Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JESS
Lucifer picks me up early and takes me to physical therapy the next day, but by the time we get back to the clubhouse, all the guys are still occupying their rooms, and there isn’t much for me to do, so we just wind up hanging out in the trailer that acts as his office.
After lunch, he brings me back to the clubhouse and announces to all his brothers that I’ll be working there.
Dread is the only one who doesn’t say anything.
Most of the guys are welcoming, except for Nightmare.
“I don’t like what’s going on here.” He glances at me. “No offense to you.” Then he turns back to Shadow. “First, this guy declares a pussy ban at his wedding.” His gaze moves to Lucifer. “Now, this. If you’re trying to phase out the saddle bunnies, I got a problem with that.”
“No one is phasing out anything. The saddle bunnies are still welcome to suck your cock whenever the urge strikes,” Lucifer growls.
Nightmare crosses his arms against his chest but seems to settle down some. When his gaze returns to me, he says, “I don’t like people going in my room.”
“Then clean it yourself,” I volley.
Dread lowers his head, his shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly.
“I don’t like that even more,” Nightmare grunts.
“Watch how you talk to her,” Lucifer warns. “I won’t fucking tolerate any disrespect when it comes to her.”
The room goes eerily silent, and I stare at him, but he doesn’t tear his gaze away from his men. “It’ll be in everyone’s best interest if you all remember why she’s here in the first place.”
Shadow glances from Lucifer to me, his eyes dropping to my legs that are covered by my sweatpants. A sympathetic look flits across his features, and I’m reminded why I declined the offer to work here when Lucifer first suggested it. I didn’t want anyone’s pity, and now that’s all I’m greeted with.
“Sorry, babe,” Nightmare says. “Fair warning, though, my room is a fucking mess, and you might find some questionable shit in there. So long as you don’t get on my case about the condoms and shit, we’ll be cool.”
“No judgment,” I promise.
Dread clears his throat. “I think we should welcome Jess properly.” He walks behind the bar and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “How about a shot to celebrate the new mistress of the house?”
Lucifer glares at him but doesn’t say a word. I help Dread retrieve a bunch of shot glasses from behind the bar, and we line them up. Once they’re all filled, we disperse them to the men gathered around.
“To Jess,” Homeboy cheers, raising his glass.
Lucifer snatches the glass out of his hand. “Who the fuck said you could drink my whiskey?”
We all knock back the shots except for Homeboy, then the club disperses.
Dread takes the prospects out back to finally deal with the stripper pole.
Nightmare and Tormentor head for their bikes.
Mammon, Shadow, and Lucifer all start for the trailer, but I grab Lucifer’s arm before he can follow the two out the door.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“What the hell was that?” I snap. “I don’t want them to pity me. Did you have to bring up the fire?”
He narrows his eyes and takes a step toward me, his jaw visibly clenching. “Yeah, I did. You were right there. You didn’t see the way they looked at me? They think I’ve lost my fucking mind and Homeboy is already looking at you like you’re a piece of meat.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“C’mon, baby, think hard. You saw the way Nightmare reacted. No one here but Dread knows you’re my wife. They need to know you’re not free for the taking.”
“So, if they think I’m some helpless charity case they won’t want to fuck me?”
“Make no mistake about it. The only one who doesn’t want to fuck you is Shadow, and maybe Dread. Now quit bitching. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” He cocks his head to the side. “Gotta tell you, baby, I like it when you’re bratty. Makes me want to fuck the attitude right out of you.”
Nightmare wasn’t kidding. He’s a pig, and I’m starting to think he might have an addiction to sex. It’s been two weeks, which means I’ve cleaned his room twice now, and both times I’ve had to dispose of at least three dozen condoms.
I also found an empty bottle of lube under his bed, and a bra I didn’t know what to do with, so I just left it there. Maybe the owner will return for it, but something tells me that’s not likely. I’m better off starting up a lost and found for all the undergarments his conquests leave behind.
I grab the garbage bag and tie a knot in the top as I exit his room and cross the hall to Lucifer’s room. To my surprise, the door is open. The last couple of weeks, it’s been locked, so I’ve had to use the key every time I go to clean it.
Out of all the rooms, his is the cleanest. At first I was relieved, but I’m starting to wonder if he cleans it before I go in. His sheets never smell of perfume, and I have yet to find a used condom in his wastebasket. There are no party favors left behind from women he fucked.
It’s bare.
So bare that one would think he doesn’t even sleep here, but the sheets smell like him, and there is always a loaded hamper in the corner of his room.
My gaze drifts toward his bed, and for a split second, I let myself imagine him sprawled across it. His massive body naked and tangled beneath the black sheets.
Every shift, it doesn’t matter if I’m cleaning the rooms, doing laundry, or manning the bar, he finds a way to say something that makes my skin prickle and my stomach drop.
He’ll lean across the bar, his voice all low and gravelly, and tell me exactly what he wants to do to me.
How he wants to taste me. Where he wants to put his hands. What sounds he wants to pull out of me.
The other day he snuck up on me while I was switching the laundry from the washer to the dryer and told me he wanted to lift me onto the washing machine and watch as I fingered myself during the spin cycle.
But he says that shit, then he walks away.
Every single time.
The man should teach a master class in edging.
I go home every night aching, replaying every word he says in my head, touching myself to the memory of his voice while hating myself for it. How does a man go from kissing a woman the way he kissed, to whispering his explicit desires in her ear every chance he gets, only to do nothing about it?
It’s been two weeks since I had his mouth on me, and I’m close to exploding.
I glance at the bed again, then at the open door. Without giving myself a chance to change my mind, I shut the door, but I don’t lock it. If he comes in and finds me, so be it. I’ve been aching for him for weeks now.
I lay down on his bed and instantly relax.
The scent of him is everywhere—leather, musk, and something uniquely him that makes my head swim.
I close my eyes and picture him in the bed with me, between my legs, his massive body dwarfing mine as he ravishes me.
His rough hands exploring every inch of my skin, his mouth hot against my neck.
I slide my hands into my pants and imagine his fingers replacing mine, his deep voice growling filthy things in my ear as he works me over. The fantasy builds quickly, my body responding to the mental image of him above me, inside me.
When I finish, I wipe my hands on his pillow, leaving my scent mingled with his. The act feels possessive, territorial—marking what’s mine even if he doesn’t know it yet.
I grab a towel and start wiping down the already-clean counter because my hands need something to do. The bar is packed, bodies pressed together in every corner of the room, and the air is thick with smoke and cheap perfume courtesy of the infamous saddle bunnies.
Over the last four weeks, I have managed to avoid them somehow, but tonight is Nightmare’s birthday, and apparently, they’re not sitting this one out.
They make quite the appearance too, dressed in crop tops that barely qualify as fabric, leather shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, and stilettos that make my feet ache just looking at them.
Those are the classier ones. The others are only wearing thongs.
All of them move through the clubhouse as if they own it, hanging on any man with a leather cut that shows them a lick of attention.
“Is this your first time working a clubhouse party?” Della asks me as I place a glass of water in front of her.
“Is it that noticeable?”
She laughs. “Maybe just a little.” She takes a sip of her water, and my gaze cuts across the room to where two of the saddle bunnies dance topless on top of the pool table. I’m not ashamed to admit their bodies are insane. Their tits are incredible. Fake as fuck, but still incredible.
It makes me wonder how the hell Lucifer could ever make the comment he made about mine. Sure, they’re real, but they’re also like two cup sizes smaller.
My eyes swing back to Della. “This doesn’t bother you? All these women parading around naked in front of your husband?”
I’m not trying to sound judgmental. I’m genuinely curious.
She seems to give the question some thought as she twists the ring around her finger.
“When I first started seeing Shadow, I probably had a lot of the same thoughts you’re having now, but they’re just bodies, existing, waiting for a handout.
” She takes another sip of her water. “I actually feel bad for some of them. Think about how little they must think of themselves to do what they do.”
I let those words sink in, and my mother’s face pops into my head. In a lot of ways, she lived a very similar lifestyle. While she wasn’t passed around to a bunch of bikers, she laid down with a shit ton of men, and she did it for money.
“They’re mostly harmless,” Della continues. “Occasionally you’ll hear about one who goes off the rails and tries to trap one of the guys, but that’s also a sure way for a saddle bunny to be handed her walking papers.”