Chapter 3 #2
It was nice, getting to share a little part of me with someone. We barely knew anything about each other, except for this. It made us more than strangers, more than co-workers, if less than friends.
We’d finished the last of our prep when Mustang arrived looking tired as hell.
On his best day, he wasn’t the rowdy kind.
Usually, he was laid back and even tempered until provoked.
Yet, even in all his chill, he had a strut to his stride that spoke of his confidence as much as his love for the job.
“No offense, boss-man, but you look like the walking dead.”
He didn’t even bother to appear offended as he reached up and raked his tatted fingers through his overgrown, chestnut brown hair.
“LJ had a rough night,” he said on a sigh. “Tess needed the sleep, so I was on duty.”
I folded my arms across my chest then nodded in the direction of the office. “Inventory’s handled. Weekly order has been placed. I’m sure you’ve got shit to do, but we’ll be just fine should you need to squeeze in a power nap.”
He jerked his chin in a silent thanks , then I watched as he disappeared through the swinging door, leading to the back hallway.
I didn’t hang out with Mustang outside of work anymore than I hung out with any of the other Stallions—but it didn’t surprise me in the slightest that he’d offered to take the night shift with his baby girl so his wife could get a little shut-eye. That’s who he was.
I was around before Tess. I’d witnessed some of the drama between him and the mother of his firstborn. I knew he was the kind of father who loved and protected his little girls. Moreover, I saw him with Tess often enough to understand the way he doted on her.
But I judged his character on more than what I’d seen from my years standing behind the bar.
The way he let me keep my secrets. The questions he never asked. The chance he gave me when I walked through Steel Mustang’s front doors—he was good in a way that was hard to describe. I trusted him, and that meant a hell of a whole lot.
Men like him were easy to spot, but harder to find.
That’s how I felt about many of the Stallions. None of them were perfect, but most of them were good. Not nice or kind. They were rough and rugged. They were outlaws—but they were good down to their cores.
They were loyal.
They were family.
Not mine, of course. I wasn’t one of them—but I was respected by them, and that was something I’d never had until I ran from my previous life, chasing freedom.
It’s part of the reason I decided to make Gillette my home.
For now, at least. These men, and the women they loved, they mattered to me.
They made my safe haven a real place—a place that existed outside of my mind.
It might not have been enough for some people, but it was more than I could ask for.
Before Mustang, there’d only ever been one man in my life I could truly trust, and he was dead.
It was a quarter to eight when Twister walked through the door. The band had recently started up again after a short break. We weren’t slow, but we weren’t busy, either, which was why I noticed him in the first place.
I hadn’t seen him since I left him alone in bed early Sunday morning. Then, he was naked and on his stomach. Then, I’d seen what I assumed was his last undiscovered tattoo—a mountain-scape etched across his shoulders.
I shook away the memory, forcing myself into the present. He was in his kutte and a Harley-Davidson muscle tee with a pair of black jeans—holes cut across both knees. No more chinos. No more button-up. He was in his element as much as I was in mine.
Nevertheless, there was a nervous twinge I felt in my stomach as I watched him survey the room.
Frowning, I looked away, searching for a task to busy my hands.
I had no reason to feel anything at the sight of him.
We had sex. It was no big deal. I’d had my fair share of one-night stands over the years.
Not enough to leave me diseased, but enough that I couldn’t count them all using only my fingers.
Though, fucking Twister hadn’t been like any of the others.
I never slept with men who bellied up to my bar; men I thought I might run into again.
I wasn’t usually so drunk when I agreed to sex, either.
I didn’t notice his approach as I loaded the dishwasher with a few empty pint glasses, but I recognized his voice when he addressed Mustang.
“Shot a tequila and a Corona,” he ordered.
I glanced in his direction. This time, his brown eyes found my green ones.
My stomach clenched, as if in anticipation of a reaction—from him or from me, I wasn’t sure.
Only, nothing happened. He jerked his chin in a subtle acknowledgment of my presence, then one of his brothers called his name, and he redirected his focus elsewhere.
It was then my stomach relaxed.
It was then I realized I had nothing to worry about.
He understood.
Our one night was simply that— one night .
Not that I should have been surprised. Twister was a grown ass man, not a drama queen. I wasn’t his first one-night stand, either.
Our post-coital chance meeting behind us, I didn’t give it another thought as the night wore on, and he was gone before last call.
I offered to stay and lock up after Mustang kicked out the last few stragglers who remained at two A.M., but he insisted on helping Rodeo and I finish our closing tasks. The extra set of hands ensured we were out the door thirty minutes later.
Rodeo left through the back, like he often did, headed on foot to the clubhouse. Mustang and I left through the front. I waved goodnight as he mounted his hog, digging in my purse for the keys to my Bronco as I headed to the back of the lot.
My step faltered halfway there when I noticed a man standing with his back propped against my driver’s side door. Instinctively, I reached for the handle of my blade—but as I drew closer, I recognized the beard; the tats; the holes in his jeans.
Twister.
Rather than anxious, I felt confused as I closed what distance remained between us. I thought we had an understanding, but it appeared I might have been wrong.
My suspicions were proven correct when I came to a stop and—arms folded across his chest, his booted feet crossed casually at the ankle—Twister looked right at me and asked, “Wanna fuck?”
The question sounded different to my sober ears.
There was an echo which accompanied the inquiry. A faint warning of consequences I neither heard nor considered the other night. Still, I didn’t respond immediately.
The thought of taking him inside of me again wasn’t off-putting in the slightest. I came three times the last I rode this Stallion. It was a fucking record.
Chances were good my inebriated state had something to do with it, but the reminder still made me pause.
Except, one-night stands weren’t repeatable. It was all in the name. To fuck him again would make things complicated, and my life wasn’t complicated. Not so far as I could help it. Not anymore.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied.
He remained perfectly still, but I saw it as his eyes journeyed down my body and back up again before he met my gaze and drawled, “Why not?”
“I’m not lookin’ for a fuck buddy,” I shot back.
This was enough to get him to move. Only, rather than leave me alone, he uncrossed his ankles, straightened, then propped a hand against the top of my Bronco as he leaned toward me and said, “Not your buddy, sparky—but I sure don’t mind bein’ your Stallion.”
I jerked my head back, not at all appreciative of being called sparky .
Though, that was the least of my problems.
Right then, the wind caught just so, and I got a whiff of him.
Cedar. Amber. Leather.
As his scent filled my nose, my body began to respond, plucking bits and pieces of my memory from the places in my mind where I hid it, awakening a longing I tried to ignore.
Certain it was in my best interest to get him out of my face, I replied snarkily, “What’s wrong? You strike out up at the clubhouse?”
Rather than offense, that smug look of amusement pulled at the corner of his mouth as he smirked at me. “Not once,” he said, leaning a little closer. “But I know the pussy I’m lookin’ for, and it ain’t up there. She’s standin’ right in front of me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mmhmm,” I muttered dryly. “Well, I’m not a plaything, and I sure as hell will not be seen trailin’ after you up there like some sheep ready for the slaughter.”
“You say yes, we’ll go wherever you wanna go, baby. Hell, you could ride me right here, right now, in the back of this Bronco if you wanted to.”
It happened in a flash—the image of me getting off in the backseat of my SUV.
Then his forehead was touching mine, and all I saw was him.
All I smelled was him.
“You know as much as I do, we deserve an encore. Would be a total fuckin’ shame to deny either of us, knowin’ what we’re capable of. You’d have been gone already if you didn’t want it, too. Don’t fight it.”
I couldn’t explain it any more than I could argue against it, but he wasn’t wrong. If I didn’t want him, I’d have been halfway home by now. But the heat of his skin pressed against mine, however minor, was my undoing.
I’d been dreaming of him for the last three nights.
If I went home now, I’d only be torturing myself with the memory and no hope of a release.
I got off one way and one way only, with a dick inside of me.
And his dick? His dick was magnificent.
“Backseat,” I muttered, shoving a hand against his chest in an effort to move him.
My shove had little impact, but he straightened and cleared the short path to my door. I opened her up, tossed my purse onto the seat, then folded it forward and climbed into the back, planting myself on the far side of the bench.