Razor (Twisted Devils MC Book 1)

by Zahra Girard

  She sighs. The fire inside her seems to die.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you really working for the Makris family?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it they want?”

  “Access to the hospital’s drugs. They plan on selling them on the black market. I’m supposed to help get some of their men into the pharmacy so they can rip it off. One great big heist.”

  She shifts again, this time involuntarily, but her ass still brushes against me in a way that’s completely distracting. I’m already out of sorts; I did not expect her to cooperate so easily.

  “Why are you helping them?”

  “Why do you think? They’re threatening me.”

  I grunt. It fits their style. Threaten, intimidate, then kill to clean up the evidence.

  “Do you know where they’re hiding in town?”

  “No. I don’t know where they’re hiding. I don’t know how many men they’ve got in town. The only one of them I’ve met face to face was the guy you killed: Nico Markis. Everything else has been through creepy phone calls. If I knew more, I’d tell you but, honestly, I don’t know anything. But I still really want to fuck you right now. So, can we do that, please?”

  I don’t know if I believe her when she says that she’s told me everything she knows, but she’s told me enough that I won’t hesitate to fuck her brains out.

  I flip her around and kiss her.

  I kiss her until she moans, until my cock feels ready to fucking explode. By the time we break our lips apart, she is banging her hands against the side panels of her car in pent-up frustration and her eyes are screaming at me to fuck her right here and now.

  “Now, please, Razor,” she moans.

  I’m not one to keep a lady waiting, so I pick her up and carry her to her front door.

  “Yes, nurse. Let’s go inside.”

  She unlocks the door and I carry her two steps in before she presses her lips to mine and, with one hand, reaches down and opens the buttons to my jeans and undoes the zipper.

  My cock’s out and in her hungry grip before I can even blink.

  “Put me down. I want to suck you,” she says.

  I’m not the kind of guy who turns down a nurse’s orders, so I put her down and groan as she sucks my cock deep down her throat.

  “God damn, you are a marvel.”

  “Just wait until I get you inside me.”

  My eyes stay closed for a while as I enjoy the sense of her devouring my dick. For all her put on appearances and attitude, Samantha Baker knows how to unleash when it counts and I’ll be damned if I don’t enjoy the feel of my cock all the way down her throat. It’s even hotter knowing this innocent nurse has a couple skeletons in her closet.

  When I pry my eyes open, I look down and see her beautiful greens staring up at me. If I don’t stop her now, she’ll suck me dry and leave me comatose.

  “That’s enough.”

  I slip my arms under her shoulders and pull her to her feet. She’s almost pouting at being pulled away from my cock. But I know she’ll be singing a different tune once I get myself another taste of her ass.

  Still in her hallway, with the door to the world still wide open, I kneel and strip away her pants and the lacy black panties she’s got on underneath. I allow myself a moment to breathe in the scent of her pussy and take a taste; I’ll never get enough of knowing how wet I make her.

  “Don’t be shy,” she says.

  I pull her towards me by the hips and let my tongue do the talking. In no time, she’s moaning and grinding her wet pussy against my face.

  “Right there, Razor. Right there. Please don’t stop.”

  But it’s not enough for me. I pull her hips a little closer and push her torso back a bit against the wall. Her hips rise, her back arches, presenting more of herself to taste. To savor. Then my tongue wanders, teasing and tasting her everywhere. I love licking her pussy, but I also can’t get enough of her tight little ass.

  Fuck, everything about this woman is delicious.

  In minutes, she’s a shivering, moaning mess as she comes against my face. I keep going, keep licking, even though every touch of my tongue makes her shake and curse like I’ve just kicked a kitten in front of her.

  I stand up and look deep in her eyes before crushing my lips to hers. Down below, I feel her hand wrap around my cock and guide it until the head is grinding against her dripping wet pussy.

  “I can taste myself on you,” she whispers.

  “Luck you. You’re delicious.”

  “I want to ride you,” she says. “But not here.”

  My eyes glance at the open door. “Why not? Self-conscious? We’re a little past that point, Florence.”

  She shakes her head, grinning. “Not that. It’s just that, when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to move and I sure as hell can’t carry you from here to my bed. So save me the trouble and get to my bedroom so I can fuck your brains out.”

  I kick the door shut. Scoop her back up and carry her the rest of the way.

  She laughs as I throw her on the bed and as soon as I lie down beside her, she swivels, sitting her ass over my face and sucking my hard cock between her lips. There’s no way in hell I’m passing up another chance for a taste and, in minutes, she’s writhing and squirming as I suck the bud of her clit between my lips and massage it with my tongue.

  “God damn, I love that tongue of yours,” she moans.

  I’d answer, but she’s sitting square on my face.

  I’m in heaven.

  When she can move again, she twirls and holds herself right over my cock. Her eyes are so wide and so bright with anticipation — shimmering emeralds lit with lust. My eyes feel that way, too. There’s just something about this woman — innocent on the outside, but just the right amount of dark and sinful on the inside — that drives me wild in a way that no woman has before.

  Then she lowers herself onto my cock. And the only thoughts in my mind are about holding on and how good her ass feels when I grip her tight and thrust my cock deeper into her tight pussy.

  It’s not long before I’m just as much of a mess as she was when I was eating her ass in the hallway.

  I try to shake my head clear.

  Fuck, am I dead? It feels like it.

  When my senses come back to me, I grin at her.

  “I was wrong about you being innocent,” I say.

  She lies down beside me and nestles her head in the crook of my shoulder. It feels right. Right in a way that I want to have in my life for a very long time. “Yeah, I know.”

  * * * * *

  I wake up to a faint buzzing sound that, to my sex-hungover brain, sounds like a swarm of hornets. Irritated, I disentangle myself from the lovely and still-sleeping Samantha and quietly stagger from the bedroom to the front entryway of her house to see where the sound is coming from.

  It’s her phone.

  And there’s a whole mess of text messages coming in.

  My mind drifts back to last night. To her telling me about how the Makris family communicated with her.

  I snatch up her phone and open it.

  It isn’t one of the Makris brothers.

  It’s her brother.

  My eyes scan the chain of texts in disbelief. The full story isn’t on the screen in front of me, but there’s enough to tell me that not only is Samantha working for the Makris family, but her brother is, too.

  Innocent is on the opposite end of the spectrum as far as this woman is concerned.

  I scan the texts again. A little deeper this time.

  It’s obvious she loves her brother. This isn’t the scheming of some criminal, this is a sister doing her best to protect the brother cares for. And I know all about trying to save a self-destructive family member.

  But she’s been lying to me. Over and over again, lying right to my face, even as I’ve sheltered her from the violence and the danger that’s coming for her. Deceptive, disrespectful, she’s been pull
ing me around and using me like I’m some kind of disposable tool.

  I take a seat on the couch to come to grips with my thoughts, the phone in one hand and my other a clenched fist of rage. I understand the pain she’s going through — the pain of seeing a family member on a path to self-destruction and feeling powerless to prevent it — but there’s no way I can get my head around the continuous lying and deception she’s thrown at me.

  She has a lot to answer for.

  “What are you doing with my phone?”

  I look up. She’s right there in the hallway and she’s caught me red-handed.

  “Looks like you’re not the only person in the Baker family caught up in this mess. Why would you keep this shit from me?”

  “Because you didn’t need to know. Because the things you do to people you think are a threat frighten me and I didn’t want my biker boyfriend deciding that my own brother is a security risk and beating him to death.”

  “So you lie to me? Keep things from me?” I hurl the phone at her feet. “I’m trying to keep you safe from this mess and you just keep digging yourself in deeper.”

  “This is my problem, Razor. You wouldn’t fucking understand.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t understand? You don’t think I know what it’s like to want to protect someone you love from their own stupid fucking decisions? That I wouldn’t have given everything to have convinced my mother to leave my father earlier and taken me with her instead of fucking shooting up and killing herself in some piece of shit motel? I know full fucking well what you’re going through.”

  “Get out.”

  “I’m the only one on your side here, Florence. There’s no one else. You think real careful about what you’re saying to me.”

  “I said get out,” she screams. “Get out. Get out. Get out.”

  With her cries at my back, I gather my things and storm out into her driveway. The door slams behind me and still her screams of rage and anger lash me.

  Then my phone rings. It’s Officer Hanratty.

  I keep my voice low. “This better be good news, you son of a bitch.”

  “Good morning, bud. Hope this isn’t a bad time — is that screaming in the background? — anyway, sorry to ring you like this, but I think you will like this news. I just found out where the youngest Makris brother, Alec Makris, is staying.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  For one brief moment, I hate Hanratty a little less.

  “Not even a little, sport. He’s staying at that old motel that’s on the road to Shady Pine. The Red Barn. I just checked with the manager and Alec is in his room right now. If you hurry, we can probably catch him.”

  I hang up on Hanratty before he can finish talking and, in seconds, I’m on my Harley screaming down the road to that shitbox motel.

  When I get there, the parking lot is full of more tumbleweeds than cars. I spy Hanratty right away; he’s standing next to his civilian car with a cup of coffee in his hand and a bag of donuts on the hood next to him.

  I park next to him and hop off my bike. My thoughts are racing and I’m ready as hell for the chance to take down another Makris brother. Whether or not I’m through with Florence, I’m still killing these assholes. They’ve threatened my hometown and my family and that means they have to die.

  “Morning, Razor. I got an extra coffee for you. Some extra donuts in the bag, too. Help yourself.”

  I take a coffee. And a donut, too. It kills me to accept Hanratty’s kindness but, after a night of fucking Samantha Baker and the fight from earlier, my body needs all the extra energy it can get.

  “What room is the son of a bitch in?”

  Hanratty points to a far room on the top level of the two-story motel. “That one over there. 236. He’s got no neighbors. Closest is seven doors down, room 229.”

  “And you’re sure it’s him?”

  “Yeah, bud. I managed to get a few file pictures of the Makris brothers from a buddy of mine down in LAPD. Which was no mean feat, let me tell you. But, I’ve been showing their pictures around town with some of my contacts and the owner in there positively ID’d Alec Makris.”

  “Let’s go in there and grab the son of a bitch.”

  “Wait. You look like you’ve had a rough night, bud. Don’t you want to finish your coffee and donut?”

  “Later, Hanratty. We’ve got a job to do.”

  I storm towards the motel, fueled by my rage at this asshole’s family and all the damage they’ve done to me and the ones I care about. It will be satisfying beyond words to beat information out of this drug-pushing piece of shit.

  I’m halfway up the stairs to the second floor when a door at the top of the staircase opens and a man in blue steps out. Then another.

  Turning, I look down and see two more uniformed officers at the base of the staircase with Hanratty among them. He’s got his gun out, trained square on me.

  “The fuck are you doing, Hanratty?”

  “I’m sorry, sport. I gotta bring you in. Now, put your hands behind your back — you’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Samantha

  Somehow, after the shouting match with Razor, I get back to sleep. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion of the last week catching up to me, or maybe my body is just spent from a night of how-the-hell-is-it-so-good sex. Whatever it is, the second I lay my head down on the pillow, I’m out again.

  Out until clattering pots and pans and the aroma of coffee wakes me up and pulls my aching body to a sitting position at the edge of my bed. I’m sore beyond belief, my muscles quiver in agony like I’ve run a marathon and my brain wrestles with the simple task of trying to decide whether the prospect of coffee and breakfast is worth enduring the pain of a walk to the kitchen.

  Eventually, I stand up.

  After a moment of stretching some life back into my sore limbs, I throw on some clothes and stumble my way out to the kitchen.

  It’s empty.

  “Razor?” I call out, to no response.

  Frowning, I pour myself a cup of coffee and, after blowing on it, take a sip.

  Could he have come back? Is this his way of apologizing?

  Not that I would be surprised if he returned. He’s a protective, caring, and supremely focused man, even if he hides it under the veneer of criminality. Even if he is wantonly violent and so stubborn that he thinks his way is the only way, he’s still trying and still acting out of a place of caring.

  If only he could see that this is my problem to deal with, my problem to solve. I’m happy for his help, but that doesn’t mean I have to give him total control. I have to solve this my way because it’s my life and my brother’s life on the line. If only he could understand that.

  A smile lifts my lips as I remember how shocked he looked last night when I told him just a portion of the things that Claudia had said about him. There was more — much more — in the things that Claudia said but, if I had told Razor everything, I know he would probably never come back to that restaurant, so I had to get creative in my storytelling. It was cute seeing the surprised innocence to him. It’s a side of him he does so well at hiding, a side that cares and loves wholly and intently.

  Besides, the chilaquiles Claudia made were shockingly good and she shouldn’t lose business over a little fantasy, or even a big and incredibly dirty fantasy.

  I get halfway through my cup of coffee and then turn my attention to breakfast. Out of the fridge, I take some eggs and milk and, from one of my cupboards, I take down some flour, some baking powder, some salt, some sugar, and some vanilla extract. I mix it all together in a bowl and throw in a few secret spices. It’s a recipe I know by heart: my mother’s famous pancakes. I’ve only made these for a few people in my life and Razor is going to be the first person outside my immediate family to taste my attempt to do justice to my mom’s pancake recipe.

  “I’m making pancakes, you want some?” I call out. “They’re good. Family recipe.”

  No response. He must be
gone.

  Then why do I feel like someone’s here? Maybe he’s just thinking or maybe his feelings are still raw.

  I push that thought aside and focus my weary body on the pancakes. In just a few minutes, I have a nice dollop of dough sizzling away on a butter-greased pan. They smell divine. These might be the best batch I’ve made in a long time.

  I flip the first couple pancakes onto a plate and add a generous schmear of butter that begins melting into a delicious golden puddle. Next to the plate of pancakes, I set a small glass bottle of pure maple syrup.

  “I know we fought earlier, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work through it. You just need to understand and accept where I’m coming from. Also, I have pancakes,” I call out. “You’re really missing out.”

  “They smell delicious.”

  It’s not Razor.

  It’s a new voice. One that I’ve only heard from menacing phone calls and the deepest reaches of my nightmares.

  This is not a friendly visit.

  And what I’m about to receive is far from an apology.

  Despair rises in my chest. Despair at a budding relationship with Razor that’s likely dead and despair for what I know lies in my future: pain.

  I spin, my hands gripped tight to the handle of my metal spatula and brandishing it like a weapon.

  It doesn’t do any good.

  A fist as heavy as a wrecking ball crashes into my face and sends me sprawling backwards into the kitchen counter. I scream and reach for the hot pan to use it as a weapon and take another punch to the back of my head for my efforts.

  The pan clatters to the floor and those same heavy, brutal hands seize me by the hair and drag me out into the living room. I’m thrown to the floor and, as I hit the carpet, take a firm kick in the stomach that shatters a rib. I cry out in pain.

  “Hi, Samantha,” says Kael Makris. “I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

  I want to be brave. To be strong enough to spit in his face and tell him to get out of my house, but all I can manage is to stare at him with tears of fear and pain in my eyes.