Chapter 14
Fourteen
Melissa
“You ready? You look hot, babe. I'm surprised none of the guys have tried anything yet. Even Bull's been eyeing you,” Yana nudges my arm playfully, her perfectly manicured nails gleaming under the lights.
I do look good, in a casual way that feels like me. Could've done worse. The Doc Martins, Levi’s, and casual rib top.
I snort, running my fingers through my blonde hair.
“Yeah, they're all ridiculously hot, and believe me, I've dropped enough hints.
But none of them will touch me. Bikers, Yana.
I can't even score with a biker who, by the way, probably has a rotating door of those beautiful club women throwing themselves at them daily. Actually, that explains it. They have way better options.”
She shakes her head, her designer purse swinging from her arm before whispering, “I don't think that's why.”
We enter the clubhouse, the smell of leather, cigarettes, and whiskey hitting me immediately. Yana's Louis Vuitton heels click against the floor as she states the obvious. “Maybe stay close to me. I don't know most of these people, but they must be okay or Beast wouldn't have invited us all down.”
“Easy for you to say. You're the president's old lady,” I mutter, scanning the packed clubhouse.
“Umm…” Yana hesitates. Why the hell is she hesitating? This is fact; everyone knows it.
“She ain't wrong.” Beast's deep voice settles over us along with his massive frame. He wraps his hands around Yana's waist, but I notice his eyes remain distant. She doesn't seem to notice or care.
“Hey baby.” I fight rolling my eyes. Not that I want anything like that, but Jesus, watching them makes me uncomfortable in ways I can't quite explain.
“Come on, both of you.” Beast has a way of commanding simple sentences while making them feel threatening. “Melissa, bullshit aside, you're under protection here. Remember that.” He gestures toward the back, where sofas and pool tables spread, the area already crowded with leather-clad bodies.
“Thanks, Beast,” I offer an appreciative smile, though inside I'm wondering exactly what kind of protection I might need tonight.
He strides ahead to lead the way, Yana trailing close behind. Beast stops short, wheeling back toward me. “Close your eyes.”
“I can handle whatever's happening, Beast. You're not the first bikers I've been around,” I reply, sidestepping.
My gaze lands on the sofa, and my stomach hits the ground.
Beast and Yana's furrowed brows blur at the edges, the loud laughter, swaying bodies, and thumping bass simply fade with white noise. Hella’s arms spread over the top of the couch, legs spread, and a blonde head dipping rhythmically in his lap.
You're better than this, Melissa.
You've survived worse.
This is why you use and abuse men.
This is why you don't date, and this is fucking why you stay the hell away from him.
I force my eyes up from the motion in his lap to catch his stare, sharp and unchecked, flames licking through it.
Warmth floods my cheeks as his gaze drags down my body.
His fingers weave into the blonde's hair, his lower lip caught between his teeth while his eyes drill deeper into mine, a lazy smirk curling across his face.
My jaw tightens, thighs squeezing together. What sick pervert gets turned on by this performance? Me, apparently.
His stare pins me in place. I should run before I do something embarrassing like show I care, but instead, my head tilts and the corner of my mouth twitches.
“Hon? Are you okay?” Yana asks, her grip tightening on my arm.
“I'm fine,” I reply, ignoring the sickening churn in my gut.
“Okay. I'm going to do something real quick.” She walks to the opposite side and joins Ripper, Nyx, Hannibal, and Skid. She leans in, speaking with them as their eyes dart to me every few seconds.
Deciding I've had enough sobriety for one night, I make for the bar and order shots. I should have stayed at Jada's, watching Jesse Pinkman be an annoying little shit on TV.
“You okay, pretty girl?” Old Fella asks, pouring tequila into a shot glass.
“I'll be fine,” I repeat with a smile I’ve mastered over the years.
I down the contents before placing the glass back on the bar. “Hit me, keep going until I say stop, and then keep going anyway.”
Why should I care? What gives me the right to be pissed at him getting his dick sucked? I’ve been around this kind of culture all my life. Even now, there’re orgies happening on pool tables, girls putting on a show for whoever will watch.
I shoot back another shot and signal for more.
I can't be mad at Hella. I have no right.
I refuse to justify it with, “He's a biker, it's what they do,” because that's bullshit.
You'd never catch Beast pulling this crap, and he's about as “biker” as they come.
It's Hella. It's who he is. A fucking prick, plain and simple.
Can I be mad? No, we fucked once. He’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t settle, or have any emotions. I can't be mad at him. But hurt? That’s allowed.
I've lost count of my shots by the time Yana returns, but judging by the tequila bottle Old Fella clutches, it's half empty and the words “Jose Cuervo” have blurred into shapes.
My happy buzz kicks in, and the pain dulls.
People say alcohol doesn't fix anything, but right now, it's mending a wound that existed long before tonight.
Yana passes me, pausing to whisper in my ear, “Thank me later.” She winks before walking away.
I really hope Beast meant it when he said he would protect me here, because I’m about to make some spectacularly poor choices.