by Penny Reid
“Please.” She came down harder, her hips jerking.
I’d just unfastened the button at her stomach when she grabbed the edges of the fabric and tugged roughly. She unhooked her bra in the front, tore it open, grabbed my hands, and brought them to her breasts.
Her breath hitched, her eyes closed, and her face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and anguish.
“I love you.” She confessed on a breath, “I—”
I captured the rest of her words with a kiss, unable to help myself. And then, as I tugged her nipples, a sharp sound of gratification wrenched from her throat. I captured that too, wanting it all.
She was coming. Hard. Her body bowed, her short nails digging into my hands where she held them. I felt it—every spasm, every tremor—and the back of my throat burned with the need to take over.
“Beau,” gasping for breath, her forehead fell to my shoulder, “That was—”
With one frenzied movement, I lifted her from my lap to the bench seat beside me, tugging her legs so she was lying down, and spreading her wide, ripping her flimsy lace underwear from her body in the process.
“We’re not done.” I climbed on top, one knee on the seat, my other leg braced on nothing. I buried my face in her breasts, licking and biting and tasting each inch. Her fingers anchored into the back of my head and she arched her back.
It was now hot in the car. Hot and muggy. The windows were fogged. I hit my head on the ceiling of the car, trying to position myself.
Shelly laughed, then moaned as I fingered her, sliding my hand down the inside of her thigh to hook around her knee.
“Move this leg.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
Wearing a look of concentration, she folded it up to her chest. “How is that?”
I eased forward carefully, exhaling my relief to be inside her. She gave me a sweet sound, one of pleasure and mindlessness.
Finally, driving into her like I’d wanted, like I’d needed, I answered, “Fucking fantastic.”
There was nothing slow about the pace I set, but it was deliberate. She was pushed up each time I thrust and had to brace her hands against the door to keep from hitting her head. And her breasts? Fucking amazing as they bounced and teased me. The way Shelly bit her bottom lip—and the moans and pants—told me she didn’t mind.
And when her sharp cry pierced the car, I sucked her bottom lip into my mouth, needing the taste of her on my tongue as I came along with her, mindlessly grunting as I curved my body over and inside hers.
I’d like to say I didn’t collapse, crushing her beneath me. But I did. My cheek pressed against her bare breast and I struggled to breathe, to think, to move.
I couldn’t.
At least, not for a while.
Her fingers in my hair, caressing my temple and jaw, eventually woke me to the moment. And then her words did.
“You never cuss, except when we have sex. Then you cuss a lot.”
I blinked. “Does it bother you?”
“No. Do you think I should switch to a blend of almond milk and coconut milk?”
I grinned, shaking my head at her randomness—as much as I was able—and moved to sit up.
“Don’t,” she held me tight, “not yet.”
“Your leg?”
“It will recover.”
I chuckled, forcing her to let me go, and kissed both her breasts on my way up. I helped her straighten and move her leg, gave her a hand so she could sit up, and then I restored my pants. I didn’t bother to button them, though.
I was too busy watching. Her dress was still gaping open, as was her bra. The skirt around her hips showcased her long legs and the triangle of tantalizing hair at the apex of her thighs. Yet she paid no mind.
She was searching the car for something, apparently oblivious to her state of undress. “Do you have any napkins in here?”
“You are so fucking sexy, Shelly Sullivan.”
Her eyes moved to my face, and I remembered that she couldn’t see me, not with the windows fogged and the waning moon.
“I’m glad you think so, Beau Winston. Because I think you’re so fucking sexy, too.”
I grinned at that.
But she wasn’t finished yet. “I want you to love me always.” Her tone was contemplative as she opened the glove compartment, finding her napkin. “How can I make sure that happens?”
Reaching for one of the open flaps of her dress, I tugged her forward, kissed her soft mouth, then slid my nose along hers, whispering, “You keep being you, that’s all you need to do.”
34
“Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.”
― Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank
* * *
*Beau*
* * *
“Turn up the heat.”
Duane studied me. “How can you be cold?”
“’Cause it’s literally freezing outside. Now turn up the heat.”
“Fine.” Duane revved the engine of his Road Runner and turned up the dial on the heat.
We’d decided it would be best if he drove. Firstly, his car was black and mine was red. Tracking his car at night was near impossible. If we needed to make a quick getaway—which was always a possibility when dealing with the Wraiths—then being difficult to spot was just as important as being fast.
Secondly, this was one of the last times Duane would get to drive his car for the foreseeable future. And that was just sad.
It was cold at our house down in the Valley, but it was ten to fifteen degrees colder in the mountains. Cooper’s Field—up on the top of a ridge—always felt colder than most spots. I’d packed a thermos of strong coffee, but we’d finished it a half hour ago while shooting the shit.
With nothing warm to hold or drink, my teeth were chattering. I’d made my brother turn his car back on so we could use the heat.
“Are we playing good cop, bad cop? Or what’s the plan?” I rubbed my hands together, wishing I’d worn gloves.
Christine and Drill were due to arrive at any moment and we’d neglected to agree upon a strategy. Instead, we’d talked about Duane’s plans for Italy and the family’s plans for Thanksgiving. This would be his first year missing Thanksgiving, so I’d decided to taunt him with a list of pies and cakes on the menu.
I reckoned we’d skipped a strategy discussion because we always played off each other, with Duane being the bad cop and me being the good cop.
But to my surprise, Duane shook his head. “Nope,” he peered out his window toward the entrance to the field, “We’ll both be bad cop this time.”
“Oh.” I smirked. “You’ll have to give me some pointers.”
“I think you’ll do fine.” He turned back to me, the set of his mouth hard. “Just picture our momma’s face when Christine showed up pregnant.”
A sour lump settled in the pit of my stomach, making me wish I’d had less coffee. “She was a saint.”
“Who?”
“Momma.”
Duane gave a short nod. “I can’t imagine, what it must’ve been like for her, adopting us. Looking at the proof of your husband’s infidelity for twenty-three years. Why did she do it?”
“I don’t know.” Growing up, I took for granted that I knew my mother, that I understood her. Clearly, I had no idea.
“I wish we could ask her.” Duane rubbed at a spot on his steering wheel.
“She’d probably give us one of her quotes, something like, ‘If God gives you twin hell-raisers, smother them with bacon and ice cream until they surrender.’”
Duane’s scowl softened. “I have a few favorites of hers.”
“Me too.”
We were quiet for a while, likely both thinking about our mother and all the times she’d been patient and wise. Granted, there’d been lots of times she hadn’t been patient or wise, but I supposed she was entitled to her frustrations. Lord knows, we’d deserved every bout of anger she’d tossed our way.
Out of
nowhere, Duane asked, “Why’d you press the button?”
“Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “When Momma was dying, that one night she wouldn’t press the button. Remember that? She was in pain and she wouldn’t give herself the morphine. We stood there like dummies, Ashley and me. Cletus and Jethro walked in. They wouldn’t have done it either. But you did. You gave her the meds. You took away her pain.”
I couldn’t hold my brother’s eyes and recall the memory at the same time, so I looked at my hands. “It was hard on all of us, watching her like that.”
We’d all watched her suffer—for a time—because it was her will. It was her choice. We watched her suffer until the pain threatened to swallow her whole. She was so stubborn. She didn’t want to dull a single moment for us. She worried the medication would change her, diminish the remainder of the time we had together.
And I understood that.
I really did.
But she needed those meds.
“So why? Why do you think you could do it when the rest of us couldn’t?”
“I guess . . . it’s what you said.” I picked a loose thread at the knee of my jeans.
“What’s that?”
“She was setting herself on fire to keep us warm,” I lifted my eyes back to my brother, comprehension eclipsing his earlier curiosity, “And I couldn’t let her do that anymore.”
Duane’s brow cleared as he stared at me, and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stiffened, turning his attention back out his window. I heard the rumble of approaching motorcycles at the same moment.
“They’re here,” I said unnecessarily, the ball in my stomach curdling.
“I see only two bikes.”
“Yeah, I told Drill no backup.”
“Does he know I’ll be here?” Duane unlocked his door.
“Yep.”
My brother’s eyes cut to mine. “You trust him?”
“He seems like a decent fella.” I shrugged.
“He’s one of them.”
“I know that, Duane. But not all those guys are evil bastards—like Razor, like our daddy—some of them are just regular guys who are lost, looking for a place to go.”
He was shaking his head before I finished speaking, popping open his door. “You might not have been Bethany’s kid biologically, but you sure did inherit her soft heart.”
He didn’t say this like it was a bad thing or a good thing, but rather something that mystified him; like giving folks the benefit of the doubt went against his nature.
“Come on.” Duane indicated with his head toward where Drill and Christine were dismounting their bikes some twenty feet beyond the hood of his car. “Let’s get this over with.”
Drawing in a bracing breath, I exited the Road Runner and walked around to the hood.
My twin had left his headlights on and so had they, basking our foursome in pale light. I loitered at the hood of the car while Duane stopped a few feet away as Drill and Christine approached. But then Christine held her hand up to Drill, saying something we couldn’t hear, and he nodded. The big guy fell back and she continued forward without him.
Studying her now, maybe for the first time with any interest, I saw she was a pretty woman. She lacked a hardness that I’d seen in others who’d lived and breathed the lifestyle. Yeah, she was decked out in leather from head to toe, but all the lines on her face looked like laugh lines.
Her gaze moved between us and then rested on mine as a soft smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Hey, baby.”
Duane made a quiet grunting noise in the back of his throat—like a growl and a sigh at the same time—a sign that he was already irritated.
I nodded my head once, but made no move to touch her. “Christine.”
“You didn’t need to bring reinforcements.” Her smile grew, her tone teasing.
“I have questions,” Duane announced, his tone flat.
Christine stuck her hands in the back pockets of her leather pants, giving Duane a mock-serious look, like she was making fun of him. “Fine, baby. Ask your questions.”
Duane’s eyes darted to mine, and then away. “How do you know we’re not Razor’s kids?”
Her eyebrows bounced high on her forehead. “Getting right down to business?”
“Yep.”
“Fine,” she moved her eyes to some point behind us and they grew unfocused, “My old man was up in Memphis at the time I got pregnant with you boys, and for a year after that.” By Memphis, she meant The Federal Correctional Institution in Memphis. “Darrell was in charge while Razor was gone, and that meant he saw to my needs until my man was released.”
Usually, at this point, I’d be trying to disguise the disgust behind a polite smile. But not this time. This time we were both bad cop and I could let my grimace of revulsion show.
“You know, Razor shares everything with your daddy,” she sounded almost whimsical. “He loves him like a brother. It’s a beautiful thing.”
Gag.
“He shares everything? Even you?” Duane lifted an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Even me.” She gave us a sly smile that made me want to throw up. Unfortunately, she wasn’t finished. “Razor has only shared me with one man, and that’s because he knows your daddy’s worth. Y’all would do well to treat Darrell with the respect he deserves.”
Yeah. . . I’m probably going to throw up.
“Who else knows?” I leaned against the hood of the Road Runner, crossing my feet at my ankles and hoping we could move away from the sharing portion of this discussion.
“Knows?” She turned her attention to me, her wide blue eyes looking pale grey.
“That you’re our biological parent, who knows?”
“Drill here knows,” she tossed a thumb over her shoulder, “I told him so he’d understand why I needed his help. Repo knows. He took me to Texas, kept me in a safe house while I was pregnant, until your momm—that is, until Bethany came for you boys.”
“What about Razor?” Duane scratched his chin.
Christine seemed to stiffen, but her easy expression didn’t budge. “He doesn’t need to know.”
I glanced at Duane, wondered what he was thinking.
My brother nodded slowly. “So, you had Darrell’s sons, but Razor doesn’t know?”
She shrugged, widening her smile. “He’s a busy man, with lots of important things on his mind. My job is to keep him happy.”
“And you having babies with Darrell wouldn’t make him happy?”
Christine didn’t answer, but her easy-going expression was now edged with irritation.
“I don’t get it,” I shook my head at her, allowing my confusion to show. “Why have us at all if you were just going to give us up for adoption to Darrell’s wife?”
“Your daddy knew what he was doing.” She said this with admiration. “I trust him to look after things.”
Duane and I shared a glance.
“What does that mean?” My twin folded his arms, tilting his head to the side.
“It means, he was looking out for your best interests.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.” Duane sighed. “He didn’t want us raised in the club?”
“Oh no, it wasn’t that. Y’all, all you boys, and Ashley too, you were all supposed to be raised right.”
By ‘raised right’ I assumed she meant we were supposed to be raised as future recruits for the Iron Wraiths, and Ashley as a . . . old lady?
“He’s not stupid. Darrell knew how much money that Bethany Oliver was worth.” She gave me a soft smile. “He wanted you to have your fair share.”
“Fair share?” Duane’s frown was severe. “You mean, he wanted us to have a claim on her money?”
“Of course,” she grinned, like this was obvious.
My stomach hurt. I . . . I couldn’t believe this. Definitely going to be throwing up at some point.
Duane cleared his throat. “Why tell Beau? Why not me?” His v
oice was now quiet, like he was trying to keep it even.
“You’re leaving.” She shrugged, and then turned her eyes to me. “We weren’t expecting twins. There was only supposed to be one of you.”
“You didn’t know you were having twins?” I found that unlikely.
“No. I knew. But two babies wasn’t the original plan.”
I shook my head at her. Darrell, Christine, Razor—they were all despicable. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. I’d been happy in my ignorance. Duane was right, learning her reasons for telling us the truth wasn’t going to lead anywhere good.
And now I was running out of patience.
Before I could call an end to this ridiculous spectacle—because now I truly had no desire to hear any more—Duane asked, “So why now? Why approach Beau now?”
She gave me a smile. “It was time.”
“Why? Why was it time?” Duane pushed.
“I knew he’d want to help his daddy.” Her smile persisted, soft and sweet, like cotton candy.
My twin and I swapped another stare, communicating silently something along the lines of,
Duane: What the hell is she talking about?
Me: I have no idea, but I think she drank the Kool-Aid.
Duane: Forget the Kool-Aid, she went straight for the antifreeze.
“He’s up for parole,” she volunteered, now speaking exclusively to me.
My mouth fell open at this news, a sudden spike of dread radiating out from my chest to my fingertips. “What?”
“Not yet, but soon.” Her smile grew.
No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
“Darrell?” I couldn’t believe what she was telling us. “Darrell is up for parole?”
“He’s only been in for a year.” Duane shuffled a step forward, his hands coming to his hips.
I straightened from the hood of the Road Runner, shifting closer to Duane. I reckoned he was dealing with the same level of shock and fury I was dealing with.
“Yeah, but attempted kidnapping ain’t no big deal.” Christine waved this off. “It’s a Class C felony in Tennessee. Plus, it was his own kids. No harm was done.”