41. Montana
41
Montana
S exually aroused and built up so many times a light breeze could make me bust, I can barely stand to ride on the back of Shane’s bike tonight. I’m honestly not sure how he got to the family function, being as drunk as he was when he first got there, but luckily, he’s leaving it with his bike. His guys must’ve had something to do with that. With my legs spread around him, my clit grinds against his lower back at every stop. He seems to know this, too. It appears we’ve taken the long way back to the house after the awkward dinner with Phil and Kathy.
The idea of them coming to watch me play next weekend makes me want to rip my arm off and beat myself to death with my own bloodied bone. Not once has Phil shown any interest in what I do whatsoever until Kathy came into his life and gave him a solid reason to pretend. The way Shane stood up for me and then praised me for my abilities wasn’t something I was expecting either. As demented as the man is, he sure is starting to chip away at the detestation I’d initially installed. But to be honest, his need for revenge is something I can understand. I’d hate me, too, if I were him.
He brakes hard again at a red light, sending my chest jolting against his back. My inner thighs tighten around his waist, and my fingers claw the sides of his abdomen. I feel his chest rumble with laughter. I shake my helmet-covered head against him, sighing in sexual frustration.
I can play games too.
He leans on one leg, holding us upright as the opposing traffic eases into the intersection. My fingers splay across his tight abdomen before slowly sliding down to the hem of his bloody shirt. His spine straightens, and his head turns to the side, giving me his gorgeous profile.
“Montana,” he warns.
I lean closer, my hand slipping beneath the loose fabric as the other remains by his groin. The moment I touch the soft skin of his stomach, my insides clench. Smooth flesh covers mounds of muscles, and he inhales as my touch slides higher. Mound over muscular mound, I climb my way to his pec.
“Be careful, sweetheart,” he threatens. “You wouldn’t want me to crash.”
“We aren’t driving,” I taunt, sliding my palm over his chest.
I flick my thumb over his tight, budded nipple just as my palm finds the growing bulge beneath his jeans. He drops his head back, a rumbling groan rolling up his throat. The light turns green and a car honks behind us, making me jump. My hands slip from his body, but he grips them both, putting them where they were to continue touching him.
“Don’t play games with a guy like me. I’ll fuck you right here on this bike in the middle of the intersection. Let the traffic watch as I destroy that pretty pussy.”
My body sizzles at his threats, almost wanting to push him as far as I can just to see if he’d actually honor that promise.
I slide my other hand up and under his shirt, loving the feeling of his warmth beneath my hands. His body molds to mine. The car behind us honks again, and Shane promptly flips them off. Leaning back, he places his hand over mine, applying more pressure to his cock, forcing me to cup him harder, when the car behind us honks yet again.
“Hand me the helmet,” he says calmly.
“What?”
“Your helmet. Hand it to me.”
My eyes narrow as I remove it. I’m about to hand it over, but at the last minute, I figure him out.
“No,” I say, clutching it close.
The car that was behind us pulls up to our right. A man in his fifties with a hefty triple chin jiggling beneath his scrunched-up face screams obscenities at his rolled-up window with a raised fist. I smile sweetly at Shane and hold his shoulder as I hop off the bike. His spine stiffens as he eyes me cautiously.
I saunter closer, and the man continues to yell through his glass. He flips me off again, and I crack. Swinging the helmet as hard as I can, the glass window shatters, and shards spill into his car.
“You stupid bitch!” he screams. “You broke my window!”
I make my way back to the bike, sliding my leg back over the seat with an angelic grin, just as Shane hops off. I stumble, sliding up into the main seat of the bike and grip the handles, working to hold the heavy thing upright with my helmet still in hand.
Shane bends down near the man’s open window, and all the blubbering words from his loud mouth cease to exist. Lifting the pant leg near his boot, Shane grips a switchblade, jabbing it into the man’s front tire. A distinctive hissing sound seeps through the air after removing the blade. He smiles at his handiwork, then bends down near the passenger window, leveling himself with the man. He waves. He fucking waves in the window with his leather bike glove.
“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the exhaust,” he yells. “Enlighten me to what you just called my girl?”
My girl. My heart clenches in my chest.
The man’s nostrils flare as he grips his steering wheel with both hands, twisting it as if it was Shane’s neck.
“I called her a stupid fucking bitch,” he shouts over our conjoined engines and the sounds of traffic.
Shane stands, nodding as he peers over the top of the car. I stand in suspense, holding the heavy bike as I await his next move. Reaching through the window, he grips the man's seatbelt with both hands, quickly wrapping it around his bulbous neck. Shane pulls it tighter and the man gurgles, grabbing for the belt beneath his neck but unable to get his fingers under it.
After a few seconds of struggle, the man’s reddened face turns into a sickening shade of purple, his arms losing the fight before his body slumps forward. Shane unwraps the seatbelt, and he falls forward, his forehead dropping against the steering wheel where it remains.
I stare, shocked and frankly aroused by the display of affection only someone with Shane’s violent nature could provide. Stalking back to the bike, his eyes hold that possessive stare and he reaches for me, his hand caressing my jaw. The touch is so gentle. So unlike the brutal behavior he just displayed.
“You didn’t let my bike drop,” he says softly, studying my face.
I shake my head. He slides a hand to the back of my neck, gripping the hair at my nape before he leans down and captures my mouth with his own. His tongue slides slowly and erotically along mine as the man behind us lies immobile. Shane truly isn’t bothered by anyone. It’s evident he operates in his own world, on his own time, never letting anything stop him from getting what he wants.
It’s unhinged, it’s merciless, it’s destructive, and it’s so fucking attractive to finally see in a man.
About twenty minutes later, we’re pulling up to our street when a particular vehicle comes into view. Wesley stands with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back against his expensive pickup truck, disgust practically dripping from his expression as he watches us turn into the driveway.
Shane pulls into the garage, turning off his bike, his body tense against mine.
“Do I need to deal with this? Or can you handle your shit?”
I know he must hate seeing Wes here. He just choked out a random man for calling me a bitch, but to be regarded like a child aggravates something wild within me. Scowling, I fight the urge to elbow him as I move past him.
Wesley stares at me, expressionless, as I approach him, stalking down the driveway and across the street. Shane enters the side door, closing it with a slam, and a second later, Rocco bursts through the front doggy door and into the fenced enclosure before the house. He rushes at the fence, barking something furious, teeth flashing while drool sloshes and coats the rusted metal holding him back.
“What were you doing on the back of that bike?” Wesley spits out the question before I even reach him.
“We were coming back from Phil and Kathy’s. They’re working to establish family dinners.”
“He doesn’t even give you the courtesy of wearing a helmet while you ride?” he remarks, distaste on his tongue.
“I had one on. I just—”
His eyebrows bunch, and he tips his head, waiting.
“I just lost it on the ride…” I fumble over my words. I can’t tell him what really happened. That some idiot got mad because I was feeling up my stepbrother in traffic, so I smashed his window with the helmet before Shane blew out his front tire with a knife and choked him out just to make out with me some more.
“I don’t know what the fuck this is,” his eyes trail my body in disgust, “but you better let your brother know we’re coming for him.”
“Wes,” I stall, raising my hands, palms facing him. “Don’t get me involved in this. Whatever you had going on between the two of you, just let it die. You know I can’t help being here.”
“You can help by not spreading your legs to ride home with him,” he says.
Wes pushes up off the truck, moving to stand over me. I know this trick. The intimidation. Aiming to create fear and submission. Rocco goes wild at the fence, barking and biting at the gate.
“What am I supposed to do, Wes?” I yell back, standing chest-to-chest with him. “I don’t have a car, and it’s not like I can rely on my boyfriend to come give me rides. You can’t be bothered to text me back most nights. Shit, even when we’re at the same party, I can’t seem to gain your attention.”
He scoffs, looking down the street past me. He knows he can’t argue because it’s true.
“Maybe you should try harder, then. No man should feel the need to look for other women if he’s truly satisfied in his relationship. Women make themselves available to me whenever I need them. My girlfriend should be beating them to it, not opening the door for others by leaving the party with arsonists.”
I can’t control myself. All my life, men have stood over me, degrading me as if I’m not worthy of them. As if I owed them something. This birthed my need to find some semblance of control again. Owning my sexuality and finally capitalizing off of it rather than letting those emotional scars of abuse own me forever. No man, not my mom’s dealer, Wesley, or his conniving father, can rule me.
I shove my hands into his chest, pushing Wes backward as hard as I can. But with his size and muscles, I barely knock him back. Immediately, he grabs my upper arms, turning me and pressing my back against his truck.
Rocco barks wildly behind him, doing anything he can to get through that gate to me.
“Get your hands off of me!” I struggle in his hold.
“We got a problem here?”
I peer around Wes to see Shane, Wheeter, and Josiah leaning against the side of the house, watching. Josiah has his baseball bat, twirling it in his hand. I don’t even need to question what weapon Shane has beneath his shirt. Wheeter glares at Wes with an expression I’d yet to see come from him. The three of them look insane, defiant, and ready to fuck some shit up.
Wes contemplates his decision, gripping the muscle of my upper arm even tighter as he glares back, frustration pumping through him.
Shane pushes off the siding, walking forward toward the gate containing Rocco. He leans back, resting his arms on the rusted fence while Rocco growls, showcasing his canines in a territorial display, staring solely at Wes.
“My dog hates problems,” Shane states, his fingers lingering over the lock.
Wesley’s shoulders raise, the tension in his back seizing him before he finally turns to me. Leaning down, his lips dust my ear, making my whole body shiver.
“You better call me later and fix this,” he growls. “This doesn’t end here because of your guard dogs.”
The clang of shaking metal rattles and Rocco’s aggressive growls intensify. Shane smirks from the opened gate as the black-haired beast gains speed and rushes toward us with fangs flashing.
In a surprise move, Wesley turns to block me from Rocco, using his body as a shield. A wave of panic washes over me as he braces for impact. I grip his arm, reaching to get around him.
“Nein!” I scream, causing Rocco to skid to a stop just feet before us. “Sich Sitzen!” He sits, his mouth open and his long tongue hanging to the side of his mouth, the drool trailing his chin.
Wes is panting before me; arms braced wide as he remains frozen like a statue, afraid any small movement will incite the dog again. My pulse thunders through my head.
“Heim!” I command, pointing at the house.
Rocco dips his head, giving one last growl before turning and trotting back to the fence. Shane looks on in disappointment, rolling his eyes as he swivels on his feet to walk back into the house. He was hoping for some bloodshed. Wesley has no clue how close he was to losing his life to a dog. Rocco isn’t the type to let up.
He gets in the truck, slams the door shut, and makes eye contact with the boys again.
“Cute dog,” he comments, starting up the truck. “It’d be awful if something happened to him.”
With that, he revs his engine and speeds off down the street, leaving me standing alone in the road, hands still shaking.