Chapter 4 Bane
Bane
There are two reasons I ordered the Prospects to guard Slade’s exit last night.
One, because the room Ash set her up in is secluded from the rest, and we didn’t need some drunk asshole wandering in there to ‘meet’ Breaker, Tyr, and Sten’s long-lost sister.
And two, because I knew Slade would try to run.
I had hidden in the shadows just in case she tried for a ballsy exit through the window.
When I saw her look down at the big drop below, I thought she’d make a wise decision and not to try to escape that way.
And when she climbed out onto the ledge, I honestly thought she wouldn’t dare try to jump for that pipe.
The air sucked out of my lungs when she did—like a fucking spider monkey—and latched onto it.
Then swiftly and nimbly climbed down like this was something she’s done for years.
And maybe she had. Her history during the past six years is unknown to us.
And that bullshit story of her watching YouTube videos to learn how to hot-wire? Exactly that…bullshit.
Not only was this waif of a woman becoming more and more interesting, but my risk radar was also pinging loudly. Slade Kowal could definitely pose a threat to the MC.
After I marched her back up to her bedroom, she slammed the door in my face, her only expression of any emotion. I ordered two more Prospects to stand outside, watching her window, and I told Jez and Liam not to move from their posts in the hallway. They were to call me if she tried anything again.
My phone stayed silent until I finished my shower. Steam follows me out of the bathroom as I walk into my bedroom to grab my phone. Seeing Jez’s name on the call display, I quickly answer.
“Slade has just left her room and went downstairs,” he reports.
“I’ll be right there. Tell Liam to go get some sleep, and tell Wyatt and Jesse to watch the front and side exits in case Slade tries to leave the clubhouse.”
I quickly dry off, toss my towel over a chair, then pull on my jeans and shove my feet into my boots while I put on a shirt. Grabbing my cut, I leave my room.
The hallway is quiet. The members who stayed here last night—some live at the compound, while others just crash here—and the Bunnies won’t start stirring for another hour or two.
My long strides eat up the hallway as I hurry toward the stairs.
Jez stands like a sentry where the hallways meet at the top of the stairs.
“Wyatt and Jesse said she didn’t leave the clubhouse,” he reassures me.
“Thanks, man. Hit the sack.”
He stifles a yawn. “You sure? I can shadow her.” He looks down the stairs, the way Slade had gone. “She’s a fine-looking piece of ass.”
“You keep your fucking eyes off her,” I snarl in his face, shocking him. However, no one is more shocked than me. But rather than apologize, I glare at him. “She’s off-limits. She’s not Club Pussy.”
His tired, bloodshot eyes are wide as he nods. “She’s Breaker, Tyr, and Sten’s sis, yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s family, not a Bunny.” I step back from him, questioning where my flare of anger—which bordered on rage—came from.
Jez looks down the stairs again. “Tyr’s mentioned her some—that they haven’t heard from her for four years. Weird that she just showed up out of the blue.”
“She’s passing through,” I feed him the line she fed us. But I don’t need to give him any explanation; who and what Slade is isn’t any of his concern. “Fuck off to bed and get some sleep. You work security tonight at Vixen’s, and I don’t want to hear that you’re dragging your ass.”
He yawns and turns to go to his room.
“Jez,” I call to him, and he turns back. “Spread the word: Slade is off-limits. Anyone who touches her will have a date with Pix.”
He pales, understanding my warning about our violent, bloodthirsty pixie-sized Enforcer, and nods.
Satisfied that my warning has stuck and he’ll do as I ordered, I head down the stairs.
Sunlight streams through the windows and shines on the floor.
The entire clubhouse is kept clean; Ash ensures the Club Pussy pull their weight.
The sex is actually a perk of the job, something all the Bunnies want as much as us horny assholes.
Cherry, the head Bunny—who’s too old now but never wanted to be cut loose from the MC because this was her home—oversees them all and ensures a rotation of cleaning and cooking.
At the bottom of the stairs, I consider where Slade would’ve gone if she hadn’t tried to leave the clubhouse. Then I remember she was always eating anytime she was here—well, when she wasn’t causing mischief and gluing boards to Bunnies’ asses, that is—and I head toward the kitchen.
As I approach, the noise confirms my guess was correct. When I get there, I lean against the doorway of the commercial kitchen, crossing my arms over my chest, and watch Slade.
She’s a small thing and moves with smooth, sure confidence.
Her short brown hair is mussed, and she wears leggings and a loose, long-sleeved shirt.
Her body is completely covered—not a stitch of exposed skin besides her hands, neck, and face.
This is a drastic difference from what we’re used to seeing around here—the Bunnies wear as little as possible, and even the Old Ladies don’t cover up to this extent.
Slade’s back is to me as she reaches into the cupboard, pulls out the coffee beans, and puts some into the grinder because we’re fancy like that. After grinding some, she flicks the switch off and grabs the filter basket out of the coffee machine.
“Are you just going to stand there like a creep, or are you going to tell me how strong to make the coffee?” she asks without turning around.
Surprise ripples through me. I know I didn’t make any noise coming into the kitchen, but it’s like Slade’s been trained to notice everything since she left the MC. She continues to pique my curiosity, as well as my certainty that she could be a potential threat to us.
I push off the doorframe and walk over, purposefully getting close to her while her back is to me. “You got eyes in the back of your head, baby?”
She stiffens—either from my closeness or from me calling her baby; maybe both. It’s her only reaction.
She twists her head to look up at me. “How many scoops?”
Her voice is still husky from sleep. She wears no makeup; there’s nothing fake or made-up about her. She’s stunning in the morning sunlight.
But her voice, just like her face and eyes, is emotionless. Like she’s some AI creation, a robot—not real, flesh and blood.
It’s unnerving as fuck.
“One per cup.”
Her brows, a shade lighter than her brunette hair, rise. “You like it strong so the spoon can stand on its own?”
So, no emotions, but she still has a sense of humor.
“I like it thick and chewy.”
“Are we talking coffee or a granola bar?”
I laugh, which makes her brows furrow. She doesn’t say anything more as she scoops the grounds into the filter and turns on the machine.
“Do you eat right when you wake up, or do you like to wait?” I ask.
Her brow furrows deeper. “Why?”
“I’m making breakfast.”
“Didn’t think the Brothers of a one-percenter MC cooked. That’s the Bunnies’ job, or at the very least, the Prospects.”
I shrug. “At thirty-two, I’ve picked up one or two life skills.”
“More than running drugs and guns, money laundering, and whatever else the MC is into?”
Unease blooms.
Yes, she was an MC brat, but the club’s activities wouldn’t have been freely talked about around her.
She could just be making an educated guess about the criminal activities the club is into; however, she hit two of the top ones.
The only ones she missed were the counterfeit cash operation and that we provide ‘cleaning services’ for any criminal groups in San Francisco that need bodies to disappear and crime scenes to never have happened.
Did her dad and brothers talk?
From what I heard, Wolf hadn’t spoken to his daughter since Tyla yanked them out of this life, and as much as I dislike the asshole, I can’t see him telling his young daughter anything back then. And I know her brothers wouldn’t have said anything.
So either she’s really good at making educated guesses, or she’s done her own digging.
As the VP, I'm Ash's second-in-command. I prevent chaos that could harm us. Her being a potential threat can’t be ignored, even if she looks small and harmless.
If anything, that should make us more wary because we know firsthand the deadly antics that Pix—with her pixie size and looks—can unleash in short spans of time.
Staring into Slade’s eyes, so green up close yet so flat and expressionless, they hide her secrets.
I decide right then and there that I’ll keep close to her, trying to uncover those secrets and what potential threat she may pose to us.
My body is not so subtly letting me know I have more than those reasons for wanting to stick close to her, though. I shift to ease the pressure of my hardening cock against my jeans.
“Where have you been all these years, and what have you been up to, Slade?” I murmur, staring intently down at her.
She pushes away from the counter and moves to the fridge. “So many questions, Bane.”
“So few answers.”
“If it’s not to your liking, just know I’m more than happy to be on my way.”
Something about her wanting to leave so badly irks the hell out of me. But if she is a threat to the MC, then we should cut her loose. However, Ash’s orders are that she stays, so she stays.
“You haven’t spoken with your brothers,” I say instead of the thoughts in my head.
She bends over to grab the food she wants out of the fridge, and my eyes are drawn to her pert ass in those leggings.
“There’s not much more to say with what’s between my brothers and me. And I accomplished what I came to do: check in with them and let them know I still existed. Now I’d like to be on my way to continue living my best life.”
“Your best life, huh?” Frowning, I consider her lack of emotion. That doesn’t just happen. Not when she had been a bundle of life, expressive and laughing all the time.
She ignores my comment and sets the eggs, bacon, cheese, and bread on the counter. “I’m assuming egg sandwiches aren’t beyond your cooking capabilities.”
Not pressing her for answers right now, I reach down to grab a frying pan rather than fire up the big grill. I’m just cooking for Slade and me, not everyone else in the place.
As I put the strips of bacon into the pan while it heats, I watch Slade move around the kitchen. She seems to know where most things are. I remember that she often nibbled on some kind of food, usually candy.
“Cherry let me have free rein of the kitchen and pantry so she or another Bunny didn’t have to feed me.” Slade somehow guesses my inner thoughts.
It’s uncanny and unnerving. As the VP of the club, it’s imperative I keep secrets—dark and dangerous secrets—and not be a fucking open book.
The bacon sizzles and spits grease onto my wrist. I decide to try to unnerve Slade as much as she’s unnerving me. “What happened to you hero-worshipping your brothers? What happened to that version of Slade?”
I watch her closely—her flat, emotionless expression. There’s nothing, not a flicker, when she turns to me. “That version of Slade is dead.”