Pagan (The Henchmen MC Book 8)

by Jessica Gadziala

  It didn't exactly escape my notice either that she wasn't my usual type, if I had such a thing. I was generally a pretty 'equal opportunity' kind of guy when it came to women. But there was, overall, definitely a tendency to go for women a little on the easy side both looks and attitude-wise.

  This girl didn't scream easy. In fact, there wasn't even a whisper of it around her.

  Everything from her perfectly tamed hair to her expertly applied makeup to her carefully chosen sundress that screamed sexy even though it was modest, told you that she wasn't the kind of girl who fucked some backstreet guy like me.

  This was also evidenced by the suit across from her at her table. There was nothing distinct about him. He was good looking enough with plain brown hair, plain brown eyes, and bland voice. Everything was neat, trimmed, shaved, and in order. Typical suit.

  The music being how Jazz liked it, meaning loud to the point of deafening, even though they were only an arm's length away, I couldn't make out what was being said. The guy was dominating the conversation though, prattling on and on as the girl sat back in her seat, cradling a reusable ceramic coffee cup with #girlboss written across the side in gold, matching the golden silicone top. Her face seemed at odds with itself. Her brows were raised as though whatever the guy was saying was somehow pissing her off, but her eyes looked a little deflated, maybe even desperate.

  Girl like that looking deflated or desperate was a mother fucking sin.

  Then, as if a cue from a higher power that I needed to make a move, the suit stood up, dropped a twenty on the table, touched the girl's wrist, and walked toward the door.

  Me, well, I couldn't help myself, could I?

  "You fucking serious?" I asked, loud enough to be heard over the music, making her head snap over, brows drawn together in confusion. "I mean, you take those tits, that ass, those legs, those lips, and what I can only assume is a prime USDA pussy and put it in his hands? Tell me, does he even finger fuck you, or is he too worried about his goddamn manicure?"

  Those lips of hers opened and closed twice before she gave her head a little shake as if to clear it.

  "Excuse me?"

  There it was.

  Loved that haughty shit.

  My smile spread slow and wicked as I leaned slightly forward toward her. "You heard me just fine. And, what's more, you didn't deny it. Tell you what, you want a real man to take care of you, pet, you walk that pretty ass of yours down the street. There's a party going on. You can't miss it. I'll be there. You find me, and I'll show how much I love eating something USDA prime."

  With that, knowing down to my bones, and maybe my dick judging by the way her eyes went the slightest bit hot at the word eating, I got up, and walked back to the clubhouse.

  That bad mood of mine?

  Fucking gone.

  TWO

  Kennedy

  Someday, I wanted to be able to walk into a store without having to look at the price tag before I decide if I like a dress or not.

  Really, my entire life came down to that.

  Poverty was a crushing thing.

  It weighed down on you until you were almost sure there was nothing that could relieve that much pressure.

  Almost sure.

  That almost was what kept me going.

  That almost was what had me at She's Bean Around though I literally never got coffee outside home because it was a frivolous spending of money that I, quite frankly, could not afford. It was also what had me sitting at a table across from Ethan whose voice had the same response in my body as nails on a chalkboard, listening to him prattle on and on and freaking on about how he wanted to help me.

  Wanted to.

  But wasn't going to.

  Such was our so-called relationship.

  Not romantic, mind you.

  God, no.

  Professional relationship.

  I had been dealing with his cocky, condescending, overbearing, lying ass for a while. I had also needed to field his misguided flirtation when it arose. Because... hell freaking no.

  Not in a million years.

  Luckily, being in public seemed to make him keep his hands to himself and be on, somewhat, good behavior.

  You know, while he jerked me around and gave me platitudes and half-promises I knew he had no intentions of keeping. I had brought my best to the table too.

  Watching him walk away, taking what I hoped would be more financial security with him, I was already mentally back at home eating store brand ice cream straight from the tub with a soup spoon and a side of five-dollar wine. Yes, five dollars. They, in fact, do make wine that cheap. And in case you were wondering, it absolutely does taste like it costs five dollars, really just being glorified bathroom cabinet alcohol. But, hey, at least it was alcohol.

  And then he spoke.

  Really, he just startled me at first. I was no saint. I had heard (and used) many a curse word in my day. But something about it being said directed at me made me jerk back and automatically look for the source of it.

  Then there he was.

  He was good-looking in a very rough kind of way. Maybe that was just a judgement based wholly on the jeans, wifebeater, leather biker cut, and boots. But I was inclined to think it was just the man as a whole, not his clothes. He was tall and a lean kind of strong and a sort-of young De Niro in Taxi Driver kind of face, but somehow hotter. Which is saying something, 'cause I was always a sucker for De Niro. I may or may not have drooled over that picture of him covered in blood with a finger to the side of his head more than a time or two. And this guy? He totally seemed like someone who might have been covered in blood a few times. His own or someone else's.

  His hair was less ridiculous than De Niro's in that movie, black, short-cropped, but stylish enough. His eyes were dark, and there were several scars on his face that should have made him ugly, but somehow didn't. There was more than a day or two's worth of scruff on his face.

  Everything about him seemed to scream- danger!

  But that, as most people knew, tended to be a bit like catnip for us lady folks.

  Besides, girls from the quote-unquote wrong side of the tracks like me, we were so used to his type that the danger seemed more like a comfort. In fact, we tended to be a bit more suspicious of the guys in suits.

  Then he continued his little monolog, effortlessly calm and cocky, so bloody sure of himself that I pretty much instantly believed that being finger fucked by him would somehow be a life-changing experience.

  Of course he ended it with an invitation, and a smooth as all get out exit that was straight out of a movie.

  I knew the party he was talking about.

  I had walked past it on my way in, ignoring a catcall from a few of the guys walking into it carrying cases of beer. And, let's face it, anyone who had spent more than a long weekend in Navesink Bank knew exactly who The Henchmen MC were and precisely what they were into. So the rough and tough look this guy who did not give me a name so I mentally dubbed him Niro in homage to Mr. Taxi Driver himself, made total sense. He was an arms dealer. Or gun runner. Whatever term they wanted to use to call selling illegal guns to other bad guys in exchange for money.

  Lots and lots of money.

  And I was not, was absolutely not even the least bit tempted to drag myself away from my impending ice cream and cheap wine weepathon to strut myself down the street and go searching for Niro and his sexy voice and sexier face and see about those finger fucking skills he bragged about.

  I needed to get laid, damnit.

  How long had it been?

  God, at least ten months. Or was it longer? I had long since started gauging everything in my life by what minor or major catastrophe it happened near. Sex, well, I think that was while I was flying high on an exciting upcoming new apartment buzz so I had finally gone to bed with a guy I had been dating for about six weeks. The next morning I got the call saying I would not be getting the apartment. Or the one I found after that. Or the one after that.

  Ten months
.

  It felt like years.

  I was pretty sure I was prematurely going gray over all the stress that the past almost-year had kept me under. And if what Ethan said was true, there was no freaking end in sight.

  Maybe some sex would give me at least some momentary relief from the shitstorm I called a life.

  "Depends on what you're after," a female voice said from my side, making me realize I had been watching the door Niro departed like some kind of lovesick freak. I turned to find the girl from the counter, Jazzy her name tag said, standing beside the table Niro had been sitting at, wiping the surface where he must have spilled some of his coffee.

  "I'm sorry?" I asked, brows drawing together as she moved to sit in the chair he had vacated, turning fully toward me, bending so her elbows were on her thighs, like we were the oldest of friends instead of complete strangers.

  "I see the gears turning about him," she said, waving toward the door. "I know him a bit and I have to say that when it comes to him, it depends on what you're after. You want toe-curling, voice box-breaking, sheet-tearing sex that makes you reevaluate your ideas on God and the afterlife because you're goddamn sure nothing could ever be anywhere near as amazing as him fucking you, then go for it. But if there is even a teensy part of you that thinks you're only a relationship kind of woman and wonder if maybe he's a relationship kind of man, then stay far, far away from him. Anyway, that's my two cents. We'd really appreciate a Yelp review if you have two minutes."

  And with that, she was gone.

  I felt the smile spread, immediately deciding that once I had money for things like to-go coffee and a tip to go along with it, that I was totally going to start spending more time at She's Bean Around. As it was, I didn't, so I grabbed my phone, three generations old and cracked so bad that it was hard to type on it, and brought up Yelp and wrote them a quick review before handing them the twenty Ethan had left, grabbing my bag, and heading outside.

  I truly didn't know my intentions until I turned in a direction and made up my mind.

  Well, not really made it up per se. I actually changed my mind and turned back five times before I saw myself closing in on the gates.

  But as soon as I was in front of them, I made the choice. Because, really, did I want this night to be remembered solely as the night Ethan effectively crushed what little was left of my dreams? Or did I maybe want it to be the night I did something completely uncharacteristic like hookup with the sexy, dangerous, bad news Niro and let him curl my toes?

  The answer to that was obvious to anyone with a sex drive.

  Also, I was due for a good toe-curl.

  Because while I had been laid ten months before, he hadn't exactly, ah... rung the bell. He fucked like a bunny rabbit who didn't understand foreplay, unless he counted sticking a finger in to see if I was ready enough, and then came after ten strokes.

  And vibrators, while a godsend, didn't anywhere near stack up to the real thing.

  "Marry me." I jerked backward, not realizing I had been standing there silently like a weirdo, completely unaware of a man walking up toward me. He was tall and, like Niro, a lean type of strong. But unlike Niro, he was all light- blond hair, blond beard, blue eyes. He had a languid, lazy type of gait as he moved toward me, and the most welcoming smile I think I had ever seen on a man.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "You're turning me down?" he asked, putting a hand to his heart. "I'm crushed. You would have made a lovely Mrs. Harris, don't you think, Eddy, man?"

  The Eddy person was another man who seemed to slink out of nowhere. He was nothing like his biker brother. He was tall, solid, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-everything'd. There was something very intimidating about him.

  "I think she's lost," he said. Well, no. He didn't really say that; it was more like he growled it. The man growled. And I wasn't so hung up on a possible tryst with Niro to not be appreciative of that sound.

  "Don't mind Edison," Mr. Harris said, shaking his head at his friend. "He doesn't play well with others. I'm Cyrus," he said, offering me his hand and, well, what choice did I have but to take it? Then he went ahead and shook it, then enclosed it with his other hand. "I'm not giving up," he added. "Mrs. Harris. Mrs. insert-your-name-here Harris."

  I laughed at that, shaking my head. Deciding that while Niro and Edison certainly seemed like big, scary biker dudes, this Cyrus guy was a sweetheart. "Kennedy."

  "Mrs. Kennedy Harris," he mused, nodding. "I need to go and carve that into a tree." His smile slipped a little as he released my hand finally, making me snatch it back a little self-consciously, realizing I should have pulled it away myself much sooner. "Are you lost, angel?"

  My mouth opened and closed once before I shook my head.

  "No, ah, I'm looking for..." - My common sense? My sanity? - "A guy I met a little while ago," I finished with, feeling my cheeks heat up slightly, figuring they both knew that if I was looking for him, then there was likely only one reason. I was a horny girl looking for a roll and tumble with one of their biker buddies.

  "No, say it ain't so," he said, giving me puppy-dog eyes despite the fact that from where I was standing at the gates, I could see about a dozen scantily clad women standing around, ready for the taking. "Who is he? I will fight him for you."

  I was in the middle of smiling at that when a voice came out of nowhere, making me seriously wonder if all bikers went through ninja training or something.

  "That'd be me, Cy," Niro said, coming up behind him, whacking him between his shoulder blades.

  Cyrus was solid enough that he didn't move a step forward at the impact, but apparently, Niro was strong enough to make his body jerk slightly. "Oh," Cyrus said, looking at Niro, then me, then Niro, and finally me again. "Yeah, then you're all his, angel face. No way I'm fighting that crazy fucker." He offered me a smile then started walking backward. "Enjoy the party, Kennedy."

  Then he turned and was gone.

  "Kennedy, huh?" Niro asked, head cocked slightly to the side, giving me the kind of smirk that was meant to melt panties and, well, let's not talk about the state of mine right then. "Come on, let's get you a drink."

  With that, the man I knew as Niro since he had still neglected to give me an actual one, threw a heavy arm across my shoulders, making my body go down an inch or so at the unexpected weight, curled his arm slightly so I was more against his side, an unapologetically alpha possessive action that I maybe liked a little too much, and started leading me in toward the clubhouse.

  And while, logically, I knew I could leave at any time, the choice was still in my hands, as I was pulled into the building, the decision felt made.

  There was no going back.

  The inside of the clubhouse wasn't quite what I was expecting. What that expectation was, well, was along the lines of a frat house. Meaning no actual decor, lots of cheap beer, and a general odor of must, sweat, socks, balls, liquor, and a hint of pot.

  But their clubhouse was slightly more upscale than that. The decor, while definitely man-cave-ish and understated, was done well. The backbar was quality. The couches were expensive. Hell, even the pool table looked like it cost more than everything I owned combined.

  And while there was absolutely a hint of sweat and liquor, the place was surprisingly clean even with the crush of bodies inside.

  There was a sea of leather cuts and revealing dresses. Metal was blasting through some hidden speaker system, the vibration seeming to come through the floor and up my legs, an oddly sensual sensation. As if I needed any more sexual frustration right then.

  "What are you drinkin'?" I heard from behind the bar as Niro led me up to it, arm still around me like I was some prized possession. Which sort of made a warm feeling spread in my belly even though the more logical part of my brain knew it was likely just a claim-staking thing so any of the other guys didn't get any ideas. In a way, that was still flattering.

  "Oh, no... I'm..." - In desperate need of keeping at least a bit of my wits about me - "fine."

&n
bsp; "Pick a drink, pet, so we can move on from here," Niro said as he accepted a glass, obviously already having had a drink or two that night.

  "Gin and tonic," I said, thinking the first thing that came to my mind seeing as I doubted they had wine or anything that resembled a mixer. "Get out," I said when he grabbed a glass, the gin, and then pulled up an honest-to-God soda gun. "You actually had a soda gun installed here?"

  "They're living it up here at The Henchmen MC," the guy behind the bar said as he passed me my drink that I hadn't taken my eyes off of because a) it was a biker compound and b) most of the people inside were criminals and c) I had no idea if that criminal mentality extended to date rape drugs in drinks.

  But as I brought it up, his words settled in, making my brows draw together. They're. So the bartender wasn't a member. Was he just hired for the gig? Or maybe just a friend?

  "Want some air, pet?" Niro asked as he stepped away from the bar. "It's not usually this packed," he added as I fell into step beside him and he led me out a back door to the yard again.

  Somehow, I was almost thankful for the hot air as I brought my drink up, the glass already sweating in my palm, and took a long sip. Maybe it would help bring back the girl who decided to follow a freaking outlaw biker into his dominion with the sole purpose of screwing around with him. Because I wasn't sure who that woman was. I was never a hookup kind of person. Like I said, the last guy I had dated for six weeks before we got into bed. That 'third date rule' was never something I subscribed to. How could I literally let you inside my body when I didn't know your hopes, dreams, socioeconomic aspirations?

  And yet there I was with a guy whose name I didn't even know, having a drink I didn't particularly enjoy, agreeing with my presence that I wanted him to finger me and eat me out.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  Too lost in my own crazy, twisting thoughts, I didn't realize that Niro hadn't led me over toward the crowd in the back like I had been expecting, maybe wanting to ease me into the party, let me finish my drink.