The Devil's Russian Beauty

by Ana Lee Kennedy

  Recognition hit him. His mouth dropped open. She couldn’t be the mouthy, shit-stirring sweetbutt who belonged to the Wraithkillers. If he recalled correctly, she was the one who had attacked Bernadette when Frank took her from Crow. This woman wasn’t bony but well fed with all her body’s angles and planes filled out into an enticing form. This woman didn’t have dark hollows around her eyes, and this woman had color in her face instead of looking like a junkie.

  He couldn’t remember her name, but that tat said it all.

  The blonde picked up her purse and walked past him, unaware of his attention. On her shoulder, two interconnected R’s marred her smooth skin. The River Rebels—an ownership brand. A strange sense of rage rose within Phil. He wanted to hurt the jerk who had branded her like that. Granted, she seemed to be healthier now—looked fantastic, in fact—but it was wrong to own a person.

  He gulped down the rest of his cooling coffee, then crumpled the cup and stuffed it into the wastebin a couple feet away.

  Outside, Phil mounted his motorcycle, started it, duck-walked it out of the space, then, after checking for traffic, drove out of the lot. With his emotions in a whirlwind, which unsettled him further, he headed out of Rebellion for the MC.

  * * *

  At the sound of numerous motorcycles filling the shallow valley below the main house, Bernadette turned to see a dozen bikes making their way up the slope. In moments the riders pulled into the carport to one side, lining their machines up and shutting them off. She’d known for a couple days that the Cadiz chapter would be joining them for tonight’s barbecue, but she hadn’t expected to see women riders too. Normally, the MCs she’d knew, such as the Wraithkillers and the River Rebels, kept their women on the backs of the bikes.

  She tried not to stare at the ladies in riding leathers, but she couldn’t help it. They looked sexy in their gear, right down to gloves and kick-ass boots.

  “Yes, some chapters of the Werewolves of Rebellion have women riders,” Luella said suddenly by Bernadette’s ear.

  She jumped and laughed. “I didn’t mean to stare, but they look awesome.”

  “We have a few women, including myself, who can ride,” Luella said, “but it’s up to the lady. Most of us prefer to let our men do the riding so we can snuggle or relax on the back.”

  Bernadette couldn’t argue with that. She loved feeling the vibration of Frank’s Harley under her as she pressed her breasts to his cut.

  “Plus tonight is sweetbutt night,” Luella explained, “so these get-togethers with other chapters brings in some strange. The guys get tired of the same sweetbutts, so once in a while our MC will visit other chapters too. Sometimes members find their mates this way.” She jostled Bernadette’s shoulder. “Come help me with bringing food out to the picnic area. Puppy and Carol have their hands full with the cold salads and desserts.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

  As Luella strode to the house, another rumbled drew Bernadette’s attention to Phil, Frank’s second-in-command, motoring up the hill and into the carport. He slowed, his face a mask of anger and confusion, and duck-walked his bike through the bay door of the Nightshade’s Wolves workshop.

  She frowned. Judging by the look on Phil’s face, he wasn’t happy about something. Bernadette hoped it wasn’t anything to worry about.

  She blew a kiss to Frank, where he stood hammering a heavy peg into the ground for a horseshoe pit. He offered her his I’m-going-to-make-you-scream grin, then winked. Heat flooded her loins. Oh, what that man did to her!

  The evening passed with lots of food, including Luella’s prize-winning potato salad that Bernadette couldn’t get enough of, riotous games of cornhole, loud, friendly arguments over horseshoes, chatter from the women in the pavilion, and laughter and shrieks from the pond, where many of the mothers supervised the young children and toddlers.

  Bernadette sat in a lawn chair chatting with her mother and Puppy, who was eating a slice of cherry pie. Clapping for Frank, who had won yet another game of horseshoes, she said, “I wish I could eat like you do, Puppy. You must burn a million calories an hour.”

  “It’s part of being young,” Bernadette’s mom said. “You can eat whatever you want until you hit about 25, then the body changes.”

  Puppy giggled. “In my case, it’s good genes, I guess. My mom is the same way, and she loves her desserts too.”

  “Well, I’m going to join Frank,” Bernadette said. “I’ll catch you later or in the morning.” She looked at her mother. “Mom, I’ll be back in a few.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I’m ready for bed, honey, so I think I’ll head home. I worked in my flowerbeds most of the day and I’m tired.”

  “Let me finish my pie, Mrs. Kelly,” Puppy said, “and I’ll drive you down to your house.”

  “I keep telling you to call me Maeve, and thank you for the offer, dear.”

  Bernadette stood with her beer in one hand, but when she looked over at the pavilion where she’d seen Frank go, he was no longer there.

  “Check in the kitchen,” Puppy advised as she stabbed the last bit of pie on her plate. “Frank probably stashed some of his Dos Equis in the fridge since Ass Crack likes it too and usually guzzles every bottle out of the coolers.”

  Leaning over, Bernadette kissed her mother on the cheek. “Night, Mom. Call up to the house if you need anything.”

  “Night, honey.”

  Nodding, Bernadette headed for the house. She dodged several couples who had paired up and were making their way to the house too. Sweetbutt night happened whenever parents could get their children out of the main house, which was a lot, actually, but tonight there were more women and more interested men. It still embarrassed her to walk in on couples screwing, but no one paid it any mind and Bernadette always looked elsewhere on her way through the rooms of the house.

  She entered the sunporch, passing two couples making out with the TV flashing light over their half-naked bodies, the dialog of a Gotham episode following her into the kitchen.

  On the kitchen counter lay a Dos Equis cap. So where was Frank?

  Murmuring reached Bernadette. Frowning, she listened until she detected the conversation coming from the laundry room. She walked to the partially open door and halted. Between the utility room and the kitchen, a short hall, lined with pantry shelves and full of staples and sundries, funneled the people’s words straight to her. In the living room next to the entryway leading into the kitchen, a woman moaned, followed by the pleasured grunt of a man. Trying to hear who was talking, Bernadette frowned as the couple fucking grew steadily louder. The squeak of a seat cushion grew more rhythmic.

  She turned her head to pinpoint whose voices were in the laundry room.

  “I don’t know what to do…”

  That sounded like Frank, but then she heard a female voice.

  “You should talk to her about it.”

  That was Luella.

  “I know I should…wanted to say thank you for all your ad…”

  “We’ve come a long way, Frank, you know that I…”

  Frank’s deep chuckle rolled out to Bernadette. “…you always did give the best blowjobs until…”

  “Beastman agrees, but now my blowjobs…”

  A cold sweat broke out over Bernadette’s body. Frank was letting Luella give him a blowjob? How could he do that? He was her man, not Luella’s. Well, she’d thought he was. What had happened to change his mind about their relationship?

  Trembling, she backed away from the door. She had to leave before they found her. Right now, she had to get a grip on herself, find a quiet place—if that were even possible tonight of all nights—and decide whether to confront one or both of them…or pack up and leave. She couldn’t be in a relationship with a man who sought sexual favors from other women.

  The room spun, and she gripped the edge of the dining table, closing her eyes to gather her wits.

  Boots on the hardwood brought her eyes open. Phil stood star
ing at her with concern.

  “You okay, Bernadette?”

  “I…” She gulped. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just shaky and tired. It’s been a really busy day.”

  “Can’t say I’m in much of a mood for all the craziness going on outside,” he replied. “I had to break up a fight between two of the youngsters over who won the last cornhole game. Damn lycanthrope testosterone.”

  She smiled. Over the past three months, she’d gotten to known Phil better. When she’d first arrived at the Werewolves of Rebellion MC, Phil had made it clear he didn’t approve of her, especially since she wasn’t a lycanthrope, but now they were pretty good friends, and she’d discovered that beneath Phil’s gruff, tough-guy façade, there was a teddy bear of a man, one who had deep thoughts and a deep heart.

  “I’m over the racket tonight too,” she said. “I just need…” Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back.

  “A stouter drink than beer?” He quirked an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  “Meet me out on the back stoop,” he said. “I’ll find a couple glasses and a bottle of something better than swill water.”

  Anything if it would get her out of Frank’s line of sight. If he and Luella emerged from the laundry at that moment, Bernadette didn’t know what she’d do. Maybe punch him and slap her?

  Maybe she just needed a friend—one who wasn’t Luella. With a nod, she said, “Okay, I’m not walking through that cock-filled minefield in there”—she jerked a thumb in the direction of the living and family rooms—“so I’ll go out and around the house to the stoop.”

  He snorted, then it turned into a low chuckle. “Right.” He stepped around her and paused in the doorway. “I’ll meet you in five.”

  * * *

  She’d barely entered her 12 x 12 room, closing the door behind her, when someone knocked.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened a few inches, and Stickman poked his head into her room. “Daffi, Ezra wants you in his office.”

  Fuck. Why couldn’t the bastard give her at least 30 minutes to clean up, change and compose herself before he started his shit about her duties as one of his sheep?

  “All right, Sticky.” She said it with calm she didn’t feel. “Let me run a comb through my hair and brush my teeth real quick-like, ’kay?” She knew Stickman had a bit of crush on her. He always treated her nice—well, most of the time—and even gave her little gifts, but the moment Ezra or one of his other right-hand men got too close, Stickman would slap her, talk nasty to her or, sometimes, backhand her so hard she’d end up with a black eye or a split lip. His apologies later were incessant, but it still didn’t change the fact he feared Ezra more than he liked her.

  “Well…make it fucking fast, Daffodil. You know how he is.”

  She nodded and stepped into the tiny bathroom off her bedroom. It was super-tight quarters, but she and one of the other sheep were the only two of Ezra’s girls who even had a lavatory in their rooms. Quick as she could, Daffi ran a comb through her bob, then brushed her teeth and used mouthwash.

  “All done, Sticky honey,” she announced as she exited.

  “Good, baby.”

  Stickman grasped her elbow and stared down into her face. The man had expressive brown eyes, eyes she could read the instant he was about to knock the shit out of her, but other times those eyes smiled sincerely as she rode his cock.

  “Got your paycheck?” he added.

  Her heart stuttered and tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Daffi let Stickman escort her through the old tire warehouse converted into a MC complete with a whorehouse, a bar, living quarters and a repair shop. The River Rebels dealt in meth, so their income was good, allowing them to enjoy a nice MC, but the risk of getting busted was too high. She understood why Hudson had gone after Frank Nightshade’s MC, but if he had done his research about the Werewolves of Rebellion beforehand, Hudson would have known the Nightshade clan was a formidable opponent. Sadly, Ezra was taking up where Hudson had left off. So many elderly people would soon become victims of his extortion.

  They crossed the ground level, a wide expanse of polished concrete, passing the open-floor plan of the bar and the gaming area, the design pure gearhead stuff right down to hanging motorcycles of various makes and models that glittered and gleamed from their ceiling anchors. Neon signs boasting beer brands, the outlines of naked women, and random words such as Fucking A, Whiskey Drinker and Condoms are for Sissies glowed on the walls, the counter edges, ceiling overhangs and over every doorway. They entered a corridor lined with rooms where the prostitutes lived and worked. The last one at the end of the hall, guarded by one of the prospects whose name Daffi could never remember, boasted a plaque that stated simply—President.

  The prospect opened the door a crack and said, “Boss, Stickman’s here with Daffi.”

  “Send them in,” came a gruff reply.

  The guard swung the door open, waited for them to enter, then closed the door behind them.

  Daffi hated dealing with Ezra Jones. As long as his girls worked their asses off for him, he was nice and rewarded them with gifts or a little extra cash here and there. The problem was that Ezra was extremely demanding, and if a girl let up in her duties even the slightest bit, or if a problem arose—whether or not it was her fault—Ezra turned into a demon. The demon side of him scared the shit out of Daffi as well as all the sweetbutts.

  “Well, if it isn’t Daffodil Anastasia Moscosky.” Ezra sat behind a wide, shiny cherry desk. He let his gaze sweep over her a couple times. “You’re a mess.”

  Daffi tried to keep her voice calm. If Ezra heard a tremor in it, he’d use it to his advantage. One of his many odd quirks was that his girls could never look disheveled or dirty, nor could their clothing be stained, ripped or faded. “I was about to clean up and change, but…” She caught Stickman’s sidelong glance. Without a doubt, Stickman would cuff her later, even if what she was about to say was the truth.

  “But?” Ezra raised both eyebrows.

  “Stickman insisted I leave immediately to come here.” She smiled, pushing all the sincerity into it that she could. “I did convince him to let me comb my hair and brush my teeth, though.”

  Ezra sat back and assessed Stickman quietly. It never ceased to amaze Daffi how Ezra looked like a commonplace guy. He was tall, worked out, keeping his body fit. His green eyes could be mistaken for gray or blue, his sandy-blond hair was always short and neat, and he kept his goatee, only slightly darker than his hair, trimmed, and he never wore anything that showed he was a biker save for the River Rebels cut. She didn’t think the man had any ink except for the MC tat. Otherwise, nothing about him stood out until something disgruntled him. That’s when he changed. She gulped, hoping this time wasn’t one of them.

  “I commend you for trying to make yourself presentable, Daffi,” Ezra said, his voice soft.

  Oh, shit. She knew that tone.

  “Stickman,” Ezra continued.

  Beside her, Stickman stiffened.

  Ezra narrowed his gaze on the man. “There’s a distinct difference between a sweetbutt wasting time dolling herself up and taking ten minutes to clean up and change clothes.” He settled farther back in the swivel desk chair and raised his arms to rest them behind his head. “How can I enforce my rules if my men don’t help me?”

  “I’m sorry, Boss. It won’t happen again.”

  Quiet settled over the office. Finally, Ezra stood, walked around the desk to Stickman and punched him square in the nose. “You sure as fuck better not do it again.”

  Stickman staggered back against the door, grasping his nose. Blood trickled through his fingers.

  “Now get out. You’re on gate duty until further notice.”

  With an angry glance at Daffi, Stickman left, and the guard pulled the door shut again.

  Before Ezra turned around, Daffi withdrew her paycheck from her purse and held it out. When he face
d her, his gaze landed on the check and he smiled.

  “Good girl.” Upon checking the backside of the slip, he added, “And you’ve already signed it. Excellent.” He moved over to stand directly in front of her. “Any information?”

  She hated having to speak to him in more than a couple words. Something about her slight Russian accent always seemed to turn him on. As quickly as she could and speaking as plainly as she could, she relayed the names and ages of the people who were due mineral rights monies and told him the addresses, which were all on the same ridge.

  “You’ve been a very good girl this week, my little Russian Daffodil.” He placed the check on the desktop, then straightened and grasped her by the hips, swinging her around until her ass rested against the edge of the desk.

  Her heart thundered painfully. Ezra’s touch burned, the sensation intensely cold, as if someone had rubbed something like Icy Hot or Bengay times one hundred strength on her skin. All the sweetbutts stated the same thing about Ezra whenever they talked among one another. They all feared sex with him.

  “Since you’ve been such a good girl,” Ezra murmured as he kissed the place behind her ear, “I’ll have Amanda make an appointment for you to have a day at the salon. But first…” He licked her earlobe, then nipped it. “I’m going to give you a special reward.”

  Dismayed, Daffi tried not to stiffen in his arms. If he thought they found him repulsive, he’d beat them during sex. Her stomach plummeted, then clenched in disgust. Nothing about sex with Ezra was nice. She’d be sore for days and feel drained, as if every bit of her strength had been sucked out of her through her pussy. She would still orgasm, which always confused and revolted Daffi.