Braxton
Chapter two
Vanessa fucking…shit, I don’t know her last name.
She never gave it to me when we met, and I never bothered to ask.
I was more concerned with the way her lips curled around the lime she bit after her tequila shots, or the way the soft column of her neck looked so fucking tempting every time she swallowed a shot or threw her head back in laughter.
Yeah, last names weren’t really important that night.
That doesn’t change the shock I felt when I got to Midnight Rose after getting a call that one of our dancers showed up beat to shit.
Of all the women I would have imagined turning around and seeing with cuts and bruises on her face, Vanessa certainly wasn’t even on the fucking board.
And the stunned daze she was in when I turned around and she recognized me didn’t go unnoticed.
The bruises I saw made me see red. I don’t know if it was because seeing a woman beat up triggers the fuck out of me, or if it was because it was Vanessa.
I went to New York a few years ago to grab some old parts for a bitch of a Harley I was working on for a customer.
He wanted everything original—none of the aftermarket stuff that was a whole hell of a lot easier to come by and significantly cheaper.
But I’d gained a reputation on the East Coast for delivering some of the best restoration work in the business.
My specialty is tackling projects other mechanics would gladly turn away due to difficulty.
When I decided to grab a drink at the little bar down the street from my hotel, I wasn’t expecting to take someone back to my room and spend the night making her moan.
But I also wasn’t expecting to walk in and see a woman about to do something monumentally stupid, like stabbing the guy next to her.
Years in an MC trained me to pick up on shit about to go down really fucking quick.
I saw her sitting with a knife hiding next to her thigh, walked up, heard the guy being a fucking sleazeball, and immediately covered her hand with my much larger one.
Going to jail for attempted murder of a douchebag would have been a waste of a perfectly good night.
I wasn’t lying when I told Vanessa I wanted to save her the headache.
That guy was far from worth it. Unfortunately, it looks like she got herself involved with someone even worse.
I’m no stranger to women with a bad picker, as my mom likes to call it.
My dad wasn’t exactly a shining example of a loving family man.
He was part of a low-level gang in New York, and my mom married him because she came from an Irish Catholic family.
When she showed up pregnant, my grandpa put the shotgun in shotgun wedding.
The way my mom tells it, he literally pulled it out of the cabinet and pointed it at my dad.
To save his ass, I think he would have said or done just about anything my grandpa told him to at that point.
That seemed to be his standard MO—according to my mom.
They got married, but they were far from happy.
I don’t remember much except my dad hardly being around and him and my mom fighting when he was.
When the cops showed up at our door late one night to tell my mom that my dad’s body was at the city morgue, she cried for all of two minutes, then packed us up and moved us to Ayre, Massachusetts, where one of her friends from high school owned a staffing agency.
Looking back, that’s around the time my mom started smiling freely, with the weight of a deadbeat husband finally off her shoulders.
As I follow Vanessa to the motel she’s been living in since coming to Shine, I wonder about the kind of weight she’s had on her shoulders since she bailed on me without so much as a goodbye or fuck you after our night together.
I’m fucking happy she got away from whoever this guy is and ended up here.
We may be a group of outlaws, but we don’t tolerate anyone putting their hands on a woman.
And me knowing the woman makes it that much more personal to me.
Not that I know her well. But what I do know of her is playing through my mind on a loop as I ride behind her small sedan.
I know what her skin tastes like when it’s covered with a thin sheen of sweat.
I know what sounds come out of her pouty lips when I trail my fingers through her neatly trimmed pussy, and I know the way she clamps around my cock when I make her come.
I vividly remember what her long blonde hair looked like when I held it tightly in my fist and she looked up at me from her knees with my cock between her lips.
Her blue eyes watched me intently, gauging every reaction I had from the incredible blow job she was giving me.
Shit, and now the front of my pants is becoming uncomfortably tight while I’m trying to keep my bike on the road.
Jesus Christ, get it together.
The last thing she needs is some asshole like me panting after her while she’s dealing with her shit.
When she pulls up in front of the cheapest one-story motel within a sixty-mile radius, I park my bike next to her car and take in where she’s been staying.
This isn’t the kind of place Vanessa should be.
This is for truckers and the rival MC who thought they could come to our town and kidnap the people we love, then meet their maker in the room next to Vanessa’s.
Or in Barrett’s case, where he used to take some of his one-night stands.
Why he didn’t just bring them back to the clubhouse, I’ll never understand.
But I’m fucking thankful he recognized the carpet when that asshole we put to ground last time I was here sent a picture of my brother’s son and one of my other brother’s old ladies tied up in the room.
If it weren’t for his liberal attitude toward anonymous sex, that night could have turned out a hell of a lot different.
Vanessa steps out of her car, and I’m reminded once again what we’re doing here and why I shouldn’t be scrolling through the memories of our night together like some sort of X-rated Rolodex.
“Home sweet home,” she says as I walk over and stand in front of her.
“Not for much longer.”
“Listen, this whole staying with you at the clubhouse thing—” Vanessa looks toward the sky and blows out a breath. “Are you sure?” she asks, craning her head back to look at me. “I don’t want to…I don’t know…get in the way or cramp your style or something.”
My brow arches as I look down at her. “Cramp my style?”
“I don’t know.” She throws her hands up in frustration and I have to bite back my smile. “I don’t know what happens at an MC clubhouse.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, having a beautiful woman staying with us isn’t going to cramp anyone’s style.”
Vanessa narrows her eyes and stares at me for a beat before turning toward the motel.
She unlocks the door to her room and walks inside.
I follow her and look around. Looks about the same as the room we found Cece and Colby in when Colby’s piece-of-shit sperm donor took them.
We made quite the mess that night but gave the owner a nice little “cleaning fee” for disappearing for the night.
I’d think he would have put it toward some upgrades, but guess not.
It’s the same cheap floral-printed polyester bedspread and the same worn, patterned carpeting.
The drapes match the god-awful carpet, making everything in here bland and depressing as shit.
“The rooms we have at the clubhouse are several steps up from this place, at least.”
“I know it’s a shithole, but it was available and cheap. It’s not like Shine is brimming with real estate in my price range at the moment.” She shrugs and looks away. “Plus, if it didn’t work out at the club, I wasn’t going to be chained to a lease.”
Vanessa turns to the dresser that the television sits on and opens the drawers, pulling clothes out and tossing them into a suitcase that’s lying on the bed. It takes less than five minutes for her to grab her things. She zips the old suitcase and moves to grip the handle, but I beat her to it.
“I can carry my bag,” she says as I lift it from her bed.
“So can I.” I hold my other arm out toward the door. “After you.”
Vanessa walks out of the room, and I close the door behind her. “I need to go drop off my key and settle up for what I owe.”
Opening the back door of her car, I slide the suitcase onto the seat, then shut the door.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, holding my hand out for her key.
“Braxton,” she says, pursing her lips
I mimic her expression. “Vanessa.” My hand makes a grabby gesture.
Vanessa rolls her eyes and hands the key over. She’s trying to hide a smile, but it doesn’t work that well.
“You’re not used to someone helping you out, are you?” I ask.
“Not unless they want something in return.”
My head tilts to the side. “When have I ever given you the impression that’s who I am?”
“You mean in the first interaction that we’ve had in five years?”
I nod once. “Fair point. Listen, if it makes you feel better, consider this your Christmas bonus,” I say with a smile.
“Yeah, I didn’t work at the club during Christmas, and it’s April so…”
“Merry late Christmas.” I turn toward the office before she can argue about this any further.
When I’ve finished settling up her bill, I head back over to where Vanessa is still standing next to her car.
“All set,” I say, grabbing my helmet off the handlebars of my Harley.
“Thank you, Braxton. Honestly, I do appreciate this.” She blows out a breath and looks down at the gravel at our feet. “It’s hard accepting help from anyone, even if I really need it.”
“I get it.” I bend my knees to try to grab the gaze that is decidedly avoiding mine. When her eyes make contact, I continue. “But that’s changed now. The club is on your side, Vanessa. That means when you show up for work injured, we take care of you and help you get back on your feet.”