by Lena Pierce
But here she is, big brown eyes flitting nervously around the room, focusing anywhere but on my face, lest she find me mocking or angry or dismissive. I don’t think she realizes how beautiful she is, how affecting with her slim build, her modest breasts, her long legs, and her pale skin. I’m sure she’s been protected from the darker parts of club life, parts she only just began to see tonight in that room. Parts I’d prefer, most days, didn’t happen here.
I sit forward, grabbing the shampoo, squirting it in my hand. “Turn around,” I say coarsely, and as she scoots around, I lather her long hair, scrubbing it into her scalp while she moans with pleasure.
She moans. I’m not even touching her sexually and she sounds half over the cliff. My dick gets harder thinking about how responsive she must be in bed. I lean her back to rinse out the soap, then repeat the process with conditioner. Once that’s done, I grab the bar soap and lather her back and arms. I reach around and run my soapy hands over her tits. She leans back against my chest.
So trusting. I want to shake her and tell her not to trust me, that no woman in this life should ever trust a man like me. But here she is, warm and soft and leaning back as I wash as much of the day from her skin as I can, as if washing her will wash away all the ways in which this is wrong.
I move my hands down to her abdomen, then lower, my fingers light against her folds, finding the button of her clit. Her hips arch up to meet my touch. I never penetrate her, only stroke the skin between her legs as she moves her hips, her breathing shallow, her skin flushed.
I could go further. She’s asked me to, offered her body to me, but still, it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. She doesn’t know the consequences of making this decision. If she goes back to Grave Robbers with my mark on her, she will be viewed as dirty, damaged property. Her father likely has a club member in mind for her. He’s probably planning on foisting her on someone he trusts, hoping that man will keep her safe.
I know better than anyone that there is no “safe” in this world, but this girl will be better off in her father’s world, with someone who really cares about her to keep an eye on her.
It’s that thought that makes me push her away. I rise up, dripping, and step out of the tub. I grab a towel and start drying my skin roughly. In the mirror, I can see her watching me, her eyebrows in a V, confusion written all over her face. Her cheeks are bright pink. She was close. I feel a little bad about not getting her off.
She stands as well and steps behind me. She doesn’t take a towel, just reaches out and traces the line of my side, all the way down to below my ass. Her fingertips trace along my backside, cupping my cheeks, sneaking around to my stomach. I close my eyes, because I don’t want to see the desire and determination in her eyes. I want to stay away from her, but she’s pushing all of my buttons so easily.
I turn and wrap her in my towel, effectively severing her touch. She looks up at me, biting her bottom lip in a way that makes me want nothing more than to pick her up and take her straight to bed.
I won’t, though. I have principles.
So I turn away, making my way to my closet. I pull on the first shirt and pants I find, and walk out the door, leaving her still standing in the bathroom, wrapped in my towel.
I lock the door from the outside, with a key.
Chapter Four
Tanner
He never came back.
I dried off and dressed in one of his T-shirts. I was so tired that I fell asleep on the huge bed almost immediately. I woke up to find a shopping bag of clothing in varying sizes and a tray of food.
Not, like, prisoner food, either. Good food. Fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fruits, coffee, orange juice—I devoured it, not realizing how hungry I was after the previous day’s ordeal.
So now I’m locked inside this room, wondering why Griz never came back. I offered him my body and he seemed receptive. At least, his huge erection seemed responsive. But he left and I spent the night alone, painfully aroused, and totally confused about what just happened.
I watch some television, surprised to see my face on the news in a missing person story. I’ve been so wrapped up in what’s happening here, I haven’t really thought of what my family must be thinking. My dad is probably ready to kill someone. He probably will kill someone.
As I go through the clothing in the shopping bag, I realize someone must have gone out and bought all these things. They’re all different sizes, most within a size of my own. There are bralettes and thongs, dresses, jeans, T-shirts … probably seventeen outfits. Most work, and I settle for a slim T-shirt dress in light pink. I pull my hair into a long braid, happy to have found a pink hair tie in the bathroom, a weird thing to find in a single man’s bedroom, to be honest, but hey.
There is a bookshelf that I scour when I get tired of watching television. Some of the books I find typical for a guy like Griz, like The Art of War. There are some business and leadership books, also not that surprising. But there are also a couple of romance novels and children’s books. Really weird. I grab one of the romance novels out of curiosity. There’s an oversized chaise lounge near one window, so I curl up there, a soft blanket over my legs, to read.
I become engrossed in the story about a mythical god who falls in love with a human woman. There are so many reasons these two characters shouldn’t be together. For her, he is danger incarnate. For him, she is a weakness. Their passion, though, explodes as they discover every inch of one another’s bodies. The writing is rich and engrossing, the characters recognizable. She’s an inexperienced, awkward woman. He’s a man who fucks furiously, usually without emotion. But they recognize something in one another right away, and by the time they finally touch, she is his and he is hers.
I’ve never read a romance novel before and I find myself blushing furiously, looking away from the pages, almost to ensure no one can see how aroused I am. I’m ready to combust, and it’s not even lunch. Surely I’ll explode before Griz can return but if, somehow, I don’t, then he will claim me. Whether he likes it or not.
In the meantime, I read on, reaching down between my legs, feeling the wetness pooled there. I’m just desperate to relieve myself of this heavy ache between my legs, so I rub the tiny knob that hides there, dip the tip of a finger into my welcoming hole. I think about the way Griz washed me, the way his hands caressed my body, the way it felt when he hands traced this same path. Before I know it, I’m panting, feeling a weak orgasm that only leaves me wanting more.
More with Griz. Nothing else will do.
# # #
Griz
Shannon sits at my sister Cary’s kitchen table, a bite of pancake far too big for her mouth on her kid-sized fork.
“You’re not gonna put that whole bite in your mouth?” I ask.
My dark-haired, blue-eyed, five-year-old daughter opens her mouth as wide as she can, shoving the whole huge blob inside. I just watch, patiently amused, as she chews and chews. When she finally swallows, she lifts her skinny arms above her head in triumph.
“Boom!” she yells. “Whaddaya think of them skills?”
I look from my daughter to my sister, raising an eyebrow in question.
“She’s learned a lot in kindergarten, and even more in summer camp,” Cary says, shrugging one shoulder. “Some of it is fairly questionable.”
“Competitive eating is a thing, Dad,” Shannon says, like I’m the dumbest asshole on the planet. “Did you know that the men’s champion ate like seventy-two hot dogs in the Nathan’s contest this year?”
“Oh, really?” I ask. “And you’re considering a career in competitive eating, then? How many did the women’s champion eat?”
“Who cares?” Shannon asks. “Girls can do anything boys can do.”
“She’s also discovering feminism,” Cary adds. “It’s been an interesting few months lately, filled with quite a few discussions about why boys can do this or that but girls can’t. Recently, she’s decided she wants to be president.”
I sm
irk and reach over to rub my daughter’s head. She leans into my hand almost unconsciously as she continues to work on her breakfast. Cary’s got the television on in the next room, even though I’ve told her a million times that I only get so much time with Shannon each week and when the TV is on, she’s only half interested in anything else.
The news is on, though, and a story pops up about a missing woman. Shannon’s head cocks to the side for a second before she pops up out of her seat and runs into the living room.
I follow her, ready to admonish her for leaving the table without permission, but then I see the image on the screen. Big Bambi eyes. Long blonde hair. Full pink lips. It’s Tanner Williams.
“She’s pretty,” Shannon says, awed. “Who would take such a pretty girl? She looks like a princess, Daddy. Do you think she’s a princess?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
“You should go save her, then,” she says. “You should go find the bad guys and get her back. You’d be her hero. She’d probably kiss you. You might even want to marry her!”
She’s so excited. Her bright blue eyes are wide and she’s bouncing up and down on her tiptoes. Cary switches off the TV and shoos her back into the kitchen to finish her breakfast. We talk about what she’s actually doing at summer camp and she tells me about books her teacher reads and art projects. She says there’s a boy in her class she doesn’t like, but that she has lots of girl friends and she thinks she might get to have a play date with someone named Sidney. She chatters away and I thank the powers-that-be for taking Cary’s advice to pay for private school instead of sending her to the local public school.
It’s not that public school is bad; it’s just that it’s not as secure. In the school she’s in, the class size is smaller, so teachers have fewer kids to keep track of and there’s a much better security system in place. I’m psychotic about my daughter’s safety and security, and this situation with Tanner Williams is only proving my point about it.
When Shannon asks to be excused, I let her go. I help Cary clean up breakfast.
As we wash dishes, she says, “You know that girl, don’t you?”
I clear my throat. “She’s the daughter of another club president.”
Cary’s movements as she dries the dishes become sharper. She says, “I’m so glad you took a night away from all that drama, David. It’s been too long.”
“Don’t start,” I say. “I work hard.”
“That club is going to leave Shannon an orphan,” Cary says. “Just like club life left us without a father.”
“Enough. That club pays for Shannon’s schooling. It pays for her clothes. It pays for your car.”
“You’re a smart guy,” Cary says. “You could open a legitimate business. You could run for the Senate. You could invent the next big thing. Why the hell are you doing this?”
“I said don’t start,” I growl. “We’re not having this conversation right now.”
“Well, at the least, you should do more of these overnights. Shannon loves it.”
“I love it, too, but things are too volatile right now. I can’t be away like this.”
“She needs you, David.”
“She has me, Cary.”
We stare at each other, impasse making it impossible to find a way out of this argument. It’s not the first time we’ve said these words. Cary lives in a house I bought inside Chained Angels’ territory. I thought I might live in it with my daughter but once thing got more intense with the club, I asked Cary to move in and care for Shannon full time. She argued against it, but eventually I won out. Cary never misses a chance to tell me that she didn’t choose to be a mother, that she’d like to have a life of her own someday.
It’s not that Cary doesn’t love Shannon, she does. But Shannon’s school is inside the territory. Cary works at a hospital inside the territory. The house is inside the territory. Cary says she feels like she lives under a dome and I don’t blame her. I just don’t know how else to protect them. I need them both close. I need them safe.
With Tanner Williams’ face in my mind, I kiss my daughter’s cheek and hold her for a little longer than usual. I hug my sister, too, and tell her to stay close to home.
“Why do I have a bad feeling?” Cary asks me as I step out the front door.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Be good.”
Inside, though, I know just what she means.
# # #
Tanner
Griz’s return is what I imagine a tornado to be like. The door opens and he busts in, his large frame filling the doorway before he slams the door behind him.
The calm energy of the room electrifies as he moves around, pulling his shirt over his head. He follows with his boots and pants. I note that he’s wearing the same thing he had on when he left last night.
“Get lucky last night?” I ask. It’s a childish thing to say.
“I went to see my daughter,” he answers. His tone is flat. The answer is simple and truthful.
“Oh,” I say lamely. “Well, I feel stupid now.”
“Don’t,” he says. “Most people don’t even know she exists.”
That shuts me up right quick. Why would he tell me he has a daughter? I may not be involved in club business, but I understand how dangerous it is to share information like this. I mean, look at me … obviously someone told that Spike guy that Draven had a daughter, that I visited my mom on Sundays, that I was old enough to claim.
Naked and gorgeous, Griz stomps into the bathroom, fists clenched at his side. I hear the sound of the shower turning on, then the creak of the glass door. I should turn my attention back to my book, but curiosity gets the best of me, so I pad in after him, sitting on the edge of the big soaker tub as he lathers his amazing body in the shower.
“How old is she?” I ask. “Your daughter.”
“Five.”
“Do you have a wife, too?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Where is your daughter’s mother? Is that who she lives with?”
The shower turns off and he steps out, his tanned body flushed from the hot water, his hair dark as an oil slick, his muscles rippling with tension as water rolls over him. He grabs a towel as I gape.
“Shannon’s mother died during childbirth,” he says.
“Oh,” I say again. I quickly add, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” he asks. “It’s not your fault.”
“Well, I just … I …”
He finishes drying off and wanders back into the bedroom, looking through his closet before pulling on a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and the black leather kutte that bears the Chained Angels’ colors. He pulls on his socks and boots, and then follows with a belt, complete with a weapons holster.
He pulls open a safe in the bottom of his closet, from which he draws a handgun. He checks to make sure it’s loaded before slipping it into the holster, following with a knife in the other side, and another knife in his boot.
My stomach practically drops to my feet. Is all of this for my father and his club?
Griz must see something on my face. He answers my unasked question.
“Your face was all over the news. Spike’s not a careful guy. There’s not a chance in hell your father hasn’t figured out you’re here.”
“What will you do if he comes?”
“I’ll negotiate.”
The amount of weapons on his belt makes me think otherwise, but before I can ask more questions, he’s out the door.
# # #
Griz
I head outside to move my bike. I left it out in front of the house when I arrived, eager to get a sense of the mood of the club after a night away. Now that I’ve showered and made the rounds, I should take it around to the garage.
My motorcycle is like my second child. I could never love it more than I love Shannon, but it comes pretty close. I had this custom Harley made before I ever started the club and while other gu
ys have upgraded and traded, this bike will be my ride as long as it starts up for me. My sweet baby is shiny and black and she rumbles like a satisfied cat. I fire her up and make the short drive back to the garage, where I find some of my guys, including a badly bruised Spike, peering at the security display for the property.
“What’s going on?” I ask as I push my bike into its spot.
“Four guys in Grave Robbers’ colors are standing outside the northwest fence. We saw them drive by about three times, so we were pretty sure they were casing the joint. Looks like they might be thinking about jumping the fence,” my garage supervisor, Tony, says.