The Rush: The Hell's Disciples MC (The Hell's Disciples MC Series)

by Jaci J

  “Yeah?”

  “The Licker is back.”

  I groan. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, and he’s asking for you.”

  “No!”

  “Get the fuck out here,” he barks, pounding on the wall with his fist, not putting up with my shit. I could fight him, but I don’t have it in me tonight.

  “I’ll be out there in a second,” I snap, looking at myself in the mirror. I look good, as usual, but I’m tired, and I can see it in my eyes. Sleep’s been rough these last few weeks.

  I think about T a lot. His hands. His face. His body. I imagine him coming back for me and taking me away from this place. I dream about letting him do whatever he wants to me. Yeah, I think about him constantly. It’s just not healthy.

  Out on the floor, near the stage sits “The Licker,” wearing a blazer and jeans. My lips curl, the disgust rioting in my stomach. He’s dressed like someone’s dad. He sticks his pinky in his ear, cleaning it, before pulling it out and inspecting it.

  Fuck, he’s gross.

  Sickening, even.

  We call him “The Licker” because two weeks ago, he came in here and licked me while I was giving him a lap dance. He didn’t just lick me once, he licked me three times—once on the shoulder and twice on the neck. I think he was trying to be sexy, but it was flat-out nasty—N.A.S.T.Y. Hell, it was just as repulsive as his jacket and earwax coated finger.

  “Evening, Coco,” The Licker croons when I walk up, his beady eyes on my chest, staring holes through the lacy material.

  The only person in this place that calls me Bailey is T, and that’s exactly how it’ll stay.

  Plastering on my fake smile and conjuring up my most alluring “fuck me” eyes, I greet him sweetly. “Hey, sweetie, how ya doin’?”

  He smiles, patting his lap. “Just looking for a good time.”

  Of course he is. Why else would he be here? I don’t do taxes, and I don’t cut hair.

  “You came to the right place, then,” I purr.

  Putting my back to his front, I start to dance.

  I can’t look at his face.

  Grinding my ass down on his lap, I’m grossed out at the boner I feel him getting.

  I shiver, and it’s not from pleasure.

  “You like that, honey?” I ask seductively.

  I can feel him nod. “Yeah, beautiful, I do. Call me Daddy,” he adds, pushing my hair over my shoulder, exposing my neck.

  I hate to be touched by those I don’t want it from, but he hasn’t crossed any lines, so there’s nothing I can do.

  Eyes closed, listening to the music, I hear a growl, and it’s not from the man I’m dancing on.

  “The only motherfucker she’s callin’ ‘Daddy’ is standing right the fuck in front of her.”

  T.

  Jesus, he’s back.

  He’s back!

  My eyes snap open and I blink a few times, shocked and surprised.

  I instantly feel better. Hopeful. Happy. Excited.

  I hate how desperate I’ve become just to be in his space.

  He’s standing in front of me, all of him, in the flesh, with a murderous look on his handsome face.

  “T.”

  He doesn’t say anything as he grabs my arm, pulling me off The Licker’s lap and toward a private room, my feet barely able to keep up with his long strides.

  I don’t protest.

  I follow.

  Pushing me into the room in front of him, he slams the door closed, hard enough to make the wall shake.

  Back against the wall, my body pressed against the cold mirror, I look up at him, all six foot five of him. He looks exhausted. He looks angry. He looks hungry.

  “T,” I say again, my voice small and breathy compared to his heavy, ragged breathing.

  A barely noticeable smirk tugs at his lips when he looks me up and down. “You miss me, Doll Face?” he asks, stepping toward me, caging me against the mirror with his body.

  Both hands land beside my head, trapping me.

  “Yeah.” I don’t lie because he knows I did. I can’t even hide it.

  He chuckles darkly. “Heard you were asking around about me.”

  “You just disappeared for damn near two months, and I had no fucking clue what happened. I was worried.”

  “I know.” Pushing my hair off my shoulder, he wraps his hand around the side of my neck. “Missed you too.”

  “Then why’d you disappear?”

  “Club business, baby.”

  I knew he’d say that, and I didn’t except an answer, but hearing it stings a little. I want to know. I want to be allowed to know.

  3

  T

  I’M FUCKING EXHAUSTED. Beyond fucking tired. My mood is shot to shit and my body hurts. But Bailey was worried about me. I scared her being gone so long, and I don’t know why the fuck it is, but that shit turns me on.

  For the first time in my life, someone was worried about me, really fucking concerned, and it’s Bailey, the only bitch on the planet I give a shit about.

  “How much you miss me?” I ask, using the information against her. She lets me put my face in her neck, let’s me taste her skin. She smells like heaven, sweet and soft, like a woman—my woman.

  She shivers, her hands gripping my cut, hanging on to me for support when I put my tongue on her skin.

  “A lot,” she whispers, her husky voice softening.

  “Yeah?” Slipping my hand between her thighs, I push them apart to make room for my hand.

  She doesn’t push me away this time.

  I want to touch her.

  I want to feel her.

  “I was scared,” she whispers, her head falling back against the mirrored wall when I brush my fingers across her center. “Thought something happened to you.”

  Her panties are wet, soaked through when my knuckles brush against her warm cunt.

  The growl that comes from my chest is fucking animalistic. This woman drives me crazy, makes me feel even crazier than I already am, and that shit does something to me.

  “Kiss me,” she demands.

  I don’t make her ask me twice.

  Kissing her soft lips, I put my tongue in her mouth, tasting her.

  It’s fucking nirvana.

  Bailey moans, her body melting into mine.

  Fuck, this is what I’ve been dreaming about, what I’ve been feigning for.

  Bailey gets frenzied, tugging at my cut and pushing it off my shoulders. Grabbing for my tee, her hands under the material and on my stomach, her nails rake across my muscles when I bite her lip.

  “Fuck me.”

  Her words hit me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. “You fucking with me, baby?”

  “No.” Her fingers work on my fly, pulling on my jeans, trying to get them open like she did my cut and shirt. “Don’t make me beg.”

  Never.

  I spent a whole goddamn year working up to this point, and all it took was my ass going away for a few weeks to get her here.

  She gets the button undone on my jeans and a hand in my boxer briefs, her fist wrapping around my rock-hard cock. I jerk, damn near nutting in her hand like a twelve-year old chump just feeling her velvety skin on mine for the first time.

  “Jesus Christ, Bailey.”

  She grins, proud of herself.

  “Not here,” I croak, the words hard as hell to get out.

  As bad as I want her, I can’t fuck her here. Not like this, not in this dump. And as much as I don’t want to, I pull her hand from around my cock and out of my jeans, pinning it against the wall beside her head.

  She looks up at me with those big brown eyes and chews on her lip, dragging it through her teeth. “Where?”

  “In my bed.”

  She nods, licking her lips.

  “Gonna second-guess this decision, baby?”

  “No. Just wondering how far it is from here to your bed,” she smirks, her head cocked playfully.

  “You trying to kill me?” Palmin
g her tits in my hands, I brush my thumbs against her hard nipples.

  She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed.

  “Punishment for ducking out on me for so long,” she answers softly, jerking when I pinch her tight little nipples.

  “Didn’t duck out on you, babe. Just the way shit works sometimes.”

  “Does it happen often?” Her voice fades when I push the material of her tiny ass top up and over her tits further, once again filling my hands. They’re full and heavy, soft and smooth. Leaning down, I suck one into my mouth, flicking my tongue over her nipple, not real interested in answering that question. I know it’s not an answer she’s going to like.

  “It happens.” More often than it doesn’t. I’m not real interested in having this conversation right now, not when I’ve got her body in my hands.

  “Tell me next time.”

  Next time? Jesus Christ. “Yeah, Doll Face, next time,” I agree, needing to get her the fuck out of here. “You ready to go?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Good.” I fix her top and take my hands off her body—as hard as that is—and step back. “Get your shit and we’ll roll.”

  BAILEY

  All my common sense has gone out the damn window, but I’ve never felt this way before.

  Desperate.

  Reckless.

  Crazy.

  Over a man nonetheless.

  I was raised to use men before they could use me. Use them to my advantage. Use them to get what I need, to get ahead. Use them until there’s nothing left to take.

  Love ’em and leave ’em.

  I can’t bring myself to use T because he means too much to me.

  He wastes no time once he gets me through the door at his club, shoving me up against it with his lips on mine and his tongue in my mouth as he pushes my cute little flannel off my shoulders. “You’re leavin’ the boots on,” he says against my mouth, grabbing my leg and hitching it around his hip.

  He runs the show.

  He’s the boss.

  I’m wearing a cute pair of mid-calf combat boots, jean shorts, a crop top, and a flannel, looking like a sexy little lumberjack.

  “Just the fucking boots, baby.” Hands on the hem of my shirt, he pulls it over my head when I lift my arms up for him. I’m braless, and my tits spring free, heavy and sensitive.

  T tosses my shirt onto the floor behind him.

  For a moment he stares at my chest, the look heated and focused. “Jesus, Doll.”

  Grabbing both tits in his hands, he palms them roughly. Pushing them together, he alternates between sucking, licking, and nipping each nipple until I’m breathless and begging.

  “More?”

  I nod eagerly.

  He works on my jean shorts next, pulling them off as he crouches down in front of me. His face is inches from my panties, my jean shorts around my ankles. “These are cute,” he chuckles, looking up my body at me. Running his nose along the lace of my panties at my waist, he digs his fingers into my thighs when my body jerks in response to his hot breath.

  “I like sexy underwear,” I whisper, watching him run a thick, tattooed finger under the hem of my panties. His finger slips under the material, his knuckle grazing my wet flesh.

  I’m in heaven.

  Or maybe it’s hell.

  I’m so caught up in T and what he’s doing to my body, I don’t hear it until he does.

  A loud pop.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  He stands up, his body pressed against mine, shielding me. “Fuck!” His voice is laced with anger, his hands tight around my body.

  “What?” I ask, looking around, confused. “What was that?”

  The sound registers, but I don’t want to believe what my mind is telling me.

  Gunshots.

  T grabs me, pulling me even tighter against him, my face in his chest. “Goddamn it!”

  “T?” I question cautiously, looking up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction.

  He doesn’t look happy. Not one little bit.

  “Get dressed,” he demands, letting me go and walking around the bed toward a closet in the far corner.

  My brain catches up.

  What the fuck?

  Scrambling, I pick my shirt and shorts up off the floor and pull them on quickly, almost clumsily, my white crop top tee inside-out.

  “C’mere, baby.” Pulling out a duffle bag and a few handguns from the closet, he tosses them onto the bed. “Here.” He picks out a silver handgun and hands it to me. “Know how to shoot a gun?” he asks, and I nod lamely, taking the heavy metal from him.

  I might know how to shoot, but that doesn’t mean I want to shoot it. “What the hell is going on?”

  My head is spinning.

  Someone is shouting outside. Voices raised. Loud enough I can hear them through the closed door.

  “I don’t fucking know, but when I find out who interrupted me, I’m killing them.”

  I’m sure he can see the confusion and surprise on my face because he comes up to me, one hand on my jaw, tipping my head back. “You’re good here with me, yeah?”

  “Is that a question or a fucking comment?” I snap.

  I feel rocked, and it’s not from the gunshots. It’s the crushing reality that I almost gave into something I’ve fought so hard against.

  I was brought up to resist men at all costs.

  I use them.

  They never use me.

  Yet here I am, begging to be used by a man who I know will ruin me.

  “That’s a fucking promise. Sit your ass on the bed. Keep the door closed and locked. Shoot anyone not wearing a Disciples cut if they get in here.”

  “What?” I shout, my arms swinging out wide. “You can’t be fucking serious?”

  He’s holding a big fucking black gun in his hand. He’s shirtless, barefoot, but wearing his jeans and his cut. “Deadly fucking serious.”

  “T?” I question, my voice rising as he walks to the door, pulling it open. He looks out, left and right, before looking back at me. “Stay the fuck in here.”

  And I do.

  I stay put.

  I sit on the bed, my hand wrapped around the gun and my finger on the trigger, ready, but for what, I don’t know.

  I didn’t grow up on the right side of the tracks. I didn’t have nice things or functional parents. I’ve seen a lot of bad shit. I grew up hard and fast, but this is too much, even for the trailer park girl who’d been forced to grow up too fast.

  I pull my eyes away from the door, taking in the space.

  It’s an old motel room decorated with shag carpet and peeling flower wallpaper, as well as a crushed gold couch against the wall. I wish I was able to enjoy the time warp in here, but someone’s out there shooting at who or God knows what, and this situation with T…

  I’m too goddamn mad at myself to be anything other than cautiously numb.

  I’m better than this, giving into my need to fuck T.

  I know better, because for me, fucking T isn’t just fucking T—it’s falling in love with T.

  I clawed my way out of that trailer park, and I’ll be damned if I let a sexy biker in a leather cut and tattoos ruin the life I’ve made for myself. My simple, straightforward, uncomplicated life.

  Pulling my eyes away from the room, I watch the door until I can’t take it anymore.

  Getting up, I walk toward the large window by the door, the one that overlooks the walkway between the doors and stairs. Pulling the curtain back, I look out and frown.

  Nothing.

  Not a damn thing is happening.

  T is standing down in the grass, his back is to me, talking to some guy and a woman.

  No one is panicked.

  No one is bleeding.

  No one is dead.

  “I’m out of here.”

  Pulling out my phone, I text Stormi: I need a ride.

  And like always, she comes through, texting back r
ight away: Be there in a few.

  I want T.

  Bad.

  Just not that bad.

  4

  T

  I’M STANDING IN wet grass in the middle of the goddamn night, a half-naked woman in my room I’m not with.

  I’m fucking mad.

  “The fuck happened?” King asks.

  I shake my head, shoving my piece into the waist of my jeans. I barely managed to get my cut back on and out the door when I heard those fucking shots.

  “Bear took a shot to the leg.”

  “Fuck. He okay?”

  “Fine. He’s inside getting stitched up and some sympathy head.”

  King rolls his eyes. “Someone taking shots at the club or at Bear?”

  “Not sure.”

  But I’m going to find out.

  My sister is standing next to her man, her eyes rolling like she can’t believe the shit I’m saying.

  “You got something to say?” I snap, watching her face. I know she’s going to say something stupid because she always does. “If you guys didn’t take on the Russians—”

  I don’t let her finish her sentence.

  “Don’t start that shit, you hear me? Club business isn’t your business.”

  I get it, the pillow talk and shit, but Jesus Christ, King’s got a big motherfucking mouth, and Sammy’s is even bigger.

  She slaps at my arm. “I’ll say whatever the fuck I want, especially if someone’s shooting at the club.”

  “Not gonna stand here and do this shit with you right now.” And those words couldn’t be truer, because as soon as I say that shit, my sister’s eyes widen as she looks over my shoulder.

  “You got a runner, Ty,” she mutters, pointing behind me.

  “Fuck.” I turn to find exactly what I didn’t want to. Bailey is slipping out of my room after I told her to stay put, hauling ass down the stairs.

  You’ve got to be shitting me.

  Dressed and carrying the .45 at her side, she descends the stairs two at a time. Bailey doesn’t walk up to me or say a goddamn thing. She just keeps walking right by me like she doesn’t see me.

  What the fuck?

  “You just gonna walk out of here?” I holler, jogging after her.

  “Yeah, I am,” she says matter-of-factly, bypassing me like I’m some homeless motherfucker on the street begging her for handouts.