Notorious Devils MC Complete Collection: BoxSet

by Hayley Faiman

  “Cut the shit, Imogen. You’re mine. You aren’t going anywhere,” his hips press against my stomach and I feel his hard length.

  I whimper, “Sloane.” The wetness pools between my legs and I hate myself for it.

  His nose slides alongside mine as his lips hover over my mouth. “There’s nobody else for me but you, baby. Nobody. I can’t breathe without you at my side. I’d die,” he whispers.

  “I hate your fucking club,” I sneer right before his lips crash against mine.

  My body jolts with the flood of memories. I wasn’t a good enough wife for Sloane. I should have accepted the man he was; should have given him what he wanted, like Colleen suggested, so he didn’t go out to look for it elsewhere.

  I should have been okay with him being in his club, because it made him happy. I shouldn’t have tried to change him.

  I should have loved him just for him, and told him so.

  I never did stop loving him, though; even if I stopped saying and showing it.

  We were both so young. Looking back, there were so many things that I would have done differently—if I could go back and redo it all.

  When he didn’t do what I’d expected after a few years, which was leave the club and go work for his father, I shouldn’t have bitched at him about it. I should have talked to him. I was young, immature, and disappointed—not only in him, but in myself.

  Why couldn’t I be enough for him?

  Why did he need the club and the drugs? Then later, why did he need all of the women?

  Sloane is the only man I have ever been with. He’s the only man I have ever wanted to be with, but I’m not enough for him. As hard as it was for me to leave him, I needed to. I want to live a good life. I want to be happy and have a family and children—God, I want children more than my own breath.

  If I don’t start now, I’ll probably never have them. Graham is my chance at a family, but I don’t love him. I don’t even know if I like him.

  My life is nothing like I planned.

  I’m just trying to pick up the pieces and salvage some kind of future for myself, a future that doesn’t include Sloane. I wipe the tears away from beneath my eyes and stand.

  I have a dress fitting and lunch with my mother and her friends. Then I have dinner with Graham. I have a full day ahead of me, and I need to stop thinking of Sloane, or I’ll lock myself in my room and cry all day long, again.

  Chapter Two

  SOAR

  I groan into the pillow, feeling a heavy weight against my back. Opening my eye just a crack, I see a mass of hair, and I realize there’s a woman halfway draped along my back. I slide out from beneath her and she moans but doesn’t move.

  I reach for my pants and pull them up as I walk around my room. I spy a quarter full bottle of tequila on the floor, so I pick it up and take a swig, swishing it around in my mouth a little before I swallow.

  Making my way to the bathroom to take a leak, I try to ignore the fact that there’s a naked whore in my bed, again. Imogen left, so I shouldn’t feel guilty for fucking another girl, but I do—just like I always have. I wash my hands and look down at my finger. My wedding band is tattooed on and serves as a permanent reminder of what a piece of shit I am.

  “Soar,” a voice calls as I stumble back to my room.

  I look up to see Torch standing there, his eyes reading me, but I’m not sure what he sees.

  “Torch,” I grunt.

  “You need to talk about any of it, I’m here,” he states.

  My eyes widen and I nod my head, but it comes out more like a jerk.

  “Nothin’ much to talk about. Fucked up, got caught, served my time, and now I’m out. After my probation is up, I’ll be free,” I shrug.

  “You went to prison, Genny left, and you’re drinkin’. Lots of shit to talk about if you feel the need, brother,” he states.

  “Genny left because we treated each other like shit. I went to prison because I fucked up. I’m drinkin’ because I just got out yesterday,” I respond, grinding my teeth together.

  He rubs the back of his neck before he speaks, “I spent a lot of years hiding from the truth. I acted like an ass, and I ran from the one person I loved and needed the most. If I would have gotten my shit together sooner, I could have been as happy as I am right now for all those years I was fucking miserable.”

  “We’re toxic,” I say with a shrug.

  “Are you toxic because of actions and reactions? Or have you always been?” he asks. My eyes widen again at how fucking on point he is.

  Imogen and I haven’t always been toxic. My sunshine was the sweetest thing on earth. We went to shit slowly. It wasn’t an overnight thing.

  We hurt each other, made up, hurt each other again, and then continued on that cycle until she walked away from me, but only when I couldn’t drag her back to start the cycle all over again.

  “Actions and reactions,” I begrudgingly admit.

  “You gonna fix that?” he asks. My answer is to shrug. He wraps his hand around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze, causing me to lift my eyes to his. “You’re coming up on forty, Soar. Ain’t a young kid anymore. If she’s what you want, you need to make that shit happen.”

  “She’s my wife, but it’s been so long,” I say, unsure of what I’m admitting to. Lots of things, maybe.

  It’s been a long time since we’ve fucked. A long time since we were happy. A long time since I told her I loved her, and an even longer time since I showed her how much she meant to me. I run my hand through my shaggy hair, irritated at how long it is.

  “Get your shit together, lay off the booze and the dope, think about what you really want,” he suggests. “If it’s her, get her back.”

  “She hasn’t showed up in three years. I’m sure she’s moved on.”

  The words make my chest ache, and I don’t know how to feel about that. I don’t like how it makes me feel. Numbing this pain would be a fuck’ve a lot easier.

  “She serve you with papers? Cause she knew exactly where you were to do that shit,” he grunts. I shake my head and he chuckles. “Sort your shit and get your woman back.”

  Torch turns and walks away, leaving me in the hall to watch after him. I let his words sink in. All of them. Do I want Imogen back? If I do, I definitely don’t want it the way we had it, but I don’t know how to change our dynamic. I don’t know if I can change, truly change, and be the man I need to be for her.

  We’ve both hurt each other, and I can’t pretend the way I hurt her wasn’t more than the way she did me, because it was. I demolished her self-confidence, and I didn’t give a fuck while I was doing it. It was all a game to me.

  I didn’t even feel guilty about it until I sobered up, then I’d get baked, all over again to make that guilt go away. When I was sitting in a prison cell, alone and sober, there was nothing to mask the feelings and the realization of what I did to her. Nothing could mask that guilty feeling while I was in there. I don’t deserve her.

  Walking back into my room, I tell the whore to scoot off the bed, and she does. “Soar, baby,” she groans as she stands on wobbly legs. “You promised we’d have fun this morning,” she wines, stumbling naked around my room.

  “I lied,” I grunt.

  My phone buzzes from my nightstand, and I grin when I see who’s calling me. I don’t answer until the whore stomps out of the room and slams my door.

  “Kippy,” I rasp.

  “You’re coming next weekend, right?” he asks, sounding more like a man and less like my kid-brother.

  “Wouldn’t miss my baby brother’s valedictorian speech or his party for the fucking world.”

  “Imogen will be at the party,” he announces. My spine straightens.

  “Okay,” I say slowly.

  “With a date,” he practically growls.

  “Date?”

  “Graham Bayard,” he announces. It’s as though fire and rage instantly fills me.

  That fucking weasel prick. “Graham? She’s dating Graha
m?” I roar.

  “Knew you wouldn’t like that,” he says, sounding as though he’s trying to hold back his laughter.

  “No. Fuck, no, I don’t like it. Imogen is still my wife,” I hiss.

  “It’s black-tie, of course. See you then,” he calls out before he ends the conversation by hanging up.

  I narrow my eyes, thinking about fucking Graham fucking Bayard’s hands anywhere near Imogen, my Imogen, my fucking wife.

  Yeah, Torch and MadDog are right.

  I need to get my wife back.

  I’ll be damned if she makes a life with that piece of shit over me.

  IMOGEN

  I let out a heavy sigh as I straighten my dress. It’s a sleeveless, fitted, bright red bandage dress. I can hardly breathe in it. When I turn to the side, I can really see just how much weight I’ve lost since leaving Sloane.

  I look really thin. I should be excited about how tiny I am now, but I’m not. It’s just another reminder that I’m alone, that Sloane isn’t with me, and that he doesn’t care.

  He’s all about curves, or at least he claimed he was, always making sure I ate when he was around; always grabbing me and telling me just how hot he thought I was.

  Thinking about him, as I eye my shoes on the floor, I cringe. I recall one of the last times I saw him. He had swayed into the house, drunk and smelling like a brothel. I was so pissed. It was our anniversary, and we were supposed to be going out for the evening.

  I took off my shoe and threw it at him, screaming like a banshee as I started throwing everything I could get my hands on toward him.

  I wanted him to hurt as much as he hurt me. He fucked me against the wall that night, broken glass all around us, as tears stained my cheeks.

  Closing my eyes for a moment, I can almost hear his voice as he whispered in my ear, his cock buried deep inside of me, my back pressed against the wall.

  “I’m no fucking good, Genny. Goddamnit baby, I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I could be better.”

  Shaking my head, my straight blonde hair flying around me, I try to rid myself of the thought of him. I step into my nude high heels and grab my coat off of the bed. I have a date tonight.

  As much as I want to stay home and wallow in my self-pity, Graham has been so patient and kind to me, I owe it to him, and myself, to give us a chance.

  My doorbell rings, and I suck in a deep breath. Graham and I haven’t been intimate yet, but I can tell that he’s anxious for that step in our relationship.

  Though he’s been incredibly patient, a man can only be so patient—a lesson learned from my failed marriage. They need sex, and Graham and I have been seeing each other for four months.

  He’s without a doubt at the end of his rope with me. There’s just something that doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s me, or possibly him. I don’t know, but I can’t seem to go there, yet.

  “Hello, darling,” Graham greets as soon as I open my front door.

  I watch as his eyes do a sweep of my body. When they land on my face, his lips curl up in a sexy smirk. I wait for my belly to do flips or to clench, or for my skin to heat at his perusal of me, but it doesn’t. I feel like I’m looking into the eyes of Kip, or maybe even my oldest cousin, Dale.

  “Hello,” I respond with a fake smile as I take his outstretched arm.

  “I brought the BMW,” he announces, “It’s easier for you to get in and out of in your heels.”

  Inwardly, I roll my eyes. His other car is a Land Rover and just as easy for me to get inside of. I don’t care about cars, about stuff, not anymore. Life isn’t about stuff, it’s about love and living and being happy. I learned a long time ago that stuff wasn’t what I wanted to make me happy. You can have the worlds things at your fingertips and still be miserable.

  “We’re going to Gary Danko for dinner,” he announces. I gag a little as he closes the door and goes over to the driver’s side. “You’ll enjoy it.”

  I won’t enjoy it. I don’t like French food, not even a little. I don’t know why, but I never have. Caviar is not for me, and the only truffles I enjoy are the chocolate kind, not mushrooms.

  “So, how was your day?” I ask as we drive toward fisherman’s wharf. I don’t know why we don’t go somewhere with less tourists, but I don’t say anything. I choose to bite the inside of my cheek.

  “Long and full of things that would bore you,” he murmurs.

  I hate it. He acts like I’m too stupid to talk about his work. Although I probably am too stupid to understand every aspect, I don’t know why he can’t just talk in generalizations. It’s annoying. Maybe I’m just on edge tonight, with all the talk of Sloane earlier with Kip, but Graham is getting on my nerves more than he ever has.

  “Did you get your dress situation handled for the party?” he asks casually as he pulls up to valet.

  “Yes. My final fitting was this morning, then I had lunch with my mother afterward,” I state.

  He turns to me, giving me a bleached white toothed sparkling smile. It still does absolutely nothing for me.

  “Excellent. You’re going to be the sexiest woman there, I already know it, and you’ll be on my arm,” he announces before he opens the door and exits the car.

  The valet attendant helps me out, and I can’t help but frown at Graham’s words. I watch as he tosses the attendant his keys before he slides up to my side and presses his palm against my lower back.

  I don’t want to be a trophy anything.

  I’ve seen what happens to trophy wives in our circle. Once their beauty fades, they’re traded in for a younger, sexier, childless, perky model. I don’t want that. I never have. I’ve always wanted love, real soul shattering love.

  “Can I help you?” the hostess asks.

  Graham tells her his name and that he has reservations. She smiles kindly and suggests that we follow her. Once we’re seated and Graham orders some ridiculous champagne, I decide to ask him exactly what is happening between us.

  “Why are you dating me, Graham?” I ask. He lifts his head from his menu and furrows his eyebrows together.

  “Why wouldn’t I want to date you, Imogen?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think I’d make a good trophy wife,” I say, scrunching my nose up.

  Graham throws back his head in laughter, and I stare at him, my eyes widening in surprise at his boisterous response.

  “I’m sorry, Imogen, but you’re far from a trophy wife. You’re thirty-five years old, and by looking at you, nothing on you is fake?” he asks, arching an eyebrow as he stares at my chest. My face heats in embarrassment and shame.

  “I like you, Imogen. But I’m not going to beat around the bush with you. This is as much because my family approves of you and of your family’s status as it is because I find you attractive. You fit within my world in a way most women don’t. You understand society, what’s expected of you, and you’re not as much of a bitch as some of those other girls. So, while I do find you attractive, very attractive actually, that is not my sole reason for wishing to date you.”

  I nod my understanding, because I do understand. There aren’t many society girls that are single at my age. If they are, they come with a lot more baggage than I do.

  Graham is Sloane’s age, unmarried, no children, and obviously wants more than a fling with me, especially since he’s been dating me without pushing for sex for the past four months.

  “Okay,” I murmur, not wishing to embarrass myself further.

  “You’re beautiful, Imogen, and if he didn’t see that after twenty years of having you, he’s never going to,” he whispers as he takes my hand in his from across the table.

  “I know,” I shrug, lifting my head and looking into his dark brown eyes.

  They aren’t the light green of Sloane’s, and looking into them feels wrong. Every day I miss him, and I feel stupid for it—completely brainless.

  Graham orders for us, not even asking me what I like. He orders caviar, scallops, shrimp, and several truffle tasting items, all
of which I can’t stand.

  I choke down what I can while he talks about his family, their many houses, and how he’s getting ready to buy a country home, probably in Napa; he doesn’t want to raise a family in the city.

  “Napa is beautiful,” I offer. He nods.

  “I’ll always keep my place in the city and just commute on Fridays and Mondays,” he announces.

  “So, you want to live in the city during the week?” I ask as I choke down a scallop.

  “Yeah, I mean, I’ll be around on the weekends and you can hire a nanny. It’s not as if you’ll have to do everything,” he shrugs. My eyes widen when he assumes that I’m going to be his wife and the mother of his children.

  “Graham,” I whisper.

  “This is happening, Imogen. You need to file for divorce from his ass, and you’re moving on, with me. Next weekend, after the party, you’re staying at my place. Enough pretending like we don’t know where this is going. We aren’t young enough to mess around anymore. We’ll have a small wedding in six-months and start trying for a baby immediately. It’s time,” he announces.

  My eyes widen and my mouth drops open in shock. I don’t know what to say. It’s a big assumption, and we aren’t in love. I’m not even turned on by him. Things could change after we move to the next level, but right now? He feels like my cousin.

  “Do you love me?” I ask.

  Graham’s eyes narrow as his lips purse together. “I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. I respect you, your family, and I’m attracted to you. Our children would come from perfect breeding. It’s the foundation of a successful coupling.”

  I scrunch my nose up at his words—successful coupling. How clinical, how unsexy, and how very much unlike Sloane. Graham stands and walks over to me, helping me up from my chair. He’s poised and always a perfect gentleman. I can’t help but think he’s like this in bed, too, and that kind of makes me feel grossed out.

  I’m used to hot, dirty, sweaty sex. I don’t think Graham has worked up a sweat anywhere but on a treadmill his entire life. Plus, I feel like we’re making an appointment to have sex, and that just makes it even more awkward and unsexy.