by Jen Davis
CHAPTER THREE
Kane
The club didn’t do much to celebrate the holidays. Kane’s parents weren’t what anyone would call domestic. He’d only observed a handful of festivities in his entire life; all of them had been with someone else’s family. This year, though, Cue Ball got a wild hair up his ass to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving.
He’d never seen the big, bald bastard cook anything in the fifteen years he’d known him, but it wasn’t like he had a bunch of better options busting down his door, so he agreed to help. He tilted his head at the deep fryer set up in the carport.
Wait. They were doing this over an open flame?
Cue Ball’s deep laugh drew his attention away from the vat of oil. “You’re looking at that thing like it’s gonna jump up and bite your ass, K.” His arms flexed in his sleeveless-T as he used the netting to lift the two turkeys in curls with each hand.
“Save all your showboating for the girls, brother. No need to flex for me.” Kane grinned and covered his heart with his hands. “I’m already a fan.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Cue Ball smirked and deliberately lifted one of the birds, his bicep bulging. “You know you wish you had guns like these.” He kissed the muscle with a loud smack.
A set of feminine arms snaked around his buddy’s waist. “I hope you’re saving some of those kisses for me, baby.”
Cue Ball turned toward the husky voice. “Maybe I have some better ideas for what you can do with your mouth.”
He turned away as his friend made a spectacle of himself with his Flavor of the Moment. Watching another man’s conquest did nothing to light his fire.
A quick Google search on his phone about frying turkeys raised about a hundred red flags. “Hey, Cue, those turkeys aren’t still frozen, are they?”
“What do you take me for, an idiot?” If the man could talk, it meant the woman was finished swallowing his tongue.
He chanced a look up from the screen and caught sight of her tight jeans as she sashayed back into the clubhouse. “You asking a trick question?”
Cursing under his breath, Cue Ball dropped the turkeys on the folding table next to the propane tank. Then, he pulled a wicked-looking knife from the scabbard on his belt. “Help me cut the packaging off, ya prick.”
They kept up their good-natured ribbing as they cleaned and dried the birds. He was trying to attach the hooks inside his turkey’s chest cavity when his senses recognized the unmistakable combination of secondhand smoke, Aqua Net hairspray, and a knock-off version of Chanel No. 5.
Mama.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Her pack-a-day habit gave her voice a hint of rasp that never went away. “Desiree said you were out here cooking, but I thought she was full of shit.”
“You come out to help us, Mama V?” Cue Ball couldn’t hold back a chuckle.
She only had two natural born sons, but almost every man in the crew called her Mama, never Vivian. Even Malcolm did it sometimes, though it made Kane shudder if he let himself think about it. Sadly, it wasn’t even close to the most disturbing thing about their dysfunctional relationship.
She chuckled. “You know damn good and well—”
He finished along with her, Cue echoing too. “Mama don’t cook.”
Never had. Never will.
He and Scott grew up on an assortment of fast food and any kind of meat they could throw on the rusted old charcoal grill cemented to the ground near the back door.
His mother smiled. Her boys knew her well.
Cue Ball squatted at the base of the fryer and lit the propane. “We’re more than happy to cook for you.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Right, K?”
“Assuming we don’t burn down the carport, sure.”
The turkeys were ready to go in, just as soon as the oil got hot enough. Unfortunately, there was no sign of a thermometer, which meant they would have to wing it.
Mama V pulled a Kool Menthol from its green and white pack and lit the end. She took a deep drag, and the smoke escaped on an exhale as she spoke. “Charlene was in the clubhouse looking for you, KC.”
KC. Short for Kane Charles. His mother called both her sons by their initials. Kane’s brother was SP. Scott Paul. She thought it was cute, but it didn’t feel genuine. It never caught on with the rest of the men.
“You plan on making her your old lady?” His mother smoothed the top of her bleached hair, where a hundred broken pieces stuck out before her ponytail holder. Her long red lacquered nails were a sharp contrast to the washed-out color.
He shook his head. “Nah. I think Charlene and I have run our course. There wasn’t much there, even in the beginning.”
His mother smiled with satisfaction. She was one of only two old ladies in the MC, a privilege she was in no hurry to share with anyone else. Even if it didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot. “Well, I’ll just tell her to go on then, shall I?”
A sigh escaped him. “No. She should hear it from me.” He’d put it off too long already. As many times as he warned women it was only sex, they always thought they would be the exception to his rules.
No commitments. No feelings. Just fucking.
He wasn’t cut out for anything else. More to the point, he’d never put himself through loving somebody again. It hurt too much when it went away. He’d rather invest his heart in the bonds of friendship. Something he could rely on. His brothers would never abandon him, and no matter how crazy their world was sometimes, he’d never leave them either.
Allegiance was the least he could give those guys for the loyalty they’d shown him over the years.
Leaving Cue Ball to figure out when to drop the turkeys in the fryer, he strode past his mother into the clubhouse. The back door led to the kitchen, and beyond there, a common room featuring a scarred pool table in the center with green felt so worn, it was almost completely smooth. A Budweiser lamp they rescued from a dive bar hung over it, spilling yellow light onto the table.
Scott played against a prospect, while Charlene leaned against the wall, watching and nursing a longneck.
He stopped and studied her. Like his mother, her blond hair was out of a bottle. Even if the brittleness didn’t give it away, he knew firsthand the carpet didn’t match the drapes.
Her red dress was flimsy, revealing, and too tight, showing off the bony hips and hard lines of her thin frame. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but she wore a thick mask of makeup. Even though he’d surveyed every inch of her skin, Kane had never seen her without her foundation and false eyelashes. It was simply another barrier between them, though to be fair, it was the only one she’d built. The rest were his.
He tried to imagine her with a clean, fresh face, brown hair, and an extra ten pounds on her frame. She’d probably be a knockout.
Too bad she’d never believe it. Wholesome beauty didn’t go very far around here.
He nodded toward the closest bedroom, not doubting for a second she would follow. Sure enough, she appeared a step behind him when he cleared the ten-by-twelve room, and she closed the hollow, fake-wood door once she crossed the threshold.
“Want me to give you something to be thankful for, baby?” She batted her thick fringe of lashes, but they both knew her heart wasn’t in it.
He didn’t have the patience to beat around the bush. Besides, it was kinder to put his cards on the table. “I think it’s time we make a clean break.”
She blinked, then lowered herself to sit on the rumpled sheets atop the double bed. “This is because I let myself in at your place.”
Speaking of which. “How did you even get inside to begin with?”
Her fingers tangled in the sheets, and she stared at them like they held the secrets of the universe.
“Charlene.” His sharp tone issued a warning, and her eyes flashed up to meet his.
“I took Scottie’s key.” She cleared her throat. “Off his keyring.”
Heat climbed his neck. He fought the urge to lose his shit and simply held out his hand
. “Give it to me,” he said quietly.
Biting her lip, Charlene reached down the top of her bodice and pulled a long chain from between her generous, unnaturally round breasts. The key was threaded at the bottom. She frowned as she lifted the chain over her head and put it, along with the key, in his waiting hand.
“I knew I was losing you,” she whispered. “I thought if I could be there when you needed me, you might see how good it could be between us.”
He shoved the key into his jeans’ pocket. Any sympathy he might’ve had for the girl evaporated the moment she admitted what she’d done. “Geez, Char. It’s only been a few weeks. You can’t lose something you never had.” Deliberately, he turned his back on her and headed out the door.
Scott glanced up from the table. “Quick work.” He snickered. “You know they make pills that can help if you’re having trouble in the bedroom.”
Wisely, the prospect busied himself rubbing chalk on the end of his stick. Getting between two brothers was a lose-lose proposition.
He lifted his middle finger. “If you’re worried about how well my dick works, feel free to suck it, brother.”
Scott raised his thick, dark eyebrows. “Maybe if I could find it, I’d take you up on your offer.”
They pretended to glare at each other for a few seconds before they both relaxed into smiles. A few feet from his brother, he leaned his hip against the table. “It was time to cut her loose. She was getting too attached.”
“So? As long it’s her mouth attached to your junk, who gives a shit?”
Scott’s bedroom door policy was wide open, with a welcome mat for any woman who wanted to come inside. His brother wouldn’t understand the way Charlene’s longing looks made his mouth dry up. But the man did understand the concept of respect. Maybe too well.
“I found her in my bed the other night. Uninvited.”
Scott lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, then turned his attention back to the table, lining up a shot.
“She stole your key to my apartment.”
The shot went wild, the white ball bouncing hard on the table. “The fuck, you say?”
He dug in his pocket and tossed the key and chain onto the table. “The only women I want in my bed are ones I invite there.”
“You toss her out of the clubhouse?” Scott pressed his lips together. It was a whole different ballgame when she crossed one of his lines.
“Nah. I just told her we were done.” It seemed cruel to excommunicate her from the club simply because he didn’t want to fuck her anymore. Frankly, he had no idea why any woman wanted to be Property of the MC anyway. It was a life lacking in respect from anyone you shared your body with, but hell, it was their choice to make.
Scott’s expression turned sly. “Maybe I’ll let her work off her transgressions on her knees.”
“Knock yourself out.” The smell of frying meat wafted in from outside. He had forgotten about the turkeys. Turning toward the door, he tightened the ponytail at the base of his neck. “I’m gonna go finish helping Cue. Take better care of my key, asshole.”
Scott’s belly laugh followed him as he returned to his post at the fryer.
***
Amanda
The Griffin house was more of a showplace than it had ever been a home. Amanda’s father lived upstairs, but the downstairs was designed to invite, impress, or intimidate, depending on the guest.
As she walked in the door, she gave the interior a detached once-over. The walls were an icy white, with thick ivory trim. They contrasted starkly with the dark wood floors. The entry boasted a high ceiling all the way to the second floor, where a curved staircase drew the eye. Much of the ground floor was an open plan, which was great for the shock and awe her dad loved so much. She could see all the heavy, expensive furniture, thick rugs, and crystal chandeliers in a single sweep of her gaze.
Terrence escorted her deeper into the house, though she knew the way. The older, soft-spoken butler had been with the family since she was a kid.
She smoothed her hands over her black pencil skirt before approaching the two men standing by the fireplace. Both Nathan and her father were sipping off glasses filled with amber liquid. Fifty-year-old Scotch, no doubt.
Her heels clicked on the oak panels as she advanced toward them. They both met her society mask with practiced, insincere smiles. Terrence disappeared silently into the background.
“You’re late, darling. I hope you didn’t encounter too much traffic on the way here.” Her father’s lie dripped off his tongue like honey. He had told her to be here at five o’clock and it was four fifty-five. Still, she knew better than to argue.
“I’m terribly sorry for keeping you waiting. You know how we women like to make ourselves look perfect. The time must have gotten away from me.” Rolling her eyes inwardly, she kissed her father’s cheek, then nodded at Nathan. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
His eyes slid appraisingly over her body, from the loose twist in her hair to her pale pink silk shirt, all the way to her counterfeit Louboutin’s. They were fakes—good fakes—but she had no doubt Nathan would know the difference. Her feet weren’t where his eyes lingered, though. “Don’t worry yourself, pet. You were worth the wait.”
She smiled tightly. “Shall I check on our meal?”
The men wouldn’t talk business while she was here, and she knew damn good and well their wheeling and dealing was the real reason for this dinner. Without waiting for an answer, she slipped away to confer with the chef. The heat of Nathan’s gaze nearly singed her skin, and she fought the urge to shudder.
Thank God, she wouldn’t have to endure him much longer.
The double doors offered no sound or resistance as she made her way into the kitchen. Quiet and compliant, like everything else her father surrounded himself with. The chef was putting the finishing touches on the tray of carved turkey. His head shot up as he sensed her approach.
“We are ready to serve, Mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, Jacques. We’ll be in the dining room.”
She’d hoped for an excuse to linger, but she should have known her father’s staff would be punctual to a fault. He would accept nothing less. Forcing her chin up, she returned to the fireplace where the men still had their heads together. She kept a respectful distance until her father nodded subtly for her to return. Even though he’d ignored her for five minutes, she had no doubt he’d been aware the instant she’d returned to the room.
Leading the men to the dining room, she took the seat left of her father’s place at the head of the massive table. Nathan sat to his right. The servers immediately poured out of the kitchen. The wine came first.
Nathan swirled the dark red liquid in his glass before taking a small sip. He prided himself a wine connoisseur. One of a hundred ways he excelled in pretension and pomposity.
“Mmm. Goldeneye. Pinot noir.” He rolled the flavor around on his tongue. “2014?”
Her father nodded sagely. “Always nice to share a meal with someone who appreciates the finer things.”
She sipped from her glass demurely, the perfect society accessory, nodding as they waxed on about wood smoke and cherries. White zinfandel would satisfy her any day of the week.
The meal rivaled any she’d tasted in a five-star restaurant. In addition to the lemon-herb turkey, Jacques prepared a sweet potato and butternut squash soup, cornbread dressing, and a cranberry-chocolate tart.
The men spoke in hushed tones as Amanda moved the food around on her plate. Her father really hadn’t needed her here. The only purpose she served was to help them pretend this meal was something other than a business meeting on a holiday. The ticking of the grandfather clock only accentuated the lack of warmth or laughter at the table.
Eventually, the staff returned to clear their plates. Nathan drew to his feet and nodded at her father. “It’s been a pleasure, Beau. I think you’ll be able to do some great things for the party. You have our full support. My secretary will reach out to yours at the
beginning of next week. Amanda.” He said her name as an afterthought, but there was heat in his gaze when he nodded his farewell.
She waited until the front door closed completely behind him before she spoke. “Shall we return to the sitting room?”
Her father was rarely one to grin, but right now he clearly fought the urge. And lost. He rubbed his hands together as they moved toward the pristine white sofa.
“You look pleased.”
He schooled his features. “Yes. This evening has been a productive one.”
Allowing her shoulders to relax, she leaned back into the seat. “I’m glad.” Finally, she could breathe. “I am so ready to end this farce of a relationship with Nathan. I don’t think I could’ve forced myself to keep it up much longer.”
Her father narrowed his eyes. “You will not be ending anything with Nathan Shaw.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did, she sat up straighter. “What?” Panic fluttered in her chest. “No. Our agreement was for six months. You have no idea—”
“You have no idea.” He slapped his hand on the arm of the sofa. “Our association with Nathan has been very productive, and I will not have you upset the apple cart.”
“Our association? Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to endure his company or get treated like a piece of property.” Apparently, the three glasses of wine she’d downed at dinner were loosening her tongue. “After all, what’s the benefit to having a daughter if you can’t sell her off to seal a business deal?”
Her father’s face hardened with every word. “You will not speak to me that way in my home, Amanda Grace.”
“I won’t do it anymore, Dad.” She shook her head, climbing unsteadily to her feet, defiance pumping through her veins.
“You will if you want my money.”
She stopped.
“Ah. Right. Let’s not forget, you aren’t dating Nathan out of the goodness of your heart. You want my money to save your little construction company.”