by Juli Valenti
Unthinking, she let her hand move his hair from his forehead, a small breath leaving his lips as she did. Softly, and before she could talk herself out of it, she placed a small kiss on his lips. It was a thank you, for protection and safety and comfort. It was a desire she couldn’t resist.
His eyes opened at the gesture and his arm over her pulled her closer. This time, he kissed her, so softly. No one had ever kissed her so gently and she inwardly warred with herself. She knew she shouldn’t, but damn, she wanted to kiss this man. And so she did, their morning breath be damned. A small moan escaped her as he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting out to trace her lower lip before pulling away slightly.
Tonka was searching her face, looking for a no to his advances, but found none. Mercy wasn’t sure how far she wanted this to go, but she wasn’t ready to stop. This time, his hand moved to her face, holding her to him as he propped himself up slightly. His large body moved to tower over her, his eyes boring into hers, and his lips moving to meet her own. Desire unfurled itself in her stomach, filling her, and she wanted more. Taking one of his lips into her mouth, she nipped at it gently, and a groan sounded from deep in the man’s chest.
“God, Mercy,” he said softly against her mouth. “You know you don’t want this, and I know it. But I don’t want to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” she told him softly, arching her chin up, his fingers still grazing the skin of her face. Tonka peered down at her, his other arm still propping him up, his bare chest resting against her own. She wished she hadn’t put on Artist’s clothes the night before so she could feel the heat of his skin against her own.
“You need to tell me to stop,” Tonka whispered, placing another kiss against her lips. “I only have so much control, and you… you’re going to rob that from me.”
“So lose your control.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, woman.”
“Yes I do. I know I feel good around you. I know that kissing you is amazing and I can feel it to my toes.”
“I want more than to just kiss you. I want to feel your skin. I want to be in you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”
Moving on pure instinct, Mercy sat upright, pulling the borrowed T-shirt over her head, and allowing it to fall to the floor. The cool air of the room touched her skin, and her nipples hardened from it, pulling another groan from Tonka. She grasped his hand and moved it to touch her body, delighting in the way goosebumps covered her skin. The man beside her needed no further guidance as he cupped her breast and squeezed gently.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his hands grasping at her skin as he moved himself into the cradle of her legs. “So fucking beautiful,” he repeated, kissing her lips, her neck, and lower, taking one of her nipples into his mouth and sucking. Mercy moaned, her head falling back as he repeated the movement on her other nipple. Wetness pooled between her legs, and the whole world started to fall away.
Mercy’s hands grasped at Tonka’s arm, his shoulder, his hair, anything she could reach. She was pulling at him, pushing at him, wanting everything and nothing. His mouth left a trail of heat as it made its way back to hers, his lips capturing hers and their tongues meeting. She arched into him as he claimed her, their mouths melding.
“Please,” she pleaded, wanting more. She needed him like she needed air, the repercussions of their actions be damned. She didn’t care that he was a biker in an MC. She wasn’t worried about being merely a bedwarmer for him. She only cared that he wasn’t inside her and he should be. She needed to feel him, to have his heat filling her. And she cursed that they were still wearing anything.
Tonka’s hands trailed down her skin, toying with the material of the short shorts she’d donned. Because she had height on Artist, they were booty shorts, exposing more skin than she’d normally show. Now she was both grateful for the amount of skin the small scraps of fabric revealed, and despised them for covering her at all. As the man’s fingers toyed with the hem, his fingertips tracing the shape of her cheeks and the crack of her ass, she vowed she’d set them on fire. They were a retched piece of clothing that had no business existing.
“Please,” she repeated as his hand moved between them, drawing his fingertips along the fabric covering her core. She gasped and jerked toward him, and he repeated the motion, her own wetness soaking through them.
“Jesus, Mercy,” Tonka groaned, dropping his forehead to hers for a moment and taking a deep breath. “I can feel how wet you are, and I just have to know…”
His words trailed off as he slipped his large hand up the leg of the small shorts, past her panties, allowing his fingers to trail through her wetness. His touch was electric and she arched forward, attempting to guide him in her, in some way. His fingers weren’t what she wanted, but she wanted to feel him.
A loud buzzing sounded from the side table, beside the alarm clock. It increased in intensity, and despite their best effort to ignore it, it served to be an impossible task. Tonka’s phone clattered loudly to the hardwood floor, the vibration loud in the quiet room. The man swore and withdrew his hand, and Mercy blew out a frustrated breath. She watched as he reached over, forcefully snatching it from where it had fallen, and thrust it to his ear.
“What?” he all but snarled in the phone, his eyes alight with frustration. She couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle — she felt the same way, and enjoyed seeing the reflection of it in him as well.
Mercy took a mental and physical inventory as Tonka turned away, his voice hushing as he spoke, clearly club business. She straightened the borrowed shorts and righted the shirt she’d discarded previously before pulling it over her head. It was probably a good thing they’d been interrupted. The last thing she needed in her world was more of a mess, and one caused by another biker. Of course, if she’d scratched the itch that was Tonka, it wouldn’t really be caused by him. She was, after all, the one who started it.
Why did you kiss him?
She didn’t have an answer for the question her brain demanded from her. It seemed like a good idea, at the time. And, glancing over at his bare back in its perfect glory, she’d be lying if she said it still didn’t seem like a good one. Certainly a little bit of fun couldn’t result in too much of a disaster, right?
Yes, it can, and you know it all too well.
“We’ve gotta go,” Tonka said abruptly, pulling Mercy from her inner musings. Before she could ask, he continued, “There’s a problem with Lock.”
“Lock?” That name had her springing from the bed, her heart beginning to race. She didn’t know many of the names of the people there in New Mexico, other than those she’d had the pleasure, or not-so-pleasure, of meeting, but that was one she did. He’d been the mechanic who’d picked up her Chevelle. He had the garage that her baby had been towed to, and if something was wrong, she feared it may have to do with her.
The large man nodded, running a brush through his chin-length hair before shrugging a black tank top over his head. “Artist left you more clothes in the other room.”
A million questions ran through Mercy’s mind as she all but sprinted into Tonka’s other room. She snatched the clothes from where they lay folded on the small couch, and ripped the T-shirt she’d put back on from her body. She let it fall to the floor, not giving a damn about modesty. Besides, at this point, was there any reason to? Hell, Tonka had already seen her topless. The thought of his mouth on her skin had her closing her eyes and shaking her head. She tried to block the images — now wasn’t the time to get distracted.
Maybe later? Her libido jumped up and down at the errant thought.
Ignoring the directions her mind was attempting to go, she slipped the soft gray crop top over her head. Artist was clearly either delusional or more clothing adventurous than Mercy was. She was more of a grunge T-shirt and ripped jeans kind of girl. Spending all her time in a garage kept her from revealing extra skin than was needed. Maneuvering around heavy machinery in a crop top was a def
inite no go — she’d either slice open her stomach or get it covered in grease, neither of which sounded too appealing.
The other girl was at least closer to the mark with the shorts she’d provided. While they certainly showed a lot of skin, they weren’t daisy dukes like the ones she’d worn to sleep in. These were high-waisted and flattering, which almost led her to believe they’d been borrowed from another girl within the house. Sure, Mercy hadn’t seen any sweeties around, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. All clubs had them, it was just the way of the world. Hopefully they are just Artist’s fat shorts, she told herself, refusing to dwell on the thought of the girls.
All clubs had sweeties. They had different names — club ass, sweet butts, whatever, but their purposes were all the same. They pleased the men. The girls always hoped it would land them a permanent spot on the back of one of the men’s bikes, though it rarely did. It wasn’t impossible, but highly unlikely. No man wanted the town bicycle. After all, it was hard to hold your head high when every man in the clubhouse had banged your old lady.
“Are you ready?”
Tonka appeared from the bedroom hallway, his voice gruff as his eyes took in the sight of Mercy.
“Do you have a toothbrush?”
“New ones under the sink; pick one, but hurry up. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Mercy nodded and followed his instructions, snatching a blue, unwrapped toothbrush and hastily brushing her teeth. The fact that the man spared little for his normal pleasantries, his easy-going nature she’d seen the day before buried, had her on edge. She knew whatever they were walking into could be bad, and she knew better than to dawdle.
Once she was finished, she donned the clean socks Artist had provided, and slipped her boots back on. She made a mental note to thank the other woman — she was mostly clean minus the panties she had worn, which was better than putting her blood-stained clothes back on. Of course, she hadn’t taken the time to put her bra back on, but that was fine. The writing on the shirt — The Wicked Wing Tattoo — did a good job at masking any nipple she may have showed. Running the same brush Tonka had used through her hair, she swept her raven hair up and out of her face, before appearing before the biker.
He was arming himself, his shoulder rig snug against his chest and his pistol under his arm. His spare piece, the one that had been under the TV, was tucked at the small of his back as well. This is bad, she thought, surprised when Tonka extended his hand to her, offering her Sig back to her. She stared at it, before glancing up at his eyes, questioning.
“I can’t have you going out unarmed, and I can’t leave you here. Besides, I have a bad fucking feeling this has something to do with you. Leaving you helpless isn’t your style, or mine. Don’t use it unless you have to,” the man told her and she nodded, taking it, the weight familiar, though she wasn’t sure where she’d put it. It wouldn’t fit in the waist of her pants, at least not comfortably or safely.
Tonka dropped to his knee, black fabric in his hands, and grasped at her right leg. She lifted her foot as he guided her, slipping it over her skin, his fingers causing electricity to shoot straight to her stomach as he tightened it. A thigh holster. She hadn’t worn one before.
“I swear to god, Mercy, only use it if you fucking have to.”
“Aren’t the cops in this town going to give me shit for going around with a visible gun?”
“They’re on our payroll,” he told her offhand, distracted as he tightened the last buckle. She should have guessed that was true, but she was used to Sheridan. There, women weren’t to be armed. There was no need when they all had big, strong men to protect them. Ugh.
“I know you know how to use it,” continued, pulling her from her thoughts of disgust. “And I have it on good authority these are uncomfortable as hell… but… Artist,” he said as a way of explanation, waving to the rest of her clothes. “But if you shoot one of my fucking brothers, we’re going to have a giant-ass problem. I like you, but I won’t hesitate to end you if you make me. I’m choosing to trust you when half my club, my fucking family, doesn’t. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t,” she told him, putting every ounce of conviction she had in her voice.
The problem was, she couldn’t and wouldn’t make any promises. As much as she was fond of Tonka, she’d do what she had to stay safe. She’d kill him and his brothers if she had to. She’d take them all out, even if she went out with them. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to. She really, really hoped.
7
Chapter Seven
The ride on the back of Tonka’s bike came as no shock to Mercy. This time there was no arguing, not from her and certainly not from him. When he’d escorted her through the clubhouse, she’d kept her head down, refusing to meet the eyes of the other bikers. Not because she was afraid of them, but more that she was attempting to be respectful. She knew they didn’t trust her, and, in all reality, she didn’t trust them, either. And, when Tonka had headed to his Harley, she’d followed, knowing to fight with him about her riding bitch would be a moot point. It would’ve just killed time, time they may not have had.
She was surprised, however, when they were joined by several of the other bikers from the clubhouse. Artist was decked out in jeans and a T-shirt that matched the one Mercy wore, their boots almost identical. The other girl nodded to her, and Mercy returned the gestured, though there was no speaking over the roar of engines. ‘Speare, which she now knew was short for Shakespeare, flanked the other side of Artist. A couple others she joined the group, though she neither recognized their faces, nor could she read their names on their cuts.
Like a synchronized dance, the group headed out of the compound gates, and onto the New Mexico streets. Nothing looked the way it had the night before, not that it would’ve mattered for Mercy. She had no idea where they really were, and it certainly wasn’t the time to ask. This ride, however, she did keep a hand at Tonka’s waist. The bikers rode with purpose, flying over pavement. They were on a mission… and the longer they rode, the more worry rooted itself in the pit of Mercy’s stomach.
Inwardly, she cursed at herself for not getting more information out of Tonka the night before. Sure, he’d discussed some of the back story of the members, and had offered more insight than she’d ever deigned to expect from a man in a cut. But, it wasn’t enough. She should have pushed for more information regarding Static Law.
Staple had recognized her immediately. He’d known her, and known what he’d planned to do, even if he hadn’t been straight forward with it, at least until her lead flew true and took him out. How many had been patched over? How many SL goons had infiltrated this club? Did Poet and the others know they truly couldn’t be trusted?
Mercy knew the other woman wasn’t stupid, or naive, and had to know that patch over rarely went well. Usually it required taking out the officers, the alphas within the group. Had they done that? There were entirely too many questions plaguing her, and she had absolutely zero answers. The Law’s loyalty to Chucky ran deep; there was no loyalty for her. Had word gotten out so quickly? And, if so, had they already gone to her father?
If the latter was true, the world was about to implode, and there was little she could do about it.
“I fucking hate this shit.”
“What, babe?” Tonka asked, inclining his head slightly to peer over his shoulder at her. It took a moment for her to realize she’d spoken aloud and she merely shook her head. There was no point in repeating herself or trying to explain, anyway.
The bikes began to slow and Mercy forced herself to take in their surroundings. An auto body shop, not all that different from her garage, came into view. It was a sprawling, one-story building, with dirty white walls and a blue roof. Stains littered the driveway and run-down cars lined one full side of the fence around it. Bikes lined the other side.
Peering through the group, she tried to find her Chevelle. She saw hues of maroon, blacks, whites, blues, but nothing of the forest green of he
r beloved rebuild. Mercy’s stomach twisted, however, when she caught sight of blood, and beyond that, a body.
“Is it Lock?” she asked Tonka softly, squinting through the sunlight. From where she was, she couldn’t make out anything other than the man’s outline, the darkening pool of blood, and dark hair — though whether it was colored from staining or naturally dark, she didn’t know.
The other man nodded, though he didn’t look at her. He killed the engine on his bike, as the others did the same, all moving off their rides and moving closer to the man on the ground. Mercy climbed off the back as well, though remained where she was; she was unsure of her welcome. It was new territory for her and she hated not knowing how to behave. A large part of her wanted to move along with them, to take in the sight and see if she could help. The other part, the part that had always controlled her before, the one that was drilled into her head as a child, told her to stay put. She was to be seen and not heard. Rarely even seen, at that. But there was no place for her in this situation.
And yet, she watched as Artist’s shit-kickers sounded on the pavement, the other woman moving toward the scene. There was no hesitation in her steps, rather a confidence Mercy admired. It took a moment to realize she was talking.
“Mercy,” the woman said, her eyes narrowed and the lilt in her voice proof it hadn’t been the first call she’d made. “Need you over here.”
Holding her head high, she moved toward the other woman. She kept her eyes firmly on the sight of the man on the ground, and not the gazes of the men who watched as she approached Artist. The fact that she was being summoned could only mean one thing.
“That what I think it is?” the woman asked, pointing to something in blood. Mercy followed the gesture and lowered herself to the ground, being sure to touch nothing. And there, as plain as day, she saw it.
“Yes,” Mercy answered softly. “Fuck.”
Two things were certain. Lock was dead. The second was that he’d been killed by one of her father’s men. Signed in blood was their signature, the SL proudly on display for anyone to see. For everyone to see.