Taz (Tarnished Souls MC Book 2)

by Dusty Lassetter

  “One more thing, Taz,” he says, taking the toothpick out of his mouth. With one hand on the doorknob, he turns in my direction.

  “That girl may not be worth your time, but I have plenty of unfulfilled hours throughout me day. You may not have the balls to claim her, but we Irish are known for our large sacks.”

  With a smile on his face, popping that stick back into his mouth, the mother fucker walks out of the room. He basically told me he’s going to pursue Serenity using that cocky Irish accent of his. He’s going to see just how big his balls are when they are shoved down his throat.

  Serenity

  Brownwood, Texas is only forty-seven miles from my hometown of Brady, Texas. My dad was okay with me going back to college as long as I brought Teller and Irish with me. Let’s take a second and think about that statement. I am twenty-one years old, a junior in college, and I have bodyguards that look like men from SOA. The students around the campus stay at least twenty-feet away when they see Irish, and fifty when they see Teller. It’s not often Teller walks with me because he likes to stick to the shadows, but when he does, I can smell the fear coming off people.

  Teller is easily six-three, with a stocky build, and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. The layers and layers of blue in his irises should be photographed and showed to everyone around the world. He could use some color on his pale skin, especially since his short hair is the same color as coal, but all those ingredients add up to make an edible piece of man candy. Some people can’t get passed the scar running across his neck, but I’ve recently learned some scars hold meaning. I don’t know what he thinks about when he sees his, but I can’t help imagining a warrior who earned his right to scare anyone that comes near me.

  Irish is another story. Forget that he could easily have anyone of my peers begging for his attention, he has become a close friend. He’s actually the person that talked me into coming back to college. I kept myself locked up in my room after Taz finished ripping out my heart. Irish tried for days to get me to tell him what happened, but I refuse to cause any more problems for my dad. After the third day, he kicked in my door and wouldn’t leave until I figured out a plan for my life. Apparently drowning in sorrow is not something people should do. Long story short, he won.

  Sitting underneath an old oak tree while unwrapping my turkey sandwich my eyes are glued to the figure walking toward me. We always meet at lunch time. Irish always sits beside me and starts picking at my food, so I’ve started packing more. I know as long as I eat my sandwich and a piece of fruit he will be pleased. He thinks I’ve lost too much weight, well, him and everyone else, but sometimes swallowing food is hard. It’s not my stomach that’s in pain. I just find it difficult to have an appetite these days.

  “Are you hungry, or are you content with eating that toothpick,” I joke with him as soon as he is within ear shot. Moving the tiny stick around with his lips and tongue, Irish simply smiles at me.

  “This one is cinnamon flavored. Would you like a taste?” He asks while keeping that goofy grin pulling at his lips.

  “I don’t think that would taste good with mayo and cheese, but thanks for the offer,” I reply, rolling my eyes, adding to the sarcasm in my voice.

  He finally takes a seat next to me on the grass. Thankfully the morning dew is long gone, and we’ll both get up with dry pants. Last week we found out too late the ground was damp, and I had to spend the remainder of the day listening to him joke about making me wet. I don’t mind being picked on, but the twenty kids waiting to get into the classroom with me heard him. I think it’s safe to say red is not my color. Hiding behind Irish’s body, I can only imagine I looked like an over-cooked lobster trying to hide from the hungry chef.

  “Anyone bother you today?”

  Irish asks this every day, and every day I tell him the same thing.

  “No,” I say, taking a small bite of my apple. The juice exploding in my mouth tastes sweet, so I quickly take another bite. I know the taste will eventually fade because my mind will wonder. That is why I’ve learned to enjoy it while I can.

  “Did Teller walk you to your first class?”

  “You know he did,” I mumble around the apple I’m about to sink my teeth back into.

  “That’s good,” he exclaims while rudely taking the apple from my hand. Removing the toothpick from his mouth he opens his jaw wide before chomping down on my lunch. Is everyone from Ireland this rude, or is just bikers?

  “Hey, that was mine,” I complain, snatching it from his grasp. With fake annoyance, I glance down at his huge bite that easily takes up the entire backside of my apple.

  “We always share lunch, besides it’s your fault. Next time don’t make sex noises while you’re eating. Anything that makes you moan like that is worth tryin’.”

  “I was not,” I insist before taking another bite. This time I purposely throw my head back and make the noises I’d imagine were in porn. When the humor of our situation becomes too hard to keep in, I start laughing.

  “Be careful, I don’t want you to choke,” Irish says, and my mind instantly takes me back to that dungeon. Slasher used to say the same thing as he forced me to suck him off. One of his hands would be in my hair keeping it from obstructing my view of him. I remember the first time I looked down because I didn’t want to gaze into his eyes as he violated me. He slammed himself so hard in the back of my throat I could barely swallow for days.

  “Serenity,” Irish’s voice comes out strong enough to pull me from my memory. Shaking the fog from my head, I look up into his brown eyes. Watching the specks of orange seemingly dance around with the light of the sun I wait to speak until all the dark thoughts are gone.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin to mumble, keeping my gaze locked with his. Slowly reaching his hand out to me, like you would see a ringmaster do for his wild animals, Irish tries not to spook me. Once his hand is on my cheek, the warmth from his touch seeping into my skin, I take a deep breath.

  “This is not your fault, Serenity,” he says in a strong Irish accent. “We’ll make that fucker pay. This is me vow to you.”

  I once asked him how it’s possible for him to speak so clearly sometimes, and not others. His answer was simple. He said it took him a long time to concentrate on talking with just a hint of his accent where people could understand him. Apparently, when he gets mad, he no longer cares to take the time to make sure he is speaking clearly. I usually pick on him when his accent comes out full force. I call him a leprechaun, and ask him where his pot of gold is, but this time I find myself taking comfort from his words. He just said what everyone else has already told me, but now I know without a doubt it’s true.

  After class is over, I walk out of the door looking toward the wall I always find Irish leaning against. As soon as he sees me squeezing through the herd of students, a wide smile stretches across his face. Caught up in the way he is looking at me, I don’t notice the douche bag barreling my way until it’s too late. My feet are shoved out from under me, and my face is about to break my fall.

  Falling in front of a crowd is embarrassing, but falling in front of people you have to see again makes the humiliation worse. When no one rushes to help me up, I shake my head in disbelief. Yes, I managed to get my hands out, so the fall wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be, but that doesn’t mean a girl wouldn’t like some help getting off the floor.

  Slow at getting back to my feet, I figure out exactly why no one was offering me help. Why would they care about my fall when they’re concerned for the man Irish is pounding his fists onto? Forgetting about all my scattered papers and books, I run to the stranger’s defense.

  “Irish,” I shout, “what in the heck are you doing? Leave him alone.”

  I would like to think he stops on my account, but I know he only ceases because the man can no longer keep his head up. Irish is holding him up against a wall by his shirt, the smile gone from his face. He then leans down and whispers something into the man’s ear before allowing hi
m to slink to the floor. The crowd that gathered around Irish starts to dissipate knowing the show is over.

  “Are you ready to go?” Irish asks, not at all tired from his recent activity. He’s currently searching through his pockets with a look of concern on his face, and I can’t stop myself from wondering what he is looking for.

  “Oh my God, Irish, were you robbed? Did that guy steal your wallet?” I rush out while looking back to the wall the asshole was propped up on. There are two students trying to help the thief get back to his feet.

  “Hey,” I holler, “he has something that belongs to my friend.”

  Irish’s hand shoots out to stop me before I can make my way to their group. Turning my attention back to my new friend, I find he is now happily smiling with a fresh toothpick in his mouth.

  “That asshole didn’t rob me,” he states, not letting go of my arm.

  “Then why were you beating him like he stole something, and why were you frantically searching your pockets?” I question arching my eyebrow.

  “I couldn’t find me picks, and that prick needs to start watchin’ where he is going. Now stop with the interrogation and help me pick up your stuff,” Irish answers, kneeling down. Between the two of us, we quickly gather my belongings.

  “I’ve got good news for you,” Irish announces, throwing his arm over my shoulders. Together, we walk out of the building, headed for my car parked on the other side of campus.

  “Slasher was found dead and his face was eaten by wild animals,” I dryly state. I don’t mean it as a joke, but that doesn’t stop Irish from laughing.

  “That wouldn’t qualify as good news. That fits in better with the great category,” he replies, leading me away from the path that will take me to my car. Deciding to just go with the flow, I keep my mouth shut. That is until we come up on his bike that is illegally parked in the grass.

  “Sammy’s in labor, and Mia was adamant you get to the hospital ASAP. The fastest way to get there is on the back of me baby,” he says with a look of admiration on his face as he stares down at his motorcycle. The gas tank is painted to look like chipped black paint that is merging into the Irish flag with the club’s emblem on both sides. The seat was an old Irish flag brought to the states with him, and also his most prized possession.

  The thought of getting on the back of this bike thrills me. It’s been awhile since I’ve rode on one, and the idea alone is making my blood sizzle with excitement underneath my skin. It’s going to be good to have the wind blowing in my face, to feel free again.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I continue to repeat my words of gratitude until Irish takes my books from my hands. He opens his saddle bag, and tosses my belongings in. With a confidence that can only come from being a biker, he throws his leg over the seat, and turns it over. With a loud roar, that sounds like hellhounds are trying to break free from the underworld, Irish’s baby comes to life.

  He hands over my helmet before gesturing with his head for me to climb on behind him. Thankful to be wearing jeans, I throw my leg over as gracefully as I can. When my arms finally wrap around his leather-clad abdomen, he takes off. My happiness doesn’t allow me to feel bad for the campuses’ lawn he just destroyed, or the students that rush to move out of his way. For the first time since I’ve been back, I can breathe again.

  Once Irish turns onto three-seventy-seven he twists the throttle. With another great roar, the bike takes off, causing the scenery around me to become a blur. Like the lava waiting at the bottom of an active volcano, the excitement in my bloodstream is bubbling up. Keeping my right arm secured around his waist, I start dancing my left hand around in the wind. With every bit of asphalt these tires eat up I leave my worries and fears behind me.

  Pulling into the parking lot of the hospital, I only see three bikes lined up perfectly. It would appear my dad, Saint, and the one man I don’t think I can bare to see is here. Irish makes a wide turn before slowing down enough to walk the bike backwards. Parked beside Taz’s bike, he patiently waits for me to get off his “baby”.

  “Let’s go talk Sammy into namin’ her son Anthony,” Irish says, placing our discarded helmets onto his handlebars. I guess he’s not worried about someone coming by and snatching the expensive headgear, but that would make sense seeing how they will know he’s a Tarnished Souls member. No one in this town is brave enough to try taking anything from them.

  “Why would you want Sammy to name her baby Anthony?” I question while he leads me into the revolving doors of the hospital. A normal person would have waited for the next slot before entering, but not Irish, he rushes in behind me.

  “That’s me first name,” he proudly states, not at all bothered by our closeness, “I’m named after me dad.”

  “Does this mean I can start calling you Tony the Tiger instead of Irish?”

  “Only if you want me to start callin’ you snowball,” Irish jokes as we make our way to the elevators. The maternity ward is on the fourth floor.

  Growing up with the last name Snow never bothered me. I actually love the name, but that’s probably because I’m a girl. My dad on the other hand was never fond of it, and threatened to maim anyone that used it. John Snow now goes by Buck, nothing else.

  “Tony the Tiger is so much worse,” I laugh out when he gives me a sideways glare. Sauntering out of the elevator like he’s the new owner of the hospital Irish pretends to be mad at me. Slowing my pace so he gets far enough ahead, I start to holler out his new name.

  “Tony the Tiger wait, please wait for me!”

  I’m fully aware that I’m too old to be acting like this, especially in a hospital, but right now I could care less. I’m having fun. That is until I see Taz walking out of a room ahead of Irish. My heart stops, the smile on my face vanishes, and a fresh wave of nausea comes over me.

  “I can’t be with someone knowing she would whore herself out for the first man that comes along. All you would be is a one-night stand, but I’m not into having some psycho’s sloppy seconds.”

  Since I’ve been home I’ve come to realize I have certain triggers that will take me back to the hell I barely escaped. Whether it be a certain smell, the change of temperature in the air, or hearing someone say a particular phrase, but I’ve never been brought back to that dungeon by someone’s presence, until now.

  “The boss will eventually give me a taste. Don’t cry, bitch. You’re going to love it,” the stranger says while licking the side of my neck. The sticky saliva left behind makes me want to vomit, but I know if I do he’ll only laugh. He wants me to be weak.

  “When Slasher is done with you, I’m going to make you my whore,” he laughs out before grinding himself onto my backside. That’s my breaking point. Falling onto my hands and knees, I begin to throw up the water I just had. The thought of his body on mine, and the smell of his breath, keeps me down. My stomach is empty, but that doesn’t stop me from dry-heaving until my throat is raw and burning from acid.

  “Hey mother fucker I told you not to touch what’s mine,” I hear Taz growl out in between my vomiting fits. With my head pointed at the floor, I don’t see them start struggling, but I can hear it. Wiping my face with the bottom of my shirt, I rise to a sitting position just in time to see Taz break the man’s neck. Hearing the sound of bone snapping isn’t as bad as seeing the man’s limp body fall to the floor. His eyes stay open, no life left in them.

  “Come on, angel,” Taz whispers, picking me up off the floor. Walking to the corner of the room he slides down the wall. I feel safe in his arms as he rocks me from side to side. This is just our second day here. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive many more.

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  “Nothing asshole. I just walked out of the bathroom.”

  “I’m not talkin’ about right now.”

  “Mind your fucking business, Irish, before I make you.”

  “Serenity is more me business then yours.”

  “Stop it,” I mumble, “just s
top it.”

  “You scared the shit out of me Serenity, are you alright?” Irish asks in his thick accent.

  “Look at me, angel,” Taz commands, immediately drawing my attention. Like a moth to a flame I can’t help myself. Looking into beautiful green eyes the rest of the memory starts to fade, and I find myself wanting to be held in his arms.

  “Don’t call me that,” I whisper instead, knowing it’s what needs to be said, “I’m nothing to you, Lucas.”

  I purposely use his first name so he knows I’m serious. I learned a few things about him with all that quality time we spent together. He hates peaches, loves shrimp, and despises anyone that calls him by his first name. To him, it’s a sign of disrespect. I guess him and my dad do have something in common. I was never able to pry the reason out of him, but I assume it has something to do with his teen years.

  A part of me was hoping there would be pain in his eyes after my statement, but there’s nothing. Just like the man lying on the floor, Taz’s eyes hold no life. He’s dead on the inside, and I’m tired of trying to bring him back.

  “Can we go now,” I look to Irish, hoping he will be the friend I need him to be. There is no need in him arguing with Taz over me anymore. There’s no hope for a future between us, only a past that will haunt me.

  “Let’s go, snowball. Little Anthony is waiting on us,” he jokes, but his eyes hold no humor. Irish is an easygoing man that loves to laugh, but I’ve come to realize he is protective of the people he cares about. I’m glad to be on that list. Over the last few weeks he has helped me more than he knows.

  Serenity

  Walking into the room with a cup of coffee in my hand, I’m awestruck by the scene in front of me. Sammy and her newborn son are surrounded by his new aunts and uncle. Being the center of attention isn’t really Sammy’s thing, but she’s too busy admiring her perfect baby to care.

  Dark black hair that is thicker on the top can be seen peeking out of the sides of his hat. The brief moment I was able to hold him earlier, I snuck a look at his tiny toes and fingers. He was too stubborn to open his eyes for me, no matter how hard I tried, but I’m sure when he does I’ll be blown away. His dark complexion and hair indicates Sammy most likely got pregnant from one of Carlos’ men, if not him, so the chances of his eyes being a beautiful brown are high.