Scarred: The Ruthless Rebels MC Series Book 3

by Michele, Ryan

  “Now, I don’t know what your relationship with him is, just know that man cares about you.” He says nothing more for a moment, then stands. His eyes meet mine, “I felt it placed on my heart to share with you. Something tells me, Roelyn Duprey, you don’t always see what you mean to others and most certainly the man with scars on his body and his soul.” Without another word, he walks to the front of the church and disappears, leaving me in the quiet.

  “I wish you were right. Too bad you’re not. There’s no future between Whitton and I,” I murmur to myself. Now, I just need to get over it and move on. It’s past time.

  Chapter 8

  Acid, fire, and love–they all burn fucking deep!

  “Whit, I don’t know if I can sit like this,” my brother says honestly, ready to crawl out of his own skin.

  “J.O.B.,” I reply as we sit at the diner across from the pawn shop on the end of the main street in our hometown. “Keep shit in perspective, TT. It ain’t about the Thorne twins, the trouble we are or were; it’s about Rebels. Check the past, brother.”

  I flick the lighter in my hand and watch the flame. I don’t smoke often, but I’m never without a light of some sort. The mugs of coffee in front of us have long since gone cold. Two hours we’ve sat here, breakfast was decent, but there is no activity at the pawn shop.

  Where would LaRoche get the cash to place the kind of order he has without having steady business? It doesn’t make sense, and things are not adding straight.

  Tossing some bills on the table to accommodate our extended stay, Waylon and I rise and head out to the truck. Trying not to draw the attention of our mark, Waylon and I left our cuts off and our bikes in Alabama. Unless someone sees us with our shirts off, there is no way to know we are Rebels. Our ink, if seen, will let anyone know who we are, but we’re making a conscious effort to keep covered.

  Transparency.

  We need it and luckily, we haven’t drawn too much attention in this town. With it being a weekday, most people are at work, hence why we thought pawn boy would be at his. We checked the hours on the door and according to them, he should be open, but not a peep, light on … nothing.

  “Let’s head around the side. It’s lookin’ like a long night, brother.”

  “Fuck!” Waylon barks in the passenger seat. I have to give credit where it’s due. He’s been toughing it out pretty good. Sure, he’s on pins and fucking needles, but he hasn’t tried ordering me to hightail it out of here quite yet. It’s surprising, but deep down, he knows this is for the club. We’ll do anything for them—even suffer.

  I pull the truck around the corner about a half a block into a parking lot with several cars. There are no bodies in the cars because they are more than likely in the building working. This gives us good cover, but we’re still able to see the comings and goings.

  It’s around four in the afternoon, so many of these people will be leaving around five-five thirty to go home for the night. We’ll stay on our toes to move before that happens.

  A week since I’ve been back here. All it’s been is a week since I laid eyes on Roe at the funeral. A week when I found out she had a kid and how happy she looked. At one time, I was going to give her that—kids, a home. Put a damn smile on her face every day. Life didn’t have it in the cards for me. Or I didn’t let it.

  I haven’t forgotten a single moment of seeing her, though, and my mouth stayed shut to everyone, including my brother. I sure as hell don’t need his shit about any of this. And he’s not one to talk, so best I keep it low.

  Cars begin to move a bit, but no one pays us much attention as they zoom out of the lot ready to be done with their day.

  My attention grabs when a nineties model Toyota Celica pulls up in front of the pawn shop and comes to a rolling stop. Two women sit inside of it smiling and laughing. The driver is none other than my Roe. What the fuck is she doing at a pawn shop?

  The woman in the passenger seat turns fully to Roe, wraps a hand around her neck and gives her a quick hug, still smiling the entire time. The woman exits the car, pulls out a set of keys, and opens the front door of the pawn shop then enters. Roe sits for a couple of beats then pulls out of the lot.

  “Is that who I think it is, brother?” Waylon asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck, she turned out good.”

  Anger spikes. “Shut the fuck up, Waylon.” Normally, I call him TT or Triple Threat with it being his club name, but being here among things so damn stuck in the past, his name just falls from my lips. He knows I’d follow him through the gates of hell, and I have. I really don’t need his shit about Roe.

  Roe drives away, her window down and hair blowing in the breeze, a smile playing on her face. She has no idea, but I’ve just marked her on my to do list. Whatever she knows about this pawn shop, needs to be my knowledge.

  Lights in the building turn on, but only faint ones in the back. The open sign isn’t lit up, nor is the front store. Strange.

  “Brother, we need to move. People are starting to look.”

  Sure enough, a couple leaving the parking lot we’re in blatantly stares at us as we sit. Fuck. “On it.” I crank the truck and pull out. Moving down the ways, we sit and watch. After for fucking ever and nothing happening, we head to the hotel. Not that either of us really wanted to stay the night, but we need to stake out the place tonight. Normally, pawn shops are hopping when the sun goes down. Lots of twisted shit hidden by the veil of nightfall.

  We need to be on our game.

  I pull and park in the lot. The hotel is a rink dink one, having not been there since I left years ago. Neither of us give a shit.

  “I’m gonna get some shut eye. Come get me in a coupla hours, and we can get to work,” Waylon says, opens the door, and gets out. He stands there staring at me. “You comin’ in?”

  “No. I’m headin’ over to talk to Roe.”

  “Brother, you sure you want to do that shit?”

  I turn to my brother. “No, I don’t. It’s the motherfuckin’ job, Waylon. I need to know why she’s there and what her involvement is.”

  “You want me to come?”

  “No.” The one syllable words comes out harsh.

  Acid runs through my veins. What is Roe’s life like now? I make the drive to her house where I’ll see her kid and possibly her man.

  I sit in front of her house watching, waiting. What lies behind that door? And the last thing I want to do is cause her any pain. Seeing me, what does it do to her? I read the emotions in her eyes when she saw me in the church. Pain and love.

  The thought burns.

  Deep.

  Chapter 9

  Baseball bats, fictional balls, and me answer the door to unexpected visitors!

  Okay, so my door lacks a peep hole. I’ve never cared before, but my mind, my body, it’s all on alert when there is a pounding at the front door just after dinner.

  I’m not expecting anyone, and frankly, like the magnet inside the etch-a-sketch my body seems to come alive in reaction to whatever lies on the other side of my front door. No one ever comes over, really. At least not unexpected. As a woman living alone, I’m prepared for whatever lies on the other side.

  With my baseball at the ready inside the door leaning against the wall, my fictional balls ready to defend my home, I turn the knob and pull the wooden piece back exposing myself to the unknown.

  Shit!

  My heart rapidly beats in my chest, a rush assaults my ears. In front of me stands a scarred man with eyes so crystal blue and yet so darkened with the past he lives with it causes me to step back.

  Whitton’s presence has always consumed me, but the way his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deep tell me this is as hard for him as it is me.

  Yet, I can’t help but wonder. “Why are you here?” I whisper.

  He steps inside my space; I step back, releasing the door to which he again moves forward to close his escape behind him.

  “The kid?” he asks, looking around me.
>
  “Huh?”

  Those ice blue eyes come back to mine, and there is a look of agitation in them that I don’t understand.

  “Your daughter, where is she?”

  I back away from him as my body fights wanting to be closer to him. “Whitton, I don’t have a daughter. I don’t have kids. No one is here but me. I live alone,” I admit. “I answered your question, now you answer mine.”

  I don’t get another word out.

  Lips crash to mine. His tongue battles and wins its way inside my mouth. I melt.

  This isn’t the soft, tender kiss of a boy. No, Whitton Thorne is all man, and he’s showing me just how much he’s grown as he takes command of my mouth.

  His hands cup my chin, holding my face just how he wants me as he explores, and I explode inside.

  Breaking away, we’re both breathless as I stumble back until the only thing holding me up is the unforgiving wall behind me.

  “Just as sweet ten years later,” he says with a rasp of need in his tone.

  Lifting my chin, I say the first thing on my mind. “Just as bitter ten years later.”

  I watch in fascination as his lips tip into a smile.

  With a resolve, I ask again, “Why are you here?”

  He doesn’t answer, he turns behind him and sees my couch to which he sits in the very middle and extends his arms across the back of.

  “Making yourself quite at home, Whitton?” Screw his agitation, mine’s what he needs to worry about.

  “Don’t know shit about being at home, Roe, you know this. Gotta talk, thought it best we do with me here and you there before I find myself up against you, pressing your back into that wall as my cock thrusts so deep inside your pussy you feel me in your throat.”

  He’s brash. He’s crude. And I find myself aroused. My panties damp, my nipples hard, and my mind craving more of what he may do to me.

  I don’t move, but I know my breathing is slow, shallow, and by the way he’s watching me, he knows he’s got me. Which frustrates the hell out of me. He’s always had power and just like before, I let him have it. Dammit!

  “Inch by inch, I want to strip those clothes off you and learn the body of the woman in front of me. I want to feel you arch into my face as I eat that pussy like a man on death row having his last fucking meal.”

  Whitton doesn’t move. Confidently, he sits on my couch, legs wide, bent at the knee, and his arms outstretched. The bulge in his jeans tell me he’s serious in his desire.

  I lick my lips.

  “I wonder if you still have that unique blend of sweet and spice. Do you still shave your pussy, leaving your creamy skin exposed with only a thin strip of hair for me to tease? I wonder if you’ll explode on my tongue as I suck your clit.”

  I fight to remain in place while his eyes never leave mine, all the while my blood pressure is skyrocketing.

  “I wonder if I can make your body tremor with just my tongue. I wonder if I can make you scream my name so loud, so hard, and so fast you’re hoarse the next day.”

  I’m on fire. He’s set me ablaze.

  “I remember your taste, the way you loved when I rubbed that pussy, up and down, teasing your entrance with my fingers, but not entering. Up and down, round and round, your skin soft against the rough of my fingertips, slick with your desire leaking out of you, making me want to lick it up.”

  God, I lean against the wall feeling my body puddle inside—remembering, wanting, and needing.

  How can I fight the pull? How can I fight the memories when everything he has said is true? He was a master with his fingers, his tongue, and his mind.

  I loved every part of Whitton Thorne. I anticipated his every touch and every conversation. It was more than the sexy body, the bad boy persona. No, Whitton Thorne is the whole package, challenging my mind, my body, and my heart.

  Unable to speak, I bite my bottom lip and try desperately to pull myself together from the pieces he’s tearing me into.

  “I remember working myself inside your tight, slick, heat. Inch by inch, I had to be still or blow my load. So tight, made just for me. When I hit your barrier, I broke through, claiming that piece of you for me.”

  “Fuck you!” I finally speak.

  “Always mine,” he whispers.

  “No. You gave that up when you left town not giving two shits about me. Now, tell me what you want and leave.” My voice doesn’t give away the tremble I feel coming over my body. Luckily, it stays at bay.

  That damn sexy grin tips up on the side of his face that isn’t marred, but I can see the other side trying the same. Scars. His are on the outside, but mine are on the inside, shredding me for so many damn years now. Each look he sends my way only twists them in my gut. Screw him.

  He just needs to get on that bike of his and ride off. That’s what he does best, after all—leaving. He’s a master, and I want no part of any consequences of that.

  I’ve felt them for years, and there’s no reason to open old wounds. All those sores will do is cause more pain, and I’m done with it. Whitten, Lance, Marlayna, my mother, Mr. & Mrs. Brown … I’m just done.

  “Now, tell me why you’re here so you can get out of my house.” Even with evened breathing, the fire inside me shines bright.

  “You always had that spice underneath the sweet. Glad to see you didn’t lose it.”

  Funny thing is, I had lost it for quite a while. Everything has always been there, it’s just Whitton brings it out in heaps.

  “Cut the crap. I know you wouldn’t come back here if it wasn’t something important. Like Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s death. That’s over; why are you here again?” My feet step me backward and I place my back against the wall, still keeping an eye on Whitton, yet giving myself distance. He’s grown up so damn much. Arms sculpted, legs like tree trunks, and a shirt that hangs on him in just the right places. The scars never mattered to me and still don’t, but with them he has a deadly air about him. Something deep telling me that he’s not the boy who left here ten years ago and he’s seen a lot of life and not all of it good.

  “Who’s the kid?”

  My breath skips a beat before I recover. Right, he saw me with Marlayna at the funeral. That moment was both great at seeing her, and horrible at watching Whitton leave.

  “She was one of my students.”

  His hand comes up and he rubs his chin. “Heard you were a teacher. Good job for ya.”

  “Glad you approve. Now, why are you here?”

  “You like that with all your kids?”

  I push off the wall and take a step closer. No one ever insinuates that there is something wrong with what I do with and for my students. I’ve seen the momma tiger come out in many parents, Whitton’s about to see mine.

  “What I’m like with my students is none of your damn business. Leave.” I toss my arm out and point to my door. “Now. Get up and get out of here. I don’t care why you’re here. Just go.”

  “I like it.”

  “Like what? You’re a dick. Leave!”

  “Can’t.”

  Instead of stomping my foot like one of my students would do, which I’m very, very tempted to do, I look up at the ceiling and think of Pastor Corbin. Where is his divine intervention now? Where are his words to help me in this situation? Whitton doesn’t give a shit about me. He obviously wants to have sex with me. But like me? No.

  “Whitton, this isn’t getting us anywhere, and I need to wind down from my day. Leave.”

  He rises off the couch. It’s so fluid that it looks like a mirage. One moment on the couch, the next only feet in front of me. I ward him off by holding up my hand.

  “Oh no you don’t.” He stops but quirks his brow. “Whitton, this is too much. You don’t show up at someone’s house and act this way.”

  “Like what. Like I’ve been starving for air for ten damn years and have just now been able to breathe.”

  The world for that moment stops. I swear it. No one moving in the world. No bugs buzzing. No animals roa
ming. No people talking, breathing, or anything. Time stops. Wow, the feelings racing through me both hurt and feel like happiness rolled in sunshine. Too bad the dark clouds fall over the sun blocking its light.

  “Please leave.” Pathetic, that’s what I sound like. Damn, I hate when my feelings come out. Where’s the strong woman of a few minutes ago?

  “Can’t do that. Now,” he presses his body into mine, and I feel the tears sting the backs of my eyes. “I can’t.” His lips come down on mine for the second time. I try to resist, I really do, but fail miserably. He tastes of the boy I once knew, but so much different, yet still so familiar. I lose myself in him briefly, just feeling. Feeling is what got me into this mess with him in the first place.

  I pull back roughly and crack my head on the wall. Dammit, I must have moved at some point and misjudged.

  “Are you okay?” His lips are plump, and everything inside of me is screaming to take more of him.

  “No, back off. We’re not doing this, Whitton.”

  His hard erection grinds into my stomach, and I gulp.

  “Funny, your body is saying yes.”

  He’s got me there, but my words have more power. “Of course, I’m attracted to you, Whitton. We have a history. With history comes feelings. With those feelings come desire … but that’s all it is. A way to scratch an itch. Nothing more.”

  “Bullshit and you know it.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Whitton. I’m done. There’s no going there again. Now, back off.”

  He looks deep into my eyes and I could fall into his so easily, but with the force of twenty children on sugar, I don’t. I may have had him on my mind for years, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be putty in his hands either.

  “You mean it.”

  “Yeah, back up, Whitton.”

  He smiles and takes a step back. “Just givin’ you a little breathin’ room.”

  Screw that. I move away from the wall feeling trapped, over to the side of the room that opens up into my dining area. This at least gives me some air because it’s stifling in this place.