CHAPTER TWO
Layla
Chatter slows around me and the music playing through the sound system becomes more prominent.
A chill ripples down my spine as I watch the man who is front and center stalking toward me, wearing a black t-shirt under his cut, black jeans and black motorcycle boots.
His face is partially covered by a black bandana.
The look of him sends my pulse into an unexplainable rush.
I swallow, trying to calm it down and ask myself why?
All I should feel when I look at him is anger and trauma.
He keeps coming my way and I do nothing but shift from one foot to the other, frozen by his dark and rugged beauty.
His head is shaved close, and his vibrant green eyes are fixed ahead—the windows to a demon’s soul—as he walks with an air of authority and his men follow behind.
I watch carefully as he pulls his bandana down and the rest of his features come into view.
His beard is a deep brown, covering his wide jaw, and his features are straight and masculine.
His furrowed brow makes him appear almost angry and stern.
I can’t explain the way my knees weaken as he quickly closes the space between us.
Those emerald orbs snap unexpectedly to mine, I have no time to look away, and my stomach drops with their violent, deep hold.
He reminds me of a fierce gladiator as his jaw flexes and his thick neck pulses.
I look away from his stare to take a breath and let my eyes trail over the rest of him.
There are dog tags hanging around his neck and, of course, there’s the telltale sign of the life he belongs to.
That fucking cut.
The Hounds of Hell, the biker gang that my small town has been wary of my whole life.
We all know their ways, and I remember my mother telling me not to look at them when we heard the deafening sound of their Harleys as they rolled in a solidified group down Main.
I was warned not to look at them in town, not to get in their way.
We know of the bodies that have turned up outside town that belong to rival clubs.
We know how our law enforcement sweeps every illegal thing they do under the proverbial rug.
“It’s not in the township’s interest to pursue” is often the statement.
We know what that means: they work for the club too.
The Hounds of Hell are the dark underside of Harmony, so I should be afraid of this gladiator and what he’s capable of.
His scent washes over me as he gets closer, pulling me from my memories, but instead of the fear or anger I expect, an unstoppable want rocks me to my core.
He smells of cedarwood, leather and smoke, and it speaks to my senses, drawing me in … I’m completely entranced.
The biker pauses and looks down at me intentionally, like I warrant his scrutiny simply because I’m standing in his way.
I swear I stop breathing as his surprisingly beautiful eyes linger on mine and then trail the planes of my face.
My lips, my neck. My heartbeat thunders, and it feels like time pauses before he finally looks away, uninterested.
I blink, trying to clear my senses, and eye the patch over his heart: Sergeant at Arms.
The three of them don’t wait to be seated, heading right into Chantel’s section. The one I’m covering while she’s on break.
Snapping out of my stupor, I move quickly to table two, placing their drinks down, telling them their meal won’t be long, and I think about the gladiator’s patch, trying to remember what the rank means.
The other two wear Enforcer and Treasurer patches.
I have no idea what those mean either, but it’s obvious the Sergeant is the leader of the three just by the way he walked in front of them.
I give my head a shake and ask myself why the hell I’m even still thinking about him as I take another table’s drink order and pray for Chantel to hurry the hell up so she can take the biker table. The storm outside rages on.
I head toward the bar to wait on my next round of drinks.
Another hour and I’ll be behind it for the rest of my shift, when the drinking crowd pours in and the restaurant transforms into more of a pub.
The music gets louder, the row of pool tables in the back gets busier, and the bar becomes packed.
I don’t mind working the bar though—in fact, I prefer it.
The later it gets, the more cash I make.
I look up when I’ve finished delivering the drinks, knowing the club members are my next table, but Chantel is still not back yet.
I give in and glance over at them. The Sergeant is leaning back in the padded leather booth, deep in conversation.
His legs are relaxed, his inked forearm rests on the table, and his sculpted hand is covered with more ink and rings.
He uses his thumb to spin the ring on his first finger methodically as he looks over.
It’s almost as if he can sense my eyes on him, and then he beckons me with his first two fingers and an upward nod of his chin.
As I grab their menus and silverware, I feel the heat creep up my throat.
His bold demeanor and the way he slowly looks me over from my cherry red heels to the hair on my head unnerves me.
It’s not subtle, but it’s not degrading either.
I can’t put my finger on the way it makes me feel.
Somehow it has me wanting to cover up, and at the same time tear every shred of clothing from my body so his gaze can make a permanent home on my naked flesh.
Then his eyes leave me to go back to the men sitting across from him.
I lift my chin in fake confidence as I approach, and something in me takes over. I don’t know if it was my encounter with the elders from my church—or the way this man just looked me up and down as if it was his right, and then dismissed me just as quickly with his eyes.
The need to let someone, anyone, know I’m not who they think I am overwhelms me as I set down the three menus on their table.
“Next time, you need to wait until someone seats you,” I say as confidently as I can. “Will you all be eating tonight?” I ask, looking from one to the other.
The handsome blond one, the enforcer, laughs and scrubs his scruffy jaw with his hand; his smile is megawatt. He looks sort of like Heath Ledger and I wonder how he didn’t win at life just on his looks alone.
“Depends on what you’re serving up, beautiful.” That all-American smile widens with his words.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Drinks and food,” I enunciate in a don’t fuck with me tone as I set down their silverware tucked into napkins.
“We don’t take this one out much,” the man beside him says in a low voice, hiking his thumb over his shoulder. I look at him pointedly for the first time. The treasurer. He’s all sharp edges with messy brown hair and piercing blue eyes that house the look of past torture.
The two men chuckle, and it only serves to make me more pissed and uncomfortable.
“Forgive these fuckin’ idiots.” The deep, smoky voice of the sergeant stops their laughter immediately. It’s smooth like thick honey, as if he has all the time in the world to speak because no one would dare interrupt him.
I let my eyes move to him, willing myself to stand strong and not appear fazed by the grace he carries himself with. He leans forward, straightening out his knife and fork on the napkin with perfect precision, before folding his hands together as he props his elbows on the table.
He’s muscular in a way that says he’s strong as hell, like he works out seven days a week.
His corded forearms flex with rigid veins and I notice that even his knuckles have symbols and words on them.
I’m a sucker for tattoos on a man, but I haven’t known any personally who have this many, so I shamelessly take them in.
My eyes settle on his right hand and what I can catalog quickly.
A cross made from detailed-looking daggers covers his finger.
It’s on the end of an ornate chain that winds down his hand, connecting to a cracked compass, on top of which sits a peaceful dove.
It’s not unlike the one I have inked on my own shoulder that I put there in memory of my mother, only mine is in flight.
I like to think that when she passed, she escaped her cage.
I wonder briefly why he would choose a cross, and the dove.
Then I blink and scold myself for even noticing.
He clears his throat, taking in my stare.
I bring my eyes back to the depth of those dark, emerald pools, and I swear I see a hint of amusement in them as he cocks his head and speaks to me again.
“We’ll take three bourbons—Hellbender. And …” He pauses for a moment. “Yeah, we’ll all be eating tonight.” His voice is strong and poignant, sending another current up my spine with the flash of an unexpected vision, one where his face is buried deep between my thighs.
I suck in a breath, needing to get out of his sight. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into me, but instead of feeling the disgust I should toward him, he sends my blood racing as I try to push the image from my head.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” I say, heading for the bar.
My back is turned while I put their drinks order in, but I can feel the heavy weight of his stare on me. I’m certain he’s watching me. The feeling is eerie and exhilarating all at once.
“Thanks babe,” Chantel says as she breezes up to me, looking around.
“Perfect timing.” I exhale a long breath.
“You okay? You’re shaking.” Chantel’s face is lined with concern.
“Yeah, just …” I nod at the table of men I just left and Chantel’s eyes flit toward them.
“Oooh shit, some bad-boy Hounds of Hell members? Mama likey,” she says, eyeing them all up. I shake my head with a scoff, keeping my eyes away from that deep gaze.
“They’re all yours,” I tell her, heading to pick up table four’s appetizers.
I should be glad I’m free of the sergeant’s stare, but moments later, I can’t help myself.
I decide to glance up at his table, feeling the pull of his gaze—and when I do, I find those dark eyes still unapologetically fixed on me like he can’t look away any more than I can.