Nowhere (Crimson Outlaws MC #1)

by Bink Cummings

  Oh please. Insert the biggest eye roll in the history of the world. That’s what I’m doing on the inside right now. Not wanting to come across disrespectful by showcasing it outwardly.

  “Survivors?”

  Wes nods sharply, his blonde waves shifting on his head. Then he stands and moves toward the door. “I have over fifty women that I’ve employed after meeting them in less than desirable circumstances, Gwen. Are they mostly bottled blondes? Yes. They are. Are they attractive? Sure.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But some of them were in domestic abuse relationships, others drug addicts, some in the porn industry, and that’s only to name a few. They are strong women who I chose to personally help because I found them sexy. Does that make me an asshole? Perhaps. But they appreciate what I’ve done for them. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. I take them with me to events to open their worlds to more possibilities. I try to help them get connections, to better their lives beyond my reach. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering … where does my fucking them come into play?”

  Damn, he’s right, I am. Though I refuse to ask, because he’s on a hundred mile an hour tangent to scold me and put me in my rightful place. And damn if it isn’t working, at least a bit. He’s making me sound like a judgmental bitch, and maybe I am.

  He’s not done. “I fuck them because I like it, Gwen. Can you honestly say that if you had thirty men you’re attracted to at your beck and call at all hours of the night, that you wouldn’t rejoice in the fact that you could fuck them anytime you wanted?” He waits for my reply, but when I refuse to give him one, he coasts along, undeterred. Jerk.

  “I love tits and ass like the next man. Money doesn’t change that for me. I loved women before I was rich. It just so happens that with money comes opportunities. Opportunities that I’ve used to mutually benefit all parties involved—including yourself.”

  “What?!” I shrill.

  Where do I come into this all of a sudden? We’re talking about him and his gaggle of buxom blondes. Not me. I don’t fit into that puzzle anywhere. No siree bob.

  Wes takes another step toward the door and cuffs his hand around the knob. “Sure, I rigged the race, because I wanted you in my home. I’m not going to deny that. But, I’m sure you’ll see that this is just as mutually beneficial. All of your meals for the next thirty days will be covered. Clothes paid for. And your daughter, as of this morning, has two years of college paid in full, books included. I told you before, Gwen, that I’m a fair man. It’s not ideal that you’re repulsed by me or those in my employ. But maybe you should stop focusing on their looks, and pay more attention to your job.”

  Talk about a slap in the face. Jesus! Harsh, much?

  He opens the door, and just as he steps through it, he tosses his final words over his shoulder, eyes resolute. “I’ll see you at seven sharp, in the dining room. Zoe will be by later to take you shopping and show you the classroom. Think about what I said, Gwen. If it makes you feel any better, I’m happy you’re here.” And with that, he’s gone, shutting the door in his wake, not giving me a chance to respond. Not that I could, anyhow. I’m kind of struck speechless.

  What the fuck was that?

  Look, I’m a big enough person to recognize that he might have a point. Then again, I’m out of my element here. Thrust into a month long ‘vacation’ that I never actually wanted to begin with; Wes is right, we are both profiting from this. His son is getting a tutor, and my daughter is having some of her college paid for. That’s awesome. A fair trade. However, that’s not the issue here. It’s the unknown that concerns me. Wes concerns me. What if he decides he wants to walk on the wild side for a moment and attempt to sleep with a brunette who’s in her thirties? I won’t be at his beck and call like his actual employees. If they want to do that, fine. They enter into that agreement with full knowledge of what’s expected. While I’m here, diving into the black abyss, wondering if I’m going to be eaten by sharks or not. It’s scary and thrilling in equal parts.

  Well, now that I’m finally alone, I guess I should get outta bed, look around this room a bit more, and clean up. By the looks of this place, I’d bet that there’s a massive tub waiting behind that door right over there. You see the one I’m talking about? It’s right next to that matte white dresser that has a white porcelain cat adorning its top. I’m pretty sure this sterile room is supposed to seem modern and chic. Yet, it leaves me feeling cold and aloof. Remind me to buy a throw blanket and a couple of accent pillows when I go shopping with Zoe later today. If I’m going to be sleeping in here, my eyes need a bit more color.

  But, for now … shoo, will ya? And give me some time to snoop. I don’t need any witnesses. I’ll see ya later on.

  Still Day 1

  “Come on, Zoe. Do I really need this many outfits?” I groan, shoulders slumped as I pad my way back into the fifth dressing room of the day. This is getting ridiculous. I’m not much of a shopper. That’s probably why my mom and daughter end up buying most of my clothes, or I just order them online and hope they’ll fit. Wes did say, he likes what he likes, and knows what he doesn’t … or something along those lines. Well, I’m the same way. And these dresses—yes, as in plural—are not something I like. Especially not this one.

  Stepping in front of the full-length mirror, I cringe. God, look at me. I’m dressed like Wes’s women, except I’m not as tall as most of them, or as thin. I’m average, everywhere. A size eight, with C cup breasts. Not Double Ds. My ass is average, stomach mostly flat, and I do have some curves. But I definitely can’t pull this off. If I bend over, you would get a full shot of my ass and birth canal. The damn thing hits me mid-thigh. Plus, the neck scoops too low, and there’s no back; I couldn’t wear a bra if I wanted to. To make matters worse, it’s flaming red. I’d stick out like a sore thumb. No way am I buying this. I look stupid.

  “Yes. You need clothes, so get the dress,” Zoe commands from the opposite side of the door before tossing another garment over the top. “And try this one on, too.”

  “Fine,” I gripe, carefully peeling this dress off to try on another red one that she brought.

  Unhappily, we play this little song and dance for another half an hour. The more I try on, the more I detest my body, dresses, and clothes shopping. I should have just stayed at Wes’s.

  Earlier today, after I’d bathed in a giant tub, which I told you he’d have, Zoe was in my room waiting for me. I’d thrown on some clothes, a little makeup, and then made my phone calls before we headed out. Zoe stood idly by throughout the conversations—monitoring them like a prison guard or something. It was annoying. At least, the phone calls were short and to the point. Trish was more than happy I was going to be gone. Not sure why, but she seemed genuinely pleased to hear it. Though, I can’t say the same about Fat Larry, who was both equally relieved to hear from me and pissed off about the situation. We didn’t talk long because I couldn’t take the complaining anymore. I’ve made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. I just wish he’d understand that. Unfortunately, he doesn’t, and I don’t think he ever will.

  With an armful of clothes, I make my way out of the dressing room and toss them at Zoe. She catches them, ejecting a loaded, “uhhh” from the weight.

  “You decide which ones Wes wants me to wear or not. Like I’ve already told you, I don’t like clothes shopping. And I don’t see why we can’t just buy some jeans, and summer dresses from Old Navy. They’re a lot cheaper, and I like their clothes,” I express, shuffling around Zoe, headed to the front of the store. “I’ll be outside,” I call over my shoulder and see myself to the bench that’s directly across from the entrance.

  The first three stores I wasn’t such a sourpuss, until I saw the astronomical amount of money that was placed on Wes’s credit card. Now I’ve decided I’d rather live in blissful ignorance. If I don’t physically choose the clothes, then my guilt doesn’t bother me as much.

  Ten minutes later, Zoe is handing over another shopping bag to our driver to store in the limo. Plopping do
wn beside me on the bench, she bumps her shoulder playfully into mine. “You know, I’m kind of glad you don’t like shopping,” she remarks.

  That catches me off guard. “Um … why?”

  Zoe exhales a long breath, relaxing against the seat back. She crosses her lithe legs. “Every time Wesley hires a new employee, he sends me to help them shop for a new wardrobe.” The way she explains it, she doesn’t sound too keen on shopping with these employees—a.k.a: hot blondes.

  “It seems like you know your way around here. I can see why he would,” I praise, trying to suck some of the mounting tension out of the air.

  She folds her hands demurely in her lap and nods. “Yeah, I suppose that is the correct assessment. But I have to say you’re the first who hasn’t cared a bit about what we buy. And more importantly, about what we spend. I’d fair to guess that you’re uncomfortable spending the money we have today.”

  She’s right about that.

  “I’m not into designer clothes. Some people are, and that’s fine. I just prefer my jeans and t-shirts. And I have no desire to be dolled up, poked, or prodded to appear more beautiful for someone that I barely know. I’m plenty comfortable in my own skin. I don’t need someone else’s approval.” Except Nash’s, I silently tack on.

  Her instant response is a light chuckle. “I want to say I feel sorry for Wes since I know he’s going to have his hands full with you. But I don’t feel sorry for him at all. You’re nothing like the rest of the women.”

  That’s quite the compliment.

  “You mean these employees that Wes sleeps with? I’m guessing that you’re nothing like them either. At least, I don’t peg you for a chick who spreads her legs to make her employer happy.”

  Over the course of the day, I’ve gotten a read on Zoe. From what I can tell, my assessment is spot on. She doesn’t overdo her makeup or wear hooker heels. She’s classy, refined, and perhaps a bit too stuffy. But she’s not snobbish or rude. I’d say that Wes picked a perfect assistant. I’d hire her, too, if I were him.

  Zoe awards me with another chuckle. “It’s not for his lack of trying,” she snickers, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. “I think that Wes has come to realize that I’m not interested. Unlike the others. After working for him for seven years, which is far longer than any other female, he’s grown to respect me and my indifference to him.”

  Yep. I think I’m starting to love this chick. Not love-love, but I feel like we could be friends … maybe. I guess what I’m saying is I get her. She can’t be oblivious to Wes’s charms, yet she’s smart enough to put herself in check. I admire that.

  “Well, that’s enough about me,” she states matter-of-factly as she pushes up from the bench before her eyes cast down upon me. “We should head back. I think we’ve got plenty to tide you over for the next month. At least six dresses, a few pairs of shoes, accessories, some day clothes, and if there’s anything else we may need, we can always come back.”

  “Sounds good.” I stand, then follow her through the oversized mall. I come to a sudden halt as we pass by a small furniture store.

  That’s right. I almost forgot. My room needs some color.

  Zoe is a few feet ahead of me when she finally realizes that I’m no longer behind her. She flips around to catch me staring in the store’s window. It’s full of cute knickknacks.

  “Did we forget something?” Her tone is friendly.

  I lift my chin toward the entrance. “No offense, but my room is too white. I want to buy some throw pillows, and maybe a blanket to add some color.”

  With an extra pep in her step, Zoe grins as she enters the store before I do. “I think that's an excellent idea,” she says as we wade through the tight aisles jam-packed with artisan furniture. The place is wall-to-wall home accessories, making me want to burst with joy.

  Hey, I might loathe clothes shopping, but I never said I hated shopping for home goods. That’s one of my favorite things to do. Especially at swap meets and garage sales. One person’s trash is another person’s treasure, right? Nash calls it junk, but I find them to be tiny prizes that warm my home with memories. It’s sort of addictive.

  As we make it toward the back, my eyes find just the perfect pillows resting on a black chair. They’re orange and teal, so I tuck two of them under my arm and snatch the fluffy orange throw off the back of the same seat. Still not satisfied, I discover a blown glass blue bird and an orange crab on a nearby table. Now that should add some serious color.

  “Can I take some of that for you?” a delightful, elderly woman offers, holding out her wrinkly arms.

  “It’s okay.” I smile, not wanting to trouble her. “I’ve got it.”

  She takes a step closer. “I insist, dear. I’ll set them on the counter for ya.”

  Not wanting to upset the sweet woman, I concede and hand over my stuff. I thank her, and just as I turn around to find Zoe, she all but smashes into me, not paying attention to where she’s going.

  My hands grasp her shoulders, halting her.

  “Ooops. Sorry.” She rights herself by dusting off her arms, then stands tall, her eyes meeting mine. “There’s just so much to see in here,” she states in awe.

  “Yes, there is. I’m buying, so is there anything that might tickle your fancy?” I sweep my hand toward the table I found the bird and crab on. Excitement glitters in her eyes like I’ve never seen before.

  Meekly, her hand touches her mouth, lost in thought. “Um … I probably shouldn’t.”

  “Of course you should.” I grab her by the forearm and escort her to the table. Unleashing my inner sales lady, I lift the glass sailboat and showcase it in my hand. “How about this beautiful, blown glass treasure that you can sail the seven seas with?” My attempt to sound like a pirate is pretty lame, but it gets a laugh out of her nonetheless.

  “I’m not into sailboats. I think I like this better.” She cradles a black, glass skull in her palm.

  That’s definitely not what I thought she’d pick. It’s cool, though.

  “That’s perfect.” I pluck it from her hands before she can put it back. “My treat.”

  On the way to the counter, I snatch a pair of Tetris themed socks off a shelf, and a tin of mints. I pay, and thankfully Zoe doesn’t fight me on it.

  With my arms loaded down with bags, Zoe and I finally make our way out to the limo where Randy, our driver, takes the goods and opens the rear door.

  For some reason, Zoe is smiling brightly the entire ride home, as we chat about the weather, children, and the classroom that she’ll be showing me once we return. I’m looking forward to it.

  ***

  “Good evening, madam.”

  An older man wearing a tux offers his arm as he greets me just outside of the dining room. It’s not quite seven, and as instructed, I’m not late. Which is remarkable, since I’ve spent the past hour with Zoe in the bathroom, struggling to look presentable without overdoing it. I have to hand it to her, she knows her stuff—like ways to braid my hair so it appears fancy, when all it took was five minutes, a few bobby pins, and a shit load of hairspray. I’m dressed in my new black, A-line, knee length dress that Zoe paired with simple black ballet flats. Never thought I’d see the day that I actually knew the names of fancy shoe styles … bleh.

  “Good evening,” I return, half tempted to curtsy.

  Instead, I slip my arm through his and allow him to escort me to my chair in the dining room. It’s immaculate and tastefully decorated in here, with three cream walls adorned with sconces. The other is a wall of windows that overlook the majestic mountainside. In the middle of the room is a long, ten person, mahogany table. Wes is already seated at the head, his back facing the impending sunset. Boy oh boy, does he look nice tonight, in a white button-down shirt, and his hair in its naturally disheveled state. He hasn’t shaven, so there’s a slight five-o-clock shadow on his face.

  Silently, Wes watches me as I move across the room. The unusual attention makes me uncomfortable.

&nbs
p; My escort pulls out a seat for me directly at Wes’s left, leaving the rest of the vast table unoccupied. “Thank you,” I express sincerely.

  Wes smiles at me as he raises a hand in thank you to his employee, who then dismisses himself with a shallow bow before exiting the room.

  “So how was your first day?” Wes queries, taking a flawless sip from his wine glass.

  I’m so out of my element here.

  Folding my hands in my lap, I sit up straight to keep myself from slouching and attempt to play whatever part it is he expects. Even though, I’m not sure what that is right now. “It was agreeable.” The hollow words taste like sewage as they leave my tongue.

  Wes sets his wine glass back on the table, then fiddles with his shirt collar like he’s nervous. “Well, you do look lovely this evening,” he compliments, tugging that collar once more before unfastening the two top buttons. Then a third is popped free, exposing a smattering of dark blonde chest hair.

  The blush that creeps up my neck, and across my cheeks is impossible to stop. So I wear the crimson with poise, pretending it’s not there, and that his compliment and show of chest hair doesn’t flutter something strange in the pit of my stomach.

  Looking away from him, I reply a whispered, “Thanks.”

  The bustle from a side door snaps me out of whatever I’m feeling, as two women set fancy plates in front of Wes and me.

  “Bon appetite,” the one comments in a French accent before departing.

  Staring down at my dish, I try not to curl my lip in disgust. This cannot be my dinner. I poke it with one of my forks, not caring if it’s the right one or not. There are like six lined beside me. Who even needs six forks?

  “Do you not like?” Wes gently touches my arm, and I flinch, pulling away. He can’t touch me. That’s not a good idea. None of this is a good idea. Why did I agree to this in the first place? What was I thinking?

  “Please tell me this is not our dinner,” I remark, glancing up to meet his eyes, which are closed off as he frowns. That expression doesn’t suit him, and I don’t like it one bit, so I keep talking. “I’m guessing it’s not. But why are you serving me caviar on bread?”