Vanessa
Chapter three
Turning over in bed, I groan as I peel my eyes open from the shitty sleep I got.
Could be the bottle of wine I finished after bandaging my cuts, could be the pounding in my fucking face, or it could be the sense of dread I have hanging over me about what I’m supposed to be doing now that I’ve gained access to the clubhouse.
My gaze focuses on the wine bottle sitting on the nightstand next to my bed.
“Fucking hell,” I grumble, pulling the covers over my head and squeezing my eyes shut. There’s no reason for me to get out of this very comfortable bed. I could lie here all day and not worry about the world until tomorrow if I really wanted to. No one is going to tell me no.
The phone on my nightstand vibrates with an incoming call. I pick it up and look at the name. R, which is how I have Russ in my contacts. Anyone would think the initial stands for his name, but it actually stands for rat bastard because that’s exactly what he is.
Pulling the phone to my ear and back under the covers since that feels appropriate for whatever conversation we’re going to have, I accept the call.
“Yeah?” I say by way of greeting.
“What happened last night when you went in?”
Russ is never one to give a shit how I’m doing. That man cares about no one other than his boss, himself, and getting everyone around him to do his dirty work.
“Pretty much like you said,” I say quietly into the phone—just in case the clubhouse has thin walls. “The manager called in some guys from the club. They took a look at me and wanted to help.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
Reflexively, my jaw clenches in frustration, which is a huge mistake since it only serves to intensify the ache in my temple.
“It means since you fucked up my face so bad, I’m not going to be able to work for at least a week.
Since I can’t work, I can’t pay for the motel I’ve been staying at.
They took pity and offered a room at the clubhouse. ”
“Holy shit. That’s good fucking news.”
It really isn’t.
“So now I’m stuck in a clubhouse where none of the men, except for one patched brother and a couple prospects, live full-time. I don’t see how that’s something to get excited over,” I say.
“You’re in the inner sanctum, Van. You can buddy up to the other brothers, see if the prospects know anything. Hell, be the entertainment for them when they get away from their boring old ladies,” he says with humor lacing his words.
I blow out a centering breath. I’m sure trying to get my asshole stepbrother to see reason is a futile effort, but I try anyway.
“Russ, I don’t think you understand these guys.
I’ve been at Midnight Rose for a few weeks and none of them have come in.
They aren’t out trying to sleep with strippers while their women are at home. ”
“What about the guy who lives there? He has to have information we need.”
I want to fucking scream, but I manage to keep my voice steady. “What exactly do you think I’m going to find that’s going to help you?”
“I want routes. Run schedules. I want to hurt them where they hurt us—their pocketbooks. They fucked Damien over when they helped those Irish pigs,” Russ spits out.
“What do you mean? How exactly?” I ask. Russ has never told me the particulars, only that the Black Roses and the Monaghans screwed them out of money. “I think if you want me to put life and limb on the line, I should know why.”
“The why is to keep your mom and sister safe, Vanessa. That’s all you need to know.”
I should have known that would be his answer. He never misses an opportunity to threaten my family.
“There has to be another way, Russ. Can’t you have guys watching them or something? Me being here isn’t going to get you the answers you want.”
“You don’t fucking know how this works. I gave you a fucking order and you better follow it—or you aren’t going to like what happens next.
It’ll be your mom on the pole and in the back rooms selling her pussy like the whore she is if you don’t get me what I want.
Then who will be looking out for your sister and making sure she’s safe while I have both of you bitches working all hours of the night?
Anything could happen to a kid left home alone.
” His voice is low and deadly. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare the shit out of me.
Russ usually yells and slams shit around, but when he talks like that, it means he’s plotting. And that’s scarier than anything else.
A sharp sliver of fear works its way down my spine. “I’ll figure it out,” I concede.
“I know you will. And if you don’t? Well, you have far more to lose than I do.”
Russ hangs up, and I have to fight back the tears that threaten to spill. Crying isn’t going to do me any good. Hasn’t in the past and I sure as shit don’t expect it to now.
I throw the covers off me and stand, walking to the bathroom as I try to calm down.
Looking in the mirror doesn’t help that at all.
The bruising is bad, but thankfully the swelling around my eye hasn’t gotten worse.
I take the bandage off the cut above my brow and turn the water on to heat it up.
Pumping a small amount of antibacterial soap onto my fingertips, I work it into a lather and gently rub it over the cut.
“Shit,” I hiss. Having to wash a cut with soap and hot water isn’t how anyone should start their day. Once cleaned and rinsed, I pat the cut dry with a towel and smear some ointment in it before covering it with a clean bandage.
“And Russ thought I was going to be some sort of walking wet dream looking like I just got out of a cage match,” I mumble as I walk back into my room.
I open my suitcase and pull out a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt as my stomach rumbles. Instead of eating dinner last night, I drank it like a lady. Though the noises my stomach is making are anything but ladylike.
After throwing my long blonde hair in a ponytail, I walk out of my room, pausing at Braxton’s door.
Should I tell him I’m up? Am I allowed to wander around freely?
My stomach makes a noise again and I decide food is more important than having that conversation.
Plus, if he’s a late sleeper, I don’t want to wake him. Maybe he’s grumpy in the morning.
Not that I would know, considering I bailed before he woke up when we spent the night together.
That night played on a loop in my mind for a long time afterward.
Every sinfully delicious way he made my body feel that I thought only existed in romance books has never been forgotten.
When I saw him last night, I was immediately shocked that I knew someone from the club.
Then when he left my room last night, I lay in bed drinking wine and trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do.
The image of his face twisted in blissful agony as he tried to hold himself back while I rode him slowly was front and center.
The way he flipped me effortlessly and took over my pleasure, giving me everything I needed without me having to control or direct him, as though he intuitively knew my body was something I had never before nor since experienced.
And now I have to betray him and his club to keep me and my family safe.
Walking to the main area of the clubhouse, I don’t see anyone up and about. That doesn’t necessarily surprise me. I’m not typically much of a morning person either.
I walk around the bar and look at the coffeepot. “Well, someone must have been up already,” I say to myself as I grab a mug and pour the liquid gold into it. I turn around and lean against the counter, releasing a heavy sigh as the hot liquid warms my belly.
Making my way over to the kitchen door, I’m about to push it open, but it swings toward me instead. I jump back with a yelp, and coffee splashes out of the mug and onto my hand and the floor.
“Shit,” Braxton says, startling at my sudden appearance.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” I say, shaking the coffee from my hand. “You have a towel or something?”
“Fuck. Yeah, sorry.” Braxton sets the plate he was holding on the table next to the door before he disappears into the kitchen for a moment.
He quickly returns with a roll of paper towels, peeling a few sheets away and handing them to me so I can wipe my hands dry.
When he kneels in front of me and cleans up the mess, my breath hitches.
The sight of this mountain of a man kneeling brings back memories I spent all night reliving in my mind.
Braxton looks up at me, and it’s as though his thoughts wandered to the same place mine did.
His gaze darkens for a moment as he stares at me with the same intensity he had that night.
Neither of us moves. Hell, I don’t think either of us is even breathing.
Braxton blinks slowly, then stands to his full height, clearing his throat before reaching for the paper towels in my hand.
“I’ll throw these away. Have a seat,” he says, and I nod dumbly in response.
How did one sliver of a moment feel so charged that I nearly demanded he take me back to his room and make good on the promises his eyes held?
I’m just undercaffeinated and hungry. That’s all there is to it.
When Braxton returns from the kitchen, I still haven’t moved from my spot. He smiles at me, but it’s only a gentle kindness I see, not the heat from a second ago.
“I made you breakfast,” he says, gesturing to the plate he set down on the table.
Returning his smile, I step toward the table and sit, looking at the food in front of me. The toast is burned to hell, and the scrambled eggs look a little runny, yet I see bits of black edges on some of the pieces. How on earth does one manage to both undercook and overcook eggs?
“Thank you,” I say, picking up the fork and shoveling some of the eggs onto it.
Braxton sits at the table with me and watches as I take my first bite. They’re…very salty and a touch gooey. As I swallow, I try hard not to wince, but fail miserably.