I bolted for the door at the far end of the room, zigzagging in between tables of startled patrons. This is what Tommy Flynn had wanted to avoid, my making a scene in what was clearly his high roller room. Well, maybe that would teach him not to keep his prisoner dungeon in the fancy part of his illegal casino. Idiot.
The guards were gaining on me, their weapons drawn, but not firing, and I kept running, running for all I was worth. I looked over my shoulder as I neared the door, and I was nearly home free when I ran smack dab into what must have been a wall.
No, not a wall. A man.
I stumbled back and hit the floor, ass first, but immediately felt myself being hauled to my feet. It was Oliver.
“Oliver!” I shouted. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you…?” he said, more of a question than a statement, and he began to shove me toward the door. We were on the move again, though I realized too late that I’d lost my gun in the fall and left it lying there on the casino floor.
“Don’t stop running!” he shouted, pushing me into the main casino, an area that looked flashy and modern, and almost legal were it not for the absence of any slot machines. We drew a great deal of attention as we ran through, me covered in blood and grime, followed by a dozen or so men with guns. But not a single shot was fired on the casino floor — I imagine that was strictly verboten in any of Flynn’s casino spaces. That was a fairly quick way to drive away business.
So we made it to the front door unmolested, and, once outside, Oliver began to shout: “Change of plans! Change of plans!”
At this, I heard the comforting roar of twenty Harley Davidson engines as they came to life, saw the twenty or so headlights flash on in the darkness. They were in a V formation, and Lucas Whalen, my Lucky, was at the helm.
“What the fuck happened?” he demanded as we darted past him and toward Oliver’s truck.
“Get ready to fight, Lucky!” Oliver shouted, and threw open the driver’s side door of the truck, pushing me up and into it.
“Get her the hell out of here,” Lucas shouted back, reaching into his vest and retrieving his own gun. He raised it and peered down its barrel, waiting for the men to run out into the parking lot. All of the other Iron Banshees — including Fitz, the prospect, and my brother, Brian — did the same. They stood there like soldiers and waited.
A few moments of silence lapsed in the cool evening air before Oliver turned on the ignition of his truck, and Tommy Flynn’s goons began to pile out of the casino. But no one fired, not immediately. Because Tommy Flynn himself walked out in between the two walls of firearms: his men behind him, the Banshees in front. He had his own pistol raised, and it was trained on Lucas.
“I underestimated your whore, Whalen,” Flynn hissed, having lost all of the good humor that came with having the upper hand. “She’s clever, and brave. Stupid, but brave.”
“If you want to walk out of this with your life,” Lucas shouted, “then you put down your gun, and tell your men to do the same.”
“And then what?” Flynn asked, a legitimate question. I glanced at Oliver, who had his eyes locked on his father. “You take me to Iron Banshee headquarters, or wherever it is you fucking fairies congregate.”
“Banshees are, like, death fairies,” Brian shouted. “So, fuck you!”
“Tell your boys to stand down, Mr. Whalen,” Flynn said. I saw Oliver stir beside me as he reached into the back of his truck.
“Oliver, what are you doing?” I whispered.
“Ending this,” he said. He had a tire iron in his hand when he got out of the truck. For my part, I was rooted in place, and I locked the doors after Oliver slid out, grateful to put metal and glass in between myself and whatever brawl was about to break out.
“We will take out you, and every one of your men, you old Irish fuck,” Lucas shouted back. “I swear to God — you threaten my wife? You’re a dead man.”
I was certain this posturing could have gone back and forth forever as the two outlaws engaged in a dick measuring contest. But instead, Oliver waltzed right up to Tommy Flynn, who glanced at him like he didn’t even care that he was there, before Oliver lifted the tire iron and knocked the old man out. My jaw dropped, even as Tommy Flynn dropped to the pavement, and Oliver let go of the tire iron, which clattered to the ground beside his fallen father. Not dead, just unconscious.
I saw the Banshees, and Flynn’s goons, glance between themselves, unsure of what to do. “Fuck this,” one of the goons muttered, and tucked his gun away. After that, the rest followed suit: they weren’t getting paid to die for Flynn’s debt; no money in the world could have bought that kind of loyalty.
The guards went back into the casino one by one, filing in, no doubt, to try to figure out who was next in command, who would be in charge of the whole operation now that Flynn had been turned over to the Banshees. Lucas and Fitz, Brian and the prospect all got off of their bikes and fetched Tommy Flynn, whose head was lolling to one side. I knew, and so did everyone else in that parking lot, that Tommy Flynn would not survive the night.
Oliver came back over to the truck and I unlocked the doors for him. He climbed silently inside before he put the truck in gear and began to pull out of the parking lot.
My eyes were fixed on Lucas, and he met my gaze for a few moments through the window. There was something remorseful about his expression — sorry that he put me in that situation, and sorrier that he had not been the one to get me out. I felt a pang in my heart, that old familiar feeling that swept over me whenever I knew that Lucas was beating himself up. But he should have been beating himself up — this was his fault. This was the club’s fault, and it was his club. And I had gotten myself out of it, with the help of my unlikely friend.
I turned away from Lucas then, and looked at Oliver, who was steely-eyed as he turned onto an old dirt road that led away from the casino. I swallowed hard — every part of me still ached — and reached out to place my hand on his forearm as he drove.
“Oliver, I—”
“Please,” he whispered, without so much as a glance in my direction, “I can’t talk yet.”
I withdrew my hand and turned to peer out of the window as we made our way past a thin line of trees and out onto a brightly lit road, a main thoroughfare that would take us all the way home.
Home, that was, to Oliver’s. We pulled into the small lot by his apartment, and I climbed out of the truck without a word, following him up the stairs and stepping silently into his studio. He headed straight for the bathroom, and I followed him, standing lamely in the doorway as he ran the bath, dipping his fingers in to test the water.
He approached me then and ever so gently untied the strip of fabric that I’d secured around my head. He pulled it away, and I sucked in my breath between my teeth, pained by the scabs that were pulled off with the strip of fabric. He carefully lifted the matted mess of my hair and examined the wound. “I don’t think you’ll be needing stitches,” he remarked. “It’s starting to dry up, but we’ll take you in to the doctor’s if you like.”
“No,” I muttered. “I think I’m all right.” For some reason, I didn’t want to leave his side. I was afraid he would take me to the hospital and leave me there and I’d be all alone again, and I couldn’t stomach the thought.
“I’ll leave you to bathe, then,” he said, and began to step awkwardly around me.
“Please, wait,” I said, not knowing precisely how to follow up my exclamation. “I…” I glanced between him and the door and the tub and clutched my fingers in front of me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and shuddered at the sight: I was much dirtier than I had originally thought I’d been, and my midriff was exposed from my field triage. “I really don’t want to be alone right now. Could you please stay?”
“All right,” he said, and he put down the toilet seat cover and sat atop it, demurring while I tugged my clothes off and turning away so that I might have some privacy. I thought it odd, considering our past. But p
erhaps he didn’t care to see me this way anymore, since he had essentially murdered his father in order to save me. Or, if not murdered him, then handed him over to the ones who would certainly finish the job. Perhaps he resented me.
I dropped my ruined tee shirt to the floor and shimmied out of my jeans and panties, until I was naked in the steam. I dipped one toe into the water and, pleased with the temperature, stepped fully into the bath and lowered myself down. I heaved a sigh of pure relief as I sunk down into the hot water, soothed by it.
“I have these…old things…” Oliver rose to his feet and rifled in the medicine cabinet. After a while, he produced two purple bath beads, which he dropped into the water. The air was almost immediately scented sweetly with lilac, honeysuckle, and lavender. “An old girlfriend left them, I think,” he muttered, and resumed his seat on the toilet.
“Thanks,” I said. I took in a deep breath and dunked my head down under the water. I was tall and didn’t quite fit, but if I turned my knees to the side, I could fully submerge myself. I closed my eyes and listened to my heart beat in my ears, allowing everything to fade but the sound of my heart. And when I came up again, Oliver was sitting on the side of the tub, squeezing shampoo into the palm of his hand.
“Lean forward,” he said, his voice low and warm, quiet and full of patience. I did as he bid me, and hugged my knees to my chest as he gently began to lather my hair, mindful of the wound on the back of my head. He dipped his soapy hands into the water and stood up to fetch the detachable showerhead, which he turned on and used to gently rinse the shampoo from my hair, careful to place a hand at my hairline so that no soap got into my eyes. He did the same with conditioner, his touch tender and cautious. And finally he lathered a sea sponge with body wash and ran it up my arms, over the slopes of my shoulders, and down my back. I was completely at ease, his mild ministrations calming my mind as well as my body; he made me feel safe.
I leaned back against the back of the tub and sighed, even as my nipples grew hard in the comparatively cool air out of the water. Oliver peered down at me and touched my cheek with such tenderness, it almost startled me. He trailed his fingertips over my cheek and along the line of my jaw, past my neck and over my collarbone, down along the curve of my breast. He paused at my nipple, which he rubbed between his thumb and index finger, before he leaned forward to take that same nipple between his lips. He sucked gently, trailing his other hand down into the water between my legs, where he toyed absently with the flesh between my thighs.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered into my damp hair, “I have to have you.”
“Why are you sorry?” I asked, lifting my hand out of the water so that the little droplets made music as they hit the surface of the water, and curled my fingers around the back of his neck.
“Because you’ve just had this awful experience; and I’ve just had this awful experience, and all I want to do is crawl between your legs and find comfort with you.”
I tugged him toward me and pressed my lips to his, kissing him softly at first, then more fervently, as my tongue explored the cavern of his mouth. He kissed me back, breaking away only to tug his shirt off over his head.
“Get in with me,” I said, and he kicked off his shoes and undid the button on his jeans.
“You’re sure?” he asked, and I nodded my head, watching him as he unzipped his pants and tugged down his boxers. His cock sprang free, fully erect, and he climbed into the tub at my feet. When he sat down, water sloshed over the side, soaking his clothes and mine, and we couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little.
“Come here,” he said, and I crawled forward, more water splashing as I moved. I had one knee on either side of his legs as I pressed my hand to his chest and leaned forward to kiss him again. He cupped my cheek with one strong hand and used the other to draw me close so that my breasts were pressed up against the strong, broad mass of his chest. I settled in against him, relaxing, and felt his hardness pressed against my Venus mound, ready, pulsing with his desire.
I sat up slightly and reached down between us, taking his turgid member into my hand and stroking gently. I could feel a tingling between my legs as I longed for his attention, and he obliged, lifting a hand to rub against the engorged pith of my sex. I moaned gently as he continued to rub my clit, and couldn’t help but press my pelvis into his hand as he moved. I leaned forward again, and he reached down with both hands so that he could spread me open and press the head of his cock against my opening. I settled down onto him as he rocked his cock into me, just the tip at first, until I opened for him and could take more, and then more, and finally all of him into me.
I sat atop him like that for a long, still moment, the full length of him inside of me, and wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He enveloped me in his embrace then, holding on to me as he began to rock his hips forward, and back, forward and back, filling me, then emptying me, then filling me up again.
I knew the water was doing us few favors, so after a few warm moments, I climbed off of him and lifted myself up out of the water, careless about where I sent the droplets that were dripping off of me. I stepped onto the bathmat and turned to peer at him over my shoulder, curling a finger to beckon him to follow me.
Then, I moved out into the main living space of his small apartment and found my way over to his bed. I lay down atop it and spread my knees wide, sliding my middle finger between my nether lips to rub myself to full arousal.
He followed close behind me and stood at the foot of the bed, the water running down over his finely sculpted and sinewy form, and watched me. “My God,” he said, his voice catching in the back of his throat, “but you are a beauty.” He took his cock in his fist and stroked himself to full rigidity, even as I could feel my natural lubrication beneath my fingertip.
He moved forward then, and I locked my eyes on him, drawing pleasure simply from the act of watching him move. He dropped down to his knees in front of me and buried his face between my thighs, plunging his tongue deep into the opening of my sex. I gasped and reached down to tangle my fingers in his hair, pressing his face into me as he lapped gently at my clit.
“Please,” I moaned, “Please…,” and he knew what I was begging for without my actually having to finish the thought. He stood up and gripped me by the hips, using his considerable strength to flip me over onto my tummy. He tugged me toward him by my hips so that I was forced up onto my knees, and I could feel the mattress give behind me as he crawled onto the bed. He directed his cock into me and thrust in, fully and fast, with such force that I let out a cry.
“I’m sorry,” he growled, “I cannot be gentle.” He buried his fingers in the soft flesh of my hips, gripping me fiercely as he plunged himself deeper and deeper into me with each stroke. And I lost myself to the sensation, allowing my consciousness to be reduced only to where the head of his member was hitting my G-spot. I focused only on that, pressing my cheek against the mattress, and gripping the blankets in both of my fists. I felt his pace slow slightly then as he thrust himself fully into me once, and again, and a third time before he became still; I could feel the veins in his cock pulsing as he shot his load into me, and we were both panting as he bent forward and placed a string of kisses on my back. We remained still like that for a long moment before he drew out of me, and I could feel the hot stream of his ejaculate running down my thigh.
“Lay down,” he said, his tone breathy and fervent. I turned over and lay on my back, allowing my knees to fall open. Oliver came forward and knelt on the mattress in front of me, sliding two of his fingers into me, using his own come as lubrication. He worked me steadily, his fingers brushing that sensitive spot that his cock had touched.
After a few moments of him using his fingers, he bent forward and flicked my clit with the tip of his tongue. This type of attention quickly brought on my climax, and I came with a cry, my hips bucking as my body was wracked with pleasure. He stayed still for a long time after my orgasm subsided, his fingers still inside of me,
though eventually he moved to lie down next to me.
“I was so afraid,” he whispered in the darkness as he pulled his fingers out of me, “so afraid that they would have hurt you before I could get to you.” I gripped him by the wrist and pulled his hand up to my lips so that I could lick his fingers clean of the remnants of our lovemaking. I could hear the smile in his voice as I reveled in the taste of us. “I should have known better than to worry too much about you.”
“I’m glad you were there,” I said, turning to face him so that I could see the outline of his profile in moonlight that seeped in through the window. “I didn’t exactly have a plan, so I’m not sure what I would have done if I hadn’t run into you.”
“Lucky had a plan,” he said, almost begrudgingly.
“Oh? What was it?”
And Oliver told me the story. Apparently, Lucas had tracked down Oliver immediately after Flynn had taken me, even before he’d gone to collect the rest of the Iron Banshees. He’d found Oliver at the gym, preparing for his next match. He’d dismissed everyone else out of the locker room so that the two of them could talk in private.
“Something’s happened,” Lucas had said, pacing back and forth in front of the bench where Oliver stood. Oliver told me how pale he’d looked, how all the blood and life had drained from his features, how he’d never seen him so tense.
“What?” Oliver had asked, disinterested in any of the club’s goings-on. He’d spent enough time cleaning up other people’s messes; he wasn’t immediately captivated by the idea of doing yet another favor for Lucas Whalen.
MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: (Complete Series: Parts 1-5) An MC Fighter Menage Romance Page 9