Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Selkie
Eight grabs me by the arm and hustles me out of Kozlov’s suite. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he says in the elevator.
“Wanna loosen the grip, Galahad?” I snap back.
“Fuck the grip, I should beat your ass.”
“Huh,” I say half-pissed and half-turned on. “Try it.” It comes out sounding less hostile and more intrigued.
When we reach the lobby, he drags me out of the casino so fast I almost trip. At his bike, he grabs his helmet out of the saddle bike and slams it into my hands with so much force I stagger back. “What the fuck?”
“You picked up Reese Toper? Are you fuckin’ nuts?”
“It’s my job!” I try to infuse righteous indignation in my voice, but it lacks commitment.
“You’re a nightmare.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Do you have any sense of survival? Renfrew is a mean motherfucker. He thinks money will buy his way out of anything.”
“I think you’re a mean motherfucker, but I’m not afraid of you.”
“We’re not talking about me! If Renfrew catches up to you, he’ll carve you up, starting with your face, then dump you at a hospital. If you don’t die from blood loss, you’ll be scarred for life in a way that will make you never want to show your face or any other part of your body in public again.”
“And you wouldn’t if I picked up one of yours?”
He looks at me strangely. “We would have left you the fuck alone and dealt with it through the legal system. You’re doin’ your fuckin’ job. That don’t make you a target.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and glare. “That’s what I did! My job.”
He grabs me by the arms and yanks me against his hard body, his face inches from mine. “Don’t fuckin’ play with me. Renfrew’s gonna hunt you down and make you regret you ever laid eyes on Toper.”
We’re so close, I feel the heat from his body. He’s so hot, so male, I want to close the distance between us and kiss him. But before I do something that stupid, sanity kicks in and I yank out of his grip. “What I do is none of your business.”
This catches him off guard because I think he thinks it is his business. Then he pulls his trump card. “It’s not just about you, you had Oscar with you. You put him in danger and brought him to the attention of Renfrew. Somethin’ happens to him, it’s on you.”
My blood pressure skyrockets. “You fucking hypocrite, talking about my shit. You took Henri to a meeting with a goddamned Russian mobster.”
It’s like he hasn’t heard me. “Then you take him with you to chase down Sadie.”
“That was not planned,” I retort. “I saw Sadie and told Oscar to wait in the car.”
“And if you managed to take Sadie down, what would you have done? Put him the car like you did with Toper? My son in the front seat?”
“Holy hypocrite! Last week you were telling me to take Oscar with me while Sadie was in the backseat.”
“It’s not the same,” he snarls, then stops, and takes a breath. “Fuck,” he mutters as he pulls me into his arms and leans his forehead on mine. “We’re terrible parents.”
I want to deny it, but he’s right. And wrong because at least we care. But that’s all irrelevant. I pull away again. “Where are Henri and Oscar?” My heart starts to thump. “You didn’t leave them alone at your place, did you?”
He seems deflated, like our heated discussion took all his energy. “Of course not. They’re safe.”
“At the clubhouse?” I scoff because I truly don’t understand the concept of a truce.
“No!” The energy is back in his voice. “They’re with my brother, Red.” He stops. “Not brother. Red quit the Jury. He’s in the family way now. Respectable. Planning a future with his sister and girlfriend. Trust me.”
I realize I do trust him. Maybe that’s why I don’t fear him. “Okay. Good. Let’s go get them.”
“We can get them tomorrow. They’re not going anywhere. Red won’t let them out of his sight.”
I hesitate but then nod. He’s right. It might be good for Oscar and Henri to be plunked down with strangers. It might make them bond. “Fine. Take me home then. I have to track down my car.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not fuckin’ going anywhere alone. We’re stickin’ together until we sort out the shit with the 311 Boys. Gotta talk to Hangman about it.”
He’s right. I got myself into a mess that could affect our kids. I need Eight to have my back. “Fine.” I cross my arms. “Whatever.”
He stares at me, then shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What?”
“Say thank you, Selkie.”
“Fuck you.”
“Good enough.” He takes the helmet from my hands and places it on my head, then does up the strap under my chin.
“What’s the point of wearing a helmet like this?” I say. “It’s a half-shell. Useless if we crash.”
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he straddles his bike. “Get on. And hang on.”
I get woozy looking at his hard thighs straining against his jeans, his legs wide open, his package pressing on the seat, smaller than a 5-pound bag of flour, bigger than a haggis.
My eyes move to his face, which is unshaven, then to his beautiful blue-brown eyes, which are scrutinizing me. “What?” he says.
I shake the fog from my brain. “Nothing,” I mutter as I slide behind him, pressing my body against his back. I can’t deny it. I’m a little wet.
This isn’t the first time I’ve ridden on a bike, but this is the first time I’ve had my arms wrapped around a man that I think I could love.
I blink the tears from my eyes. I’m all bravado, a mouthpiece, but inside I’m afraid of rejection.
With other guys, it hurt, with Eight, it might be devastating.
It takes an hour to reach the clubhouse and the first thing I do when I get off the bike is say, “Why’re we here? We didn’t discuss this.”
“This is where Hangman is.” He takes the helmet from me and stuffs it in a saddle bag. “And we also didn’t discuss you taking Oscar to work with you, you chasing Sadie and you getting picked up by Russians.”
I hold his eyes as I take a moment to think. We could spend a lifetime talking about our misjudgments. “Let’s call it take-someone-else’s-kid-to-work day and move on.” I quirk my lips upwards so he knows I mean what I say.
He smiles in return. “Look on the bright side. I could’ve taken Henri to the stripper bar.”
I roll my eyes. “I think you have better judgment than that.”
“So it’s better to take your kid to visit a Russian Mob guy than to a tittie bar?”
“I’ll have to think about that.”
Our banter is interrupted by Joker, who pulls into the lot and parks his bike next to Eight’s. “Why’re you still out here?” he says as he scowls at Eight.
Unexpectantly, Eight grabs Joker by the T-shirt and hauls him forward so they’re chest to chest. “I’ve fuckin’ had enough of you. I get you doin’ me a favor by having my back at Kozlov’s, but I’m not some fuckin’ asshole who’s gonna take your shit.”
Joker seems stunned by Eight’s outburst. “Get your hands off me or you’ll be eatin’ your teeth for lunch.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food, but I ignore it. Mostly. “What the hell—”
“Shut it, Fleming. This has nothing to do with you,” Eight says, his eyes locked onto Joker’s.
“Whatever,” I reply as I throw my hands in the air and walk towards a bearded tattooed giant who’s manning the fence. “Beat the shit out of each other. I’ll get a cab home.”
Eight releases Joker and turns to me. “No you fuckin’ won’t.”
Joker steps around Eight and blocks his view of me. “I’m gonna forget you touched me because you ain’t right in the head. She must be a good fuck ‘cause that’s the only thing that explains your shit.”
Eight hauls off and punches Joker.
Me and the giant gasp.
“Shit,” Giant says as I move slightly behind him. Yes, I’m a fighter but I’m not stupid enough to throw myself between two big angry biker dudes.
But Joker doesn’t engage. Instead, he swipes at the blood coming from his split lip. “Get rid of her,” he says in a low warning tone, then storms back into the clubhouse.
Eight turns towards us. “Get away from her,” he barks at the giant.
“Hey, Eight,” he replies as he backs off. “She came to me.”
Eight glares at me. “Get away from him.”
I do, in part because the Giant needs a shower and also because I’m kind of turned on by Eight’s unwavering maleness.
I walk up to him, straighten his cut, then pat his chest. “What’s going on, Eight? Why’s it so critical you have to talk to Hangman?”
He takes my wrists and pushes me away. “None of your business.”
“Wow,” I say, unable to keep the hurt from leaking into my voice. Then I stop talking because one more word out of me and I’ll start crying. Me. Crying. I don’t fucking do that.
He sees the emotion on my face and I see regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “For talking to you that way and for manhandling you. I do have a good side. Let me get this shit with Hangman over with, and I’ll take you for food. We can talk then.”
“Okay,” I say softly, still trying to contain my emotions. “Yeah, okay.”
He takes my hand and leads me towards the clubhouse.
I’d like to say my delicate silken hand feels amazing against his rough-textured skin, but I’d be lying.
If anything, mine might be more sandpapery than his.
Still, it’s a turn on feeling the strength in his grip as he squeezes my fingers.
I want to feel those hands on my body. Everywhere, doing filthy things to me.
Turn it off, Selkie. Can’t happen. Won’t happen.
The clubhouse itself is a wonder. The outside has recently been renovated, and the inside is like a five-star lounge that tourists would flock to if it weren’t owned by a vicious gang of outlaw bikers, some of whom are sitting at tables.
A couple of them are playing cards, one eyeing me like I’m evil, the other ignoring me completely.
There’s a drunk guy with a scantily clad woman sitting on his lap, peppering kisses on his face.
There’s a decent sized bar with stools and enough booze on the shelves to give 60 underage teenagers alcohol poisoning.
Also, the mural on the wall, worthy of a National Medal of Arts prize, is the Hell’s Jury logo, the same one emblazoned on the back of the cuts the bikers wear.
Mean looking raven with its wings spread, a vile fiery skull with nice teeth, and an orange moon backing it all.
Gives a sense of understated belonging. Of course, I’m no art critic.
“Stay here,” Eight says bluntly as he walks off.
“Fuck off,” I call to him, but stay where I am like a good little Stepford wife.
A short curvy Latina in jeans and an awesome fringed tank strolls up to me.
She has long straight hair, beautiful dark eyes and a mischievous grin that lights up the room.
“I hear you had a bad morning.” She jerks her head towards the bar.
“All the curative medicine you need is waiting for you over there.”
“No prescription needed,” calls a cute, petite woman standing behind the counter.
Who could turn down that kind of endorsement. I’m flanked by the Latina as I stroll up to the bar and perch myself on a stool. I nod to the bartender’s coffee. “Make it a double.”
“I’m Haley,” she says as she grabs a cup from under the bar.
“Selkie,” I reply.
“Ximina,” the Latina says as she sits next to me. “They call me X.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say.
“I’m King’s ol’ lady,” Haley says.
“I’m Reaper’s ol’ lady,” Ximina says.
“I’m…” I stop, think about it. “Just passing through.”
Haley laughs. “That’s what all the ol’ ladies say.”
“Not me,” X says. “I never said that.”
Haley looks thoughtful. “Well, me neither.”
“Neither did Evanee,” X says.
“It’s possible you’re wrong,” I say to Haley.
An older woman comes through the sliding doors and approaches us, a cloud of cigarette smoke following her.
“That’s Verity. She didn’t either,” Haley says.
Verity leans against the bar. “Didn’t do what?”
“Start out reluctant to become an ol’ lady,” Haley replies.
Verity scrutinizes me. “You’re with Eight?”
“Reluctantly,” Haley and X say together.
“She must be blind,” Verity says drolly.
The three of them laugh at my expense.