Stone Cold (An Iron Tornadoes MC Romance) (7 page)

"Look who we have here," Waxer says, looking straight at Catherine and me. "I know you, right?" he asks. He's really not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

I ignore his question, but his friend answers for me. "Yeah, that's Ice's chick. You know, the one who guessed your dick was the size of a popsicle."

That gets a laugh out of Catherine. "I've got to hand it to you, you know how to sweet-talk a guy."

"What are you doing here?" Waxer asks me. "I thought you were Ice's sweetie."

Thomas looks as if he's about to say something, but before he does, Waxer says, "Let the chick talk."

"I'm just hanging out with friends to enjoy the music," I say. "There's no harm in that."

"Is that so?" Waxer's friend asks, looking directly at me. "We'll see about that soon enough, as he's meeting us here," says one of the other guys. "This will be very interesting."

"Come on, let's get some food," one of the other guys says, and they leave in direction of the taco stand.

"Fuck," says Everest, between clenched teeth.

"Who's Ice?" Catherine asks when she feels they're really out of earshot.

"Brian Hatcher, my aunt's son."

"Doesn't that make him your cousin?" Thomas asks.

"No. My aunt had him before she married my uncle."

"Who cares whether he's your cousin, or your step-cousin, or whatever it's called? Why do they think you're his girl?" Everest asks.

"That's what he told them to protect me from Waxer."

"You really told him his dick was the size of a popsicle?" Catherine asks. "You've got guts."

"He asked which lubricant flavor I'd like if I was giving him a blow job, and the answer came out before I got a look at him and realized what he was," I say. "I'm not suicidal."

"So what did Ice say to calm him down?" Thomas asks.

"That I was his, and that he was gonna teach me manners," I say, looking at Thomas.

Everest is staring at me and prompts me, "And…"

"He made me apologize, and then dragged me out of the pharmacy and told me to scram, which I happily did," I say, avoiding Everest's gaze.

"And…" Everest is relentless. There's something in my body language that's betraying me.

"He kissed me in front of them. I think he was trying to demonstrate that I was really his."

"I see." Everest looks away from me and frowns. "Fuck. Here he comes."

"Shouldn't we get out of here?" I ask.

"Oh, no, we're staying right here until we play this out."

I turn around and watch Brian arrive at the taco stand. His "brothers" tell him something, and he turns around to look in our direction. He turns his back to me, and they talk animatedly.

"I've got a hundred that says they're provoking him. He'll have no choice but to come over and claim her," Catherine says.

"What should I do?" I ask.

Everest keeps his eyes on Brian and ignores my question.

"You'll go with him," Catherine says. "You really have no choice."

Brian turns around and starts walking toward us.

I look at Everest and ask him, "Is that what you want me to do?"

He keeps on ignoring me, his gaze set in Brian's direction.

"Fine. If that's what you want, I can do that."

Really, I can—I'm pretty sure Brian won't hurt me. At least he won't be physically abusive. I'm starting to feel sick.

I'm so far out of my comfort zone that my heart is about to burst in my chest

When Brian reaches the table, he acts as if I'm sitting alone. He grabs my arm and says, "Let's go now."

Everest ignores me as I get up. He's watching the four other bikers coming toward our table. All I can read in Brian's eyes is determination. Catherine whispers behind me, but I can't understand what she's saying.

I grab my leather jacket from the bench and follow Brian. I don't really have a choice since his hold on my arm is strong. We reach the others, but Brian keeps walking, and as we move away, he says, "Don't wait for me. I need to remind her who's the boss."

We get a few catcalls, and I think I see the hint of a smile on Brian's lips. We keep walking until we reach a parking area where a younger guy is watching over the machines. His cut is almost bare except for the Iron Tornadoes logo and a "prospect" patch.

Interesting how a bunch of guys who are supposed to be rebelling against society and setting up new rules are actually recreating the most traditional initiation rites. They are no different from the army or religious orders or even college fraternities. Men are reinventing the wheel over and over again. MC prospects are just like the candidates for all those groups—they get to do all the grunt work for one year and get mistreated for another one or two until they've swallowed enough crap to be admitted as full members of the team.

The young prospect can't be a day over eighteen. When he spots Brian, he stands up taller, like a solider standing to attention. But then that's precisely what he is: a soldier of organized crime. Okay, maybe I'm being unfair. He's a soldier in a motorcycle club that harbors criminals. He probably has no idea what's really going on. He'd need to be higher in the food chain to know stuff.

That's when the million-dollar question pops into my brain. Did Brian skip the prospect trial period? Less than a year ago, he was in the police academy. I have no clue about rank insignia in general, but I'm pretty sure that some of the patches on his jacket indicate he's not low on the totem poll. What did he do that allowed him a quick rise through the ranks? As he starts his engine, I wonder if I really know him at all anymore.

"Helmet," he barks at the prospect, who hands him one from a pile at his feet.

"Get your sweet butt over here," he says, patting the saddle behind him and putting on his own helmet, which had been resting on the handlebar of his ride.

I roll my eyes but climb on behind him. When I'm settled, I sit as straight up as I can and grab on to the backrest. He turns his head and laughs. "Seriously, babe?"
 

It takes me about five seconds before I give up on the uncomfortable position. I let go of the metal bars of the backrest and wrap myself against him. Right away, one of his hands comes to rest on mine for a second, and strangely, this simple gesture makes my heart flutter. The Brian I know, the one who's always taken care of me, is still somewhere in there. I rest my head against his back and close my eyes. Who cares where we're going? The instant is delicious.

But when we stop and I open my eyes, I become aware that I should know better.

We're in land, in the middle of nowhere, next to the club's main house. I've never been here before but I know. The property must have been a farm to begin with. There's a main house, a very wide A-frame, and then a few other buildings that must have been barns and stables. The doors of one of the largest buildings are open, and it looks like it's been turned into a motorcycle repair shop. We've stopped a few feet away from the house on a patch of concrete, which must have been poured to create a solid surface for parking.
 

There are a few tables outside. About a dozen men, all sporting the club colors, are sitting or standing around the tables. They're having what seems to be a serious conversation. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or worried by the fact that reality doesn't match the fiction in my head. I would have sworn it would be like a permanent frat house orgy, but I'm the only female in sight.

"We're going to my crib," Brian says. "You stay silent till we get there." His tone doesn't leave room for discussion, and frankly, I'm so out of my comfort zone again that I'm at loss for words. I just nod.

As we get closer to the table, the guys interrupt their conversation.

"Hey, Ice, you've got luscious fresh meat!"

"Mind your manners, Lobster," Brian barks at him.

"Why? You're not gonna share that one? Come on, there’s enough of her for two!" Lobster's a chubby guy with red hair and tons of freckles. I'm not sure how tall he is since he's sitting at the table, but he's a beefy type of man. He's the sort of person who makes me understand why eighteenth-century doctors came up with bleeding as medical treatment—when I see people as crimson as he is, I feel this insane urge to prick them with a needle just to see what would happen.

"But if you don’t want to share, that’s fine with me. We could take turns. Maybe she would like to come visit me after you're done with her," he says to Brian, and then he looks at me and asks, "Hey, sweet butt, wanna know why they call me Lobster?"

I glance in Brian's direction, and with a very slight tilt of the head, he lets me know that I'm not allowed to answer, so I just shake my head.

"Because the sweetest and most impressive part of me is my tail," he says, and then he guffaws. The men sitting at the table laugh as well, but I have the feeling they're also laughing at him, and one of them looks almost embarrassed.
 

Brian keeps on going, pulling me behind him. "See you later, brothers," he says as we enter the house.

The main room looks like a bar with one very large table and a few small ones, but before I can take a good look around, we start climbing one flight of stairs and then another. We walk down a short hall with half a dozen doors, and Brian opens the last one. He gestures for me to go in and then follows.

We're in his bedroom. I can tell because it smells like him. The furniture is nondescript: a dresser, a table, a chair, and a bed. Everything is cluttered with clothes and papers. That's not a surprise—chaos had always been Brian's natural habitat when he was younger. I guess the army didn't do better with him than it did with David when it came to changing that habit of theirs.
 

There's a small open window overlooking the tables we just passed on our way in. I can hear the murmur of the conversation of the guys outside. There's another door in the room. It's ajar, and I pull it open—it's one of those bathrooms in which you can sit on the toilet while brushing your teeth and soaking your feet in the shower at the same time. But it's private.

"Wow, you scored a suite. You've done well for yourself; you've become MC royalty," I say.

Brian laughs. "This is my home now." He's in my space, but he doesn't touch me. "Tonight you're not spoiling my mood. I've got you where I want you, and I'm getting my rematch."

That's a funny way to put it.
A rematch
.

Our first time was sweet. Well, I enjoyed the intimacy, and I felt kind of wild just being naked in his arms, but then the act itself was a true debacle. A far cry from the fireworks and ecstasy I had heard about from more experienced friends. I felt so frustrated I could have screamed, but I didn't. I plastered a smile on my face and said it was just fine, because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Yet he knew better, and instead of making the most of the moment with tender cuddling, he bolted.

So the truth is that I want that rematch, as well. I probably want it more than he does, because I have no doubt he's acquired tons of experience during the past years. Just the way he kisses me is enough to turn my blood into lava, so of course I want more.

I want to test the new and improved version of Brian; I want to see the man's body that was built on the boy's tender frame. In a perfect world, the boy's affection would have turned into a man's love… but I know this is not a perfect world, so I'll settle for what he's offering. Yeah, I'll take the rematch and ask my questions later.

As he closes in on me, I decide that I will forget that we're in the club house of his MC, and I will do what the biker's sweet butts do: I'll go along and enjoy the ride, no strings attached.

I let him remove my leather jacket, and then I push his down from his shoulder. He smiles at me as if this is a child's game, a clothing tit for tat. He pulls my T-shirt out of my pants and over my head. The bra I'm wearing is not the lacy black number I would have picked if I had known I was going to strip in front of him, but it's fine, presentable… but then again I don't think he's really noticed, since it's down on the floor already. My turn. I pull away his T-shirt and gasp. Not because of the tattoos—I was expecting them—but because of the scars on his chest and the fresh bruise on his shoulder. The tips of my fingers touch the most important scar. I count a dozen stitches way too close to his heart, and I bend over to kiss the damaged skin.

As I continue to explore the ribs and mountains of his torso, he somehow manages to get rid of the rest of our clothes until we're both standing naked in his room.
 

He turns me around and presses his hard body against my back.

"Look," he says, directing my gaze to our reflection in the mirror over the dresser. He cups my breasts with his hands and whispers in my ear, "It's a perfect fit. Everything about you is just the right size for me now."

Watching him touching me is overwhelming. My eyes are glued on his hands, and I forget everything. My mouth is open, but I’ve stopped breathing. But then he pinches my nipples, and my gasp makes the machine start again. I feel more alive than I've ever felt in my life. I try to turn around—I want to touch him.

"Not done watching you like this," he growls, keeping me in place.

One of his hands leaves my breast and vanishes out of the mirrored image. Unseen but not unfelt. He's reaching the apex of my legs, and I catch fire. I close my eyes to concentrate on the sensations, but as soon as I do, his hand stops. I let out a moan of protest.

"Can't have you closing your eyes now," he says. "I want you to look at me as I make you come."

My eyes flutter open, and he pursues his exploration. My breath catches when he finds an especially sensitive spot, and there's a ferocious smile on his face when he notices my reaction. His caress centers on the reactive patch of flesh, and it doesn't take long before I'm panting. There's this incredible ball of heat growing inside of me. I fight to keep my eyes open, until I'm overtaken by this sunburst inside. I throw my head back and lean into Brian for support.

He catches me and lays me down on the bed.