BRICK (Lords of Carnage MC)

by Daphne Loveling

  My cock thickens and strains against my zipper.

  “He seems like the kind of guy who makes a hobby out of being pissed,” I remark.

  She nods, and turns back to me. “Maybe,” she agrees. “I just don’t like it when I feel like I’ve disappointed someone. You know?”

  I shrug. “Can’t please everyone,” I say.

  She smirks. “Well, pleasing everyone is kind of what makes a successful business.”

  I break off a bite of the scone and put it in my mouth. I chew for a couple of seconds, then raise my eyebrows. “Damn. This is good.”

  She laughs outright. “That was fake as hell. You just said that right on cue to make me feel better.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean.”

  She eyes me speculatively and quirks up her strawberry lips, considering. “Not sure I buy that.”

  “Do I look like a people-pleaser?” I ask sardonically.

  She laughs again, throwing her head back and exposing her throat. Fuck. My cock is instantly hard as a bat. I don’t even know why a throat would do this to me. But hers does. I want to nip at the skin. I want to feel the vibrations of her moan against my lips as I tease her. I want to hear her breath catch in her throat as her pulse starts to race.

  I shift uncomfortably, thankful for the table hiding my obvious erection. “Name’s Brick,” I say thickly.

  “I know.” Still smiling, she nods toward the patch on my cut.

  “Right,” I chuckle. For a second, neither of us says anything. “So,” I prompt, “This is the point where you say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Brick. My name’s…’”

  Her expression falters for just a second. She bites her strawberry lip. “Sydney,” she says finally.

  I listen to the music of her name. It’s unique. It seems to suit her.

  “As in Australia?”

  “Exactly.” She seems surprised. “With a Y. I mean, with two Y’s. S-y-d.”

  I nod.

  “Is Brick your real name?” she asks.

  “It’s a road name. A nickname,” I clarify.

  “Oh.” After a moment, she asks, “What’s your real name?”

  I don’t know why I don’t just tell her it’s none of her business. I think about it.

  A few seconds pass.

  “Gavin,” I finally grunt.

  She takes a moment to consider this.

  “Pleased to meet you, Gavin,” she corrects.

  I haven’t heard anyone say my given name in a long time. It feels strange to hear it on her lips.

  Not sure how I feel about it.

  “You the owner here?” I say, to distract myself.

  “Yeah.” A small, proud smile shifts the corners of her mouth.

  “The place seems to be doing pretty well,” I remark. “It was busy in here today.”

  “Thanks. She flushes slightly with pleasure. “It seems like the morning rush just gets bigger every week.”

  “That’s great. You must be doing something right.”

  “Maybe. Though, you wouldn’t know it right now,” she says with a rueful grin.

  I glance around. We’re alone in the shop.

  “You’re pretty young to own your own business,” I observe. “You some kind of trust fund kid?”

  She snorts. “Hardly.”

  “Witness protection plan, then,” I joke.

  Something in her face contracts. It’s almost instantaneous, and abrupt. “Look, I don’t think it’s really any of your business, do you?” she half-snaps.

  “Jesus, don’t get your panties in a twist,” I protest, raising my eyebrows. I don’t know what button I’ve pushed, but I’ve clearly rankled her. Shit, maybe she really is in WITSEC. “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Really?” she retorts with a cold scowl. “Talking about my panties is supposed to be a compliment?”

  Fuck, the temperature in this place just went down ten degrees. She’s got a temper on her, that’s for sure.

  “No, not that, for fuck’s sake,” I say in frustration. “Look, it’s just an expression. I’m sorry, okay?” I hold up one hand in a truce signal. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d say it to a guy, too.”

  Just then a phone rings in the back. She frowns at me and shakes her head. “Excuse me,” she murmurs, and moves off back behind the counter. I get another good look at her ass, and also her legs in her tight little jeans.

  And wonder what kind of panties she’s wearing.

  While she’s talking on the phone, I pull out my cell and look something up.

  “It’s Czech,” I say as soon as she hangs up.

  “What?” She’s confused. Good. Maybe I can distract her from the panties thing before she remembers to get riled up again.

  “Kolaches,” I say. I wave my cell at her, then read from the screen. “Says here they’re ‘a type of pastry that holds a dollop of fruit, rimmed by a puffy pillow of supple dough.’ Apparently, it’s a thing from Eastern Europe. Czechoslovakia.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Oh.”

  “I guess they’re a thing around here. Never heard of it, though.”

  “Me, neither,” she frowns. “Though I’m not from here originally.”

  “I gathered. Most people from around here seem to know everyone else. Where are you from?”

  “Um.” She raises a distracted hand to her ponytail and starts to play with the end. “New Jersey.” Her eyes flick away from me. Huh. She really doesn’t seem to like personal questions. “You?”

  “New York. Upstate. Near Seneca Lake.”

  “Oh, wow, I’ve been there!” The sullen expression leaves her face as her eyes turn suddenly luminous. “My dad took me once. It’s beautiful!”

  “Yeah,” I grunt. Objectively, she’s not wrong. My mind flashes on the crystalline lake of my childhood, and I imagine what it would look like to an outsider: Peaceful. Calm. Idyllic.

  Pretty much the exact opposite of my childhood.

  I let out a little snort as I think about my main memories of living there. My drunk-ass piece of shit father. My mother, who eventually started drinking even more than he did. The foster families I ended up living with because she couldn’t take care of my sister and me after my dad went to prison. The goddamn shit show that was our joke of a family. A bitter taste rises up in my gorge, but I push it back down and take a swig of my coffee.

  If Sydney notices any change in me, she doesn’t let on. “Why did you leave?” she asks innocently, and then seems to think better of it. “Sorry,” she says with an apologetic shrug. “That’s really none of my business.”

  “No, it’s okay.” I set the cup down. I’m sure as hell not going to unpack my life story for her, but I’m used to giving people the cleaned-up version. Shit, maybe if I give her a couple details about me, she’ll let her guard down a little bit and tell me more about herself. “I joined the military right out of high school,” I tell her. “Marines. Ended up here in Tanner Springs after my tour was over because a buddy of mine is from here.”

  She lifts a brow. “You were a Marine? For how—”

  An ear-splitting explosion and blinding flash of light cuts off her words, making her shriek with fright. It’s coming from the kitchen.

  And whatever it is, it just started a fire.

  4

  Sydney

  “Jesus,” Brick — Gavin — roars, jumping to his feet. “What the hell was that?”

  “I don’t know!” I cry, looking toward the back. My heart starts racing about a million miles an hour. It feels like it’s about to burst through my chest.

  He is across the room in a manner of seconds. Dazedly, I follow close behind, terrified but suddenly glad I’m not alone in the shop. In the kitchen, a column of flames has erupted from one of the burners of the stove. Gavin looks around and yanks the fire extinguisher from the wall. He pulls the pin, aims the nozzle, and squeezes the lever.

  Nothing happens.

  “Fuck,” he shouts. “Where’s
your baking soda?”

  I start to tell him, but then have a better idea. “Wait!” I cry. “Get that lid over there!” He looks to where I’m pointing. I grab an oven glove and gingerly reach out to turn off the burner, and Gavin takes the large, flat lid and tosses it over the pan.

  And just like that, the fire goes out, as quickly as it started.

  “Holy shit,” I gasp, leaning over. I put my hands on my knees and take a few deep breaths, willing myself not to hyperventilate.

  Gavin sets the extinguisher on the counter. “Why the hell don’t you have a working extinguisher in here?” he rasps.

  Truth be told, I didn’t know the extinguisher didn’t work. It was fine when the fire marshal tested it out during the inspection. But Gavin talking to me like I’m some kind of stupid child, and I hate it when people talk to me like that. Especially men.

  “It would have contaminated the entire kitchen if you’d used that,” I pant, and take another deep breath to calm myself.

  “Who the fuck cares?” he growls. “This whole place could have burned down. That would have been pretty goddamn ‘contaminated,’ too.”

  “Well, it didn’t,” I shoot back angrily. “So we’re fine.”

  “Jesus Christ…” he runs a rough hand through his dark hair, looking like he is contemplating strangling me.

  “Look.” I reach over, leaning in toward him, and pick up a small metal object from the counter. “Here’s the culprit.” I hold out my hand so he can see it. It looks kind of like a large bullet with one end exploded.

  “It’s a nitrous oxide cartridge,” I explain. “For the whipped cream dispenser. I must have left it on the stove top somehow. I guess it got too close to the flames and exploded.”

  He stares at it for a second, then looks over at the wall — which has a nitrous-oxide-sized dent in it at about chest level. “And that’s where it hit when it flew,” he says, pointing to the dent. For the first time, I notice that the skin on the back of his left hand is deeply scarred, like burns that have healed. The scarring continues halfway up his forearm, where it’s partially obscured by an elaborate tattoo, of a skull half in shadow.

  I hold the cartridge up to the dent he’s pointing at and compare them. “Yeah, I bet you’re right,” I say. “I don’t remember that dent being there before.”

  “Jesus,” he mutters. “What the fuck were you doing, Sydney, leaving that thing lying around? What do you think that fucking cartridge would have done to you if you’d been in here?”

  “Oh, calm down,” I snap. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Nothing bad happened.” He’s making me feel like an idiot, and that just makes me madder.

  “It could have taken out your eye. Or worse.”

  I let out a snort. “Oh, my God, lighten up! You sound like someone’s grandmother.”

  “Goddamnit, I’m serious!” he grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward him. I’m so stunned I don’t even think to pull away. “What if that thing had hit you in the chest, Sydney? If it could put a dent like that in the wall, what would it have done to you? What if it had hit you here?” His thumb grazes the skin just above the V of my T-shirt. “Or here?”

  “I…” I stammer. The shock of his touch, so intimate, sends a jolt through me that sends everything into sharp relief. With him this close, his black eyes staring at me intensely, I’m a little bit scared, and also very, very aware that I’m completely alone with a man I barely know. A man who absolutely radiates sex and power. I can feel my body stiffen, even as heat begins to grow between my legs.

  He must feel that he’s frightened me, because a second later he loosens his grip on my wrist and pulls back just a little.

  “Fuck,” he mutters, and shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry. But Jesus. You could be on your way to the emergency room right now. You get that, don’t you?”

  He’s right, of course. If I’d been in the kitchen just now, I could have gotten seriously hurt. Burned, or worse. I’ve been trying to downplay it all, but thinking about how close I came to a life-changing accident sends a tremor of belated adrenaline through me. Suddenly, I feel just a little bit faint. My lip trembles, and I bite down on it so he won’t notice. I take a deep breath.

  “I get that I could have been hurt,” I murmur, my voice almost cracking. “I just… prefer not to dwell on it. It didn’t happen. Everything’s fine. That’s the important part. Okay?”

  I’m expecting him to bark at me again. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, in fact.

  He’s still holding on to my wrist.

  He pulls me just a little closer. I stare up at him — at his full, sensual lips. My skin starts to buzz. My nipples harden under my shirt.

  I stop breathing. I think he does, too.

  Gavin bends toward me. I make a small noise in my throat as my eyelids start to flutter shut.

  “Hello?” a voice calls from out in the shop. My lids fly open.

  He doesn’t move. His eyes remain locked on me. He’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

  “Be right there!” I call back. Wordlessly, I pull my wrist from his grasp and slip away from him, cheeks flushed pink.

  The voice out in the shop belongs to Mrs. Bauer, who’s come in with her little granddaughter in a stroller. With her, the mid-morning trickle of customers begins, and the tables begin to fill with the kinds of customers who linger over conversation and pastries. Mostly, it’s older ladies who come into the shop in pairs and threes, or young mothers pushing strollers in search of a little quiet time.

  It feels like a mercy that the pace of people coming in is just steady enough that I can avoid having to face Gavin again, after what almost happened back in the kitchen.

  Because something was about to happen. And like an idiot, I wasn’t going to do a damn thing to stop it.

  You would think that I’d have learned a lesson or two about avoiding dangerous men and sketchy situations, given that I’ve had plenty of experience sizing people up and figuring out which ones were a danger and which weren’t. I came to Tanner Springs in the first place precisely to leave my past behind — including one very bad mistake — and start fresh somewhere new. You’d think I’d be better by now at not jumping into stupid situations where I suddenly realize I’m in over my head.

  I feel Gavin’s presence as he slips behind me and out from behind the counter. He grabs his travel mug from his table and leaves without saying goodbye. I’m mostly relieved.

  And a little disappointed.

  As I get Mrs. Bauer’s coffee drink and help her little granddaughter pick out a cookie, I silently berate myself. What were you thinking, letting a complete stranger get that close to you? You don’t know the first thing about him, other than he likes coffee and rides a motorcycle. That’s Self-Defense 101, Sydney. And you failed.

  I ignore the argumentative second voice in my head — the one that’s telling me not to be ridiculous. He was just trying to help. Even though he was kind of an ass about it. You didn’t even thank him, by the way.

  Yeah, scoffs the first voice. That kind of ‘help,’ I definitely don’t need.

  More customers come in. I take their orders and bring them drinks. All the while, the image of Gavin’s face in my head. His look of anger mixed with concern as he grabbed my wrist.

  The subtle way his eyes changed just before he bent toward me.

  I shiver.

  I can still feel the rough skin of his fingers as they clasped onto my wrist.

  And the soft rasp of his thumb against the bare skin of my neck.

  My eyes close for a moment as I imagine the soft pillow of his lips on mine.

  I’m glad he’s gone, I tell myself. I’m glad nothing happened.

  So then why do I spend the rest of the day hoping it’s him every time the shop bell sounds?

  5

  Brick

  Her eyes are gray-green. The color of moss in shadow.

  They’re all I can see as I ride over to the garage with what’s left of my coffee.


  Goddamn, though, did those eyes look like they wanted to slay me dead for implying she couldn’t take care of herself. In spite of how pissed I still am, I almost chuckle at the memory. She is a feisty one — just like you’d guess from her mane of fiery red hair. Honestly, she does seem like she could probably hold her own against just about anybody. Something in her attitude makes me think she might have done a lot of fending for herself in her life. She’s not like the sheltered little girls I see sometimes around Tanner Springs, making sex eyes at my brothers and me, and then fleeing in terror when we look back, like we’re Satan’s minions incarnate.

  Sydney doesn’t have any of that fake bullshit attitude about her. She’s feminine as hell, without being girly. But at the same time, she doesn’t have the same hardness around the eyes that some of the chicks who hang around the club have.

  She definitely isn’t a trust fund kid, like I originally wondered. Something tells me she didn’t have an easy time of it, up there in Jersey. Which makes me wonder all the more how she ended up down here in eastern Ohio. What she was running to. Or running from.

  I’ve never seen eyes the color of Sydney’s before.

  I want to see them flash at me. I like the challenge in them.

  I want to see them flutter closed again, like they did just now when I was about to kiss her.

  Even though she pissed me off mightily with her bullshit attitude about that nitrous oxide explosion.

  My tires chew up the miles as I remember how much I wanted to momentarily shake some sense into that girl at her so-what reaction to the explosion. I wasn’t kidding when I said she could have been seriously hurt. Even now, the last of the adrenaline is still thrumming in my veins. I’m still itching to do something — to protect her — even though the whole thing was already over practically before it started.