Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
June
“Smartass.”
Journey flashes that sexy grin that’s haunted my dreams for years before yanking open the door to his stony-faced brothers.
“Bout fuckin’ time,” the man with tattoos running up his neck grumbles.
“Fuck off, Gator.”
Ahhh… Gator. The guy from Pretty Kitties who runs all Brooklyn’s big tippers off. They push past Journey into the apartment without even acknowledging my presence.
“Let’s move,” Bash says, his dark eyes flicking to me before scanning the loft. “The sooner we get her back to the compound, the better.”
Journey grunts. A switch in him flips, and the man who had his hands all over me a few minutes ago and showed me he has a playful side vanishes. In his place stands a no-nonsense biker with a ‘fuck around and find out’ expression on his face.
He swings his gaze to me. “Pack a bag, princess.”
“A bag?” I hesitate, glancing around my sanctuary that’s in disarray. I can’t leave, my stuff is still everywhere. Why do we need to go to the clubhouse, anyway? I’ve got questions.
“Now,” Journey barks.
“Okay, fine! I’m going. Sheesh.” I know he’s worried, but he doesn’t have to be such a grumpy grump.
Not wanting to set him off any more, I make quick work of my morning routine in the bathroom then drag my pink sparkly suitcase out from under my bed.
“Did you notice anyone lurking when you pulled up?” I hear Journey ask.
“No, nothing.”
Listening to them talk, I start throwing clothes inside my bag—a couple pairs of black leggings, a few tank tops, and some matching cotton underwear sets.
When I dig back into the drawer, my hand hovers over the lacy red thong I got on sale at Victoria’s.
Hmm… To pack or not to pack, that’s the million-dollar question.
I peek over my shoulder at Journey, and he must feel my eyes on him because he looks up and pops a brow in that we’re burning daylight waiting on you way that men do. So annoying, right?
Rolling my eyes I turn back to my panty drawer, grab the thong, and shove it in my bag.
What else? Biting my lip, I glance around. My eyes go right to the small pile of makeup that somehow survived. I could attempt to film at the clubhouse. It’s not ideal, but… Before I can second-guess myself, I scoop all of it up and cram it into the suitcase.
“What the hell are you doing?” Journey asks, standing over me with his arms crossed.
“I’m packing, Mr. Grumpy pants,” I reply, carefully wrapping the only eye shadow palette I have left between two shirts before looking up at him.
“What the fuck are you packing makeup for?” His brows snap together. “Did you miss the part where there’s someone watching you?”
Seriously? This asshole messing with my life is all I can think about. Standing up, I plant my hands on my hips. “I didn’t miss anything!” I snap back.
“Jesus Christ.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Babe. We don’t have time for tantrums.”
“What?” I narrow my eyes. “Tantrums?”
Gator snorts from his position by the door, and Bash remains expressionless.
Journey’s jaw ticks as he holds his hand out for my suitcase. “You done?”
I pull in a slow breath.
He’s not the enemy, June. He’s just trying to help. “Yeah. Sorry,” I sigh, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension.
Journey takes the handle of my bag, and my belly swarms with butterflies when his fingers brush mine. It’s insane how a simple touch from this man sets my whole body on fire.
Get it together, June.
Gator clears his throat. “If ya’ll are done, I’ll take point,” he says, moving toward the door. “Bash’s got the rear.”
And just like that, we’re moving.
Journey’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me down the stairs as Gator leads the way, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings like he’s waiting for something to jump out and say boo, while Bash follows behind us silently like a ghost.
When we reach the parking lot, my steps falter. I stare at the row of motorcycles parked in front of the building.
“Um.” I point at the shiny black and chrome monster that Journey is heading towards. “I’ve never been on one of those before.”
Journey smirks. “I’ll pop that cherry, princess.”
My cheeks heat. Boy if he only knew.
He makes quick work of securing my suitcase to the back of his bike, then points to the chrome pipes running along the side. “Stay away from these. They’ll burn the skin right off your legs.”
My eyes widen. “That’s... comforting.”
“You’ll be fine.” He swings his leg over the seat and holds out his hand to me. “Trust me?”
Surprisingly, with the exception of the Girl Gang, I trust him more than anyone.
“Yes.” I place my hand in his and climb on behind him, careful to avoid the pipes of death.
“Wrap your arms around me, baby,” he instructs, and I comply, pressing my chest against his back and sliding my arms around his waist. The position is intimately close, my thighs bracketing his hips, my front molded to his back.
With a flip of a switch, the engine roars to life between my legs, the vibrations rumbling through my body in a way that takes my breath. Oh. Oh.
A small moan slips past my lips before I can stop it, and I feel Journey’s body shake with silent laughter.
“Like that, Princess?” he calls over his shoulder, revving the engine.
I squeeze my thighs against his, trying to relieve the sudden ache. Asshole.
His laughter cuts off as the bike lurches forward, and we’re flying.
The wind whips through my hair, tangling the long strands into what will definitely be a nightmare to brush out later, but I can’t bring myself to care.
The feel of the wind around us, the freedom, it’s exhilarating.
I tilt my face up to the sun and laugh—a real, genuine laugh that bubbles up from some place I thought was empty.
Journey’s hand drops from the handlebar to squeeze my knee once, and I press my smile against the warm leather of his cut, inhaling the scent of him.
Far too soon, we turn onto a long dirt road lined with tall cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss.
The sun filters through the leaves in dappled patterns across the ground as we ride deeper into what feels like nowhere.
After a few minutes, a massive compound comes into view, surrounded by a tall fence topped with spirals of barbed wire.
My arms tighten around Journey’s waist. This place looks more like a military base than a clubhouse.
“Home sweet home,” Journey says as we approach a gate manned by a biker who waves us through with a two-fingered salute.
The compound is alive with activity—men in leather cuts moving between buildings, bikes lined up in front of a tall building, music thumping from somewhere inside. Journey parks at the end of a row of Harleys and cuts the engine.
“You good?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“I think so,” I reply, unclenching my fingers from around his waist. My legs feel wobbly as I climb off the bike, and Journey steadies me with a hand at my elbow.
Without a word, he removes the bungee cords holding my suitcase to his bike and slides his free hand into my back pocket like it belongs there. The gesture sends heat flooding through me.
Seeming totally unphased by the looks we’re drawing, he steers me toward the largest building—a massive, three-story steel structure that looks like it could withstand a hurricane.
Inside the Kings clubhouse, it’s exactly what I’ve always imagined—pool tables, a fully stocked bar, a stage with a stripper pole, and tables and chairs scattered around. But what catches my eye is the corner table where three women sit, heads bent together in conversation.
“Over there.” Journey guides me toward them, his hand still tucked in my pocket. As we approach, the women look up, their gazes assessing.
“This is June,” Journey says. He nods to each woman in turn. “Roxy,” he points to the older redhead. “Foxy, Tacoma’s ol’ lady,” he points to the beautiful blonde that I now realize has a hand resting protectively over a little pooch.
“And baby mama,” Foxy adds with a smirk, patting her belly.
Journey rolls his eyes and points to the last woman who looks the same age as me. “And Frankie, my VP’s ol’ lady.”
“Roxy and Foxy,” I repeat, a smile tugging at my lips despite my nervousness. “I love that.”
Frankie pushes her glasses up her nose and waves. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I smile.
Roxy slides out of the booth and takes both my hands in hers, her crystal blue eyes studying me intently. She turns my palms up, examining them for a moment before smiling warmly.
“Welcome to the family, sweetheart,” she says, squeezing my fingers.
Family.
The word hits me in an empty place I didn’t know I was desperate to fill.
I open my mouth, but the sincerity in her eyes leaves me speechless. Instead, I just nod and whisper, “Thank you.”
The clubhouse door bangs open, and Stella bursts in with Brooklyn trailing behind her. “Where is she?” Stella demands.
My eyes go to Brookie, and my lip twitches.
Bless her heart. She looks like she just rolled out of bed.
Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing is hanging off one shoulder and despite the fact we’re indoors, she’s wearing massive sunglasses that cover half her face.
“June!” Stella cries when she spots me. She rushes over and wraps me in a hug. “Are you okay? Bax told me they moved you to the clubhouse.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, hugging her back. “Just a little shell-shocked.”
Gator, who’s been lingering near the bar, straightens up the second he realizes Brooklyn just walked in. “Rough night?” he calls, grinning at her like the cat that got the cream.
Brooklyn doesn’t even spare him a glance. “I will end you, Shrek.”
Gator places a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Menace.”
Brooklyn turns to me. “Where do they keep the knives in this joint?”
All the old ladies laugh, and I can’t help but join in. The tension I didn’t realize I was carrying in my shoulders eases a fraction.
“Church!” Tacoma’s deep voice booms across the common room.