Chapter 13 #2
Later that night, Jada shows me to the spare room on the opposite side of the hall, and I wash up quickly before slipping into more comfortable clothes. I need to try to get hold of Millie again, so I shove my phone into the charger and leave it on the bedside table.
The room is empty except for a double bed and two drawers. A single window overlooks the backyard, which is pretty much just a stretch of grass, and the house in general always smells like a movie theatre. Every assumption I ever had about Jada exploded the second she welcomed us into her home.
“Hey!” Yana steps through the door, closing it quietly. “I know I said I was going to stay, but Beast is on his way over and wants to talk with me. I may not make it back tonight so I just wanted to check in with you before I left.”
She sniffs, and my argument dissolves.
“Have you been crying?” I ask, drawing closer.
She smiles, but it’s weak. “Kind of. It’s not what you think though,” she quickly says, but it’s too late. I’m glaring at her, arms crossed, and thinking of how many bullets I’d have to unload into one-hundred-and fifty kilos of pure muscle.
“Oh?” I ask, foot tapping. “And what is that, exactly.”
She shakes her head. “You think it’s Beast, but it’s not. To be honest, I don’t know why he tolerates me.”
My shoulders sag because I can see it’s not a lie. Wrapping my arms around hers, I hold her in place. “Then what is it? Are you okay?”
Her brown eyes rest on mine. “I don’t know, Mel.
I promised my dad that I’d hang around and keep up face for him.
That I’d pop out a couple Woodsmen babies and raise them in the same life, but this?
” her arms fly around the room. I don’t know what she’s implying since everything I’ve seen in this home is nothing short of everything I’d ever want growing up.
I leave that out though, since Yana doesn’t blabber often.
She sighs, her arms falling to her sides. “And I could have wanted it, with him, Beast…” she shakes her head. “But he’s in love with a ghost.”
Words fail me, but I clear my throat and rub her arm. “I’m sure whatever you and Beast share will be your own to have, Yana. Stop overthinking everything.”
A smile stretches over her face, all sadness gone. Poof. “You’re right.” She shakes herself off before turning to the door. She looks at me before she slips out. “You sure you’re okay here?”
I wave her out. “Yes. Jada is lovely, I promise you I’m okay.”
Finally, she leaves, and the door clicks shut behind her.
Everyone here seems to be carrying secrets, wearing masks. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel so out of place here.
My phone screen lights up, and I rush to it, hoping it’s Millie, but see an unknown number.
Downstairs.
I don’t have to reply to know who it is, and I roll my eyes, slipping my feet into a pair of slippers and heading down the stairs as quietly as I can.
I’d barely hit the living room when the front door sways open and Hella’s large body fills the frame.
“What’s the matter? Finished already?” I really need to pull my shit together and stop exposing my hand. Dressed in a simple black shirt under his cut, denim jeans and combat boots, Hella doesn’t even entertain my question.
“Voice down,” he snaps, nudging his head toward outside.
I mumble a slur of cuss words, grabbing a throw blanket off the sofa and making my way outside, his body a wall of muscle in front of me. As soon as the door closes and we’re both sitting on the swing, he starts.
“What’s your story?”
“Why would you care? And also!” I turn to look at him, and then regret it when it’s a punch in the gut. Why is he perfection? Why is he everything I’d ever fantasized about when I’d rub one out? Why the fuck has he chosen me to torment? But mostly, “Why the fuck am I here?”
His eye twitches. “Because of the bullshit going off in Westbeach, and because they don't have the numbers to watch you on top of everyone else.”
I frown. I guess I had never thought of it like that. I'm here as a favor to Blake? My chest tightens, throat growing thick.
Hide it.
“I'm serious, Melissa.” He shifts forward, resting his weight on his forearms. “What's your fucking story? How'd you come about being friends with Phoebe?”
“Why does it matter? And what's with the 'What's your story, Melissa?' “I mimic his deep voice.
He ignores me. “Who's your father?”
The question lands like a gut punch. “His name's Joshua Hart and he was a drunk. Why?”
“You say was?” he presses.
“He was in a car accident.” I blink.
“When?”
What the fuck.
“Why?” I snap, gritting my teeth. “Why are you even talking to me about this shit?”
“I need to fucking know, so answer the goddamn question and shut your smart mouth for once in your fucking life.” His eyes drop down my body. “And your legs, while you're at it.”
I sit up straighter. “Excuse me? That's fucking rich!”
“Yeah?” he mutters, leaning back in the swing and spreading his arms out over the top. “My club, my rules. You stay away from all of the brothers here.”
He cannot be serious? Not that I planned to go homie hop, but now I kinda want to. “Where the fuck is this coming from? And no, I will not. I'll do what I want.” I inspect my nails.
Simple, voice low. “No, you won't.”
My eyes snap to him. “You didn't seem to mind my legs being open when they were wrapped around your waist, Huxley. Bit hypocritical, don'tcha think?”
He brushes me off once again, unaffected.
“I fucking mean it, Melissa. Stay away from my brothers. If you need someone to fuck?” his hand is on my chin, his thumb pressed against my bottom lip.
“Need someone to lick that pretty little pussy for you until the sun comes up and you forget your own fucking name? You come to me, and me only.” Then he shoves me away, standing to his full height.
“Until then? Stay the fuck in your lane.” He disappears down the steps, and it’s not until I hear the roar of his bike start that I realise what the fuck he just said.
Dad was a drunk who drove off the Westbeach and Eastbeach conjunction bridge with my sister in the backseat before I left for Uni. My sister survived, running off to a nunnery, but my father didn’t.
What. The fuck. Is his deal.
Two days crawl by in this godforsaken compound, and I swear the air's gotten thicker. Jada's still cool, letting me crash at her place, but everyone else is being distant, and I haven’t seen Yana since she left me at Jada’s, though she promises we’ll do dinner and she’ll be around soon.
I’m starting to think it's the same cold shoulder Yana gets, that outsider vibe clinging to me like cheap perfume. Is it because of Hella's little tantrum? His “my club, my rules” decree echoing in my head? Or maybe they sense I'm not one of them, not built for this MC circus.
Whatever.
I don't need their approval. But damn, it stings, this isolation creeping in, making me miss my bakery, my normal life, where control isn't an illusion.
“Are you sure!” Karian says slowly through the phone, as I perch it on the bathroom counter. She's rolling a ball of dough in her hand, one brow quirked. “I told you, don't be fucking with those biker boys, but what do you do?"
“I know, I know.” I glare at her through the screen. “I never have been good at following instructions.”
Karian laughs, filling me in on Peter's latest scandal. “Oh also, there's been a weird black car parked outside the shop every morning when I come in. I thought it was something, but then this morning he jumped out with his dog.”
Her eyes roll, and I loosen the grip on my phone. “I'm paranoid as usual. Should let my therapist know.”
“Mmmm,” I muse. “Send her my number. I may need to see her after this.”
After going back and forward on numbers, we hang up, and I tilt my neck to the side to stretch it out. All this tension has worked its way into my muscles. Steam fills the small bathroom, mirroring the haze in my mind as I dip beneath the spray of hot water.
I hate him. Hella, Huxley, whatever the fuck he calls himself.
That cocky smirk, those piercing blue eyes that strip me bare without trying. But as the water cascades over my skin, my mind takes me down memory lane. My hands slide down, soap-slick and trembling, tracing the curves he claimed that first night.
Fuck, I can almost feel him there, between my thighs, his rough hands spreading me wide.
I lean against the tile, one hand bracing the wall as the other dips lower, fingers circling my clit with the kind of desperation that makes my head spin.
I envision his tongue. Hot, insistent, lapping me up like I'm his favourite meal.
“That's it, baby,” I imagine him growling, voice low and commanding, those sharp features buried in my pussy, stubble scraping my inner thighs. “Such a fucking good girl.”
My fingers plunge inside, two at first, then three, stretching me like his thick cock would, thrusting deep while I grind against my palm.
Water streams down my breasts, nipples hard peaks begging for his mouth.
I bite my lip to stifle a moan, visions of him pinning me down, fucking me raw, making me scream his name.
Heat builds, coiling tight in my core. Oh God, yes, right there.
Until I shatter, waves of pleasure crash through me, legs shaking as I come hard, whispering “Huxley” like a curse.
Panting, I slide down the wall as the guilt stirs deep in my chest. Despite everything, his warnings, the distance, my own damn pride, I still crave him. This final week may take me out.