The word date slips out without me thinking about it. Inwardly, I cringe, hoping he doesn’t notice it. Was tonight a date? Or maybe just a booty call? Should I care? Should I just let myself enjoy it and not worry about it? Having a one-night stand with Dante was one thing. But now, twice? Does this mean anything? Plus, I know Savannah isn’t coming back here tonight to sleep. Should I ask Dante to stay the night? What if he says no? Or even scarier, what if he says yes? How awkward would that be in the morning?
Oh, God, I’m already severely overthinking this.
“I hope the evening has met with your approval,” Dante drawls. I anxiously listen to his tone, trying to decipher any hint of discomfort, but I can’t hear anything.
“Very much,” I say back, working to sound casual. “Killer ribs and good sex? What girl could possibly resist?”
“Good sex?” he teases.
“Okay, great sex. I already told you that. You’re fishing for compliments.”
He barks out a laugh. “I don’t need compliments. The way you yelled out my name when you came was all the info I needed.”
“Oh, God,” I groan.
“Nope, it’s Dante. How’d you forget my name so quick?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That was totally lame.”
“You ain’t embarrassed about being loud, are you?” he asks. “You know guys eat that shit up, right?”
“I mean…” My face flames. “I guess not?”
“It’s sexy as fuck.” He shifts under me, so he can look me in the eyes. “You know your voice is kinda hoarse now, from yellin’ so loud.”
“I know,” I nod, my lips curving into a smile in spite of myself. “My throat hurts a little bit from it.”
“I like you, Tori.”
The words are so simple. But they make me feel like grinning until my cheeks split. Plus, it really does something to me to hear him say my name. I realize he hasn’t said it much, before now. On his lips, it sounds like a caress.
“I like you, too,” I brave.
“It’s been a few minutes,” he says casually. “You ready for round two?”
“I’m not sure you can top round one,” I smirk, cocking my head at him. “You sure you don’t wanna quit while you’re ahead?”
“Just you wait,” he shoots back. “You think your throat is sore now?”
“You’re all talk.”
“Careful with that sass.” He shifts his weight again, and slides a large, rough hand between my thighs. “You’re gonna eat those words later, Lois Lane.”
“Are you saying you’re Clark Kent?” I breathe, already fighting back a moan. “Or Superman?”
“You tell me, afterwards,” he mutters against my throat.
“Oh, God…”
I shudder a breath out as Dante’s teeth nip at my sensitive skin. His deft fingers find my core, still sensitive and swollen from before. “You’re ready for me again,” he growls, and my body shivers against him. There’s no denying his words. I want him, now. My legs fall open, my back arching as he strokes my clit with surprising gentleness. I make a noise, deep in my throat. I’ve never heard it before, but it makes Dante even harder than he already is.
“That’s fucking hot,” he groans. “You’re fucking hot, Tori Lowe.”
His head dips down, mouth finding one taut nipple. I gasp as his hot tongue slides against it. I moan, loudly, and my body arches to meet his touch. I want him everywhere — I want him touching me everywhere at once. I want him inside me. His skin against mine is so mind-meltingly good, I can barely register that the name he just said is mine. I don’t feel like I have a name, or a past, or a future, or anything except this moment right now that’s only going to get better and better as he tortures and teases me and then finally makes me come. My heart is pounding in my chest, so fast and loud that I’m sure he can hear it. My breathing, fast and shallow, starts getting labored. I must have not completely recovered from our last go-round. I pull in air, noticing that my heart is thudding weirdly, faster even now than a second ago, and suddenly oh shit, I know what’s happening, that weight on my chest isn’t Dante, it feels like an anvil. I start to say something but it comes out garbled and I have to try again, have to tell Dante…
“Stop!” I gasp, but it sounds more like “Stah…” I try to push him away with one hand as the other clutches at my ribcage.
Dante lifts his head and looks up at me quizzically. When his eyes get to my face, his expression goes blank with shock. “Fuck, Tori, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“My… purse…” I wheeze. “Get my purse… downstairs. I have… pills…”
It’s not much, but it’s enough. Dante bolts out of bed and thunders down the stairs. Seconds later, he’s back, my purse in one hand and a glass in the other. He runs to the bathroom and fills the glass and then he’s back in bed. Dumping the contents of my purse out, he grabs the medication and wrenches it open, then pours the pills out into his hand. Shaking, I take one and suck in a shallow breath, then toss it back and swallow it with a gulp of water.
For the next minute or two, Dante doesn’t talk, just sits with me and waits for a sign. I work to calm down, trying to push all scary thoughts away. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Slow. Slow. Slow. I chant the words in my head, eyes closed. Eventually, the palpitations start to slow.
“Tori,” Dante says urgently. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
“No,” I pant. I open my eyes. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.”
“What the fuck just happened there?” he demands.
“I… have a heart thing. A… condition.” I give a weak shrug of my shoulders. “It’s not a big deal.”
Dante barks out a bewildered laugh. “The fuck it’s not! Shit, it looked like you were gonna die on me there! Jesus!” He shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s personal!” I protest.
“Did that happen because I got you too worked up?”
“No.” Yes. Maybe.
“I don’t believe you.” Dante’s face is stony, etched with the beginnings of anger. “Tori, are you crazy? You don’t fucking tell me that I could give you a goddamn heart attack by fucking you?”
“It’s not like that!” I protest. My heart has slowed down some, my breathing almost getting back to normal. But a sick feeling is forming in the pit of my stomach. “It’s not… I mean, I can have sex. I just have to, you know… be careful. Pay attention.”
“Fuck!” he retorts. “How the fuck is not telling me you need to be careful, being careful?”
“Dante,” I begin, frustration making it hard to find my words. “I didn’t want you to…”
“To what?” he interrupts me, a challenge in his eyes.
“To do what you’re doing now!” I cry. “I just didn’t want you to treat me like I’m breakable! Like a china doll!”
“But you fucking are!” he half-roars. “You are fucking breakable, Tori! Christ!”
“Oh, great!” I shoot back, rolling my eyes. “This is why I didn’t tell you, Dante! This is just what I need! Another person in my life telling me I shouldn’t ever have sex, or live, or anything! I should just sit here in my old lady house living the life of an eighty year-old!”
“No the fuck I am not! I’m not saying anything of the sort,” he explodes. “Obviously, you should live! But you shouldn’t be stupid about it! Jesus.”
“Don’t call me stupid!”
“Don’t act stupid, then!”
“Would you have taken me out on your motorcycle if I’d told you I had a heart condition that meant I’m supposed to avoid excitement and stress?” I challenge.
The look in his eyes tells me his answer.
“See?” I spit out. “You say I should live, but then when push comes to shove, you’ve just proved to me why I was right not to tell you. Now you’ll never treat me normally again.”
Dante shakes his head. “This is bullshit,” he mutters. “You’re talking b
ullshit.”
“No I’m not. You just showed me I’m not.”
“I should leave.”
Dante stands. The bed rises as his weight leaves. He doesn’t speak as he goes over and picks up his jeans, and neither do I. I watch him dress, his jaw set, eyes stormy with an anger that mirrors mine.
My stomach churns. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want the last fifteen minutes to have happened. I want to go back. I want a do-over.
But I’m not going to get any of those things.
“I’ll see you around.” Dante’s dressed now. He turns and looks at me one last time before he leaves. It’s as though he’s staring at a stranger. “Take care of yourself,” he says tonelessly.
Then, before I can say anything back to him, he’s gone.
I hold on to my anger at Dante for as long as I can, alone in my bed that’s still warm from his body.
Because I know when the anger’s gone, the tears will start.
And eventually, they do.
They don’t go away for a long time.
21
Dante
Goddamnit. Jesus motherfucking Christ son of a bitch fuck shit fucking goddamn shit!
I tear out of Tori’s street on my bike, scaring the hell out of a high school kid who’s turning the corner in his parents’ minivan.
Fuck!
I’m so fucking angry right now. And something else, too. I can still see Tori’s grayish face as she fought for air — bent over and wide-eyed, waiting for her heart to slow down.
Why the fuck didn’t she tell me about her goddamn heart? Why the fuck didn’t she tell me I could have hurt her, or killed her?
My own heart is pounding like a goddamn piston, so hard I bet you could see it just by looking at my chest. It’s pumping adrenaline and fury through my whole body. Without even noticing, I accelerate to almost sixty miles an hour in the city streets. I back off the throttle, fist clenched so tight around it my knuckles ache.
I’m not a man who spends a lot of time feeling helpless. But goddamn if I didn’t feel helpless as fuck watching Tori struggle. The last time I felt anything like that, it was right before my ma died.
My stomach clenches as I remember seeing my mother in the hospital, barely more than a skeleton. How useless I felt. And how fucking angry at the world. And especially at fuckin’ Dom, for not being there at the end. For making Ma ask over and over whether he was coming.
I don’t know why Tori’s attack makes me think of Ma’s death.
It’s probably a good thing I left Tori’s place when I did. Partly because as soon as I realized she was gonna be okay, I wanted to wring her goddamn stubborn neck.
But also because even now, I realize I overreacted pretty hard back there.
Not because she wasn’t in danger. I mean, she definitely was.
But because I don’t know why I fucking lost it the way I did.
After all, the last thing I wanna do is give her the impression what’s been happening between us is more than it is.
It’s just two people who have a thing for each other. Scratching an itch.
No more than that.
Sure, I give a shit that there’s something wrong with her heart. Last thing I need is to put her in the hospital or something, and have that shit on my conscience.
In spite of everything, my mind flashes to the way she arched her back and moaned my name as she came. My dick starts to get hard — even as I fucking shout at myself to stop thinking about her like that.
Jesus Christ, this is some crazy shit.
I could have killed her. And it would have been her crazy ass’s fault for not telling me about her bum ticker. But it would have been me who killed her just the same.
How the hell would I ever live with myself after that? I’d probably never go near another woman again.
And more than just the guilt. I would miss her crazy ass.
Okay, goddamnit. I’d miss her a lot. It’s been one thing trying to avoid her these past few days, since the first night we spent together. It’s been damn near torture, not seeing her. But fuck, at least I knew she was out there, somewhere. Having her just… gone, though?
I feel sick to my stomach at the thought. My gut wrenches painfully.
Fuck. This isn’t good. Maybe I should be glad this happened when it did. Maybe this is a wake-up call for me. A sign that I’m getting too attached to her. It’s time to move on. I’m done with her damn electrical project, anyway.
Tori’s over. That shit is in my rear-view mirror.
But even as I tell myself this — even as I say it over and over in my mind, trying to tell myself I don’t care — I know one thing for certain: the tears in those ice-cold baby blues as I walked out the door are gonna be with me for a long time.
I don’t wanna go back to my house. I don’t wanna be alone right now, and the only thing worse than that would be running into Dom and having him ask me why I look like the world just caved in on me.
So I do the only other thing I can think of.
I go to the clubhouse and get wasted as shit.
By the time I come to the next day, I’m sprawled shirtless on the bed in my apartment at the clubhouse. My head is pounding like a goddamn jackhammer. On the mattress next to me isn’t one of the club girls, but a bottle of Jack.
Correction. A bottle that used to be Jack. Now it’s not full of anything but air.
“Fuck me,” I groan, sitting up. “Well, at least I know what freight train it was that hit me.”
Squinting, I peer around the room to survey the damage. My cut’s lying on a chair. My shirt’s on the floor, looking like a dirty rag. I’m alone, thank fuck. Last thing I want to do is make small talk with some chick I don’t remember banging.
My keys and phone are in a pile next to my shirt. With a grunt, I heave myself up off the bed and go over to scoop them up. My head pounds harder. Fuck, that hurts. I close my eyes against the throb for a few seconds, until it starts to recede. Then I thumb the button on my phone to see what time it is.
Four-thirty.
P.M.
P.M.? What the ever-loving Christ?
I blink and stare harder at the screen, convinced I have to be seeing things. But sure enough, that’s what the goddamn thing says. I’ve slept through to the afternoon. What the hell time did I go to bed, anyhow?
My mouth tastes like a skunk died in it. The rest of me feels like I slept in a gutter. In a haze, I shove off my jeans, go into the bathroom, and take a hot shower, fighting through the hangover until I’m starting to feel human again. I finish by turning off all the hot water and freezing my nuts off with a cold blast.
When I step out, I still feel like shit, but at least the pounding in my head has receded a little.
As I go to grab a fresh T-shirt out of the nightstand, a few memories of the night before come trickling back. Tori’s face. Me yelling and storming out of her place. Mal, Rourke, Gage and me setting up shots at the clubhouse bar. Me yelling at someone else, with a pool cue in my hand. Me breaking the pool cue against the wall.
Me on the ground, punching Bama. A couple of the brothers pulling us apart.
Fuck. I let out a groan that sets my head to pounding again. Now I remember what the hell happened last night. I came here trying to get Tori out of my head. Well, I guess I did that, all right. For better or for fucking worse.
I go out into the main room of the clubhouse, hoping to smell some coffee, and then remembering it ain’t morning anymore. In the center of the room, Ranger and Rourke are playing pool. The clack of the balls is so fucking sharp, it sounds like they’re rattling around inside my goddamn skull.
“Jesus, do you have to play pool so goddamn loud?” I wince. I go over to the bar and slide my tired ass onto a stool.
Over at the other end of the bar, Mal is sitting with Cyndi. He’s got a half-full beer in front of him, and it looks like Cyndi’s drinking a Coke or something. As usual, Cyndi is dressed and made up to the fuckin’ nines.
Cyndi gapes when she sees me. “Oh my God, Dante! What happened to you?” she cries.
Next to her, Mal chuckles. “You shoulda been here last night,” he tells her. “Our boy here got a little out of hand.”
“Yeah, about that,” I mutter. “‘Fraid I don’t remember much of it.”
“You came in her about midnight, loaded for bear.” Mal smirks at me. “Proceeded to get drunk as a lord and started tryin’ to pick a fight with anyone who would listen.”
“Jesus,” I groan. “Is it really almost five in the afternoon?”
“Sure is. You’ve been asleep for over twelve hours, brother.” Mal comes over and claps his hand on my shoulder, making me wince again. “What the hell was up with you, anyway? I tried askin’ you last night, but you almost took a swing at me, too.”
From over at the pool table, Ranger cocks his head, considering me with a look on his face I don’t like. Ranger’s a sharp motherfucker. Sometimes too goddamn sharp.
“This got anything to do with that chick we saw outside Della’s?” he calls over. “The blond one you were doin’ the electrical work for?”
Cyndi blinks. “Wait a minute. Are you talking about Tori?”
“Shut your hole, Range,” I mutter.
Just then, Bama strides through the front door of the clubhouse. Jesus fuck, he looks like a truck hit him. His face is blue and swollen. One of his eyes is black, the part that’s normally white a vivid red I can see even from here. He’s got a nasty cut across his cheek that looks like he should have got it stitched up but didn’t.
He scans the room, his features drawn and angry. When he catches sight of me, his step falters but he doesn’t stop. Instead he gives our group an angry sneer, and keeps going toward the back hall, out of sight.
“Did I do that?” I ask Mal.
Smirking, he nods. “Who else?”
For the first time since I woke up, I feel a little better. “Well, whatever happened last night,” I murmur, “at least that fucker looks worse than I do.”
A second after Bama disappears, Mensa comes into the room from the same hallway. That dumb fuckin’ smile he always wears widens when he sees us.
Iron Heart (Lords of Carnage Ironwood MC) Page 14