by Sam Crescent
****
Outside the night closed in on them, the humidity stifling. Vandal pushed Tara up against the brick wall, stealing another kiss. She arched her body against him, her eagerness driving him mad. He didn’t want to wait until they made it back to his place, or hers. The Black Cat was in the middle of a strip of nightclubs and bars, though. There was no privacy.
She broke away from him, twisting under his arms to escape his hold. “What do I call you?” she asked.
Interesting way of asking. She knew a little about MCs, then. “Vandal,” he said, reaching for her again.
“And don’t you want to know my name?” She danced away, laughing as his fingertips grazed her hips.
“I already do, unless Ling lied to me.”
She shook her head, eyes sparkling. “Ling never lies. It’s a character flaw. So, Vandal, where are we going?”
Fuck, she was hot, standing in the glow of a streetlight that set her red hair on fire, her hands on her hips. It was a challenging, demanding pose, and he longed to spin her around and spank her ass, see if she laughed or screamed in pleasure. His mouth watered at the thought, his cock straining against his jeans. The heat of the night made his head spin and the woman in front of him, beckoning him with a crooked finger and a sly smile, was too good to be true.
Instead of answering her, he grabbed her hand and hauled her toward his bike. His apartment was too far for his liking right now, but there was a little park five minutes away that would do just damn fine.
She felt good pressed up against his back, her arms locked around his waist. She kissed the back of his neck, sending hot shivers through his whole body and threatening to send the bike spinning out of control. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay in control as they sped through the streets. She laughed, as if sensing his struggle, her husky tones a perfect harmony with the rough purr of the bike’s engine. Jesus. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to fuck a woman so much. It wasn’t just about putting Beak out of his mind. Tara might just end up as his new drug of choice.
He skidded to a halt at the park’s gates. Tara hopped off the bike and disappeared into the park, quickly lost in the shadows. Vandal raced after her, blood burning with lust. The thick sprawl of trees made a perfect place for hide-and-seek, and the chase thrilled him, like he was a predator after prey. He loved the idea of punishing her for making him wait.
“Tara!” he called, his voice bouncing off the trees. “I’m an impatient guy, baby.”
An answering laugh gave away her hiding place, and Vandal found her crouched behind a black cherry tree, peering cheekily at him from around the trunk, like the goblin in her tattoo. When he reached for her, she made no attempt to escape, letting him push her up against the tree and ravage her mouth. She encouraged him, sliding her hands up under his t-shirt, then round to the front of his jeans. She massaged his ready cock through the too-hot, too-tight material, drawing a groan from him.
“Turn around,” he said. “Hands against the trees.”
Next time—and there would be a next time—he’d take his time, explore her and torment her, but tonight, now, he just wanted to own her. There was no better way to do that than by taking her hard and rough.
She obeyed, bending over and wriggling her perfect ass at him as she did. He wasted no time in stripping her jeans off, exposing the beautifully pale skin of that ass. He swallowed hard, taking a second to memorize how she looked, splayed and ready for him in the darkness. Daring and bold, yet sweetly submissive. He ran his hands over her cheeks, then slid one finger down to her pussy. She was wet for him, body trembling with anticipation. When he pushed his finger inside her, she moaned, a yearning, animal sound that pushed his control to the breaking point.
He kicked off his own jeans, pausing only to grab a condom from his wallet. He was shaking, too, by the time he had it on. He grabbed her hips, teasing her pussy with the head of his cock, until she was panting his name, writhing against him as if to force herself on him. When he finally plunged home, she cried out in triumph and relief, sending a bolt of frenzied lust sizzling through him.
There was no finesse. Neither of them wanted it. He took her rough, and she took it greedily, chanting her encouragement. He sank his fingers into her skin, wanting to leave bruises, and she threw her head back, pure, wild pleasure thrumming through her. Her passion was addictive, pushing him to thrust harder and faster. When they broke, they broke together, Tara’s legs buckling with the force of her orgasm. They went down in a knot of limbs into the dry grass to lie in a breathless pile. Vandal’s own climax rocked him, and for a second all he could do was stare up at the cloudless night sky, wondering what the fuck had just happened.
She rolled onto her side, draping one bare leg over him and propping herself up on his chest. “That was a hell of a first date,” she said, toying with his disheveled hair.
She looked devilish, her own hair a tangled halo around her flushed face. It was too dark to be sure, but he thought she probably was that perfect shade of pink.
“You want a second one?” he asked. He wanted to fuck her again. Slowly this time, lingering over her breasts, tasting her pussy.
She leaned down and kissed him tenderly, as if they’d been lovers for years, not five red-hot minutes. “Take me home,” she said. “Then you’ll know where I live.”
Vandal grinned. That sounded like a yes to him.
Chapter Three
Vandal rolled up to the Psycho City clubhouse late the next morning, feeling like he’d hit the jackpot. He’d dropped Tara off at her apartment and said goodnight like a gentleman, but there’d been a promise in their parting kiss that had kept him hard all night. Add that to the successful dispatch of Beak, and his confidence was soaring.
The clubhouse was really a compound, surrounded by chain-link fence and housing a garage as well as the single-story building that was home to Psycho City. The garage was semi-legit. The club ran a chop shop there, but also repaired bikes and cars, and did some custom work from time to time. Vandal parked his Harley in its usual spot outside the garage, nodding at one of the prospects, who was hard at work cleaning bikes. The kid tipped him a respectful salute.
Inside the clubhouse, a couple of girls were busy cleaning the bar while a few of his brothers played pool. Vandal called greetings to them as he headed for the President’s office. He was late reporting to True, but Spider would already have told him everything went off without a hitch. Vandal’s report was a formality, and a courtesy.
Inside True’s office, heavy metal music played low, and Psycho City’s President was bent over a stack of newspapers. True always scoured the local news, keeping up with everything from sports to police reports. He hoarded information like a dragon with gold. He raised his head when Vandal entered, nodding a greeting.
“Take a seat, brother,” he said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Good of you to stop by.”
Vandal smiled at his dry tone. “Late night,” he said with a shrug. “You know how it goes.”
“I hear it goes well. Cops are already onto Beak’s sad demise. Apparently a hooker called it in last night.”
“Not Sienna?” Vandal asked. It was unlikely. She was loyal to the club and had no love for the Black Dogs.
True shook his head. “I doubt it. It doesn’t matter anyway. It got called in and the cops are working on it. It won’t be long before they find the gun. Then we sit back and let chaos break loose.” He smiled, looking every inch the cat that got the cream.
True had a man on the Harleston PD. Only he and Spider knew who it was, which was fine by Vandal. A dirty cop was a good asset to have, and the fewer people who knew, the easier it was to protect him—not to mention the club. No doubt True would slide enough money his man’s way to cause the Black Dogs plenty of trouble.
“So what now?” Vandal asked.
“Give it a day or two,” True said. “I want the cops firmly pointed at the Dogs, and as soon as they are,
we start talking to the Madden Boys.”
The Irish Mob had their fingers in everything from loansharking to fixing horse races. Their alliance with the Black Dogs went years back, but Johnny Madden, the head of the gang, was a man who liked a good deal. If Beak’s murder brought too much scrutiny on the Dogs, he’d cut his ties rather than risk that scrutiny coming his way. And since Psycho City had wrestled control of the area’s drug trade over the past few years, they now had something to offer Johnny that the Dogs didn’t. The time to forge a new alliance was coming.
The office door opened and Spider slid in, raising a hand in greeting. “Looking good, Vandal. You know Spark is pissed you made off with that redhead last night. Says you stole her out from under him.”
“I didn’t have to steal her,” Vandal said. “He didn’t have the balls to make a move.”
True gave him a stern look. “You boys aren’t gonna fall out over random pussy, I hope?”
Vandal bristled at the idea of Tara being random pussy, but shrugged it off. “You know that’s not my style, True.”
True nodded, stroking his neat goatee. There weren’t many rules relating to women in Psycho City, but no fighting was number one. No woman was worth breaking the bonds of brotherhood for. “All right, then. I see that gleam in your eye, boy. Spill the details on her.”
Vandal shook his head. He wanted to keep the details all to himself. Tara was too good to share.
“Not even a name?” Spider prodded him in the shoulder. “How are we gonna torment Spark with zero details?”
“Tara,” Vandal said grudgingly. He wasn’t interested in tormenting Spark, but Spider couldn’t help himself. He glanced at his vice-president, expecting to see him smirking at the idea of taunting the enforcer.
To his surprise, Spider was frowning. “Tara? And she was definitely a redhead, wasn’t she? Tats on one arm?”
“Yeah,” Vandal said, suddenly uneasy. He didn’t want to find out Tara was an ex of someone at the club or something like that. That was a potential minefield he’d rather avoid.
Spider shook his head, drawing a worried look from True. “Tara Madden? Fuck, Vandal.”
“Murphy,” he corrected, the blood suddenly roaring in his ears. “She said Murphy. She’s not a Madden, Spider.”
“I beg to differ, kid,” Spider said. “Tara fucking Madden. She’s married to Niall Madden.”
Vandal shook his head, scowling. “No, she said Murphy, definitely Murphy.” And she’d had no wedding ring. He would have noticed when he kissed her fingers, before they left the Black Cat. “You got her mixed up -”
“The fuck I do.” Spider waved a finger, almost accusingly, at him. “Tattooed redhead called Tara. How many do you think there fucking are in this city?”
True looked troubled, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Niall Madden’s a loose cannon, Vandal. If you fucked his wife—”
Vandal held his hands up, stalling the lecture. “I know all about Niall Madden.”
“Except that he’s married to your latest conquest, apparently,” True said. He shook his head. “Don’t revisit it, that’s all I’m gonna say.”
The impulse to argue was almost overwhelming. Why would Tara lie about her name?
Then again, if she really was Niall Madden’s wife, he understood the desire to hide it. The youngest of Johnny’s sons, Niall already had a long and violent history. He’d been in and out of prison all his adult life. He was careless and brutal, and frankly Vandal didn’t understand why a man as cautious and smart as Johnny kept such a liability around. But family mattered to the Maddens. Vandal could respect that.
What he couldn’t do was accept that Tara had lied to him. That she belonged to someone else. The thought sent a rush of possessive rage through him. “Shit.”
“Leave it,” True said. “We want what the Maddens can offer, okay? Remember that, Vandal.”
All Vandal remembered was how fucking good it felt to take Tara. How good her pussy had felt clenching around his dick. “Shit,” he said again, rising.
Spider and True shot him matching looks. The warning was clear.
He was going to ignore it.
****
As Vandal pulled up outside Canvas, he told himself he was just here to ask questions. Surely no fucking trouble would come from that? If Tara was indeed a Madden, if she was married, he’d walk away and try his damnedest to get her out of his head. But he had to know for sure, because walking away was going to be painful.
The tattoo shop still had that fresh-paint smell to it. Black leather couches sat in the window, providing a waiting area for customers. Ska music played over the speakers, and display cases full of piercings lined the walls. Artists’ portfolios sat on the countertop, but there was no sign of Tara or Ling. Vandal leafed idly through one of the portfolios, wondering how long he’d have to wait. He hadn’t lied last night. When he had his sights set on something—or someone—he was never patient.
Luckily, Ling emerged from one of the cubicles behind the counter after a few minutes, escorting out a girl with a freshly-pierced eyebrow. She gave Vandal a crisp, professional smile and took care of the girl’s payment before turning her attention to him.
“Where’s Tara?” he asked.
“With a client,” she said, her smile turning slightly sour. “Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know yet. When can I see her?”
Ling folded her arms, taking an aggressive stance that almost made him smile. “Maybe you can’t see her.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough—”
The second cubicle door opened and Tara poked her head out. “Ling? I— Vandal? Hey.”
She gave him a warm, knowing smile, and despite the anger churning in his gut, Vandal’s body responded. Seeing her in daylight, he realized she was even sexier than he’d thought. Her bright red hair was pulled back in a tight braid, highlighting her strong, stunning features. And that fucking smile. If she wasn’t thinking about last night in the park, he’d eat his patch.
“Hey,” he said. “We need to talk.”
She gave him a curious look, but there was nothing guarded or wary about it, which he’d have expected if she’d lied to him last night and thought she’d been caught out. “Sure,” she said. “Can you give me an hour? I need to wrap this piece up.”
An hour. Shit, he’d drive himself mad waiting an hour. But he swallowed his irrational anger and nodded. Tara gave him a bright smile and disappeared back inside her cubicle. The whir of a tattoo needle soon filtered out. Ling looked Vandal up and down, her disapproval clear.
“Remember what I told you,” she said, making a squeezing gesture.
Vandal scowled and settled himself on one of the couches. The hour dragged by. The idea that Tara could be married to a thug like Niall Madden made his skin itch. He didn’t want to give her up. One night wasn’t enough. The things he wanted to do her would take a hell of a lot longer.
But he couldn’t go against True’s order. Shit. Spider had to be wrong. Vandal wasn’t sure what he’d do otherwise.
By the time the hour was up, he was about ready to blow. Tara ushered out her client, then beckoned for him to follow her. She led him downstairs into a basement that had been converted into a basic staff room, with a small kitchen and another leather couch.
“Coffee?” she asked him, busying herself with a small coffee maker.
“I’m not here for small talk, Tara.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, a slight frown on her lips. He had a sudden vision of how he looked, tall and clad in black, brimming with anger and futile energy. He didn’t want to intimidate her, but he was struggling to keep a lid on his feelings. Jealousy and lust threatened to start a fire in him. The sight of her there, clad in another pair of skin-tight jeans and a vintage Nirvana t-shirt, had him hard and ready to fuck. He shoved his hands in his pockets. If he touched her before he had his answers, he’d never get around to asking the fucking questions.
&
nbsp; “Okay,” she said slowly, leaning against the counter. “What are you here for then?”
“Are you married to Niall Madden?” The words came out in a hot rush, scalding him.
Tara quirked an eyebrow in surprise, then sighed, shoulders slumping. “Ah,” she said. “Ah, shit.”
Chapter Four
It shouldn’t fucking matter, Vandal told himself even as his heart dropped. She was one woman, they’d had one night, and there were plenty of other women in Harleston. It shouldn’t matter.
So why did it matter so much?
“You are married to him?” he asked, hands balling into fists. “Fuck, Tara—”
“No,” she cut in, voice steely. “We’ve been divorced for four months. We were separated for a year before that. I’m not married to that man anymore.”
She made man into a bitter curse. Something burned in her eyes and Vandal was relieved to see it was hatred. The relief suffused him, icy and invigorating. He exhaled loudly, running his hands through his hair. “Thank fuck.”
She laughed, crossing her arms defensively. “Why? Why would it matter? How did you even know?”
“Club business,” he said automatically. Another Psycho City rule about women: they didn’t need to know shit.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re into some shady shit with the Madden Gang? Has Niall said something to you?”
He shook his head, crossing the room to her. Now he knew, he couldn’t stand to not touch her. And she came into his arms willingly, wrapping her arms around his neck despite the misgivings plain on her face. He kissed her hard, wanting to brand her.
“I want you,” he said, locking his arms around her waist and pulling her in as hard as he could. “And I want to know I can have you, any time, any place. And that means I want to know there are no other men, Tara. I want you to myself.”
Lust chased away some of the trepidation on her face. “There’s no one else,” she said, voice breathy. “Especially not a fucking Madden boy.”