts of jacked up shit, that leave me once again horny or near tears. I dinnae cry, but that doesn’t mean I dinnae get that unrelentin’ ache in my chest or tension in my gut. The tears may not fall, but those bloody feelings are there, and they’re real.