7. Judge
CHAPTER SEVEN
Spotting Rigger at the bar next to Lucky, I tamp down my anger and make my way over to them. Despite our fight earlier this week, I went by Myla’s place this morning and noticed that a black Harley was in her assigned parking spot, with her Mini Cooper in a different spot. At first, I thought she had someone over, and even knowing what I might find, I knocked on her door with my heart in my throat.
Any negativity melted away when she opened the door with squinted, glossy eyes and a pinched expression. Recognizing it for what it was—another migraine—I helped her back inside and took care of her again. I know the only reason she allowed me in was because she was in too much agony to fight, but I still took pride in massaging her scalp and performing Reiki on her.
That’s how I found out that the bike doesn’t belong to some random fucker. It belongs to her. Knowing that didn’t lighten my mood any because why the hell does she need a bike? And why the hell did Rigger help her with it? All her actions lately tell me she’s unhinged and looking for danger. So once she was settled and resting, I left her to confront my VP.
“Hey, Judge. How’s it?” Rigger’s smile is broad, but when he sees my expression, the curves of his mouth flatten to a straight line, and he goes on alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Myla,” I deadpan.
Lucky jumps to his feet, assuming his friend is in trouble. “What happened?”
“She’s fine.” I glance at Lucky before returning my attention to Rigger. “Can you tell me why you thought it was a good idea for her to get a bike?”
His unease fades, and he claps a hand on my shoulder. His touch is too close to my secrets, so I shrug him off. With narrowed eyes, he lowers his hand. “She was gonna buy one with or without my help. Figured it was better I made sure she didn’t get ripped off.”
“You helped Myla buy a ride?” Lucky chimes in.
Rigger places both elbows on the bar, caging his bottle of beer. “I don’t know what the big fuckin’ deal is. I did her a favor.”
Lucky scoffs, stepping back and covering his face before tugging on the ends of his beard. “Fuck me, bro. Do you have any idea how pissed Tinny will be when she finds out?”
“Ain’t got nothin’ to do with her,” Rigger mumbles.
“I’m pretending I never heard this conversation.” He plugs his ears and, like the man-child he is, sings as he walks away. “La, la, la.”
“Idiot.” Rigger grips the lip of his bottle and swirls it around.
“I don’t know what’s going on with her, but she’s spiraling, and you just added fuel to the fire.”
“Getting a bike isn’t spiraling. I think it’s badass when chicks have a ride of their own.” He shrugs.
Navy approaches just in time to hear the end of his sentence. “Does that mean I can get a bike then?”
Rigger spins in his stool, grips Navy by the belt loops of her jeans, and yanks her to stand between his legs. He rests his chin on her shoulder and kisses her neck before whispering, “The only two things you’ll ever ride are my Harley and my dick.”
She rolls her eyes. “Knock it off. Judge didn’t need to hear that.”
I’ve seen all levels of debauchery. My brothers have confessed things to me that would make the Reaper smile, and I’ve had unspeakable things done to me, yet this simple, intimate interaction between Rigger and Navy makes me shift my weight uncomfortably. What would it be like to feel that kind of ownership over someone? For them to have ownership over me? I can’t fathom it.
“Judge doesn’t care, do you?”
I don’t answer, and being the good friend she is, Navy changes the topic. “What were you two talking about?”
“I helped Myla pick a bike and gave her a riding lesson the other day.”
Navy turns to look at him. “You didn’t!”
“Why is everyone so bent over this?”
“Because Myla is being irresponsible, and no one is getting through to her. Tinleigh can’t even get her to return proof of life texts. The only reason we know she’s alive is because Judge keeps tabs on her,” Navy says.
“Still?” Rigger’s brows raise, reading into Navy’s words. The thing about having brothers born of loyalty is that they get to know you, really know you—the ins and outs, the way your mind works, all of it. It’s a blessing and a curse because my VP knows this isn’t normal behavior for me. I tend to let people come to me, not seek them out. “You don’t need to still be babysitting. I can have prospects take over if you feel she needs eyes on her.”
It’s a fishing expedition if I’ve ever seen one, so I’m casual when I reply. “I don’t mind.”
“Right.” He draws out the word, scrutinizing me as if he can read my mind. “Well, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” Navy asks, her eyes ping-ponging between Rigger and me.
“Nothin’.” Rigger stands. “Ready to go?”
Navy looks unconvinced but drops it. “Yeah.”
As Rigger passes me, he leans in and, quiet enough that only he and I can hear, says, “Tread lightly, brother.”
I nod and watch them leave, walking side by side, Rigger’s hand on Navy’s ass.
My heart pounds so loudly, I can’t hear anything over the thumping in my ears. I’m terrified and soaked with sweat as my fight or flight kicks in and I bolt upright to scan my surroundings. Recognizing the chair in the corner and the dresser on the far wall as my own, I realize it was just a nightmare and that I’m safe.
I slow my breaths and scrub a hand down my face, expecting to feel the same stubble I woke up to my entire adult life, but instead, there’s a beard there. I left the home for boys twenty-four years ago, and it took me this long to be brave enough to grow facial hair. I was told it was because being clean-cut was another way of honoring the Lord. Now I wonder if it was to keep me looking younger for longer. Now that’s a sick fucking thought.
Wrenching myself from bed, I tear off the damp sheets and toss them in the washing machine tucked behind the bathroom door. It would be convenient to own a spare set of bedding with as many times as this happens, but it’s not necessary for my happiness. Growing up in a group home, I didn’t own anything and spent countless hours thinking about all the things I would buy when I left. When that day finally came and I was on my own, I realized it wasn’t money or possessions that brought me true joy—it was the connections and relationships I made with others along the way.
As I wait for my sheets to wash, I throw on a T-shirt, swap my damp boxers for a dry pair, and sit down on the sofa with a book to distract me from the vicious way I woke up. World War Z was the first zombie book I ever read. It’s what started my love for the genre, and even though I can practically recite the words by heart, I still pick it up at least once a month.
Picking up where I left off, I read the first few paragraphs, but my agitation doesn’t lessen like it normally does after a nightmare. I try again, but I’m too antsy and nervous. Something’s off, and I don’t know what it is. Things with the club are strangely calm. No enemies are coming after us, no raids happening at the Honey Pot, no Feds bothering Bones about his weed shop. So then, why does it feel like ants are crawling just below my skin?
Myla. Her name comes to me like a whisper from an angel, warning me of danger. I’m on my feet and throwing on jeans and boots before I even make the decision to drive over and check up on her. If her lights are out and both of her vehicles are in the parking lot, I’ll leave her alone to sleep, but it’s better not to ignore my sense that something’s wrong.
My overheated body cools as I step outside into the crisp night air that smells of pine and dust and head for my bike. This is the best thing about living in the high desert; it’s rare for night temperatures not to drop significantly, which makes night riding so enjoyable.
I doubt my decision at least four hundred times before I pull into her complex and park. If I had any self-respect, I’d turn around and go home because I’m never welcome. Lately when she sees me, she’s not excited or happy; she’s annoyed. Yet I keep forcing myself on her. Those doubts are squashed when I see nearly every light on in her apartment and a shadowy figure moving around her living room. It’s nearly three in the morning. What is she doing awake?
My sudden appearance is more likely to scare her than anything, but I still climb up the steps and rap a knuckle on her door as quietly as I can. The shuffling inside comes to a halt, and I take a step back so she can see me through the peephole. A minute passes, and then another, but she doesn’t answer. I shoot off a text, alerting her to my presence, but she leaves it on delivered.
What if she’s in trouble? What if that wasn’t her I saw walking around but an intruder? Reaching back, I pull my pistol out from the holster in my waistband and do a press check. It’s loaded and a round is chambered, ready to go. Violence is never the answer, but I’ve seen too many situations go down where it was kill or be killed, and I’m not ready to die. I press the numeric sequence to unlock her door and step inside quietly, my weapon aimed ahead.
I move through her seemingly empty living room, checking behind curtains and in closets but don’t find anything out of the ordinary. On silent feet, I move to the hallway and go right, clearing the half-bath and the spare room. The only other place she could be is the primary bedroom or the en-suite, so I creep silently in that direction.
The door is open just a crack, so I tap it with the toe of my boot and do a quick scan of the area, squinting to adjust to the dim lighting coming from one nightstand lamp. Her room reflects the kind of person I’ve been told she was when she worked for the Honey Pot. Sheer and gauzy pale mauve curtains dress the one window, artsy and sensual prints of women hang on the walls, and a white furry rug is placed under a bed that’s covered in more white and the same pale mauve from the curtains. The bedding and pillows are a mess and there are clothes tossed over every surface. Her nightstands are crowded with glasses of water, bottles of pills, and empty food containers. Judging by the amount, I’d say she hasn’t cleaned in nearly a week.
“Myla?” I call out, moving toward the en-suite, gun at the ready. As I near the bathroom, I hear running water at full volume, which might make it hard for her to hear me. I yell her name louder and still get no response. It raises my hackles because unless her mouth is bound, she’d answer back.
I’m surprised when the doorknob turns and I’m able to push the door open, but I have no idea what I might find. My gun lowers and gets tucked back into the holster as I take in the sight before me. Even in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t have imagined this. My stomach turns, and a sense of foreboding washes over me.
It’s worse than I thought. So much worse.
In the reflection in the mirror, Myla’s nearly naked body is on display. Her black satin and lace bra barely covers her ample breasts, while a matching thong hugs her rounded hips. Fuck. Her pebbled nipples strain against the fabric, and the sensual curve of her perfect ass is what dreams are made of. As my gaze travels down, I notice a pile of dark clothing at her feet, stained with something thick and viscous. Blood? Without acknowledging me, Myla scrubs her hands relentlessly with a nail brush and the soap my brothers use to wash away evidence—the same soap I use to sterilize my back. The foam turns a morbid shade of pink as she works, the pristine white sink now marred with a ring of crimson. There’s no mistaking it—definitely blood. Looking her over, I know it can’t be hers. Her milky white skin is unmarred except for her hands and forearms, which are bright red from the scrubbing and small blotches on her forehead, cheek, and chin. She must’ve already gotten around to washing the blood off there.
What the hell has she gotten herself into?
“Myla?” I move slowly so as not to startle her, catching sight of a bloody knife tossed in the bathtub. “Sweetheart, what happened?”
With lightning speed, she spins around, her eyes wild and unfocused. In a split second, she pulls out another knife from God knows where. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I sway to the side just in time for the blade to whiz past my ear, the sound of it slicing through the air too close for comfort. I whirl around seconds after it embeds itself deep into the drywall with a resounding thud. My heart races as I realize how close I came to meeting my maker.
Not knowing if she planned to hurl any more sharp objects my way, I move in, gripping her by the wrists and pinning her against the wall. She struggles, throwing all her strength into the fight, but she’s no match for me. I press my body into hers, stepping between her legs so she can’t kick. She’s a good foot shorter than me, so her thrashing head knocks against my chest, hurting her more than me.
“Myla!” I grit out, slamming her wrists against the wall. My intention isn’t to hurt her but to grab her attention. The sound of her name breaks through whatever trance she’s in, and she freezes, body stiffening. “What the hell is going on?”
“Get off me!” Her nostrils flare, and her blue eyes are crazed as she focuses on me.
“Not until you tell me what you’ve done.”
“None of your business!”
“The hell it ain’t.”
“Let go!” She twists her body, still trying to get me to release her, but all it does is rub her barely-concealed breasts against my chest and her hot little center against my thigh. My cock thickens between us, and the second she feels it, her blue eyes grow impossibly bigger. Violence and sex have gone hand-in-hand for me for so long that I should’ve known how my body would react. Add in my growing attraction for the woman, and this was a disaster in the making.
My head drops, and I curse under my breath, but I can’t let this get in the way of questioning her. There’s a good chance she put the club in trouble with whatever she got herself into, and I owe it to my brothers to find out. Peering down at her, I gentle my tone and say, “Not until you tell me why there’s a knife in the tub and you were washing blood off your hands.”
It’s too late to appeal to her rational side, though. She already felt my reaction to her body, and I see a switch flip as she changes tactics to get what she wants. Her struggle is intentional this time, her back arching and her hips circling to grind on my thigh. I swallow hard as her tone turns sultry and smooth. “It seems there’s a bigger issue to deal with right now.”
In one quick move, I spin her around, shoving her front to the wall. Drawing her arms down and back, I pin her wrists together at the base of her spine.
“Tell me what happened,” I say but immediately recognize my mistake when she pushes her hips so her mouth-watering ass juts back into me. I get lost in the way the thin string of her thong disappears between her round globes, and I have the urge to trace the path with my tongue.
Fuck.
“Does the priest want to play?”
I usually follow the old adage of honesty being the best policy, but not this time. “Fucking you won’t make me magically forget that you’re into some serious shit right now.”
“It’s worth a try.”
“This isn’t you, and I sure as shit am not one of those men.” I don’t need to specify which kind of man I’m referring to. “I won’t pretend to understand what those unimaginably horrific and unfair experiences have done to you, but it pisses me the fuck off that you think I’m so weak that I’d contribute to your trauma. I’ll never hurt you, Myla. Do you hear me? Not your body, not your mind, and goddamn it, not your soul either.”
Her mood shifts again, confusing me because I didn’t think I’d get through to her so quickly. Dropping her shoulders, she tucks her ass back in and presses her cheek to the wall. I remain silent, giving her all the time she needs to process. “The first time I saw you was when I woke up after. . . well, you know.” She cranes her neck to look at me, and what I see devastates me. There’s so much suffering in eyes that are so pure, they shouldn’t know even one day of sadness. “Everyone else looked at me with such pity, but you? You looked at me like you were proud of me for surviving.”
I can’t tell if this is just another ploy—using her body didn’t work, so maybe she’s trying to appeal to my emotions? Except I know for a fact that she doesn’t discuss the details of that day with anyone, not even Tinleigh. But it would be stupid to trust her just based off of that. People will go to wild lengths to save their own ass. I’ve seen it time and time again through the interrogations my brothers conduct.
“I was, but that has nothing to do with what’s going on right now,” I say, trying to keep her on topic.
She ignores me. “I know I’ve been a bitch, but you scare me, Judge. The only thing that’s ever attracted me to a man is his body. To be honest, I find most men stupid and irritating. The patriarchy has convinced all of you that you’re special just for existing, creating a bunch of overly-inflated egos who make my pussy dry up like the desert.”
“Again, this isn’t the conversation we need to have right now.”
I might as well not be here for all the acknowledgment she’s giving me. That’s not true, though, because I can’t help but feel like somehow this is connected. “But not you. Don’t get me wrong, you piss me off too, but not for the same reasons. You’re not like them; you’re kind and caring, even when you won’t benefit from it.”
“And that pisses you off?”
“More than anything. At least with other men, I know what I’m getting into. I have them figured out.” She wriggles one wrist free so she can turn to face me. With her fight gone, I allow it but keep hold of her other wrist, just in case. Or maybe I need the connection. I don’t know anymore. “You confuse me, Judge. I keep waiting for the asshole in you to show, but it never does. No matter how much I push you away or how cruel I am to you.”
“You’ve been hurt; it’s only natural for you to keep everyone at a distance so it doesn’t happen again.”
She laughs humorously. “See what I mean? Even now, you’re understanding. It’s infuriating.”
“I just want you to let me help. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Her gaze drops, and she clears her throat. I feel another shift coming. “That’s not all. There’s more.”
“What?” I can’t stop myself from asking, which puts me in the same category as the stupid men she hates because I’m falling for her tricks.
Her cheeks heat. “You turn me on at a time in my life when nothing should. If anything, I should be repulsed by anything with a dick.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She grits her teeth and tenses her body. “The only thing I ever feel is all-consuming anger.” Her blue eyes meet my own. “Except when you’re around. Then I feel so much more.”
“How about honesty? Do I make you feel like telling the truth?”
She almost smiles, just a barely-there tip of her lips that’s gone as quick as it appears. “Nice try.”
“At least tell me whose blood this is.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She bows her head, her short hair creating a curtain around her. After a long minute, she lifts her chin, and what I see terrifies me. Her eyes are narrowed, her face pinched, and her lower lip quivers when she speaks. “The hate just keeps growing. It’s always there, and I’m so goddamned worried it’s all I’ll feel for the rest of my life.”
“And you want me to believe I have some kind of control over that?” I tuck a wayward strand of black hair behind her ears, wondering how to get through to her. She’s confused and hurt, and she thinks she’s alone, but I’m right fucking here.
If I was braver, I might share with her the traumatic events I’ve been through, but the thought of reliving those painful memories for anyone terrifies me. While it may help Myla to know I can relate, there’s also a chance that delving into my past could bring back the darkness that once consumed me and is currently consuming her. Then, I would be of no use to her.
She licks her lips and takes my big, tattooed hands in her scrubbed-raw tiny ones. “Do you like me, Judge?”
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Someone out there is either bleeding to death or already dead, and I need to find out who it is—if not to get them help, then to get the prospects out to wherever the body is and clean it up. Above all else, I need to protect her, and if admitting my feelings for her will make her feel comfortable enough to talk, then that’s what I’ll do.
“I do.” I feel as though I’m holding my breath whenever I’m near her, worried I’ll show too much, but now that the words are out, I can finally breathe.
She lifts our joined hands to her chest. “Then please, Judge. Make me feel something else, even if only for a minute. I won’t ever ask anything of you again. Just. . . please. Please.”