2. Eagle
CHAPTER 2
EAGLE
I would take off my clothes for this woman any day of the week, but if either one of us is going to strip down to what the good Lord gave us, I’d prefer to see her without that gray pencil skirt and white blouse.And I damn well want to be the one taking them off her piece by piece.
As soon as she says the words, my boss gasps like she can’t believe what she just said and shakes her head. Her cheeks flush a deep red, and a rush of blood floods my cock.
Lacey is damned near the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, but fuck, is she wound tight. What I wouldn’t give to strip off her clothes and, with them, every single one of her inhibitions. And I’d start with that tight little knot of a bun at the back of her head. I’d love to know if she’s a woman who likes a fistful of hair in her man’s hand as he plows her from behind.
But those are exactly the kinds of thoughts that make me feel like I’m teetering on the edge at this job. I may not be fired today, but it’s going to happen. Because this thing I’ve had for my boss for far too long is gonna take over someday. And when I put my big fucking boot in my mouth and say something I shouldn’t—or, worse, take what I’ve always wanted to be mine—well, I know what will happen then. Pretty little Lacey Mercer’s gonna walk my ass down the hall to HR and make sure the door hits me hard on my way out.
She’s one woman who’d be worth losing the gig for, though. I’ll tell you that much.
Even when she looks horrified, I can’t stop my body from craving her. The bright-red lipstick highlights her lips forming a perfect O. Well, not a perfect O. That’s what I’d give her if she gave me so much as half a chance to take her there. But fuck, she is sweet, flushing and looking flustered, when the truth is, I’d like her even more if she talked like that all the time. But I get it. Time and place. And this Margaret lady is a bit of a cockblock, so I have to let Lacey’s comment go. For now.
And since I’m not fired, I jerk a thumb at the woman in practical flats who’s got a tape measure around her neck and a little bag of what I assume are pins and scissors or some shit.
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” I say. “Much as I’d love to strip down to my birthday suit, it ain’t happening.” I shake my head. “At least, not like this. I draw the line at the suit.”
I give the wedding planner a look that’d make my worst enemy soil his shorts. But this lady ain’t shaken. Lacey meets my stare with a desperate, helpless expression that almost has me reconsidering my feelings about tuxedos.
“Eagle.” I hear a little plea in her voice when she says my name, and the zipper of my jeans feels way too fucking tight around my cock. “Please?” she asks.
I slam my mouth shut before I say some shit I cannot take back. I’m like putty in this woman’s hands, and I don’t fucking like the feeling of falling into dangerous territory where I lose all control. But that’s the type of woman Lacey Mercer is.
And that means Lacey Mercer is not my type.
Ah fuck, forget that. She’s every man’s type. Every man with eyes, at least.
What I should say is she’s way, way out of my league.I couldn’t dream of a woman like this wanting a bastard like me, and I don’t know that I’d be enough for her even if she wanted me.
She’s tall but wears sky-high heels that show off bare legs that I’d love to see wrapped around my shoulders. The tight bun at the nape of her neck gives off a sexy librarian vibe. And Lacey’s eyes were made for fucking. I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined those eyes staring up at me while her lips wrap around my cock.
The tight skirts she wears can’t hide her generous ass, an ass I want in my hands, on my face, bouncing on my lap. I’ve strained my vision so many times trying to peek at her tits behind those boring-ass blouses, I’m surprised I don’t need glasses.
She turns that chocolate gaze on me and crosses her arms over the nearly sheer white blouse, which only makes me that much more aware of the hell of a nice rack she’s got buttoned down under the gauzy fabric.
“Eagle…” When my name slips from between her full red lips again, my blood heats, and I have to think about grandmas and other dick-softening images.
Thankfully, a second later, there’s a whoop at the door, and a familiar voice breaks the tension and melts my hard-on with just two words. “Hey, asshole.”
I hear the heavy stomp of boots, and then my brother’s meaty fist punches me in the ribs.
Lacey gives us a stare, then lets out a sigh and looks from me to my brother from the club.
“Brute, good morning. Thank you for coming.” Her voice is composed, bordering on cold, after how heated she was asking me to take off my clothes. I immediately miss the sound of her almost begging my name, even if she was only talking about work. She motions toward the tailor lady and then back to us. “Gentlemen,” she says formally, a term that always makes me want to bust a nut laughing.
We aren’t gentlemen. We’re bikers—or, I guess, we were. Since the MC’s gone clean, we do a lot less drinkin’, fightin’, and fuckin’ than I’d like.
I miss the old days.
The days before Morris got himself an old lady and became a dad two times over. Before our club president found out he had a grown daughter and welcomed in a whole new generation of his family and became a fucking granddaddy.
These days, the Disciples are basically a social club—nothing like what we used to be. But even thinking about it, I’m living in the past. A dream dead and buried. But the Disciples are still my family. My life.
All of my brothers have gone mostly legit. I’m the one who still hasn’t found my footing. Maybe it’s my age—more likely, it’s my attitude—but this old dog ain’t about new tricks.Working security at posh events is a far cry from busting heads in bars for fun, but I do get to threaten rowdy rich dickheads every once in a while. I get paid a shit-ton more than I can believe for standing around looking mean, which I don’t even have to try to do. Sometimes the venue or the happy couple tosses in a meal and drinks on top of the pay. Not a bad gig for a motherfucker with no special skills except riding and making trouble.
Brute barks a laugh at the word gentlemen, but then he flicks a serious look at Lacey, as if just now it’s hitting him that we’ve been summoned into our boss’s office for a meeting three days before we’re actually supposed to work an event. “What’s this all about? We in some kind of trouble?” He shrugs. “What’d we do?”
“I already asked.” I shrug back. “Appears not.”
“Damn,” Brute mutters, “I wouldn’t mind a little trouble.” He cracks his knuckles loudly, and I am about to start laughing when I see the tense look on Lacey’s face.
“Go on, then,” I say, meeting Lacey’s eyes. “You convince Brute, and you got me too.”
“Convince me of what?” Brute looks at the seamstress lady, then frowns. “What’d I miss?”
I point to the clothing rack that has several garment bags hanging on it. “We’re about to get the Cinderella special,” I tell him.
He looks confused, and just as he opens his mouth to curse somebody out, Lacey sighs.
“The wedding this weekend,” she says, her voice catching just enough that I notice it. “The bride and groom have requested that even our security staff wear formalwear.” She puts on a bright smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and waves at the Margaret woman. “They’ve covered the costs. We just need to get you fitted. For your tuxedos.”
Brute turns and heads back the way he came. “Nope. Not me. I’m out.”
I turn to leave with him, but one look back at the slight tremble of Lacey’s lower lip, and I stop dead. She doesn’t look like she’s about to cry; she looks vulnerable. Like if she says what’s really on her mind, her careful mask will melt like an ice sculpture left out in the Florida sun.
“Yo, asshole. Hold up a sec.” I nod at Brute, then turn back to Lacey. “Why the uniform now? Why this event?”
Brute and I have worked dozens of these events. Weddings, bar mitzvahs, reunions, holiday parties. Villa Lantana is an exclusive, expensive place. The kind of place you don’t want to wipe your mouth on the napkins ’cause they’re white silk or some shit.
I go more for the neon beer sign, varnished tables, and sticky floor vibe. But the gardens are beautiful, and they have a massive man-made pond with koi and swans that they fix up for fancy parties. Apparently, their insurance requires on-site security staff to make sure no one gets too drunk and takes a dunk. It hasn’t been a problem so far, but I’ve helped plenty of old ladies out of their chairs over the last couple years. There’s absolutely nothing about this job I can’t do while wearing a decent suit.A tux seems like overkill, some overprivileged bride’s wet dream.
“Isn’t it some kind of safety risk to have us all dolled up?” I ask. “What if I gotta beat a guy down? That thing got any give to it?”
Margaret’s the one who answers, her face going pale. She’s unzipped one of the garment bags and is pulling a jacket from the hanger, inspecting the label. “Theseare Tom Ford,” she explains, as if that should mean something. “These are easily five-thousand-dollar tuxedos. You’re not going to get them bloody, are you?”
“Six,” Lacey corrects softly. “They are six-thousand-dollar tuxedos. Each.”
Brute whoops and slaps a hand against the shredded knee of his black jeans. “You’re fucking with me,” he says. “My first bike didn’t cost six Gs.”
I shoot Brute a look, growing more suspicious as the seconds pass. I’m used to the champagne crowd passing me a couple crisp hundreds in an envelope after a wedding—not a bad tip on top of my fixed rate for the easiest gig on the planet. But a uniform worth six grand?
I lift my chin. “What’s the deal with the party?” I ask. “The bride a celeb?”
Lacey shakes her head. “No, no celebs. Nothing like that. Just a wealthy couple whose parents want a certain experience for their kids’ special day.”
“Experience,” Brute scoffs, and he looks like he’s about to say something that would be better not to repeat in front of the woman who signs our checks, so I shoot him a look.
“You can keep them,” Lacey says quickly, lifting her chin excitedly as if that is some kind of solution. “I know you may not have a lot of use for tuxedos, but they’re not rented, so you can keep them after the event.Sell them, make a little cash back. I don’t care what you do with them. But I need you to wear them.” She looks at Brute, then me, her perfectly bowed lips pursed in thought. She meets my eyes, and for a second, she almost looks shy. The dip between her curved eyebrows upends me. “Please,” she says. “I’d consider it a personal favor. Just this once.”
The way she says please tugs at something deep in my chest, not to mention my groin. I heave a tired sigh. If I’m gonna be wrapped around anyone’s little finger, I might as well do it dolled up in shit that cost more than an honest man should ever pay for freaking clothes .
“It’s only for this wedding?” I clarify. “This ain’t no regular thing?”
She visibly relaxes, as if she knows she’s got me halfway there. She rushes to reassure me. “Yes, just this wedding, just this once. And as always, you can wear whatever you want to the rehearsal dinner and the Sunday brunch.” She lifts a brow at Brute. “As long as it complies with the dress code,” she adds, making sure Brute knows his frayed band tees and leathers are never going to be appropriate attire at the Lantana.
I sigh, knowing full well I’m done for. Lacey wants this. Lacey sounds like she needs this. And since I both want and need my boss in ways that I don’t want to think too hard about, I know I’m gonna cave. I may be a fucking pussy, but at least I’ll be a pussy in a six-grand designer suit.
I nod at Brute. “You in?” I ask, making it clear from my tone that we’re in.
He cocks his head and chuckles. “Aw, why the fuck not. I ain’t worn a tux since junior prom. Maybe I’ll get lucky wearing it this time.”
I laugh, doubting that Brute needs a Tom Ford suit to get laid, and I shrug out of my leather vest. I make sure my eyes meet Lacey’s as I ask, “So, where do we get naked?”