BEASTLords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  If Rock notices anything is off, he doesn’t show it. “We got a lot of shit on our plates, brothers. But first, it’s time to party! I been cooped up for far too damn long. It’s time to do something about it!”

  He gets a few more claps and murmurs, but a lot of the guys just stand there.

  “Come on! I need me some goddamn whiskey,” Rock shouts. “And a goddamn hummer. Where the fuck are the club girls? Where’s that young one? Bree, ain’t that her name?”

  Angel steps forward and puts his hand on Rock’s shoulder. “Glad to see you back, prez,” he says smoothly. “Look, how about we get you set up in your apartment first? I got a couple things I want to talk to you about.”

  Rock mutters something and angrily shrugs Angel’s hand off, but he climbs the stairs to his apartment all the same. I feel some of the tension release in my shoulders.

  “Jesus fuck,” Thorn sighs next to me. “This is a hell of a development.”

  “Yeah.” We should be happy to see Rock up and around, but this is some fucked up shit. He’s likely to have another heart attack in the club, goin’ on like this. And the way he’s acting right now makes me less than thrilled to have him at the helm at the beginning of this war with the Outlaw Sons.

  I need to go talk to Brooke. I want her to meet with Angel soon. We need to get that situation resolved, so we can focus on all the other shit going down right now.

  I leave the clubhouse on my bike. The engine roars as I speed through the streets to Brooke’s hotel. When I get there, I don’t wait for the elevator. I go to the stairwell instead and take the steps two at a time. I push the fire door open and go into the brightly lit hallway with its swirling pattern of red-orange carpet.

  There’s no one in the hall besides me, but through the quiet I hear some noises coming from one of the rooms at the other end of the hall. It almost sounds like someone’s throwing around furniture or something.

  Then, I hear a woman scream.

  And I realize it’s Brooke.

  22

  Brooke

  On the way back to the hotel to wait for Travis, I realize I need to grab something for dinner. I’m hardly in the mood to go to a restaurant, but I don’t have a kitchen and I’m sick of fast food. So, I choose a nondescript chain restaurant I saw on the highway about a mile from my hotel. I go inside, get seated, and order a dinner of high carbs and comfort food. When it comes, I sit and stare into space, eating mechanically and mulling over the situation.

  I decide that when Travis comes to see me, I have to tell him the truth: that I went to the club to ask Jewel to help me with Natalia, yes. But that I also went there to scout for her alleged rapist.

  I’m hoping he’ll be less mad at me when I tell him I didn’t see anyone who fit her description. But I’m not counting on it.

  I’m not quite sure how I feel about that, myself. On the one hand, I’m incredibly relieved. I can’t imagine how complicated and horrible it would be to find out that someone in his club really is involved in the ring that kidnapped Natalia. Or worse, that Travis’s whole club is implicated in it, and he’s been lying to me.

  But on the other hand, that detail is one of the only leads I actually have.

  I sum up all the pieces of information I have about this case in my head.

  Natalia.

  The laundromat, with almost no customers.

  M.L. Stephanos.

  The sparkly ring I found in the laundry’s strangely empty basement.

  The ring.

  It’s still sitting there on the small desk in my hotel room.

  I should bring the ring to Natalia. Ask her whether she’s ever seen it before.

  It’s an awfully long shot, I know. A thought born of desperation. But it’s all I have.

  I look down at my plate. I’ve been shoveling food in my face without paying much attention to what it tastes like or how much I’ve been eating, but I’ve only managed to finish about half of it. Suddenly, I can’t eat another bite. I ask for the bill, throw a credit card at it, and drive the final mile to my hotel.

  Instead of parking in my usual spot by the side entrance, I choose a place close to the front. I trudge inside and take the elevator, feeling disheartened and hoping that tomorrow will bring me better luck.

  At my room, I slide my key card through the slot and open the door. Even though the sun hasn’t set outside yet, the room is pitch black. I realize the maid must have shut the curtains, and reach in to fumble for the light switch.

  Just as my fingers slide over the plastic plate, a hand grabs me by the wrist, pulling me roughly inside.

  A strangled cry rips from my throat as my hip bone slams against the door handle. I hear the fabric catch and tear. Frantically, I grab for the door frame with my other hand, clawing at it to get purchase, but the door itself closes on my fingers and I have to wrench them away as the wood rips at my knuckles. Then I’m in free fall, my feet dragging across the floor as I try to get them under me.

  Strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me up and pinning me to my attacker. I kick out behind me, blindly, trying to connect with a knee or a shin. I manage to land a blow somewhere on his lower leg, and the pain causes him to let go of me just enough that I can plant one foot on the ground. Shouting, I grab one fist in the other and ram backwards into his solar plexus, then wrench my arm from his, corkscrew-style. He lets out a low roar. I spring free from his grasp and spin in place, lashing out blindly with my right hand in a claw. I manage to connect with his face, and feel the scrape as I dig gashes deep as I can into his cheek. I pull away before he can reach for me, and move behind where I think the far bed is.

  The room is totally dark now that the door is closed. Squinting, I pray for my eyes to adjust enough that I’ll be able to see something from the sliver of light coming in from underneath the door.

  “You’re fucking dead, you cunt,” the man’s angry voice hisses.

  “I don’t fucking think so,” I spit back, reaching for the gun in my shoulder holster.

  It’s a stupid move. I realize too late that he was using my voice to locate me. A fist comes out of nowhere, connecting with my temple hard enough that I see stars. I shout in pain and reach my arms up to deflect the next blow. A slam sounds somewhere down the hall, and I scream as loudly as I can. The man spits out a curse, and then the door opens and he’s out of the room and running down the hall.

  I pull out my Smith and Wesson and bolt into the hallway, but the man has already pushed through the door into the stairwell. As I dash after him, a voice yells out behind me.

  “Brooke!” calls Travis from the other end of the hall.

  “He’s getting away!” I yell, and sprint into the stairwell. I pound down the stairs as fast as I can with my head still ringing. I hear the echoes of my assailant’s footsteps below me at first, but by the time I get outside, he’s nowhere to be found.

  I’m standing outside, panting, when Travis comes up behind me.

  “Who was that?” he asks. When I look up at him, his face goes dark. “Did that son of a bitch do that to you?”

  I reach up gingerly to feel the side of my face. The skin is already bruising and tender. “Yeah.”

  “You get a good look at him?”

  I shake my head. “Not even a little bit.”

  Travis swears softly. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

  “I don’t have my key card. I must have dropped it in the room.”

  “Okay.”

  He takes me by the arm and walks me gently toward the front entrance, where I tell the desk worker I’ve locked myself out. Thankfully, she recognizes me and doesn’t give me any hassle. She does stare a little at my developing black eye, though, and gives Travis a quick reproachful glance.

  When we’re back upstairs, Travis takes the key card from me and goes in first. He flips on the light switch and looks around, checking in the bathroom. I follow behind him. It’s strange to look at the room and see signs of our struggle in the dark.
There’s a chair overturned, and the covers on one of the beds have been pulled nearly off. I don’t remember any of that.

  “Come here,” Travis says, leading me to the untouched bed. “You want some ice?”

  “Later.”

  “You sure? That’s gonna be ugly tomorrow.”

  I wince, not so much at the pain as at the fact that he just basically said I look like hell. Or that I’m about to look like hell, anyway.

  “I’ll grab a washcloth and put some cold water on it,” I say, getting up.

  “You think that guy has something to do with this trafficking thing?” he calls as I run the water.

  I come back out, washcloth to temple. “I can only assume. I must be closer than I thought. Funny, it sure doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Fuck,” Travis swears, his face stormy. “Wish I’d gotten here five minutes sooner. I could use a punching bag tonight.”

  “Things not going to well with the club?” I ask.

  He snorts. “You could say that.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  At this, Travis bursts out laughing. “Trust me, B, you do not want me to tell you any more.”

  Even though things feel pretty dismal right now, it feels good to hear him laugh.

  “I thought you were mad at me,” I remark. “For coming to the club.”

  “I am.”

  “Oh.”

  He leans closer and peers at my face.

  “Take off the washcloth,” he commands. I do as he says. “Yeah. That’s not good.”

  “Do you suppose you could stop telling me how terrible I look?” I complain.

  “You don’t look terrible, B. You look good.” His tone shifts down a register. “You always look good.”

  You do, too, I want to say.

  Now that the immediate danger has passed, having him here — so uncomfortably close — is giving me ideas.

  “That eye hurt much?” he asks gruffly.

  “It’s okay,” I shrug.

  “Yeah?” A corner of his mouth lifts. “Playing the tough chick. You always did play the tough chick, B.”

  It’s disconcerting, having him call me that. Like he always used to. It makes my heart feel kind of soft and melty. I fight against it.

  “I don’t play the tough chick,” I huff softly. “I am the tough chick.”

  Travis chuckles. “Yeah,” he nods, leaning closer. “You are.”

  I’m about to ask whether he’s making fun of me when he pulls me to him. My breathing speeds up as his mouth comes down on mine, and instantly I’m on fire, all thoughts of my blackening eye forgotten. His tongue brushes against my lower lip, and it sends a jolt of heat straight to my core. I moan into his mouth, surrendering to the pleasure.

  Travis breaks the kiss and begins to trail his lips down my neck.

  “This doesn’t seem like ‘mad’,” I gasp.

  “I can compartmentalize,” he mutters.

  “Does that mean you’re gonna yell at me later?”

  “Maybe.” He tosses me back, onto the bed. “Now shut up.”

  Travis moves over me, his huge frame covering mine. Already, I feel the wetness building between my legs at the memory of the last time we did this. All thoughts of the last couple of hours evaporate, just like that.

  “You’ve been thinking about this,” he says as he reaches down, sliding his hand under my shirt. My body shivers at his touch.

  “Yes,” I breathe. There’s no use in lying. I want him to know how much I want it. My eyes start to flutter closed.

  Then: “Oh, shit.”

  “What?” I ask, startled. Then I realize what he’s talking about.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, pulling away and standing. “Let me just take this off.”

  I take off my jacket and slide the straps of the shoulder holster off. Travis watches me, smirking.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Hot,” he murmurs with a sexy half-grin.

  Like an idiot, it sends shivers up my spine.

  I set the gun and holster on the desk and move back to the bed. Travis pulls me down. “Where were we?”

  Hardly believing my boldness, I reach for his hand and slide it under my shirt. “Here, I think.”

  “Good memory, B,” he rasps. “Tell me, what do you do when you think about me?” Travis demands as his hand moves further up to cup my breast.

  “What?”

  “What do you do?” With his thumb, he begins to tease my nipple through my bra. “Do you touch yourself? Do you make yourself come?”

  I suck in a breath and try not to moan. “Yes,” I whisper, thinking about what I did last night in the shower before bed.

  He lets out a low groan and shifts on the bed. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?” He slips my shirt over my head. I hear the slight click as he unclasps my bra.

  “I…” His mouth is on my nipple, and I cry out, reaching up to thread my fingers in his hair. “Oh, God, Travis. Yes.”

  “Tell me what you think about.” His whiskers are rough against my sensitive skin.

  “This… Oh, my God. I think…” My breathing is ragged. “I think about you… about what you did to me last time. About how you made me come with your tongue. And then how you filled me up. And…” I make myself say it. “I think about having you in my mouth.”

  “Fuck,” he rasps. He grabs my hand. Pulling it toward him, he presses my palm against the throbbing heat of him. “Feel what you do to me, B.”

  I love that I make him like this. I love that he wants me. But I need to see more of him. I want more of his skin pressed against mine. A little frantically, I reach for the button of his jeans, and try to undo it. He rises from the bed and pulls off first his cut, then his shirt. Kicking off his boots, he gets rid of his jeans, until he’s standing in front of me. I take a long moment to look, stopping to gaze at the raw beauty of his tattoos, and how they accentuate the angles of his body. The beast on his left pec stares at me, flame in its eyes.

  Then, before he can stop me, I move down to the ground. Kneeling in front of him, I take him in my mouth.

  He’s too large for me to take very much of him in, but I do my best. My lips wrap around his head, my tongue sliding against the silken skin of his shaft. Travis lets out a low groan and freezes. One hand reaches down and strokes my cheek as I begin to slowly bob. I make love to his cock, exactly like I’ve done more than once in the fantasies I’ve had about him since I came back to town. I taste his heat, his desire, and I want more. I want to make him come like this. I want to be the one that does that for him.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” he says tightly as I continue to stroke. “I’m not lettin’ you finish me off like that, B. Not tonight. I need to be buried deep inside you when I come tonight, babe. I need to feel your pussy as it comes all around me.” He fists his hand in my hair and gently pulls me off him, ignoring my mewl of protest.

  “Take off your pants,” he rasps. “And spread your legs. Wide.”

  I do as I’m told. I get down on the bed and look up at him. His cock is still glistening from my mouth.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about how good you taste ever since last time,” he murmurs, as he reaches up to slowly stroke himself. “And how hard you came when I fucked you with my tongue.”

  He takes a step closer. “This time, I told myself I was gonna torture you. Make you wait for it. Make you beg.” My back arches, almost as though he’s already touching me. “But I’ve got a different kind of torture in mind right now.”

  Before I can ask him what he means, he’s grabbed my legs and pulled me to the edge of the bed. He slides the head of his shaft between my slick folds. I gasp and clutch at the bedcovers, begging silently for him to give me what I so desperately crave. I tense up, my legs falling further apart in spite of myself, as I angle toward him and thrust. Travis chuckles and pulls back, leaving me naked and exposed.

  “Travis,” I whisper. The throbbing between my legs is insistent, almost u
nbearable. “Please.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, darlin’,” he murmurs, lowering his head between my legs. “You’re gonna get what you need.”

  Then his mouth is on me. His lips massage and suck, his tongue lashing and stroking, fast and deep. His hands grip my thighs and he pulls me into him, harder, as he devours me. His tongue slides over me, and I arch toward him and cry out as he drinks me like I’m sweet, like I’m honey and he can’t get enough. I’m so close already that it doesn’t take me long before his assault on my most sensitive spot pushes me over the edge and I shatter, calling his name. But even then, he doesn’t let up, just grows more insistent as his strokes slide downward and deeper, becoming more rhythmic. I try to push him away but then even though I think it’s too much, eventually the pleasure overtakes the pain as he licks me harder, faster, coaxing my body forward as all my muscles start to tremble at his touch.

  Then all at once, another orgasm bursts from me, sudden and sharp as a whip. My throat is hoarse from the noises he’s pulling from me, from shouting his name and begging him, and I no longer know whether I’m begging him to stop or to keep going, but he doesn’t stop, his tongue keeps torturing me, and I’m so sensitive every single stroke sends my nerve endings into overdrive. I can’t fight it, I need the release he’s building for me, it’s so good, he’s finding the pleasure from so deep inside me I’ve never known anything like it, and orgasm after orgasm rolls through me, until I’m exhausted and weak, too exhausted to cry out or ask for mercy.

  Finally, when I think I can’t take any more, Travis moves over me and flips me onto my stomach, then pulls me up onto all fours. Standing at the edge of the bed, he grips my hips one more time and drives into me. The mass and heat of him fill me, and I feel myself tightening around him. One hand leaves my hip and fists in my hair, tugging my head back.

  “I like to hear you beg, B,” he rasps against my neck. Then he draws back and thrusts himself inside me to the hilt, before withdrawing and plunging again. I push back against him as he gives me thrust after thrust, each time deeper than the last. I physically feel him getting bigger as he gets closer to the edge. I know he’s going to explode inside me soon, coat my insides with his heat, and the thought makes me gasp and thrust back against him even more. Then, with a roar, he plunges inside me once more and releases, filling every inch of me as he comes long and hard.