In spite of myself, a little thrill runs up my spine. I don’t know why the idea of him being attracted to me excites me. It probably shouldn’t. But the thought that he might be imagining me up here naked starts an ache between my legs. An ache I haven’t felt in a long time, to be honest.
I’ve been living like a nun since I arrived in Ironwood. I’m not sure why, exactly, but I’ve been avoiding men like the plague. Part of it is probably denial — that if I got serious about someone, I’d have to admit that that I actually live here now.
The other reason, though, is something I definitely know.
In every relationship I’ve ever been in — and there haven’t been many, believe me — I eventually had to tell the guy about my heart thing. And in every case, once I did, the relationship changed. Before I knew it, they were treating me like a china doll. Including in the bedroom.
It’s pretty hard to feel sexy when you have the ticker of an octogenarian. Especially when every time you get naked, your boyfriend looks at you like you could keel over at any second.
I mean, technically, I guess I could keel over. But I could get run over by a bus tomorrow too, right?
If there were buses in Ironwood, that is.
I’m still musing about Dante being right downstairs as I close the door to the bathroom, and as I do realize there’s no lock on the door. Aunt Jeanne never needed one I guess. And until now, neither have I.
He could just walk in on me naked in the shower, if he wanted to. The thought makes me a little nervous.
And, if I’m being honest, a little turned on.
My shower is actually a deep clawfoot bathtub that Jeanne had retrofitted with a shower head years ago. I strip down, pull my hair up in a topknot, and step under the stream. Drawing the shower curtains around me, I close my eyes and let the heat of the water dance over my skin for a few seconds.
I haven’t been touched by anyone in so long.
The low throb between my legs grows deeper.
If Dante came in right now, what would I do?
Realistically, I know I’d scream and tell him to get out.
But what if he was here, in the shower with me? What if the heat I feel against my skin was from his lips? His hands?
What if he knelt down, and took me silently with his mouth? Before I could protest? What if I knew he was stroking himself, as he pleasured me with his tongue until I cried out his name?
I open my eyes, and shakily start to reach for the detachable shower head. But just as I do, a loud thud from downstairs jolts me from my thoughts. Hastily, as though I’ve been caught doing something wrong, I reach for the soap instead.
I hurry through soaping up and rinsing off, and five minutes later, I’m toweling off. I dash back across the hallway to my bedroom, throw on some clothes, and do a quick application of makeup and an updo.
When I get back downstairs, Dante is nowhere to be seen.
“Hello?” I call.
“Down here,” he calls from the basement.
“I’m going to work now!” I announce.
“Okay. Leave your phone number on the counter. I’ll text you when I’m done for the day and lock up the house.”
I consider leaving him a key, but decide against it. “Okay, thanks! Bye.”
He doesn’t answer. Blowing out a breath, I grab my satchel and leave through the front door.
Work that day is largely uneventful. When I get into the office, Heidi, the receptionist, tells me Frank is out this morning.
“He’s doing kid duty, I guess. His son has an orthodontist appointment, and I guess Peggy is sick. Frank said he’d be back after lunch. He told me to tell you he sent you an email.”
“Okay. Thanks, Heidi.”
Frank has given me leads on a couple of stories he wants me to check into, which is how I spend my morning. One of them involves a pet pig who’s housebroken and eats meals sitting up at the dining room table. Somewhat disturbingly, the pig’s name is Porkchop. I leave a message for the owners, half-hoping they won’t get back to me.
Jake is also in the office. Besides being the photographer, he also does some ad design for our advertisers. Jake’s a very nice kid — funny how he seems like a kid even though he’s only two years younger than I am — but he’s got a huge Diet Coke habit, which unfortunately takes the form of him bringing in humongous fountain drinks every morning and slurping at them loudly from a straw. Ten minutes after sitting down at my desk, I grab the noise-canceling headphones I reserve for emergencies and shove them over my head so I can concentrate.
But somehow, even with Jake’s slurping blissfully blocked from my ears, I find after half an hour or so that I’m having trouble focusing on my work. Instead, my thoughts keep traveling back to a certain motorcycle-riding electrician. I wonder if he’s still at my house. If he’s the type to snoop. How likely it is that he’s upstairs in my bedroom right now, looking through my underwear drawer.
I make a mental note to throw away any grungy, holey undies I’ve been holding onto, just in case.
Almost without meaning to, I find myself clicking into my browser and typing the words “what is a motorcycle club enforcer?” What I find out is that Dante’s role in the Lords of Carnage is to “make certain that the club laws and rules are followed by all members.” He also “protects all of the patch holders and the club’s reputation in any type of conflict.”
When I wonder about what type of conflict they would have, the next paragraph enlightens me: “The enforcer assists all members of the club in combat of any sort including any type of weapons or fist fights.”
Oh.
I sit back, my stomach starting to feel a little funny. I wasn’t exactly thinking Dante was a Boy Scout. But it’s a little intimidating to think about him being involved in fist fights — or worse, gun fights. I guess it’s not exactly shocking. He looks like someone who knows how to hold his own. Most sane men would think twice about doing anything to get on his bad side.
I surprise myself by feeling a small thrill run up my spine at the thought of him defending one of his club brothers in a fight.
When Frank comes back into the office a little while later, I make up an excuse to go see him in his office. When I’m about to leave, I cock my head and frown.
“Hey, Frank,” I ask nonchalantly. “What do you know about that local biker club? The Lords of Carnage?”
He stops what he’s doing and gives me a sharp look. “What do you want to know about them for?”
I shrug. “I’m just curious. I’ve seen them around, and… you know. Just want to know what they’re about.”
“Best to leave that alone, Tori,” he murmurs, turning back to his computer. His lips form a thin line as he begins to type.
“But…” I begin, but he stops me.
“Look,” he half-barks, using a tone I’ve never heard from him. He fixes me with a stern stare. “I know you get frustrated, doing the kind of stories you do for this paper. I know you have bigger dreams than this. But don’t go looking for scoops where there aren’t any. You got me?”
I got you. Wow, do I ever.
Frank insisting there’s no story there tells me the real truth is exactly the opposite. And he knows it. So I guess I have my answer.
The Lords of Carnage is what they call a one-percenter MC.
Dante D’Agostino is an outlaw.
12
Dante
“So, you think your brother can handle doin’ these runs?” Axel is asking. “He reliable?”
The other Lords around the table are silent, waiting for my answer.
I know they all trust me. And that they trust my word. I was chosen to be Enforcer of this MC for a reason. I take the club’s safety and reputation more seriously than I take anything. I would die for the Lords of Carnage, in a heartbeat. And they all know it.
We’ve been talking about two potential guys to do the runs to Dos Santos for us. One’s Dominic. The other’s a buddy of Bama’s named Greg Davakis. Davakis runs a bunch of
laundromat/dry cleaner places in towns around Ironwood. He’s got a fleet of vans, all with the Laundry Doctor logo on them. Perfect camouflage.
Both Dom and Greg Davakis have the capacity to move the guns.
Bama vouches for Davakis.
Now Axel is asking me if I vouch for Dominic.
“He’s my brother,” I say. “He wants to move back to Ironwood. Settle here permanently. If that’s what he wants, he ain’t about to fuck over the club that runs this area.”
Mal nods. So do Yoda and Gage.
“I don’t like it,” Bama drawls. “Your brother’s too close to you. He ain’t one of the Lords. How do we know we can trust him? How do we know where your loyalties would lie, if it came down to it?”
Bama fixes me with a steady eye. He and I have a history of conflict. Something about him has always rubbed me the wrong way, and the feeling’s fuckin’ mutual.
“Why ain’t him bein’ Dante’s brother a good thing?” Mal challenges. “Dante knows him better than you know Davakis.”
“Every man’s got a price,” Gage pipes up, his features set. “So, Dante’s brother and Bama’s friend both wanna work for us. But what if after we hire one of them, someone else offers them a price that’s higher?” He looks from me to Bama. “How do we know they can be trusted? Loyal?”
“Greg ain’t gonna fuck us,” Bama barks. His features spread into a steely grin. “Besides, his whole business is in Ironwood and around the area. He knows better than to shit where he lives.” He nods to me. “Dante’s brother don’t even live here. We don’t know a fuckin’ thing about him. Except which bitch shoved him out her cunt.”
A flash of white-hot anger bursts through me as I rise half out of my chair. Beside me, Mal coughs loudly, giving me a sharp look and a quick shake of the head.
I freeze, about to ignore him, but the split second he slows me down makes me realize he’s right.
Bama will pay for that remark later. But now ain’t the time.
I lower myself back down.
“Dom knows what the Lords of Carnage are,” I bite out each word. “He knows that my association with the club would never give him a free pass if he screwed us over.” I look around the room. “And you all know me. You know I wouldn’t expect any special treatment for him from the club if he did.”
No one talks for a few seconds as people consider what I said. My words hang in the air.
“Let’s put this up for a vote,” Axel finally announces, breaking the silence. “Dante’s brother Dominic, or Greg Davakis?”
In the end, Dom wins by two votes.
Across the table, Bama gives me a glare of stone-cold anger.
Axel bangs the gavel to end the meeting. “Dante,” he calls to me. “Bring Dominic around to the clubhouse ASAP, to talk to Rourke and me.” He looks over at Rourke, who nods.
“Will do,” I reply. I’m glad for the vote of confidence in my brother. Because I know it’s a vote of confidence in me.
Don’t you fuck this up, Dominic, I warn my brother in my head as I stand to leave. Don’t make me regret this, you motherfucker.
Back out in the main room of the clubhouse, Bama is on his way to the bar when I grab him by the shoulder. The fucker is ready for me, though, because when I spin him around, he lifts a fist aimed for my face. I duck just in time, and lean in just enough to land a solid punch to his gut. He staggers back, knocking over a stool that goes clattering to the ground.
Mensa, doing a shift behind the bar, does a fuckin’ war whoop like the entertainment just arrived at his goddamned birthday party.
I hear a couple shouts behind me, but I ignore them. This shit is between Bama and me.
“You fuckin’ talk about my mother’s cunt!” I roar. “I will break you the fuck in half!”
“I wasn’t talkin’ about your mother havin’ a cunt,” he gasps out. “I was talkin’ about her bein’ a cunt.”
“Oh, Jesus fuck,” Mal mutters.
With a yell, I fly at him. I’ve got momentum behind me as I throw a punch at his jaw, knocking his head to the side. It would lay out a normal man, but Bama is a big fucker, and tough as nails even though he’s a goddamn asshole. He reaches out and grabs at the counter to steady himself. His eyes flash at me, and I’m getting ready to barrel into him again when a movement of his hand catches my attention.
I pivot just in time to see Bama’s hand close over a beer bottle at the edge of the bar.
For a few seconds, everything happens in bursts. I hear the crash of the bottle breaking. Bama comes at me just as I lower myself and plow into his stomach. We’re on the ground, rolling around on shattered glass as I fight to keep the sharp neck he’s using as a shiv away from my fuckin’ face.
I finally get Bama on his back, and maneuver my grip up his forearm on the side with the shiv. Noticing broken glass under his arm, I throw my weight onto the arm and grind it into the floor. Bama grits his teeth and groans, trying not to loosen his grasp on the bottle.
“Let it go, motherfucker,” I snarl.
“Fuck you!” he shoots back.
I’m rearing back to head-butt him in the face when I feel myself being lifted away and up. A pair of boots comes down to pin down Bama’s arms to the floor, but at the last second manages to break free and take a swipe at me. The jagged edge of the bottle barely grazes my face, just under my cheek bone.
“Goddamnit, Bama!” Axel yells. “Stand down!”
Behind me, Matthias and Ranger haul me up to a stand. Mal and Rourke grab Ranger. Rourke knocks his fist against the bar until he lets go of the bottle.
As soon as Bama’s on his feet, he pulls forward, trying to lunge at me. Mal and Rourke hold him back.
“Stand the fuck down, I said!” Axel roars. “This ends now! You got me?”
Bama’s eyes are flaming. “You better hope your brother doesn’t fuck this up,” he seethes at me.
“You better hope your mouth stays the fuck shut around me,” I bite out. “Unless you want it fuckin’ wired shut for you.”
“We’re done here.” Axel shoots a long, angry look at Bama, then at me. Then, with a nod, he tells our brothers to release us. Bama shakes them off, mutters something under his breath and stalks away.
“Prospect!” shouts Rourke. “Clean this fuckin’ glass up.”
“I’m on it!” cries Mensa. I shoot a look at him as he moves out from behind the bar. He’s gaping at me and Bama like he’s got front row seats at the new Avengers movie. Christ almighty.
“How’s it hangin’, prospect?” I ask.
“Like my bike,” he murmurs back with a grin. “Busted, rusted, and maladjusted.”
I snort. “You get those tires put back where they were?”
“Sure did.”
“Good.” I nod toward the exit. “Once you’re done cleaning up this shit, move ‘em again to the first place. And take pictures this time. I wanna compare the aesthetic qualities of each location.”
That shit with Bama leaves me keyed up and itching for the end of a fight that barely got started. If I stay here at the club right now, I’m likely to get back into it with him, and my prez has made clear he wants us to cool it.
I go outside for a smoke, half-expecting Bama to follow me out there, but I’m guessin’ the other brothers have talked some goddamn sense into him. I shoot Dom a message that Axel and Rourke want to talk to him about doin’ some transport for the club. He doesn’t answer right away, meaning that he’s either out of range — or more likely, somewhere gettin’ his dick wet.
It’s still early enough in the afternoon that I can probably get in a couple of hours’ work at Tori’s place if I hustle. Probably a good idea to get out of here and away from the clubhouse for a bit. I text her and ask if she’s good with me going by. About a minute later she replies, telling me to stop at the newspaper office so she can give me the keys.
I pull up on my bike and park outside the nondescript square building that houses the Post-Gazette. On the way in, I pass by a w
ire rack holding a stack of the current issue. On impulse, I bend down to pick up a copy. Above the fold, there’s a big photo front and center of Crazy Millie and Eddie, with the headline: “Local miracle has area mother and son singing ‘Amazing Grass.’”
Chuckling at the bad pun, my eyes slide to the story’s byline: Victoria Lowe. It’s kind of funny to see her name in print like that. I wonder how long she’s been working here, anyway. My cock twitches at the idea of seeing her again.
I take the paper in with me.
Inside, there’s a young chick at a reception desk, sitting there tapping on a computer. She looks up at me as I walk in, but before she can say anything, I grunt Tori’s name at her. Her eyes grow wide as she points me into a big room with six or seven people milling around or sitting at desks of their own. The smell of overheated, burned coffee hits my nose. The murmur of a radio broadcast at low volume is coming from somewhere off to the right.
Tori’s in the back of the room, talking with a guy who looks to be about thirty or so. She’s wearing this cute little tank top thing, and her hair’s in that same high bun that shows off the curve of her neck. She’s got on a pair of tailored pants, with high heels that tilt her ass up just right. The whole outfit is supposed to look professional, I can tell, and it does, but there’s something about the way Tori wears it that makes her look hotter and more alluring than a porn star. My cock thickens in my jeans. Shit, the girl looks so sexy it’s practically indecent, and she probably doesn’t even know it.
The guy she’s talking to is wearing wire rim glasses and has this former frat boy look to him. Tori seems to like him — she’s smiling and laughing at something he’s saying to her. He flashes her a big goddamn smile in return, his eyes dropping for just a split second to her tits.
I wonder if she’s into him. Fuck, maybe he’s her boyfriend. The idea makes the blood start to pound in my ears. One thing’s for sure: if he ain’t her boyfriend, he wants to be. I can see that in the way he’s lookin’ at her. I wonder if she’s into pretty boys like him.
As I watch, Pretty Boy leans into her and puts a hand on her arm.
Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC) Page 8