Death Lords Motorcycle Club: Chelsea and Wrecker (The Motorcycle Clubs Series) (7 page)

A guy next to Grant takes in his cut. “Wicked…tattoos, bro.”

Grant fingers the edge of the leather. “Thanks. It’s a family design.”

We share a smirk. The guy offers Grant a hit off a small, hand-rolled joint. Grant shakes his head. He leads me over to a recently abandoned log and pushes me down. I open my legs and as if we’ve done this a thousand times, he settles in between them. Two twists of his wrist and our beers are open.

“I invited Danilo to the homecoming party,” I share in between sips.

Grant laughs. “Wanted to see some fireworks, did you?”

“Not necessarily. Those two must love each other because no matter how many times they break up, they get back together.”

“What if he wants some strange at the party?”

“Ugh, I hate that term.”

“What term?” Becca asks, settling in beside me with a red Solo cup. Her man with the dreads is over at a keg filling his own cup. A girl with long black hair, ripped jeans and a black bikini top has her hand on his ass. Becca doesn’t seem particularly concerned.

“‘Strange’ to refer to other girls,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s an ugly term.”

“How so?” Grant asks.

“Because it’s like you are tired of the familiar and want something different.”

“Don’t you worry, sweetness, I’m not tired of you,” Grant growls and reaches up to pull me down for a quick kiss.

“You guys are sweet.” Becca sighs. “You been together long?”

I open my mouth to say no but Grant beats me. “Since she was seventeen. I had to wait until she wasn’t jailbait.”

For that he deserves a light punch in the arm. “Sixteen is the age of consent, grandpa.”

“I thought he was your brother, not your grandpa,” drawls a new voice. We all look up and Sara Ellerby’s brother is standing in front of us with an assessing look.

“Step,” Grant says slowly, drawing the word out as if it has two syllables. “You’d know the difference if you hadn’t killed all your brain cells by shooting up every night.”

He stretches his legs out and Sean is forced to move backward. Grant shifts again, almost imperceptibly pushing Sean even farther away.

“Jealous that you weren’t able to do that because you were in the pen for the last three years?”

Becca draws in a swift breath. Sean bares his teeth in some gruesome approximation of a grin. Even in the flickering firelight, the meth toll is evident. His teeth are blackening near the roots and his face is gaunt. There’s at least one sore above his pierced eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were sitting by a murderer, didja?” he directs toward Becca.

She leans away from Grant and me and then pours her beer on the ground. “Beer’s warm. Think I’ll get a refill.”

Sean sits down in her place and reaches up to run his dirty hand over my hair. Grant is on his feet and pulling me away before Sean’s hand can find its target. “Didn’t realize you were so hard up, you had to fuck your brother, Chelsea. Should’ve come to me. I’ve got what you need right here.” He jostles his package.

Grant clenches his fist and winds up to introduce Sean’s face to his knuckles. Quickly I grab Grant’s biceps and haul him back. I don’t want him touching Sean, for one, and for another, he can’t get into a fight because an assault charge would revoke his parole. “Let’s go, please. Your parole,” I plead. He jerks forward but checks himself. With a visible effort, he tries shaking off his anger.

“You keep your trap shut, Ellerby, or there won’t be a dealer within one hundred miles who’ll sell to you,” Grant spits out and then grabs my hand. The sweetness of the night has been poisoned and our walk back to the camp is in uncomfortable silence.

W
hen we get back
to the campsite, Grant, well, he tries to fuck the fear out of me. He’s attentive and vigorous and it’s nice but I can’t lose myself. When I come, it’s short and not terribly fulfilling. Grant throws himself off my body, chest heaving and glistening with sweat. He pulls off the condom, ties it and throws it in the corner.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He draws me in for a rough kiss. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

“Do you think Sean Ellerby is living up here?” I ask.

He heaves a sigh. “Dunno. Never gave it much thought.”

He curls on his side, rubbing a hand over my bare breast, fondling the nipple. It tightens into a hard point. Despite my worries, my body never fails to respond to him.

“Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”

“He’s a fucked up meth head. Even if he is talking shit, no one is going to believe him.”

“Aren’t you even a little concerned?”

He jackknifes to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find Sean Ellerby and let him know if he opens his mouth about you that he’ll be drinking his food out of a straw for the next six months.” He fumbles around for his clothes. The tent is small and low. It’s barely big enough for the two of us.

“Grant,” I warn. “Grant, you can’t go.” He ignores me and finishes shoving his shorts on. He pushes things around, making a huge mess looking for his T-shirt. I grab his leg and shake it. “Your parole.” I sound like a fucking parrot who knows only one word.

He throws one boot on the ground with a vicious curse. “I know. Goddammit.”

Shaking off my hand, he tries to unzip the tent flap. It gets stuck halfway and he wrenches at it, making it worse. “This fucking zipper,” he curses. “It’s stuck. Fucking goddamn fucking piece of shit. How long have we had this? We should have stayed in a goddamned hotel.” He pulls and pulls; the muscles in his back are bunching up. I’m afraid for the tent. Afraid for him. “This thing is strangling me,” he shouts over his shoulder.

I scramble over and pull the caught nylon out of the way. The zipper gives and he almost knocks the tent over in his struggle to get out.

Through the open flap I watch him run down to the lake. His form disappears and then reappears by the shore. The splash signals his dive into the water.

Zipping up the screen to keep out the bugs, I lie and stare up at the sky through the window at the top of the tent trying to figure out what the hell I should do.

No, I know what I should do. I should move out of Judge’s home, leave Fortune, find a job and start living a new life that doesn’t involve me screwing my stepbrother six ways to Sunday. I should forget about him, his big body and his even bigger heart.

Outside I can hear the faint splashes of water as if he’s trying to swim to Canada. After a long while, those water sounds stop and are replaced with the crunch of branches and dry grass under his feet. He pauses at the door of the tent and then moves away. The picnic table creaks as he drops onto it.

There’d be someone out there for me. Don’t know who, but someone. Maybe a guy who’d left an impossible situation, is still in love with that situation but agrees to settle with me. We’d live a quiet life—him fixing up houses or some shit like that and me cutting hair and doing nails. We’d live in a saltine cracker box house, have two quiet kids and all the while we’d lie on our cold bed, hanging off the edges dreaming about the love we once had but couldn’t keep.

I place my fist over my heart and thump it trying to beat the ache away.

“You trying to drive me out of your heart, sweetness?”

I look up to see Grant standing outside the screen. The moonlight isn’t bright enough for me to make out his features but I hear the tired frustration in his voice. He’s hurt and that I can’t stand.

I crawl over and unzip the screen. “As if that could ever happen.”

“Better not.”

He’s still wet from the lake, but I draw him down, not caring that he’s getting me and the top of the sleeping bags damp. Everything will dry out tomorrow. He kicks off his sodden shorts and kneels between my legs. Water droplets are dotting his broad forehead and the strong lines of his nose. He places both large hands on either side of my legs. “Let it go,” he begs. “Just for tonight.”

And then he pleads with his tongue against my center. His tongue and fingers and mouth work me tenderly, lovingly, erotically. He rears up and this time the wetness covering his face is from me, not the water. In one swift movement, he impales me.

“Sweetness,” he says, “I’m going to take care of everything. Let go.”

With him thick and hard inside me, when he’s hitting every sensitive nerve ending just right, I believe every word that he says. Winding my fingers into his hair, I close my eyes and do as he asks. I let go and allow him to take me to the place in my head that knows only pleasure.

S
ean Ellerby gets
to me before Grant can get to him. I know this because if Grant had spoken with him, Sean wouldn’t be between me and my car outside the Cut-n-Curl after closing. When I see him unharmed, I breathe a sigh of relief. No bruises likely means Grant hasn’t beaten him in violation of his parole. It doesn’t matter that Grant thinks he can scare Sean into keeping our secret. Sean is a weasel and worse, a meth head who is constantly looking for his next hit. He’d sell his mother or sister if he thought it could get him access to more drugs.

The backdoor of the shop closes behind me, locking into place. I have keys but I’d have to turn my back on him to open the door. I could run around to the front and wave for help but…he knows something about me that I don’t want him to reveal to anyone else. I decide to bluster my way through this.

Fisting my hand, I slip my keys between my fingers as Judge and Grant had taught me. Go for the eyes, throat, crotch. Those are the soft vulnerable places. Their words of advice pound at the back of my head. I clutch my purse tighter to my side.

Since I’ve come to Fortune, I’ve lived my life under the umbrella of the Death Lords MC. No right-thinking person would dare hurt me so I’ve never had to protect myself. But Sean Ellerby isn’t thinking straight which makes him dangerous.

I stop several feet away. The best defense is to never allow yourself inside the zone of danger.

“Shop’s closed,” I call out.

“Not here for a cut or curl, Chelsea.”

He steps forward and I’m surprised at how much effort it takes for me to stand my ground and not flinch backward. I do it because I don’t want Sean to see he scares me.

“What are you here for?”

“Money,” he says bluntly.

Oh, so this is going to be blackmail. Lovely. I don’t need the men in my life telling me that giving in to Sean’s demands is a bad idea but I tally up the money in my bank account regardless. I don’t have a lot. While I don’t pay rent, I have a car payment and my job as nail tech isn’t super-lucrative.

“How much?” It’s stupid. If I pay him once, he’ll come back. I know this yet I seem unable to extricate myself in any other way.

“Five hundred.”

“Jesus,” I gasp. “That much?”

“Two eight balls.”

“I’m not a user so I’m not hip to your street lingo,” I say sarcastically even though I know exactly what it means. An eight ball is an eighth of an ounce. It’s what heavy users buy. A single eight ball is around 60 hits but by the size of Sean’s buy I’d guess he needs a lot more to get high and sustain his high.

“Give me $500 now and you won’t see me for a week.”

“I’m not paying you $500 a week. I don’t have that kind of cash.”

“Better think about new employment opportunities then.” He takes another step toward me and despite the distance, the smell of him is so strong he nearly makes me gag.

“I don’t have the money on me,” I lie. I have the petty cash in my purse. It’s kept in the safe of the Cut-n-Curl. When Helen called to tell me she was coming over for some of the money, I’d taken it out.

“Hand me your purse.”

I’m not giving Sean my purse. He’d take all of the money. Knowing I’m dooming myself, I reach in and pull out five bills and lay them on the ground, holding them down with a rock. “Don’t come over here until I’m around the front,” I say.

He licks his lips eagerly and nods. It’s as if he can taste the meth in his mouth already. I turn around and see Helen driving down the opposite end of the alley.

Fuck me. Without turning, I call back to Sean. “Get going.”

He laughs at me. “Don’t want to be seen with me or afraid of what I might say? See you later, Chelsea.” His words sound as ominous as he intends.