She fisted her hands on her hips. “Isn’t it time you left that miserable club? While you still can. Before something bad happens.”
A mountain of fucking bad had already happened.
“Momma’s so sad. She just wants to hear your voice.”
If he was honest, he missed his mother, too. But he’d caused enough damage in her life. He didn’t want to taint her by all the other shit he’d done.
“Ima call her when I got time.”
“You have Momma living two hours away, Christopher,” she stormed. “Shit has to be bad.”
It had gotten much worse in the two years since he’d moved his mother to the house he owned on the Pacific Coast. He glanced at Megan. He needed to speak to her, find out just what the fuck was going on with her stepfather. If he couldn’t send her home to her mother, maybe he would send her to his.
“Johnnie got out,” Zoann persisted, referring to their cousin. “You can, too.”
Not really. John Boy had gone Nomad. He now ran their medical laboratory. His preppy look made him the perfect choice to work at the lab. They made legitimate money because doctors found all kinds of reasons to order blood work, and piss and shit samples. So while their relatives believed Johnnie was out of the life, the club family knew better.
“I ain’t leavin’,” he growled. “For you. Ma. No fuckin’ body.”
“No, because you’re nothing but a piece of trash like Granddaddy always said,” she spat.
He was used to these words from various members of his family. Zoann was once his favorite. They even had nicknames for each other. He called her Bitsy and she called him Christy. Not that he gave a fuck about that anymore. Zoann thought she had a valid reason for her anger for this latest wrong. He’d dropped out of sight and hurt their mother. That still didn’t give his sister a right to spit out the words she knew had always hurt him the most. “Get the fuck outta here, bitch.”
“I always hated when they said that about you. But watching Momma this past year, I knew they had you figured out.”
Christopher’s skin crawled in humiliation. Other than opening up to Megan, he’d pushed those years aside, all the hurt and shame he’d always experienced. Now, Zoann pulled up those memories and teased him with them, waving a red flag in front of the angry bull he’d become. Megan, a girl he’d never met until three days ago, offered a form of comfort. Whereas Zoann, the bitch he’d known all his life, scorned him.
He drew to his feet, fists balled at his side, and she stepped back.
“Please, Christopher. Do what’s right for once in your life and get out of the club. Give Momma some peace.”
Her voice had softened, turned into a wheedling tone.
“Is this why you wanted to fuckin’ talk to me?”
She bristled. “Partly.”
“Well, speak the other fuckin’ reason and get the fuck outta my sight.”
After a moment, her brows drew together. “I had a dream,” she said. “All I saw was blood. You covered in blood. Unmoving. Dead.”
Fuck Zoann and her dreams. She shouldn’t be a fucking nurse. She should be a fortune teller. She’d had a dream about him being swallowed by dirt. Less than ten days later, he was burying a motherfucker alive.
He glared at her, opened his mouth to tell her to get her jinxy fucking ass the fuck away, but Megan moaned and he forgot whatever the fuck he was going to say.
He rushed to Megan’s side, took her hand in his, and sagged in relief when she opened her eyes and turned her sweet little smile on him.
THREE DAYS LATER, MEGGIE SAT in the main room at the clubhouse, grinning like an idiot. She’d been released from the hospital this morning. Christopher had ordered her to bed the moment they set foot in his room. Though much better, she still felt weak and tired. Thankfully, it hadn’t been pneumonia, just a terrible cold. Even better, the swelling in her eye had gone down and her bruises were fading. She’d soon fallen asleep but a noise had awakened her and she’d realized Christopher had returned to the room.
She’d remained quiet for a moment, studying the play of muscles beneath his white T-shirt and leather vest. He thrust impatient fingers through his inky hair, a scowl marring his brow. His tan skin combined with his black hair and green eyes gave him an exotic look. His masculine beauty coupled with his big, strong body and I’m-your-worse-nightmare attitude made him every woman’s fantasy. A bad boy with a good heart and as many emotional scars as she had. As if he had any control over being born. He had more sense than that. But, when something was pounded into the psyche day after day, it became the gospel truth. Especially when it was the psyche of a young and vulnerable boy.
Meggie hurt for him and wanted to take as much care of him as he had of her. He’d seen to her safety and well-being, and she couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken care of her.
“Christopher?” she’d whispered.
Her voice seemed to surprise him and he’d paused whatever he’d been doing. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He answered with a curt nod, knowing what she thanked him for without her saying the words. They’d fallen silent and she thought he’d leave. Instead, he’d picked up a balloon and teddy bear and brought them to her.
“Happy belated birthday, Megan,” he’d said gruffly. The soft lighting from the lamp couldn’t hide the red in his cheeks.
He was blushing. But more than that… “You bought this for me?” she asked. Her heart raced at the unexpected gesture.
Another brusque nod. “My sisters liked bullshit like this.” He shrugged. “You a girl like them, so I figured you’d like it, too.” He set the teddy bear with the sagging balloon on his nightstand and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Her smile had faltered at his disappointing explanation. “Oh. Right. Of course.” Not that it wasn’t sweet. He could’ve allowed her birthday to pass without comment. She just wished he’d given her these things because of her. She wasn’t his sister and didn’t want to be.
“I gotta make a run,” he’d said after a moment. “Mortician gonna bring you somethin’ to eat. He not gonna just barge in, either. So you ain’t got to worry.”
Meggie frowned. “Why would I?”
Menace marred his features. “Just in case you would.”
Meggie had narrowed her eyes at him, not buying his explanation. “What–”
“Just fuckin’ drop it, okay?” He turned on his heel and headed to the door. Opening it, he’d paused, then turned, the darkness in the hallway throwing him into shadow. “Rack ain’t gonna touch you, so go wherever the fuck you want.” Stomping back into the room and swearing a blue streak for reasons unknown to her, he lifted two bags from his table and threw them to her. “Didn’t think to get wrappin’ paper or nothin’.” Not giving her a chance to respond, he’d stalked out and slammed the door behind him.
That happened a couple hours ago. After she’d found a pair of black motorcycle boots, leather pants, leather jacket, and a sapphire blue sweater, and before he’d returned with two chocolate cupcakes. “To replace the ones that got ate while you was in the hospital.”
Now, she sighed in pleasure, closing her eyes as the rich flavors of dark chocolate icing combined with the creamy milk chocolate center. The noise of laughter and music bounced off Meggie. The overwhelming cigarette smoke aggravating her cold, and the abundance of women hanging around the bikers, couldn’t dampen her mood. For her, only she and Christopher mattered, and her focus narrowed on his proximity to her.
“Yo, Megan. Chocolate on your nose,” Christopher said with a laugh.
She swiped at it with her finger, then sucked the chocolate off. He followed her every move and his eyes darkened. His hand holding his cupcake paused mid-air. He drew in a breath and bit into the sweet, reversing their roles. Now, instead of his finger, he licked the icing from his lips and she followed the movement of his tongue. She squirmed in her seat and bit down on her lower lip. Without thinking, she reached over and thumbed a t
iny drop of chocolate from the corner of his mouth.
As aware of him as she’d ever been, she slid her tongue along her fingertip more than she had to to remove the minute bit of chocolate.
“Fuck me,” he groaned. He leaned toward her and pushed her hair over her shoulder, securing it behind her ear. Then, he took her face between both hands and bent his head to kiss her.
A voice interrupted him and Meggie wanted to scream in frustration.
“You morphing into Boss or something, Outlaw? Fucking young girls and shit.”
Meggie jerked at the hard, female tone, already aggravated at having her near-kiss interrupted. As the words penetrated her disappointment, she sucked in a breath. “What?” she asked. Another dose of outrage piled on top of the accusation against her father when the woman planted her mouth over Christopher’s and took from him the kiss meant for Meggie. She got to her feet and tugged Christopher’s hand. “What’s she talking about?” she demanded, her stomach churning at the lingering kiss. “I need to talk to you.”
He allowed the other woman free reign with his mouth, only looking at Meggie when the strawberry blonde pulled away and smirked.
“I need to talk to you,” Meggie repeated, the careless expression on Christopher’s face cutting through her. “Who’s this?”
He narrowed his eyes and his jaw clenched. Meggie became aware of the growing silence, the attention turning their way. Warning darkened his eyes and her contentment evaporated. With the care Christopher had been showing her, she’d been satisfied to wait here a few more days for her father. But not only did this woman touch Christopher as if she had every right, she spoke of Meggie’s father with derision and hate.
“Who’s she? What’s she talking about? Where’s my father?” The questions flew out of her mouth.
Christopher winced and cursed. Meggie’s stomach dropped at the remorse flashing in his face.
“What’s going on here, baby?” another woman asked, stopping on Christopher’s other side.
She was pretty—no beautiful—with her dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. Her breasts strained against the long sleeve shirt she wore, the black leather pants and black motorcycle boots carbon copies of Meggie’s. The casual way she kissed Christopher and placed a hand on his shoulder, the way she glared and bristled at the strawberry blonde, led Meggie to believe she stared at Christopher’s girlfriend.
Meggie glowered at him. “Where’s Boss? Where’s my father?” she snarled.
The strawberry blonde’s mouth curled in a distasteful smile. She opened her mouth but the other woman shook her head.
“Shush, Ellen,” she ordered.
Not taking his eyes from Meggie, Christopher nodded. “Listen to Kiera.” He stood and wrapped his arms around Kiera’s waist, leaning to kiss her just as Ellen had kissed him.
His look challenged Meggie to gainsay him. Without thinking, she grabbed his mug of beer and threw it in his face. The outflow caught Ellen and Kiera, as well, for which Meggie was grateful.
“What the fuck, bitch?” Ellen yelled.
Her father always told her no one could shove her into an emotional mire unless she allowed it. As best she could, Meggie had held onto that through her dealings with Thomas, knowing he had the problem. She didn’t. Of course, that reasoning seemed well and good in her head. Putting it into effect was something else entirely. She’d found other ways to cope. It might not have been the best way, but it was her way and she’d gotten through it. More her father’s daughter than her mother’s, she wouldn’t be cowered.
When Ellen came at her, bypassing Christopher’s furious advance, Meggie shoved her back with all her might. The shove caught Ellen by surprise and she smacked into a barstool, landing hard on her butt.
Christopher jerked Meggie toward him. She balled her fist and managed to graze his jaw, earning her freedom. She scooted around him and headed for the exit, not knowing her destination, just knowing she had to leave.
“Sit the fuck down, Ellen,” Christopher called, hot on Meggie’s heels. “Dontcha walk out that fuckin’ door, Megan.”
“Bite me,” she yelled. “You overbearing, conceited rhinoceros.”
His arm looped around her waist and she struggled against his hold. Since he was as strong as a rhinoceros, it didn’t do any good. He plunked her down near the shattered glass and wasted beer.
“You gonna fuckin’ clean this.”
His tone of voice told her arguing would be a mistake, but she felt hurt, disappointed, angry, just a walking stew of emotions too numerous to list. She drew in a breath, hating how close to tears she was. To counteract sobbing her heart out, she decided to face him. She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll clean it if you tell me what she meant about my father having sex with young girls.”
“This ain’t up for negotiatin’, Megan.”
She stomped to the table where she’d been having such a wonderful time and sat in the chair Christopher had vacated. She began untying the laces on her boots. When she had one off, she threw it at Christopher.
“What the fuck you doin’?”
She got the other one off and aimed for his head. He sidestepped it.
“You don’t like shit on your feet too much, huh, babe?” Rack called, the amusement in his voice indicating his extreme enjoyment of this scene.
They had become the night’s entertainment. As the club president, Christopher wouldn’t allow anyone to disobey him. In private, it would’ve been horrible enough. Being in public made it ten times worse. But Meggie didn’t care.
“Do what you will to me. I don’t care! I’m not staying here and I’m not cleaning anything. I’m not wearing the same boots you bought for your girlfriend. You must’ve gotten a 2-for-1 special.”
The more she spoke, the blacker Christopher’s mood turned, until the force of hell surrounded him. He balled his fist, stepped closer to her. Meggie swallowed, determined to stand her ground.
“You ain’t stayin’ here, bitch. You fuckin’ right. Go back to your momma’s where little girls like you belong.”
“Go back to hell where mean, cantankerous men belong,” she countered.
He grabbed her arms and lifted her to her feet, and shook her. “Shut the fuck up. I mean it. You testin’ my patience. If you was anyfuckinbody else, you’d be flat on your fuckin’ ass. Knocked the fuck out. Not wakin’ up for a fuckin’ month.” To emphasize how little he held onto his control, he shook her again. “Now, I’m gonna tell you nice. Clean up this fuckin’ mess.”
“No. If you want to hit me, do it,” she spat. “But I’m not my mother. I fought her husband when she wouldn’t. If he ever finds me, I’m going to fight until I can’t anymore. Either he’ll win or I’ll win. So do your best.”
“Sit down,” he ordered, setting her on her feet, his voice echoing in the deathly silence.
“No.”
Christopher kicked over the table they’d spent the evening at. “Goddammit, you fuckin’ lil’ piece of baggage. Sit the fuck down. NOW!”
Meggie sniffed, but slid into the chair without another word.
Christopher paced, thrusting his fingers through his hair. Everyone tracked his movements, not speaking, remaining still. He paused a moment and pointed a finger at her. “That’s why you lookin’ for Boss, yeah? Your step-fuckhead tryna take your pussy?”
Her lips thinned and she pinned him with an accusing gaze. “You’re crude.”
“Don’t give a good fuck whatcha think ‘bout me, Megan. So you might as well fuckin’ answer me.”
Her stomach dropped. As long as she fought back and didn’t think about it, as long as she reminded herself her father’s DNA infused her blood, as long as she insisted Thomas’s violence wouldn’t rule her life, she coped. She laughed. She flirted and desired the angry man before her.
Most of all, she survived.
Now, Christopher insisted she admit to one of Thomas’s basic motivations—his sick determination to have sex with her.
Nausea churned
in her and she shook. She had to hold herself together in front of these people. In front of Rack, Ellen, and Christopher’s girlfriend.
He crouched down in front of her and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger in a gentle but firm grip. “Look at me.”
Exhausted, she raised her gaze to his and gave him the barest of nods.
“What’s his name?”
“Thomas Nicholls,” she croaked. The same focus and kindness he’d exhibited before Ellen and Kiera walked in returned. That was the hardest to swallow. The way he made her feel, the desire, safety, need and want. The way he knew he made her feel and gave so little thought to toying with her and then kissing two other women senseless.
He rose to his feet and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the inside of his vest pocket. “I don’t have what you call a girlfriend,” he began, after lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. “Second, if you ever act like a psycho bitch, Ima strip you to nothin’, lay you over my lap, and beat your bare lil’ ass.”
She glowered at him. He took another drag of his cigarette, unaffected.
“Next, Ellen ain’t had no business openin’ her fuckin’ trap ‘bout Boss.” He threw an evil look at the woman, who flushed and looked away.
“My father–” She paused and the thought hovering in the back of her head broke free. She sucked in a breath and clutched her belly. “Young girls,” she whispered and her voice shook. “My father.” She swiped away the tears she couldn’t stop and pressed down on her trembling lips, determined to control herself. She started over. “My father isn’t like Thomas, is he? I-I mean the whole world looks at Big Joe and sees a biker. They don’t even try to see the real him.” She shuddered. “They look at Thomas and see a math teacher. A wholesome, all-American citizen. But…but he isn’t. He’s worse than my father could ever be. With Big Joe...” She swallowed, blinking rapidly. Thomas was vile, evil, the very bottom of humanity, preying on the weakness of women and children, a sociopath, who didn’t penetrate her because of her mother’s one stand against him, her refusal to put Meggie on any sort of birth control. He’d still hurt her, humiliated her, and held her down to exercise his will. Her father couldn’t have been that man. He just couldn’t have been. “With my father, what you see is what you get. He isn’t…my father wouldn’t–”
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 9