Not good. No witnesses to be seduced into ratting Preacher out if his body was ever found.
“Got cameras all over the club,” he informed him. “Even in the stairwells.”
He nodded. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have known that and gotten the fuck out. He had cameras all over his club, too. Security in this business was necessary.
“You ready?” Preacher asked, pulling his piece. He watched him screw the silencer on.
Was he ready to die? No.
Did he deserve to die? Yeah. For a long time now.
Was he just going to turn tail and let Preacher kill him? Fuck no.
“Alleyway, Deuce. Now.” Preacher pointed with his gun.
He faked a turn and went for his own piece. He wasn’t fast enough, and Preacher’s first bullet took out his right leg. He stumbled backward and fell on his side in a pile of garbage.
Preacher’s boots pounded the concrete, and he braced himself for the killing blow. Fucking fitting that he was going to die in a pile of garbage. His old man had always said he was garbage. He sure as fuck felt like garbage.
His body jerked as pain exploded in his shoulder.
“Fuck,” he groaned. He hated getting shot. Shit fucking hurt.
“I’ll call your boys to come collect you,” Preacher said, surprising him.
“Unfortunately, I need you alive. Our boys are in too deep together; got too much ridin’ on shit you got a hand in. That said, you come anywhere near my girl again, first hit’s gonna be in that sick dick of yours, the second in your brain. Next, you even try for retaliation, and I will gut every last boy in your Queens chapter.”
“Understood,” Deuce croaked. Since he liked both his dick and his brain just the way they were, and none of his boys deserved to go to ground for his fucking sins, he was never going to go near Eva Fox again.
But fate was one mean bitch.
And two years later, she slapped him in the face.
CHAPTER FOUR
I loved dancing. I loved Club Red. And I loved my best friend, Kami.
She was loaded. I was loaded. She was spoiled. I was spoiled. She was bored out of her mind, and I was being suffocated to death.
Being the spoiled, bored, suffocated girls we were, with the help of another bored and spoiled rich kid we procured fake IDs and were able to escape to our happy place every Saturday night. Club Red.
The best part: Frankie had no idea where I was.
We were able to accomplish this with the help of Kami’s sexy chauffeur, Jacob, who Kami had been giving it up to since she was thirteen and Jacob, eighteen. I’m fairly certain Jacob was head over heels in love with her, but he gave up trying for anything more than sex years ago.
Kami, being as starved for attention as she was, had convinced herself sleeping with a lot of different men was a good way to go about getting what she was lacking at home. It never worked, but she never stopped trying.
Anyway, this is how my Saturdays went. Frankie would drop me off at Kami’s penthouse. If Kami’s parents were home, we’d get prettied up, wait until they went to bed, and then sneak down the back stairwell. Jacob would meet us in Kami’s underground parking garage, drive us out the back exit that was only used by the penthouse occupants—deftly evading the tails Frankie put on me—and off we went.
Freedom.
• • •
Deuce hated New York City something fierce. Always had and always would.
Even more than he hated New York City was the New Yorkers that resided in it. Even more than he hated New Yorkers was the New York City nightclubs filled with New Yorkers.
Two of his boys rode up with him on business. They wanted a party and some pussy, and since he sorta wanted to pick up some pussy for himself, he tagged along. He wished he hadn’t.
He was standing against a wall in a packed nightclub with red satin hanging all over the place and red disco balls twirling on the ceiling, while surrounded by wall-to-wall drunk fuckwads grinding against each other to what he supposed was music, but sounded a lot like television static with a crappy beat.
He was a simple man. He liked kegs, country music, and down-home pussy. He didn’t see the need to dress up the fact that he was getting drunk and laid. It was all the same in the end—sloppy kissing, skin slapping, and a nasty hangover. Why the fuck put a decorative umbrella on it?
His boys ditched him about an hour ago in favor of some slutty club bitches. He saw Cox disappear with two scantily clad Latinas, and Mick went off dancing with a woman he was pretty sure was packing a cock under her seriously short skirt. He was so fucking miserable he momentarily considered taking pictures of them with their whores and sending them to their wives as payback for making him endure this shit.
“Heeeyyy,” a female voice slurred. He rolled his head left. Christ. Fucking skinny bitches everywhere in this city. No tits. No ass. All of them wearing skintight clothes that emphasized the fact that they had no tits and no ass. This particular bitch—tall and bleached blonde—was so fucking skinny her breastbone was on display through her skin. The napkin she was fronting as a dress was practically see-through, and he could see she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“Fuck off,” he said.
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
“You deaf?” he asked. “I said fuck off.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?” she whispered.
Christ.
“Bitch, I don’t wanna fuck you, so I ain’t gonna buy you drinks and tell you how fuckin’ hot you are, hopin’ you’re gonna spread those bony-ass legs for me. ’Cause one, you’re not hot. You might be someday if you start eatin’, but as it is right now you’re not. And two, I don’t wanna fuck you, so I’m givin’ it to you straight. Fuck off.”
She blinked. Then she leaned forward and placed a bony hand on his chest. And smiled. He stared down at her hand, debating whether he should break her fingers.
“Wherever you want it, however you want it,” she breathed. “Right here, in the bathroom, behind the club. Where. Ever. You. Want. It.”
His eyebrows shot up. She had either major self-esteem problems, some serious daddy issues, or maybe she was just plain fucking crazy.
“Kami!” a female voice squealed. “Kami!”
The bitch beside him straightened up and looked around. “Evie?!” she yelled.
A giggling mass of dark brown hair surged forward through the crowd of people and barreled straight into the blonde. They were both shitfaced. Instead of hugging, they just kind of fell into each other, and then into him. Annoyed, he shoved them both backward, and the blonde’s drink went flying. People scattered as the glass shattered.
Laughing hysterically and clinging to each other, they both stood up straight. He watched, frozen, as a Horsemen’s tag slipped out from the brunette’s shirt. Her imposter of a shirt.
Then she flipped her hair out of her face, and his blood ran cold. Then hot. Really fucking hot.
Last time he had seen Eva Fox, he’d been two seconds away from sinking balls-deep into all that sweetness, and he’d taken two bullets because of it.
“Kami!” Eva cried, oblivious to his presence. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Oblivious was the last thing he was. Bitch had on some kind of shirt that wasn’t actually a shirt but a triangle of sequins that appeared to be staying on her only by a complicated-looking series of strings. The fucking thing barely covered her tits. Her fat, heavy, perfect tits. Her entire back and her midriff were exposed, her belly button pierced with some shiny bullshit, and the rest of her was encased in tight black leather pants. Tight as in he was damn positive she had to lube up her legs and juicy-as-hell ass to get those bad boys on.
On her feet, black Chucks.
His chest tightened.
Now standing, she tucked his old man’s tag back inside her non-shirt and did a little wiggle as she straightened her top—that wasn’t actually a top—causing her tits to bounce. He got hard.
Just like that. Like he was seven-fucking-teen.
Still giggling, she surveyed her surroundings, finally catching sight of him. Her made-to-suck-cock lips parted, her stormy eyes went wide, and she swayed a little to her right.
“Deuce,” she whispered.
He didn’t know what the fuck to say, so he said the first thing that popped into his head.
“Babe.”
Kami looked between them. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes on him. Jesus Christ, those eyes. She was damn beautiful.
“Introduce us!”
“Deuce, this is my friend Kami. Kami this is my…friend Deuce. But…”
She turned to her friend. “He’s married. Got kids, too. So, hands off.”
He stared at her, confused. He was married? He had kids? Oh, right. He was sorta married. And yeah, he had kids. He loved his kids. Their mother…not so much.
“Shame,” Kami purred. “The whole scary-faced, badass biker thing is really working for you.”
His lips curled in disgust. He just told this bitch he found her unattractive, that he in no uncertain terms wanted anything to do with her, and yet, she still wanted it. Fucking whore. Fucking fucked-in-the-head stupid fucking whore.
“He’s not scary,” Eva scolded. “He’s beautiful.”
Fuck him.
No one had ever called him beautiful, and he was pretty sure he never wanted to be called beautiful…until Eva Fox had called him beautiful, and now he wanted her to say it again. But this time, he wanted to be balls-deep inside of her while she said it.
“Do you want to dance?” Eva asked.
His eyes refocused. “What?”
“Dance. Do you want to?”
“No.”
“No?”
“This isn’t music, and I can’t dance.”
She bit her lip, and he knew she was trying not to laugh at him. Usually when people laughed at him or tried not to laugh at him—neither of which was often because he wasn’t a funny guy—he punched them in their fucking face. Eva laughing at him made his cock twitch. This bitch did strange shit to him. His brain didn’t work around her, and his balls fucking swelled, ready to repopulate the world as long as he was doing it inside her pussy.
“Everyone can dance.” She giggled.
He shook his head. “I can’t. I lumber. My wife says I lumber.”
She wrinkled up her nose. “Your wife is a fucking cunt.”
He choked. Coughed. Pounded on his chest. Took a long swallow of his beer. Cleared his throat. “Darlin’, you have no idea.”
Grinning, she sidled up next to him and leaned her shoulder against the wall, so the front of her body faced his and took a sip of her drink—her bright pink drink with a pink umbrella and lots of floating cherries that reeked of tequila.
He narrowed his eyes. How long had it been since he last saw her, since he’d taken two bullets because he was a fucking moron?
It hadn’t been five years, so he knew she wasn’t twenty-one.
“How old are you, darlin’?”
Her lips quirked. “My ID says I’m twenty-four.”
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “And what does your birth certificate say?”
She looked him dead in the eyes, and he felt himself leaning toward her.
“I’m eighteen,” she said quietly, and her eyes went soft. He knew that look. Fucked a lot of women in his life—knew the signs and knew them well. Eighteen-year-old Eva Fox was handing him her pussy on a silver platter.
And he was fucking starving.
Fuck.
“Deuce?” She leaned into him, pressing her fat tits against his arm.
He stared down at her. “Yeah?”
Keeping her eyes locked with his, she wrapped her hand around as much of his bicep as her fingers could reach and started slowly sliding her hand down his inner arm. When she reached his palm, her fingers spread out and slid between his. Her hand folded closed. He closed his over hers.
“Let’s dance,” she whispered.
“OK,” he whispered back because, fuck, he didn’t know which way was up at the moment.
Those unfathomably plump lips split into a smile, and his cock freaked the fuck out. If she hadn’t started leading him out into the club, he would have thrown her up against the wall and slammed his way home.
She took him dead center of the dance floor. It was packed with bodies—sweaty, writhing bodies. He felt completely out of his element.
Then Eva began to move, and he forgot all about elements and skinny bitches and stupid red disco balls. All he could see was Eva. Nothing else existed but Eva and what she did to him.
With her back to his front, she lifted her arms over her head and hooked her hands around his neck. He grabbed her, harder than he meant to, and dug his fingers deep into her hipbones. As her juicy ass hit his cock, he groaned.
“All you have to do is move with me!” she shouted over the music.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. He was far too busy trying to convince himself it would be a bad idea to take her right then and there on the dance floor.
Her ass was grinding into his rock-hard cock, her head fell back on his chest, and her hands…
She grabbed his hands, interlocked their fingers, and had him stroking across her bare stomach, her hips, the vee between her legs, and—fuck him—her tits. When he couldn’t take much more, he slipped his hand down her pants and gave her what she was silently begging him for.
Her head on his chest, she looked up at him with unfocused gray eyes, her nostrils flaring with heavy breaths, and her wet lips parted.
He’d taken two bullets because of this bitch. If tonight ended the way he wanted it to, Preacher was going to bury him. He should care about that. His kids needed their father, and his MC needed their president. He had business that needed getting done, and he sure as fuck wasn’t ready to kick it quite yet.
He should care about all that shit. But he didn’t. And because he didn’t—because he wanted her so fucking bad, he could taste the need and feel it in his gut like a live wire—he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her hard and fast, still thrusting his fingers in and out of her, swallowing her cries as bodies pressed up against them, shoving them back and forth to the rhythm of the bass pounding in his ears.
• • •
It was pouring out, we were soaking wet, and the alleyway smelled like a month’s worth of old garbage. Deuce was fumbling with his jeans, and I had completely lost my mind. I was frantic, crawling up his big, hard body like a sex-starved spider monkey in heat, and kissing him, giving as good as I was getting. Every kiss was full of hot, wet tongue—sometimes hit, sometimes miss. Teeth were clacking together, lips were bitten, and noses were getting in the way. I mauled him, not caring where his or my mouth was landing or what part of his face I was kissing, licking, or biting. His cheeks, his forehead, his chin, his neck—they were all fair game. His hands were full of my ass, my hands were full of his hair, and our mouths were full of each other. I had no idea where my clothing had gone. And I didn’t care.
I wanted this man inside of me—so far inside of me that he wouldn’t ever be able to leave.
“Gimme what I need, baby. Gimme that sweet pussy I been dreamin’ ’bout.”
Oh God.
I didn’t think it was possible to want him any more than I already did. But he’d just proven me wrong.
“Please, please, just fucking take it,” I mumbled, desperate for more of him.
Staring into each other’s eyes—breathing heavily while rain sluiced down in sheets between us, over us, everywhere—he started pushing inside of me.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” he breathed. “You’re so fuckin’ wet. You fuckin’ want this bad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whimpered.
“Yeah, you do,” he grunted and pushed harder. “Fuckin’ tight, baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight.”
There was a reason for that. A reason he was going to find out in about two-p
oint-five seconds.
“Give it up, Eva, fuckin’ open for me.” Growing impatient, he gripped my backside and pulled me down as he slammed up into me. I cried out, and he froze. Just went statue still.
“Fuckin’ shit!” he yelled. “Goddammit, Eva! God motherfuckin’ dammit!”
Oh my God, he was pulling out.
“No! Please! I want this!” I dug my nails into his back and tightened my legs around his waist. “I wanted it to be you! I’ve been dreaming about this! About you and me! Ever since you kissed me! Even before then!”
He sagged against me. “Fuck,” he whispered.
He was still inside of me, and I was so full of him. It felt so good, and when I tried to move—because I had to move, wanted, needed to move—he groaned. I liked hearing him groan almost as much as I liked the feel of him inside of me, and I wanted more. I wanted him to move. So I told him this, told him everything I was feeling, and everything more that I wanted to feel. It just kept pouring rapidly out of me, feelings and needs, because I needed him to know how much this meant to me, that it was him I wanted to take this from me, him I wanted to give it to. That it was only him I ever wanted inside of me and only him I ever want to be inside of me.
His eyes met mine, arctic blue and beautiful.
“Please,” I begged. “Deuce, please.”
“I’m fuckin’ married, Eva. Got two kids. This is fucked. It shouldn’t have been me.”
What? Here he was inside of me—because I wanted him inside of me, because he was the only man I have ever needed inside of me—and he had the nerve to tell me it shouldn’t have been him. After making me beg him?
“Fuck you!” I snapped. “I don’t give a shit about your wife and neither do you, or you wouldn’t have been finger-fucking me in the club! And you definitely wouldn’t have carried me out here with every intention of fucking me! You can’t tell me it shouldn’t have been you! You don’t get to make that decision. I do! I did, and it’s done! And I’m not giving it back!”
His eyes flashed with anger. “I can’t give you shit!” he hissed. “All I’ve got to give you is my fuckin’ cock, and that’s not good enough! Not for you! Not even fuckin’ close! You deserved better than this! Better than a fuckin’ shit-filled alleyway and definitely better than me!”
A Ride or Die Kind of Love Page 131