Devil on Your Back (3 page)

“Sit,” he demands.

I take up residence in a ratty chair facing a worn oak desk.

“Callum said you didn’t say much.”

He eyes me as I shake my head.

“You know why you’re here?”

All the head shaking I’m doing has me feeling like a sideshow clown. Any minute now, people are going to appear with balls to throw in my mouth.

“King brought you in. You passed out, and Malcolm at the bar couldn’t be bothered with you so my boys managed to get you here.”

“Why?” I ask.

“They searched your I.D. for an address and found the people living in your house had no idea who you were.”

“I haven’t lived there for a while,” I explain.

He nods. “So, suffice to say they brought you here.”

I look around the untidy office. Boxes are stacked haphazardly in the far right corner. Pictures line the walls: men with bikes, men with beards, and men with both. His desk is by far the centerpiece, but not because of size, rather because of the biohazard food containers littering its surface.

“What do you want with me?” I ask, aware he’s been watching me case out the surroundings.

He leans his elbows on the desk, finding a space to clasp his fat fingers together. “Nothing.”

My eyes narrow.
Nobody
wants nothing these days.

“You’re free to leave whenever you please,” he says, “but I get the feeling you won’t.”

“Hadn’t decided,” I mumble, aggravated at how the conversation is weighing in his favor.

“We can give you lodging, food, a purpose,” he states calmly. “We look out for our brothers . . . if that’s what you’re looking for. All we ask for in return is loyalty. Are you loyal, Vince?”

Something about this man knowing and using my name has me unsettled. “I’d like to think I am.”

“What’s the hesitation?”

I let my eyes wander the room again. Distracting myself with the details of my surroundings relieves the pressure he’s placing me under. “I don’t like biker gangs.”

Apex leans back, and roars with laughter. “Oh, princess,” he sighs. “I didn’t pick you as being the precious type.”

“I’m not precious,” I reply with a carefully controlled, level voice. “I just don’t like the attitude you lot have.”

“Which is?”

“That you’re fuckin’ gods among men.”

He smirks. “What’s wrong with wanting to be at the top?”

“The notion that everyone else is lesser because of it.”

“How about you stick around, then? Make up your own mind?”

I sigh, and stand from the chair. “I also don’t like being owned.”

“Sit,” Apex instructs.

I shake my head. Sitting for too long is something I haven’t been comfortable with for years.

“Fine, stand.” He pushes out from the desk and walks over to where I am, stopping inches from me. “We don’t ‘own’ people around here, but if you give the place half a chance you’ll see how loyal members become. Nobody is held by force, but almost all of them will never leave by choice.” He walks to the door, and pulls it wide. “Besides, what other options have you got?”

The asshole walks out, leaving me with that gem of information.

What
have
I got other than his proposition? The guy is offering me food and a place to sleep, all for the price of loyalty.

As much as I hate bikers, I could use the break to figure what I
will
do with my life from here on in.

What harm could a week or so of playing into their hands do?

“DRINK UP,
you pussy!” King wobbles off towards a curvy redhead, but not before dosing me with a healthy slap to the back.

  The clubhouse is alive, the music enough to make your eardrums bleed. Callum, our newly appointed VP, leans in next to me and slides a freshly refilled whiskey glass my way. “How does it feel, man? You been for a ‘ride’ yet?” He bites his bottom lip and thrusts his crotch up for effect.

I laugh at his crude joke. After a lengthy absence, my driver’s license has been officially returned to me. Not that it stopped me getting on my bike whenever the hell I chose. What was I supposed to do? Catch a bus? Yeah, right. The boys decided to throw me a little ‘welcome back’ party, and after whining more than a pack of schoolgirls for a week to our recently appointed president, King, he approved.

“You talkin’ about me ridin’ my bike, or our fine bar-lady here?”

Our server for the night flicks a towel my way with a stern look. I’m sure Sonya’s used to having worse—although I’m also sure I’m the only one who dreams of doing her almost every night.

Four years I’ve been chasing that woman, and for four years she’s been playing hard to get. The woman guards her heart with the tenacity of a Rottweiler, and whenever I ask around about it, everyone turns the other way or changes the subject.

“You’re fucking askin’ for it, boy.” Callum chuckles, and slides off his stool. “I better go give this engine a service,” he says, making lewd gestures at his cock.

Does it ever stop?

I smile at him, but the expression doesn’t meet my eyes. These guys are good to me—more than good—but by fuck can I get sick of the constant ‘big’ talk in a hurry. Sure, I can spout it off like a native tongue as needed, but it was never who I was before here. Yet, needs a must, hey?

“What’s up, soldier?” Sonya asks, leaning her elbows on her side of the counter. “You don’t look like your heart’s in it tonight.” Her golden hair falls in soft waves about her face, and the Harley T-shirt she’s wearing looks as though it’s been a thousand rounds on the inside of a washer—the print is faded and cracking.

“What would you know?” I bite back, watching her closely to gauge her response to my short attitude. The woman’s been shooting me down repeatedly for years and
now
she wants to talk? What more does she expect?

She flinches, but dives straight back in. “More than you’d give me credit for.” The bitch winks.

Not put off easily, then.

“What are you doing serving anyway?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve seen you more than twice behind there. Where’s Abby?”

“Night off. Some emergency.” She straightens up, and wrings the towel in her hands, drawing attention to her generous cup size. “And what do you mean you haven’t seen me behind here much? Who do you think trained Abby?”

“Haven’t seen you ’round here at all, lately, come to think of it.” I’m hoping like hell I’m not giving away the fact I watch her movements like a hawk.

“I had some family issues to sort out. Went home for a bit.”

I swivel on my stool, and case the place for a grumpy asshole that she might belong to. I never know who’s doing who, these days. But nobody seems fazed by our interaction. They’re all drinking, spilling beer over each other, and trying to outdo the stories being thrown around like confetti. She’s still watching me when I turn around.

“You won’t find anyone who’s concerned about us talking,” she assures me.

So, the bitch is a mind reader now?

“Yeah? Why is it I never see you shacked up with anyone?” I can’t be the only man that’s noticed her. I’m damn sure I’m not.

“Easy when I have no interest in the offers given.”

Ouch.

I down the whiskey and wave the glass at her. “Don’t you go presuming you know fuckin’ everything, woman; who said I was offering?”

“And don’t you go doing the same,” she hisses. “Who said I was talking about you? Now, tell me what’s got you so fucking miserable or I’ll refuse to give you another drink.”

I look at the glass in my hand, and frown. Whiskey and I had plans tonight. I’m not sure how I feel about her getting between that.

“You wouldn’t dare do something so stupid,” I retort. “You’d get your ass kicked for putting me out.”

“Maybe it’d be worth it. Besides, why are you drinking anyway?”

My eyebrow shoots up. Is she fucking dense? “I’m celebrating.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re a recovered alcoholic, you get your license back, and the first thing you do is get blind drunk when
you know
you have to ride home? You men are idiots at the best of times.”

“Maybe I’m staying here?” I counter. “And who said I was drunk?”

The look in her eyes not only makes me want to pass her my glass, but head to the men’s room and expel everything I’ve consumed already. The woman has me putty in her hands, and what’s worse? I’m worried she knows it.

“Okay, so I’m fuckin’ lying,” I acquiesce.

“I’ll make you up a room. You aren’t going anywhere.”

“The sofa is fine,” I reply, and nod toward the old three-seater that two couples are currently damn near fornicating on.

She cocks her eyebrow at the spectacle. “Whatever floats your boat, but I have dirty laundry cleaner than that.”

I offer her a wan smile and bow my head in submission. “Fine. Make me up a room.”

Besides, maybe it’ll get me close enough to finally find out how this woman feels in the positions I’ve been fantasizing of.

A guy can only hope.

I’VE SEEN
men like him a thousand times before. He’s too damn stubborn to change his ways—too proud to admit there’s something draining his soul like a parasite with an unquenchable thirst. He has issues, and if he doesn’t seek help for them the darn things will be the death of him—directly or indirectly.

Difference is, why do I give a fuck this time around?

Ask me to name the men I’ve seen slip through the rugged walls of this club, doomed to leave in a wooden box, and I could give you a roll call of the saddest, most troubled guys I’ve known. Men who had no other option. Men who needed a support system.

Men who were short of a family, and out of luck.

But with this guy, he was different from the start—right from before he even opened his eyes. Vince may not remember it given he was out cold from a night of alcohol inhalation, but I do. I watched him sleep for a while when I was supposed to be cleaning the room around him. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable, and with so much history etched in the lines of his face was intoxicating, and I gave in to the urge to take a closer look.

He intrigued me without ever saying a word.

And then he woke up. The huge man the boys dragged home, looked at me with those rich, chocolate eyes and blew me away.

I’ve been watching him ever since.

And I’m more than a little ashamed to say every time I saw him leave one of these parties with a woman on his arm, I felt the infectious twang of jealousy. Ashamed, because the man’s hit on me more times than I can count on one hand, and every time I’ve pushed him away. Too scared to risk forming an attachment to him—if even for a night.

I look again over the man sitting before me, and the way he’s eyeballing his empty glass like a deceased lover. For every inch that I blend into the background around here, he’s harder to miss. The dark-haired guy stands an easy six-foot two on a quiet day, and he’s broad. The kind of man who swallows people in his shadow wherever he goes. Interestingly enough, he’s never been one to live at the clubhouse. Makes me wonder where he goes every night, and
who
he goes to.

He’s a mystery, and one that’s driven me crazy trying to work out more than I’d like to admit. He’s always been different to the other members. His talk is cheap and his armor thin, a lot like most of the men here, but he commands my attention despite his obvious faults. Nobody has appealed to me for quite a while . . . that was, until he arrived.

I stand behind the bar, staring at him while he’s distracted with a commotion on the other side of the room, and after all these years it strikes me hard—he’s like looking into a mirror.

The cool indifference.

The quick jests to deflect attention.

The smile that does nothing to light his face.

My breath catches, and keen not to lose it in front of this bunch I snatch up a couple of bottles of booze and clean underneath them, despite having done it mere minutes before. The revelation scares me, that the stubborn, lost soul I’ve been musing over is what
I
am.
I’m
too stubborn to admit there’s something wrong. I’m feeding my pet parasite by locking myself away from company at the end of each day. Am I equally as doomed? Fuck, I hope not.

Determined to prove myself wrong, prove that we’re nothing alike, I slip along the bar until once again I’m standing right before him. He’s bound to look up at any second.
Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .

“You right, sweetheart?” His smile is lazy and his speech slightly slurred. A light sheen remains where the last drops of whiskey touched his lips.

I could lick it off.

“Tell me, why is it we haven’t really talked before now?” I ask. “I mean, we’ve seen each other around enough, right?”

He shrugs as though he’s not sure, but his shock is poorly hidden. “I hadn’t really paid much mind how often we’ve crossed paths, to be honest.”

Liar.

“How long have you been with the club?” he asks.

“I’ve been with this club for a solid six years, ten more at the sister chapter down south.”

He nods. “And still, I’ve never known you to have a man.”

Hadn’t paid much mind, my ass.

“No,” I confirm. “No man.” Not since before he turned up here, but I’m not ready to deliberate on that just yet.

“Still hard to believe,” he says, shaking his head.

“What’s your story?” I ask. “I know you don’t live here, otherwise I would have seen your room upstairs.”

“Keen little thing, aren’t ya?” His sharp gaze betrays the soft smile on his full lips.

“Family? Wife?” The two main reasons why guys live outside the compound, and the two main reasons that would give me an honest excuse to back away, leave him alone, and stop playing with something I know is going to burn me. Nothing like a cheating husband to turn you right off.

His eyes glass over, and he stares at the peanut he’s twiddling between his thick fingers. I prepare to walk away, clearly having overstepped the boundary, when he speaks up. “Neither.”

“I’m sorry.” The sentiment falls from my lips before I can think on it.

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you sorry? Do you feel sorry for all the single guys in here? Is it something to be ashamed of?” The earlier jest has long gone from his tone, replaced with sheer contempt.

“I . . .”
Better choose my words carefully.
“I recognized the way you said it. You had a wife, and family once, right?”

“I did.” He pops the peanut in his mouth, crushing it with a loud crunch.

I watch the way his jaw works, marveling how such a simple action can enhance a man’s masculinity ten-fold.

“You lost someone too, then?” he asks.

“Yeah, I did.” This time it’s my turn to let my eyes glass over. “Five years back.”

“Over it?”

“Are you ever?”

He chuckles, and spins his stool to watch the football on the large flat screen hanging on the back wall. “Not really.”

Before I can ask any more, an ear-splitting scream comes from the entry hall. Vince is on his feet and heading over, instantly focused. He weaves through the guys—drinking, laughing, and ignoring the noise—joining up with King and Bruiser to investigate.

The three of them disappear into the hallway, and I let go of the breath I sucked in hearing that scream. It didn’t sound distressed—more . . . angry—but trouble all the same.

And I could guarantee who it was.

Callum slides onto the vacated stool and waves his glass at me. “Can I get a refill, Sonya?”

“Sure, honey.” I take it from him and set about making his drink up.

My mind wanders, thinking over my loss, speculating on Vince’s. It occurs to me as I wipe the residue from Callum’s glass that after four years I’ve paid attention to everything about that man but his history.

“Callum, sweet?”

“Yeah?” He turns away from the slim blonde who’d taken residence on his lap and gives me the same dashing smile that ensures his bed is never empty.

“What did Vince do before he came to us?” I fuss with a new coaster for him, trying to appear disinterested.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

I frown. “He started to say, but got pulled away.” I gesture towards the front hall. “Just trying to place why his face is familiar,” I lie.

“Not sure,” he answers. “I heard it was construction, but there are a few rumors out.”

I glance again at the entry hallway, feeling a little stupid at pushing Vince’s advances away over the years. I had him pegged for a playboy, a heartbreaker. He’s tall, dark and incredibly mysterious, which commands a certain level of fear and intimidation. But knowing that one little thing about him, and knowing all too well how that feels to lose the person you love, I wonder if perhaps we’d be better suited than I thought?

Maybe he would be worth a try?

“You still with us, Sonya?” Callum asks with a laugh.

I smile at him, and nod. “Just thinking that he’s a bit of a mystery, huh?”

“Yep.” Callum smirks. “And you wouldn’t be the first woman to want to solve it.”

No surprises there.

“Maybe not,” I say with a grin, “but I’ll be the last.”