CHAPTER 1 #2
I met him when I’d been working in Vegas, dancing my ass off, trying to make my way up the ranks to bigger and better things.
Deeds had been setting up a new chapter in the area.
We hooked up a few times, and he eventually discovered I had a few men giving me trouble.
Some guys I’d dated or met while dancing there.
Men who didn’t want to take no for an answer when I turned them down or broke things off.
He handled them, and we’d been on and off ever since until he convinced me to move here to San Diego and work for the club.
I’d hesitated for a while, not wanting to get sucked into the madness this lifestyle entails, but trouble followed me no matter where I went, I thought it might be good to have men like him at my back, just in case.
The redheaded HOC slaps Deeds’s chest. “You gonna be the gentleman your mama raised you to be and introduce me?”
Smiling, I scoot to the end of the couch to get up. Before I can, Deeds’s uncle assists me. He immediately brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.
“Hello, darlin’.” The drawl in those words nearly sets my panties aflame. It’s that fucking sexy.
“None of that.” Deeds snatches my hand away. “I’ve been on the road for days. No way am I lettin’ you haul her off or sweet talk her with that sweet southern-boy thing you do.”
His uncle grins wickedly at me, and I grin right back.
He winks, and right away, I know I’ve found a kindred spirit.
So I saddle up to his side, curl my arm around his, and lay my head on his shoulder.
I blink up at Deeds innocently, and his uncle plays along, placing his large hand over mine and patting it.
Deeds pinches the bridge of his nose. Under his breath, he mutters, “Fuck. Should’ve known you two would get along. Both pains in my ass.”
We laugh, and he joins in.
Deeds motions to me. “Uncle Griz, this is Gypsy. Gypsy, meet my mean—”
Reaching forward, Griz slaps the back of Deeds’s head. He’s probably the only person in the world who could get away with it. “Boy, I will take you over my knee.”
“Please don’t,” I say. “He’d like that too much.” Deeds eyes the two of us and groans.
We spend the next few minutes laughing and bullshiting until Griz politely asks to steal his nephew for a bit. After they walk away, I make my way to the bar and order a drink.
It doesn’t take long before my gaze returns to the HOC insignia, which is kind of badass and fascinating. It’s filled with a variety of different symbols. There’s a skull with a third eye and bird-like clawed feet that grip a pirate banner. The banner reads, “Revel in Chaos, Regret Nothing.”
It’s more pleasant to look at than the Greenback colors—a demented, demon-like leprechaun with missing teeth standing over a pile of skulls and bones.
According to Deeds, Pappy designed it to lay claim to their Irish roots, instill fear in the “squares” who judged their lifestyle, and as a “fuck you” to those who openly opposed the war the founders nearly died in.
I’m just finishing my drink when hands wrap around my waist. A warm body presses against my back. Hot breath ghosts over my neck, sending a rush of goosebumps down my arms. “See somethin’ you like?”
Looking over my shoulder, I study Deeds’s expression and the curiosity written all over his features.
“I thought you weren’t in the mood to share?”
He shrugs. “I’m not, but if that’s what you need…”
It’s times like these when I get frustrated with him. One day, he’s possessive, and the next, he’s setting me free to explore to my heart’s content. Always a contradiction. Which is it? Does he even know? Because it’s confusing as fuck and leaves me with mental whiplash.
He’s the opposite of Finn in every way.
God, Finn.
He was always brutally honest, steadfast, and had clear intentions. I see his face in my mind and feel an instant ache in my chest. His name lives in my heart, under an invisible scar that didn’t heal right, and even thinking about his name hurts. It reopens that old wound.
Deeds turns me around, hands gripping my hips tightly.
He brings our lower bodies together and stares at me in a way that would have most women swooning.
He slowly draws me back to the couch. After lighting up a joint, we pass it back and forth, and resume our playful foreplay.
I eventually end up in a reverse cowgirl position with his mouth running up the length of my neck.
I work him up, slowly rolling my hips above him. He takes matters into his own hands, pushes down his pants to mid-thigh, and frees himself from his jeans. My skirt is pushed up, and his fingers tease my clit in lazy circles. As the song hits the chorus, he pushes one, then two fingers inside me.
In no time at all, he’s teasing the tip of his cock back and forth over my entrance.
It’s a punishment for what I did to him earlier.
As my need grows, I sink my nails into his thigh and reach around to grab a handful of his hair.
He plays with the tension, taking his time, before notching himself in place, then pulls me down onto his cock.
He lets the hard beat of the song set the pace. On each downward thrust, I tighten my inner walls around him.
A sound of both pleasure and pain leaves him. “Jesus Christ, this fuckin’ body.”
I get lost in the sensations of it all, the desire his strokes ignite, the pulsing song, the scent of sex, the thrill of being watched. It’s pure adrenaline, and it has me spiraling.
“Yeah, keep moving just like that. Just. Like. That. Fuck, yes. I love watching this ass bounce over me. Cuireann tú mo mheabhair as, a ghrá!”
You drive me out of my mind, love .
One side of my shirt is pushed aside, baring my breast. He fondles and squeezes my nipple between his fingers, bringing the pain he knows I need. He keeps me open and exposed to the entire room. And though it shouldn’t, it has me flying on a high only rough sex can bring.
When he bites down on my earlobe, I let out a desperate whimper and draw every biker’s gaze in the vicinity to me.
“Fuck. Yes, harder.”
And yet, in the back of my mind, a little voice scolds me and says I must be mad to want this.
A little insane.
To prove my point, my mind spins a familiar daydream.
I picture Finn standing among them—black hair, shiny with a few premature gray streaks that he once said ran in his family.
He’d look so fucking sexy in leather, like that guy at the bar with a wallet chain, studded belt, ripped jeans, and tattoos.
God, yes . Black-as-night tattoos.
The vision pushes me closer to release, and it only takes a few seconds to have me on the brink.
I hold the image of Finn in my mind, savoring the daydream behind my eyelids. I think about that one night we shared, and it sends me into orbit, a space where pleasure meets euphoria.
Deeds, oblivious, gives me exactly what I crave—he rams himself inside of me, collars my throat with his large hand, and cuts off a little of my air. I fuck him so hard there’s pain. Maybe because my heart is hurting, and I want to hurt everywhere else too.
“Uh-uh… right… there.” Nothing but hoarse words leave my lips, hardly audible over the loud music. “Fucking hell, Deeds.”
He slams home. His powerful drives are fueled by the strength in his arms and the vice-like grip he has on my hip.
“Fuck. Sea, sin í mo chailín salach dána.”
Yes, that’s my dirty girl.
“Ride this fuckin’ cock.”
Those words do it for me, and I ignite. My orgasm crashes into me so violently that it blots out the world around me.
A cry leaves my mouth as ripples of pleasure roll through me.
For an endless moment… I’m weightless, floating there as waves pulse through me.
I try to hold on for as long as possible, but all too soon, I’m free-falling from it.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Slowly, I come down from the clouds, back to the land of the living.
It happens gradually, like it always does.
I slide quietly back into awareness. As I open my eyes and take in my surroundings, the emotions come.
Guilt. Shame. Regret. They flood through me like a river spilling into a lake, a lake with a dam and a faulty foundation full of cracks bursting at the seams.
I take a moment to imagine what I must look like. I picture myself from above. From his vantage point. Half-naked. Eyes dilated. The blue washed-out by my blown-out pupils. My hair a disheveled mess.
Unworthy of him.
Not that I ever was.
The riot of emotions sobers me quickly. The rush quickly turns sour as a cyclone of shame I can’t seem to escape weighs heavily on me.
Each time this happens, I swear I won’t let myself think of Finn in these moments. My brain is fully on board but it’s my fucking heart that can’t keep that promise.
I blink open my eyes, expecting the mirage to fade. But for the first time, blue eyes stay blue. Long, ink-black hair speckled with gray doesn’t fade. The jaw. The chin. The broad chest and corded arms—they stay.
I blink. One. Two. Three times. I even bite my lip to wake from this hallucination.
The hand I see, with the thumb hooked in his pocket, moves. His fingers drum on his jeans.
Chills spread over every inch of my skin, and an indescribable pain pierces my chest.
No. That’s … not possible.
This reaction is not just from seeing the familiar tap tap tap gesture that Finn used to do. There’s also a bird tattoo on his left hand—a finely crafted hummingbird that matches the one on my right hand. Only where mine is pink, his is black.
Tears pool behind my eyes, and I fucking hate myself for it.
The body behind me sits up and brushes against my back. I jerk from the sensation and stand. I hastily fix my clothes and put everything rapidly back into place.
Deeds, ever perceptive of my moods, catches the shift. He stands, tucking himself back into his jeans. “What’s wrong?” His brows crease with concern.
“Nothing,” I lie. Crossing my arms over my chest, I internally pinch myself.
It must be the weed we’ve smoked. Maybe it was laced with something, because this isn’t real.
It can’t be. I look anywhere but at the man at the bar.
I just need to give it time and sober the fuck up.
After I’ve pushed down the storm of emotions raging inside of me, he’ll be gone.
“You’re crying?” Deeds’ voice is sharp with alarm.
“What?”
He closes the space between us. “Jesus, Gypsy, you’re crying. What’s going on?”
I quickly swipe at my face. “Nothing. It’s stupid. I’m fine.”
“Talk to me.” He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
I step back, needing space. When he tries to grab me again, I turn and freeze. My breath escapes me in a rush. A familiar burn begins to build, spreading pressure through my ribs like a vise. It’s slow at first, but it builds the longer I look at him.
Because yes, he’s still there.
The man’s face hasn’t morphed back into that of a stranger.
I gasp, and he must hear it. Because the man at the bar, the one who looks like Finn, turns his head and looks directly at me.
That’s when I know I’m not imagining it. Finn and this HOC are one and the same.
How? Why? I don’t know.
I stare, disbelieving. The sight of him is a jagged blade being driven straight through my chest.
I stumble back. Deeds catches me, grabs my hand. He attempts to stall my escape by grabbing my arm.
“Let me go,” I plead.
He tries to turn me toward him. “No, talk to me.”
“I said, let me fucking go!” The force behind my words, the wild panic in my eyes, makes him release me at last, more out of shock than anything else.
I quickly navigate my way through a sea of people and don’t stop until I hit the parking lot.
My heels catch on the gravel, and I crash hard onto the pavement.
It’s there that I completely lose it.
On the ground, with scratched-up palms and knees, a sob tears from me. My body locks up. My lungs seem to collapse.
I’ve experienced it before, but it doesn’t make it any less scary. Each time, I’m filled with the fear that the air won’t come. That this time, I won’t survive it. That I’ll never be able to take another breath, and I’ll die here just like this.
Then Deeds is there. He pulls me up to my knees. Lifting my hands, he inspects the damage. “What the fuck, Lily? What happened?”
“I can’t breathe,” I rasp.
He grabs my chin, gently turning my face up to his. When his eyes meet mine, alarm floods his features. “You can’t breathe?”
Grabbing his shirt, I shake my head frantically. For a minute or two, he just holds me, his grip firm and reassuring, as I suck in what little air I can find. But my chest burns with white-hot agony.
I hear a thud and glance behind us toward the club’s front door. I freeze when I see the figure in black standing there, watching us.
I’m not crazy. This is real. He’s fucking real.
Deeds’s gaze follows mine. Something flickers in his eyes, and a dark understanding passes over his face.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” His voice drops low, the realization sinking in.
I can’t answer. But I don’t need to. My silence, my tears, my inability to breathe—all of it speaks volumes.
Deeds’s jaw clenches. His fingers twitch as if he’s barely holding himself in check.
“I thought he was dead,” he mutters, the venom in his voice palpable.
The words tear from me, brittle and shaky. “He’s supposed to be.”