Chapter 12
It was nearly seven o’clock Tuesday evening, and he was logging out of the computer in the back office. The store was already closed for business, his staff long gone as he finished up a bit of clerical work. When he got up to leave, Twister considered his routine the last few weeks.
Things with the club had been uneventful, which wasn’t a bad thing.
The Stallions had seen their share of excitement the last couple of years.
He was content for things to settle down into business as usual.
In the previous few months, he’d led a couple of runs off the books, but otherwise things were quiet, and nothing was pulling him away from home on the regular.
It surprised the shit out of him, but he was glad he didn’t have a reason to leave Gillette lately.
As he made his way out of the side entrance of the building, headed for the clubhouse, Phoenix came to mind. All day he had to make a conscious effort not to think about her almost constantly. After the five orgasms he coaxed out of her in his kitchen the night before, it felt like a losing battle.
He’d been right.
When she let go and let him take control—it was utter euphoria.
Fuck, she was small, but she was a wildfire.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he acknowledged the itch he felt at his fingertips. He wanted to take his phone out and shoot her a text. He wondered what she was up to and if she wanted to come over.
He wondered if this was what it felt like to be pussy whipped.
Or maybe, for the first time in decades, he was falling.
Love was not a concept that was lost on him.
He’d seen it before. His parents and his sisters had found it easily enough.
Some of his brothers, too. But for Twister, a good time had never turned into an insatiable need for the same woman.
It was true, he had his preferences. When he found a woman he liked in bed, he usually took her there more than once.
Except, he’d never met someone like Phoenix.
She was as beautiful as she was badass.
After their first night, she’d been a challenge—one he accepted for the hell of it.
Now, he was beginning to understand how precious she was.
Twister’s life was on the compound. He was a Stallion through and through.
He lived by the code of the brotherhood, and he followed his own rules.
He was rough and ready with no desire to clean up his act for anyone.
He’d bedded enough women to know, in the end, if he kept them around, they’d wind up wanting him to be someone he wasn’t.
But with Phoenix, it was different. She was all but one of them.
Fierce. Wild. Brave.
Fuck, but Ali-Mae was brave.
It was hard to believe she’d been there all along, right underneath his nose.
She claimed he was wasting his time, but he was certain that couldn’t have been further from the truth. All his life, he trusted his gut—and he wasn’t about to stop now. He couldn’t say with any sort of clarity where it was their relationship was going, but he knew he was down for the ride.
The wild spirit which lived in him lived in her, too. That’s all he needed to know.
He entered the clubhouse and found the usual suspects. With Steel Mustang closed for the night, there were a few more brothers with their hang-arounds milling about and shooting the shit. Like always, walking into the room felt like coming home. Nevertheless, he only planned on staying for a beer.
He made his way behind the bar and searched the fridge for his beverage of choice. When he found what he was after, he uncapped it, tossed the lid, then journeyed to the other side. He didn’t bother to sit but leaned up against the counter and extracted his phone before shooting Phoenix a text.
As soon as his message was sent, he pocketed the device, took a long pull from his beer, and surveyed the room. He clocked Lyla the second she clocked him, and he watched her as she made her way toward him.
Her hair was loose and fell like silk over her bare shoulders.
She had on a printed red tube top that tied like a bandana around her chest, and a denim mini skirt that barely covered her ass.
Her feet were tucked into a pair of cowgirl boots he’d seen her wear from time to time, and it was obvious she dressed herself in an effort to get attention.
As he studied her upon her approach, it almost made him laugh how much he didn’t want her.
Only, she wasn’t the butt of his joke—he was.
It amused him to think how he could have Lyla right then and there, in the middle of the clubhouse no less, and it wouldn’t take any convincing—but what he wanted more than her was a fucking text message from the redhead he craved.
“Hey, handsome,” greeted Lyla as she came to a stop right in front of him.
“Lyla,” he muttered before lifting his beer to his lips.
“What have you got going on tonight? Want to grab a bite?”
He swallowed and shook his head once. “Nope.”
She was not deterred.
She stepped closer, reaching to grab hold of the open flaps of his kutte as she shifted tactics. “You’re right. Let’s skip the food and get straight to the fuck.”
Twister looked down at her hands then slowly dragged his gaze back up to meet hers, quirking an eyebrow at her before brushing away her touch. “Not interested.”
He watched as bitterness crept into her features, completely transforming her face as she popped a hip and folded her arms across her chest.
“What the hell, Twister? What is going on? You haven’t had me in weeks.”
Like a flash, his mind took him back to his kitchen the moment Phoenix moaned his road name. He hadn’t liked it, and he couldn’t explain why in the heat of their passion—why he wanted to be called by his given name as he worked to own her pleasure.
But now—Lyla standing in front of him—it clicked.
What he had with Phoenix was real. Whatever the fuck it was, it was undeniably genuine and as raw as he’d ever known.
In his kitchen, his dick buried inside of her—inside of Ali —he’d wanted her to have a part of him he never gave to anyone because he knew, in her surrender, she was giving him something pure.
Lyla couldn’t touch that.
No sheep could.
“I don’t answer to you. If you’re lookin’ for a lay, I’m sure you can find one.”
“So, it wasn’t my imagination, was it? You’re screwing the redhead.”
Twister put his beer down and straightened to full height so fast, one would think a fire had been lit inside of him—but it wasn’t heat he felt coursing through his veins.
It was ice.
He towered over Lyla as he spat, “Where I put my dick is none of your damn business, unless I’m puttin’ it in you. Seein’ as we’ve already established that ain’t happenin’ anymore, I suggest you find another kutte to chase.”
Seemingly unafraid, she didn’t cower but argued, “You’re mine. Everyone knows that!”
A snide smile curled his lips as he replied, “Honey, there’s only one thing people know about you and me, and it’s that I’ve been fuckin’ you whenever I damn well please for three years and not once have I considered makin’ you my ol’lady.”
“You’re a real son-of-a-bitch, you know that?” she cried, shoving at his chest.
Twister didn’t budge. His voice dropping into a low, quiet, menacing grumble, he warned, “Know your place, Lyla.”
He watched the muscles in her jaw tense as her nostrils flared, and he knew she was fighting tears.
Nevertheless, he didn’t back down. He was done with her shit, and he didn’t feel sorry for her.
The writing had been on the wall since the very beginning.
He wouldn’t take the blame for her disappointment.
He’d made no promises. Not once. Not ever.
“You’re gonna be sorry,” she managed through clenched teeth.
“Doubtful.”
Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the clubhouse.
“Damn, Twist. You might have just woken a demon,” joked Slick from where he sat on a nearby couch.
Twister glanced his way and noticed his audience for the first time. He merely shrugged, reached for his beer and replied, “Any of you want an angry fuck, I wound her up for ya.”
His brothers laughed while one of the hang-arounds frowned and hurried after her friend. Twister watched her go, still with not an ounce of remorse.
“Hey—about to deal a hand of poker,” called Dog as he passed. “You in?”
Before Twister could respond, his phone vibrated with an alert.
He reached for it right away, smirking at the sight of her name lightening up his screen.
“I’m out,” he said, abandoning his beer. “Got someplace to be.”