Chapter 3
BOLT
I finish off the water bottle, and we go back to bed.
And, of course, we have sex again, and, of course, it’s amazing.
Would be a hell of a lot easier if it wasn’t.
Would also be easier if I didn’t love how she cuddled into my side afterwards, but I’ve never been known for doing the right thing or for having good luck.
We both drift off to sleep, and it’s a dreamless sleep where I don’t startle awake remembering the rattle of the bars as they slam shut on my cell; the fear of trying to make it on my own at seventeen; or the helpless, searing pain of watching my mother brutalized by my sadistic sperm donor of a father.
My eyes flicker open when the thin slivers of light filter through the shades.
I’m one of those people affected by light.
Embarrassing to admit, but I fuckin’ hate the dark.
Can’t even walk into my bedroom unless I flip on the light first. Most times, I have my lights on a timer so they go on automatically.
Fuckin’ crazy for an outlaw biker and cage fighter who takes down guys twice my size, but it’s true—I hate the dark.
I shift against the sheets, and Nicoletta shifts with me.
“What time is it?” Even her sleep-induced voice amps me up.
I lean over, scavenging for the phone. “It’s ten o’clock, and I should’ve been in the gym two hours ago.”
“So, are you going to tell me what all these tattoos mean?” She traces the club colors on my chest with her forefinger. “Or are they just to make you look like a tough guy?”
I reach around and squeeze her ass till she yelps. “That’s for being a wiseass.”
She wiggles closer to me. “I like my punishment.”
“That’s all you’re getting for now, ‘cause you got me so fucked out, I may never recover.”
“I don’t believe that.” She sneaks her hand down my chest and circles my half-hard cock.
I cover her hand with mine and bring it back to my chest. “Let’s give him a well-deserved rest.”
“Fine, then you have to tell me about your tats.”
“Yeah?” I search her face, and she looks genuinely interested, so I point to my chest. “This is the one I got when I patched into the Bastards. The one I’m most proud of, the one that means the most to me.”
I tell her about the smaller ones on my arms, mostly done when I was drunk or high, but I leave that part out.
Finally, I get to my shoulder. “This is a gothic compass. It signifies getting through life’s toughest storms, inner guidance, and protection from getting lost again.
It means different things to different people, but to me, it means I found my way out, and I have no intentions of goin’ back in.
I had it done when I got outta lock-up.”
She silently nods, then, “Lock-up, you mean jail?”
“Nah, prison, babe.” People who’ve never been on the inside confuse the two all the time. “Jail is where you go when you’ve busted up a bar ‘cause you’ve got too much booze in you. Prison is long-term for more serious shit.”
She sucks in a breath, and I’m almost prepared when she asks, “Serious shit?”
“Let’s just say I had some anger issues, and when a cop tried to put me in cuffs, I hauled off and hit him.”
“Okaaaay, so why was he trying to handcuff you?”
“I was hanging with this stripper, and she was giving me a very enthusiastic lap dance when her boyfriend stormed into the club. He started giving her shit and putting hands on her, so I knocked him the fuck out.”
“That sounds chivalrous.”
“Yeah, well, the asshole boyfriend had his crew with him, and it turned into an all-out brawl. Chairs thrown, bottles broken. When the cops tried to cuff me, I was still going strong and not about to give up.”
“How long did you go to prison?”
“Eighteen months.”
“Seems like a long time for a bar fight.”
“Did I forget to mention I ended up putting some of the assholes in the hospital and broke the cop’s nose, while I was high on coke? Plus, I had a shit-ton of priors?”
“I see.” She mashes her lips together, and I’m waiting for her to jump out of bed and throw on her clothes.
Instead, she wraps her arms around me. “You’ve had a lot, but there is one thing.”
Here it comes. The big brush-off. The I-don’t-screw-felons speech.
“Do you still use hard drugs?”
“Fuck no.” I push up on my elbows. “That’s all behind me. Anyway, Smoke doesn’t take on anybody who’s using. None of the bar employees, the strippers, or the men and women who fight in the cage.”
“Women fight in the cage too?”
“Yeah, and they are fierce. They fight under the Royal Harlots, and they’re hooked up with the Bastards. We all use the same gym.”
“Interesting.”
I huff out a laugh. “After the way you shut Gina down, I’m thinking you might be a good addition.”
“Defending myself and staying in shape is one thing, but I’m not interested in getting hit on a regular basis.”
“The object of the game is to not get hit.” I waggle my eyebrows.
“If I remember correctly, you had a good-sized bruise on your jaw the night I met you, and everyone said you were the big winner.”
“That’s the nature of the game, babe, but I get it. Throwing fists is not for everybody.”
She shifts on the sheets. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” My stomach growls at that exact moment, sealing the deal. “You like eggs?”
She pushes up to a sitting position. “Who doesn’t like eggs?”
“Blood, our VP, hates eggs.”
She shakes her head. “That’s just wrong.”
“Sit tight. I’m gonna come back with the best breakfast ever.”
I swing my legs over the bed, nab my jeans off the floor, pull on my t-shirt, shrug on my cut and head for the door.
I spin around and point to Nicoletta. “You are in for a treat.”
NICOLETTA
I plump the pillows behind me, but I can’t relax.
Since waking up next to Bolt in our sex-induced cocoon, all I can think about is the knife I stashed in his drawer not five feet away.
That first night, desperation drove me, but getting to know him and suspecting my father might have something to do with Brad’s death confuses everything.
The guilt is real, and I’ve gone round and round trying to find a solution.
Since the first night, Bolt has surprised me in so many ways. His skills in bed go way beyond just getting pleasure for himself. And I never expected him to reveal his past, but last night he opened up to me in a way Brad never did.
Bolt is a man who defends women and gets locked up for it, and a man who defies a very intimidating man—his president, Smoke—and follows his own feelings. He’s a warrior in the cage, who’s devoted to his club brothers, proud of his accomplishments and owns his faults.
My work at the women’s shelter showed me there is never just one story, but even with all that, I never would’ve expected to find a sensitive soul hiding deep in an outlaw biker. Or a man who, after a night of mind-blowing sex, was willing to go out and get breakfast. Yes, win-win.
When I can’t stand the suspense any longer, I roll off the bed and grab one of Bolt’s t-shirts draped over a chair. I press the soft material to my face, and, yes, it smells deliciously like him.
I peek out into the hallway just to make sure, then scope out the dresser noticing the bottom drawer is closed.
I ease it open, push aside the twist of clothes, and reach all the way to the back, and as suspected, the knife folded in the paper towel is still where I put it.
I shove it further back into the drawer and pile more random t-shirts on top of it.
Safe for now, but I have to get rid of it.
The last thing I want is Bolt caught with it, or thinking I would set him up for a crime he certainly didn’t commit.
Especially now that I know he has a record.
Satisfied, but still without a plan, I pad into the kitchen. I open up the fridge already knowing what I’ll see. The same sour milk and something covered in mold. Whatever Bolt brought back had to be way better than this choice.
I’m just about to turn on the TV, when the lock releases and Bolt enters, laden with takeout bags and a cardboard tray of coffee. I follow the enticing scent and him into the kitchen, and when I try to peek in one of the bags, he bats my hands away.
“Sit.” He points to chair on the other side of the island separating the living room from the kitchen.
I do as I’m told, then frown at him. “Just so you know, I’m not known for my patience.”
“Yeah, I got that when we were in bed.”
“Are you complaining?” I tease.
“Fuck, no, I love a woman who knows what they want and ain’t afraid to show it.”
He puts a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I sip it and moan, “This is delicious.”
“I thought you’d like it. I got it from the cafe on the corner.”
I take a big drink. “What’s in it?”
“It’s a traditional spiced Mexican coffee. It’s made in clay pots with cinnamon, cane sugar, and a dark roast coffee.”
“It’s amazing.” I look at his cup. “What do you have?”
“Just black coffee. I don’t go for all that fancy shit.”
I nod to the two bags on the table. “Are you going to let me see what else you brought?”
“You sound like a kid.” He laughs around his words.
“Worse.”
He opens the first bag and removes two Styrofoam containers and does the same with the second bag.
“I have no idea what you have there, but it smells delicious.”
He flips open the tops. “Huevos rancheros—fried eggs on tortilla with salsa, huevos Mexicana—scrambled eggs cooked with diced tomatoes, onions and chili peppers, and my favorite molletes—a toasted roll, sliced in half and topped with refried beans, melted cheese and salsa.”
“I didn’t think anything could top this coffee, but I was wrong.”
Bolt hands me a knife and fork, then waves his hand over the array of mouthwatering food. “Try it all. This place is the best. Even Marisol, Smoke’s woman, thinks it’s the best Mexican food, and she’s a native and a fuckin’ outstanding cook herself.”
We both dig in, and after trying everything, I point to the huevos rancheros. “I think this is the winner for me.” I reach for another tortilla and take a big bite. “Yup, definitely the winner,” I say around a mouthful of what just became my favorite breakfast.
“Eat up, ‘cause we got a busy day.”
“We?” I ask.
“I gotta head over to the gym and train with Blood, then I got two new guys I have to train for the fight on Saturday night, and you’re coming with me.”
“I am?”
“Yup, Smoke’s orders. I’m not to let you outta my sight, so my day is your day.”
“Okay. I guess it beats sitting in the interrogation room at LAPD.”
“You’ll love it. I’ll introduce you to Martina and Maxie. They’re part of the Royal Harlots I was telling you about. They’re also the top female fighters at the club.”
“Sounds interesting.” I’ve met daughters of foreign dignitaries, daughters of movie studio heads, even some well-known actresses, but I’ve never met women who actually fought in a cage.
Bolt waves his hand at me. “Although, you look sexy as fuck in my t-shirt, I think you better change. Put on those leggings and a sports top.” He grins. “Who knows, maybe she’ll get you in the ring, and you can show her your moves.”
Swapped catty words with snobby socialites? Sure. Throwing punches with jacked female fighters? No.