Where Souls Spoil (66 page)

“How long will I be staying with you for?” I ask. His eyes stop wandering around my barren, messy room and land on me.

Without an ounce of humor he says, “Until you’re safe. However long that is.”

“That’s really vague.”

“I let you leave my house twice, and each time you were targeted. You don’t have to like my answer, but you do have to deal with it. I will
not
let anything hurt you again. You got that?”

That nagging hope that maybe he likes me for more than a quick hump on a garage floor resurfaces and blooms in the pit of my belly. His words come out so clear and decided. He’s not some young guy who doesn’t know what he wants or has a tough time communicating it. This is a man who does as he pleases, takes what he likes, and doesn’t apologize for it or ask permission.

And if I’m not careful, I might fall for him hard enough to not recover.

Chapter 19

I TENSE UP
and claw at the sheet beneath me. My throat aches from the exertion of screaming so much in such a short period of time. Once I’m coherent, I close my mouth and the room falls silent. This is the third time tonight I’ve awoken myself in a panic. The first time I woke up screaming, Grady ran into the room with his gun drawn. Cheyenne and Lisa followed right behind him. Lisa had a flashlight and Cheyenne had a straightening iron in hand as if they were prepared for battle. They were also wearing shirts, which was a good thing, but Grady wasn’t; which was an even better thing.

The bedroom door opens and Grady walks in. He reaches out and flips the light on. Still in just gray sweats with no shirt on. This time he strides in slowly and his gun hangs loosely in his hand. His free hands scrubs at his face, and he says, “Somebody better be in here trying to kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, blinking spastically from the sudden brightness of the room.

“That’s a first,” he says, “you being sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, and his muscles flex. I noticed a tattoo on his ribcage. In a beautiful script, he has CHEYENNE tattooed on his left ribs. A lot of people get tattoos of their children's names, so it's not like the tattoo in itself is unique. It's just one more little thing that shows how much his daughter means to him.

I've never been involved with a guy who has kids before, and actually, until now the very idea gave me an uneasy feeling. I didn't want the complication or frustration of dealing with an ex and a kid and all, but it's different with Grady. He's all muscles and gorgeous dark hair and brilliant green eyes. And when I see his tattoo, lovingly placed on his ribs, with the name of his daughter, I don't want him to leave. It’s not so much a fear of being alone as it was the fear of not getting to know him.

“Are
you
ever sorry?” I snark.

He walks to my side of the bed and looks down at me with puffy eyes that make his exhaustion obvious. “My regrets would haunt even your waking hours.”

The seriousness of his response takes me aback. I find myself speechless for the first time in a while.

“Since you woke me up
again
, let’s get this shit over with, yeah?” he says. He sets the gun down on the side table and sits himself at the foot of the bed. His tattoos are gorgeous. His left bicep is covered in a warrior tattoo that is adorned with skulls. On his left forearm is a woman with wings and her legs spread. I try to pretend that one’s not there. His chest, right above his heart, has some kind of double-sided tree trunk with a Celtic-style branch banding around it that forms a circle.

“What’s with the tree?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He looks down at his tattoo for a moment before raising his eyes and saying, “Circle of life. What ends begins again—shit like that.”

“Wow, you’re deep,” I say with an impressed nod.

“Too easy,” he says with a smile and a shake of his head. His eyes travel down to my breasts that strain beneath my tank top. “Back to business—I need to know what Mancuso’s guy said and did.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say in a plea.

“I don’t care,” he says flatly. “I need to know.”

“Fine,” I mutter. “He showed up at our apartment. He said he was sorry for intruding, but that he needed us to hand over our car keys and to go with him. I tried to run down the hall, but he grabbed me and said that he didn’t want to hurt either of us, he just needed to borrow us for a little while. He had two guys with him. They took our car keys, but not our house keys. He said they were moving our cars to a nearby parking lot. When his guys returned, they put our car keys in the kitchen, made us take our house keys, and then very politely ordered that we go with them.”

“He didn’t have a gun on you? He didn’t hurt you? Touch you in anyway?”

“No. He did warn me not to yell at him, but that was it. He said he just needed to send a message to Forsaken, but that he didn’t want to hurt us.”

“That it?” he asks.

“He said for me to tell you that nobody is safe,” I say. His expression darkens and he narrows his eyes. It only lasts a moment before he shakes it off and stands.

“You think you can let me get some sleep now?” he asks with a yawn.

“I just…” I say and then think better of it. He wants to leave and go back to bed, but I don’t want him to go. Squirming uncomfortably in my spot, I reach out, but then pull away. I can’t bring myself to tell him what I need. But I don’t have to, it seems. He looks down at me thoughtfully.

“Don’t want to be alone, I get it.” He walks across the room. My heart falls a little as he nears the door. He stops a foot away, reaches out and shuts the door, then turns the lock. I watch in breathless anticipation as he cuts off the light, then rounds the bed and climbs in the other side. Slipping beneath the covers, he lies on his back and pounds his pillow into submission. Yawning, he wiggles in his spot. I turn toward him, full of nervous excitement and wonder. He’s so close—close enough to touch—but I’m not certain this is something I should be pursuing. I know I
want
to pursue it, I just don’t know if it’s smart to.

“Yeah,” I whisper. His eyes flutter closed. “Thank you for not being a dick.”

He opens one eyeball and narrows it. “After weeks of avoiding me, now you want to talk?”

“We don’t have to talk, I’m just too tense to fall asleep right now,” I mutter.

“Okay, fine,” he says in a gravelly voice. He reaches out and pulls me to him. Our bodies are flush against one another and as I tilt my chin up, I find that we’re practically nose to nose. I’m stunned by his action, but beyond that, excited to be so close to him. After this dance we’ve been doing for weeks now, I’m about to explode just by the anticipation of it all.

His arm around my waist slides down to my hip and his hand snakes around to my ass. His commanding touch kneads my supple flesh. He bucks his hips into mine. He’s already half hard. A needy whimper falls from my lips as he continues his movements. Knead. Buck. Knead. Buck. He doesn’t look so tired anymore, but rather, a man driven. The last time we were here, I pulled away. I won’t be making the same mistake twice.

Awake and determined, he hooks his thumbs around the waist of my pajama pants and panties and yanks them down. His movements are so quick that I barely have time to react, but he doesn’t care. He slips a hand between my thighs causing me to tense up. Using brute force, he lifts my leg into a bent position where I’m left exposed at my center. Being bare before him is nerve-wracking. I look down at my thighs, which are much too thick and my belly which is slightly rounded for no reason other than my love of milkshakes and my hips, which are wider than I’d like. I wonder if I measure up to the women he’s used to having sex with. This thought sends me down the path of wondering how many women he’s had sex with, how many names he never got or forgot entirely, and if he’d recognize every woman he’s been with or if some are just a blur.

“Don’t go there,” he says. His eyes drift from mine down to my exposed pussy. He drags a single finger lightly up my center. Shivers rack my entire body. My eyes flutter involuntarily and I have to actively fight to keep my legs where they are. His finger drags back down, parting my moistening flesh, and dipping inside. He finds my nub without issue and draws smooth circles in a slow and deliberate fashion. “Whatever you’re thinking about—don’t. Just relax, Sweets.”

His finger works faster in frantic circles. My head falls back into the pillow and I tilt from my side to my spine. Incredible waves of ecstasy take over my muscles as I slide into a puddle of blissful immobility. He leans over me, and his finger leaves my wet core for a split second before returning. One jerky circle and two fingers part me as they slowly slip into my depths. A minute passes before he pulls them out and then back in. He creates a torturous rhythm. I’ve broken out into shivers and a thin sheen of sweat coats my entire body. I’m spiraling into oblivion as he pulls out and pushes his fingers back inside. He hooks his fingers inside of me. My body shakes and I gasp for air.

Leaning down, he nips at my neck and whispers, “I’m too tired to get into it tonight, but tomorrow, I’m gonna let you wrap that smart mouth around my dick and swallow everything I give you.”

Coming down from that amazing high, I pant wildly. I don’t even have the energy to argue or shake my head. Incredible orgasm or not, I want to bring him back down to reality and remind him that I never asked to suck his dick. But I don’t because now that he’s mentioned it, I really do want to taste him.

He slides his fingers out of my wet pussy and draws his sweats down just far enough to free himself. He uses the wetness of his hand to aide in his efforts as he slides down his thick shaft and then back up again. He moves faster and faster in a combination of smooth and jerky movements. My lips are suddenly dry and no matter how many times I lick them, it’s not enough.

“If I touch you anymore tonight, we’re not going to get any sleep and I have to be right when I take care of that fucking Italian,” he grits out.

“What are you going to do to him?” I ask quietly, turning onto my side. My eyes are transfixed on his straining dick as he works himself toward the edge.

“He scare you?” he asks. His movements slow just slightly as his hand is drying. Feeling brave, I reach down between my legs and use my index finger to rub my swollen and sensitive nub in fast, violent circles. My muscles lock up and all it takes is seeing Grady’s eyes glaze over for me to come again. I don’t give myself any time to recover. Instead, I coat my hand in my own juices and reach for him.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

He moves his hand away and watches as I wrap my hand around his rock hard cock and pump him slowly. His words dissolve into a moan as he says, “Then he’s going to suffer when he dies.”

There’s something disturbingly erotic about his comment. It feels more like a declaration or a promise. It spurs me on to pump him faster with a lighter touch and then slower with a firmer touch. A few cycles and he’s shoving my shirt up off my belly. In a shaky motion, he moves my hand away and positions himself over my bare stomach. He works quickly, his breath is ragged, and his eyes snap closed as he comes on my bare skin. It’s a beautiful thing to witness—him losing control like that. For a man like him, who values being in charge, it’s a gift to see him vulnerable.

Chapter 20

LAST NIGHT WAS
incredible. I'm on my fourth cup of coffee and it's not doing anything to wake me up, but I don’t care. I called in sick—I could have gone in to work, but I couldn’t imagine having to be there after yesterday. Grady's guest room is comfortable, more so when he’s in it with me, and he assured me that I'm safe in this house, even going so far as pointing out every safety feature he's installed. Still, once he left to “take care of shit” this morning, the panic came back.

I take a drink of my coffee and let my mind slip back to that cozy place where I’m falling asleep in Grady’s arms. He’s just cleaned us up and I’m curled into him. The memory is short though. This morning he told me I fell asleep instantly. Suddenly my exhaustion doesn't seem so bad. Sleep is overrated with a memory like that, but I don't think I should keep going down this road while I'm at his dining room table with his daughter and mother preparing to play a board game.

To my left, Cheyenne sorts through the Monopoly pieces, and across from me, Lisa organizes the play money by denomination. One moment, I was sitting here poking through
Teen Love
magazine and realizing how old I've gotten in the last decade, and the next thing I know, Cheyenne and Lisa are coming through the front door with the guy Grady used to have following me. I've since learned that the club calls him Squat, which seems appropriate enough, and that as a prospect, he's not allowed to tell me his real name.

I find out how dedicated he is to becoming a member of the club—what Cheyenne informs me they call “patching in”. Cheyenne gives the poor guy a bunch of stupid orders. He blows her off at first, but all it takes is her saying, “Don’t make me tell my daddy that you disobeyed a direct order.” The poor man does seven jumping jacks and quacks like a duck twice before she gives him a break and they high-five and laugh about it. Now, Squat walks the perimeter of the house, checking and double-checking the locks. Every time he finishes a round, he calls Grady and checks in.

“I want the shoe,” Cheyenne says as she grabs the shoe from the pile of game pieces.

“Well, that’s surprising,” Lisa says. She playfully bumps Cheyenne in the upper arm and throws her a mischievous smile. Cheyenne mimics her grandmother and rolls her eyes.

“She thinks I have a lot of shoes,” Cheyenne informs me. Lisa nods furiously and mutters something I can’t hear. Cheyenne holds up the dog and the race car to Lisa. “Which one do you want, Grams?”

“Let Holly pick first,” Lisa says as she doles starter money out to each of us.

“Oh, right,” Cheyenne says. She picks up all of the pieces, with the exception of her precious shoe, and holds them out to me. Without even thinking about it, I choose my old standby, the ship. I’ve never chosen anything but the ship since I was a kid. She raises an eyebrow and says, “That’s my Dad’s favorite.”

“Your dad has good taste,” I say and give her a slight smile.

“Not always,” she mutters and shows the remaining pieces to Lisa, who picks out the dog. Lisa gives her a sideways glance and shakes her head.

“What, I’m just saying,” Cheyenne defends herself. “Holly knows I like her.”

“I’m going to pretend like there’s not some kind of subtext going on here,” I say and take a drink of my coffee.

Just as I set my mug down on the table, the front door opens and the alarm squeals loudly. I can’t see him, but I can hear Grady cursing at the alarm. The noise stops a moment later, and his heavy footfalls sound on the hardwood as he draws near. He rounds the corner into the kitchen. His arms are full with two plastic store bags that he sets down on the counter while he surveys what we’re doing. Like a pathetic puppy, I perk up the moment I lay eyes on him.

“Monopoly?” he asks with raised eyebrows. Lisa stands from her place at the table and beelines for the bags on the counter. He abandons the bags and heads for the fridge, where he grabs two beers. On his way through the kitchen, he says something to his mom that makes her laugh and then comes to the table and sits down in the empty seat beside me. “Dibs on the ship!”

Cheyenne shakes her head and points her finger at him, “You’re not playing!”

“You ever play Street’Opoly?” Grady leans in and asks me.

“What?” I ask. I’ve heard of a lot of different versions of the game before, even one that could be totally customized, but never Street’Opoly.

“Well, you’re about to be schooled,” he says. He takes a pull of his beer and gives me a sly smile. The attention makes me blush, but after last night, it probably shouldn’t. Clearing my throat and tucking my hair behind my ears, I smile wide up at him. He smiles back broadly, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepening. He truly is gorgeous in a way that is all man and muscle and arrogance.

“You think you can teach me a thing or two?” I say in a low and breathy voice. My heart rate spikes, and I flush all over.

“Baby, I’ll teach you things that are illegal in nine states,” he whispers. Cheyenne makes a gagging noise from my other side. I glance at his lips then up at his eyes and back to his lips. My nerves have disappeared and in their place is pure, unadulterated lust. He dives in for a quick kiss and then pulls away like nothing happened.

“Well,” I say lowly while trying to clear my throat, “you can try, but you’re going to have to do it as something aside from the ship. I already called that piece.”

“My house, my rules, my ship,” he says. I feel his arm move behind me. The adult, mature Holly wants to think he’s making a move and wrapping me in his strong embrace, but the kid in me recognizes this move. It’s the same one my older brother, Theo, used when we were kids and he wanted to get his hands on something I had. Back then, Theo, Mindy, and I were inseparable. I may have fallen for this trick a few times when I was little, but Mindy and I soon learned the art of the hand-off. In my experience, every girl who’s had to deal with an overbearing male in her life knows about the hand-off.

I take a chance, lean in toward Grady, and blow out a shaky breath. His arm pauses for a brief second, and I pounce, grabbing the ship from the table and handing it off to Cheyenne. Like a pro, she grabs the ship, hops out of her chair, and runs around the table to Lisa, who is dumping wings out of the plastic bags and into a glass bowl.

“That’s fucked,” Grady says and leans against the back of his chair. He takes a pull of his beer and shakes his head. “You’re supposed to be on my team, Chey!”

“Ha! You grounded me last month for being like ten minutes late for curfew. You’re on your own, dude,” she says. He grumbles something about an hour and fickle memories, but doesn’t make a stink out of it.

Lisa and Cheyenne bring bowls of wings and dip to the table, along with empty plates and a lot of napkins. I finish off my coffee and opt for a Coke before we dig into dinner. The entire experience of sitting around the kitchen table with this family makes me yearn for something like this for myself—a group of people so tightly-knit that they can tease one another and even argue, but it’s all in good fun. I don’t doubt that, like any other family, they fight and have their differences, but they’re all just so relaxed around each other. I can’t imagine Cheyenne doing anything that would truly shame her father. I wonder what it must be like, to know that kind of love and devotion.

Dinner ends and, as the game begins, Grady lays out the rules of Street’Opoly for me. Cheyenne and Lisa object to playing his way, but he ignores them and breezes through his explanation. In some twisted way, Street’Opoly has the extra element of gang involvement. Apparently nobody ever chooses the iron or the thimble, so he puts them to use to represent two different street gangs that seek to control the game board. The best way to protect yourself from the damage they can do to your houses and hotels is to pay one of the gangs for protection, but that gang has to make sure they can keep you safe; a task which is apparently quite difficult during times of war between the thimble gang and the iron gang. Truth be told, by the time he and Cheyenne were done explaining the rules, I thought they both needed to be committed. As if the game doesn’t have enough rules, now I have to worry about The Thimbles street gang—which Grady represents—devaluing my properties. Since I snubbed Grady’s gang, he’s sworn to target me. Cheyenne runs The Irons street gang and promises me I’ll be safe. The very fact that I’m genuinely worried about an attack from The Thimbles as we start to play is ridiculous, and I mentally take note that if Grady and Cheyenne need to be committed, I ought to just book myself a neighboring room as well. Only, I think I’d like that almost as much as sharing a padded room with Grady.

Only Lisa refuses to pay street protection. I don’t know how that works, but she’s confident that she can handle herself. The one thing that this crazy version of Monopoly buys me is the opportunity to hear Grady talk. Every time I ask a question, he goes to answer, but then Cheyenne cuts him off, then he cuts her off, and they end up in some kind of bickering contest until Lisa steals a move when it’s not her turn and they notice her little dog is progressing on the board out of order. They don’t fight it, but it does stop them from nit-picking about why the other person is wrong.

I’m the biggest idiot in the world. In the three hours it takes us to play the game, I fall completely and totally in lust with Grady. It comes on so strong and immediate that it reminds me of my first kiss in ninth grade, and the first time a boy told me he loved me. It’s like being slapped across the face and punched in the gut, and it’s nothing like any lust I’ve felt before. It’s terrifying and exciting, and when Grady leans back in his chair and tosses an arm over my shoulders, I actually feel like I want to throw up. He’s so much of what I’ve always wanted in a man—strong, caring, protective, playful—and the more time I spend with him, the deeper I’m going to get. But it can’t be more than lust, a primal desire to be part of his world, even a little bit, because love doesn’t happen this quickly.

I barely know him, but I’m looking to change that. I know the important things. He loves his daughter and is respectful to his mom. He’s a big, scary outlaw biker who can frighten me into submission, and who’s made up his own twisted version of a board game that he apparently plays with his daughter often. He’s gone out of his way to help and protect me, even though I’m not technically his responsibility. And I’ve lost my marbles because I’m going out of my way to defend him. And he gives fantastic orgasms. That alone qualifies him for obsession status.

He did get me into these messes, but he could be a real bastard and leave me to suffer the wrath of his enemies and he done with it. His hands and the club’s hands would be clean of it if he’d just let that mafia guy take me out. And I wouldn’t be the kind of person who thought about things like how to take somebody out and keep your hands clean if it weren’t for Grady and his club. But even knowing this, I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to lose the bickering and the excitement and the way his heavy arm rests on my shoulders. Even if it is temporary, I’m part of something real, and I like it. I more than like it, but I don’t let myself go there.

Grady catches me staring at him a little too long and raises his eyebrows in question. A smile tugs at my lips. I raise my eyebrows in response, trying in vain to mimic the half-hearted scowl he’s sporting. He hooks his foot around the front leg of my chair and, with the help of his arm around my shoulder, he tugs me closer and places a kiss on top of my head. I flush with anticipation of where this is going and hope that I’m not a complete idiot for thinking we could be something.

“You fit in here,” he says. “You fit in with me—with us. We don’t fit in anywhere, either. So we fit in together.”

And just like that, I’m a goner.